(KLINKOWITZ) Frank Lloyd Wright and His Manner of Thought

Frank Lloyd Wright and
His Manner of Thought

j er om e k l i n k ow it z
the u ni v e r s i t y of w i sc on s i n p r e s s
The University of Wisconsin Press
1930 Monroe Street, 3rd Floor
Madison, Wisconsin 53711-2059
uwpress.wisc.edu
3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden

London WC2E 8LU, United Kingdom
eurospanbookstore.com
Copyright © 2014
The Board of Regents of the University of Wisconsin System
All rights reserved. Except in the case of brief quotations embedded in critical articles
and reviews, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,
transmitted in any format or by any means—digital, electronic, mechanical, photo-
copying, recording, or otherwise—or conveyed via the Internet or a website without
written permission of the University of Wisconsin Press. Rights inquiries should be
directed to [email protected].
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Klinkowitz, Jerome, author.
Frank Lloyd Wright and his manner of thought / Jerome Klinkowitz.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-299-30144-6 (pbk.: alk. paper)
ISBN 978-0-299-30143-9 (e-book)
1. Wright, Frank Lloyd, 1867–1959.
2. Wright, Frank Lloyd, 1867–1959—Criticism and interpretation.
3. Wright, Frank Lloyd, 1867–1959—Philosophy.
4. Architects—United States—Biography.
I. Title.
NA737.W7K55 2014
720.92—dc23
[B]
2014009150
Frank Lloyd Wright quotes are used with the permission of

the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, Scottsdale, Arizona.
for my colleagues with the friends of cedar rock,
the home near Quasqueton, Iowa, designed in 1945 by
Frank Lloyd Wright for Lowell and Agnes Walter
Contents
Preface
ix
Introduction: Truth against the World

3
1. Architects and Machines
15
2. The Prairie and the World
36
3. Japan and After
62
4. An Autobiography and the Fellowship
93
5. Broadacre City and the 1930s
130
Conclusion: A Second Career
152
Appendix: Divorce Papers of William C. and Anna L. Wright

167
Bibliography of Works Consulted
181
Index
195
vii
Preface
Although Frank Lloyd Wright is a towering figure in American culture,

nearly all discussion of him has concerned his innovative architectural
designs. This is not a book about architecture. There is a widespread
feeling that only architects, or at the very least architectural historians,
can write about the subject and I do not wish to challenge that notion
here. But given that it has been mostly specialists who have undertaken
the existing commentaries on Wright, other aspects of his cultural im
portance have yet to be studied. The fact that Frank Lloyd W right re
sisted the emerging and then dominant architecture of his time (first
late Victorian, then modern), and that so many advocates of these archi
tectures resisted his ideas, prompts an investigation of his manner of
thought—especially because that manner has become characteristic of
the era that succeeded him, and at odds with the modernism with which
he was so uncomfortable.
This is a book about Frank Lloyd Wright, with an emphasis on how
his manner of thought contributes to American culture. While several
hundred books have been written about his architecture, no one has yet
approached him in the way cultural critics have dealt with similar central
figures. Wright distrusted the literary, complaining that in the four
centuries preceding his work the book had replaced the cathedral (and
other architectural masterpieces) as the key form of human value and
expression. Yet he was very much a literary man, styling himself so for
the popular media and contributing to his profession’s journals, not to
mention writing many books of his own. His collected works total more
than one and a half million words, were widely read and commented
upon, and remain in print today. Like the canon of any important
writer, they are worthy of study. Like the works of any genius, they tell
us much about the culture to which he was a major contributor.
Frank Lloyd Wright and His Manner of Thought tracks the develop
ment of Wright’s thinking throughout his career, from his first addresses
ix
x Preface
in 1894 to the last piece left on his desk in 1959. His work in architecture
is notable for this same productive length, and in fact constitutes two
careers, as after a difficult time in the 1920s he quite literally reinvented
himself and was “rediscovered” by critics, clients, and the public alike,
propelling him (with a newly founded Taliesin Fellowship) into another
quarter century of bold innovation and enormous output. During espe
cially lean years Wright had written in earnest—at the time because it
and the sale of Japan ese prints were his only sources of income. In
retrospect those writings can be seen as examinations and endorsements
of principles demonstrated in his first career and envisioned in his sec
ond. By 1932, with the Taliesin Fellowship operating and his ideas for
the perfect community of Broadacre City committed to paper, the basis
of his thinking was firmly established. Subsequently more of his time
went into building than writing; and although he did write, often quite
famously so, he could draw on previous material for refinement and
popularization. Therefore the bulk of this study addresses the founda
tion and development of his thought, with a conclusion that relates it
(as he did himself ) to the great accomplishments of his later decades.
What are those foundational elements, and why are they important?
American Transcendentalism, especially that of Ralph Waldo Emerson,
has been long acknowledged as central to Wright’s thought. Detractors
have complained that it is the late Victorian Emerson, of the Gilded Age,
front-parlor variety, that impressed the young architect. But Wright’s
use of Emerson is deeper than that, radicalized by notions from Walt
Whitman and William Blake; Wright’s sage of Concord is much like the
Emerson scholars and readers know today. In a similar manner, Wright’s
Progressive Era enthusiasms are thought to originate with John Dewey,
simply because the young man’s aunts were progressive educators. In
truth, the educationist influence on them was more direct and practi
cal, coming from Francis Parker instead. And when Wright himself
complained about the limitations of traditional schooling, it was the
economist Henry George he would cite, in a metaphorical rather than
theoretic al manner. George’s thought predates the Progressive Era by a
generation. If one wants a more current model for Wright’s intellection,
it is found in the works of William James, especially his religious thought,
the manner of which the young architect emulates through his revision
of Emerson. Radical pluralism is what pleases Wright, not because it
Preface xi
subverts the One but because it affirms the Many, so different from the
nihilism of the impending modern age.
Frank Lloyd W right had much troub le with mode rni sm and
modernists had even more problems with him. His notion of organic
architecture never fit comfortably into theories and practices of the
modern, and Wright’s own distaste for (if not outright fury with) the
International Style popularized as the essence of modernism is well
known. That it was a European import bothered him; even worse were
its antidemocratic aspects, as Wright perceived them. Architectural
studies have noted this disconnect and found it bothersome; conse
quently the profession’s history tends to acknowledge Wright’s work as
sui generis at best and idiosyncratic at worst. Yet after a brief period of
fascination with architectural postmodernism (which is nothing at all
like the postmodernism avowed by literary theorists and fiction writers),
today’s clients have expressed an emphatic ally environmental interest in
what is called again “organic architecture,” valuing the space as lived in
far more than the structure as presented to view. This new organic archi
tecture, anti-illusionistic and given to privileging experience over presen
tation, in fact shares its orientation with broader movements in thought
that had emerged later in the twentieth century and which were exhibited
in literat ure, art, and philosophy. Though no one would claim Frank
Lloyd Wright foresaw the thinking behind this new era, the era has
definitely embraced him, his work, and his ideas.
In completing this study, I am in debt to the work—a lifetime’s
achievement—of Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. In addition to preserving and
curating so much of Mr. Wright’s documentation, Pfeiffer has edited
Frank Lloyd Wright: The Collected Writings. Its five large double-columned
volumes assemble the author’s canon of written works from 1894 to 1959.
Though the work has been available since the early 1990s, it is not sur
prising that it would take the better part of two decades for a scholar to
approach it with an eye toward understanding the manner of thought
behind it. Citations of these volumes are abbreviated as CW; a second
abbreviat ion used, WWBG, is for Dustin Griffin’s edition of The Writings
of Walter Burley Griffin (2008), Wright’s early associate; the third, W,
refers to the 1925 Wendingen volume with essays by and about Frank
Lloyd Wright. Frank Lloyd Wright quotes are used with the permis
sion of The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, Scottsdale, Arizona; I
xii Preface
wish to thank Margo Stipe, Curator and Registrar of Collections at The

Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, and Kristin Roeder of Rizzoli Inter
national Publications for their timely help. Other works are identified
as they are quoted, with full references in my bibliography. While I have
not named all of the many photographic volumes devoted to Wright’s
work, those that include especially insightful commentary are listed. I
am grateful to the University of Wisconsin Press for its interest in my
work and especially for obtaining two expert outside readings that helped
me sharpen my focus on professional issues. As always, the University
of Northern Iowa has been my sole source of support in this and all
other projects.
Introduction
Truth against the World
“i would much rather build than write about buildings, but

when I am not building, I will write about buildings—or the significance
of those buildings I have already built” (CW I: 315). Frank Lloyd Wright
addressed these words to readers of The Architectural Record in December
1928, as part of his series “In the Cause of Architecture.” Because of
marital scandals, personal tragedy, and financial shortfalls, he did not
have much architectural work at the time, and much of what he did
have never got beyond the design project stage. Therefore he had to
write to earn his living. The onset of the Great Depression following
the financial crash in 1929 made c hances for work in his proper profes
sion even less likely, and so he had to write all the more, especially when
Japanese prints from his collections no longer brought top dollar. Yet
for all his emphasis on building, with no less than six varied repetitions
of that term in his single sentence, these words follow over a quarter
million that he had already written, nearly all of it published in impor
tant social and professional venues. Although passionate for building,
he obviously cared for getting his thoughts on paper as well as erected in
wood, brick, stone, and concrete.
The reason for this is simple. Introducing a new principle in architec
ture that he called “organic,” Wright was arguing not just for a building
method but for a supporting philosophy of how life should be lived. His
principle ran counter to how western civilization had built since classi
cal times, and even more so against social practices of the current era.
But his family’s motto, “Truth against the World,” would inspire his
3
4 Introduction: Truth against the World
independence. The phrase had characterized the Lloyd Jones clan’s

proud affirmation of Unitarian beliefs that contradicted the Established
Church’s doctrines, just as their Welsh identity resisted assimilation
into the British spirit of a United Kingdom and its establishment forces.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s organic principle for architecture challenged the
establishment as well. Coincidentally, but no less frustrating to the archi
tect, the popular colonial and Victorian housing styles of the day were
English in origin and establishmentarian in their authority. If the family
motto had not existed, its young member would have had to invent it to
speak for his own manner of thought.
The brilliance of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture has inspired the
work of hundreds of scholars. Every aspect of his designs and buildings
has been examined in great detail. But until now no one has studied
the man’s thinking as it was introduced to the public via a lecture in
Evanston, Illinois, in 1894, and continued to be developed and expressed
in books and essays throughout his lifetime, totaling by 1959 over one
and a half million words. The canon of scholarship on Wright’s work is
helpful nonetheless for discovering aspects of that thought as mani
fested in his buildings. It allows today’s reader of The Collected Writings
to confirm how the architect’s ideas worked out in practice. Indeed, the
great public fascination with Wright’s work is that his structures are such
a delight to view, from the inside where possible but even from without.
One does not need a Master of Fine Arts degree or a doctorate in art
history to enjoy looking at a painting by Rembrandt or Jackson Pollock.
But inevitably the enthusiast will wonder about the mind that created
these works, whether on canvas or on a building lot.
What do visitors to a mature, fully realized Frank Lloyd Wright
structure see? What do they inevitably feel? Before even looking into
his published statements, what measure of the man is taken from the
mere presence of his constructed work? The first quality one notes is
its environment: the buildings often express a sense of belonging there,
not just of fitting in but of enhancing the surroundings, making natural
features all the more apparent because they are now integrated with
a place of human habitation. This sensitivity to context is an element in
Wright’s thinking that begins with objections to ill-fitting structures,
and then develops into a will to have all elements working toward a co
herent purpose. Good landscaping can be a helpful supplement to a
Introduction: Truth against the World 5
ome’s attraction, but for the Usonian Houses that characterized much
h
of the second half of Wright’s career he insisted that a site plan preexist
any building design, and that the site be chosen with great care for its
own beauty. The design that followed would integrate house and lot so
that each improved the other, improvement being the factor of having
human consciousness introduced. Of what use is beauty if it cannot be
perceived?
The enhancement of nature by human consciousness is what visitors
to Wright sites experience. What they so practically sense can be studied
by experts, as Charles E. and Berdeana Aguar do in their Wrightscapes:
Frank Lloyd Wright’s Landscape Designs (2002). For them, Wright “effec
tively merged his skills as an architect, a planner, and an environmental
ist with the skills he exhibited in so many other spheres of design. No
one since Leonardo da Vinci has exhibited such brilliant versatility as a
designer” (311). This quality of integration does not end when one steps
inside the house. Instead, it is noticed all the more thanks to the architect’s
talent for connecting the inside with what lies beyond, and vice versa.
An open plan does this, especially when augmented by walls dissolving
into light screens and with thresholds replaced by continuous surfaces
from terrace to floor. The beauty of nature outside seems part of the
house itself, certainly in the way its presence is sensed. But one also feels
safe inside. This is what Grant Hildebrand describes in The Wright Space:
Pattern and Meaning in Frank Lloyd Wright’s Houses (1991) as a balance
of prospect and refuge, an almost primitive sense of enjoying a great
range of vision from a comfortably sheltered point of view.
Although publicly accessible homes by Wright are visited today
as virtual pavilions, the homeowners themselves would be spending
immensely more time inside the house than outside. That they not only
felt comfortable but noticed that their quality of life was improved is
due to another of the architect’s orientations, that of designing from the
inside out. That too is evid ent to the visit or, as even a casual walk-through
provides a natural and comfortable sense of movement, one room flowing
into another, interrelated by use and welcoming perspectives. Stepping
back outside, the viewer now sees that what at first may have appeared
to be abstract is in fact a perfectly natural expression of internal function.
That there is nothing ugly about that presumed abstraction is due to
Wright’s mastery of geometric form based on his childhood play with
the Froebel blocks used as instructional devices in the most advanced

nineteenth-century kindergartens, an influence noted as early as 1900 by
Wright’s friend and fellow architect Robert Spencer. In his eponymously
titled study (1997) and biography (2006) of Frank Lloyd Wright, Robert
McCarter credits this early schooling for fostering a capacity for visual
and spatial memory far beyond common ability, which for most people
is limited to music. Having learned how to see, W right could perceive
the shapes beneath appearances and thus manipulate them in a sensible
way. The inhabitant of a Wright house may not know this theory, but
the results of its practice are surely felt.
The Americans who had Frank Lloyd Wright houses built and the
visitors who are drawn to them today did not themselves play with Froe
bel blocks, but are certainly familiar with their country’s larger culture,
and here they fall in step with the famous architect, who was influenced
by the same literature that remains important today. It is the manner of
Wright’s thought that extends the pertinence of that culture from the
nineteenth century to the twentieth, and even into the twenty-first. For
someone born in 1867, an interest in the natural qualities of space would
lead to the thinking of Ralph Waldo Emerson, especially as it was being
popularized later in the century by the poet Walt Whitman. Transcen
dentalism, so revolutionary in the 1830s and politically charged during
the next two decades, had by the time of Frank Lloyd Wright’s youth
and young manhood been resolved into a genteel rebuke of the country’s
burgeoning industrialism. Especially to popular readers and to intelli
gent but largely self-educated persons like Wright, the Emersonian tra
dition was something that related directly to the most practical aspects
of life. A true philosophy of living is what Emerson offered, based on a
reasoning from the seen to the unseen in a search for what McCarter in
his biography calls “the underlying geomet ries of nature” (22). Although
by the time Wright began working as an architect Emerson had died,
the great man’s thought was being kept alive by Walt Whitman. And
Whitman was in personal touch with architect Louis Sullivan even as
Sullivan was having long conversations, deep into the night, with his
new employee Frank Lloyd Wright. These were dialogues that Wright
would recall as beginning with matters in their profession and growing
to include philosophies not just of design but of life.
Here are both the deepe st s ources for Frank Lloyd W right’s
thought and the basis for his appeal to the Americans who had his
structures built and to those who visit them today, not only Americans
themselves but those who would understand this country. From Emer-
son’s idea of nature comes Whitman’s ideal of democracy—and from
there the crowning notion of America itself as a promised land, even
promised landscape, for humankind. This is how the great critical defin
ers of American thought and literature see it, from F. O. Matthiessen in
American Renaissance (1941) and Leo Marx in The Machine in the Garden
(1964) to any number of more recent studies by critics such as Richard
Slotkin and Sacvan Bercovitch. In “Buildings for Recreat ion,” a contri
bution to editor David G. De Long’s Frank Lloyd Wright and the Living
City (1998), J. Michael Desmond sums up the importance of this con
nection between Americans and their country as it influences Wright’s
beliefs:
In Emerson’s work, the Romantic concept of nature lying between man
and God was reworked to support a modern view of the self as the
perceiver between nature and community. Building on the influence
of Emerson (and especially on his legacy in the poetry and prose of
Thoreau and Whitman), Wright’s designs for communities redefined
the tension between the individual and the democratic group in terms
of a symbolic interaction of self and landscape that I believe lies at the
heart of American myth and culture. (149)
Yet with Frank Lloyd Wright the cheerleading for democracy found
in Whitman’s poetry is no more a resolution of thoughts than were the
blocks from Froebel or the similarly organic methods of Emerson. These
ideas, even Whitman’s, were for him not conclusions but beginnings.
For his own gallery of inspiring figures Wright would add a third poet,
William Blake, whose exuberance for nature would propel anything
transcendental into new heights of rapture. Toward the end of his life,
the architect would cite his example more frequently. And in a conver
sation with his wife Olgivanna just a few weeks before he died, Wright
shared a confidence reported by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer in a book edited
with Gerald Nordland, Frank Lloyd Wright: In the Realm of Ideas (1988).
Blake would be a perfect guest for tea, Wright remarked, confessing
that “I would sit at his feet to worship him. Such a wonderful man! He
would understand us, Olgivanna. There would be a remarkable bond
between the three of us just as there has been between you and me.
And it occurred to me recently that in the distant future when they
think of us, they will think of us as one. We blend, Olgivanna. We are

one” (175).
Less mystical but inspiring in its own way was the example of
Wright’s uncle, the Reverend Jenkin Lloyd Jones. Based in Chicago, he
would host each summer a Unitarian Chautauqua at his religious camp
grounds at Tower Hill, Wisconsin, nestled among the Lloyd Jones
family farms. Speakers included not just other leading preachers, such
as William C. Gannett (famous for his “House Beautiful” sermon), but
figures from progressive social and political movements of the day, in
cluding Jane Addams of Chicago’s Hull House settlement organization,
women’s suffrage leader Susan B. Anthony, and senator Robert La
Follette. Theirs were ideas young Frank would grow up among. And
once he moved to Chicago, his uncle’s church, almost a settlement house
itself, would provide a virtual salon of influences and inspirations. As
a practicing architect, Wright began the design of his uncle’s last and
largest religious structure, the Abraham Lincoln Center (1903). He did
not continue with it, but in undertaking the commission for Unity
Temple the next year allied his plan with Unitarian progressive thought
even beyond the style favored by Uncle Jenk. The motto Wright chose
to adorn the structure’s entrance, “For the Worship of God and the
Service of Man,” is reflected in his binuclear design: a cube to the left
for the auditorium, and a smaller rectangle to the right for a social center.
The four-square space of the building for worship, as tall as it is wide
to accommodate balconies on three sides, is itself presented in a manner
of the meeting house, with the congregation gathered around the min
ister with equal access to oratory and particip ation. Members make nine
right-angled turns to enter, moving through low and dark spaces to seek
the high, bright triumph of the temple itself, there to find unity in shared
belief. Following the service, a pair of doors flanking the pulpit open for
exit. In Unity Temple: Frank Lloyd Wright and the Architecture of Liberal
Religion (1996), Joseph M. Siry relates the patterns of thought. “If
Wright, after Emerson, saw unity as the fundamental principle of na
ture,” he ventures, “then its most visible manifestation in architecture
was a continuity of material or a plasticity of form, wherein all parts ap
pear to flow into each other or to be geometrically related” (201). Thanks
to its concrete construction and unit system of building, Wright’s bi
nuclear design achieves this goal, which in turn reflects the goals of the
era’s progressive religious thought. Again, the structure works perfectly

without need of explanation. But the very success of that structure
prompts the congregant and even the mere visit or to think about how it
was achieved, and the answer is that the architect himself was definitely
thinking—thinking in terms of the culture he lived in and its develop
ments to come.
Uncle Jenk’s initial architect was Joseph Lyman Silsbee, in whose
studio young Frank Lloyd Wright first found work when seeking a career
in Chicago. And like Frank’s uncle, his earliest employer was involved
with cultural thought of the day, particularly as advanced by a cousin,
art critic and collector Ernest Fenollosa. Arguing for the convergence of
European and American with East Asian civilizations, Fenollosa urged
an appreciation of Japanese art and culture as a path toward achieving
Unitarian hopes. From prints seen in Silsbee’s office in 1887 and archi
tecture viewed at the 1893 Columbian Exposition to the planning of a
trip to Japan in 1905, Wright explored Fenollosa’s thinking during this
important first stage of his own architectural experience.
Allying Japanese art and culture with Unitarian thought is a different
approach than critics take when exploring Wright’s affinities with the
East. But then he himself would never tolerate the notion of “influence”
when it came to the very real properties his work shared with this or any
other country, unlike borrowing his family’s religious motto as his own
for both person and profession. More common is what Julia Meech
observes in Frank Lloyd Wright and the Art of Japan: The Architect’s Other
Passion (2001). She quotes with admiration Wright’s comments to the
Taliesin Fellowship at a print party in September 1950, that the great
printmaker Hiroshige “did with a sense of space, very much what we
have been doing with it in our architecture. Here you get a tremendous,
limitless space, instead of something confined within a picture. . . .
That’s a great lesson for you boys to learn” (230). Once more, the ground
work for Wright’s manner of thought runs much deeper than contem
porary trends. Such trends only make their contributions when they
complement his fundamental orientation, something his architecture
may suggest but which only an understanding of his manner of thought
can prove.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s public expression of thought begins in 1894,
when he is just one year out of Louis Sullivan’s office (with its after-hours
conversations that included talk about the master’s latest letter from
Walt Whitman), seven years removed from Silsbee’s practice (and the
Japanese woodblock prints), and eight from the Wisconsin pastoralism
that read Emerson and Thoreau as contemporaries. Through all of this
the young architect had shared the thoughtful world of his Uncle Jenkin
Lloyd Jones and was being ushered into a world rich with the era’s lively
progressivism. What’s remarkable is that the architect’s 1894 talk could
have been delivered just as appropriately in 1959, the year of his death.
Not that Frank Lloyd Wright’s thought doesn’t grow. It entertains
European modernism in the 1920s, anti-urbanism in the 1930s, world
conditions in the 1940s, and new horizons of design in his last decade of
life. But throughout there is a basic coherence of thinking that for all its
development and complexity never reveals a contradiction or even in
consistency. Wright, of course, was a great egotist, with no small measure
of what he called an honest arrogance (as opposed to the hypocrisy of a
false humility). When he cared enough for an idea to give it public ex
pression, he knew he was right or could at the very least present a con
vincing argument to that effect. Never simply repetitious, he articulated
his core beliefs with an eye to changing conditions. Organic architecture
had different battles to fight in the 1890s and each subsequent decade,
and hence successive essays in its advocacy would take different forms.
But the issue was always there, and remains so today.
Yet as a thinker as well as an architect, Frank Lloyd Wright needed
company. While some feel it was simply to impose his will, others, such
as Myron A. Marty, believe the man needed like-minded innovators
(and only later obedient followers) to reinforce his creative productivity.
Marty’s Communities of Frank Lloyd Wright (2009) finds the architect
most happily at work among others: with Cecil Corwin in Silsbee’s
studio, with Louis Sullivan himself and then a young George Grant
Elmslie in the same office, and locating his own first practice at the
center of a group of Chicago architects, “The Eighteen,” who would
make their own contributions to the Prairie Style even as they met
professionally and socially near their respective offices downtown. When
Wright built a studio connected to his Oak Park home in 1898 and moved
his practice there, a remarkable pool of talent came to work with him as
associates. Foremost was Marion Mahony, one of the first women
architects in the United States and as enthusiastic as Wright for a new,
organic architecture; anecdotes from the studio during this first decade
of the twentieth century describe a special magic that took hold of the
drafting room when the two would work together. Much of Wright’s
success at landing commissions at the time and the beautiful picture his
early designs present today are due to Mahony’s gifted delineations of his
work. Mahony stepped in to complete some of Wright’s commissions
and do others of her own when in 1909 the architect left for Europe with
Mamah Borthwick Cheney. Joining her was an associate who had left
Wright’s studio earlier, angered that his employer would repay a $5,000
loan with a selection of culls from an otherwise valuable collection of
Japanese prints. Walter Burley Griffin had other complaints as well, in
cluding how his innovative uses of corner piers and ideas for what Wright
would call the “Fireproof House for $5,000” were never fully credited
to the mind that conceived them. (Two decades later, practicing in
Australia, Griffin—since married to Marion Mahony—would claim re
sponsibility for Wright’s textile blocks as well.) But Griffin was an ex
ceptionally gifted architect with special talents in landscape design, and
alongside Barry Byrne and William Drummond was an essential part of
the studio in the early 1900s.
Working in the company of others definitely spurred Wright’s
creativity and productivity, as Marty demonstrates. But it is also well to
consider a more basic fact about such collegiality: that throughout his
workday the architect would have people to talk with, young architects
eagerly receptive to the ideas being exchanged as their work at the
drafting tables took place. True, Frank Lloyd Wright was notorious for
working alone as well, late into the night, where final plans would coa
lesce. But in the process he’d had the chance to verbalize his concepts,
communicating his thoughts to others while they shared their own.
Even in the relative isolation of the early years at Taliesin Wright would
attract and benefi t from the company of bright younger architects, now
coming from Europe and Asia to work in his studio, individuals with
such subsequent commanding fame as Rudolf Schindler and Richard
Neutra. By 1932, when he and Olgivanna started the Taliesin Fellow
ship, Wright was able to surround himself with younger and perhaps
even brighter minds. Many of them joined him in the rotating author
ship of a series of columns titled “At Taliesin” that appeared in The
Capital Times (Madison) and other Wisconsin newspapers between
1934 and 1937, as collected by Randolph C. Henning (1992). The great

success of his “second career” is attributed in large part to this supportive
environment—and not just supportive in material ways. Even though
the members began as apprentices and paid for the privilege, how could
Wright not profit from his hands-on involvement with persons such as
John Lautner and the hundreds of others passing through? True, at
print parties and Sunday morning talks the Taliesin Fellowship provided
listeners. But as any teacher knows, one’s own thinking benefits im
mensely from an informed and productive audience. The advantage of
restating one’s ideas and keeping them flexible by answering questions
that come largely from people eager to learn and understand is self-
evident. Although in the last decade of Wright’s practice some of his
designs may have declined in quality due to his isolation from critic ism,
and even though some of his self-published politic al tracts in the series
called Taliesin Square-Papers (1941–1953) became strident under the
pressure of international events, it is indisputable that from his profes
sional beginnings in 1887 to his final days of work in 1959 the man existed
in a context where the articulation of his ideas was a regular feature of
life.
While there are indeed some “frou-frou” aspects of late designs such
as the Grady Gammage Auditorium (1959) and the mid-1950s projects
for Baghdad (including allusions to Persian culture more appropriate to
colonialist fairy tales), his last years are among his best. At age ninety-one
the architect could still be fully active, superintending the construction
of New York’s Guggenheim Museum as a 1943 design reworked through
thirteen years of challenges by site, client, and city regulations. In The
Guggenheim: Frank Lloyd Wright and the Making of the Modern Museum
(2009), Neil Levine joins Hilary Ballon and seven other contributors to
measure this building’s success at its fiftieth anniversary of service to the
art public. Here was a structure opened in 1959 designed by an architect
born in 1867 who had acknowledged his first commissioned work in 1893
after several years of planning homes by moonlight so as not to anger
his employer. And what is the critical verdict for the Guggenheim after
all these years? First, that it is a boldly original work, well ahead of its
time for the late 1950s, and startlingly innovative even now, half a century
later. Second, that the essence of thought behind it squares with the
major principles of the architect’s career. “Of all Frank Lloyd Wright’s
architectural work,” says Neil Levine, “the Solomon R. Guggenheim

Museum, with its tall, spiral-ramped main gallery, most vividly embodies
his ideal of spatial and material continuity. First identifying this ideal in
his mentor Louis Sullivan’s curvilinear ornament, Wright proposed to
realize it in the three-dimensional totality of his architecture.” Here too
was his concept of “plasticity,” so crucial to organic form, “which opposed
the rectilinear architecture of the classical tradition and the International
Style” (40). Did Wright’s work in Sullivan’s studio of the early 1890s
leap past the y et-to-be-articulated modern in favor of something even
newer?
The art of Frank Lloyd Wright’s architecture is evid ent in his build
ings, and architectural historians have met the challenge of explaining
its effect in terms of space and form. A vast library of resources exists to
help people understand why Wright’s structures look the way they do,
and why being in them generates the feelings people have attested to
since the first resident of one of them moved in. Yet other questions
have remained unanswered, questions that make Wright’s career and
the man himself difficult for theorists to deal with. How can it be, for
example, that the most famous “modern” American architect decried
modernism itself, and his work contradicts both the spirit and practice
of modern architecture as typified by the International Style, modernism’s
iconic representation? How can it be that Wright’s most fervently held
and enthusiastically proclaimed principle, that of organic architecture,
is an issue for the twenty-first century even more pertinently than it was
at the end of the nineteenth? Distrusted first as an irresponsible radical
and dismissed later on by some as a self-promoting showman, Wright
suffered the fate of many great artists: that he was looked at but not
always listened to, and that even his admirers did not fully understand
his purpose. Only an examination of his thought can provide the basis to
understand those principles that underpin his career.
There is a precedent for Frank Lloyd Wright’s thinking that pre
dates even his first years of working for Louis Sullivan. Meryle Secrest
identifies it as a biographical item in her Frank Lloyd Wright (1992),
something memorable to the architect as his mother’s favorite lines from
Shakespeare. “And this our life, exempt from public haunt / finds tongues
in trees, books in the running brooks / Sermons in stones, and good in
everything” (58). These words from As You Like It could serve as another
motto for Frank Lloyd Wright, for in them is a nascent sketch of just
what organic architecture would be. Here is how his mind worked, and
how he would express himself, as stated in an unpublished essay of 1930:
“So there is little to be done except write one’s best thoughts (if one has
thoughts) and, as may be, build that best thought whenever and however
it can be built” (CW I: 346).
1
Architects and Machines
“the more true culture a man has, the more significant

his environment becomes to him.” These first public words of Frank
Lloyd Wright, spoken to the University Guild in Evanston, Illinois, in
1894, make him sound like very much the nineteenth-century gentle
man. More than half a century later modernist detractors would give
him damning praise as being the most famous architect of the nine
teenth century—this at a time when his designs for Fallingwater, John
son Wax, and his own Taliesin West were marking a great period of
innovation and ascent. But the line he had used in the Victorian era, and
continued to use through the modern and into postmodern times, raises
questions to this day.
Mention “culture” in 1894, and the books of John Ruskin come to
mind. The Seven Lamps of Architecture, for example, which Wright had
first read as a child, or The Stones of Venice, which, as a young man, he
had sought out on his own. Ruskin’s was a very Victorian belief: that cul
ture is beauty, and beauty involves the moral choices that legitimize both
emotion and the loftiness of thought.
But before this first line comes Wright’s title, “The Architect and
the Machine” (CW I: 20), which raises another concern: how will the
architect’s opinion of the machine square with his concerns for culture?
Again, the reference is timely, but once more in a way that fights against
the image Frank Lloyd Wright developed for himself in coming decades,
when he would win great fame for such striking developments as the
Prairie House, the Usonian homes, and the Guggenheim Museum.
Saying the word “machine” in 1894, especially in an architectural context,
15
16 Architects and Machines
would bring to mind the Arts and Crafts Movement. Popularized by

William Morris in the 1880s, this movement too was a product of
Victorian England. For it, the machine was an enemy, the prime tool in
the Industrial Revolution’s suppression of individual talent and artistry.
Anyone in Evanston who saw Wright’s lecture publicized or heard its
title announced might suppose the speaker was another in the line of
architects that included C. F. A. Voysey, Charles Rennie Mackintosh,
C. R. Ashbee, and others who had been looking back to Ruskin’s ideals
as a way of fighting for the principles of craftsmanship in an age that
threatened to efface them. Wright’s audience would certainly have
thought that when they heard his first line, gentlemanly culture and all.
Instead, “The Architect and the Machine” presents a critique not
just of bricks and mortar but of the “so-called artistic house” as well, a
domic ile that had become a freak of preposterous ornamentation. How
could this kind of residence, possibly William Morris’s own Red House
that had initiated the trend and remained as the prime example of Arts
and Crafts living, share Wright’s disdain for the cardboard box with
scissored windows “and whitewashed for luck” (CW I: 21)?
The answer isn’t found in Ruskin or Morris, but in one of their
American popularizers. Throughout Frank Lloyd Wright’s career the
influences he displays are less from philosophers and poets and more
from the impact of philosophy and poetry on general culture. For Wright,
as a citizen of Oak Park, Illinois, whose most immediate moral influence
was that of his uncle, the prominent Unitarian minister Jenkin Lloyd
Jones, thoughts on Ruskin’s aesthetics and Morris’s practical applications
would most immediately come from one of Reverend Jones’s friends,
the Reverend William C. Gannett.
Gannett’s sermon-like essay, The House Beautiful, was a popular
publication in the 1890s, going through several editions. It addressed
directly—more directly than anything by Ruskin, Morris, or other so
phisticated writers—the notion of just what made a house beautiful and
how that beauty was a major force in helping one live a happy, rewarding
life. For an already noteworthy architect who had just opened his own
practice, Gannett’s text was a natural for publication as a beautifully
crafted, hand-printed volume from The Auvergne Press, a hobby enter
prise pursued by Wright’s first independent client, William Herman
Winslow. The Winslow House, in the adjacent suburb of River Forest,
Architects and Machines 17
was designed and built in 1893–1894, and soon after its architect joined
his client in designing and producing elegant small press editions.
Gannett’s The House Beautiful, running about five thousand words, was
printed in an unpaginated edition divided into six chapters. In Wright’s
format, each page held roughly 150 words, set in fifteen relatively closely
spaced lines that allowed for a thickly designed border such as the archi
tect may have been drawing for Louis Sullivan just a few years before.
The border itself was sufficiently centered so as to leave a second area of
open space all around. The clear intent was that the words on each page
be not just read but contemplated. And the notions therein were much
like the ones Wright asks his listeners to ponder in his own essay of
about the same length, “The Architect and the Machine.”
As the son of a preacher, Frank Lloyd Wright always favored a
manner of delivery that seemed straight from the pulpit. And so as he
begins his lecture to the University Guild in Evanston, it is no surprise
that he sounds a bit like Gannett in the sermon he was preparing to
print. Opening with a caution, he warns his listeners that their homes
may be lying to them, their front parlors calling everything else in the
house insulting names. Even worse, their home was calling residents
themselves bad names, as if the owners had harbored the worst elements
of society, elements that condemn one simply by association.
In his own sermon, the Reverend Gannett has done much the same,
characterizing a typical house in terms similar to Wright’s—“four walls
with a lid, to box in a little of the blowing wind” (Ch. 1, second page).
Like the architect behaving as a preacher, this preacher carrying on like
an architect is making a point: it is not just how space is constructed but
how it is occupied that needs attention in the transitional world of 1894.
Both authors emphasize that while hoping to live lives filled with good
and beauty, people are foiled by the nature of their Victorian parlors, for
that is not where they actually live. “The heart cries, ‘Take me where the
people stay. I didn’t come to see the chairs,’” Gannett laments, feeling a
“homesickness for the back parlor” (Ch. 2, third page). Furnishings and
decorations in a room not lived in but used only for making impressions
wind up giving the worst impression of all. Both agree that if the money
spent on the largely unused front parlor were distributed throughout
the house, even the humblest abode could be a parad ise, supporting in a
much more effective way the quest for a happy life within.
Both Gannett and Wright proceed by emphasizing the positive,

that the best home is filled with beauty, every object contributing to
the family’s sense of happiness. To the extent that these objects enhance
life, they are true; if just for show, they are false. When one impulse
works against the other, the result is discord. When all work together
for the inhabitants’ happiness, harmony is achieved, what Wright calls
the truthfulness of integration that is the same for a house, a person, or
a picture. Good design is a design for life. This is less Ruskin the idealist,
or Morris the artist, and more one’s own minister (or local architect)
advising that it’s the quality of life at home that counts. It is a quality
not for rarified aesthetes but for the practical citizens of a democratic
nation, for readers not of The Stones of Venice but of Walt Whitman’s
Leaves of Grass. “Eyes and ears are eager to be fed the harmonies in color
and form and sound,” Gannett urges; “these are their natural food as
much as bread and meat are food for other parts.” From this he calls on
a larger sense that “For in proportion as the eyes and ears are fed, we are
not sure, but apt, to see a fineness spreading over life” (Ch. 3, third
page).
Simple harmonies as found at home may reflect Ruskin’s thought
at the lowest level, but in the emerging architecture of the time they sug
gest a step beyond the ways William Morris applied Ruskin’s ideal to
hearth and home. The trend was certainly evident elsewhere in Chicago.
Soon to take employment at Frank Lloyd Wright’s office in Steinway
Hall and studio out in Oak Park was a young architect named Walter
Burley Griffin. He would stay with Wright from 1901 through 1906,
and after that make his own name as an innovator in the Prairie School
before winning an international contest to plan the new Australian
capital city of Canberra and moving his practice to Australia where
other opportunities awaited him. Although politically and socially a
Progressive, Griffin never mounted the bully pulpit. But because he
spoke so clearly about how changes in architecture affected the quality
of daily life, his thoughts are worth considering here. In a lecture entitled
“Architecture” first presented in 1915 and collected in The Writings of
Walter Burley Griffin (2008), he notes how the difference between an
noying noise and pleasurable music—in other words, what constituted
harmony—could not be explained (and hence fully capitalized upon)
“til the law—a purely mathematic al one—of the conservation of rhythm
was understood.” Noise resulted from the interference of sound waves

with each other, while “the sounds we derived pleasure from were such
combinations as reinforced each other so that they went on to infinity.”
This understanding, still fresh from the past one hundred years of re
search, has its parallel in the even more recent understanding of certain
principles in architecture based not on time but space:
Music is a time art measured by rhythm. To satisfy the human soul
these units must be preserved and must be so used as to reinforce each
other, for destruction is painful to us but evidences of continuity are a
joy and inspiration. Architecture is a space art. Let us search for its
basic law. Is it not the conservation of space? As in music we rejoice in
being made conscious of time, one of the great fundamental elements
in our present creation, and in being made aware of infinity through the
preservation of rhythm, so in architecture and landscape architecture,
which are but interdependent elements of one field, we rejoice in being
made conscious of space, and can be satisfied only when the space units
we use reinforce each other, and a feeling of spaciousness is obtained.
In a building or in a community, a huddle and clutter of unrelated units
is as distressing as a harsh sound. (WWBG, 212)
To illustrate this principle, Griffin describes how a family can best find
harmony in its home. His details are based on W right’s and Gannett’s
more dramatically expressed sentiments voiced some twenty years before,
yet are expressed more levelly—otherwise in 1915 he would be preaching
to the choir.
Both Wright and Gannett praise simplicity and repose, qualities
held in esteem since the days of Michelangelo. And both agree that
there is a causal path to this status, which involves stripping away orna
mentation to get down to a “more useful form” (Ch. 3, fifth page), which
is in turn bound to be more beautiful. There are so many correspon
dences that one has to assume Wright had Gannett’s presentation in
mind when he drafted his own. The latter quotes a prophet: “If a man
should find himself with bread in both hands, he should exchange one
loaf for some flowers of narcissus, since the loaf feeds the body indeed.
But the flowers feed the soul” (Ch. 4, second and third pages). Wright,
a prophet in his own land, speaks for himself, but to the identical point,
that if there is just twenty cents for a meal, it is wise to spend three of
those for a flower whose presence on the table will feed the family much
better in the long run. Yet Gannett’s own phrasing would stay with
Wright for a lifetime; more than half a century later he would carve it as
a motto adorning the fascia board overlooking the seating in the Uni
tarian Meeting House (1947) designed for Shorewood Hills, Wisconsin.
This church included clear glass windows looking out on fields of prairie
grasses and flowers, and in the same paragraph of his Evanston address
Wright suggests such flora as a simpler and cheaper choice for table ar
rangements, even if they are considered weeds. His studio was filled
with them, albeit in striking pewter holders he had designed; Griffin and
other associates would remember being summoned from their drawing
boards to undertake prairie weed hunting expeditions in the fields across
Chicago Avenue from the Wright Home and Studio. Gannett presum
ably spared his own acolytes from this task, but does admire a woman,
“among friends counted for poor” (Ch. 4, first page), who won praise for
decorating her plain house in this same manner.
Beyond these incidentals, there are correspondences between the
two presentations that link even Wright’s most pioneering ideas to
those homely practices Gannett recommends. “The house we live in is a
building of God, not a house made with hands,” the Reverend would
have his readers know (Ch. 1, sixth page), a recommendation that lies at
the heart of Wright’s thinking, given that throughout his life he always
insisted that the church he worshipped in was Nature, spelled with a
capital N. Nature is the best model for a builder of houses, he urges.
Homes must grow comfortably from their site and blend with whatever
natural forms are there—and if there are none, emulate them in a manner
that is organic. This is the first use of the term “organic” in Wright’s
work, and considering how central the idea would be to his architecture
and how often it would recur in published examples of his thought for
the next sixty-five years, it is not surprising that he stays with it for the
rest of the page. Over the years, it would be expanded to become almost
synonymous with “integrity,” wherein all elements of a design derive
from a central governing principle that encompasses conditions and
context. Here Wright uses it to counter the Victorian propensity for
ornamental excess. Simplicity is not something like the side of a barn,
he counsels, but is rather something that is beautiful from which all
discord has been removed. Perfect adjustment of everything to the
whole assures repose, which is the serenity Gannett promises, if similar

