The reality of design
A design is usually the first step for something to be made real. Eventually it will be a pair of glasses, a house, a city’s infrastructure, your shoes – but before all of that a design is how, and perhaps why, something is to be made. From everyone else’s perspective, before they have interacted with it, the design of an object is all they have to interpret the object.
The mistake is believing that the design is reality.
When I was young my mother bought me a copy of the book Fallingwater by Edgar Kaufmann Jr. Looking back, I can’t remember if I knew about Fallingwater before or if it was the book itself that began my obsession with this home – but it was more than a home, an organic structure, a piece of art.
I studied every page of that book. I learned who Frank Lloyd Wright was, and what he believed in. I checked out the five books that my Austin Public Library youth card would allow and the minute I finished them, I got five more. I quickly (and in retrospect, hastily) determined that I would become an architect. Even that title, Architect, was beautiful.
As a 10-year-old kid it was pretty easy to specify my future profession without any notion of what that might entail, and ultimately I was not destined for architecture — instead a different field of design. I never forgot that house though, and Fallingwater and Frank Lloyd Wright were the starting point for a lifelong appreciation for those that create and shape the spaces in which we exist and thrive.
Flashing forward 20 years or so, a wonderful collection of things came together. First, I received three Lego Architecture sets from my family – the Frederick C. Robie House, Fallingwater, and The Farnsworth House by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Fallingwater, of course, held a special allure for me but the Robie House was also wonderful. I loved its ability to fit so perfectly into a suburban university setting and yet have such obvious Wright flair. The Farnsworth House on the other hand I accepted as an incredible marker for the begining of architectural Modernism in America. It was interesting, and beautiful in its own stark way but it was no more a home than a Ferrari is a practical means of everyday transportation.
Next, my wife Hazel and I had the opportunity to visit Pittsburg and Chicago. The only logical way for me to spend that time was to visit the buildings that I had spent so much time studying and more importantly, visualizing. It was just going to be a couple of days so I figured we’d see Fallingwater outside of Pittsburg and then visit a few Wright homes in and around Chicago. The Farnsworth house is a couple of hours southwest of Chicago and it seemed like it was going to eat into too much of our stay to make it. But Hazel insisted and so we rented a car to get us there.
I will admit that I view architecture in relation to myself. It is not fair to the designers and the people who have commisioned a building but I can’t seem to help it.
When I walked around Fallingwater I was struck by it’s outward beauty. Everything I had come to love about it was there in front of me and it was amazing. The trees, and rocks, and the home seemed to meld together into a harmonious whole and it was more apparent than ever that this building could fit nowhere else on the planet other than here.
But the moment we stepped inside I realized how little a picture, a design can really describe a space.
We first visited the Great Room, the place for meals and entertaining, and viewing the landscape through windows that line half of the room. It was wonderful and so thoughtfully laid out and accounted for that I spent most of my time admiring the ornate details that cover nearly every inch of the room. The truth though, is that it feels cramped, even to me and I am only 5'9". The ceiling is low and though the windows draw your eyes to the open and enormous outside, its hard to escape that you couldn’t fully strech your arms above you without manhandling the ceiling.
The rest of the house mirrors this but even in smaller environments. The bedrooms especially combine much smaller square footage with what I must assume was Wright’s insistance that the house contain such horizontal presence makes everything feel oppressively low. The corridors which would not conform to any modern fire code are narrow enough to make you worry about clipping your shoulders on the way through.
So is any of this a problem?
Of course not, Fallingwater was designed for a client and the client (as far as I can tell) got what they wanted. For my part though, I am now able to separate the beauty, complexity, and inventiveness of the design and the practical usefulness of the reality of the home. For me, Fallingwater is much more beautiful as a piece of art than it would ever be a practical place to live during the summers in Pittsburgh.
The Robie House was the second stop on our visit. It is in an area that could only be descibed and the antithesis of Mill Run, PA. On a college campus, between other homes , churches, and libraries you might wonder if you are even in the correct place to see a home that Changed America, but this was a different period in Wright’s career. While much is different from Fallingwater, Robie is unmistakably Wright’s invention.
I had an experience inside this home that was similar to my last. I loved the detail, the thoughtfulness of the home and the way that it seemed to capture exactly what the client, Frederic Robie had wanted. Again, I could not picture myself living in a space like this. You could make the argument that I, as a child of the 1980's, couldn’t really compare my understanding of a living space to that of a home designed and built before everyone had refrigerators.
But really its not about how the home compares to current buildings — its about Wright’s insistence that the home itself say something to the occupant at all times. Every piece of the home almost serves to remind you that you are in a place designed and concieved by a man who believes himself to be the best.
We made the trip to the Fox River and the Farnsworth House the next day. We had to rent a car and the trip, though it was only an hour and a half or so, seemed like it was taking too much time away from our plans in the city. I went begrudgingly.
Mies van der Rohe tucked the home he designed for Dr. Edith Farnsworth beneath an enormous Black Maple tree and just steps from the river. The house is stark and clean and industrial. On paper is doesnt sound terribly inviting. Personally speaking the pictures I had seen of the house were equally unimpressive.
But there I was in front of the house and already something was different. The structure seemed airy and light. It was calming. Inside the contraints that the small floorplan created made every bit of the design purposeful and useful. There were no frills for frill’s sake. The main core of the building which help the utilities, and a fireplace, and the kitchen and bathrooms perfectly drew you in. The windows were large and clear but it was never too bright.
Ironically, Dr. Farnsworth never seemed to feel as at home as I did here. There were constantly gawkers coming to view van der Rohe’s latest creation, and the glass windows that would normally help you feel one with your surroundings wound up becoming viewports for outsiders to observe the house’s inhabitant.
Ultimately, what I took away from this experience is that the design and outcome of a thing are related, but one does not truly describe the other. You can’t accept the design of a thing as truly representative of it. It is the experience that allows you to truly understand its value.