rules are followed. The first is to make one’s home livable according to
the best hopes people have. What Wright says here, Gannett has preached
on every page: that if a home has the sense of being lived in, the life
within it will be rewarding.
At the time of delivering this first address in Evanston, Frank Lloyd
Wright had been in independent practice for just a year. Before this he
had designed several houses behind Louis Sullivan’s back, some of them
credited to Cecil Corwin (to cloak Wright’s identity) and many in cur
rently fashionable styles (to please the clients of a yet-to-be-established
architect, and keep Sullivan’s suspicions at bay). Yet architectural schol
ars have noted elements of an emerging organic architecture in each,
from the opening of views and interpretation of inside and out in the
George Blossom House (1892) to the loosely arranged interior of the
Chauncey Williams House (1895), one of Wright’s first independent
commissions but a home whose exterior still displayed fashionably
historic period references. Exterior is the key, for on the inside, as with
the Blossom House, the young architect was working wonders with a
new grammar of space. Indeed, some of the earliest projects involved not
new-builds at all but r ather remodeling of interio rs. How appropriate it
is, given his emerging thought, that Wright begin his innovative work
on the inside, linking what had been the boxes of Victorian-style rooms
with wood s creens and banding in a freshly fluid way. The reason why
Frank Lloyd Wright was setting off like this is clarified by his first pro
nouncements in Evanston, and having those pronouncements asso
ciated with a famous sermon by William C. Gannett does not by any
means make his thought retrospective. Instead, what Gannett (in his
moral way) and Wright (as an architect) say anticip ates what recent
scholarship identifies as a late-twentieth-century trend setting terms for
the twenty-first: that in organic architecture, as defined today, space is
to be valued as lived in, a quality achievable when the nature of its design
is not so much conceived as perceived—or, as Richard Weston puts it in
his Twentieth-Century Residential Architecture (2002), a matter of ac
knowledging “the primacy of perception, not concepts, in the shaping
of form” (216).
So many classic Wright principles follow from these two presenta
tions that simply citing them would be tantamount to reprinting the full
ieces, but it is remarkable the extent to which his comments in 1894

p
reflect those ideas manif ested in his life’s work. How should a house be?
Simple, with as few rooms as fit the conditions under which one lives,
simplicity being one of Gannett’s basic tenets. Will all these houses look
the same? There should be as many types of homes as there are people,
Wright allows, for it is the occupants’ personal traits that create the
nature of the place, another point Gannett makes several times. The
organic house, or The Natural House as Wright called it in his 1954 book,
may not be exactly The House Beautiful that Reverend Gannett proposed,
but the reasons for building and living in each of them are much the
same, which is the same reason that we teach children to speak the truth
and make their lives as beautiful as possible.
In the same year that Frank Lloyd Wright presented “The Architect
and the Machine,” his small-press partner-to-be, William Herman
Winslow, moved into the River Forest home he’d had Wright design.
This was the first “honest” commission the architect had acquired and
completed after leaving the firm of Adler and Sullivan in a flurry of
recrimin ations for having designed several “bootleg” houses on his own,
in violation of his contract with Louis Sullivan. The Winslow House is
an emphatic step forward in Wright’s development, with its clean lines,
smooth finish, rectilinear massing, and design elements that enhance a
sense of the horizontal, thus anticipating the Prairie Houses of a decade
later. The home’s sharpness as it faces the street suggests the “machine”
of Wright’s title, but its other elements, inside and from the back, cor
respond to both Wright’s and Gannett’s pronouncements, and once in
the door human elements of the “house beautiful” prevail. The entry
space is both inviting for guests and protective of its residents. The axial
nature of the fireplace unites the family on one side while on the other
side allowing for room configurations that serve individual family mem
bers. Life at this site on Auvergne Place (for which Winslow’s press was
named) was not monological. Although the street-side view speaks for
its owner’s stature and authority, the roofline conveys a feeling of shel
ter, a value W right and Gannett find essential and which the architect
achieves by forgoing the typical Victorian roof that reached skywards,
suggesting heavenly ascent if not social striving.
From the back, the Winslow House conveys an even homier mood.
Because of family-related elements on the second floor, including a
hearthside sitting room that overlooked the privacy of a rear garden,

this façade is anything but regular. Instead, its shape conforms to the
room’s internal functions, which are family oriented. Here, one story up
from the building’s more public rooms for reception and social dining,
was for Wright the true index of a home’s success at facilitating happy
family life. There is no reason the second floor should be less thought
fully designed than the first, he exclaims, taking Gannett’s suggestion
that all rooms be considered as important as the front parlor had been
for Victorian society. The architect’s metaphor is sermon-like, asking his
listeners if they care more for their neighbors than for themselves. This
makes no more sense than tolerating poor undergarments in favor of
showing off a top hat. The plan he provides for Winslow makes the ideal
lifestyle Gannett proposed much easier to accomplish on the second
floor, which is another anticipation of the Prairie House.
With “The Architect and the Machine” in mind, one sees how the
Winslow House’s design anticip ates the principal feature of an even
later development in Wright’s career, the Usonian House of his last two
decades of work. In each, the home opens to and embraces the privacy of
a back yard. From the front the Winslow House, like Usonians coming
forty to sixty years later, is all straight lines. To the right, one can glimpse
the shallowest of bays coming off the living room, while to the left a
delicately structured porte-cochere does nothing to disrupt the impres
sion of rectangularity from the street. But passing into the back yard
one encounters a verit able explosion of shapes and angles as the home’s
rear façade reveals the nature of family life that has been going on in
side. Gannett had urged that the house generate its sense of space from
within rather than be defined from without, and from the privacy of the
back garden this purpose becomes apparent, so different from an act of
public display.
For the Winslows, Wright provides everything needed to live accord
ing to Reverend Gannett’s moral precepts from The House Beautiful and
his own artistic imperatives voiced in “The Architect and the Machine.”
This moralism cannot be overemphasized; when the time comes to re
late Wright to this era’s more properly intellectual thought, his strong
affinities will be with the religious thinker William James rather than
with the philosophical pragmatist John Dewey. Even here, ethics coming
from the pulpit rather than from the salon make Wright’s ideas more
accessible than John Ruskin’s and more practical than those of William
Morris. If there is a pragmatism to Wright’s thinking at this stage, it is
in the way he takes impulses from both ethics and aesthetics and puts
them to work in an exceptionally functional house.
In choosing domesticity as a key for the improvement of life, Wright
and Gannett find a way of making morality and art fit together in a com
fortable and sensible way. This uniquely American interpretation could
soon be contrasted with the emerging modernism from Europe that
would be coldly intellectual in the service of a good seen in much broader
social contexts. As the era evolved, Progressive thought in the United
States would take on all aspects of life, public and private, but it is im
portant to see how in Wright’s world of the 1890s, this matter of home
life could assume such great proportions. In 1889 Wright designed and
built his own home and over the next nine years made major changes
and additions to it twice. Because the property was his own, he could
experiment with a freer hand, making structural alterations and devoting
Sunday afternoons to incessant rearrangement of furniture, probing for
different practical and artistic effects. In a similar manner, his business
with the bootleg houses gave him greater flexibility than working under
the direction of Louis Sullivan; and he was also free from the inhibition
of having his name connected with a property when his ideas were at an
early stage of development and when his junior status in the profession
made him more beholden to a client’s whim. He also continued to speak,
again to the University Guild of Evanston, and to publish in increasingly
important venues.
Presented in 1896, “Architect, Architecture, and the Client” dates
from a time when there were still considerably more projects done for
Sullivan and bootlegged in the moonlight than commissions fully ac
knowledged as by Frank Lloyd Wright. Moreover, two of the ones
Wright did acknowledge speak less of Wright’s ideas and more of his
clients’ tastes—tastes he seeks to improve in this new Evanston lecture.
These two homes, designed in 1895 for Nathan G. Moore and Chauncey
Williams, join the earlier properties conceived undercover in drawing on
the full stylebook of the times, making Wright’s production to that date
less progressive than it was exploratory. Exceptions were the Winslow
House and the single major project done with Sullivan for which the
younger architect would claim major credit: the Charnley House (1891),
built on the near north side of Chicago in an urban neighborhood quite

different from the leafy suburbs of Oak Park and River Forest, yet
sharing a rectangular shape and cleanness of line that characterized the
front of Wright’s first genuine masterpiece on Auvergne Place.
By 1896 Wright was three years into independent practice, and had
learned well that architecture needed to be addressed not just on its own
terms but with the relationship of architect and client in mind. Indeed,
in his second lecture to the University Guild one of Wright’s imperatives,
announced self-consciously as “play[ing] the part of preacher” (CW I:
27), is that once clients decide what is wanted and who should provide
it, they should trust their architect as they do their doctor or any other
specialist who is expert in appraising their needs. Wright himself is
aware that all clients are different, and therefore factors their unique
ness into his planning: to underscore this he repeats the point from his
previous Evanston lecture, that there are as many types of houses as there
are types of people. That Wright was making good on this promise is
evident from the wide variety of houses he designed between 1889 and
1895—starting with his own, already modified to reflect changes in his
life. But Wright preaches something beyond submission to the archi-
tect’s expertise and that is how architecture itself can best provide not
just shelter but an environment in which all aspects of existence can be
improved.
Not surprisingly, elements of Reverend Gannett’s The House Beautiful
reappear in this lecture, delivered as it is by an architect preaching the
goal of moral as well as aesthetic betterment. Choosing a type of house
not to impress one’s friends but to suit one’s self is proper, because it is
this self that a true friend treasures above any advertised image. Fur
nishing that home as simply as possible, even decorating it with dried
grasses and weeds—these suggestions from Gannett’s sermon inform
this second bit of Evanston preachment as much as they did the first.
But now Wright elevates the discussion by showing that when architec
ture is practiced as art, the results are even more rewarding. Art, after
all, is simply a practical example of beauty, and the most inclusive way
of introducing beauty into one’s life is by making one’s home a work of
art.
How is that beauty discerned? By reading the souls of his clients,
Wright argues, and building a house for them in which anyone can see a
legible inscription of who the owners are and hope to be. Unfortunately,
clients may retain likes and dislikes from their former environments
that prevent the plan from fulfilling their deeper happiness, a happiness
an architect like Wright can perceive even when they themselves cannot.
I know my clients better than themselves, this rhetor ic suggests. They
tell me what they want, but I know what they really want. Much later in
his career, when his striking innovations as an architect and flamboy
ance as an outspoken media personality had made him so eminently
quotable, Frank Lloyd Wright would say things like this to chide his
critics. But even from the improvised pulpit of the University Guild in
Evanston Wright argues for the essential soundness of this position and
its importance in achieving the goals he’d set. Therefore he turns these
initial premises on art, beauty, and the more happily lived life into a dis
quisition on the state of architectural design as it exists in 1896—and, at
least implicitly, how the problems of serving clients in this state of affairs
influenced the type of work he had been doing.
Great architecture no longer exists, Wright complains, and lays the
blame on Gutenberg’s printing press and primacy of literature over
architecture that followed. Does it all just come down to the book re
placing the cathedral? As with his inspirations borrowed from Reverend
Gannett, Wright again shows his self-educated background and predi
lection for the popular by summarizing an argument made not by Ruskin
or Morris but by Victor Hugo. Throughout his life the architect would
look back to a favorite chapter, “The One Will Kill the Other” in The
Hunchback of Notre Dame, as the source for the idea presented here.
As with his use of Gannett, Wright takes the idea much farther than
does Hugo, or at the very least applies it more specifically to the present
time. When books replaced the cathedral as manifest expressions of
spirit, one great model for style was replaced by an infinity of pages pre
senting a range of styles as long as history and as broad a human conduct.
A perceptive architect can see these representations for what they are.
But for impressionable clients, the results can be disastrous. Wright con
siders what in these circumstances the architect can do: he can study his
client’s best qualities and design a home he can grow into, or else he can
just give him what he thinks he wants and be done with it. If the latter
happens, is it really the architect’s fault?
Like a preacher, Wright chides his listeners with shameful charac

terizations of their conduct. Wanting one’s home built in an historic al
style is like dressing up in others’ clothes borrowed from a different
time. Do this, and nothing fits. Whether Colonial or Renaissance,
chateau or chalet, the choice is damning of the client, who has chosen
something that is not American, something Wright regretted when
surrendering to the whims of Nathan G. Moore the year before. Could
the architect give him a good enough half-timber type short of selling
out? The problem is pondered in An Autobiography. It was worth trying,
Wright concludes, albeit with a sigh: “I tried . . .” (CW II: 189, ellipses in
original).
The Wright canon from 1889 through 1895 makes gestures in various
directions. Both as a worker by moonlight and as a young independent
who could be honest about needing to support his growing family, the
architect had excuses for trying out alternatives. His Evanston lectures
professed a sincere desire to give his clients not only better homes but
a better way of life, and in these early works, subtly suggestive of his
emerging thought, one sees a variety of approaches with a common goal,
which is to open up the spatial reality of interio rs no matter how diverse
the outside shape may be.
In calling architects to do a better job for their clients, Wright
demands honesty on both sides. “A Philosophy of Fine Art,” read in
1900 before the Architectural League at the Art Institute of Chicago,
engages listeners on a casual level, transposing the Idealism of Thomas
Carlyle to the wisdom one learns from a mother and finds reinforced by
a wife: that the practical and the Ideal are one, that beauty cannot be
applied but must emerge from the thing itself. A false use of ideal beauty
is made by those who advertise their riches in vulgar display. If Americans
want examples of success, it is far better to look at the plain manner of
Abraham Lincoln; everything about him spoke of the genuine. What
does a simply honest work of art look like? No matter what the medium,
it must be “true to the conditions of its existence.” A painting, for ex
ample, “must be a thing made with a brush, dipped in paint and applied
to canvas,” and not a piece of literature that tells a story. If a picture of a
cow looks irresistibly lifelike, do not buy the painting, Wright advises—
buy the cow (CW I: 42). Listeners at the Art Institute were surrounded
by one of the best French Impressionist collections in the country, and

thus had no problem understanding Wright’s meaning. But even here
his emphasis on the medium’s physic al substance and action as opposed
to its subject anticipates an aesthetic as innovative as his most forward-
looking architectural projects to come: Harold Rosenberg’s description
of abstract expressionist painting two generations later. Rosenberg’s The
Tradition of the New (1959), published in the same year Wright’s Gug
genheim Museum would open as a venue for such art, draws its conclu
sion from what Wright proposes: that a painting is not a surface upon
which to represent but rather an arena within which to act.
What some people asked of abstract expressionism could be asked
of Wright and his theories of art in 1900: is all this just art for art’s
sake? The 1890s and its Oscar Wilde aesthetics were still fresh memories
and the question is fair. But Wright has equal enthusiasm for what art
should do, which is to conventionalize natural things so as to reveal the
poetry of their nature, a poetry that reveals an identity of form and func
tion with life that constitutes civilization itself. Conventionalization was
the term Wright used for abstraction, and like later theorists his inten
tions have a moral tone. Civilization is nothing less than conventional
izing nature, he reminds his listeners, and is what keeps the light of
human progress alive. And whose business is it to keep that light burn
ing? The architect, of course, for only music can approach architecture
as an index of the civilized. Here Wright once again takes advantage of
the location where he is speaking, drawing on the appreciation of all the
arts likely to characterize an audience at one of his city’s leading cultural
institutions. Just as music provides delight in temporal rhythms and
harmonies, he indicates, so does architecture with space. What a tragedy
to have one’s appreciation of music limited to the prosaic spectacle of
program notes, where sounds are presumed to inspire just pictures. And
what an even greater loss to live the better part of one’s life in a building,
one’s home, that fails to provide happy harmonies of spatial occupancy.
Are these thoughts innovatively educational? Because of his a unts’
experience with the extremely progressive Hillside Home School oper
ated from 1887 to 1915, Wright is assumed to have been shaped by the
ideas behind this undertaking, which eventually found a national voice
in the theories of John Dewey. Yet in all five massive volumes of Wright’s
Collected Writings, there are only two references to Dewey, and quite
passing ones at that: in a prospectus for the Taliesin Fellowship and in

An Autobiography, both dating from 1932, he mentions his aunts as having
learned of Dewey only through Francis Parker, a predecessor who had
introduced Froebel’s blocks and other ideas for early childhood educa
tion to American schools in the 1870s and for whom the aunts had taught
before establishing their own school. Education does not surface in Frank
Lloyd Wright’s thinking until a generation later, when he becomes an
educator himself. For now, his architecture and the thoughts behind it
show the inspiration of people like Reverend Gannett and a Lincoln of
homespun mythology.
As the nineteenth century drew to a close, Wright’s work in Chicago
concentrated on designs completely his own. The most impressive of
these include homes for Isadore Heller (1896) and Rollin Furbeck (1897),
and while their narrow verticality shows none of the Prairie House’s
innovations just a few years away, neither is done in anyone else’s style,
as were the bootlegs. At this point another address to the Architectural
League presented a few months later in 1900 takes on special pertinence.
In “The Architect” Wright faces his profession directly, as only someone
who finally feels established in it could hope to do. He makes overt refer
ence to the machine that lurked behind the title of his first Evanston
lecture and was mentioned obliquely in the second, as one of the tools
science has placed in the hands of architects who haven’t yet learned to
use them. By 1900 Wright feels architects have found a way to use the
machine, but improperly: to mass-produce styles and pile them up in a
plan-factory that makes plan-making central rather than incidental to
the profession. When that happens, the architect abandons his primary
responsibility to his clients, which is to provide a dynamically shaped
design for living that brings out the best in one’s life.
How can this situation be remedied? In coming up with an answer,
Wright speaks in general terms that summarize the progress of his career
to date. He begins with praise for the type of person who would rather
build a summer cottage than build a city, a description of just what the
young employee of Adler and Sullivan had done by designing a pair of
Gulf Coast cottages in Mississippi for Louis Sullivan and his friends the
Charnleys (1890) instead of lusting after work planned for the classically
themed White City in the 1893 Columbian Exposition. He expresses re
gret over the older European styles that infect America like a contagious
disease that children bring home from school. The reference is deliber
ately homely, so that the argument may be developed on an educational
level. Can new architects be taught better? Only if they start learning
within two days of birth and are well-schooled growing up with nature,
as was Wright by his mother’s thoughtful decoration of his nursery and
his active involvement with the work of his uncles’ farms. From there
the education of an architect must involve moving into the hustle and
bustle of the city to learn how civilization thrives (as did Wright when
leaving Wisconsin for Chicago), and there being mentored by a “loving
Master” (CW I: 50) as was Wright by Louis Sullivan. These specific ref
erences are never stated, but the implications are clear, for this is the only
way to get a proper architect, one capable of finding the poetry inherent
in his work, an architect who is in fact a boy with the heart of a king. If
that sounds egotistical, it is no more so than Wright’s future statements
would be. Granted, this is the stuff of the nineteenth century, expressed
in a romantic manner that approaches sentimentality. But to guarantee
success Wright looks forward as well, to a world in which architects will
use modern methods rather than be used by them.
“The Architect” does not end here, not on this lofty note. Recalling
how his previous essay’s initial aspiration to Thomas Carlyle and the
Ideal had been brought down to earth with the homeliest of filial and
uxorial analogies, Wright concludes with poetry at its most accessible
level: a full-length recitation of a piece of doggerel straight from the
popular culture. Its subject is how a new manner of poet is needed to
sing the power of modern railroads—the same type, Wright concludes,
which is needed for architecture. A laughable spectacle? Not in context,
for throughout these early lectures Wright has consistently fashioned
himself as a preacher, and a staple of any preacher’s methodology is
the “double proof ” whereby a truth from one realm is underscored by
the parallel proof from another: material for spiritual, common for un
common, mundane for the lofty, and so forth. Wright also knows, and
surely feels this way himself, that an argument from everyday life will
carry more persuasiveness than one grounded in abstraction. To his
listeners and to himself, the Reverend William C. Gannett will sound
more convincing than John Ruskin, and Thomas Carlyle’s pronounce
ments on the Ideal will come across more effectively in the voice of one’s
mother or wife. Where is Frank Lloyd Wright’s image of success: in the
ostentatious manners of the business and social elite? No, it’s in the
homespun virtue of Abraham Lincoln.
There is also humor involved. Wright genuinely loved popular
expressions of great truths, a sign of the self-educated person. But he
could also joke about it. He’d tease his friend Carl Sandburg that the
poet’s greatest work was his Rootabaga Stories and would recommend it
as an example of what good literature should be. That would always get
a laugh from Sandburg and others, because the architect was having a
bit of self-deprecating fun with his own taste. That’s what is happening
at the end of his lecture as well, as Wright takes the inspirations of archi
tecture and its future and uses them to conclude with a rousting doggerel
poem that makes the most of this occasion.
The architect also has a good time with the home he designs in the
flush of early success. He has earned his reputation by taking the stylistic
desires of early clients and introducing spatial elements that made their
homes not only more attractive from the outside but more livable within.
Now at the end of the 1890s he wins commissions that let him show
what can be achieved by designing from the inside out. Two homes do
this in the vertical manner—not the direction Wright’s Prairie Houses
would take in the next decade, but for that all the more suggestive of
how working with interior spaces comes first: the Isadore Heller House
(1896) and the home for Rollin Furbeck (1897). These residences con
tributed to Wright’s reputation as the most important architect in the
suburbs, and when he completed the studio addition to his home (1898)
and relocated his practice there, keeping just a small business office in
the city, his status as a local hero was assured.
It is a hometown issue that prompts the last of Wright’s 1900
lectures. “Concerning Landscape Architecture” is a pleasantly informal
address to the Fellowship Club, one of Oak Park’s several women’s
organizations that the civic-minded Catherine Wright supported with
her membership and volunteer activity. Its opening statements show
how entertaining Wright could be, his wit and the subject serving as
good stand-up comedy. And laugh his audiences should, given how
ridiculously their suburb’s landscape planning had evolved. Bucolic
leafiness had been its original attraction, but now it has devolved into a
place where people might wander lost until they starved to death, so
shaded that “little children grew thin and pallid like potato sprouts in
a back cellar” (CW I: 54). Like an improvising comic riding the laughs
of his audience, Wright riffs through several more situations, having
good-natured fun with the state of things in Oak Park. He describes the
new decorative trend of topiary with the equally extreme examples of a
box shrub crafted as a crowing rooster and a hedge trimmed with a loco
motive, tender, and cars rushing along its top.
Then, with his audience won over to his side, Wright gets serious,
explaining how such new styles come about. For this he departs from
landscaping for a moment to consider a presumably higher art, that
of stained glass decoration. He names the universally admired Louis
Tiffany and asks if his later projects haven’t been a bit extreme. Having
worked in color all his life, the designer loses interest in normal effects
and is tempted to the “ragged edge of discord” that is so abnormal, so
unbearable, that it “can please no healthy eye” (CW I: 55). Wright further
emphasizes his point with familiar examples: the discordant colors
currently popular in women’s fashions and extremities of taste for food.
Whether garish hats in uncomplimentary blues and greens, gamey
meats, or smelly cheeses—the decadence of taste is all around us, Wright
and his listeners agree. As for better taste in their gardens, he reminds
them that it is the landscape architect’s job to harmonize growth and
environment without marring the natural grace of either. He can recom
mend a good book on the subject by an English woman, Gertrude Jekyll’s
Home and Garden, a recently published volume that belongs in every
library. Wright’s voice is hardly a cry in the wilderness.
Walter Burley Griffin, a gifted landscape architect with beliefs like
Jekyll’s and Wright’s, would the next year be taken on as an associate,
joining a group of exceptionally talented young architects that included
Marion Mahony. Five years later an angry Griffin would leave Wright’s
studio, and by the decade’s end Mahony was out of it as well. The two
would marry, and share bitter memories of the man whose selfish ambi
tion had, they believed, betrayed them. But in 1901 all was happiness.
Griffin was the closest thing to a valued and respected partner that
Wright would ever have, and Mahony’s aesthetic sense was a great
benefi t. Its author supported by talent and enthusiasm, Wright’s “Con
cerning Landscape Architecture” looks forward to the first decade of the
twentieth century, a decade that would be graced by his Prairie House
masterpieces, wherein landscape architecture becomes an important
factor. These were years when Wright cooperated most comfortably

with others, delegating work to those who had the greatest gifts for it:
Walter Burley Griffin for landscape design, Marion Mahony for delin
eations, George Mann Niedecken for furnishings and interior details,
Richard Bock and Alfonso Iannelli for sculpture. The large compound-
complexes done for Darwin T. Martin in Buffalo (1904) and for Avery
and Queene Coonley in the southwest Chicago suburb of Riverside
(1907) cannot be imagined without these cooperative efforts. The plan
for the Martin project hung above Wright’s workplace for the balance
of his long career as testimony to how all elements of a design are
properly integrated. And not just for visual beauty. In his address to the
Fellowship Club Wright stresses how the beautiful ways that art can
improve our environment are as influential on our lives as the cultivated
conduct of good society. This connection is what he and Reverend
Gannett had been preaching for the past seven years. Environments
inside the house and outside of it accurately reflect the society inhabiting
these realms. If it looks ugly and stupid, Wright asserts, you can be sure
it is the bottom of society.
“Conc erni ng Lands cape Archit ect ure” would be Frank Lloyd
Wright’s last small-time speech. The next, delivered to an influential
audience at Chicago’s Hull House, seat of the innovative and influential
organization directed by social reformer Jane Addams, is titled “The
Art and Craft of the Machine.” Presented in March of 1901, it takes
Wright out of the pulpit (and away from the garden club) and places
him among the most pertinent group of listeners of these times: activists
devoted to improvements in life that would begin with the basic infra
structure Wright himself had been striving to reform. In fact, the piece
looks less to the future than to the past. Later this same year Wright
would publish two essays that did predict his emerging work with the
Prairie House, and a certain machine aesthetic is involved in that. But
for his Hull House audience the architect is more concerned with how
the machine has been resisted, even demonized, by the same people
who are otherwise most dedicated to reform. There is no preaching to
the choir here, but rather a soberly stated argument that the idealists
of the Arts and Crafts Movement—famous figures such as Morris and
Ashbee and others sure to be admired among the Jane Addams group—
have been counterproductive in turning completely away from the
machine. Wright’s thesis is that the machine is in truth their friend.

Their ideals have been admirable, but in throwing out all possible bene
fits from machinery the Arts and Crafters have not just made their own
work more diffic ult but have placed themselves in opposition to the
greatest means of improvement at hand for the lives of ordinary people.
For twenty years William Morris and his followers had been con
demning the Industrial Revolution’s degradation of craft and the re
placement of craftsmen by workers enslaved to their machines. Wright’s
counterargument is that the evil lies not in the machine itself but in how
it is used. If it simply replaces expensive handcrafts with mass-produced
items that drive down prices and discourage fine artistry, machinery is
bad. But if used to make work easier and more pleasurable, to eliminate
the drudgery of a job and leave more opportunity for the creative, then
it is good. But of even more importance, especially to Wright, is that
the very nature of machinery brings out the simple, natural qualities of
the material being worked with, whether wood or steel. Rather than
simply rejecting the Arts and Crafts ideal, Wright reminds his listeners
that William Morris valued simplicity as the basis for all art. This same
quality could just as easily underlie the art of the machine. From here
Wright moves through all aspects of what the machine can do, aligning
them first with Morris’s goal (simplicity) and his own (the organic).
Granted, this transformation from the handcrafted to the machine-made
is revolutionary, but such is the age at hand. The transformation, how
ever radical, is a good one, because it not only preserves human creativity
but enhances it by allowing an easier way to embrace the natural for
one’s own benefit.
Wright concludes this lecture not with doggerel poetry, but with an
invitation to his audience of serious social workers to look from atop a
tall office building across the city in all its glory and menace. There below
is a monster leviathan, stretching out in a complex image that has Wright
not just painting with words but constructing with analogies that are
almost too much to bear. The huge range of the city is like fleshy tissue,
tied together by nerves and pulsing as an organism through which flow
the fluids of life. As the metaphors compound, flywheels whirl like the
impulses of nerve ganglia, machines murmur like whispers and breaths,
while any number of urban activities are ablaze with passion.
hough not so identified, this vision matches what Wright encoun

T
tered as a nineteen-year-old arriving at night on the train from Wiscon
sin, seeing a metropolis for the very first time. It certainly motivates the
raptures he now, as a thirty-four-year-old professional established as
one of Chicago’s leading architects, feels to be appropriate curtain music
for the symphony of ideas he has just concluded, the most profound of
which is that the machine’s essence is simply “the principle of organic
growth working irresistibly the Will of Life through the medium of
Man” (CW I: 68).
2
The Prairie and the World
as the twent ie th cent ury gets underway , Frank

Lloyd Wright’s family motto of “Truth against the World” takes on a
prospective dimension. As his first decade of practice demonstrated,
Wright had no trouble whatsoever innovating within established
nineteenth-century forms, whether Queen Anne, Shingle, or Colonial
Revival—or, for that matter, the perennial favorite of wealthy lawyers
and financiers, the Tudor half-timber. But in 1901 he reorientates to the
future, developing an architecture that not only gives Midwest America
its first totally original style but wins its maker an international reputa
tion. In America, Europe, and eventually Japan his work would be seen
as truly revolutionary.
Unlike “The Architect and the Machine,” prepared for listeners at
Hull House this same year, three important essays published in 1901 in
The Brickbuilder (later called The Architectural Record ) and The Ladies’
Home Journal look forward rather than back. And what a remarkable
future they foresee. Wright’s move from the local lecture platform to
the national press may have been enabled by what biographer Robert
Twombly (1979) calls the “terrific boost” (37) given to his career by fellow
architect Robert C. Spencer, Jr., who in June of 1900 published an illus
trated essay on Wright’s work for The Architectural Review. A Steinway
Hall neighbor and, according to H. Allen Brooks (1972), the person who
had “supplanted Cecil Corwin as Wright’s best friend” (28), Spencer
praised elements that Wright would soon be foregrounding in his own
essays: the quiet simplicity of family life that results from the three-
dimensional opening of space, the natural growth of design elements in
a manner identified as “organic,” and the belief that any ornamentation
36
The Prairie and the World 37
be of the surface and not on it. With the confidence that this essay surely
inspired, Frank Lloyd Wright could now expound to a large readership
just what he intends for both commercial and domestic architecture.
In “The Village Bank Series” Wright presents his concept of what
small town banks should be. Louis Sullivan would design them as jewel
boxes, but the younger architect here proposes something else: a combi
nation of strongbox and temple to the God of Money. It is in the notion
“temple” that Wright shows how his thinking has developed. Although
not stemming from religion, the desire of bankers to have a significant
and therefore monumental building leads to unfortunate associations
with mausoleums, most of which are neither significant nor monumen
tal: rather, they suggest a memorial, where memories of life and hopes
for the afterlife are enshrined. Wright by contrast gives his bankers a
temple to the God of Money. This particular bank was never built, but
a real temple was: the structure Wright would design in 1904 for his
own Unitarian congregation in Oak Park, Unity Temple. Here the solid
cubic shape and great interior openness serve religion even better, at the
same time making people feel as they would have hoped for a place of
financial safety, that this place is here to stay.
Useful space and happy occupancy typify another new building, the
headquarters done in 1903 for the Larkin Company of Buffalo, New
York. But as much as he wanted to win big commissions for major
buildings, Wright would spend most of this decade working on houses.
Therefore it’s appropriate that his two other essays published in 1901 be
written for The Ladies’ Home Journal. The first appears in the magazine’s
February issue and bears the title that would name not just a style but a
movement: “A Home in a Prairie Town.” Accompanied by a perspec
tive drawing, a floor plan, and a proposal for siting such houses in a
quadruple block arrangement that rotated each home’s direction so as
to maximize both privacy and space, the essay describes a structure much
like that built later the same year in the Chicago suburb of Highland
Park for Ward W. Willits.
The Willits home is a fine example of the Prairie House, a term
applied to most of Wright’s domestic production for the next dozen
years. The house itself is famous for what would become familiar Prairie
features, including a strong horizontal aspect, main floor set atop a short
but clearly defined base, interpenetrating internal spaces that flow into
38 The Prairie and the World
one another, an axial sense deriving from a centrally placed fireplace, a

central chimney that anchored the home’s cruciform arrangement of
wings, a feeling of the outside world coming in, and a strong sense of
shelter provided by the broad projections of a low, overhanging roof. “A
Home in a Prairie Town” presents appealing reasons not just for building
such a house but for locating it on a lot 400 feet wide by 400 feet deep—
immensely larger than the 60-by-120 foot suburban building lot or the
fifty and even thirty-foot frontages common within the Chicago city
limits. Wright knew very well how much space was available, having
seen the commuter lines extend to Oak Park and beyond. Throughout
his career his advice to clients was that they seek land as far out as they
thought they could possibly move—and then go ten miles farther. In
1901 he urges a larger site not just in a lust for space itself but for how
this extra room outside can enhance a home’s internal design.
In the plan for the “home in the prairie town,” long bands of case
ment windows swing open; low terraces along the wall ease any sense of
confinement. From outside, the house associates itself with the prairie,
quiet and level. Inside, its floor plan invites an e qually simple and easy
lifestyle, keeping the family together yet allowing plenty of space. Inside
and outside flow together and internal spaces are offered with the option
of a floor-through arrangement that extends living room space into the
second story (enclosable for an extra upstairs bedroom). Even finish de
tails are meant to enhance this easy, natural mood, with interior walls
plastered with sand finish and trimmed minimally in Georgia pine. Life
in a Prairie House is meant to be a pleasant experience, inside and out.
These innovations are presented without the least sense of preach
ing, because the perspective, floor plan, and block siting speak for them
selves; all Wright needs to add are the details. Those details include a
cost breakdown, bringing the home in for under seven thousand dollars,
quite competit ive in the 1901 market. Most of what he’d done in the
1890s cost a great deal more.
Even more affordable (at $5,935) is “A Small House with ‘Lots of
Room In It’ ” described in Wright’s essay for The Ladies’ Home Journal
in July. Again, there was a real-life home on the architect’s books at this
time that conformed in image and details: the Warren Hickox House
(1900) in Kankakee, Illinois. It looks quite different from the Willits
House, and therefore is not characterized as fully Prairie in style. Wright
acknowledges this in his essay’s first line, crediting the average client’s
preference for the gabled roof, which the Prairie House, as introduced
in this same magazine five months before, does not have. But to satisfy
the prospective homeowner and himself he has come up with a gable
that flares gently from its eaves, raised at the peaks for better perspec
tive, all of which makes the outlines “crisp.” Crisp is good, but not just
for itself; beneath this visual effect is a floor plan in which the dining
room and living room meld easily while each maintaining its own func
tion. Thus in the architect’s manner of thinking, visual attraction is
valuable, but only as it enhances function, suggesting that in his mind
the two are one. Wright is emphatic that the living room stands at the
house’s center, but not in any sequestered manner. Instead, status is won
by virtue of the room’s access to both interior and exterior features,
including a peek at the stair landing as one enters. For Wright, heart is
not a static concept but rather the source of circulation, and the Hickox
House makes movement open and easy. The living room’s broad rec
tangle has its fireplace located midway along the long wall opposite the
terrace, a rear-facing structure that stretches the full length of this
room—its size and accessibility effectively double the living space in
fine weather. But this same living room gains added spatial dimen
sions at each end, where a library and dining room extend the respec
tive lengths by projecting out (via five sides of an octagon) into the side
yards.
Natural is the term Wright uses most often to described effects
whether external or internal. Its natural feel and open circulation ally
this “small house with lots of room in it” with the Prairie House per se
and make it an integral part of the Prairie Movement. As the essay’s
title promises, it is an emin ently practical home. But the most stunning
visual effects are found in the more formal Prairie House, making it not
just a wonderful place in which to live but an object of great visual
beauty. In Frank Lloyd Wright’s book, and of course in the Reverend
Gannett’s, these aspects are mutually reinforcing. But in harmony with
the general tone of these Ladies’ Home Journal essays, there is no need to
preach. Beautiful pictures are worth more than any number of sermon
ized words, and the Willits House especially has generated stunning
photographs, showing how lovely Wright’s work can look both inside
and out, most effectively so when the two realms interpenetrate.
Mrs. Willits would prompt the architect’s next piece of writing by

suggesting the Wrights accompany her husband and herself on a trip to
Japan in 1905. Her motive was to rekindle Frank’s romantic interest in
his then-wife Catherine, and to douse the same for another client’s wife,
Mamah Borthwick Cheney. The voyage enhanced Wright’s enthusiasm
for all things Japanese and inspired the first of his many essays on this
country’s art, an art sharing affinities with his own architecture and
beliefs.
“Hiroshige” (1906) is Wright’s critic al introduction to a catalogue
(without illustrations) of the Chicago Art Institute’s exhibition of this
artist’s work. Just four hundred words long, it mimics the aesthetics
being praised: that of subtraction rather than addition, the attractive
ness not of content itself but how that content occupies a space without
crowding it. A comparison of the Willits House with the Robie House,
conceived and realized after the trip, makes this same point: that the
ultimate form of the Prairie House is a reduction to its ground-hugging
line that holds without ostentation expansive volumes of internal space.
Utagawa Hiroshige (1797–1858) was Wright’s favorite of the Japanese
print artists because his work concentrated not on society’s elite but
rather the artisan class whose inherent poetic grace was portrayed as
delightful. This distinction mattered to Wright, because by virtue of it
he could claim all of this artist’s restraint, chasteness, and delicacy of bal
ance as essentially democ ratic traits—the same qualities Wright sought
for his own architecture. He also appreciated how Hiroshige’s work is
representational without being literary. Like a Prairie House, there’s no
story to unravel, no secret meaning to decode; the substance of each
composition is immediately perceived.
In 1913 Wright would travel to Japan again, pursuing a commission
for Tokyo’s new Imperial Hotel. More thoughts on Japanese art would
follow this visit, but a piece of writing on Japanese prints derived from
the first trip merits attention within the context of developments in his
work and his personal life.
His marriage with Catherine did not survive the decade. In 1909 he
left for Europe in Mamah’s company. Making a brief return visit to Oak
Park in 1910, he arranged for the support of Catherine and the children
and returned to Italy to live with Mamah. Catherine had promised to
grant his request for a divorce if he waited a year, but when the time
arrived she reneged, hoping against hope that he would eventually tire
of Mamah and come back as a dutiful husband. In 1911 the lovers re
turned to America, Mamah to finalize the divorce her husband Edwin
sadly granted, Frank to salvage what remained of his architectural prac
tice. For himself and Mamah he’d build Taliesin, a hillside home in his
ancestral valley near Spring Green, Wisconsin that bore suggestions of
the Tuscan-style villa they had rented in Fiesole. But he also continued
to collect and deal in Japanese woodblock prints, an activity that was
outstripping his disrupted architectural practice in earnings. From this
experience, and with memories of his 1905 adventures in Japan still vivid,
he would write a short book called The Japanese Print: An Interpretation
(1912).
Published at the same time the architect was underwriting books
on European feminist thought translated by Mamah, the volume lacks
illustrations. This lack is richly compensated for by Wright’s insight
ful prose—eight thousand words of it. His enthusiasm for the Japanese
aesthetic had grown since his brief statement on Hiroshige. Inspiration
came from the familiar belief that beauty itself is the finest morality, an
ideal popular since Ruskin but parsed by Wright for architecture. Beauty
comes from structure, structure comes from organic form, and informing
it all is the vital whole of life itself. All this is said in the six hundred
words that precede Wright’s interpretation of the woodblock prints:
that for all its grace, Japanese art is above all structural. At the heart of
structure is design, and at the heart of design lies geometry. “Geomet ry
is the grammar, so to speak, of the form,” Wright concludes, paralleling
(albeit coincidentally) the method of Saussure’s Course in General Lin
guistics (1907–1911) that would inspire, more than half a century later, the
thinking of a different era entirely. Wright’s appreciation of geometry’s
“spell power” (CW I: 117), such as the circle’s suggestion of infinity, the
triangle’s sense of structural unity, the spire’s aspiration, the spiral’s or
ganic progress, and the integrity of the square are not in themselves
forward-looking, but neither are they Ruskinesque. They are instead
aspects of Frank Lloyd Wright’s manner of thought, here taking shape
in Japanese art.
Wright believes that, more than other artists, the Japanese under
stand this sense of syntax and demonstrate a mastery of the grammar,
grasping form by probing its underlying geometry. Having found the
core of reality, the printmaker can express an inner harmony that deter
mines outward form and character. The colored woodblock prints that
the architect praises show this quality, which is nothing less than a Pla
tonic ideal. This distinction between psychological and metaphysical
may remind readers how Frank Lloyd Wright comes a generation after
Ralph Waldo Emerson and is in fact sharing the times of William James;
here is the idealism not of Nature (1836) but of Varieties of Religious Ex
perience (1902). In this discourse, the practice of art is not primarily a
spiritual affair but is rather a physical involvement with objects that are
played as comfortably as a pian ist might play a keyboard. Grammar and
syntax, notes and melodies, harmonies and rhythms: these are Wright’s
keys to instructional truths, and their very palpability speaks for the
physical and psychological dimensions of his thought, a quality his
friend Robert Spencer saw derived from Wright’s childhood exercises
with the spatially dimensional Froebel blocks.
Appreciating how the core of Japanese art lies in elimin ating the in
significant so that the simplest reality remains, Wright begins moving
his argument in an at least implicitly architectural direction. For her
Frank Lloyd Wright and the Art of Japan (2001) Julia Meech has sifted
through Wright’s comments in later years to the Taliesin apprentices
and the apprentices’ reactions. Beginning in the early 1930s “print parties”
were a frequent exercise for the Fellowship, one of the few teaching
devices this unteacherly master used. At one of these parties in 1950 he
pulled out some Hiros hige prints and praised their “tremendous, limit
less space, instead of something confined within a picture.” Meech notes
the printmaker achieved this through “abrupt cropping and diagonal
asymmetry,” and how years later Curtis Besinger, now a practicing archi
tect in the organic manner, would intuit that just as the subjects of these
prints seemed to extend beyond the unframed margins, a house could
be designed to feel larger by reaching out into the space around it (Meech,
230). An abundance of space, of course, is available only because the ex
traneous has been eliminated—by the printmaker and by the architect.
In each case it is accomplished by an act of conventionalization, Wright’s
term for an abstraction that strives for a holistic sympathy with nature.
Once again, there’s grammar at work, for dramatizing something con
ventionalizes it, which is in turn to simplify along geometrical patterns.
This mathem atical basis makes those patterns symbolic, woven as the
woof builds on the warp. Elimin ate the insignificant and you thereby
emphasize the real—in a print, in a house.
The richness and depth of Wright’s analysis shows how far he has
come since his “Hiroshige” piece appeared in 1906. But the conclusion
to his argument in 1912 indicates how his life itself has fared in the inter
vening years. What distinguishes these years from the period before
1906 is his involvement with Mamah, and specifically how that initial
involvement with a client’s wife turned, after the 1905 visit to Japan, into
an abiding romance and intellectual experience that would shape his
personal values and orient his career. In 1915, he’d write about it in a
brief piece titled “On Marriage,” but some of that essay’s thinking is
present in the closing pages of The Japanese Print: An Interpretation.
Many of the classic figurative Japanese woodblock prints draw their
subjects from the Yoshiwara, the licensed entertainment quarter of Edo.
These works celebrate the geisha’s sexuality, Wright states, in a manner
innocent beyond western comprehension. Although in Japan as in Amer
ica the family was the principal unit of civilization, the Japanese people
of this era (1603–1868, the Tokugawa period) did not make sex the es
sence of marriage; moreover, the Yoshiwara served literary and artistic
needs as well, for the rising commercial class of Edo. Here the geisha
was honored as a living work of art and a poetic refinement of life, a
crowning example of what Wright considered an exquisite civilization.
It was Wright’s and Willits’ doings in just such a pleasure quarter
that convinced Mrs. Willits that Frank’s marriage with Catherine was
beyond saving, and that Ward had best be taken home. In fact, Wright’s
appreciation of this district echoes the feminist beliefs of the Swedish
reformer Ellen Key, whose books the newly divorced Mamah Borthwick
had been translating and for which Wright had arranged American
publication. Key’s work advances the same idea that Mamah had been
espousing, with Wright in firm agreement: that love was not the chattel
property of marriage, but was rather a personal emotion worthy of exist
ing and being shared on its own terms. When challenged by the Chicago
newspapers to explain his apparently sinful cohabitation with Ms.
Borthwick at Taliesin while Catherine Wright of Oak Park was still his
legal wife, Frank responded with a Christmas Day 1911 press conference
at Taliesin and made the same points as his 1915 essay: that the form of
marriage means less than the life of a marriage, and that marriage
without love was an empty form. Conversely, love itself brought life to
any relationship, legally sanctioned or not.
Wright’s comments to the press were published the next day in the
Chicago Tribune. “On Marriage” appears only in Wright’s Collected
Writings (I: 138), but sentiments from it are used to make his final point
about Japanese art: one must love a thing before it can be truly known,
and such deep sympathy has a spiritual dimension that puts the life into
art. This is an eminently practical demonstration of how something
spiritual can be made material, with the abstract ideal being a means
and not an end. Wright admires it in the Japan ese print and practices it
in his architecture. And while there is a spiritual element to such work,
it is neither the foremost nor the conclusive element. Rather, it is a stage
in the larger human process that is emphatic ally physical, psychologic al,
and emotional.
Architectural writings in the years following Wright’s first visit to
Japan reflect on the decade’s accomplishments. Like many things Japa
nese and all things Frank Lloyd Wright, “A Fireproof House for $5,000”
makes good on its title by simplification, subtraction, and an open sense
of space. Appearing in the April 1907 Ladies’ Home Journal, it takes
principles espoused in his first two articles (1901) for this magazine and
applies them to a much smaller and more economical dwelling. He
begins by citing the recent steep rise in building costs, tacitly admitting
that his Home in a Prairie Town and Small House with Lots of Room
In It might be financially out of range for average clients. Costs are high,
but new building techniques make materials such as concrete and steel
affordable—and Wright has just the way to use them. By a process of
elimination he reduces the main floor to just three rooms: living, dining,
and kitchen (with pantry and cabinets built in). Ornamentation is lim
ited to flower boxes and concrete urns with trailing plants; in winter
the building’s sense of proportion is its own decoration. Although the
kitchen and an upstairs rear bedroom (brightly lit for use as a sewing
room) protrude a few feet, the home’s four sides are equal, so that the
same forms for pouring and setting concrete can be reused all around.
Architects such as Robert Spencer and Walter Burley Griffin had
been opening up space in their own designs during this decade, but it
is Wright’s manner of addition by subtraction that distinguishes his
contribution. Seeing his beliefs confirmed in the art of Hiroshige, he
makes bold moves with the constituent elements in home construction,

shifting the fireplace to main floor center so it could bear the weight of
floor and roof. With the need for bearing walls removed, it becomes
apparent that the main floor’s openness is not an L but an abbreviated
U, as the dining room continues unobstructed until a built-in hutch and
door mark off the kitchen. The unity of flow is underscored both out
side and inside: by the wood bands that wrap the exterior and by its
echoed motif inside as a shelf that runs beneath the living room ceiling
and continues into the dining room, an effect seen most dramatically in
the George Stockman House (1908) in Mason City, Iowa.
The Stockman residence and another for Stephen M. N. Hunt
(1907) in LaGrange, Illinois, are the main examples of Wright’s design,
which turns out not to be fireproof because stucco rather than concrete
would be a more practical building material for structures this small.
Unity Temple in Oak Park, however, was the size and shape for building
with concrete. In its cube-shaped sanctuary Wright’s vision fulfills itself
perfectly; the “fireproof houses” are meant to suggest a cube, but are in
fact a bit wider than they are tall.
Unity Temple also figures in Wright’s major essay, “In the Cause of
Architecture,” appearing in the March 1908 issue of The Architectural
Record, accompanied by eighty-seven photographs and drawings of
Wright’s work, already built or projected. Here was the chance for the
architect to review his two decades of practice. Fame and the greatest
number of commissions had come in the past seven years, but to claim
credit for his foresight Wright begins with a tip of the hat to his own
Evanston lecture of 1894, in which he set down propositions that now,
in the light of experience, may be judged concisely.
Quickly Wright marks them off: simplicity and repose achieved by
reducing the number of rooms while making openings between them in
tegral features of structure and form, complemented by lack of inorganic
decoration and use of built-ins for furniture and appliances; no single
type of home, but rather as many kinds as there are different clients;
building naturally from the site; natural colors; materials used true to their
own nature; and the belief that a house with character will ultimately
outvalue any currently prevailing mode.
This new succinctness of purpose benefits by dropping the preacherly
tone of the 1894 address. As befits modern times, moral reasons for
building this way need no longer be cited. But two other imperatives are
developed at length. One is that a building should grow comfortably
from its site to harmonize with its surroundings—with natural features
if they are present but, if they are not, in as peaceful and organic a manner
as if Nature herself were doing the construction. This proviso is a key
one, answering in advance how a so-called Prairie House could be built
where there was no prairie in evidence. It’s the mood of the prairie
Wright seeks, not any decorative effect. Its quiet level is the architect’s
goal, achieved with the now familiar gentle slopes of the roof, sheltering
eaves, terraces that lead inward and rooms that reach out to private
gardens. Here is the Prairie House that may have been in the back of
Wright’s mind in 1894 but would not be built until 1901. Another aspect
expanded upon from its mention in the title of Wright’s 1894 speech is
how the machine is the normal, practical tool of present civilization that
challenges the user to choose it for work that can be done with integrity.
In addition to refining his aesthetic and letting it stand on the basis
of beauty rather than morality, Wright can by 1908 identify who will
seek this style of housing. Fifteen years into independent practice and
with the Prairie House established as his unique contribution to the archi
tectural milieu, Wright looks to his client base and finds not Reverend
Gannett’s loving family nor those of the Arts and Crafts commune but
American businessmen with unspoiled instincts and untainted ideals.
The architect knows this type well, having socialized with them in Chi
cago suburbs such as Oak Park, River Forest, and Riverside. Men like
this form their own personal and professional judgments and common
sense appeals to them. Culture in terms of prettified historic al styles is
of no interest. Like Wright himself, they are interested in such new
devices as motorcars, and some will have dabbled in inventing versions
for manufacture. Others will have manufactured and marketed new
forms of ornamental metal, window glass, soap powder, and the like.
One of them, the remarkable Darwin D. Martin, reorganized a rather
homely mail-order firm, the Larkin company, along lines that would
become characteristic of twentieth-century efficiency, productivity, and
marketing. Their favorite polit ician was Teddy Roosevelt, himself an
image of the era’s ideals when it came to intelligent, forward-looking
action. They were a coherent group, and Wright was ready to give them
what he believed they needed for their home life and work.
Leonard K. Easton contrasts Wright’s remarkable clients with the

more conventional buyers of the day in Two Chicago Architects and Their
Clients: Frank Lloyd Wright and Howard Van Doren Shaw (1969). While
Shaw’s homes were not quite the period monstrosities Wright describes,
they bespeak tradition in both function and form—in other words,
with little or no correlation between the two. Wright’s designs express a
natural harmony between ground plan and elev ation and an integration
of the whole that makes any of his houses a practical pleasure and an
aesthetic joy to live in. Wright’s businessmen are Progressives—in poli
tics, social thought, and in the modern ways they have developed their
enterprises and industries. Their wives fit this type as well: educated not
in finishing schools but at universities, conscientious about social reform,
and in many cases militant about women’s rights, starting with the right
to vote, a major issue of the time. At least one would distinguish herself
as a feminist. In some cases it was the wives who chose the architect: the
Coonley House (1907) commission owes as much or more to Queene as
to Avery, for it was she who wanted Wright’s integrity of design. In
similar manner, the Cheney House (1903) stands as much for Mamah’s
thinking as it does for Edwin’s—with tragic consequences for both the
Cheney and Wright families. The businessmen stand out not for their
riches or social connections, but for innovations at work and in their
personal lives: Frederick C. Robie, for example, a man with no con
suming interest in the arts, was told repeatedly “you want one of those
damned Wright houses,” and who in Frank Lloyd Wright found a man
much of his own type, someone he could talk with and be both under
stood and inspired by.
Future decades would produce more clients who kept up with or
were ahead of their times, including Edgar J. Kaufmann for Fallingwater
(1935) and Herbert F. Johnson for the S. C. Johnson Administration
Building (1936), Wingspread (1937), and the S. C. Johnson Research
Tower (1944). Even in Wright’s next phase, providing Usonian designs
for those with fewer resources, his clients would be noteworthy for their
progressive work in such fields as journalism (Herbert and Katherine
Jacobs First House, 1936) and education ( Jean S. and Paul R. Hanna
House, Honeycomb, 1937). That Wright could gauge a client’s suitabil
ity is shown by his ultimate success with a unique taproot design for a
seventeen-story skyscraper. In 1929 the client was the Reverend William
Norman Guthrie, socially progressive rector of St. Mark’s in lower

Manhattan who was seeking effic ient housing for his parishioners as
well as devotional space. The stock market crash put a halt to the project,
but twenty-three years later Wright would resurrect the design in radi
cally different times for a startlingly different purpose in a distant and
distinct part of the country: in Bartlesville, Oklahoma, as an office tower
(1952) for oil pipeline builder Harold C. Price, Sr., whose openness to
innovation matched Guthrie’s. Today the Price Tower thrives as an arts
center and boutique hotel, but through all of its uses the design speaks
for Wright’s canniness in finding clients who could share his vision.
And so in 1908 Wright stands confident in mastery of his design and
familiarity with the type of client he can expect to work with. The world
he builds in is certainly no longer Victorian, but neither does it partake
of the emerging modern—and is nothing like the International Style of
modernism that would emerge in the late 1920s and be a powerful archi
tectural mode for decades to come. In fact, the architect’s thinking looks
to an era well beyond the modern, to a time when theorists were finding
the same flaws in a lapsed modernism that Frank Lloyd Wright voiced
about it when it was still a nascent style. One cannot call Wright’s archi
tecture postmodern, for in this field the term refers to a specifically self-
conscious use of historical features with quotability in mind; his buildings
look nothing like the postmodern architecture built in the 1970s and
1980s. But when one considers postmodernism in the broader sense of a
manner of thinking that informs philosophy and (most dramatically)
literature, then some of Wright’s comments from 1908 skip over the
modern era entirely in order to embrace the organic school of design that
has reemerged in the early twenty-first century. His work is more cele
brated now than in the decades immediately following his death, when
what was called “postmodern architecture” lagged well behind the in
novations of postmodern thought.
When “In the Cause of Architecture” calls for “a significant gram
matical expression” that makes “the whole, as nearly as I could, consist
ent,” both the organic and the intellectually postmodern come to mind.
Grammar and syntax are linguistic terms, and were used that way by
Saussure in 1907, but in much later times these words and the principles
behind them start being used as a way of discussing ideas, whether of rea
son or the imagination, in what would be called literary postmodernism.
An integrity of grammar produces an integral whole, Wright believes,

and continues with another anticipation of postmodern thought by con
sidering how the newly democratic nature of his age not only broadens
education and raises intelligence but allows for the existence of not just
one dominant style but any number of individual styles. The more indi
vidual the better, for if the motive is genuinely organic the result, how
ever various, will have the beauty and integrity of good design. At that
point nobility in architecture becomes possible, but only because Amer-
icans will have demanded it from new practitioners as they come on the
scene.
What can inhibit demand? Satisfaction with inorganic architecture,
of course. Here is where the most common practice of late twentieth-
century thought clarifies what Wright is not only arguing for but rea
soning against over sixty years before. The central analytical practice he
anticipates is called Deconstruction, introduced by the French philoso
pher Jacques Derrida and since the late 1960s used widely by American
academics both in philosophy and literature. Deconstruction, like the
semiotic belief in the value of working with culture on the level of signs,
is obvious, calling as it does for the interrogation of what underlies any
assumption. Admitting that a belief is nothing but an assumption is a
revolutionary idea, growing slowly from the notion first advanced in
anthropology that one culture’s reality is simply a description or an ac
count, and that any valuation can be made not in universal terms but only
in judging the persuasiveness of that account. Deconstruction applies
this method to beliefs that have stood as absolute, often finding that
behind these absolutes are the most conventional of assumptions. It is
just these assumptions that Wright uncovers in his study of how an in
organic architecture has been resisted for what he calls literary reasons.
His buildings have a sound preparation at ground level, Wright in
dicates, “and it is the first grammatical expression of all the types” (CW
I: 93) in his canon that he now surveys. The integral workings of gram
mar and syntax hold them together and identify them as a self-apparent
system, his way of doing things as opposed to others. Supports for these
buildings, for example, are placed inside the wall rather than outside so
that the outer base can appear for what it really is, an essentially hori
zontal element. Fenestration is handled differently too, with windows
grouped rhythmically in horiz ontal bands. Casements replace sashes
and more than compensate for any reduction in ventilation, illumina

tion, and view. Indeed, there is as much of those features as any client
could wish without making empty stylistic gestures. Floor plans are axial
and order the space according to specific units for each structure. Never
is a pretty picture the goal, but rather a scheme making sense in all three
dimensions. Wright has great faith that if the building is put together
with all the proportions being derived organically the picturesque will
take care of itself in an appealing manner. In truth, there is no choice, no
way extraneous concerns can rightly interfere, because the design’s gen
erating principles have determined how things will come out. A perspec
tive drawing will agree that the organic design is correct, but there is no
proof residing in the drawing itself.
Taking advantage of the magazine’s eighty-seven illustrations of
his buildings, Wright shows how his design is a matter of grammar and
syntax by reducing their groupings to three. There are those with low-
pitched hip roofs (such as those for Winslow, Willits, and Coonley),
others with low roofs and simple pediments sitting on long ridges
(such as Hickox House and Dana House), and a third group topped
with a simple slab (for which Unity Temple and the fireproof design for
The Ladies’ Home Journal serve as the best examples). Wright presents
this same three-part grouping two years later in his Introduction to the
Wasmuth portfolio, an even more imposing presentation of his work,
and its distinctions encompass key elements of his work to that date.
But even for the great art museum that opened in 1959 on upper Fifth
Avenue, the organic principles espoused in this 1908 essay hold true; it
is just the shape that differs, and that because of the building’s purpose:
it is a comfortable way to walk through an art exhibition. The Guggen
heim, after all, spirals down for the ease of its museum-goers, while at
the same time it reaches up to complete its form. Form and function are
one, here in complementary dimensions, just as the three styles of roofs
differentiate the three groups of smaller buildings. Each group grows
from its base in an integral manner, because the particular type of roof
tops off its organic growth.
Having identified his clients and described his manner of building
for them in an organic manner, Wright pauses to consider how customer
and architect can best work together. Because the nature of each already
has been clarified, there should be no trouble. After all, an individual
shows his or her true character in the choice of an architect, and trusts
that in the relationship with the architect this character will be revealed.
That’s how close the bond between the two is. Put to work, the latter
will idealize the former’s personality and taste, providing a house felt to
be uniquely suitable. Yet that house, so intimately representative of its
owner, still speaks for the character of its creator, just as any portrait by
a great master will be as forever recognizable for its painter as for its
subject. Wright has argued before that clients should trust him, but here
he goes so far as to say that in serving that trust he is designing for the
ages.
Familiar thoughts round out the piece. Any decor ations should be of
the surface, never on it. Limitations are any artist’s best f riend. Coping
with the machine opens new avenues of democracy. Simplicity is not an
end, but a means. A good sense of that end, an integral fashioning of
the whole, is suggested by the qualities of Japanese woodblock prints.
How will these elements shape Wright’s work in the future? He pre
dicts a simplicity of expression that says more with fewer lines, accom
plishes more with less work, is more plastic and fluent and therefore more
coherent, which is to say organic. As Frank Lloyd Wright lists these
qualities, it is easy to foresee the textile block houses in California, the
labor-saving Usonians, the soaring plasticity of the great workroom at
the S. C. Johnson Administration Building, the remarkable fluency of
Fallingwater, and even the more organic shape of the Guggenheim. “In
the Cause of Architecture” is a statement from an architect having great
current success with the Prairie House, but the essay expresses what
would be a lifetime of developments.
1909, the year that separates this essay from Wright’s Introduction
to the Wasmuth portfolio, would be the first of several traumatically
disruptive years in his life. Far more dramatic and tragic incidents would
follow, but in terms of all he had achieved the events of 1909 qualify as
life- and career-changing. His family was a large and apparently happy
one, the children bright and lively and wife Catherine uncommonly
devoted—to him, but even more so to the children, which was one source
of Wright’s problems. His architectural practice was flourishing, and in
the 1908 essay he proudly lists his busy group of young associates—two
more areas of concern, both the heavy workload on Wright and the
growing difficulties in keeping such a stable of talent under control and
unthreatening to his ego. Not mentioned in the essay, of course, is his

affair with Mamah Borthwick Cheney. But in the stature he now accords
himself, not just as an architect but as an artist, an artist of great genius
to whom clients have been drawn as if by magic and to whom they
should concede their every desire, it is hard not to see the type of person
who would abandon wife, children, and work for a great love, no matter
how scandalous and destructive that abandonment might be.
Personally, the events of 1909 comprised a flight to Europe with
Mamah. Professionally, they involved putting what remained of his
practice in the care of Hermann von Holst (after the more appropriate
Marion Mahony and several others declined it), meeting in Germany
with the publisher of his architectural portfolio, and settling in Italy
where he, his son Lloyd, and his draftsman Taylor Woolley prepared
drawings, with Mamah present as a housemate. Many friends and clients
terminated their relationships with Wright; a few key people stayed
with him, through this and much worse to come. On his and Mamah’s
return to the United States in 1911, he’d build Taliesin, a complex of
structures that would exercise his talents for organic architecture in a
manner so dramatic that only Fallingwater, designed a quarter century
later, could even begin to approach its amazing achievements with
domestic space.
Yet through all of this his thinking as expressed in the 1908 essay for
The Architectural Record remains consistent, as evidenced by his Intro
duction to the Wasmuth project, Ausgeführte Bauten und Entwürfe von
Frank Lloyd Wright (1910). The portfolio features seventy-two drawings
of Wright’s work, both built and as projected (as the title says). In 1911
the same publisher would issue a collection of photographs depicting
Wright’s structures as they appeared at the time, but it is the 1910 volume,
known as the Wasmuth portfolio, that crowns Wright’s achievement and
publicizes it to an eager European audience. Among its readers would
be the leading young architects of Holland, Germany, France, and Aus
tria. In the portfolio they see not inadequate photographs but renderings
drawn appealingly in the manner of Japan ese prints. Some had been
done by Marion Mahony, traced over in ink by Wright and his helpers
in Fiesole so that printer’s plates could be made. And introducing it all
was a nine-thousand-word treatise by Frank Lloyd Wright showing that
despite all the changes in his personal and professional life he was still
in absolute control of his canon.
The basis of that control is actually broadened in his initial comments,

which flatter his European readership. As always, he encourages archi
tecture that harmonizes with the happiness of life, but now he adds a
new locale to those celebrated in The House Beautiful and old Japanese
prints. Italy has been his proof positive for the joy of living, he reports,
having reposed so pleasantly near Florence this past year. All the things
art can make, from paintings and structures to buildings themselves,
“sing themselves into being,” like wildflowers. His romance with
Mamah surely contributes to this enchantment, but it is an organic (and
not romantic) principle he senses at work, with the growth of their love
being “the very music of life” (CW I: 103). The principle, after all, is a
universal one, common to primitive structures and achieved in civilized
building when the natural impulse to build is not corrupted by what
Wright would disparagingly call “the literary.” What he has seen in and
around Fiesole, where he and Mamah have been so happy, confirms his
hope for the organic. Italian buildings rest easily, he attests; everything
is content with its factors of existence and comfortable in its surround
ings. And what lovely surroundings, Wright enthuses. A cypress tree
grows into a perfectly balanced composition, making all complete. In
Wright’s Italy, life and art are one, perhaps because his own existence
was now proceeding that way.
These words are apt description of the love nest he shares with
Mamah; photos of the Villino Belvedere in the Wright Archive show
how the architect framed his views to convey these qualities. The nearby
Villa Medici, with its dramatic wrapping of the hillside, “of it and not
on it” as Wright liked to say, would inspire his drawings of a fancied
home in Tuscany and a very real one in Wisconsin, an estate he’d name
Taliesin (“shining brow” in Welsh) and build the next year. For now, it
is helpful to see how these attitudes and plans are foregrounded in this
most important Introduction, the testament around which would be
built his international fame.
His principles, familiar to readers of his Architectural Record essay of
two years before, come quickly and naturally from his context established
in the hills above Florence. Beauty expresses fundamental proportions
in color, line, and form. These are the conditions of its existence, and
that existence is a natural phenomenon. What corrupts it? False educa
tion, Wright announces, a matter of confusing curiosities with objects
of beauty. The low point for this was the Renaissance: what’s needed is
a return to harmony with nature such as the Gothic had achieved be
fore the Renaissance undid it, an action that was less a development than
a disease. Harmonies are internal; they cannot be imposed. The best
chance for organic architecture to flourish now is in America, where
democracy empowers individuals to have their homes built to please.
And the ideal clients Wright identified in his 1908 essay are people in
his part of the country, where open-mindedness and independent think
ing help common sense prevail in art as well as life. These are Wright’s
own people, and are his partners in making organic architecture pos
sible. As lovely as Tuscany has been, the architect’s greatest sympathies
remain back home. There he and his clients share a bond that will get
them the homes they deserve. Yes, he is an artist, but part of that art
resides in a sensitivity to a client’s nature. Each party educates the other,
each having “something to grow into” (CW I: 110).
There has certainly been growth for Wright, and he has been careful
to parallel his changes in material circumstance with his developing
ideas. From the happy world of Fiesole that marks the beginning of his
Introduction to the example of where his hopes for architecture can best
be realized, he has taken his readers through the present phase of his
life: a flight to Italy, where he has found happiness, and an impending
return to America, where that happiness can be built into a harmonious
personal and professional life. These are hopes, of course, and reality
would present challenges that could not be foreseen. But Wright would
overcome those challenges with his principles for architecture intact,
just as they have survived this first set of changes in his life and practice.
The Wasmuth Introduction concludes with thoughts of how organic
architecture can be taught—by approaching the beautiful from within—
and a review of the three groups of buildings that manage to harmonize
into a coherent canon. The last word is saved for America, and surely
reflects Wright’s plans for returning to his ancestral homeland, the
Helena Valley near Spring Green, Wisconsin, and building his notion
of a perfect home. From his retreat in Fiesole, Frank Lloyd Wright de
scribes Taliesin as it would rise in Wisconsin. But there is a temptation,
grounded in the view anyone can take today, that it is not just Wright’s
1911 home but his entire estate, added to and built up over coming
decades and modified on an annual basis until the year he died, that was
in his vision.
The Helena Valley, sometimes called the Jones Valley or “the valley
of the God-Almighty Joneses” as locals fancied it and Wright’s youngest
sister titled her 1965 memoir, consists of land once farmed by the archi-
tect’s grandfather and uncles. As a boy, young Frank would come out
from Madison and work all summer on his Uncle James’s farm. In 1876
a nine-year-old Frank Lincoln Wright, who would not substitute his
mother’s middle name for his own until after his parents divorced in
1885, could walk down the lane from Uncle James’s farm to where the
valley opens to view and enjoy the panorama stretching invitingly to the
north. Nearby sits the Lloyd Jones graveyard, where in 1886 a friend of
Uncle Jenkin’s, the Chicago architect Joseph Lyman Silsbee, designed a
meeting house named Unity Chapel. As an aspiring architect taking
engineering courses at the University of Wisconsin, Frank would be
invited to help with the interior. Another quarter mile down the road is
the site of Frank’s first complete building, a large shingle-style Queen
Anne housing his aunts Nell and Jane’s Hillside Home School I, which
Wright would design in 1887 from the Silsbee Studio in Chicago where
he’d taken work. Behind it in 1902 he’d design a second Hillside School,
which in the 1930s would be adapted and enlarged for the Taliesin
Fellowship. Straight ahead young Frank could see another hillside, this
one a site for the Midway Barns he’d design to serve his estate in 1938.
And to the right, a third hillside, a commanding feature visible a mile
away from Uncle James’s lane: the place where in 1911 Frank Lloyd
Wright would build the house named Taliesin.
In An Autobiography (1932), Wright stops short of allowing himself
this vision as a nine-year-old, but given his egotism and precocity readers
would not have been surprised if he had. As is, the book opens with the
boy accompanying his uncle on a hill-climb through fresh winter snow.
There’s a lesson involved, as the uncle has set his sights on a distant hill
top and is heading straight for it, with little Frank beside him. But when
the summit is reached, their tracks in the snow reveal how Frank’s
course has departed from his uncle’s straight line, zigzagging this way
and that with almost every step as distractions beckoned. The treasures
he’s been seeking are weeds, the dried stalks of prairie flowers sticking
up through the snow. In subsequent pages he describes this same hillside
in spring, where the fresh blooms of pasque flowers reach up through
melting snow. On lovely summer days he flees there to escape work and
revels in the joys of nature. He loves the spot, as will Mamah in 1911, a
Fellowship of hundreds in the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, and countless
visitors since the property was opened to view in 1991. The spot young
Frank has been seeking in all seasons is precisely where he’d build when
reorganizing his life and work. Its siting and materials help make Taliesin
an especially appealing example of organic architecture. Today it con
tinues to function as an icon of Frank Lloyd Wright’s achievement.
Wright’s major essay from this period that brackets his building of
Taliesin in 1911 and the fire that destroyed its living quarters in August
of 1914 reflects his changed conditions. As visualized from Italy, life
with Mamah in rural Wisconsin would be paradise, and the home he
designed fit that purpose. But scandal dogged him; newspapers in Chi
cago kept his reputation in tatters, and while some people in Spring
Green were kind to Mamah, others were not. A trip to Japan in pursuit
of the Imperial Hotel commission got him many fine prints but not,
quite yet, the job, and work on the Midway Gardens entertainment
center in Chicago was impeded at times by the client’s inadequate capital.
It is from this context that “In the Cause of Architecture: Second Paper”
emerges. Appearing in the May 1914 issue of The Architectural Record, it
strikes a very different tone from its 1908 predecessor and the 1910
Wasmuth portfolio Introduction. Those pieces overflowed with confi
dence and optimism. Now in 1914, for the first time in his career, Wright
is something else, something that does not befit him: he is defensive.
The last time this journal’s readers had heard from Frank Lloyd
Wright he was not only showing off his personal successes but crediting
the associates in his Studio. Budding architects had been drawn to him
by sympathy with his work, with which they have loyally assisted, Wright
had boasted in 1908, and went so far as to list their names and seniority
in “our little university of fourteen years standing” (CW I: 99), an im
pressive list that included Marion Mahony, Walter Burley Griffin,
Barry Byrne, and William Drummond, among others. Now, six years
later, they are all gone, just as the Oak Park Studio is no more, having
been converted to living quarters for Catherine and the younger children
so the Home itself can be rented out for income. That’s not mentioned
in the new essay, of course, nor are the former associates’ names, even
though several have become well-known architects in their own right.
This, Wright feels, is the problem: they have gone off to exploit a new
school of architecture that confounds the master himself.
right still has his ideals, but now they are expressed negatively.
W
Corrupting a young country’s architectural future is to damage what is
most precious to it, he warns. On the positive side, he still believes in
the ideal of an organic architecture, but also knows that only integrity of
instinct and intelligence can move this ideal forward into practice. In
beginning his own practice many years before, he’d had the advantage
of going into domestic architecture, an area his own master, Louis
Sullivan, had left virtually untouched. Therefore Wright could say now,
with no small pride, that he broke new ground and did what he needed
“alone—absolutely alone” (CW I: 127).
One gets the feeling that he would like to be alone now as well. As
a result, he claims far too many vulnerabilities and, even worse, gives
himself far too much credit for a movement that has been much larger
than himself. Claiming to have launched the movement, he now lacks
strength to protect and direct it. The field of architecture has become
awash with imitations that trade on the movement’s name but in fact
weaken the cause as mere novelty. Integrity and core values are set aside
in favor of bald-faced careerism. At least Wright knows who is respon
sible for all this: himself ! For he’s the one who in the Studio’s unique
situation provided just the right innovations at precisely the right time,
and never in doses too strong or too soon.
Wright does not mention the projects that in the New School of the
Middle West are losing touch with organic ideals, but the most grievous
error is that they “trade long on mere forms ” (CW I: 130). Those forms
were once an outgrowth of the original work’s integrity. But now they
are being repeated ad nauseum. It’s a fair guess to say which projects
Wright had in mind: the development in Decatur, Illinois, on Milliken
Place, completed by Marion Mahony with assistance from Walter Burley
Griffin and Hermann von Holst beginning in 1909, and perhaps more
homes in Mason City, Iowa, where Griffin (again with Mahony’s help,
and later Barry Byrne’s) developed the larger Rock Crest / Rock Glen
community. Wright does not name them in his essay, nor does he ana
lyze just why any of the structures in them fail as organic architecture.
He certainly exceeds the limits of even alternative history by supposing
that both projects could have been his own and would have been had he
not left for two years in Europe just as their planning was to begin. The
formulation is implied, but simple: the developers had wanted Wright,
and when they lost him turned to associates from his Studio who could
lease them just as well—with a copy of Wright! And by definition any

p
copy is not organic architecture. No matter that Griffin and Mahony
initiated the Iowa project and that Griffin’s house for Joshua Melson
(1912) was more organic than Wright’s copy of the Isabel Roberts House
(1908) as proposed to this same client. When personally piqued, Frank
Lloyd Wright and his thought do not show well.
With this, written expressions of Wright’s thinking are put on hold
by the tragic events that overtook Taliesin and its occupants on 15 August
1914. Frank Lloyd Wright was in Chicago, at work with his son John on
Midway Gardens. But Mamah was not alone. Her children, a son and a
daughter, were visiting her from Oak Park. After serving lunch, a de
ranged servant sealed all but one exit, spread gasoline, set the house on
fire, and murdered Mamah, her children, and four others from the studio
and estate as they tried to escape the conflagration. Receiving the ghastly
news in Chicago, Wright returned to a scene he would later describe as
the death of all his dreams.
It is a cliché to say that Wright assuaged his grief by throwing him
self into work, but that is exactly what he did, clearing the rubble and
beginning at once to rebuild. Not until An Autobiography was published
in 1932 would he comment publically on the murders and his loss; the
five hundred words he titled “On Marriage” (1915) were saved for him
self, and speak to his and Mamah’s quest for reform without any mention
of the previous year’s tragic event. The idealism of their love is what he
wishes to preserve, and does, just as the rebuilt Taliesin would be a living
example of the world they had hoped to continue sharing.
Yet Wright’s behavior continued to generate scandal. Among the
many condolences he received was a letter from a total stranger, Miriam
Noel, expressing not just her sympathy but attesting a great affinity she
shared with Wright as an artist. They met in Chicago and soon became
lovers, all of this just four months after the murders and fire. Miriam
was now the mistress of Taliesin in both senses of this term, and once
again Chicago newspapers and Spring Green locals clucked in disap
proval. To make things worse, the relationship was tempestuous. Miriam
was a morphine addict and subject to great swings of mood. Wright
himself was not the easiest person to get along with, and Catherine’s
refusal to grant a divorce added more tension. When she finally relented
and Frank and Miriam married in November of 1923, things only got
worse. Miriam was soon threatening divorce herself, on increasingly

preposterous and vituperative terms. Soon after the two separated, Frank
met Olgivanna Ivanovna Lazovich. Nearly thirty years younger than
Wright, she was recently divorced from a Russian architect ten years
her senior, Vladem ar Hinzenberg. In Europe she had been a disciple of
Georgei Ivanovitch Gurdjieff, particip ating in his dance ensembles and
allied mystic activities. Still legally married to Miriam, Frank nonethe
less began a relationship with Olgivanna, who’d bear him a daughter,
Iovanna, late in 1925. Taliesin now had its third mistress. Miriam threat
ened lawsuits, criminal prosecution, and deportation (for Olgivanna,
not yet a U.S. citizen). To complete the spectacle, the residential portion
of Taliesin burned again, this time the result of an electrical short during
a thunderstorm in April 1925.
Needless to say, during this period of the 1910s and early 1920s Frank
Lloyd Wright was better known for his unconventional life than for his
innovative architecture. He needn’t have worried that his former Oak
Park Studio associates would cheapen and destroy the Prairie House; by
1915 it had gone out of fashion, replaced by renewed interest in the eclec
ticism of period styles, with members of what Wright had called the
New School of the Middle West either adapting to current fashion or
leaving the profession. One last piece of writing from these years speaks
for Wright’s interests as they had developed over the past decades: the
“Plan by Frank Lloyd Wright” published in the May 1916 issue of City
Residential Land Development. In it he actually turns the table on a
former associate by devising an exercise in town planning, the specialty
of Walter Burley Griffin, whose “Competitive Plan for a ‘Scheme of
Development for a Quarter Section of Land in Chicago’ ” (1913) and
“Trier Center Neighborhood and Other Domestic Communities” (1913)
drew much attention in Chicago even as the younger man was preparing
to move to Australia (WWBG, 182–97). Wright’s and Griffin’s plans are
similar, in that within the urban grid they devise new s treet systems and
siting of houses that create much more pleasant neighborhoods. Griffin
staggers his houses, while Wright’s are rotated 90 degrees so that each
home provides a different perspective for its occupants and sits differently
as viewed by others. While the senior architect relates his design to
principle, that problems are solved not by working from the outside but
from within, his former associate devises an even more attractive plan
by means of better circulation and occupancy (his own mantra) in which

a few more building lots are provided even as space is reserved for neigh
borhood parks.
As for Chicago itself, Wright did not have much work there during
these years, beyond Midway Gardens. His attorney, Sherman Booth,
commissioned a small development in the Ravine Bluffs area of the far
north suburb of Glencoe (1915), but most of Wright’s business was in
Wisconsin: an impressive residence for Frederick C. Bogk (1915) in
Milwaukee, a program for pre-cut housing to be marketed by another
Milwaukeean, Arthur L. Richards, from 1915 to 1917, two sets of duplex
apartment complexes in Milwaukee for Richards and Arthur R. Munk
witz (1916), and the imposing A. D. German Warehouse (1915) in Rich
land Center. Yet the architect maintained a small Chicago office and
never let the city forget him. In 1917 the Arts Club of Chicago hosted
an exhibition of his Japanese prints, and the next year he presented an
address to the Women’s Aid Organization. Whether the women liked
what they heard was less important to Frank Lloyd Wright than the
fact they were hearing him out about a controversial topic, “Chicago
Culture.”
As always, he speaks on principle, here the one that culture like art
itself is a matter of expression from within rather than the application of
something from without. It must be realized, Wright argues, not just
accumulated; produced, and not merely purchased. But instead of a
scathing attack on this practice, he prefers amusement: he tells a story
about Howard Van Doren Shaw, an architect of a different manner
entirely but a friend nevertheless. One of Shaw’s richer clients was well
traveled and had become infatuated with the Petit Trianon at Versailles.
She wanted it for a house, but it was too low. “So Mr. Shaw put another
story in the Trianon for her. If he had not done it someone else would
have and probably would have done it worse,” Wright allows, adding
that Shaw himself disagreed with the gener osity of this appraisal (CW I:
155).
After a few more funny examples, Wright woos his audience by
naming Chicago’s great legitimate cultural successes. Everything from
Margaret Anderson’s Little Review to Jane A ddams’s Hull House gets
praise, along with a few of the city’s architects: Louis Sullivan, of course,
but also John Wellborn Root and Daniel Burnham. Plus one more,
unnamed, but described by a person no less than Hendrik Petrus

Berlage—when this giant of European architecture came seeking evi
dence of American culture, what impressed him most were Niagara Falls
and the Larkin Building. And guess who designed the Larkin Building?
Wright had found in Chicago’s neighborhoods and suburbs a
welcome environment for his innovations of the previous decade, but
these present years were demanding that he look elsewhere for better
work. And he had been, looking eastward for a great opportunity. Not
to America’s east coast, or back to Europe, where he’d found shelter and
a sense of respite, but all the way around the globe to the Far East. For
more than ten years, from 1913 to 1924, Japan would claim the center of
his attention.
3
Japan and After
the art of japan is not an influence on the work of Frank

Lloyd Wright, but has an affinity with his work, as he insists throughout
his career. This claim is not surprising, because Wright likes nothing
that is applied. A house such as Taliesin is of the hill, not on it. A style
of art comes from within the artist as a manner of expression, and cannot
be adopted from without. This is the organic principle, and when con
sidering the art of Japan Wright is consistent with his key belief.
Although his written comments on Japanese art first appear in 1906
and reach a fullness of expression by 1912, his thinking about the subject
becomes creative (rather than simply reflective) after 1913. This is the
year he returns to Japan not as a tourist, collector, or student of architec
ture but as an architect in search of work—work that will be of Japan
and not just another Western imposition on it. In 1913 he is accompanied
by Mamah. On his subsequent trips through 1922 Miriam will accom
pany him and share his household, which consists of an apartment he
designs for an annex of the old Imperial Hotel he intends to replace
with a striking new one. When he takes ill, his mother Anna crosses the
Pacific to care for him. Even more so than in 1905, Wright immerses
himself in Japan ese art and culture, but never in a sense of imit ation or
even absorption. Although enjoying home life in Wisconsin, business
in Chicago, and the fascination of a new commission in Los Angeles, in
Japan he can be himself in a context where the surrounding world seems
to share more of his own values.
In 1917, with the commission for the Imperial Hotel in hand and
work already underway, he takes time to organize an exhibition of his
Japanese art collection for the Arts Club of Chicago. Its catalogue is not
62
Japan and After 63
illustrated, but the architect supplies a text: “Antique Color Prints from
the Collection of Frank Lloyd Wright.” This initiates his creative
thinking about the medium of print-making, thinking that will reveal
even deeper affinities with his sense of the organic in architecture. Be
cause these prints have been stamped on a medium subject to change
and by a means that could not copy itself, the product is unique—and
therefore alive. Any Hiroshige prints of the same subject are so differ
ently executed that each is its own design. This new appreciation for the
vital nature of the art informs an unpublished essay from the same year,
“The Print and the Renaissance” (1917). Here Wright quickly reviews
his credo of how art from the Far East escaped the literalization of art
imposed by the Renaissance and offers hope for a regained sense of the
organic—and then announces that the principle of the print interests
him more than any particular examples of it.
Growing from his exhibition catalogue comments, this interest
focuses on the print’s medium and production. As always, Wright values
the integrity of a means that reaches an end, but now he can add that
the Japanese woodblock acknowledges itself as a print and wishes to be
nothing more. Of importance to today’s readers is Wright’s regret that
such an aesthetic no longer exists. It is rare for 1917 and continued to
be throughout the era of high modernism. But in the 1950s and 1960s
the critic Harold Rosenberg would celebrate a newly emergent self-
apparency in the medium and production of abstract expressionist
painting, notably that of Willem de Kooning and Hans Hofmann. And
in the 1970s writers such as Ronald Sukenick and William H. Gass
would fight against the same sense of literalness that Wright decries,
urging instead a style in which words function less as representations of a
subject than in their own existence as made objects, or at the very least as
signs existing in the theory of grammar and syntax known as semiology.
We know how much Frank Lloyd Wright values the integral work
ings of grammar and syntax in organic architecture. It certainly set his
thinking apart from the Victorian tradition into which he was born. But
in his essays we see him complaining that architecture by and for others
is not developing as he thinks it should. Indeed, by the time “modern
ism” is widely established Wright becomes one of its most vocal oppo
nents. But not because he wants a return to anything Victorian. Instead,
he calls for something even modern literature would not have, which is
64 Japan and After
a comfort with its own medium and means of production in the service
not of representation but of itself. The Japan ese print could do this, but
it is a creature of a century and more before. American painting and
fiction writing would eventually do this, but not until times had changed
and a new manner of thought emerged.
Wright’s praise for the nature of the Japanese print reads much like
Harold Rosenberg’s advocacy of abstract expressionism in The Tradition
of the New (1959) and The Anxious Object (1964). It also fits comfortably
with what William H. Gass and Ronald Sukenick say in Fiction and the
Figures of Life (1970) and In Form: Digressions on the Act of Fiction (1985)
respectively. Sukenick’s use of the word “act” rather than “art” reflects
his book’s point: that fiction is not about something, but rather is that
something itself. Consider how similar is Wright’s appreciation of the
print, especially how color “is used for its own sake,” how “every circum
stance of its making is delightfully confessed in the result,” and “the
craft of the print is integral with its Art” (CW I: 150). Art and act are the
same, just as “line has a language of its own regardless of a sheep or a
hearse or any picture of anything” and just as “color has qualities all its
own akin to music and that color like sound has notes precious for their
own sake” (CW I: 151). Lines and color stand a better chance of being
accepted like the notes of music than do words, but the innovative fic
tionists of the 1960s and 1970s strive for it nonetheless. As William H.
Gass admits, “That novels should be made of words, and merely words,
is shocking, really. It’s as though you had discovered that your wife were
made of rubber: the bliss of all those years, the fears . . . from sponge”
(Fiction and the Figures of Life, 27, ellipsis in origin
al).
Story commands a powerful sense of fascination. It can overrule
all else, not just in fiction but in any form of art or even in the notion of
art itself, as Wright rues damage done by the literal as imposed by the
Renaissance. Hence his delight with a Japanese master who works with
color and line, who discovers that they can be arranged to generate won
derful moods without having to tell a story—even though music itself
sometimes perversely and unnecessarily mimics a narrative. Consider
Ronald Sukenick’s similar endorsement of the nonliteral purpose of fic
tion: “It transmits feeling, energy, excitement. Television can give us the
news, but fiction can best express our response to the news” (In Form,
242). None of this is art for art’s sake, a charge possible in light of what
Japan and After 65
Walter Pater and Oscar Wilde had done with John Ruskin’s aesthetics
and one actually made half a century later against the innovative fiction
ists. “Art for art’s sake” is in truth “art for the artist’s sake” and not the
viewer’s. Instead, both Wright and Sukenick emphasize the response
to such work, the moods created, the feeling and energy and excite
ment, even the spirituality aroused. And how is this done? Not by
privileging the artist’s self-expression, but rather by acknowledging the
materiality of his or her medium of art in a way the work’s audience can
share.
At the time, Frank Lloyd Wright’s principal work is in Japan, and
this time not as a print collector but as an architect. Yet he still has the
culture of America on his mind, especially its wellbeing in the future.
And here is where his thoughts on Japanese art and culture become
pertinent not just in 1917 but for the entire century that follows. Why
must things be patched on? he sighs. Is it not better to develop from
within, making it stand for nothing other than itself ? A new country,
such as is Japan for him, becomes a fresh opportunity to do things right.
This familiar call for the organic has now been enhanced by an apprecia
tion of how art happens not by telling a story nor by effusing some
personal sentiment, but by working with the materials of the medium as
materials. By 1928, with his work in Japan not only completed but intact
after surviving nature’s greatest challenge, a major earthquake, he will
be subtitling his habitual “In the Cause of Architecture” essays with a
qualification, “The Meaning of Materials.” The development of his
thought is significant, for now he sees that he is creating not as God
but in God’s manner, making his work of this same kind. Has Japan
enhanced Wright’s ego? Probably so. But his understanding of just how
art operates has been deepened as well.
The Imperial Hotel in Tokyo carries a design date of 1916, for that is
when he is officially hired. After an initial trip in 1913 and the opening
of an office in Tokyo in 1915, Wright will spend much of the next six
years travelling to and from and living in Japan. He writes about the
hotel in 1922 (as it nears completion), in 1923 (after it survives the mas
sive Kanto earthquake that leveled most of Tokyo), and in 1925 (for the
Dutch publication Wendingen, seven issues of which are devoted to
Wright and collected as The Life-Work of the American Architect Frank
Lloyd Wright). But other things happen as well. Aline Barnsdall
66 Japan and After
commissions a huge home and surrounding theater complex in Holly

wood, California, which prompts Wright to open a Los Angeles office
and look into relocating his practice there. But he also stays active in
Chicago culture, organizing his print exhibition and speaking on “Chi
cago Culture,” as noted. At this time, in 1918, he reconciles with his
former master Louis Sullivan, from whom he’d been alienated since
leaving Adler and Sullivan in 1893 for having taken bootleg commis
sions that violated his contract. Although Sullivan makes the first move
toward reconciliation with a phone call, it is Wright who over the next six
years will attend to his old mentor through hard times and personal de
terioration, until the man’s death in 1924. One year before that, Sullivan
is able to repay the favor with a pair of essays on the success of Wright’s
Imperial Hotel. All these texts and activities must be considered as one
piece, for they demonstrate an important transition in Wright’s thinking.
His essays on the Imperial Hotel are written for three different
publications and thus cover much of the same ground. Even the fact of
the b uilding’s surviving the great earthquake on 1 September 1923 is not
cause for anything significantly new, because Wright has been present
for a smaller but significant tremor the year before, the worst in fifty
years. He notes the hotel’s imperviousness to this event in the first essay,
which appears in Tokyo’s Kagaku Chishiki for April of 1922, but only as
confirming his integrity of design. The major point of this and the other
pieces is that the Imperial departs from commonly imported styles of
architecture, whether nineteenth-century grandeur or modern American
skyscrapers, with earthquake survivability in mind. This is the major
point of his pamphlet published in 1923, Experimenting with Human
Lives, but all of Wright’s commentaries on the hotel emphasize the
unique suitability of its design and construction, based on a cantilever
resting on supports sunk deep into the site’s underlying mud. Seismic
shocks are absorbed at base, while the structure itself has sufficient
flexibility to withstand any shifting. In fact, the Kanto earthquake works
for rather than against Wright’s building, settling it into a natural posi
tion that closes fissures that had opened earlier during construction.
Another innovation equally pertinent to where it is built is the
Imperial’s purpose. Less than half of its space is for hotel rooms. The
other portions serve the social needs of the Japanese as they meet and
entertain foreign visitors. Here Wright’s thinking takes another step
Japan and After 67
not just out of Victorian style but beyond modernism itself. The Impe
rial is not a single structure, he explains, but is “laid out as a group of
buildings in a system of gardens and terraces” as opposed to the manner
of American hotels, which are more like office buildings. The beauty of
the whole derives from each unit’s integrity within the greater plan, as
loggias and gardens share enough space that one can become the other.
There are sunken gardens and even roof gardens, appropriate because
“Japan is Garden-land” (CW I: 177). Repeated seven times in one sen
tence, the term “gardens” becomes exponential as if to infinity, Wright’s
prose giving readers a sense of what this “Garden-land” is. In 1954
Donald Barthelme, the son of a Wright-inspired architect and on his
way to becoming a boldly innovative fictionist, would visit the hotel
time and again when on leave from his duties as a soldier in Korea.
“Don spent hours wandering the Imperial’s halls, delighted by their un
predictable curves, admiring—with his father’s eye—the way Wright
had designed the floors to be supported by centered joists, like a waiter
balancing a tray on his fingertips, so earth tremors wouldn’t yank down
the walls,” says Tracy Daugherty in Hiding Man: A Biography of Donald
Barthelme (2009, 104). The young Barthelme also thrilled to the inter
penetration of gardens and the complex’s varied entertainment spaces,
including private function rooms, a cabar et, a big theater, and a banquet
hall that could seat one thousand guests without sacrificing social inti
macy. Barthelme’s fiction of the later twentieth century would take the
fragmentation of modern life and reshape it with a pleasing harmony,
using the principle of collage whereby each element contributes to an
integral whole without losing its own identity as an object. This is just
the effect the young writer-to-be admires in Frank Lloyd Wright’s
Tokyo masterpiece.
As in Barthelme’s fiction and that of other short story writers whose
work would come to prominence during the years when this architect’s
work was being freshly reappraised and most deeply appreciated, Wright’s
structure asserts itself boldly with no suspension of disbelief. For the
Imperial Hotel, there is no illusion, such as there would be if it had a
façade. Façades make sense in two dimensions but not three, and the
Imperial Hotel is most definitely a three-dimensional building, designed
in organic fashion from the inside out, thrusting upwards and outwards
to shape the space its functions need, much like Midway Gardens.
68 Japan and After
right’s innovations of construction and design come together to serve

W
his greater purpose, which is peculiar to this instance. He is especially
careful to preclude any simplification of its origins and this purpose. The
Imperial is not an American building dropped into Tokyo. But neither is
it a Japanese structure. It is quite simply Wright’s tribute to a nation he
has found to be quite special, respecting its tradition while still expressing
its individuality in friendship.
But Wright does not stop there. As always, like the preacher citing a
double proof, he seeks confirmation for his thought in a higher principle,
higher than that of historical record. It is true that even the greatest earth
quake to that time in Japanese history could not bring Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Imperial Hotel down. He does not dwell on this fact, confident
as he is in the manner of its design and construction. But in his 1923
pamphlet he does profess his belief that working in the manner of the
great Japanese print-makers is akin to the Creator’s own art. As always,
Wright’s religion is nature, and when a structure violates nature’s prin
ciple, nature herself will bring it down. He does not need to add that his
creation has survived the test and that he has been proven right.
Reunited in friendship with Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan
would repay the moral and financial support his former associate was
providing by publishing two essays in The Architectural Record. Both are
collected in the 1925 Wendingen volume appearing a year after Sullivan’s
death. The first, from 1923, celeb rates Wright’s accomplishment in
Tokyo. The second, in 1924, responds to how that accomplishment sur
vived the Kanto earthquake. Each is helpful in seeing how a former
pupil’s thinking measures up a third of a century later in the eyes of a
“beloved master,” Wright’s favorite term (usually expressed in German
as “lieber Meister ”).
Sullivan’s greatest praise is that Wright’s thinking is itself organic. It
is “in the nature of any organism that it wishes to be free to grow and
expand,” he advises, understanding the frustrations the younger man
has faced. “This instinctive desire for freedom has been held in check
and domin ated by the intellectual idea of fear, resulting in unnumbered
inhibitions and suppressions, which have led to an obscuration of the
minds of men of the two ideas of slavery and freedom” (W, 101). Wright
has fought against this obscuration, arguing for “the true status of man
not as creature but creator; an enlarging view of man’s inherent powers
Japan and After 69
and a growing consciousness that his slavery has been self-imposed”

(W, 102). Sullivan relates this quest to his own architecture, specifically
the Auditorium Building, the Adler and Sullivan project in which Frank
Lloyd Wright was schooled. Here forms are “eloquent expressions of a
something that must reside within them and justify them, upon logical
grounds, as forms developed from functions of utility” (W, 104). The
Auditorium Building is not a group but a single mass, yet its flow antici
pates what Wright would achieve in Midway Gardens and the Imperial
Hotel, specifically in how “the differences of levels . . . favor also the
interpenetrations and the easy accessibility of the larger units” (W, 105),
in the same manner as the terracing of the Imperial Hotel. From here
Sullivan proceeds with an enumeration of the design’s features—the
flexible foundation, the cantilever structure, the nature of the building’s
materials—but returning at every point to the fact that it is Wright’s idea,
his manner of thinking, that has brought this project to completion.
Sullivan’s second piece is more topical: “Reflections on the Tokio
Disaster.” But again the emphasis is on Wright’s thought. “This man, a
poet, who had reduced thinking to a simples, began his solution with
the fixed fact of earthquakes as a basis and made an emotional study of
their nature and movements,” Sullivan points out. “The second move
was the resolve never to relax his grip on the basis fact of earthquake as a
menace, and to devise a system of construction such as should absorb
and dispose of the powerful shocks, waves and violent tremors, and yet
maintain its integrity as a fabricated structure.” Note Sullivan’s choice
of words: not “basic” fact but basis fact. Wright’s “thinking in simples” is
just this, an organic growth from a specific basis. The Imperial survives
not because it is stronger than an earthquake but because the earthquake’s
nature is built into its design. As Wright notes in his own essay after the
quake, it is as if n ature’s seismic tremor is not countering his work but
completing it. In a mind where thinking is as holistic as is its organic
subject, principles can be expected to relate. “It may be remarked in
passing,” Sullivan adds, “that the quality and power of emotion drama
tizes the power of thought: that the poet is he whose thought, thus en
riched, imparts telling power to the simple and the obvious, bringing
them into the field of vivid consciousness” (W, 128). Here emotion means
the physical nature of thought, expressed by architects in their buildings.
As Frank Lloyd Wright emphasized in his 1894 lecture, “The Architect
70 Japan and After
and the Machine,” soon after he’d left employment with Adler and
Sullivan: The point of education is to make one more alive to things, to
let one appreciate the world as Shakespeare described it in As You Like
It, a realm where one heard “sermons in stones, and symphonies in
running brooks.” Now, three decades later, a proud Louis Sullivan sees
the effect accomplished in the Imperial Hotel, its lava stone and water
feature giving the words of poetry physic al shape.
“Thinking in simples” is a radical idea, Sullivan admits, especially to
academic minds whose training has inhibited any measure of freedom.
“I go further and assert that such idea may be repugnant to such minds—
may even alarm such minds—it is too disturbing in its ominous sugges
tion that thoughts may be living things—Now!—Here!” (W, 129). The
thought is sufficiently novel to create a new poetry about this same time,
the poetry of concrete encounters pioneered by William Carlos Williams.
His notion of “no ideas but in things” runs counter to the modernism
of Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot and serves as the foundation for work of
a later era by Kenneth Koch, Gilbert Sorrentino, and many others to
come. For now, Sullivan can be satisfied with what has been accom
plished in the Imperial Hotel. “This vast sumptuous building, in all its
aspects: structural, utilitarian, and aesthetic,” he notes, “was the em
bodiment, and is now the revelation, of a single thought tenaciously
held by a seer and prophet, a craftsman, a master-builder.” It “stands
today uninjured because it was thought-built, so to stand” (W, 131).
The inseparable nature of “Form and Idea” (CW I: 196) is what
Wright identifies as the master-key to Sullivan’s architecture. In these
comments following the older man’s death his former pupil takes a
broader perspective, putting aside his own dislike of the skyscraper—
Sullivan’s triumph of form and idea—in favor of the more general point,
one that the master had now identified as the key to Wright’s success in
Japan. Wright himself would soon propose a radically different structure
of his own, the St. Mark’s Tower, for lower Manhattan; it is for Tokyo
and Los Angeles where new work is underway that he feels skyscrapers
are inappropriate, because of geologic conditions. In time even Broad
acre City would include in its plan a tower or two—seventeen stories, as
originally proposed for the St. Mark’s project, and as eventually built in
Bartlesville, Oklahoma in the 1950s. The tall buildings Wright dislikes
are those that waste the advantages of structural steel by draping the
Japan and After 71
building with anachronistic effects, and the people he detests are land
lords who overbuild simply to multiply rents. “Pig-piling” (CW I: 218)
was the term Wright used for these practices, and never thought Sullivan
guilty of either.
Attempts to relocate his practice to Los Angeles would prove un
successful for Frank Lloyd Wright. The struggle to save Taliesin from
mortgage foreclosure and to protect his relationship with Olgivanna
from harassment by Miriam Noel were constant distractions, and dele
gating responsibilities to his son Lloyd Wright and former assistant
Rudolf Schindler (both of whom were becoming successful Los Angeles
architects in their own right) proved troublesome. The biggest project—
a home, a theater, a children’s theater, and several support buildings,
including homes for staff—would be for Wright a major headache thanks
to the stubbornness of his client, Aline Barnsdall. The massive Holly
hock House (1917) was completed, but not to Barnsdall’s liking; she soon
moved out of it into one of the two much smaller supporting houses
Wright designed (Resid ence A and Residence B, 1920) and made plans
to donate Hollyhock House and the grounds that would have held her
theat ers to the City of Los Angeles as a cultural park. Four “textile
block” houses would follow, for Alice Millard in Pasadena (1923), John
Storer in Hollywood (1923), and Samuel Freeman and Charles Ennis in
Los Angeles (1923). The block system was promising, offering many
advantages favored by Wright: on-site manufacture from local materials,
ease of construction (even by the owners themselves, if desired), and in
corporations of ornament as part of the functional design. But a fire at
Taliesin in 1925 would redirect much of the architect’s efforts and re
building costs would lead to such desperate acts as a massive sale of
Wright’s prints. Wright emphasizes in his introduction to the sale cata
logue issued by the Anderson Galleries in New York (1927) that he still
believes Japanese prints have much to teach Western culture, but market
conditions require him to promise that any requests for refunds will be
promptly honored.
The prints did sell, but Wright’s share would not be enough to fore
stall creditors. Taliesin was saved, after a brief eviction, by a corporation
set up by old friends and sympathetic clients. Wright’s huge fee for the
Imperial Hotel had been spent (on art) before leaving Japan, and the
four textile block homes in California were not enough to live on. Big
72 Japan and After
projects such as the National Life Insurance Building in Chicago and

the Gordon Strong Planetarium and Automobile Objective in Mary
land fell through, and no new commissions were in the offing. At the
decade’s end, there may have been hope that the St. Mark’s Tower
might work out, but the 1929 stock market crash ended that, along with
any likelihood of other chances to build.
At this point editor M. A. Mikkelsen of The Architectural Record
comes to Wright’s aid, commissioning a series of articles developed
from the series “In the Cause of Architecture” of 1908 and 1914. At five
hundred dollars apiece, they would earn Wright a total of seven thou
sand dollars in 1927 and 1928, years in which architectural income was
limited to a consultant’s fee for helping a former assistant with the
Arizona Biltmore Hotel (1927) and expenses covered by Dr. Alexander
Chandler for work on San Marcos in the Desert, a resort nearby that
the 1929 crash halted at the design phase. Hence there was little to dis
tract Wright from working on the essays. He fancied that at completion
they might be collected in a volume, but by then Olgivanna would be
pointing her husband toward a different kind of publication, An Auto
biography. Yet The Architectural Record was the type of magazine that is
saved, and the essays’ proximity of appearance makes for a continuity
that Wright’s Collected Writings confirms.
Other than a short piece for the Wendingen project, which tied in
earlier principles with their recent manifestations in the California
textile block houses (CW I: 213), Frank Lloyd Wright had not written
on general architectural topics for over a decade. Now, he turns with
relish to the subject of his larger ideas and does better than picking up
where he’d left off, for the 1914 essay had been defensive and even petty.
Instead, he goes back to the start of his writing career and its subject
of how architecture benefits from the machine, a discussion that in the
intervening years had been advanced by European architects such as
Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier. “In the Cause of Archi
tecture I: The Architect and the Machine” repeats the title of Wright’s
1894 address in Evanston, but now history supports the narrative, be
ginning with the acknowledgment that like it or not the machine has
become the architect’s tool; either the architect will master it, or it will
master the architect. Is this a cause for worry? Not at all, because ma
chines when perfected are simply extensions of human ability, Wright
Japan and After 73
counsels, clarifying that they are new not in principle but only in means.
Therefore the Machine is given a capital letter, as he does for other
principles like Art and Beauty. But it has no life of its own, Wright offers
in gentle reminder. Whether it emancipates or enslaves is up to the
person who uses it.
This endorsement of principle is far more than Wright has managed
in his much earlier essays on the topic, and now he goes even farther
toward integrating it with his larger beliefs and manner of thought. Tools
must be mastered by learning their nature and using them for what they
do best. He stays with the subject for his next month’s essay, “In the
Cause of Architecture II: Standardization, The Soul of the Machine.”
Standardization is no detriment, he must remind his readers; it has
always existed, and in the right hands is the agent of democracy. At the
heart of standardization is an ability to discern the life of a tool, what
makes it natural—in other words, organic. Here is where Wright parts
company with the Europeans. The benefit of machinery is that it brings
out the best in the nature of materials: pure grain in wood, clean lines
(as opposed to grotesque carvings), even the ability to inlay, fret, and en
hance natural plasticity. The same is true with glass, thanks to the free
dom of plated form. And steel, which deserves its own essay.
Steel exemplifies this age, Wright pronounces at the start of his third
installment, and the question now is to recognize it for what it is and
use it to the best advantage. Here Wright pulls out all the stops in his
writing, summoning both epic and personal effects to speak in an en
tirely different manner from his European counterparts. He draws an
analogy from classical history, comparing the Romans’ discovery and
mastery of the arch with what he hopes may happen with steel in the
present era. Wright marvels at the great power of steel waiting to be
fully born and sees it as the perfect material for an architect. Bereft of
decorative qualities, it depends wholly upon the artist’s imagination for
any sense of life. Used honestly by engineers, steel has the beauty of
mathematics, and the architect is wise to recognize this material prop
erty. Combined with concrete, reinforced steel speaks for a liberation of
the idea, eclipsing limitations of the old restrictive forms of masonry,
lintels, posts and beams, even the arch itself. Yet Wright’s argument does
not take the direction toward reason and rational purity that was being
followed at the present time by Mies and Corbu. Instead, he pursues
74 Japan and After
the liberation of thinking from such obstructions to its natural, or

ganic form that Louis Sullivan had praised in Wright in the first of his
Wendingen essays. Here Wright sees concrete and steel as the materials
that make this liberation possible. Overcoming the weight of taste that
still ties minds to dead forms, Frank Lloyd Wright’s imagin ation is alive
and free of such restrictions. Steel and concrete have given him the slab
(Unity Temple), the cantilever (the Imperial Hotel), and the splay (the
Gordon Strong project). One can feel the architect itching to build. But
for now, he can design—and write.
Writing brings forth the best of Wright’s thinking, and his next
installment, “Fabrication and Imagination,” shows what he has been
putting his mind to. Imagination distinguishes humans from animals,
and is moreover what made the Gods. “A creative being is a God,” the
architect advises, adding that “There will never be too many Gods” (CW
I: 241). This is the essay in which Wright introduces his most recent
example of built success: the textile block system that produced four
strikingly beautiful homes in the Los Angeles area and was at the time
of the essay being used to great effect in the Arizona Biltmore Hotel
and its cottages (1927). The textile block system fulfilled his require
ments of simplicity of form, naturalness of function, and ease of tech
nique. Indeed, the manner of building with these blocks is as simple as
weaving a rug, here done with a uniform material which lets the building
virtually build itself. Fashioning the blocks is a simple task the clients
can do themselves, for which Wright provides instructions. The outer
shell serves as the exterior, the inner shell as the interior, with an insulat
ing space in between where piping (cut to order in the shop) can be run.
Windows are similarly fabricated in advance. Consider all that is saved,
from form work and masonry to carpentry, plastering, painting, and
even decoration. Everything is integral and offers a peaceful simplicity
that benefits the persons who live there. Reverend Gannett could not
have said it better, and it is all made possible by material that is abundant
everywhere, awaiting transformation via imagin ative action. Wright the
democrat thus joins forces with Wright the artist.
Subsequent essays for The Architectural Record treat designing with a
thought to the three dimensions of space (rather than the pictorial rep
resentation of two), the logic of the plan as an idea within the creative
Japan and After 75
mind, and how articulate buildings such as the textile-block Ennis

House (1923) resemble the music of Bach, master of true form that he
was. Having started this series with its basis of thought in the machine,
Wright carried his thinking through all aspects of design until coming to
that most recently expressed. But unlike his initial lectures of thirty-odd
years before, he is no longer preaching. Instead he is thinking, and with
that thought putting himself in the position of being a model for how
architecture should be worked out. As the second year’s pieces (freshly
numbered) proceed, there are references to how the young man in Archi
tecture might benefit from Wright’s example, how richer that vision
might be if such disciplinary power is developed. Find the essential geom
etry of pattern, Wright urges. Learn to see the room as expressed in the
exterior as space. These are principles that, once grasped, will let pro
spective architects grow as creative factors empowered by ideas. It is
easy to foresee the Taliesin Fellowship and all Wright would hope for
in such statements.
For now, Frank Lloyd Wright is thinking, and using the occasion of
his series to get various ideas in order. Not all were for publication.
Though headed with the same short title, “In the Cause of Architec
ture,” two were for himself. The aptly subtitled “Purely Personal” (1928)
is unpublished as such, though comments on Le Corbusier and Fiske
Kimball would be incorporated later in book reviews. Like his 1914
essay, the piece is defensive. Once again the offenders are architects
who have taken certain ideas of his and applied them in a superficial
manner, ignoring the integral growth from within and the spatial ele
ments of a third dimension in favor of externally administered effect.
These complaints would soon develop into a reasoned critique of the
emerging European modernism known as the International Style, but
for now Wright just wants to get them on paper—for himself, as it were.
More impressive is a second unpublished piece from 1928, “In the Cause
of Architecture: Composition as Method in Creation,” which Bruce
Brooks Pfeiffer identifies in his headnote as one of Wright’s most cogent
essays on the use of materials and the machine. Like the articles in his
published series, this piece is about three thousand words long, the unit
of expression Wright seems to have found comfortable at this time.
Concise, it locates the source for organic growth in the “life-principle
76 Japan and After
expressed in geometry at the center of every Nature-form we see” (CW

I: 259). This is a newly expressed idea for Wright, and it’s wise that he
work it out for himself before presenting it as a model for others.
It is a new idea, but Japanese art provides the best model for it.
In this case it is the printmaker Hokusai’s theory that every object as
commonly perceived emerges from a geomet ry that can be drawn with a
T square, triangle, and compass. In these hidden forms lies the architect’s
world. Wright recommends penetrating this world of forms by discrimi
nating the patterns of oak trees (as opposed to pines), the distinctive
shapes of “curling vine, flowing water, curving sand,” and “the easily
characterized chrysanthemum,” while appreciating how a “rock or a rose
is difficult” but no less ultimately discernable (CW I: 260). There is a
discipline to such power of seeing from which the architect cannot help
but profit and Wright promises that “a habit of thought arises from
such eye-minded exercises to make constructive effort natural, ‘design’
spontaneous” (CW I: 261). Such is the facility he himself could demon
strate on demand, amazing both the Taliesin Fellows and the public
alike. Not as a teacher, but as a master—working from models, with the
ultimate model being his own conduct and practice.
From this encouragement Wright moves to a negative example,
how what he calls modernistic buildings mistake this geometric vision
for an easy sense of decoration that plays with proportion and shape for
its own sake. “Such buildings do not grow,” he warns. “Such buildings
happen. They are made” (CW I: 261), products of deductive reasoning
rather than of organic creation. He then reminds readers that not until
abstraction discovers the underlying pattern can any building become
“the constitution of construction itself ” (CW I: 262), which is the induc
tive way.
The balance of Wright’s “In the Cause of Architecture” essays address
specific points, serving more as clarifications than models or exhorta
tions. “What ‘Styles’ Mean to the Architect” distinguishes singular from
plural. Style per se is not a manner but rather the practice of building
according to the organic principle, starting from within and following
through according to the nature of what has been initiated. There can
be as many examples of this as there are architects who pursue it, a
reminder of Wright’s early assurance that there are as many different
kinds of houses as there are different kinds of people. Humanity itself
Japan and After 77
owes its development to the individual’s creative power, each person

seeking Truth and Beauty in expansive rather than reductive ways. “The
Universal speaks by way of the Personal in our lives,” Wright offers,
perhaps remembering Whitman’s Song of Myself in his appreciation of
how “we can only understand the message in terms of ourselves” (CW I:
263). An individual works in a style—organically, creatively. “Styles” be
come an issue when the organic achievement of one architect is adopted,
in an external manner, by another, applying it from without rather than
developing it from within. The disposition is a familiar one for Wright,
but no less essential here. And once again he anticipates the goal of a
Taliesin Fellowship, where expressions of human life could grow as hand
somely and healthily as great trees in good soil, flourishing in sunlight
and maturing by inner principle, formed as the citizens only democracy
can produce.
“Style is a quality of form that character takes ”—here is Wright’s ulti
mate distinction between a style from within and styles applied from
without, and it will be character that his Taliesin Fellowship intends to
foster, as opposed to being in the narrow sense any sort of architectural
school. Character itself cannot be taught; it is everywhere, in any flora
or fauna, and in this sense one does not learn character itself, but only
how to perceive it as an inward force that takes form according to its
nature.
Wright further characterizes the nature of materials architects work
with, and for these he has sensuous feeling, starting with the pencils on
his drafting table. He loves to grasp a handful of them and let them lie
loose on his palm, he writes, the light striking each color with the mes
sage of “its own song . . . Each has a story” (CW I: 270). Stone also
speaks in its own language and it is in this essay that Wright first de
scribes his manner of working with the medium, laying it up in strata
with natural edges facing out. Wood is even more sensuous, especially
now that its inherent beauty is preserved by the machine. Wood is also
crucial to the definition of line, a principle Wright will dwell on later.
For now, he notes how articulations of design can be accomplished at
times by the dividing lines of wood alone, prompting readers to recall
the way horizontal banding unifies elements in structures such as the
Stockman House inside and out. Wright also looks forward, as so few
of his contemporaries did, to the matter of conservation, regretting how
78 Japan and After
much wood has been wasted and how much can be saved once his own
principles are followed.
Terra-cotta as a material merits an essay because of Louis Sullivan’s
success with its ability to trace natural forms. Glass is praised for its
contribution to integral lighting, and is also suggested as a building ma
terial itself, combined with the spider’s web of steel to be like a diamond
set in gold. Wright would do just this the next year in the residence
built for his cousin, the Richard Lloyd Jones House (1929) in Tulsa,
Oklahoma, though the steel was used to reinforce narrow piers of con
crete block that lace the dominating walls of windows.
Concrete wins more appreciation, especially as steel has expanded
its possibilities. This plasticity makes reinforced concrete more useful
than stone. No matter that it is a plain material, for this allows the archi-
tect’s imagination to be responsible for aesthetic effect. The same goes
for sheet metal, which Wright compares to the brain in motion. When a
material itself has beauty, as does copper, a project such as the National
Life Insurance Company (1924, unbuilt) in Chicago becomes especially
inviting, its walls disappearing in iridescent copper-bound glass. W
right’s
description makes the building sound beautiful, and it certainly looks
so in the color presentation drawings, among the loveliest in Wright’s
canon. Decades later he would finally have the chance to incorporate key
elements of this design with others from another project, the St. Mark’s
Tower (1929, unbuilt), in the Price Tower for Bartlesville, Oklahoma
(1952). Wright recalls the principle as first being worked out in 1923, in
time for him to discuss it with Louis Sullivan a few months before he
died. The old master admired the building as beautiful, but also genu
ine, a contribution to a true “Architecture of Democracy.” Sullivan also
added, as Wright notes here, that “I never could have done this building
myself, but I believe that, but for me, you never could have done it” (CW
I: 309). Wright therefore dedic ates the design to him.
“In the Cause of Architecture IX: The Terms” (1928) completes
Wright’s series as published, with five essays in 1927 and nine numbered
freshly for 1928. Having shown how the nature of materials provides
clear direction, he feels confident that he has roused the imaginations of
the young architects reading him to adopt at least a few practices that he
himself has found successful. Wright has done much more, in fact,
Japan and After 79
propounding a philosophy not just of architecture but of art, and

demonstrating the expression of its principles with plain and practical
examples. In either event, he draws back for some quiet reflections, such
as remembering childhood hours after bedtime listening to his father
play Beethoven on the piano. Here lies the material proof for his think
ing. Even as a youngster he recognized that this music was speaking a
language beyond words. As an adult, he learned that architecture did
the same, expressing truths of the heart.
The challenge has been to find words for it. Poetry in architecture,
he knows, means finding nature’s harmony and expressing it in visible
form. To attain such poetic expression in wood, stone, cement, glass,
and steel, he urges a move to architecture’s third dimension, admittedly
hard to fathom within the two dimensions of the drawing board and
difficult to imagine for minds trained since the Renaissance to think in
terms of the literal and pictorial. The way out of this box is appreciating
how it is in the third dimension that qualities exist of the thing rather
than on it. Once this sense of within is grasped, the architect can realize
the result in form. Because it is a principle, as he emphasizes in capital
letters, its effects are extensive, entering into every action taken, every
use of materials, and every choice of method. Needless to say, three-
dimensionality informs and characterizes every form that results, deriving
from the integral interpretation behind it. It is, Wright stresses, an in
tegrity in anything and everything done, from building a chicken coop
to designing a cathedral.
Thinking in the third dimension is a gift, and those who would work
at Wright’s side and witness his manner of creation attest to it. Edgar
Tafel, one of the first Taliesin Fellows and a productive architect in his
own right, recalls how structures such as Fallingwater and the S. C.
Johnson Administration Building took shape over many months in
Wright’s head, with designs put to paper only at the very end of the
process—for the Kaufmann home, in the two hours it took Edgar, Sr.,
to drive out to Spring Green from the Milwaukee airport. Wright him
self always argued against the academic practice of starting with a sketch.
This was by definition beginning from the outside. Start from within,
he would urge; do it often enough and it becomes second nature, which
is probably how this habit of thought had developed in him. Can the
80 Japan and After
young architect hope to achieve it? They are given this benediction:
create with love and work by principle so that Beauty will prove their
joy in work.
As his series concludes, Wright continues publishing elsewhere,
including pieces that show a growing irritation with the emerging Inter
national Style—specifically how its emphasis on surface and mass are by
definition external qualities rather than principles of growth from
within. In an unpublished essay from 1929, “The Line Between the
Curious and the Beautiful,” he finds in the line as properly drawn not
only a safeguard for civilization, but civilization itself. It is interesting
to see him here undercutting the theoretical purity of Corbu and the
rationalization of Mies by citing emin ently practical, even homely ex
amples. With gratitude he sees this proper use of line in such current
accomplishments as the airplane, the automobile, and the ocean liner,
even in common kitchen utensils. Such streamlining has avoided both
the affectations of ornament and “the sterility of ornaphobia” (CW I:
341) apparent in the surface and mass distraction of the International
Style as Wright describes it in a subsequent essay.
Frustration with the International Style would bedevil Wright from
now on. His exasperation with how Henry-Russell Hitchcock evalu
ated his work for Cahiers d’Art (26 November 1928) and anger that Philip
Johnson was granting him less than superior status in the Museum of
Modern Art’s Modern Architecture: International Exhibition (1932) would
fuel suspicions that Frank Lloyd Wright was becoming a curmudgeon.
But these years also catch the architect at a point of transition. His “In
the Cause of Architecture” series had been motivated by his successes
with the Prairie House and the Imperial Hotel and underwritten by a
belief in the organic principles that had generated each. Two years after
the series concludes, he drafts for himself “In the Cause of Architecture:
Confession” (1930), an unpublished piece that to unknowing eyes might
appear wistful. It posits that great architecture is more essential to the
modern age than ever before, but more than ever before its progress has
been retarded by selfishness and cruelty—enough to break the heart of
anyone who loves it.
Does he indeed feel forsaken? This confession, so unlike the liveli
ness and commitment of the published essays, is in fact motivated by
the realization that all these sorrows and joys characterize “an Architect’s
Japan and After 81
full lifetime” (CW I: 348). Perhaps for the first time in his life, and cer
tainly for the first time on paper, Frank Lloyd Wright is admitting his
age. 1930 is the year he turns sixty-three. His career spans four decades.
By this point in their lives and careers most architects have fulfilled their
promise. But here in this “Confession” is a man who has been speaking
with the young as if he is still an idealistic youth himself. And what has
it brought him? After sailing home from Tokyo, his big commission
already spent (on art), the balance of the 1920s were difficult years, and
now in 1930 the Great Depression promised even worse.
At sixty-three, Frank Lloyd Wright had not been building a great
deal in recent years. “So there is little to be done except to write one’s
best thoughts (if one has thoughts) and, as may be, build that best
thought whenever and however it can be built” (CW I: 346), he allows.
And if there can be only writing? Well then, he will write in the same
spirit in which he has built.
It is the imaginative spirit and fervor of that writing, published so
prominently and extensively in the influential Architectural Record, that
helps Wright turn the corner not just into the 1930s but into a whole
new career, one that would eclipse the Prairie House and Imperial Hotel
in ways that not even Henry-Russell Hitchcock and Philip Johnson
could have imagined a younger generation of Internationalists accom
plishing. A bit later in 1930 Wright can sense the change, for Princeton
University has asked him to prepare six lectures to be given in May for
the prestigious Kahn series, with the Art Institute of Chicago requesting
two more for presentation in October (both sets published in 1931).
Now, in another unpublished piece from 1930, “Poor Little American
Architecture,” Wright looks back to Hitchcock’s essay that had angered
him so much and has a bit of fun with it.
At this point he knows the author only by virtue of a picture of the
man picked up at The Architectural Record. It’s a poor image, but no worse
than the bad photographs of Wright’s work he presumes have generated
the critic’s thought. Hitchcock has called him the greatest architect of
the present century’s first quarter. The statement is meant as praise, for
about this time Philip Johnson (Hitchcock’s friend and associate) was
prone to calling Frank Lloyd Wright the greatest architect of the nine
teenth century. Wright takes both statements not as a personal or even
professional affront, but as a matter of principle and belief, knowing
82 Japan and After
that his work is far from over because the principles of organic architec
ture have not yet been sufficiently accepted. Rather than weep or sigh,
Wright makes a promise, phrased with wit and good humor. He will
not only be the greatest architect so far but the greatest who will ever be,
Wright boasts—to himself, but in a piece of writing he saved. He repeats
the claim and affixes his red square and signs his name to it. Even ordi
nary bootleggers serve twenty-five years for less, he laughs. Wright’s oath
is peculiarly American, similar to Melville’s claim for Hawthorne (“He
says ‘No!’ in thunder”) and Huck Finn’s similarly Faustian challenge
that if his compassion for Jim damns himself, so be it. Critical advocates
of Hawthorne, Melville, and Twain accept these attestations as valid,
just as enthusiasts for Wright’s work would come to appreciate the
grandness of his claim—not on face value, perhaps, but certainly as a
measure of his immense ambition and an honest appraisal of all he had
yet to do for the cause of organic architecture.
Wright’s fun with Hitchcock (who would later become a friend and
collaborator) and even more so with himself indicates a new role for the
great architect: as performer. The Kahn Lectures, published as Modern
Architecture (1931), are much the same, even to the extent of having fun.
No longer an essayist for The Architectural Record, Wright is now ap
pearing before an audience—a very specific one, the students of a great
university. He relishes this fact, and begins his series with a performance
piece, reading for them a text he claims was first delivered in 1901 (before
any of them were born) at Hull House in Chicago. “Machinery, Mate
rials, and Men” is in fact quite different from the origin al “Art and Craft
of the Machine,” probably because Wright had modified it over the
years for other audiences. He now declares this its last presentation.
This serves to emphasize what he feels nearly thirty years later is most
important among the thoughts he’d shared with Chicago’s Progressive
Era social reformers.
As Wright delivers the lecture, he wants his listeners to picture him
in 1901—not as the old man he is today, but as a relative youth in the
profession—and consider the battle he faced back then and would be en
gaged in ever since. His description of the city, with its stirring imagery
and grandly extended metaphors, comes earlier in this Princeton ver
sion, part of the performance that moves the audience to take his initial
thoughts on the negative aspects of current style and let them be
Japan and After 83
redirected toward a celebration of all the machine can accomplish. As

he has explained in The Architectural Record series, that accomplishment
is centered on the nature of materials—here, how the machine brings
out the best in them. But beyond specifics is Wright’s insistence that by
embracing the machine, human thought is changing forms from some
thing old to something new.
Wright’s second lecture, given the next day, is on another familiar
topic, “Style in Industry.” Once again his point is the one made in pre
vious essays: that attaining a sense of style involves working against the
notion of styles, plural. For his audience of university students who are
there not to learn the specific practices of a trade school but to compre
hend the greater principles that direct such specifics, Wright is patient
with his explanation. Understanding the nature of anything means
grasping the principle that lives within it, giving form and character.
Life itself is too complex to comprehend, but its effects and conse
quences can be perceived if one knows what to look for. This visible
world is external nature; within, there is an integral structure that pro
duces this life organic ally. Grasping that integrity is more of an artistic
than a scientific process, based on the imagination’s ability to see the
various materials for what they are. As listeners may have come to expect,
Wright praises Japanese art and culture for having the greatest success
with this. After nature and organic, the third key term to understand is
plasticity, a word that implies an absence of constructed effect. Here the
nature of materials is seen as growing into form rather than being joined
together from bits and pieces.
With his terms for discussion set, Wright moves to his thesis as
announced the previous afternoon: that style itself has nothing to do
with the style or a style, and certainly not with styles. Had he not been
so careful with his first three terms, especially in their finer nuances of
language, he might not have been able to count on his listeners to discern
the difference articles make and the distinct meanings of singular and
plural. Styles are the result of imitation, whereas style comes from under
standing a principle. The Japan ese have reached this understanding with
the help of what he calls standardization; Wright points out with plea
sure how the conventional size of a floor mat determines the size and
shape of a typical house. All such practices are then accorded the dignity
of ceremony, so that the doings of everyday life can be raised to the level
84 Japan and After
of art. For his own country’s culture, he recommends a simplicity that

comes from the heart rather than the head. One way to do that is to dis
card the pictorial sense of art introduced in the Renaissance, for pictures
are concepts, not feelings.
This second lecture ends with the first published description of
the school Wright would be trying to organize, at this stage somewhat
different from the Taliesin Fellowship that did get underway two years
later. To the Princeton students he speaks of a school of the allied arts
( glassmaking, textiles, pottery, sheet metal, woodworking, casting, and
reproduction) with resident masters in charge of each specialty. Part of
each day’s work would include agricultural field labor, a practice the
eventual Fellowship did adopt, as it would adopt Architecture as the
background for everything, just as it had been in ancient times. This
qualification speaks for the essential nature of Wright’s concept, that it
is not a school that offers instruction in design and building but rather
will be a haven, in the beautiful countryside, where an entire way of
life can be modeled on the organic idea. Wright admits that creative
art cannot be taught, but knows well what inhibits its development. His
school would remove the inhibitions and put the students to work with
the nature of materials under the guidance of a master at each craft. From
the abilities that followed might come real art, but that would be a matter
of each student using the best of his or her imagination.
The Hillside Home School of the Allied Arts would never happen,
dependent as the plan was on industrial affilia tion (impossible under
the rules of educ ation accreditation and unlikely in the Great Depres
sion). Nor was the facility for it ready. When the Taliesin Fellowship’s
first members arrived two years later, one of their initial tasks, in addi
tion to harvesting their sustenance, was to begin repairing and rebuilding
the actual Hillside Home School that Frank had designed for his aunts
thirty years before—and which had deteriorated after a family financial
crisis and the tragedy with Mamah forced its closing in 1915. Yet it is
important that Wright mentions it in this lecture, for a major part of his
argument about style is that it cannot be nurtured in either the architec
tural or educational climates of the present.
Wright’s third lecture in the Kahn series is one of his most personal,
drawing on anecdotes from his life and experience to underscore the
most important points of his preceding talks. The students have got to
know him, after all, and in this lecture he makes the most of that. The
Japan and After 85
first anecdote is a scene presented as dramatically as anything from his

in-progress An Autobiography (1932). The subject is a technical and
historical one, “The Passing of the Cornice,” but Wright makes it per
sonal. His instincts, he reveals, had always been to hate the shallow pre
tensions of the Renaissance, instincts confirmed when reading Victor
Hugo’s indictment of that setting sun all Europe mistook for dawn. In
this formulation, architecture would die, to be replaced in the human
spirit by literature. Wright says he found the consequences of this re
formulation unbearable, reinforced by an incident in his life from this
same time. It involves an accident during the construction of the new
west wing of the old State Capitol in which the stone basement piers,
meant to support the structure’s interior weight, including the cornices,
collapsed. As a youth he witnessed the scene, a traumatic event he could
recall in vivid, terrifying detail more than half a century later. It starts
with the bucolic image of walking past the green park under shade trees,
hearing the roar of the collapse and turning to confront clouds of lime
dust rising in the air, the cries of the casualties resounding. Sick with
horror, he stands transfixed as workers stagger from the ruins and fall
dead on the grass now strewn with rubble and the dust of lime. From
this world of the walking dead Wright carries the color image forward,
looking up to the boldly projecting cornice now hanging in space, and
beneath it a workman dangling upside down, his foot caught by a falling
beam. The red line of his blood streaks down the wall beneath, starkly
hideous against the stone. The young architect-to-be is stricken with
the scene’s terror, and it stays in his mind as a matter for dismay and
eventual reflection. What has caused the tragedy? Not anything valid in
its own right, but rather a pointless fabrication of sheet iron masquerad
ing as stone. Why was the imitation necessary? With the personal imme
diacy and human mortality in mind, Wright turns to his lecture’s general
topic.
Why have such a cornice? Simply to privilege local American building
with a sign of culture. Why should he object? Because the cornice itself
had nothing sensible to do with the construction, but was simply a sign
from the era of Classical Greece meant to dignify contemporary struc
tures with a reference to ancient temples.
That much is obvious. But to emphasize and reinforce his point
Wright tells another anecdote, this time from his own viewing of the
ultimate model for such design, the Parthenon in Athens. Standing
86 Japan and After
before it, he uses his imagin ation, recreating the scene when its origin
al
colors were bright and vibrant. He restores the arris of the mouldings,
sharpens the cornices, and creates in his mind the building as it would
have appeared two millennia ago. Then he stands and looks at it.
Perhaps at this point in his lecture he would pause, letting his listeners
think back to the last time he mentioned looking at a structure—the old
State Capitol in ruins, with the ghastly devastation and agony of the
workmen recreated for the imaginations of these Princeton students.
What he wants his audience to see now is that, while the Parthenon’s
crumbling ruins are of stone, they were originally meant to look like a
painted temple made of wood. Stone was only a model for this, the
original form that the Greeks wanted to emulate. Even the cornice it
self, that would come down to current times as the exemplar of culture,
was for the Greeks themselves a sham, a stone projection pretending to
be the overhang of a wooden roof (as it would have been on the original
temple).
The argument has been structured with Wright’s listeners and his
immediate presence in mind. On the strength of two anecdotes, two
dramatically recounted personal stories that make both the tragedy and
the futility of the cornice strikingly clear, he is able to move to his con
cluding point: that just as democracy expresses the dignity and worth of
an individual, organic architecture—unfolding as opposed to enfolding—
promises the best truth for dignity and worth. This is his hope for the
future, the reason why he is speaking to students at Princeton, and why
he will be founding the Taliesin Fellowship in short order. The fact that
American architecture is at this time both small and immature works in
favor of growth. Wright’s intention is to foster an architecture that will
not sculpt buildings but grow them, such growth expressing the nature
of humankind. Thinking perhaps of the fields and pastures that are part
of Taliesin, he qualifies this architecture with one of his favorite terms,
here distinguished from its customary misunderstanding as extremism:
radical, meaning “of the roots,” here the roots of architecture planted
firmly in the soil that gives life.
Having been taken from principle to personality and back again, the
audience is now ready to appreciate a specific example of Wright’s work.
His fourth lecture, “The Cardboard House,” describes the most suc
cessful attempt yet to have organic architecture grow naturally from the
Japan and After 87
soil: the Prairie House that distinguished the first part of his own career.
The need for it is something Wright can now joke about, throwing out
one-liners to an appreciative audience eager to laugh on cue. Access and
fenestration, he mocks, were nothing more than big holes for the big cat
and smaller ones for the little cat. As his listeners laugh, he feeds them
more humor. There was no more architectural music to such design
than the pandemonium of the barnyard. Cats running in and out; pigs
snorting, sheep bleating, roosters crowing, cows mooing—what rusticity
this homespun philosopher brings to the ivy-clad halls of the East. But
all the so-called architect had to do was call out plan numbers for his
clerks to pull, adding a bay window if the client wanted one.
The description of the Prairie House that follows is complete, adding
nothing to what Wright has said about it in the three decades before
but phrased with a sense of conclusion. The era of the Prairie House is a
closed period. Frank Lloyd Wright no longer designs them as such,
although for Herbert F. Johnson he’d present Wingspread (1937) as his
last of the type, even as it includes most of the architect’s innovations
from the 1930s. For his audience at Princeton he uses the Prairie House
as an example of not just what could be done but what had been done,
with great success—one of the reasons Frank Lloyd Wright is there
speaking to them. “What a man does, that he has” (CW II: 53), he intones,
with the great Prairie Houses of the century’s first decade standing
behind him as proof.
Even here, he’s good for a laugh. After working his way through the
familiar list of Prairie House features, each of them related to organic
principles and integral effect, he reflects a bit on the last one, that because
all features should work together even the home’s furniture should be
architect-designed. Here Wright admits a challenge he sometimes failed,
especially at making chairs that fit both the architecture and a person’s
body. He himself has been black and blue from interacting with his own
furnishings. At least the good posture required for eating has allowed
him to integrate form and function. Wright’s dining rooms, especially
those with his tables and c hairs, are indeed some of his most attractive
achievements; while joking about himself, he can take the sympathetic
feelings he has aroused and direct them toward his genuine successes.
Plus the joke will live through history. It is today one of the most
frequently quoted lines of Wright’s, as are others that take obvious
88 Japan and After
failings and treat them as comedy. His living room furniture is damnably
uncomfortable; so it hurts him, too. His roofs tended to leak. Consider
his frequently quoted response to Herbert Johnson, who phoned from
his dinner table to say water was dripping right on his head. “Then
move your chair, Hib,” Wright laughed.
Lecture number five, “The Tyranny of the Skyscraper,” starts with a
joke as well, about Michelangelo building the first such structure when
he “hurled the Pantheon on top of the Parthenon” (CW II: 59). A false
hood at the time, St. Peter’s would become a travesty in the modern era
as the symbol of authority for municipal buildings. What does this have
to do with today’s skyscraper? Tyranny, Wright explains, the tyranny of
a false idea over the practical enjoyment of life. In the present world this
tyranny is exercised by the landlord, reselling the same area again and
again on each ascending floor, to the detriment of the crowded neigh
bors and at the expense of congestion below. Yet the architect is careful
to distinguish structure from use, even structure from structure. There
are good skyscrapers. Louis Sullivan’s Wainwright Building is one of
the best, thanks to its sympathy with the organic. As for proper usage,
Wright again takes advantage of his performer’s role and teases his
audience with it. His set of lectures, he admits, has been developed and
presented like one of his father’s old-time sermons. Therefore he con
cludes in this manner, choosing as his text the admonition to do unto
others as ye would have them do unto you. If skyscrapers and those who
profit from them do this, there is hope.
Wright’s hopes are founded on the changes in transportation and
communication that in his next (and last) Kahn lecture will be designed
for the city. For now he simply notes that the present crowding of sky
scrapers thwarts any benefit from the automobile, whose contribution
when combined with the telephone and telegraph should be helping
people reject verticality and embrace the horizontal as a better orientation
for happier lives. His prescriptions for more happiness in a world that
builds skyscrapers are specific: limiting construction, widening streets
(and hence the spaces between buildings) by placing pedestrian ways
on a different level, burning coal not in furnaces on-site but at remote
generating stations, and reducing the size of automobiles that are used in
town (as opposed to cross-country trips). As for the skyscrapers them
selves, were false dressing d ropped the structure might find its own
Japan and After 89
integrity as a work of steel and glass. Wright looks forward to Broadacre

City and even farther ahead to his Price Tower when he suggests that a
skyscraper could work in the countryside, where abundant space would
give it a park-like setting. But trends must be reversed, he warns. There
was a promise of light in the Wainwright Building that failed to hold
true, as barbaric successors have been built with no thought for their
environment or each other.
“The City” leaves Wright’s listeners with a blueprint for a post-urban
society. He posited the machine as the tool that would build structures
and provide services for this new world, and in foreseeing what can be
done Wright is remarkably prescient. His method is to conclude from
the evidence presented that cities themselves will eventually die and be
replaced by smaller communities dispersed across the land. This itself
mandates changes that can be reasonably specified, involving new neces
sities to replace the ones no longer operative that had mandated cities
in the first place. He predicts that people will be using cars much more
to get around, and service stations will be there to fuel them—but also
to sell groceries and serve as restaurants, restrooms, and neighborhood
meeting centers. Forty years later these would exist as convenience stores.
Other innovations proceed in line: chain s tores for easy distribution,
roadside motels for easy lodging, and homes reconceived to provide
culture found in the city, but now with personal comfort and choice.
The medium for this is television (which Wright knew was coming)
and the internet (whose purpose he anticipated). Everything needed
would be at home or within easy reach, including office parks in which
to work.
How could Frank Lloyd Wright be so canny in picturing the next
age pretty much as it did develop? By understanding human nature and
having a deep sympathy for its wants and needs. People desire the free
dom of space, and find it in the expansive horizontal line along which
life proceeds—a line the city has taken away. This perception, which in
the mind of a less practical thinker might wander afield into abstraction,
is for Wright grounded in empirical observation. When transportation
and communication were restricted, people had no choice. But consider
what has transpired with the advent of electricity, telecommunication,
and automobiles. An organic consequence of all this is the freedom of
reach and movement best exercised on a horiz ontal rather than a vertical
90 Japan and After
axis, as it is the former that widens the sphere of activity. Times are
changing, the pace is accelerating, and pressures are mounting. Far better
for human nature that the direction for this explosion be outward rather
than upward, consistent with America’s promise to her ideal.
Delivered in May of 1930, the Kahn lectures are published as Modern
Architecture (1931). They are soon joined by Two Lectures on Architecture
(1931), issued as a pamphlet following Wright’s talks at the Art Institute
of Chicago on the first and second of October, 1930. Scheduled to ac
company an international exhibition of the architect’s life work, they
allow him to be both retrospective (for the first, “In the Realm of Ideas”)
and prospective (in the second, “To the Young Man in Architecture”).
Trimming each perspective down to an hour’s talk makes for concision
but also compression; as with the Kahn lectures, it is interesting to see
what Wright chooses to emphasize.
His first lecture restates a typical Wright motto: that what a man does,
he has, which can be confirmed here by a stroll through the galleries.
He reviews what houses typically looked like before his work began.
These homes lacked human proportion and even human sensibility, being
little more than boxes with holes cut in them for doors and windows.
Wright’s remedy finds the organic principle for designing a home, with
its guiding principle that of simplicity—a topic he’d handled in technical
terms for the students at Princeton, but for his general audience at the
Art Institute something he could speak about as a genuine local son. He
was instinctively drawn to the simplicity of the prairie, with its flowers
and trees below the crowning sky. From these elements he makes his
point: that “a little height on the prairie was enough to look like much
more” (CW II: 85–86). What kind of house fits on the prairie? One that
begins on the ground and projects a look of shelter, scaled to the human
figure. No attics, no closets, just a whole new value to space based on a
plasticity that treats the building as a whole. Walls, ceilings, and floors
share a common growth, drawing continuity from each other and elimi
nating any overt sense of construction, much as Louis Sullivan integrated
ornament not as background, but as part of the whole. The nature of
materials would guide their use. The internal order as integral was for
Wright the key to being organic, overriding all other ideas. Did it work?
Evidence was on exhibit in the gallery.
Japan and After 91
From this first realization of the organic derives a second: that rooms
themselves as interior space would shape the building’s exterior—not
the other way around, as had been the case in houses Wright abhorred.
Once the space was opened to admit it, light could beautify the home
and bless its occupants. To achieve this effect, the machine stood ready
to free the individual to become just that, an individual. And how does
that liberated person proceed? Once again, Wright’s manner is to change
abstract ideas into objective specifics, which in turn enhance his argu
ment as metaphor. By benefit of casement windows, cement exteriors,
steel-in-tension supports, and natural trim, that progress would be hori
zontal, ever the line by which human freedom extends. Whereas techni
cal details laced with occasional humor worked well at Princeton, Wright
knew a popular audience would need some poetry and enthusiasm, both
of which his first Chicago lecture supplies.
With the story of his own success thus told, Wright in his second
lecture looks to a future now in the hands of architects as young as he
was when developing principles that produced the Prairie House. The
essence of architecture is still the same, a quest for beauty based on order
as intelligence apprehends and science executes. Form must be related
to purpose, parts must work with the form, with methods and materials
yielding a natural integrity of purpose and result. Achieving all this will
be possible for the young architect, but only by developing a habit of
thought that perceives the universe itself as architecture. The principle
comes first; without it no ways or means can do the job.
Where can this habit of thought be learned? Not in school, but in
the architect’s office where these processes of thought are at work. Here
one can observe material resources being applied to purpose, which is
Wright’s definition of power. Here too one can see that while principles
are universal, they make sense only when approached from within. Doing
so allows one to discard false notions picked up from conventions and
bad schooling. The old master is giving his listeners a head start, for not
until they have reached his age would a new era of thought popularize
the notion of interrogating beliefs to discover any unstated false assump
tions that corrupt them.
The temptation to make absolute pronouncements is tempered by
this understanding. “Architecture is the very body of civilization itself,”
92 Japan and After
right proclaims in his familiar manner, but for these listeners he adds
W
the caution that it takes time to grow, beginning to be architecture “only
when it is thought-built” (CW II: 99). There is a language for such
thought, and within it an alphabet to be learned from the nature of steel,
glass, concrete, and machines used as tools. There can be distractions
from this knowledge, such as the International Style’s business with
surface and mass. Citing Le Corbusier, Wright allows that a house can
be a machine to live in, but only to the extent that a heart is a suction
pump—“Sentient man begins where that concept of the heart ends”
(CW II: 100).
Wright closes this lecture with a set of instructions for future archi
tects. They vary from the sublime to the ridiculous, from beginning
immediately to form the habit of asking “why” to going as far away from
home as possible to build a first building (because while the physician
can bury his failures, the architect can only plant vines). Within this
range are the practical matters of avoiding “the shopper for plans” and
shunning organized competitions that can only “average upon an aver
age.” The single most important piece of advice is to think in simples,
as Louis Sullivan used to say, reducing parts to those that express first
principles.
Thinking in this manner is what has brought Frank Lloyd Wright
before them this day, in the company of an exhibition celeb rating his
life’s work. In the last few years he had been thinking of his career
achievement, urged to do so by Olgivanna, who believed it would not
only set the record straight but get his mind off his recent string of
personal troubles and professional disappointments. Even as he speaks
to these aspiring architects he knows the materials have already been
assembled that will tell his own story both more intimately and more
grandly than can his remarks this day and the exhibits that have been
mounted. It will be published in 1932 as An Autobiography and be instru
mental in attracting young people to the Taliesin Fellowship formed
later that same year. Together, book and Fellowship will begin a whole
new career for Frank Lloyd Wright, a virtual second lifetime as an
architect and thinker, a lifetime some consider even more important
than the first.
4
An Autobiography and
the Fellowship
frank lloyd wright’s story of his own life begins in

Wisconsin, not where he was born (Richland Center) or principally
raised (Madison) but rather in the rural Helena Valley beyond Spring
Green. The occasion is a walk up the snowy hillside overlooking several
of the Lloyd Jones family farms. During the summers of his boyhood
young Frank would work here, exhaustingly so—much of Book One of
An Autobiography will chronic le his fatigue from these endless tasks and
chores. But in this different season he’s back for a visit with his Uncle
John, who accompanies him up the hill. For Frank it has been an ad
venture, darting about to seize armfuls of dried prairie flowers sticking
up through the snow. Uncle John sees it differently, pointing out from
the summit that while his own tracks form a straight line, the boy’s have
wandered with wild deviations. “A stern look came down on him,”
Wright recalls, accompanied by “gentle reproof.” The Uncle’s meaning
is plain: “neit her to right nor to the left, but straight, is
the way.” The older man is proud of his own adherence, and kindly
emphasizes the positive. But young Frank looks at his own “treasure”
and then at his uncle’s pride, “comprehending something more than
Uncle John meant he should. The boy was troubled. Something was left
out” (CW II: 104–5).
As the sixty-five-year-old author of this memoir, Wright uses both
his pen and drawing instruments to illustrate what was left out of his
uncle’s vision. In language, it’s a matter of a line that runs like a vine,
embroidering the straight one with its search for something else. In
93
94 An Autobiography and the Fellowship
g raphic form, represented on the page divider that subtitles Book One as
“Family Fellowship,” the uncle’s straight course moves in a clear diagonal
up across the page from bottom left to top right. By itself this line would
be uninteresting. What merits its presence in the book is the boy’s varia
tions, a dance of acute angles that sometimes form triangles, other times
branch out in parallel directions, and only at the end fall in line with the
uncle’s path. There, near the top, a series of tight contour lines indicate
the shelves of exposed limestone characteristic of hills and ridge tops
along the Valley, and only as these cease do the two tracks come to an
end with a slight divergence, the boy taking two steps to stand at his
uncle’s side as they look back at the record of their progress. And we
know what was said about that.
But one more feature climaxes Wright’s design. In the upper right
corner, just to the side of uncle and boy positioned to survey their tracks,
is a large square. Standing apart from the line of progress and the em
broidery of adventure, it is more conclusively solid than any of the other
forms. As the lines running up the page are clearly an ascent of the hill
side, the square near its top is a house. In the 1870s, when this scene takes
place, there are no structures, just a favorite spot where young Frank
would sneak away to avoid work and enjoy the beauties of nature. In
1932, however, a home does stand here, as it has since being built in 1911
and rebuilt in 1925. It is Taliesin.
If An Autobiography would codify Frank Lloyd Wright’s importance
to the world, it anchors such importance not in the buildings he would
design, nor his ever-newsworthy exploits, but rather on this hillside where
he’d learn about life as a youngster and then live it as a man striving to
master his fate. Here he would build his refuge from the scandals of
Chicago, and rebuild after tragedy. From here he’d design promising
projects in the 1920s—and when most remained unfunded and unbuilt,
he’d use his drafting room as a writing studio, producing the Architec
tural Record series of essays and the lectures for Princeton University
and the Art Institute of Chicago, with the latter endeavors published as
books. An Autobiography was the world’s best advertisement not just for
Frank Lloyd Wright but for Taliesin and all that could be done here.
And within the same year as its publication a Taliesin Fellowship would
be formed, an undertaking that not only gave the architect his first stable
base in almost twenty-five years but provided support for what would be
An Autobiography and the Fellowship 95
a whole new life and career, the achievements of which exceeded even
his grandest successes so far.
The hill-climbing episode forms what Wright calls a Prelude to
Book One: “Family Fellowship.” His subtitle anticipates the Taliesin
Fellowship, already being advertised, and the little adventure serves as
an illustration in miniature of what it will propose as pedagogy. But from
here the autobiographer moves into an extended treatment of family
roots and experiences, with a much greater emphasis on his mother’s
side. They are Welsh (his father is English), and Wright begins with the
Welshman who with his wife and children immigrated to the United
States in 1844. More children would be born after they settled in Wis
consin, so that the Lloyd Jones family had thirteen members to take
possession of the Helena Valley and rename it after themselves. Richard
Jones was patriarch, and with Mary Lloyd as his wife the last names
were joined for the children to carry. Richard was a farmer, and on Sun
days a lay preacher. He had two gospels. One was the family motto of
“Truth against the World,” expressing the rebellious side of his Unitarian
faith, a touchy issue both here and in Wales. The other was the gospel
of hard work, in which young Frank would be schooled until it hurt.
Yet Wright writes of his admiration for his grandfather, for teaching
how to “add tired to tired and add it again,” he notes in a phrase that
will become one of his favorites, clearing the wilderness and replacing it
with the best of human traits—or, as Wright phrases it, a “human smile,
where before had been the Divine Countenance” (CW II: 107).
With Frank’s birth the fictionalizing begins. He doesn’t name the
year, because by 1932 he would be equivocating about it, listing 1869
instead of 1867. 1869 is the date indicated on the marker above his grave
in the Lloyd Jones burial ground—an empty grave, because his body
would be exhumed and cremated after Olgivanna’s death in 1985 and
the ashes mixed with hers at Taliesin West in Arizona. Nor does he
mention his middle name: not “Lloyd,” as he would begin signing it
after his parents’ divorce, but “Lincoln,” in homage to the recently slain
president his father had admired.
What he does say is creative: that even before his birth his mother
decorated the nursery with a set of engravings of English cathedrals
from the periodical Old England. Were these illustrations published as
early as June 1867? Some say not. But the nursery hangings are part of a
legend: not only did Anna know she was to have a boy, but she knew
he was destined to become a great architect. Even more creative, but
no less moving, is a consequence of his birth, which creates a rupture
between his parents. The mother’s “extraordinary devotion to the child
disconcerts the father,” who “never made much of the child, it seems.”
Anna loved William no less, the son avers, “but now loved something
more, something created out of her own fervor of love and desire. A
means to realize her vision” (CW II: 109). This vision is of an architect
who will build beautiful buildings, and to it she is uncommonly devoted.
To make this motherly devotion an even greater thing, Wright em
broiders upon the straight line of the marriage’s progress. It was a line
going down, not up—Anna Lloyd Wright and William Cary Wright
would divorce in 1885. Wright’s biographers ascribe the deterioration
to several factors, from William’s position as a widower with children
of his own for Anna to raise to Anna’s displays of mental instability. In
Many Masks (1997, 33) Brendan Gill illustrates the pathos of this first
situation and the terror of the second by quoting stepdaughter Elizabeth
Amelia Wright’s unpublished memoir (deposited at the Iowa State
Historical Society in Iowa City) detailing life in Anna’s house. But as
autobiographer Wright makes the bad conditions all his father’s fault.
His descriptions of Anna being stunned by her husband’s desertion and
pining for his return until his death many years later are at odds with
family history and the details William Wright provided to the court in a
divorce proceeding (1884–1885) that Anna did not contest (see Appen
dix). The uncertainty continues with Frank reporting that it is his
mother who asks for the divorce rather than his father, as court records
show. Of course a youth aged seventeen cannot know everything about
such matters, but as the mature author of these memoirs Wright does
build a detailed case that favors his mother. Why so? Personal reasons
are just that, known only to Frank Lloyd Wright. But literary analysis
of his rhetoric suggests that it is to enhance the sense of his mother giving
special nurture to a child so he could become a great architect. In other
words, he is favoring himself.
From this first section of Book One, “Family,” emerge specifics of
this special childhood. All conspire to make a life of fiction from the
somewhat slippery materials of fact. There are the Froebel blocks that
Wright himself and countless critics afterwards would describe as a
kindergarten for architecture; it’s his mother who is credited with dis
covering them at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia (1876, when
her son was well past kindergarten age), while in fact his aunts Nell and
Jane, as professional progressive educ ators, would have known about
the Froebel System before Anna. Story unity demands that its source be
the mother. There is the Lloyd Jones motto, “Truth against the World,”
and its association with not just the “unity” of all things in Unitarianism
but its working out in “the transcendentalism of the sentimental group
at Concord: Whittier, Longfellow, yes, and Emerson, too” (CW II: 112).
Of these, only Emerson was in Concord; “New England” would be a
better cultural indicator, but that is where Frank’s father is from. William
Cary Wright did in fact profess these same ideals—and as an ordained
minister rather than lay preacher. But again narrative coherence asks that
they be associated with the mother’s side of the family, reading this work
on the farm in Wisconsin. By this point it is hardly a “side” but has be
come Frank’s single family, a situation he acknowledges in life (though
not described in An Autobiography) by changing his middle name from
the paternally treasured “Lincoln” to the “Lloyd” that had been adopted
for similar reasons by his grandfather, Richard Jones.
It is the Lloyd Jones family that both shapes young Frank as who he
is and prompts him to flee in favor of what he’d like to become. Boyhood
summers on the family farms provide much good material and another
literary association with nineteenth-century America as celebrated in
novels by Mark Twain and William Dean Howells. Working the fields
and tending the animals are treated at length, the weight of attention
meant to suggest the utter fatigue the child endured. He writes in such
detail for several reasons, not just idealizing formative forces of his youth
but enjoying the fact that as he writes these family farms are being re
organized into the Taliesin estate—to be worked by apprentices wishing
to be cast in the mold of their great master. The cliché “gentleman
farmer” can be used to mock Wright’s agriculture of the 1930s and 1940s.
He did not fight the image, but enhanced it, once again making self-
dramatization an essential part of life. When riding equipment such as a
cultivator or road grader he’d wear (as always) suit trousers, a fancy dress
shirt, necktie, and stylish hat. Produce to be sold in Madison would be
taken there not by truck or wagon but in the trunk and ample back seat
of his car of the moment: a Cadillac Eight, a Packard Twelve, a Lincoln
ephyr, or in the era’s supreme example of automotive luxury, a Cord,

Z
custom painted in Wright’s signature Cherokee Red.
Even as work forms him, the boy is forever running away. Uncle
James calling him to come back is familiar, not just as the errant nephew
has slipped away to hide from work but when he’s wandered off mentally
into a daydream. These meditations, which take him away from tiring
labor, are an even more crucially formative force. When not working, he
is thinking: how pastures are bathed in sun and rain, how trees stand
like buildings more various than in all forms of architecture, and how
what gives human style to architecture is the same as what gives character
to trees.
As the boy grows, a rhythm emerges from his existence, with parallel
themes developed from his lives in the city and on the farm. Madison,
his home during the school year, is a delight of friendships, especially
with young Robie Lamp. That Robie is crippled makes the affection he
and Frank share all the more touching. They are inseparable, sharing
the name “Frankenrob” as they christen the water-velocipede they’ve in
vented. Devouring the classic literature for boys, the two also acquire a
printing press and do their own small editions. Summers in the country
involve Sundays at the family’s gathering ground (where just before his
departure for Chicago Wright will assist with the interior design con
struction of Unity Chapel in 1886). For every morning of worship (and
afternoon of picnicking with the clan, often numbering more than
seventy) there would be six days of hard work during which Frank had
to devise imaginative rhythms to ward off the monotony of repet itious
labor. Any task, he learns, can be made interesting by discovering and
exploiting such rhythm. The reward is confidence in one’s own strength
and physical dexterity that is as nimble as his thinking because the two
are joined in a buoyant optimism that sees sunshine following the rain
and success in the wake of failure. All this derives, he senses, from the
balance of natural forces. Here may be the birth of the organic as a work
ing principle. The interior sense of this balance would become a religion
to the young man and serve as his place of refuge.
Study at the University of Wisconsin would lead to deeper reading,
but out of class: Carlyle, Ruskin, Shelley, Goethe, Hugo, Blake. Wright
exaggerates his university career—not graduating, as he admits, but
coming much c loser to it than the truth, which involved courses taken
over a few semesters. For him, education was little more than emotional
distress in which the inner meaning of anything never became clear. In
stead, oppressive and threatening rules and regulations did little but ham
per him. What he learns as an assistant to Professor Allan D. Conover,
who was in charge of constructing the new Science Hall towering over
Park Street at the foot of Bascom Hill, is more useful for what he will
do in life and for anecdotal material. One task was fitting steel clips to
the apex of roof trusses, which sends the young person climbing high
up through this terrifying forest to retrieve the clips that the workmen
had left dangling. This hardly seemed educational, he mocks. The scene
comes right after one repeated from the Kahn lectures about witnessing
the collapse at the State Capitol with all the terror of destruction and
hideous loss of life, a story told this time not as a warning against false
ornamentation but for the grave responsibility resting on an architect.
This responsibility could be learned working for a master, as young Frank
saw Professor Conover, with an emphasis on the educational value of
work itself. College courses, on the other hand, dealt only with mass
production, and Wright leaves the university feeling betrayed by having
received so little of a true education.
Three lines conclude the “Family” section of Book One, each set for
emphasis as a separate paragraph. The first states young Frank’s desire
for deeper knowledge. The second reveals him as a sentimentalist in
love with truth. Only the third admits how tragic this situation may be.
The answer to these regrets comes in the next part’s title, “Fellowship.”
Sought beyond the naturally extended family of the Lloyd Jones clan
and the contrived family of university life, fellowship is an ideal realized
in the unlikeliest of places, Chicago. It is to this city that the young man
flees in 1887, having pawned his father’s finely bound copies of Plutarch’s
Lives, Gibbon’s Rome, and several other books, plus the mink collar his
mother had sewn into his overcoat. With just enough money for train
fare and a few days’ support, he arrives at night in a teeming metropolis.
It hardly projects a warming sense of fellowship to the confused nineteen-
year-old from Wisconsin, who is seeing electric lights for the first time
and getting himself stuck on a swing bridge over the Chicago River.
The abundant signage is overwhelming rather than helpful, an expres
sive text that claims his eye for everything, demoralizing it with an excess
of vision. The next day he begins seeking work as a draftsman, but finds
none available at present. Come back in a few months, he’s told—hardly

a possibility for a youth fresh off the train with only a few dollars in his
pocket. After four days of this he tries the office of Joseph Lyman Silsbee,
disguising his relationship to one of Silsbee’s major clients, the Reverend
Jenkin Lloyd Jones—hard to believe, given that less than a year before
the youth had assisted Silsbee with the Unity Chapel for the Lloyd
Jones family. But the point isn’t crucial, for two reasons: Wright goes to
the Silsbee office as a last resort, not first, and once there his point of
contact is a fresh one, the young architect Cecil Corwin.
The relationship that develops is both professional and personal.
Cecil becomes his new schoolmaster and his integration into the Silsbee
firm is made easier by all that Corwin showed him. Beyond this they
are feasting on the city’s cultural delights. Corwin has lent Frank ten
dollars to send to his mother so that Anna can learn not only where he
is but that he has ample employment. Frank is taken to see Uncle Jenk’s
new church, the construction of which Corwin is supervising; when the
uncle himself is encountered, Cecil makes it clear that Frank is now his
ward, and not the family’s. Wright had indeed left the “Family” of Part
One. How the “Fellowship” of Book Two develops is a happy story.
Wright learns not only how it’s done in Silsbee’s office, but how
there can be a better way as well. He appreciates that the architect’s
picturesque combinations of Queen Anne and Shingle Style features
are a healthy contrast to the gimcrackeries so prevalent in this late
Victorian era, but also regrets that his designs begin with an exterior
sketch. This was just making pictures, Wright complains, with no perti
nence to what was real in the building. Nevertheless, he adores Silsbee
for his style that shows through his imperfect methods. The young man
is struck by the elder’s somber mien with a hint of the tragic, the author
ity in his booming voice. “I learned a good deal about a house from
Silsbee by way of Cecil” (CW II: 152), he concludes.
Although presented as an autobiography, Wright’s narrative owes
its form in these sections to a literary model, that of a Bildungsroman,
the novel of young manhood so popular among nineteenth-century
Romantic writers. Goethe’s The Apprenticeship of Wilhelm Meister is the
prime example, but well into Victorian days the style remained popular,
as in exemplars such as David Copperfield by Charles Dickens. In this
genre formative influence takes precedence, and so young Frank will
spend time with Uncle Jenk as well. Here there is another “Fellowship”
advantage. As one of the city’s most progressive ministers and a widely
read author, the Reverend Jenkin Lloyd Jones would be meeting regu
larly with other reformers, including the like-minded leaders of other
faiths and social activists such as Jane Addams. Uncle Jenk’s nephew
was welcome at their dinners and occasions, getting an education in the
age’s developing thought. There were social activities for the congrega
tion’s young people as well, and at one of them—a costume party and
dance themed on Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables—Frank would meet his
future wife. The meeting makes for a good story, as the two literally
bump heads during the evening’s lively commotion. The introduction is
a fitting one, because their relationship continues as a series of jolts.
Catherine Tobin (from the south side neighborhood of Kenwood, not
far from Uncle Jenk’s church) was just sixteen, and because her parents
were not happy with Wright’s attention they sent her off to Mackin ac
Island for three long months. He rails against the hypocrisy that would
honor Nature while forbidding behavior that is plainly natural. Anna
Lloyd Wright objects as well, and her son responds that all her objections
accomplish is to make an innocently natural thing seem scandalous. But
his greatest disdain is for society itself. In a mood that anticipates the
defense he’d make twenty years later regarding his illicit relationship
with Mamah Borthwick Cheney, a genuine scandal at the time, he sees
a plot to make the couple give up all they love in their relationship and
get married instead.
Frank and Catherine do marry, making their home in Oak Park
while Anna and her two other children live in an older house next door.
Wright’s income from Silsbee had grown to a generous eighteen dollars
per week, but for his new situation he’d need much more. He’d find it
with a larger and more prosperous firm, Adler and Sullivan, architects
not of homes but principally skyscrapers and public buildings. Their
current project was the huge Auditorium Building on Michigan Avenue.
It, together with the occasional commissions for houses the firm felt
obliged to accept from important clients, would be enough to keep a
talented young man like Wright busy. He would rise quickly to become
designer Louis Sullivan’s chief assistant and second-in-command
(Dankmar Adler’s responsibility was engineering), and to be valued so
highly that the firm lent him the substantial sum of five thousand dollars
to build his own new home. Sullivan also requested a clause in the
contract that Wright would not compete by designing houses for others
on his own. This clause would soon become more important than the
loan itself.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s five years with Sullivan are what most scholars
and he himself regard as the key to his architectural education. An Auto
biography supports this fact not just by Wright’s testimony but by the
context in which this association with Sullivan occurs. Louis Sullivan
was the most innovative architect of his day, pion eering the notion that
“form follows function” by doing just what Silsbee and other established
architects were not doing: working not from an exterior sketch but from
the inside of a building, determining first its function and from there
deciding its form. His métier was the skyscraper, a logical enough affair.
By transposing this idea for design to houses Wright would have more
to work with in terms of space and movement, even though the physic al
scope was smaller.
Simply meeting Sullivan takes Wright’s breath away, and the author
of An Autobiography does all he can to replicate that experience for the
reader. Having shown the man some of his own drawings, he is invited
to see the master’s—not from a portfolio, but from his hand in action. As
the session continues, Sullivan draws on, lost in himself as the younger
man looks on, thinking that as Silsbee’s touch was like corn brushed by
the wind, Sullivan’s was like a passion vine in full bloom. What, Wright
wonders, would his own touch be like some day?
Wright develops quickly under Sullivan. They work together, and
afterwards talk, often late into the night. The older man at times seems
to speak to himself, organizing his own thinking, and in Sullivan’s mur
muring Wright hears his own newly formed sense of rebellion expressed.
For Wright, radical means “of the root,” and so for him “rebellion” in
volves not an overthrow of everything but rather a recourse to essential
nature, simply discarding what has put itself in the way. In this sense it
is as important to learn whose work Sullivan values. Though he has
contempt for most current architects, he maintains an imaginative di
alogue with the work of Henry Hobson Richardson, as evidenced by
the Auditorium Building’s façade. He also likes John Wellborn Root—
personally. Richardson and Root will be among the few practitioners
for whom Wright will have kind words in coming years. But in An
Autobiography the young man can see his master’s limitations as well.
For example, Sullivan had no interest in the machine’s impact on archi
tecture, whether theoretical or practical. In larger terms, he cared only
for rules that would bear no exceptions, whereas Wright felt exceptions
were the key to proving or disproving rules. There is no feeling for the
nature of materials that Wright would later champion; but after all, Louis
Sullivan is designing skyscrapers and huge public buildings at this time,
not Prairie Houses in which the intimate joys of life would be enhanced
by art glass and naturally finished wood. One wonders what Wright
might think of Sullivan’s jewel-box banks in small towns scattered about
the Midwest, but these would be from the master’s period of decline
beginning in the first decade and a half of the next century. At this point
in his memoir, the author wants to show Louis Sullivan at the height of
his powers and at the peak of his success. Anything less would detract
from Wright’s own sense of importance.
There is fellowship in Sullivan’s office. When George Grant Elmslie
joins it, Wright takes him to his side and forms the type of colleague
ship he admits he always needs. George has his limitations, some of
them physical. But so did Robie Lamp. As Cecil Corwin had befriended
young Wright, so too does Wright befriend the younger Elmslie. In
time there will be a gregarious school of young architects at work in
downtown Chicago, and soon after that Wright will attract the best of
the youngest ones to his own studio in Oak Park. But that is in the future,
only anticipated here, although the author’s sense of deep foreshadowing
is inescapable.
Wright’s induction into Sullivan’s office happens in the context of
specific rediscoveries. The young man is reading Victor Hugo again,
taken even more with the writer’s theory of how the literary works
against the architectural and how the Renaissance was a sunset, not a
dawn. He also examines the Lloyd Jones family motto, “Truth against
the World,” in terms of God’s trust placed in humankind to do its best,
according to what it thinks is best, and the rest be damned. With five
thousand dollars of the firm’s money in his pocket, he can survey his
future Oak Park neighborhood with a rare reference to thought from
the other side of his family. Walking block after block of suburban con
struction, he tries to understand the builders’ thinking but fails to discern
anything beyond their empty forms, signs that are as meaningless as the
phantasmagoria of streetside advertising he’d encountered when first

arriving in Chicago. Oak Park’s progression of mimicking styles lacks
even the feeble basis in meaning behind the commercial signage down
town. Wright recalls how his father deplored sentimentality in music,
and wonders if the same standard might apply here.
The young architect is candid about what brings his associat ion with
Sullivan to an end—and candid about how in the bootlegged houses he
had begun designing he tried nothing radic al and nothing that could be
further developed, not because of any secrecy but because his out-of-
office time was limited. His side of the argument with Sullivan has merit,
for not only were the personal projects done on his own time, but Sullivan
himself had asked Wright to work on the Charnley House (1891) after
regular hours. That had been acceptable to both, as the firm could satisfy
a friend’s desire for housing (not a Sullivan specialty) while Wright could
experiment with ideas such as the decorative value of a plain surface,
something a bit radical and certainly an innovation that could be de
veloped, as it would be in the Winslow House (1894), Wright’s first pub
lically recognized independent commission. But Sullivan is incensed
at the division of interest; all of his employee’s energies, no matter how
boundless, should remain within the firm. Because it is the firm’s loan
of five thousand dollars that has let Wright build his own home (with
drafting room) right in the center of all this moonlighting activity, Sulli
van feels justified in refusing to release the promissory note, even though
Wright has by now repaid it (albeit with bootlegging income). At this
Wright quits. Sullivan is wrong, he insists. But so is he himself, probably
more so, he admits.
Here a structural link makes its point by juxtaposition rather than
causal development, a reminder that the author’s manner of thought is
more spatial than linear. The technique is effective, as it lets him rest an
indictment that logic alone might not achieve. Wright’s account moves
directly from his breakup with Louis Sullivan to setting up a household
with Catherine. “Architecture was my profession,” he states firmly.
“Motherhood became hers.” If this seems a blunt and even cold way to
begin his account of his marriage, it is nothing compared to the next
sentence, set off as a paragraph: “Fair enough, but it was division” (CW
II: 177). The term is not a common one for relationships, but is uncom
fortably familiar in context—in the section of An Autobiography just
concluded Louis Sullivan has used this same term to end his own rela
tionship with Frank Lloyd Wright. “I won’t tolerate any division under
any circumstances” (CW II: 175), the master has said. Because of Wright’s
moonlighting a division exists, and hence his association with the firm
is terminated. Using the same term for his marriage acknowledges that
family life will not work out, the blame laid at Catherine’s feet for her
own maternal moonlighting. It can be presumed that An Autobiography’s
readers know all about Mamah, sensational as the events eighteen years
before had been; even more notorious were the widely publicized in
volvements with the two other women that followed. But no one could
appreciate the inside story of Frank’s life with his first wife, his first
love, unless he would tell it now. And so he does, with full disclosure of
its reason for dissolution right up front.
Children dominate the story. To Frank, they are an amusing diver
sion. He delights in their rambunctiousness, and likes telling stories of
client interviews being interrupted and studio business being distracted
by urchins peeking through the door. They can do this because the Frank
Lloyd Wright Home and Studio are ingeniously joined by a passageway
that encompasses a living tree the architect could not bear to cut down.
Intrusions are welcome not just for Wright’s sense of the ridiculous but
because he really does want his children to grow up in beautiful, stimu
lating surroundings. But in time the two responsibilities begin to com
pete. He cannot escape being an architect, and that job overpowers the
role of being a father, much as he never felt close to his own.
Book One concludes with a confession of self-indulgence, in the
belief that if one concentrated on the luxuries of life the necessities would
take care of themselves. Wright is honest about the price for this, as a
staggering $850 grocery bill is being compounded at 25 percent interest.
He recognizes the expense and vows to do better by the providers who
have trusted him. But this pledge does not last, and once again necessities
fall victim to the luxuries he could not do without.
Although he has jumped ahead of strict chronology to tell of the
playroom (1895) and studio (1898) additions and all six of his children
(the last born in 1903), Wright marks the transition from Book One to
Book Two as 1893. This second book is titled “Work,” and 1893 is when
he left Adler and Sullivan to begin practicing on his own. But it is also
the year of the Columbian Exposition, a fateful year (as he would rue it)
when his country’s culture surrendered to the falsely classic. It is when

the principal architect of this project, Daniel Burnham, offers Wright a
free education in Europe followed by a partnership in his firm (made
available by the death of John Wellborn Root, himself a leading practi
tioner). 1893 also marks the early design phase of the Winslow House
(1894), a structure that would put Wright on the path toward conceiving
the fundamentals of the Prairie House as built in the coming decade. All
this he views as a challenge and more, as Burnham’s offer puts nothing
less than his freedom at risk.
Once again Wright begins a book of his Autobiography with an inter
face of language and graphics. Writing about agricultural fieldwork as a
metaphor for his architectural tasks, he draws another page divider to
display the structure he has in mind: a flat ziggurat of right-angled turns,
tight lines suggesting the plowing pattern of a farmer in his field, con
tinuing as if to fill the page until an obstacle is encountered, diverting
the plough’s path. This diversion not only departs from the pattern of
tight right angles but also cuts across the borders that frame the field;
it departs from the design entirely, causing the frame itself to head off
toward parts unknown. As with the variations Wright as a boy made on
his Uncle John’s steady line of progress, these graphics suggest what
Wright will be doing now: making not a deviation but an outright
departure.
The first departure is from the career track Chicago’s powers-that-
be have set for him. If Burnham’s offer is too good to be true, Wright’s
polite refusal of it is flabbergasting. His explanation has substance: he
can’t run away from his country, because he can’t run away from himself.
The two need each other, especially now, with the pseudo classicism of
the Columbian Exposition’s White City having set American architec
ture back fifty years, as Louis Sullivan was complaining. To leave now
would break faith with himself and with his country—a reminder that
Wright is forever identifying himself with the United States, and vice
versa.
That’s the first departure, a taking leave of official Chicago for a
path of his own toward a uniquely American architecture. The Winslow
House is a second departure, one for which he is ridic uled, and also one
from which he has to step back a bit to design a superficially more tradi
tional home for neighbor Nathan Moore. A third involves designing
the “Romeo and Juliet” windmill (1896) for his aunts’ Hillside Home
School. His uncles mock the plan, swearing it won’t survive the first
strong wind. (It did, and stands today.) A fourth departure is mandated
when he adds the Studio to his Oak Park Home, ignoring logic al con
struction in order to preserve the wonderful old willow tree that has
shaded the house. But Wright’s major departure of these early years in
private practice is his disgust with the nature of conventional home
design and his determination to build the Prairie House.
Because his account of this development has already taken anecdotal
form in the fourth of his Kahn lectures, “The Cardboard House,” details
of its inception and development come easily, as does the inspiration of
the prairie’s horizontal appeal as first described in his opening lecture to
the Art Institute of Chicago in October of 1930. It is interesting to note
that Wright’s presentation is much the same: for students at Princeton,
for a cultural audience in Chicago, and for the mass-market readers of
An Autobiography. Such is the coherence of his argument and the simple
common sense of its underlying principles. Plasticity, continuity, an en
tire building growing like a plant in nature, free to be itself—it all seems
so simple, even obvious. Wright’s departure from the practice of the day
is “radical” in the way he prefers to use that word, as relating to the root
of a thing. Of all his departures, this is the most accessible one, dedi
cated as it is to human use and comfort.
Will this last departure from the fraudulent excesses of popular
design in favor of a comfort-enhancing and spirit-lifting simplicity be
successful? It depends upon the readiness of clients to throw off inhibi
tions and embrace the new. They can expect to encounter trouble at the
sawmill for their lumber and at the bank for their financing, as a Prairie
House fits none of the norms. For the architect, each project is a new
experience, and to emphasize this Wright follows up his explanation
of the Prairie House with accounts of his two larger structures from
this period, the Larkin Building (1903) and Unity Temple (1904). His
task with the former is to design an environment insulated from the
pollution-filled train yards surrounding it. The larger design finds power
in simplicity, especially that of the straight line and flat plane that put
power to purpose, much as does the ocean liner, airplane, and automobile
(though the streamlined examples of each are current to 1932, not 1903).
Mechanic ally, the key has been to separate the stairs from the central
block, letting them function as ventilation. In the Larkin project, charac

ter and beauty become one.
Character and beauty also meld in Unity Temple, though its building
material calls for a different way of working out this principle. Built
with poured concrete, it relies on four free-standing elements to carry
the overhead structure, as the architect puts it. Note his careful choice
of words. Not “hold up the roof,” for what’s above seems to float of its
own volition, flooding the room with brightness from its large skylight.
Congregants have praised this sense of spiritual uplift, while acknowl
edging the Unitarian sense of community that’s enhanced by seating
not just on the floor in front of the pulpit but in the galleries closely
ranked on three sides with organist and choir behind. Rather than the
traditional church and steeple, Wright has seized upon his own faith’s
manner of worship that places its trust in humankind on Earth instead
of fretting over a heaven about which nothing can really be known. In
stead of building a temple to God, he builds one to man, where human
kind can study itself for God’s sake. A room proportioned to this purpose
could be made beautiful in the simple sense of having a naturally built
structure for a natur al purpose.
The minister is liberal, the congregation is progressive, and so the
architect challenges them to use their imagination, allying it with his
own—and he is, after all, a member of this church. But he will have
nothing to do with competition. As he had warned the young men of
architecture listening to him at the Art Institute of Chicago, any such
contest simply averages out the averages to set a greater mediocrity. For
Unity Temple he does have to deal with a building committee, but he
knows that its head is a mechanical engineer and inventor, creative in all
pursuits—an image of the typic al Wright client, which in fact he was—
and that one such bright person in charge is all that’s needed to push
things past any obstructively dull organization.
Wright takes this opportunity to add thoughts about the suggestive
nature of geometric shapes and the positive benefi ts of brooding over
them for long periods before picking up his instruments and getting to
work. Unity Temple is a good example for readers to have before them
so that these processes can become evident. Before it existed, there was
no clear analog in the history of religious structures that could suggest
how it would turn out. There was no style to be copied. What did exist
was the square or cube, with its suggestion of integrity, as opposed to

other shapes in nature such as the circle or sphere (infinity), the straight
line of rectitude, and the triangle’s aspiration. As shapes, they are the
basis of organic design and construction. But first comes thought—lots
of it, at all times of day and night, until the plan is fully envisioned.
Only then can it be drawn.
Wright is proudest of Unity Temple when it achieves a harmony of
the whole, a true challenge to an architect when working with the diverse
functions of different masses. From it all emerges the soul of a design, a
living motif that conveys a sense of the inside becoming the outside in a
way that not only suits the room’s purpose but makes a significant archi
tectural statement. It is noteworthy that as many pages in Wright’s Auto
biography have been given to Unity Temple as to the Prairie House—
partly because the architect has spoken about the latter in his recent
lectures, but mostly because it and the Larkin Building were garnering
attention in Europe. For the memoirist, Europe is the next destination
in the series of departures that have characterized Book Two.
“The Closed Road” is Wright’s heading for the section that follows
his description of how visiting professor Kuno Francke has prompted
Wright’s travel to Europe and preparation of a monograph of his com
plete work with the German publisher Ernst Wasmuth. In Frank Lloyd
Wright: Europe and Beyond (1999) Anthony Alofsin has established that
Wright’s German contact was not Francke but rather Bruno Möhring;
in any event, the forty-two-year-old architect has reached a critic al
point in his life, one he associates with the departure from Wisconsin
for Chicago that initiated Book Two. The absorbing initial period of
his work has ended, he writes of 1909; weariness has set in. As on the
farm during his boyhood, he has been overworked, adding tired to tired.
Seeing no way out, he wants simply to get away from his life in the Oak
Park Home and Studio. The logical direction for flight is to Germany,
where more artistically appealing work on the Wasmuth portfolio awaits
him.
Europe may provide the distance from responsibility he craves, and
which he has not found in Oak Park. He describes how most days at
four o’clock he takes off on his young black saddle horse for spirited
rides across the prairies north of Oak Park, with pauses for outdoor
readings of Walt Whitman (the poet of unfettered exuberance—and of
candid sexuality). Wright recalls his constant hunger, all his life, for
such pleasures: riding, swimming, dancing, skating, omnivorous reading,
and music. In a curious aside, he mentions how motoring, a new exuber
ance, had become “a disturbance of all values, subtle or obvious, and it
brought the disturbance to me” (CW II: 219). Disturbance? He turns at
once to “Domesticity,” professing love of children and home but having
a need for freedom that was greater. He asks for a divorce. Catherine
asks him to wait a year. He does, to no avail. And so to clarify his ideal
he composes a brief statement with the heading Sociology: A “Tract,” in
which he specifies three principles for an honest relationship between
the sexes: that marriage per se is slavery, that love is not property, and
that children don’t need legalities of legitim
acy.
All because of the automobile? Wright is assuming, correctly, that
readers will catch his implication. It is now 1932; the Roaring Twenties
had loosened the last restraints of Victorian morality and set young
people free, the mobility for which was as common as the homely Ford
Model T and as racy as the Stutz Bearcat. As always, Frank Lloyd Wright
has been ahead of his time, spending the first decade of the twentieth
century tearing up Oak Park with the suburb’s first high-powered
roadster. And he hasn’t been alone. There is no mention of it here, but
friends and neighbors had been scandalized not just by his wild driving
but by his companionship for these rides: Mamah Borthwick Cheney,
the wife of a client. In a temporal and spatial jump worthy of movie
making, Wright creates a montage by shifting scenes completely, to a
little villa perched above romantic Florence in quietly charming Fiesole.
He names the place to invoke its history as a shelter from domestic woes,
asking how many others have sought refuge here and answering with
an exclamation point. For now, he does not name Mamah, but it is her
shared presence that’s important in this rebellious act. The two are there
not for sex, and only by way of love; it is an ideal that has taken them
from their families and brought them here.
The departure is one he associates with his earlier move from Wis
consin to Chicago, taken resolutely in the same faith. Now the language
and graphics that began Book Two become clear, and demonstrate the
spatial dimension of Wright’s thinking. The strict right-angled turns
that constitute fieldwork have been his previous departures: from
Madison to Chicago, from Silsbee to Sullivan, from Sullivan to his own
practice, from the bootlegged projects to the Prairie House, and so

forth. In sum, they have created an estimable body of work, a brilliant
career; albeit one that now frustrates him. Obstacles have been met and
overcome, but in comparison to what has just happened they are no more
troublesome than turning a team to keep the plowing on track. Now,
however, something much greater has been encountered, and the line
of development can no longer stay where convention would mandate.
Instead, it crosses several framing boundaries until the frame itself is
broken, opening to an infinity the architect is eager to explore.
The heavenliness of life in the villa above Florence transitions to
Taliesin. “Work, life, and love to be transferred to the beloved Valley”
(CW II: 222) is how Wright put it, associating his move back across the
Atlantic with his grandfather’s emigration not just to this same hillside
but to the idea of America itself. Wright’s move will respect that hill
side, his home becoming of it and not on it. There it will combine stone
and wood of the region, with walls and chimneys having their rock faces
exposed and facing outwards, as if in nature itself. And also like nature,
it will never be finished. About Taliesin the memoirist can be rhapsodic,
calling it a house of the North that seeks fellowship with its surround
ings, as open as a campsite to the breeze. The picture Wright draws of it
is a living portrait, employing as many senses as practical to physically
involve the reader, just as the author feels the home’s presence. Showers
would make music on its roofs while broad eaves shelter open windows
from the rain. Only at the end of this description, which continues for
quite a few pages, does Wright mention the one thing that will break
the harmony. “No one feeling the repose of its spirit could believe in the
storm of publicity that kept breaking outside,” he remarks, “because a
kindred spirit—a woman—had taken refuge there for life” (CW II: 229).
This is the only mention of Mamah since the “work, life, and love”
reference that has begun the section on Taliesin so many pages before.
After it, there comes the account of Wright’s work in Chicago on
Midway Gardens, filled with as many business details as architectural
notes. In the midst of it comes another guarded reference to Mamah,
who is still unnamed: the phone call with its news of the tragedy at
Taliesin. Will he speak frankly of Mamah Borthwick Cheney now? No,
not until another two thousand words covering the subsequent history
and failure of the Gardens. Is this a jarring digression from chronology,
a refusal to face the tragedy, or—at worst—a suggestion that Frank

Lloyd Wright’s work is more important to him than his partner’s life?
Not at all. Encouraging a sensitive and sympathetic response, he prompts
his readers with inferences within the memoirist’s requiem for Midway
Gardens:
What they might have been had the Gardens found in Chicago a true
mate and help meet? They would still be more wonderful, covered with
the climbing ivy which the scheme craved with a natural hunger. Arching
trees massed about the walls, the little significances in the empty places
that had longed for them all those years and that would have been like
a happy glint in the eyes. The whole solidly built place would now be
polished, mellowed, enriched by years of good care, hallowed by pleasant
associations—a proud possession for any great city. (CW II: 239)
In writing this epitaph for Midway Gardens—opened in 1914,

abandoned in the 1920s, and demolished in 1929—Wright is personifying
his creation. The building is femin ine; in regretting its conversion into a
dance hall, he has decried the sight of “a distinguished beautiful woman
dragged to the level of a prostitute” (CW II: 238). But that is just a parallel.
His closing words are much more personal, looking into a future which
could not happen, to years that never came with their growth of ivy and
maturity of trees. It’s a heartbreaking tribute. Only after it is delivered,
with respect for a project that in the hands of others went wrong, does
Wright return to the subject of his 1914 telephone call with the news that
Mamah, her two children, and four others had been murdered and the
residential wing of Taliesin burned to the ground.
Wright’s description of what he found is moving. His last act is
cutting the flowers from his lover’s garden to fill her casket, which he,
his son John, and two helpers lower into the grave. He then asks them
to leave, as “I wanted to fill the grave myself.” He leaves it unmarked.
“Why mark the spot where desolation ended and began?” A gravestone
may not name her, but An Autobiography finally does; in this last bit of
narrative he utters her first name.
Nature can be merciful as well as cruel, and in time Wright heals.
Solace is found in rebuilding Taliesin, but also in looking East—to the
Far East, Japan. Again, for the purpose of his book’s (if not his life’s)
coherence, Frank Lloyd Wright simplifies the order of development.
His interest in Japan has predated his flight to Europe, his construction
of Taliesin, and his work on Midway Gardens, not to mention the
murders and fire. Yet he saves mention of Japanese art and culture until
after the events of 15 August 1914. The implication is that these interests
are part of his rebuilding, part of his reinvention of himself in the wake
of tragedy and destruction. In truth, his interest in Japanese prints had
generated several essays in the wake of his 1905 visit. And as for the
Imperial Hotel commission, his trip to Tokyo in 1913 with Mamah was
to bargain for it. For the artificial history of An Autobiography, however,
the sequence is this: Mamah is mourned, Taliesin (now called Taliesin
II) is rebuilt, and the Wasmuth portfolio makes its impact. After all this
comes the call to build the Imperial Hotel and Wright’s first discus
sion of Japanese life. Once again the author’s life story is arranged with
an eye to deep characterization and strong thematic development—in
other words, according to the standards of good fiction.
As with his treatment of the Prairie House, Wright’s extensive com
mentary on Japan over the first three decades of the century allows the
informed reader to observe what Wright now considers crucial enough
to be included in his memoir. The first point the architect mentions is
how the Japanese print succeeds at elimin ating the insignificant, a pro
cess he notes in his own work with the commencement of independent
practice. Hence the prints are not an influence but rather a parallel ex
ample of shared ideals. Those same prints have led him to consider
Japan as the most artistic country on earth, because its art is indigenous,
organic, and one with the nature in which it was produced. This intro
ductory thesis, stated so directly, is a conclusion toward which Wright
had worked his way over much time and writing. Here it serves as a
helpful guide to the importance of what follows: the Japanese home as
a triumph of elimination and simplicity (achieved by standardization), a
naturalness and quiet dignity of conduct among the people, and a clean
honesty of expression in their religion.
At this point, before his narrative about designing and building the
Imperial Hotel, Wright brings up another point of history: his relation
ship with Miriam Noel. Just as Mamah had been associated with the cruel
failure and ultimate destruction of Midway Gardens, Miriam is allied
with work on the hotel and with a specific aspect of Japanese culture
as well. That aspect is part of another jeremiad against conventional
marriage and celebration of the sounder ethics grounded in honesty that

an open relationship demands. Its corollary is the ancient Japanese cul
ture of the courtesan. She is not immoral, he argues, only unmoral. Un
moral, but definitely sensual. Surveying a print of courtesans in their
glory, Wright observes how those depicted are not dressed in the proper
sense but just robed, implying that they can become unrobed as easily
as the model for Midway Gardens slipped out of her one-piece gar
ment. Mamah, we know, has been identified with Midway Gardens—
including its demolition. Now Miriam is introduced in the narrative
company of Japanese courtesans, so appealing in the prints Wright loves
and in the culture he admires. Yet for all of Miriam’s appeal, there is a
hint of the unhappiness to come. Can what is “naturally sordid be made
beautiful?” he asks. “Probably not—we shall see” (CW II: 256).
The author’s troubles with Miriam Noel, who had introduced her
self just months after the Taliesin tragedy, develop in Japan (where she
has accompanied him as his mistress) and continue for the next decade.
Even with this in mind, Wright argues for the key distinction, claiming
that for Japanese courtesan culture (and by implication his life with
Miriam) as long as the “ ‘moral’ element that could make it bestial was
lacking” the affection could be pure (CW II: 258). Again, thinking like
the innovative architect he was, Wright privileges the higher principle
of ethics over momentary contrivance, especially that of what he else
where calls the mob. With Mamah, the sensationalistic press had intro
duced the moral element, scandalizing and shaming their love. In the
case of Miriam, that moralization would come from her, and she would
rally not just the press but also the police, FBI, and immigration author
ities to punish Wright for his subsequent relationship with Olgivanna
beginning in 1924.
The Imperial Hotel itself is dealt with concisely, with the emphasis
on why his design survived both the initial severe earthquake (during
construction) and the later catastrophic one on the day of its formal
opening. Wright starts with the principle that the quake by nature is a
force that cannot be met by anything within human power. But nature
has provided a remedy as well, sixty to seventy feet of soft mud lying
beneath eight feet of soil. The building, he suggests, can be floated on
this mud. Just as Wright’s thinking has balanced one natural principle
with another, structure itself will combine tension and flexibility by
means of a cantilever. In terms of its footprint, the building is divided

into parts so that each can move independently if forced. Japanese and
Western labor practices are combined. Wright concludes his account
proudly, citing the 13 September 1923 telegram following the massive
earthquake: “Hotel stands undamaged as monument of your genius.”
For once, he notes, it is good news that is flashing around the world.
Next comes California, where the story is less rewarding. Wright
begins uncharacteristically by making excuses and describing factors
working against him. Years of effort in Tokyo have depleted him.
Stricken with fever, he was nursed back to health by his eighty-year-old
mother who crossed the Pacific to aid him—in the process driving away
Miriam Noel and the last of that domestic relationship. Work on the
Hollyhock House commission competes with finishing up the Imperial
Hotel in Tokyo; when he has been able to return for stateside visits,
matters at Taliesin in Wisconsin often command his attention. Heiress
and patroness of the arts Aline Barnsdall is herself not only strong-willed
and independent, but is given to even more international travel than
Wright. Described as a restless spirit compelled to traverse the globe,
“she would drop suggestions as a war-plane drops bombs and sails into
the blue” (CW II: 271). Consequently Wright is forced to build the house
by telegraph, as it were, as far as any relationship with the client was con
cerned. Her people are hard to work with, but it is no easier to delegate
authority to his own on-site associates, Rudolf Schindler and Wright’s
son Lloyd. If the memoirist’s account of Japan had ended with a triumph
over disaster, his preliminaries about working in California prepare
readers to expect the worst.
How sympathetic, then, will the readers be when Wright begins his
account of designing Hollyhock House (1917) with a sigh of envy for
Bach, Mozart, and the other masters of classical music. Like him, they
would concentrate on creation. But with that done, the composers lifted
the baton and directed the orchestra to play. What a joy to have so many
fingers ready to produce exactly what was intended on instruments
fashioned for that purpose. Wright has enjoyed similar support in
Tokyo, having the advantage of drawing his design next door to where
it would be built, and within a few days seeing that design take objective
form—executed by not just a thousand fingers but by almost that many
workers.
He won’t have that advantage in Los Angeles, but the ideal persists,
sustained by a cleverly extended metaphor, the author performing with
language as he does with architectural design. As a symphony is an edi
fice of sound (so his father taught him), Wright feels architecture should
be symphonic. He cites the romanza of music, the freedom to make one’s
own form, governed only by the musician’s sense of proportion. There’s
a mystery to it, a feeling to the work that overpowers any indications of
how it was made. Change the aural to the visual and the romanza seems
possible for architecture.
Despite all the obstacles to his work, Wright concludes with a feeling
of success, just as the reader feels rewarded by following his metaphor
this far. In Hollyhock House atop Olive Hill’s thirty-six acres set in
Hollywood and overlooking much of Los Angeles he has made a house
that is site-specific, as natural to California as Taliesin is to Wisconsin.
His romanza exploits the fact that architecture employs a mathematical
coordination of form, a form that in the Barnsdall home adds to straight
line and flat plane an integrity of ornament that creates a rhythm for it
all. Weary of duty, he considers work on the house a holiday, and in this
sense it has turned out well. His play with the music of poetic form de
lights the client to the point that she accepts it as a symphony.
Then come the troubles, ones that musical composers never face
thanks to the existence of proper orchestras. Here is where the metaphor
deliberately breaks down. The contractor should have been a competent
concertmaster, but he can read nothing beyond the average score. Wright’s
associate Rudolf Schindler takes the client’s side in most debates, while
at the same time claiming to be in charge of Frank Lloyd Wright’s office
when the man is absent. Wright objects that he himself is his office. To
top it off, for reasons the architect professes not to understand, Aline
Barnsdall views the finished house and decides to give it all away, keeping
just the ancillary residence for the time being and leaving the larger thea
ter complex unbuilt. Yet the designer regrets nothing.
Instead, he is on to another California innovation, the textile-block
house. Its basis lies in the plasticity of concrete, a material perfect for
showing the imagination at work. Wright’s idea is to weave blocks of it
together with steel rods, the latter for warp and the former for woof.
Recalling how he had used blocks in a textured way for the upper walls
of Midway Gardens, he reasons that by eliminating the mortar joint he
can make the entire fabric mechanical. In the process, he could do away
with skilled labor, something always seen as a cost menace. The medium’s
lightness and strength prompt a metaphor that typically stretches the
distance between tenor and vehicle. Steel is a spider, he suggests, spin
ning a web anchored in cement. The means are plastic, and thus they
insure that the process is organic.
The res ults would inc lude one of Frank Lloyd W right’s most
beautiful residences, La Miniatura, the Alice Millard House (1923) con
structed in Pasadena. As opposed to the popular local Mission Style, in
La Miniatura Wright seeks something genuinely expressive of southern
California. Because his client has only ten thousand dollars for the
project, the architect satisfies her desires for spacious living and dining
rooms by placing one atop the other. This un-Wrightian verticality be
comes an organic factor when another cost-saving factor is introduced,
in the form of an otherwise unsaleable lot wedged in a presumably un
buildable ravine. La Miniatura will rise from the gardens of this ravine
like the tall eucalyptus trees beside it, Wright envisions. From inside
the building balconies look out on nature and terraces would lead down
to it. Even the unused front of this lot beautifies the area, providing
garden space for the happy neighbors. As with his other homes in the
hills above Los Angeles, Wright’s classic horizontal line would be inap
propriate to the landscape here. But given his solution of vertical stack
ing, a new kind of artistry becomes possible. Crocheting with masonry,
as he sees it, allows a great variety of beauty, so much of it that he for
gets that the house belongs to someone else. Whose is it, in terms of art?
Palladio, Bramante, Sansovino, and others were sculptors, but here he
can be a weaver. That is indeed a more commonplace form of expres
sion, but who knows what may follow from it.
The Storer, Freeman, and Ennis Houses (1923) follow in quick
order. In them viewers see the same lyricism with textile blocks and
stacked levels, climaxing with the massive home for Charles Ennis set
near the top (but not atop) the steep rise of the Los Feliz neighborhood
towering over Hollywood and Los Angeles proper. The structure is as
noteworthy a feature as the huge sign spelling Hollywood and the dome
of the Griffith Observatory. People in the city see it every day, and
movie audiences know it as the setting for any number of popular films
such as Blade Runner and An Inconvenient Woman, not to mention such
rive-in fare as The Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf. As such,

d
Wright could consider his attempt to build the characteristic California
house a success, as from the romanza of Hollyhock and the lyricism of
La Miniatura to the eminence of Ennis his architecture has become an
icon for the area, extended by former associates and apprentices such as
Richard Neutra and John Lautner. He proudly mentions that the greatest
successes of his career have been those when he was at a disadvantage,
particularly when time, place, and circumstances intersect with his own
faults. But whether it be Alice Millard’s ravine or Aline Barnsdall’s per
sonality, Wright could be at his best. When challenged, he notes, it is
easier to stay alert. But the area can present only a few opportunities like
La Miniatura and Hollyhock House. Local practice favors cheap expedi
ence and quick sales. To stay would subject his work to these indignities,
as everyone is dedicated just to getting by. And so he gets out, heading
back to Taliesin for work on the projects (most of them unbuilt) that
would round out the 1920s.
Book Two of An Autobiography concludes with a reprise of issues
from the Kahn lectures given at Princeton and published the year before
as Modern Architecture. But as with material from the earlier essays,
Wright now weaves it all together in an anecdotal manner that empha
sizes his continuing professional growth. The “glass skyscraper” designed
in 1924 (but never built) for the National Life Insurance Company in
Chicago adapts the cantilever principle of the Imperial Hotel to the
towering office building. This new style of skyscraper is described with
the same sensuous details as he summoned for his listeners at Princeton.
His old master Louis Sullivan admires the plan, giving praise the younger
architect loves to repeat: that Sullivan never could have done it by him
self, but that Wright could not have done it without Sullivan. Taliesin
burns again, and is once again rebuilt (1925). Its priceless art collection
has been once more destroyed, but these are objects that live on in him
and in the work he does. Louis Sullivan dies, and is remembered in the
text. Olgivanna arrives, and he loves her. Taliesin and what remains of
Wright’s practice are saved by incorporation and the intervention of
friends. Miriam uses all aspects of civil and criminal law to pursue and
harass him, and eventually she dies. He can mourn only what he could
remember of what had once been a remarkable woman who for fifteen
years “had been going up in flame, seldom knowing real rest unless by
some artificial means” (CW II: 322).
As Wright prepares to turn the page of this section called “Work” he
pauses to appreciate the scarlet sumac of autumn, and the seeds of the
future that lie perfected in hanging fruit. Book Three, titled “Freedom,”
causes the reader to wonder if, given his age, a wintertime of retirement
beckons. Instead, it is freedom from something that Wright appreciates;
freedom from confusion and turmoil. The trouble and confusion he
alludes to concern, most recently, the difficulties in formalizing his rela
tionship with Olgivanna. But one can hardly forget the two decades of
wild disruption that began with the flight from his family and period of
companionship in Europe with Mamah in 1909. There’s an implicit
reminder of this when the Wendingen volume of 1925 brings back what
the architect had taken abroad, together with the architecture now
being imported from Europe as the International Style—as though any
reduction to style could not be offensive, he notes. Book Three concludes,
not that many pages later, with an explicit remembrance of a lonely
night in Paris, just three weeks after abandoning his wife and children.
And so it is reasonable to consider that Wright sees himself in 1927 (as
he dates the start of Book Three) emerging from a substantial period of
grief. With all such distraction removed, creativity resurges as new goals
can be seen clearly. He has brought it all back home in order to start
again. Could Frank Lloyd Wright have foreseen at this point how a
second career, even greater than his first, would develop? The energy for
it is certainly there.
The third book of Wright’s autobiography is brief, about one-third
the length of either of the previous parts, as if the writer were eager to
get on with the future. Its structure also welcomes the revisions and sub
stantial additions to come in the 1943 edition. There are some topics to
introduce, others to review. New on the agenda is Arizona, which the
architect and his wife have discovered when helping with the Arizona
Biltmore Hotel and Cottages (1927) and planning the San Marcos in
the Desert resort (1929, project). Taliesin West (1937) is still in the future,
but the Ocatilla Desert Camp (1928) had been built and is already in
deterioration as other quarters are used for temporary occupation. The
essentials of Wright’s desert vision are already in place, including the
two principles he would cite frequently in coming years: the saguaro

cactus as an example of reinforced construction, and the straight line of
the prairie here becoming the dotted line of the desert.
As always, what Wright builds for himself comes closest to realizing
his thoughts. Ocatilla Desert Camp, its spelling changed from conven
tion to suit his fancy, is made of cabins grouped like giant butterflies
conforming to the outcroppings of rock that define the landscape out
side of Chandler, Ariz ona. A zigzag of boxboard walls connect them.
Roofing is of canvas, and can be opened to make the structures look like
sailing ships. When stretched overhead, the canvas diffuses the light
that makes the thought of anything more opaque depressing. That the
Wrights and their forthcoming Fellowship would soon be spending half
of each year in the Arizona desert is no surprise.
A section on “The Usonian City” raises expectations of Broadacre
City (1934 and afterwards, as a demonstration project). But Broadacre
must wait for the Fellowship’s labor (and residential example). At this
point in the first edition of An Autobiography the author simply draws,
at length and in detail, on his skyscraper lecture to the students at
Princeton. Once again he retells the history of civilization, concluding
that what first made the city necessary is now choking it to death. Sky
scrapers have been devised only as a way of avoiding the problem, in the
process making the exploitative practices of landlords all the worse. But
there is hope in sight. Although Broadacre City itself is not yet proposed,
certain features of it that were introduced at Princeton are repeated
here. Highways will be designed with the care and art of architecture,
carrying people from the city’s congestion to freedom farther out. De
centralization will be facilitated by an innovative roadside service station
that provides for people as well as for automobiles. Chain merchandizing,
home entertainment centers, and travel itself not as a matter of com
muting but as holiday-making to what he calls automobile objectives—
all these elements forecast in the Kahn lectures are repeated here, and
reappear as key parts of the Broadacre City plan the Fellowship will help
to complete.
New to those who have been following Wright is his manner of pre
senting the St. Mark’s Tower. Earlier descriptions had emphasized the
clever way of financing such a project; here the focus is on its promising
design with straight lines and flat planes characteristic of the machine
age serving as outline instead of mass. Unlike the dark stone caverns of
today’s cities, Wright’s structure will benefit from its principle of design,
which opens itself to light. Thanks to its cantilev ered construction, the
tower can be narrower without sacrificing inside space, which means
the building can be set back from the street, allowing a park-like setting.
The results are spectacular; Wright pictures it as a spider spinning its
web of steel to enmesh clear, translucent, and colored glass. The iri
descence of this fabric is set against the blue sky above and greenery
below, everything shimmering with light. Like the beautiful presenta
tion drawings Marion Mahony did in the Oak Park Studio thirty years
before, Wright’s description creates a vivid impression. His words use
their sonority—reflected, refracted—to mimic the lushness of visual effect.
Colors cascade off the page. As in a drawing, the passage itself has a spa
tial unity, beginning with the structure’s park-like setting and returning
there after the building has risen in all its splendor.
Book Three moves to its close with a grab-bag of topics. In Chi
cago, where his work is on exhibit at the Art Institute, a “tall handsome
woman came toward me smiling. A moment’s hesitation and I recog
nized Catherine” (CW II: 352). Encountered in the gallery amid samples
of his work from earlier days, she is a reminder of his youth. Now re
married, unseen by Wright for fifteen years, she is a pleasant sight,
looking young and happy. They continue through the exhibit together,
recalling the works that emerged from the studio adjacent to their home.
Wright is happy to be loyal to his work, and also delights that Catherine
remains loyal to one she has loved: him.
A few minor matters follow, as if the author is putting off the con
clusion to An Autobiography. There’s a squabble in Milwaukee about the
city’s classically inspired courthouse design, and more squabbling in
Chicago over how its upcoming world’s fair, “A Century of Progress”
(1933), s hould be represented in architecture. Wright advocates for the
freedom he finds in the horizontal, repeating familiar arguments that
now seem to carry on a bit beyond their effectiveness in earlier essays
and lectures (and which had their say again in Book Two). Finally, with
an admission that autobiographies are at their truest between the lines,
he gets to the point he probably has been considering since describing
his recent meeting with Catherine—so many memories that his mind
can scarcely contain them, even as they mock his attempts to do so.
The memories involve his distance from the children. One features a
lonely night at a café in Paris, just a few weeks after leaving home. He’s
too miserable to eat or drink, but hopes to find solace listening to the
orchestra. But when the cellist begins playing Simonetti’s Madrigale
Wright cannot help but recall how his son Lloyd performed this piece
as a favorite, sometimes in a duet with his father on piano. In anguish,
Wright leaves to wander the streets for hours. Another takes place in
more settled times, during the first two years at Taliesin. On business
trips to Chicago the architect would go to Oak Park after dark to assure
himself all was safe and secure. The scene is set in single-sentence para
graphs to enhance its poignancy, one each for the window light and the
children’s voices, the sounds of the piano, their singing, and their calls.
Relieved, Wright would turn away and return to the city. Anguish in
Paris, relief in Oak Park—both emotions are enhanced by their night
time setting with the accompaniment of music, so important in Frank
Lloyd Wright’s life. A third memory concerns his little daughters. He
remembers so much, he admits, that ending his book could be a problem.
Therefore he decides to willfully forget what he meant to write. An
Autobiography thus ends with a closure to the sense of memory and a
celebration of the present, which is happening these days at Taliesin.
“Taliesin!” Wright exclaims, in a sentence that would subsequently
typify his devotion to this house: “When I am away from it, like some
rubber band, stretched out but ready to snap back immediately the
pull is relaxed or released, I get back to it, happy to come home again”
(CW II: 377). Suddenly, even abruptly, the past—before it can become
cloying—is replaced by the present. Wright as always is careful to make
the reader’s mood match his own. Once Taliesin West was established
in 1937, this contrast would define the dual nature of Wright’s regional
allegiances. Here in 1932 he is allowing for the fact that as he has travelled
widely in the past, the future may well hold similar temptations. Through
out the volume, experiences have called him away at times, but the
home place has been the center of his faith since he chose it as such in
1911. No matter that the past might call, such as the memories in these
last few pages of family life in Oak Park “when I would have given all
that I had lived to be able to live again” (CW II: 376). As his story
closes, Frank Lloyd Wright is again living in his beloved Taliesin, with
Olgivanna and their little daughter, Iovanna, and preparing for the next
phase of his career.
An Autobiography appeared in the spring of 1932. By October, its first

fruit was being brought to Taliesin in the persons of twenty-three people,
one as old as thirty-one but most of college age, who would be the first
members of the Taliesin Fellowship. Innovative in form and idealistic
in its goals, the Fellowship would in fact be the most practical under
taking of Frank Lloyd Wright’s life. For the next twenty-seven years—to
the end of his life—it would give him something akin to the supportive
structure he so envied musical composers having in their orchestras:
hundreds if not thousands of fingers eager to do his work. Initially twenty-
three but at times as many as sixty or more apprentices were for Wright
what he himself had been for Louis Sullivan, the pencil in his hand. In
the best of times, this resource would allow Wright to produce hundreds
of designs, sometimes dozens at the same time, well beyond the output
of a conventionally organized studio. In the lean years of the Depression
that marked its beginnings, the Fellowship would provide the Wrights
with income, as each Fellow paid $675 in annual tuition. In addition,
their course of study included such supposedly enriching tasks as con
struction work and agricultural and domestic labor. They would learn
by doing and become architects from the bottom up, actually building
their drafting studio and living quarters around them and keeping the
vast estate running. For much of this, Olgivanna deserves the credit,
just as it was her encouragement that had set Wright to work on An
Autobiography several years before. A prospectus circulated to colleges
and universities in the summer of 1932 had got the word out, and several
of the apprentices had learned of Wright from newspaper accounts of
his work and his earlier publications. But most were drawn by the book
itself, either reading it (as did Edgar Tafel) or having its ideas recom
mended by a parent (as happened with John Lautner, whose mother
had read Wright’s memoir).
Frank and Olgivanna had seen the need for something like the
Fellowship several years before, and had sought the aid of friends and
support of other institutions (such as the University of Wisconsin) in
setting up some type of school in the old Hillside School quarters. Dis
cussions beginning in 1928 led to a preliminary brochure printed and
circulated in 1931, “The Hillside Home School of the Allied Arts.”
Grander in scope than the Fellowship, the school would include not
just architecture but painting, sculpture, pottery, glasswork, metalwork,
dance, and drama. History and philosophy would contribute to the
s tudents’ rounding as well. Reading the brochure today, in light of

how the Taliesin Fellowship would be reconceived the following year,
illustrates what the Wrights considered essential.
Foremost is the need for a culture “above the matters of behavior,
commerce, industry, politics, and an unsure taste for objets d’art.”
Wright sounds a bit like Sinclair Lewis and H. L. Mencken when he
grounds his case with Londoner C. R. Ashbee’s comments made while
visiting Chicago, that the great Midwestern city was aesthetic ally ugly.
Ashbee is answered by a local “Captain of Industry” to the effect that
the visitor may be right, that “Chicago isn’t much on Culture now . . .
maybe. But when Chicago gets after culture, she’ll make Culture hum”
(CW III: 40, ellipsis in original). Rather than mock this boisterous
Americanism, Wright seconds it, albeit in a more thoughtful manner.
Culture is in fact bound up with commerce and industry, and for this
very reason cannot be made to hum at will when people are finally
ready for it. It is there all the time. The issue is whether it is treated well
or poorly. At the Hillside Home School of the Allied Arts it will be
handled as it should be, as both a foundation for human activity and a
superstructure for its refinement. Only then will American culture truly
“hum.”
Specifics fit the Wright doctrine. American culture needs to be
authentic, not borrowed from Europe, and organic, growing naturally
from within, rather than being applied from without. There’s idealism
that the project must help build a nation in which everything contributes
not just to its wealth but to its integrity, all in greater service to the human
spirit. Even the machine must be used not just productively but for this
greater principle. Wright has a sound proposition to make. Architecture
will be the center of his proposed school, with the fine arts as divisions
of it, but the industrial arts—glass-making, pottery, textiles, and such—
will benefit from $150,000 subsidies from the respective industries the
school’s workshops serve. These companies would in turn be able to
purchase designs and offer employment to students as approved by the
director. Intellectual property, dedic ation of talent—these considera
tions read like terms in a business contract, which is what the document
is. As for what the Hillside workshops produce, that can be sold at
market, likely to net $50,000 each year. Wright describes them as artisti
cally attractive and useful beyond common standards, as their designs
would be not only innovative but based on the informing principle of

organic design as executed by machine. As an operation, the school’s
books will balance, all the way down to the cost of “feeding 124 people
for one year at 26¢ a day each” beyond what farm production provides
(CW III: 47). Farm production? Yes, this bottom-line practicality results
from another ideal, that the school be located out in the country, where
the quieter rural environment and rigorous outdoor work raise the spirit
and morale to be creative when working indoors.
Although the Great Depression would make commercial support
impossible, and despite the fact that on his own Wright could not sup
port the activities of seven industrial arts schools (each with a resident
master, who would have to be housed and paid), the most important
aspects of the Hillside Home School of the Allied Arts are realized in
the Taliesin Fellowship. Architecture does of course remain the central
interest, and not as an isolated subject—rather it is a philosophy of de
sign that informs all the other arts as apprentices practice them on their
own, as hobbies and pastimes rather than industrial disciplines. There
won’t be resident masters, but apprentices who have brought special
talents share them with others. There will not be artifacts for sale, but
on Sunday afternoons the public will be invited to the Taliesin Playhouse
for a high quality foreign film, discussion led by an informed apprentice,
and a cup of coffee at the lobby fireside, all for just fifty cents. The fare
was attractive and the price was right: rural neighbors and visitors from
Madison made for packed houses. Most importantly, at either Hillside
as proposed or the Fellowship as realized, there would be no calendar
courses, no examinations, no graduations, and no diplomas. Instead, ap
prentices learned by watching and doing, with Frank Lloyd Wright’s
ultimate form of guidance being his example, supplemented by his talks.
It was how he had learned from Louis Sullivan, and how his best appren
tices would learn now.
But knowing well the history of Wright’s relationship with Louis
Sullivan, how would the matter of ego fit into the Hillside scheme and,
afterwards, the Fellowship’s reality? In the Hillside document Wright
addresses it directly, and adds an important literary reference. His school
would grant ego its natural scope and rights, given that the creative
impulse depends on such. Anything inhibiting it only breeds hypocrisy,
as Walt Whitman taught.
Note the inhibitors, which are the restrictions by conventional edu

cation. And note the liberator, which is not the triumph of one ego over
another but rather the ideal Walt Whitman proposed: democracy. For
Wright and Whitman both, democracy is dedicated to an individual’s
growth precisely as an individual, into something of one’s very own that
no one else can take away. Throughout the architect’s literary canon de
mocracy is characterized as not just a freedom for people in general but
as guarantee of an individual’s right to develop as chosen, according to
one’s own principles derived from within instead of answering to rules
and practices imposed from without. Later in the 1940s a more famous
Frank Lloyd Wright will refine Whitman’s notion, distinguishing it
and his own from a simple leveling that is more properly called “mob
ocracy.” Whitman and Frank Lloyd Wright see democracy as enabling
individuals to emulate what is infinite in humankind. That is what “ego”
means in this Hillside brochure, and how it will be encouraged in the
Fellowship.
The Hillside Home School of the Allied Arts could have been a
great operation, but conditions conspired against it. Even in the best of
times it would have been difficult to attract (much less remunerate) the
level of talent proposed: Erich Mendelsohn and Le Corbusier as regular
visitors from Berlin and Paris, Joseph Stella in residence from New
York, Pablo Casals, Leopold Stokowsky, and Igor Stravinsky teaching
music, Eugene O’Neill and Sherwood Anderson supervising drama and
cinema. And these are just a few from the page-long list Wright supplies,
announced with the same certitude as his accounting for food, fuel, and
electricity. With the Great Depression at hand, such planning was fatu
ous. Yet for how Frank Lloyd Wright’s thinking proceeds, it is absolutely
necessary to commit to the material reason.
It is this same economic calamity, after all, that would make the
Fellowship a reasonable propos ition. Scaled down to what Wright
himself and his existing physical plant could provide, it was financially
feasible. As for its students, the high expenses of traditional college
education and dim prospects for employment made them think that at
Taliesin there was nothing to lose. That the country’s economic structure
was in shambles gave them reason to join the larger movement that
was challenging it; “radical” was, after all, one of Frank Lloyd Wright’s
favorite words, and if he used it in the conservative sense of “root,” then

his reform would be all the more fundamental. Without the Great
Depression, it is unlikely that the Taliesin Fellowship would have at
tracted such a steady stream of high-quality students; with it, some of
the best young minds in America could think of no better place to go.
In the summer of 1932, with An Autobiography being reviewed and
available in bookstores and with the Great Depression locked in for its
frightful duration, Wright issued his reconceived brochure announcing
“The Taliesin Fellowship.” It drew an initial twenty-three young people
to his estate near Spring Green, Wisconsin, where the work described
would begin. The brochure is candid about that work, which included
not just architectural study but design and construction of buildings to
be added to the existing structures of the old Hillside Home School,
both of which needed remodeling. “Work” would also take place in the
fields, growing food, and in the kitchen and dining room preparing and
serving it. As things got underway, the brochure was modified and ex
panded until it reached satisfactory form in an edition dated December
1933, which Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer combines with a brief retrospective
on Wright’s aunts added in 1941 to serve as the definitive text in the
Collected Writings. Later on, parts of it would be incorporated into the
1943 expanded edition of An Autobiography, but by then the Fellowship
had proved its merit to the world with work on such masterpieces as
Fallingwater and the S. C. Johnson Administration Building. It is the
1933 document that captures the Taliesin Fellowship in its first year of
operation and demonstrates the nature of Wright’s thought about the
project.
“truth against the world” are the words Frank Lloyd Wright
uses to begin his preamble to the Fellowship document. He applies it to
his aunts’ educational methods as inspired by Francis Parker and John
Dewey and underscored by the family’s motto, carried out “to the point,
some said, where there was no intolerance quite so intolerant as the
Lloyd Jones’ intolerance of intolerance” (CW III: 159). Wright cites this
belief as a factor leading to the aunts’ economic failure. But their ideals
for educ ation live on, in the later years of their lives because Frank bor
rowed money to rescue the buildings from foreclosure in 1915 (when in
truth it had been the scandal and ultimate tragedy at Taliesin that had
rompted many parents to withdraw their children from the Hillside

p
Home School), and at their deaths with his pledge to someday found
another school in their honor.
That time has come with the inauguration of the Taliesin Fellow
ship. It, too, begins in the face of economic hardship. But tuition (at
first $650, soon raised to $675) could buy material to build with and seed
money for crops that would provide food. The farm, as Wright calls it,
is of great use even beyond providing sustenance. Working as a com
munity, the Fellowship will learn architecture quite literally from the
ground up, harvesting and preparing the land’s bounty even as they plan
to build on it. Wright’s educational aim is the same as was his aunts’,
which is to fashion a culture for American democracy. Only the specific
line of endeavor would be changed.
“Our Cause,” as the Fellowship prospectus proclaims it, is to counter
current trends in education with more progressive ones, just as Wright’s
aunts had done. In some senses, those trends have become worse since
the Hillside Home School was founded in 1886. Wright’s complaint
draws less on the educational philosophy of John Dewey and more on
the economic thought of Henry George, at least metaphorically in the
sense that inflation and overproduction characterize the evils of mass
schooling. For the past half-century or more, the architect believes,
students have been “over-educated and under-cultured” (CW III: 160),
thanks to the stress on production over sustainability. His own plan is to
offer the appreciation of life that comes from honest work, a quality
beyond the grasp of any academic formula. True, he grounds his belief
in architecture, but only as that art is dedicated to the harmony of all
structure, from which a great culture can emerge. Like his aunts, Wright
is proposing not a course of study but a manner of life.
Taliesin is not a back-to-the-land movement, Wright objects, nor
is it an art-for-art’s-sake endeavor. He implies that each of these have
become regressive rather than progressive. Instead, the Fellowship will
simply proceed with its feet on the ground, experiencing how an appre
ciation of art and the culture it expresses can make living a more reward
ing affair. Its very being is a commitment to action. Wary of being taken
as a foolish idealist, Wright nevertheless believes that integrity of process
precedes the merit of any final product, and cites Cervantes to this effect:
that the road is always better than the inn. As late as 1933, with the
Fellowship in operat ion for a year, Wright still has hopes of industrial
support (by virtue of supplying free services), and wants to attract six
experienced leaders in music, painting, sculpture, drama, motion, and
philosophy. In practice, the services provided will be to Wright himself,
as within the next few years major commissions arrive that need com
munal effort to complete with now-veteran apprentices such as Wes
Peters, Bob Mosher, and Edgar Tafel working as lieutenants. As for
performance, there will be short-term visitors, notably violinists and the
occasional string quartet; but here too the idea is to inspire apprentices
themselves to develop their talent and share it with colleagues. These
practices fit Wright’s overall thesis that what he has to convey cannot be
taught, it can only be experienced. This style of experientiality is the
most obvious quality of the Taliesin Fellowship. Comprehending how
the design of the whole is integral thanks in part to an understanding of
the nature of materials, Fellowship members will saw trees and quarry
stone, making daily life and cultural growth simultaneous.
The Taliesin Fellowship brochure ends with the information
that there is no graduation involved or diploma to be awarded. After
several years of experience, “should the apprentice desire to leave the
Fellowship”—note the conditional verb mood Wright chooses!—“a
personal testimonial will be given” (CW III: 166). Even at this early date,
the master finds it hard to envision that anyone would ever leave. Of
course many did after widely varying years of residence, but several stayed
for extended periods of a decade or more. John Howe would remain
until after Wright’s death, and a few, such as Wes Peters and Eugene
Masselink, lived out their lives in the Fellowship.
One would leave, Wright presumes, only when prepared for life.
And as the best life possible was being perfected right here at Taliesin,
why would anyone want to leave? For Frank Lloyd Wright personally,
the Taliesin Fellowship at once became the center of his own life, and
continued so until he died—at which point it served to keep alive the
spirit of his work and promote ideas for architecture and living. After
1932, we can say, Wright’s autobiography and the Fellowship are one.
5
Broadacre City and
the 1930s
in 1932, with the publication of An Autobiography and the

founding of the Taliesin Fellowship, the nature of Frank Lloyd Wright’s
writing changes. A lack of commissions in the second half of the 1920s
had forced him to write essays and deliver lectures for a living, and the
onset of the Great Depression assured little architectural work would be
coming along for anyone, much less for an old man whose reputation and
personal conduct were matters of controversy. There was no alternative
but to write himself back into existence, which is precisely what An Auto
biography and the prospectus for the Taliesin Fellowship accomplished.
Broadacre City and the writings that describe it are examples of how
the Fellowship’s support put him on a new path, not just as a builder but
as a thinker. In Communities of Frank Lloyd Wright (2009) Myron A.
Marty warns that Broadacre City is not a utopian organization, for it
was never organized at all—except in Wright’s head. It is an idea, Marty
argues, and asks that it be considered that way, as advance planning for
a suburbia Wright saw coming as early as the 1920s, when his extensive
automobile travel across the United States revealed not just the vast
spaces available but the practical means of shrinking those distances for
a better style of human use. But it was also an idea that needed a model,
a physical rendering of what could become reality. In the days before
computerized modeling, constructing a wall-sized layout of a four-
square-mile project at a scale of seventy-five feet to the inch was more
than a labor-intensive project; it was an undertaking of gargantuan
proportions, especially when models of every building (comprising
130
Broadacre City and the 1930s 131
many of Wright’s built structures and projects to date) were added.

Only the hundreds of willing fingers available in the Fellowship could
do it. And only a $1,000 check extracted from the wealthy father of
apprentice Edgar J. Kaufmann, Jr., could begin to finance it. Then there
was the matter of exhibition. Apprentices were charged with transporting
it to New York City’s Rockefeller Center for its first showing in 1935,
and from there to galleries in such diverse locations as Philadelphia;
Washington, D. C.; and Madison, Wisconsin. Wright continued to
support the idea for the rest of his life, showing the model abroad in the
1950s and publishing his last book on the topic just a year before his death,
all of which could only happen with the support of his many appren
tices. Not only did it form a part of their education, but it provided an
introduction to and experience with major figures in the art world and
government. They could work on it outside, during summers in Wiscon
sin and winters in Ariz ona, where Wright arranged temporary quarters
while scouting locations for Taliesin West.
Just as Broadacre City could not exist without the Taliesin Fellow
ship, so too did Frank Lloyd Wright’s idea for the future provide a
project for the Fellowship. Before Fallingwater, there was precious little
for the Fellowship to do. During its first years apprentices filled their
days with work on the Taliesin buildings and in the fields, the only sem
blance of architectural experience being the tracing over of old plans
from Wright’s earlier heyday. Between the Richard Lloyd Jones House
(1929) for his cousin in Tulsa and Fallingwater itself (1935), Wright’s
canon would have but one work, the small proto-Usonian home for
Malcolm E. Willey (1933) in Minneapolis. “Hosanna, a client!” Wright
is said to have inscribed across the top of Willey’s inquiry letter as it was
posted on the drafting room’s bulletin board.
And just as Broadacre City kept the Fellowship busy, so too did
it occupy its creator’s mind. The Disappearing City was published in
1932, just before the Fellowship begins. Throughout the decade Wright
would advance its ideas by means of various essays and speeches, markets
for which increased dramatically as news of his success with Fallingwater
and the S. C. Johnson Administration Building spread. Written con
temporaneously with his planning for the Fellowship, it builds on his
views on city living as advanced in the Kahn lectures at Princeton and in
the “Usonian City” section of An Autobiography. There the emphasis
132 Broadacre City and the 1930s
was largely on the past, showing how the reasons that mandated urban
ization in the first place now served only to impose unneeded restrictions
on human life. This binary opposition sets the tone and structure for
Wright’s argument as it develops. Centralization has run out of control,
and the natural progress of horizontal growth has been stifled. Human
kind is condemned to an “unnatural, sterile verticality—upended by
its own success” (CW III: 71). But instead of the simple history-of-
civilization narrative Wright had used at Princeton and in An Autobiog
raphy, we now have an opposition that in its very structuring implies a
way out, a synthesis of the thesis and antithes is so apparent in Wright’s
thinking. Open fields versus the cave, horizontal as opposed to vertical—
the direction of the architect’s thinking is obvious. It is the adventurer’s
instinct to break out that grounds Wright’s ideal of freedom.
The next set of oppositions is between the landlord and the individ
ual, between the exploitation of restrictive space and the free enjoyment
of it. Rent for land, rent for money, even rent for intellectual property
(such as the innovations of the machine) are for Wright the chief con
tributing causes of poverty. His thinking here is derived from a favor
ite source, one he has used metaphorically for problems concerning
education: Henry George and his economic theory of a Single Tax
(which would protect personal ownership while preventing exploita
tion). George’s ideas have come in for complex critic ism, based on how
they alternately can or cannot function in an open society. To his credit,
Wright does not get involved with these arguments, never mentioning
the reformer except in passing, and then usually in the company of a
broad swath of others: Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, William
Lloyd Garrison, John Brown, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David
Thoreau, Walt Whitman, and Louis Sullivan, all as general proponents
of the idea that the best government is the one that governs least, as well
as the tenet that human rights precede property rights. Against all restric
tive economics Wright poses “the modern conception of God and man
as growth—a concept called Democracy” (CW III: 75). As Bruce Brooks
Pfeiffer points out in his biographical sketch for this volume of the
Collected Writings, an identity exists between the principles behind
Wright’s ideas for organic architecture and “in his way of thinking, . . . a
true democracy” (CW III: 13). Democracy privileges not personalities
but individuals, not a collection of libertines (whom Wright would
come to call the mob) but instead those people in whose strength of
character and enjoyment of genuine culture is reflected the ideal of
human perfection.
It is the growth of individualism that Wright sees facilitated by the
new freedom generated by technological devices, from the internal
combustion engine to electrification and improved communications.
Unlike his previous writings, The Disappearing City does not at this
point start scattering fantastic inventions across the page. Instead he
focuses on the individual’s needs as expressed in the idea of Broadacre
City itself, a concept fully formed and ready for consideration.
That he has a community of his own on the brink of formation
surely shapes his thinking, so different is its manner from that previously
expressed. The plan he proposes is not a machine miracle of futuristic
dreaming, nor is it an ungrounded fantasy. He of course has great hope
for the future, but with the proviso that before anything else the growth
of individua lity will be assured. The spirit of organic architecture recog
nizes this as the foundation of a civilization’s greatness. For a proper
spirit, communal forces must support this ideal, and by allowing a mini
mum of one acre to each family, individuality within the community
can be achieved, thanks to the expansiveness of space his Broadacre de
sign allows. The space is horiz ontal, not vertical, so that one owns what
one occupies, and not levels above it to be rented to others. Horizontal
versus vertical is a binary opposition, and with this rhetorical structure
established Wright pushes on with it, enriching the distinction by using
metaphors, a device that puts the oppositions into even closer contrast.
Again, rather than parsing out the history of civilization, as he’d done in
earlier commentaries on this subject, Wright now turns to the poetic.
He contrasts the city at night, a visual delight of artificial illumination,
with the daytime reality of rent’s “sordid reiteration” and the “overpower
ing sense of the cell” (CW III: 82). Medical metaphors abound, from
malignant tumors and occluded tissue to painfully constricted circula
tion. Contrasting forms of government follow this same opposition:
monarchy with its centralization of power, democracy with its integrity
won by decentralization.
The key for Wright’s success with this plan is the proper use of new
materials that make dispersion possible. Electrification, which lets
urban congestion look so pretty at night, should be used to spread things
out, leaving the difference between short and long distances irrelevant.
Automobiles make people portable, just as refrigeration, heating, and
lighting are no longer tied to the city. Glass, steel, and concrete allow a
building style that opens living space to the environment, expanding
one’s relationship with the ground. The herd instinct now takes wing,
replaced by the dream of individual empowerment.
Architecture’s job will be to interpret this ideal of human freedom
and seek the spaciousness and light that will break up and disperse the
urban blockage. Glass, steel, and electromagnetic science are gifts archi
tects may use to begin a new era. If the architect’s imagination is trained
to see them for what they are and how they can be harmonious with
nature, personal effort will enhance communal good, individual and
collective enriching each other. Human values give life, rather than take
it, and by providing an acre for each family, architecture will have the
scope to serve not the landlord but people themselves as organic exem
plars of ownership. This was a key feature in Henry George’s economic
theory, and Wright’s focus on the mechanical specifics for making all
this possible reflect directly on the notion of individual freedom, unlike
the earlier commentaries in which they seemed to glory in their own
invention. A new style of highway system, prescient concerning the
postwar interstates, would replace archaic and unpleasant roads with
genuinely pleasurable ones—safe, quiet, and pretty. Service stations are
no longer eyesores but rather centers of real service, satisfying all needs
in an integrated system of distribution and supply. Skyscrapers would
have their place in Broadacre City, set in park-like sites as proposed for
the St. Mark’s project and later realized in the Price Tower in Bartlesville.
As it all comes together, resid ents are granted their God-given right “to
live abundantly in the exub erance that is beauty—in the sense that
William Blake defined exuberance,” Wright emphasizes. Blake did not
mean excess, the architect cautions. “He meant according to nature,
without stint” (CW III: 92). What Blakean exuberance Wright himself
expresses may have a mystical touch, but it is applied to hard and fast
realities of what is meant to be a very practical city. He can go on at
length about highways, but with details of design that make travel both
more efficient and more aesthetically pleasing. The open road, safe to
travel, is a noble agent of culture, and has a beauty all its own. Wright’s
arguments establish superhighways and improved hard roads as a new
basis for order. Thus does Wright’s agile and capacious manner of
thought encompass Henry George, William Blake, and the wide-open
American highway in the same spirit.
Living and working quarters share this new sense, which is actually
an application of principles Wright had developed over the past four
decades. Integration is now the key. Old standards of spacing go out the
door, thanks to the mobility now possible. Space itself also comes inside,
to define the building from within. From the outside, buildings fit in
with the landscape. Farms are small, sharing a tractor and supplying food
to nearby resid ents. Service stations fulfill every practical need for both
vehicle and passenger, anticip ating today’s convenience store. Churches
as well share space, with compartments for various denominations,
though the overall effect will be nonsectarian. Each Broadacre City will
have a design center, the description of which follows the Taliesin Fel
lowship brochure Wright was circulating at this time, right down to its
discipline of agricultural fieldwork supplementing an apprenticeship in
architecture. Most important, the home is Broadacre City’s central fac
tor, the only bit of centrality allowed. Architecturally, it has been made
into the house beautiful, Frank Lloyd Wright’s aim as expressed in his
earliest essays of the 1890s, and living there can be the focus of life’s su
preme pleasures. But what good was Wright’s ability to design and build
such a home, if the pressures of the city still drew its occupants away?
Now The Disappearing City has come up with a manner of thinking
about urban needs that takes the conventional metropolis out of the
picture. What Wright has proposed re-centralizes the satisfaction of all
those needs right in the home itself.
Will this change be superintended by politicians? Wright knows
better than to think so. For that statesmen are needed, for they, unlike
politicians, are architects of social order. He has already reached to the
level beyond this truth by arguing for architecture as the grounding for
his whole project—social, moral, aesthetic, economic, as well as building
design. It certainly was such in ancient times, he reminds his readers.
And for the modern era it must be so again.
Is Frank Lloyd W right prop osi ng that the chief aut hori ty for
Broadacre City be the architect? As egomaniacal as this seems, there is
a practical aspect to it, and also a demonstration of its efficacy in current
life. Architecture in its broadest sense (how Wright always conceived it)
is what drives the formation of Broadacre City, because the plan will
work only if all its parts are set in place to function in harmonious order.
That’s the organic nature of the idea, and it is the architect who not
only proposes it but will design a structure (again, in the largest sense)
by which it can function. In today’s world there is just such an authority:
city planning. Unregulated growth earlier in the twentieth century
mandated that there be some higher order, usually at the county level,
so that cities could not continue to sprawl in a chaotic manner. In the
Progressive Era of Frank Lloyd Wright’s early career, city planning was
an ideal in both the United States and Great Britain, and in his own
studio two of his brightest associates, Marion Mahony and Walter
Burley Griffin, were already at work in this direction. In the years follow
ing World War II, explosive demographic growth had to be channeled
in productive directions; by then city planning was not an ideal but a
necessity. While it is tempting to scoff at Wright’s notion of a county
architect’s supreme authority as a version of Plato’s philosopher king in
The Republic, one must remember that unlike Plato Wright does not
banish the poets. Rather, the exuberance of William Blake and the
democracy of Walt Whitman are among the essential ingredients of his
own ideal world.
The Disappearing City is an original piece of work, but it draws
support from the four decades of essays and lectures preceding it, in
addition to the example of Wright’s architecture itself. It introduces the
idea of Broadacre City the same year, 1932, that the Taliesin Fellowship
begins. If the book is a coherent expression of all the architect’s ideas to
date, then the Fellowship serves as an example of life practiced accord
ing to the principles conveyed. As a result, Frank Lloyd Wright’s other
writings of the decade are, compared to the steady march of ideas that
leads up to the two great events of 1932, ancillary and topical. They are
various in their appearance and many are unpublished. But they are also
voluminous, and bear reading for their occasionally fresh angles on famil
iar yet critically important themes. The architect did not stop thinking
when his book appeared and the Fellowship got underway, and at times
that thought finds bright new means of expression.
Take the consideration of how much space a plan like Broadacre
City would require, especially if developed to the extent of housing all
America. Wright’s extensive automobile travels of the past several years
had taught him how distances were shrinking and suburban sprawl was
coming in the not too distant future, but it also made him realize just
how much presently unoccupied space this country had to offer. Here is
how he dramatizes it for the 1932 Convention of the National Associa
tion of Realtors, in a speech published in their Journal for July of 1932.
“There is a lot of ground in this country,” he observes, and not all that
many people. He teases his audience that if the entire population of the
world were placed on Bermuda, they wouldn’t cover it “standing up—I
don’t know about sitting down” (CW III: 125). Even in the United
States, civilized as it is, there are more than fifty acres available for each
person, children and all. The fact is an amusing one, probably culled
from Ripley’s Believe It or Not, a popular media entertainment of the
day. But Wright knows that what will catch his listeners’ attention is
that spaciousness is characteristic of modern life and that it is natural for
democracy to demand more of it. In similar terms he tells the realtors
about his new type of gasoline station that will be “the advance agent of
decentralization,” a specific agency they can picture in order to appre
ciate Wright’s argument for the new “fluidity” and “spontaneity” of
modern living (CW III: 125). Another piece, this time with medical
matters in mind, praises the country doctor (one of whom has just treated
him for severe pneumonia and saved his life). Self-reliance, acting on
judgment in emergencies—this is what not just the doctors but all the
professionals of Broadacre City will have in abundance. As for its loca
tion, “this city will be everywhere and nowhere” (CW III: 345), because
it is an idea and not an institution.
Supplementing the idea of Broadacre City is the design of the
Usonian House, announced as “The Two-Zone House—Suited to
Country, Suburb, and Town” when published in Wright’s own Taliesin:
Journal of the Taliesin Fellowship (1932). The old-fashioned parlor only
existed because of squeamishness over food preparation in the kitchen,
he argues. Why not call the kitchen a workspace, acknowledging that
work is part of life and should not be sequestered from the living room?
Where work takes place is a natural space for getting together, and also
for centralizing utilities. One zone of this house can be used for living
and working while a second serves as a quieter zone for study. Where
does one sleep? In a mezzanine overlooking the first zone, which at bed
time is not being used! By 1939, when delivering the lectures published
as An Organic Architecture to the Royal Institute of British Architects,

Wright’s Usonian House has been developed (and built in several varia
tions) in more complete form. The work/living zone is still central,
often located where two wings meet at a right angle (as in the first
Herbert Jacobs House, 1936) or at an oblique angle (as in the Jean S. and
Paul T. Hanna House, “Honeycomb,” 1936). But the second zone, origi
nally a quiet area for study, is now a wing that includes bedrooms as well,
with the mezzanine idea dropped (for now). Equally dramatic is how
garden and building are one, as terracing encompassed by the angled
wings flows naturally into a sheltered back yard. Organic design implies
that there should be no emphatic division between garden and house;
instead, “ground-loving animals” that people are, their homes should
“court the ground” as a “birthright” (CW III: 309).
Wright’s description of the Usonian’s fluidity of inside and out could
not be better stated, and anticipates Herbert and Katherine Jacobs’s
account of living in this home, Building with Frank Lloyd Wright (1986).
To his listeners in London the architect adds that economic necessities
spawned by the Great Depression, which he habitually describes as a
breakdown rather than a phase, have led him to make his Usonian design
part of the movement for affordable yet quality housing. As a news
paper writer with limited income, Herbert Jacobs had approached
Wright with a challenge to provide a design that could be built for five
thousand dollars in Madison, Wisconsin. Proximity to Taliesin gave the
apprentices hands-on experience, and the abundance of brick at the
S. C. Johnson Administration Building site in Racine allowed Wright
to designate enough culls to keep this part of the Jacobs House within
budget, especially as brick was a luxury. All other materials and methods
were cost-saving: walls of board and batten with an insulating space
within; modular construction on a cement base, with heating coils in
stalled before the floor was poured; clerestory windows on the street
side, small, efficient and providing privacy, with openness reserved for
the wing-embraced garden.
Usonian homes do not look like low-cost housing. Organic design
accounts for this, plus the fact that building them was simple enough
that at least part of the work could be done by the owners if so desired.
But many ran over budget, no surprise for any Frank Lloyd Wright
project. As is, the hundred and more that were built in almost every
region of the country between 1936 and 1959 stand as a distinguishing
factor in Wright’s second career, equaling the brilliance of his earlier

Prairie Houses. Economics mandated that he express this brilliance on
a smaller scale, but domestic life itself had changed over the half century.
With a small but exceptionally functional kitchen overlooking the garden
and acting as the fulcrum between living and sleeping wings, a modern
homemaker could multi-task at the center of family life with ease and
enjoyment. The hearth, still the family center, was just a few inviting
steps from the back yard, itself an integral feature of the home as lived
in. Usonian Houses are the ultimate proof that when form and func
tion are one, beauty as well as economy results. Granted, Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Great Depression turned out to be less than personally cata
strophic, thanks to the great commissions of Fallingwater and the S. C.
Johnson Administration Building at the heart of it, completed with the
help of the newly established Fellowship. Conditions in the next decade,
the 1940s, would have a more disruptive effect on his thinking, because
as a pacifist opposing American participation in World War II he found
it difficult to write about anything but polit ics, using his Taliesin Square-
Papers as a convenient if self-serving vehicle. In the 1930s, however, the
politics of economic policy are for him small potatoes. A quick citation
of Henry George and his argument for the Single Tax, an idea already
fifty years old, was enough thinking about economics for Wright—
which was really no thinking at all. His mind was still set on the organic
means to comfort and beauty; that these means could now save money
as well was just further proof that organic is most natural and therefore
the best answer for anything.
If it sounds like a truism, the kind for which Frank Lloyd Wright
would be taken to task all his life, the proof of its validity is in the designs
he derived from it. The first Jacobs home, whether viewed in person or
in the gorgeous color photographs of it that are a feature of any illustrated
volume of Wright’s work, counters the objection that the architect’s
ideas are fatuo us. And in reading his essays and addresses of the 1930s,
as varied a body of work as he would produce at any time in his career,
one finds two points of consistency in his intellectual concerns: the
problem of eclecticism in design, and the solution to it with organic
architecture.
At the decade’s beginning, in an address of 21 February 1931 to the
Michigan Society of Architects in Grand Rapids, Wright introduces
the topic. In these times art has become more a matter of taste than of
substance, its forms being the panderings to eclecticism. Taste is no

substitute for creative impulse, he avers. Critic izing his friend Raymond
Hood (in an unpublished book review of 1931), Wright’s charge is even
more brutal. A person eclectic by habit cannot be a true architect, he
charges, as eclectics are capable of nothing more than exploitation of
something else. What has angered Wright is Hood’s manner as displayed
in Chicago’s Tribune Tower building; there is also cause for envy of
Hood’s success at landing the Rockefeller Center’s Radio City commis
sion. But as the architect complains to the New York Evening Post and
New York Tribune in 1932, there is reason for his ire. Hood’s Radio City
is haphazard because it relies on a nineteenth-century sense of composi
tion that current practice has discarded. Moreover, its masonry mass
falsifies materials and the nature of construction, which is in fact tall
steel frames contributed by the project’s engineers. By itself steel framing
could be beautiful, but as presented the result is pure fraud.
Being excluded from the 1933 World’s Fair in Chicago, the “Century
of Progress” exhibition, prompts Wright to compare it to the 1893 version
with its classically inspired White City. It is nothing more than the old
fair scrubbed up and presented as new, Wright tells the Michigan Society
of Architects, an example of “an outrageous senility” posing as the
modern (CW III: 55). He introduces a metaphor for this practice in
“Carav el or Motorship” for The Architectural Forum in August of 1932.
In terms of shipping and sailing, the caravel is “picturesque but not
practical,” he points out, knowing that his readers will agree that the
motorship, once invented, is more practical. The same reasoning applies
to design and building, Wright insists. For whatever era, an architect
works creatively with the tools it supplies, and today that means making
best use of the machine. As for the International Style, it may look up-
to-date, but it is in fact tailor-made for eclectics to seize upon, having
been reduced to a formula that gives no thought to moment or milieu,
as Wright objects in the February 1932 issue of T-Square. Historic eclec
ticism tacks on styles, while the International Style’s reliance on formula
in fact kills the architect before anything valid can be created.
At bottom, eclecticism in this field is a consequence of architects
having no talent. Asked in the November 1933 issue of The Architectural
Record to comment on eight new designs by prominent Americans in
the profession, Wright tries to list particular objections but in the end
gives up. “Dear boys—your senior speaking,” he says to them directly.

“Why not go back to eclecticism and, safely, stay there?” These juniors
are incapable of organic architecture, he insists; were they, it would undo
their present success. “With it,” he mocks, “you never could have made
the New York Skyline what it is today” (CW III: 148). In unpublished
comments intended for Izvestia during his 1937 visit to the Soviet Union,
Wright is similarly ungenerous when considering his European col
leagues; some of these architects are just painters playing with pictures.
Sculpting is another detracting metaphor. In Architecture and Modern
Life (1937) he notes that as architects of later eras developed their art
from the style of ancient times they worked with their buildings like a
sculptor modeling clay, molding and enriching the mass with a preferred
style. The result? Shaping the exterior dictates the concept of what lies
within. Contemporary California buildings are no better. Where siting
could be a great advantage (in terms of collage and effect), local develop
ers misunderstand the entire process, with unfortunate results. Wright
coins names for them—“realtoristocrats,” “hill-toppers”—and bemoans
their practice of pushing everything up over the hills until the hills them
selves are destroyed. From Los Angeles, he turns east to Williamsburg,
Virginia, where his comments at William and Mary College drew some
ire. Responding in an unpublished essay (November 1938), Wright clar
ifies that his objections are not to Williamsburg as an historic al display
but to how such examples inspire an eclectic style of applied architec
ture. This cultural lag may well persist for another generation unless such
pretty, sentimental allusions can be abandoned in favor of something
more life-enhancing.
Those are Wright’s objections, delivered over the decade but consist
ent in their expression of what’s wrong with current architecture. What
could be right with it is the other half of the binary rhetor ic that charac
terizes his thought in the 1930s. Because positive references outweigh
the negatives by two-to-one, the direction for a synthesis is clear. Organic
architecture views a building in terms of its enclosing interior space,
which is itself the structure’s reality. Walls no longer exist as instruments
of segmentation; the room itself must emerge through all aspects of de
sign. This principle, familiar in Wright’s thinking since the start of the
century, is now allied with his ideal of the “house beautiful” from the
1890s. As he emphasizes for the Michigan Society of Architects, this
handling of space from within speaks for a better life experience there.
For these same listeners he concludes with an old reference, the art and
culture of Japan, explaining how it is the manner of growth within a
thing that makes it what it is—not its existence, but its becoming. This
distinction from the Platonic idealism of static signs is important, be
cause it is art as well that comes from the inside. Architecture is part of
nature’s life, Wright concludes in his “Architecture of Individualism”
essay from Trend (March-April 1934). It is such insight into the process
of growth from within that makes such designs as the Brooklyn Bridge
and the Cord automobile organic architecture.
Wright’s vision of an organically principled future prompts him to
wax poetic. From Taliesin he can write for Liberty magazine (10 February
1932) that the beauty of architecture is shown best in the countryside,
freed from the city to flow across the land and alongside the hills, like
“streaks of light enmeshed in metal strands, as music is made of notes”
(CW III: 171). There is a way of architectural thinking as organic that
the ancients did not know, he seeks to tell the readers of Izvestia; it is
the idea that a vase is not the clay shaped on the potter’s wheel but the
space that is created inside it. The vase can be identical in Etruscan and
modern American times, even made precisely the same way. But in
Wright’s view they are different. This is far from Platonic idealism. In
stead, Wright uses a term for it introduced into thinking about physics
just three decades before, “the thought that not any fixed points but
what lies between them in space established by the relation of each to
each and each to all—relat ivity—is reality” (CW III: 214–15). Yet Wright
is no Einstein, nor does he wish to be. Instead his ambitions are allied
with idealism, but of a different order than Plato’s. Structure is what the
mind seeks to know in things. Because Wright describes the process as
musical, readers of Architecture and Modern Life might wonder if the
author is a romantic. To his credit, he gives them a direct answer: “Archi
tecture is this aura (or ‘oversoul’ as Emerson might say) of structure. It
is a true expression of the life of the human and social world” (CW III:
219).
Primed on Emerson, Frank Lloyd Wright’s romanticism comes on
strong with the one he sees as the philosopher-poet’s popularizer, Walt
Whitman. Truths purported to be “modern” are in fact eternal, especially
the truth of the organic. “Walt Whitman sensed it,” Wright advises,
allowing only that architecture employing it has been rare (CW III: 221).
Even when he tries to speak anthropologically, Wright soon begins
sounding like the nineteenth-century poet he admires. “Man, the animal,
has always sought safety first,” he intones. “As a man, he continually
seeks permanence.” For successive lines Wright repeats the phrase, al
most as a mantra: as a man, each time linking these words to an ascending
order of qualities ending with the immortal. Once there, he associates
eternal life with architecture “as man’s most obvious realization of this
persistent dream he calls immortality” (CW III: 226).
From anthropology through romantic poetry to architecture: in five
short sentences Wright not only makes the transitions but builds his
argument. Once established, in this case for the readers of Architecture
and Modern Life, his rhetoric soars. An inspired structure is convincingly
creative, he suggests, once its sense of finality emerges “from the within
outward.” When form and function are one, we have found “the center
line of architecture, organic,” which “places us in line with nature and
enables us sensibly to go to work.” The results are impressive and, re
membering how Wright uses the term, inspiring. With form and func
tion as one, the building’s pattern and purpose become one as well. Such
integrity is a reliable guide, the formulation of which is poetic: “Out of
the ground into the light,” accomplished with the identity of form and
function and expressed in the nature of the building materials them
selves (CW III: 239). What Nature was for Ralph Waldo Emerson and
what Democracy could be in the work of Walt Whitman, so too is
Architecture for Frank Lloyd Wright: not just a task and a process, but
an idea.
As an idea, Architecture serves a high purpose. Every design for a
building should be a design for better living, Wright tells an assembly of
six hundred architects (“Speech to the A. F. A.,” The Federal Architect,
June 1939); homes should make life richer and more pleasant, and that’s
unlikely to happen in a relic from times pleasing only to one’s grand
mother. In London, he has a similar message for the Royal Institute of
British Architects. As published in An Organic Architecture: The Architec
ture of Democracy (1939), his remarks emphasize how a building can be
poetic when it does the proper work of serving reality while making
daily life worth living. More expansively, he insists that “the interpreta
tion of life is the true function of the architect because we know that
buildings are made for life, to be lived in and to be lived in happily,

designed to contribute to that living, joy and living beauty” (CW III: 304).
And most expansively of all, Wright can warn his listeners that “we
cannot have an organic architecture unless we can achieve an organic
society!” (CW III: 305).
Though far removed in time and space from the University Guild of
Evanston, Illinois, in 1894, Frank Lloyd Wright’s message as delivered
to the Royal Institute in London has remained in essence the same.
Along the way he would improve it, expand it, and dress it in the trap
pings of poetry. Over the decades more and more structures would be
designed, built, and happily lived in as proof of his message’s point. But
the idea of an organic architecture and the example of what it can provide
motivates him not just to design and build but to write and speak. His
message is simply that organic architecture is not a fashion or cult but is
instead a dedication to the integrity of all human life, uniting religion
and science in the same way that form and function are one. Such are
the workings of a true democracy.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s 1930s end with the architect established as
a major figure in American culture. For some, he is American culture,
given his span of years dating back almost to the age of Lincoln, and
still being influential seventy years later. An Organic Architecture stands
as an appropriate tribute to both his accomplishments and what he sees
for the future. The successes of Fallingwater and the S. C. Johnson
Administration Building have brought media attention back to him,
but five decades of publication have kept his ideas in circulation even
when there were no stunning architectural achievements to show off.
This combination of factors leads to a signal event in Wright’s career,
an entire issue of The Architectural Forum ( January 1938) given over to
his work, the editing of which would be placed under his own control.
Producing an entire magazine—a big, complex one at that—is a gargan
tuan task, handled customarily by a large staff. In the Taliesin Fellowship
Wright had just that. With the apprentices gathering 117 illustrations of
his work, the architect is free to sprinkle quotes from Whitman and
Thoreau throughout the issue, and to write a narrative that includes
commentaries on his most distinctive work.
The jewel of his architectural canon is Taliesin. After beginning
with a quick list of seven organic principles ( ground, shelter, materials,
space, proportion, order, and technique), he writes at length of his home

and studio in the unspoiled Wisconsin countryside. As his principles
mandate, it emerges from the ground in a timeless manner and offers
shelter that is physically restful and aesthetically pleasing. Even the
large drafting room built for his Fellowship is natural, what he calls an
abstract forest, with sap dripping from the freshly cut logs even as they
are shaped into beams and supports. From Taliesin and the school’s
drafting room Wright moves to that room’s first completed project, the
Malcolm Willey House (1933) in Minneapolis. Here is his introduction
of the Usonian home, not fully realized in this early example but having
several key ingredients of the type, including privacy from the street and
neighbors, a sequestered garden, and an open plan set atop a concrete
mat. Its sense of space, Wright says, is modern “without getting at all
‘modernistic,’ ” a caution that Usonian is not part of the International
Style. Instead, it regards vista as generating a feeling for space both
inside and out, with the balance of interpenetration yielding the sense
of shelter that, when combined with senses of space and materials, is
“the purpose of the whole structure of the dwelling” (CW III: 279).
Every aspect here fits Wright’s initial seven principles; none of them
correspond to what strictly modernist architects were doing, except in
occasional straightness of line. No privileging of edge (Gropius); no
preeminence or purity of idea (Mies); and no obsessiveness with theory
(Le Corbusier). Then comes another project completed with Fellowship
support, Fallingwater (1935). Here attention to new materials comes first:
reinforced concrete for the cantilever system of horizontal extension,
steel sash for the dramatic vertical rise, both of which combine to let the
house clutch big boulders to project over and rise above the stream. The
result demonstrates how Wright’s sense of shelter has no limitations of
form except for materials and how they are used, always having “the
methods of construction come through them.” He can be emphatic ally
conclusive about his achievement. “That is all,” Wright judges. “The
effects you see in this house are not superficial effects” (CW III: 280).
What you see is what there is, his thinking suggests, much as the art and
literature of a coming age would insist.
One design, as yet unbuilt, is discussed: a skyscraper standing by
itself in a park-like setting, free of city congestion, and therefore fit to
be occupied. The project is the St. Mark’s Tower. At present the only
built versions of it are models in the Broadacre City display, but that
alone is proof that Wright will stay with the idea for the rest of his life—
and eventually build the Price Tower in Bartlesville during the 1950s.
For readers of The Architectural Forum he describes it in loving and in
spired detail, its steel in tension making it akin to modern achievements
in shipbuilding. A concrete core does the same work as a ship’s keel,
providing a shaft for construction that the tower, being vertical, uses to
support its cantilevered floors. Each floor is slightly bigger than the one
below it, enabling an outer enclosure of glass and copper to be hung from
the floor above. A quadruple plan isolates each of four apartments on a
level from each other. As would be shown in Bartlesville, the building is
a beautiful work of art and an enjoyable place to live and work.
“Wingspread” (1937), the home designed and built for Herbert F.
Johnson, is introduced as a Prairie House (Wright would declare it his
last), meriting the term because of its articulation of separate areas for
various family purposes in the manner of the 1907 Coonley House. What
distinguishes Wingspread is its integrity with the prairie landscape and
its huge living room standing at the center of the home’s four zones, a
tall chimney stack with five fireplaces on two levels anchoring both the
house itself and its varied activities. Details are furnished for the bricks
and finish work, all of which delights the architect’s sense for quality.
Wright is careful to show how every aspect of design and construction
fits the Great Lakes landscape and climate, just as the very different
conditions of the Arizona desert led to the concrete-block construction
of the Arizona Biltmore Hotel and the proposals for the San Marcos
resort that acknowledges how “the dotted line is outline in all desert
creations” (CW III: 283). His work cannot be offered for display, it
seems, without corresponding points of instruction. In northern Cali
fornia, the hexagonal shape of the honeycomb provides a basis for the
Hanna House, offering more possibilities for flexibility and flow than
does the square. If moderate cost is the goal, then the basic Usonian
House is the ticket. As designed for Herbert Jacobs in Madis on, Wis
consin, simplification permits the building to be completed “in one
operation as it goes along, inside and outside” (CW III: 286). As built,
the resid ence is both beautiful and functional, with its big living room
off the garden and cooking and dining spaces adjacent, if not part of it.
right sees “a cultured American housewife” looking well in it, as will

W
the “now inevitable car” in its carport, each space designed with its occu
pant in mind. “Where does the garden leave off and the house begin?”
he asks, riddling in return that it is where the garden begins and the
house leaves off. “Withall, it seems a thing loving the ground with a new
sense of space—light—and freedom to which our U.S.A. is entitled,”
he concludes (CW III: 287), as always uniting function with principle.
Wright’s last example is the S. C. Johnson Administration Building
(1936). Here is the perfect structure to make his case that modern archi
tecture should be able to produce as inspiring a place to work as any
great cathedral. Its slender dendriform columns keep the room’s effect
as light and as plastic as possible—much more so than the viewer can
believe. Having this impressive structure in mind makes it easier for the
magazine’s readers to sympathize with Wright’s concluding comments:
“Neither realism nor realistic is the stuff of which the universal is made.”
Instead, “the universal is made of intense and lively personal matter
asking only that the matter have individuality” (CW III: 289). The way
to the universal is by working with the principle that form and function
are one. Hence structure itself is the ultimate reality, what Wright (in
conversation with Baker Brownell at the end of Architecture and Modern
Life) claims “Plato meant by ‘Eternal Idea’—the essential framework of
reality” (CW III: 336). To understand Wright’s thinking, one must note
the distinction: not “ideal,” but idea. It is a manner of thought that lies
at the heart of Frank Lloyd Wright’s work.
The 1930s close for the architect with “A Dinner Talk at Hull House:
November Eighth, 1939.” It had been his 1901 lecture on “The Art and
Craft of the Machine” in this same location that had introduced his
thought to a highly influential audience. At the time, they had not agreed
with much that he had to say. As he told the Princeton students attend
ing his Kahn lectures in 1930, Hull House was still enthralled with the
Arts and Crafts movement, reacting against the machine rather than
considering how it could improve things. At the time, Wright had little
but his vision to support him—no books, no international travel, not
even the Prairie House as an innovation. In 1901 he was still a very young
architect indeed. How different is the situation in 1939! The Arts and
Crafts movement has become a quaint reminder of an era eclipsed by
more change than in all of previous history, while Frank Lloyd Wright
stands not only as one of the prime agents of architectural change but as
a still-fresh contemporary.
Greeting his audience, he is a picture of ease and self-confidence, yet
in a self-deprecating way. Joking about his age and the welcome prospect
of sitting down, he notes that forty years ago his thoughts provoked a
rowdy fight with those who wanted a local Arts and Crafts Society. De
spite expecting to speak informally today, to just a group at tableside,
he continues for another six thousand words—an hour’s talk, at least—
in brilliantly organized fashion. Of course he has history on his side,
and a lifetime of experience with the topic. But his rhetoric is in excellent
shape as well. Everyone present would surely know what he believes in
and stands for, but sharing an hour with him in person provides the
opportunity of learning how he thinks. And the man is surely thinking
on his feet (or while he sits, as it were), reviewing not only the condi
tions of his lecture four decades before but what has developed in the
meantime.
Wright’s memories of the old days are quick to fix upon an enemy:
not John Ruskin and William Morris themselves, but the “Ruskin and
Morris reactionaries.” The distinction is an important one, because
forces of reaction are reductive of the better parts of an idea into some
thing preposterous, and thereby an easier target for attack. Their ambi
tion had been “to make things by hand, pound their fingers and do all
sorts of unbecoming handicraft—good in its way but entirely beside the
mark in our Chicago day’s work.” True, the machine they detested was
“out of hand” and things were becoming “hideous” because of that (CW
IV: 20), but this was why Wright felt technology had to be addressed in
a way that made it humankind’s servant and not its master. In 1901, his
Hull House audience wouldn’t listen to such an idea. Today, the archi
tect does not blame them, but notes how the machine has fallen into the
hands of those least willing or capable to use it for proper effect. So as
far as his original topic, he lets it rest in balance: handiwork did not save
us, but neither did the machine.
With this old disagreement out of the way, Wright moves to a larger
foe, the enemy of American architecture itself, which he sees as the
“Colonial—bastard of Classical tradition washed up on our Eastern
shore” (CW IV: 21). Although the term would not be in use for another
alf-century, the speaker proceeds with an argument that is persuasively

h
postcolonial. Because he wants a broad basis for reference, he selects
the U.S. Government and state governments as a constant on which he
hangs responsibility for much of what he sees as wrong. Government
underwrites lending policies that support only derivative architecture,
and of that only the blandest kind. No faith whatsoever is invested in
“the radical ideas which are the natural basis of all creative endeavor”
(CW IV: 22). Instead, governments insist on the traditional model,
which because of the country’s youth is colonial in nature. For patrons
at Hull House, the tragedy of this policy is in public housing, which is
little more than a skyscraper laid on its side with the poor put in it to
stay. Thus architecture is used to institutionalize poverty, as Wright
underscores in his rhetoric—another anticipation of social thinking
more common to the postwar era. There is no room for creativity in this
process, no room for art—which, in an allied argument, is why Wright
feels government and educ ation should leave both to take care of them
selves. When institutions do intervene, it is only to squelch what should
be imaginative, leading to the “average of an average” that the architect
has long decried as the result of any endowed competition. To answer
any doubts about this, Wright points to what governments do with their
own architecture. In the nation’s capital, federal designs suffer from a
debilitating self-righteousness. False tradition is everywhere, honoring
Abraham Lincoln with something from Greece and remembering
Thomas Jefferson, a leading radical of his era, with a style from Rome.
State governments are even worse. Their choices are driven by fear of
looking provincial—which is just what makes them look that way.
Consequently, the best America can do is to come off like “a little
One-Horse England” (CW IV: 23).
Following the customary plan of thinking so evident in his writing
and speaking of the 1930s, Wright turns from the problem to a pro
posed solution. As is his habit, that solution is grounded in the nature
of the problem itself. Government is by definition centralized, and so if
government is what has been inhibiting the growth and development of
an intrinsic American architecture, then decentralization might well be
the solution. Anyone in the least bit familiar with Frank Lloyd Wright’s
causes will know that this has been his answer for any number of prob
lems, be they in housing, urbanization, education, or the arts. Therefore
when he presents his answer at Hull House, it is couched in the nature

of his profession and career. His study of structure having been devoted
to overcoming “this deadly cultural lag,” he can urge his listeners to
decentralize “all along the line!” The opposite of this is to exaggerate,
and “Time was when it was one of the wonders of the world with us. It
is now our curse” (CW IV: 24).
Is this a lead-in to Broadacre City? Most definitely yes, although
Wright gets there by a cleverly engaging route. Nearly forty years ago he
had championed the intelligent use of the machine to an audience at
Hull House, and they hadn’t listened. But he has listened to them, and
taken their own mission to heart. He compares this episode to what his
uncle, the Reverend Jenkin Lloyd Jones, was doing on Chicago’s South
Side—where, in parallel fashion, the nephew’s ideas for how his Lincoln
Center should be designed and built were also rejected. What impressed
Wright at the time was that as Hull House did settlement work for the
poor, Lincoln Center would do settlement work for the rich in terms of
providing a community culture supportive of a better quality of life, a
quality apart from and beyond economic concerns. With Hull House
credited and his uncle’s church allied to the cause, Wright brings him
self into the mix, getting to his favorite topic of the day: Broadacre City.
Uncle Jenk’s example corresponds with his nephew’s own first concern,
which the architect admits is with the rich, because their territory is “the
real slums of our great country—the upper income brackets of the gold
coasts, peacock alleys and penthouses of our cities.” His listeners may
laugh, but Wright feels the plight of these benighted rich is tragic. “I
well know the real poverty-stricken America today,” he insists, thinking
of lives bereft of true beauty and lacking the simple pleasure of a com
fortable, inspiring house, “is our ultra-successful rich citizenry” (CW IV:
24). Forty-five years after preaching a sermon that amplified Reverend
Gannett’s The House Beautiful, Wright continues with his contrarian
notions of wealth versus poverty, and where true impoverishment
resides.
As the speaker’s mind jumps from one economic level to another,
first conflating the differences in favor of cultural improvement and
then coming to rest with the assumption that those wealthiest in money
are the poorest in architecture (and hence true happiness), his listeners
are prepared for the next apparent contradiction: that Broadacre City is
not a communal idea or other form of utopia but is in fact a genuine test
of what capitalism can most successfully be. Wright’s basis lies in testing
this system of economics in an honestly democratic fashion. There, with
a respect for the nature of materials and an understanding that life is
essentially structure, his architecture will let the American economic
system fulfill its promise and provide the makings for a life well lived
and socially productive.
As a postscript to his talk, following his listeners’ applause and
comments by a Hull House offic ial, Wright adds three thoughts that
organize his thinking of this decade just about to conclude. The first is
to make all possible use of modern advantages in pursuit of beauty—a
reminder of his topic from 1901. The second is to identify the great task
of the day as elimination—cutting out the insignificant and correlating
what remains. The last and most important is to recognize how creative
minds must be trained in structure by those who have mastered the
integral. Who will do this training? The crowned subject of Frank
Lloyd Wright’s thought number three is the architect, who is master of
all—master of Broadacre City, of the Taliesin Fellowship, and ultimately
of his own vision for America.
Conclusion
A Second Career
nearly o ne-third of frank lloyd w right’s drafted

t houghts date from the 1940s and 1950s, just as do an even greater propor
tion of his built designs. This volume of output speaks for his genuine
second career, beginning in the mid-1930s with his success of Falling
water, the S. C. Johnson Administration Building, and the introduction
of the Usonian home. For the next twenty years he would feast on
publicity and turn out an astounding number of homes, several churches,
a skyscraper, a civic center, and the Guggenheim Museum. And he would
write.
Like other creative figures “rediscovered” late in life, Wright had a
substantial literary canon to draw on, and during these latter decades
much in his writing is recycled. He had published books, essays, and
lectures totaling almost one million words, evidence of his well-developed
thinking and a worthy basis for continued comment. He also had the
support of his Taliesin Fellowship, several score of eager helpers ready
to assist with matters architectural and editorial. The 1938 issue of The
Architectural Forum could not have been assembled without them. Nor
could Fallingwater and the S. C. Johnson structure have been built save
for their help.
Writing in 1939 to the Royal Institute of British Architects, which
had hosted his lectures several months before, Wright notes that “today
my building is as far in advance of my building, 1893–1911, as my building
of that period was in advance of that around about it at the same time”
(CW IV: 28). His achievements of the mid-1930s bear this out. Can the
152
Conclusion: A Second Career 153
same be said for any structure of the 1940s and 1950s? The Price Tower,
after all, is almost identical with the St. Mark’s Tower project of 1929,
and draws essentials of its construction from the 1924 design for the
projected National Life Insurance Building. Another structure of the
mid-1950s, the Beth S holom Synagogue in Elkins Park, Pennsylvania,
reflects a design Wright had proposed in the 1920s for a massive Steel
Cathedral. Works that do stand apart, such as the Annunciation Greek
Orthodox Church (1956) in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin, and the massive
Marin County Civic Center (1957), are just that: remarkable structures
that are done as one-offs, impossible to account for within a canon of
design. As for the Guggenheim Museum, its form finalized in 1956 and
construction completed in 1959, its originality dates to Wright’s first plans
drawn at the time of commission, 1943. It would be the most difficult
work of his life, taking an inordinate amount of time and effort for
sixteen years—years during which the Fellowship had to take respon
sibility for realizing Wright’s designs for a staggering number of homes,
most of them different but all developed from the principles of the
Usonian House introduced in 1936.
Frank Lloyd Wright’s published and unpublished writings of these
years rely to an even greater extent on ideas that had emerged and taken
form during his first career, a career with long periods of unemploy
ment when there was not only time for authorship but a need for it to
support himself and his family. Now even his manner of publication was
retrospective. The 1940s began with a new publisher—Duell, Sloan and
Pearce—who suggested a three-volume format capitalizing on Wright’s
repurchase of fame. The first, On Architecture (1941), had Frederick
Gutheim collecting and introducing essays Wright had written begin
ning in 1894. In the Nature of Materials (1942) put Henry-Russell Hitch
cock to the task of cataloguing the architect’s work with photographs
and drawings, its commentary written under Wright’s supervision. Only
with a revised and expanded edition of An Autobiography (1943) would
Wright hold the pen himself, presumably to offer an update of his life
since 1932. But as the first edition had already presented visions of such
1930s business as Broadacre City and the Taliesin Fellowship, there
would be little original material to add. Comments on such achievements
as Fallingwater and the commissions from Herbert Johnson are recycled
from the 1938 Architectural Forum special issue, and descriptions of life
154 Conclusion: A Second Career
at Taliesin itself are more lushly lyrical than substantive. In terms of

thinking, Wright’s Wisconsin home and studio were substances of his
first career. Now the success of a second would make that life all the
more enjoyable. This satisfaction, however, is with things as they are,
not how they will be.
Much of the architect’s concern for the future during the early 1940s
is based on his displeasure with present reality, notably America’s partici
pation in World War II. As an isolationist, Wright’s thinking is original
only to the extent that he allies the rights of personal freedom (against
military conscription) with his notion of democracy as developed from
an understanding of the organic. For the most part, his opposition to
the war is based on two very personal facts about England: that as a
descendant of Welsh nonconformists he detests English polit ics, and as
an American architect he decries the colonial influence that inhibits
innovation. His larger thinking on the war’s import is sound, and actu
ally prescient, especially on the points of how Britain will come out of
the conflict as a social welfare state and how American domin ance will
diminish her ally’s world stature and economic health.
Wright begins the 1950s with another new publisher, Horizon Press,
and between 1953 and 1959 sees no less than one book per year issued.
All, however, draw heavily on previous material. The two most coherent
volumes, The Natur al House (1954) and The Living City (1958), would be
good introductions for readers who hadn’t read (respectively) either An
Autobiography or The Disappearing City as published in 1932. In similar
manner, the many essays of this period serve as occasions for Wright
to propound principles long established in his thinking. Indeed, it is
because his architecture has become so noteworthy that journals are
eager to learn about the thought behind it. These are also the years
when Wright becomes a television personality, one of the era’s best for a
scintillating interview (as with Mike Wallace) or an entertaining engage
ment (most notoriously on the quiz show What’s My Line?).
The 1940s and 1950s, then, are a time for reaching conclusions about
Frank Lloyd Wright’s manner of thought, and as usual he does his best
to facilitate the reader’s understanding. With the Great Depression
scarcely past and World War II already being fought in Europe, he is
quick to relate his ideas to social reality. In the October 1940 issue of
Taliesin magazine, he introduces the topic of Broadacre City this way:
by exercising the rights of humanity to decentralize and reapportion its

work, Wright’s plan for an ideal community can take shape in the real
world. Whereas earlier arguments had begun by decrying the evils of
big cities, now the value of Broadacre City is based on a posit ive, which
is a good way for the concept to take its place within the canon of ideas.
There are three inherent rights supporting it: a simple and fair medium
of exchange, a right to land as undeniable as right to air and light, and
a right to the ideas by which people live, denying private patents for
anything pertinent to the common welfare. Here at last is the economic
thinking of Henry George not so much brought up to date as shown to
be emerging freshly and naturally from the conditions of Broadacre City
itself. With these points made, Wright can proceed with the physical
specifics confident that his readers will not dismiss the concept as a
primitive back-to-the-land movement but instead a “breaking down of
the artificial divisions set up between urban and rural life” (CW IV: 66).
Nor is it communal in an economic sense, and certainly not socialistic.
Rather it is “a capitalist society broadly and firmly based on the ground”
instead of, as presently true, “in the air” (CW IV: 49–50). It is indeed
“‘capitalism’ carried to a humane conclusion” (CW IV: 64).
Before making his argument, Wright seeks agreement on common
ground. Yes, the times are ones of economic chaos. But as an architect
he knows that true forms owe their truth to inner struggle. With this in
mind, he takes the proposals he had made in the first of his careers and
reshapes them as conclusions for the second. The concept of democracy
has underwritten much of his thinking, and now he can reconcile it with
his own style of behavior, which at times has been criticized as being
above and beyond the norm. America’s national ideal must be some
thing more than “quantity and the police,” he argues in “The New Di
rection,” an unpublished essay from 1953. “Quality and Faith” are much
better, because “Democracy is the highest form of Aristocracy the world
has ever seen,” Wright insists. “Aristocracy intrinsic: in the nature of
man. Not handed down” (CW IV: 118). Here is Frank Lloyd Wright’s
organic thinking, first discerned in the nature of materials and now ex
pressed in the nature of humankind.
Wright’s “democracy” is far apart from (and well above) the concept
of leveling. For that he coins the term “mobocracy,” and uses it to distin
guish the contributions of Louis Sullivan from negative trends. Genius
and the Mobocracy (1949) turns on the notion of the nature of a building
material being “in its honor,” just as a man’s individuality “is his honor!”
Sullivan is thus contrasted with what lies beneath him. “No imitator
knows honor,” we are reminded. Our country’s dishonor is its “mob
ocracy,” supported by imitation. Mobocracy swarms and swamps democ
racy, making “our commonplace a battlefield for divided interests” (CW
IV: 339). In architecture mobocracy copies superficial effects, neglecting
fundamentals. Wright counters all this with a metaphor that is applicable
to Sullivan’s work but even more one treasured for his own. “Why not
the edifice symphonic throughout from footing to coping of the structure
itself,” he asks, “a harmony like music?” His father, he reminds readers,
taught him that a symphony was an edifi ce of sound. As an architect,
Wright wants to see “a building continuously plastic from inside to out
side,” with no interruption whatsoever of principle. As for Sullivan
himself, “Assertion of pure form as integral rhythmic movement was
what made him a lyric poet” (CW IV: 362).
The book added to the 1943 edition of An Autobiography, “Form,”
extends this sense of plasticity to all aspects of life. True form is always
organic in character, Wright insists. Because form is a matter of struc
ture, it is pertinent for government as well as for architecture, and beyond
that frames society and defines its level of civilization. Because it is a
memoir being written, the author forgoes his customary arguments
about society and state in favor of demonstrating just how life is lived
according to these beliefs in form, structure, and plasticity. Descriptions
are exquisitely appealing, and are borne out in subsequent memoirs by
the apprentices themselves, many of whom remember Taliesin as a para
dise on earth. Sociopolitical rhetor ic is saved for what Wright intended
to be a concluding book of An Autobiography, “Broadacre City.” Because
his publisher felt the topic had already been covered in other volumes,
Wright issued this version privately. In a concise ten thousand words he
shows how the concept grows from his larger views of democracy, poli
tics, and economic concerns, drawing on Henry George “for the ground”
and Silvio Gesell “for the money” (CW IV: 247). If there is any difference
to these comments on Broadacre City, it is Wright’s more mellowed
tone, befitting the statement’s autobiographical character. As a builder,
he has known how true form is organic, not only prophesying it but
seeing the principle realized in both better homes and better lives within
them. An “architect of social order,” Wright’s manner of describing a

statesman “could in one lifetime lay down outlines on which we could
build the Democratic State for which I would be happy to build organic
buildings,” he acknowledges. They should be built as normal, not revolu
tionary. “The life of a revolutionist is not easy to sustain” (CW IV: 246).
This proposed conclusion to An Autobiography is best read as Wright
intended it; he did hurry to have the Broadacre City pages printed and
bound and ready for private distribution when the 1943 edition as his
publisher wanted it appeared, and in his Collected Writings it follows the
other book as he had hoped. The full volume’s conclusiveness is evident
in other ways as well. He can write of the joyful life at Taliesin and its
sensuous beauty when at rest, including lyric al passages on its sights and
smells, rhythms and seasons. He can visit the family burial ground at
Unity Chapel and remark on the scope of tradition, one to which he has
already made his own tragic addition: the unmarked grave of Mamah
Borthwick Cheney. Scattered among the personal narratives are seem
ingly random comments on his major buildings. In capsule, these de
scriptions have much in common with what has been said in the January
1938 issue of The Architectural Forum, but in sequence here the effect is
quite different: that of a memoirist looking back at some highlights of a
career. Thus the S. C. Johnson Administration Building is seen in the
special light of the Larkin Building three decades before, and Wing
spread identified with the Coonley House yet contrasted in terms of
its bold directness in form and treatment. He notes that it is the last of
his Prairie Houses, but adds that he doesn’t know why. There’s a sense
of history as well to his description of his latest work for himself, the
Fellowship’s new outpost in Arizona. “That desert camp belonged to
the desert as though it had stood there for centuries,” he opines. “And
also built into Taliesin West is the best in the strong young lives” of the
apprentices over the past seven years (CW IV: 170). The eternal desert,
seven years of a young person’s life: it is Frank Lloyd Wright’s sense of
autobiography that holds this range together, conveying the sense of
who he is. That identity rests, as it were, with not just a lifetime’s achieve
ment of buildings but the establishment of two Taliesins, their natures
complementing his own rich complexity of character.
Had Wright been able to execute his design for the Guggenheim
Museum in time, it could have figured as a climax to the architectural
highpoints of his career as ticked off in his autobiography’s revision. Its

writing, however, took place in 1942, a product of wartime restrictions
putting a halt to much architectural work. It would be June of 1943 before
Hilla Rebay, curator of Solomon R. Guggenheim’s peripatetic collec
tion of nonobjective art, contacted Wright about designing a perma
nent home for this work. Because the architect fancied a location in the
country while Rebay and Guggenheim insisted on siting the museum in
the heart of New York City, specifics had to wait until December 1944,
with presentation drawings ready only in early 1945. Once the location
was purchased, working drawings were prepared, taking another year.
On 7 September 1945 an agreement was signed and a model built.
Wishing to publicize the museum’s innovative spiral form, the architect
had photographs taken for The Architectural Forum and an accompanying
text added to the packet for Magazine of Art. With the two articles ap
pearing in January 1946, Wright might well have felt conclusive about this
latest success. Little did he know that construction delays, objections by
city authorities, Rebay’s dismissal, and problems with the Guggenheim
heirs (after the collector’s death in 1949) would push back the final design
date to 1956 and delay its opening until 1959, six months after its architect’s
death.
Nevertheless, “The Modern Gallery” reads with the same sense of
confidence evident when Wright describes his other major achievements
in An Autobiography. “For the first time in the history of architecture a
true logarithmic spiral has been worked out as a complete plastic build
ing” (CW IV: 281), he announces, glorying in the ultimate expression of
this manner of design emerging as proof of the organic. Not one floor
atop another but a single ramp, grand and slow, widening as it ascends
but intended for the museum goers’ leisurely descent (after taking an
elevator to the top): the structure is so physically natural that Wright
fancies it would bounce if tossed up from the ground. But beyond all its
features that privilege the patrons’ experience in viewing art is the way
the building reflects on the people themselves instead of being scaled
to grand proportions. Without stating it, Wright is able to imply why
he wanted to build out in the countryside instead of on New York’s
busy Fifth Avenue. Conceding to his patrons’ wish for accessibility, the
architect manages to design an enclave where citizens of the pig-piled
metropolis, as he had called it in so many treatises about the city, could
recover a sense of themselves. In the Usonian House design, this was

accomplished by turning the back of the house toward the street, allow
ing the exuberance of simple existence to flow uninhibited through
welcoming spaces out into the sheltered garden. In the S. C. Johnson
Administration Building, light-filled space created by the delicate den
driform columns provided an ideal, uplifting place to work, just as the
architect’s church designs, dating back to Unity Temple, offered perfect
places for fellowship and worship. Now with the Guggenheim Museum
Wright could present a facility that brings out the best in human beings
as they invest some time, comfortably and rewardingly, in one of life’s
best undertakings, the appreciation of truly great art.
Similarly, Wright’s conclusive feel for the nature of democracy could
not be expressed in the 1943 revision and expansion of An Autobiography,
but would have to wait until World War II (a terrible disruption of his
ideals) ended. That conclusion comes in “Building a Democracy” as
published in Taliesin Square-Paper Number 10 (October 1946). Having
seen the last half-century evolve, he can state with great authority that
“Democracy and architecture, if both are organic, cannot be two separate
things.” The recently concluded war had frustrated this, of course, quite
personally for Wright, who not only had his practice put on hold and
his Fellowship depleted by the draft but was humiliated by having his
country go to war in support of an allegiance that went against his ances
tral nonconformism and professional postcolonialism. Now, with all that
in the past, he can make his major point, based on the type of distinction
that catalyzes the rhetoric al success of his best arguments. “Democracy
is not so much a form—even were we to find it—or a policy—even were
we to make it—as it is abiding faith in man’s indivisible right to himself
as himself.” Here is what everyone should have learned from the war:
“Man-made codes come in to obstruct, expropriate or punish only when
we lose sight of the way to live naturally, as we build, and build naturally
as we live.” And what is that way? Architecture and democracy: “Both
must come from within, spontaneously” (CW IV: 300).
His argument made, the author can wax poetic, praising organic
structure as growing like humankind itself in all its nobility. In a refer
ence new to his writing at this time, but more common in his last decade
of work, Wright argues that the architecture of democracy “will be the
externalizing of this inner seeing of the man as Jesus saw him, from
ithin—not as an anim
w al or a robot, but a living soul.” Such loftiness is
contrasted with “this cinder strip here in the East” that imitates England.
The Soviet Union is no better, slavishly imitating buildings of the cul
ture it overthrew. All in all, “The democratic code must be designed to
complete, not to prevent the man” (CW IV: 301). If that involves alluding
to Marx and Jesus in the same short essay, so be it. The age Frank Lloyd
Wright was living in these last years was about to eclipse the modernism
that had kept these two figures separate.
In his last decade the architect’s written work reprises his important
themes of half a century before, but with a conclusive emphasis on their
importance for life as lived in this realm of thought. For readers of The
Architectural Record in May 1952, Wright’s “Organic Architecture Looks
at Modern Architecture” presents a familiar argument with a newly
underscored moral. After detailing the features of what he would soon
be calling his natural house, Wright sums up its major advantage, which
is a sense of space scaled not just to human size but to human need.
“The interior space to be lived in became the reality of the whole perform
ance ” (CW V: 48), he clarifies, combining thoughts from The House
Beautiful of the 1890s with the Usonian home as conceived in the mid-
1930s and still ahead of its times as he w rites. Yet Wright would argue
that success for organic architecture was a matter of discernment and
not fashionability. Above all, because it was individual in nature, organic
architecture did not do well among journalists, especially in a country
enthralled by communications media. Wright himself had tried to report
on his work, but even at its best such representations are by nature
second hand. His Taliesin Tract of December 1953, “Man,” makes the
point that while literature tells, architecture shows. For true impact, he
believes, his structures would have to be lived in to be understood.
The Natur al House (1954) is probably Wright’s most accessible book.
As a paperback in the decades following his death it popularized his
concepts in a culture becoming increasingly postmodern—which is to
say, a culture that increasingly questioned the authority of any text even
as it recognized how experience itself is intertextual in nature. In a
concise forty thousand words Wright’s volume distills the essence of
many others, including both editions of his autobiography and numerous
essays and addresses on the subject. This short work would allow readers
to bypass the specifics of Wright’s life story and personal politics, by
now familiar to all from his wide exposure as a media personality, in

favor of getting right inside the house itself. There is no need to lecture
about the evils of urbanization; a quick image says it all in terms of
human effect, which is the “mean tendency to tip everything in the way
of human occupation or habitation up edgewise instead of letting it lie
comfortably flatwise with the ground where spaciousness was a virtue”
(CW V: 79). Against this condition stands the natural house, taking ad
vantage of the horizontal as the line of repose, the “earth line of human
life” (CW V: 80). Built using brick as brick and wood as wood, with
newer materials such as concrete, glass, and steel each being themselves
as well, it follows the correlations and integrations of life itself. With
the proper thought behind it, the machine can be of great help in this
regard.
Specifics of the natural house are the ones Wright has been describing
since the first Jacobs residence of nearly twenty years before. But now
he has a broader sense of their importance. Walls, ceilings, and floors
work together so well in the Usonian House because they are compo
nents of each other. Surfaces flow together in a continuity of the whole,
all constructed features eliminated, much like how Louis Sullivan had
discarded background in his ornamentation so that there might be a
sounder sense of the whole. Thus a point from Genius and the Mobocracy
is combined with another from Wright’s various statements about the
Usonian dwelling not just for mutual support but to suggest a point of
resolution (if not closure) in the author’s thinking. This is especially
appropriate given The Natur al House’s larger thesis, that “there can be
no separation between our architecture and our culture. Nor any sepa
rat ion of either from our happiness. Nor any separation from our work”
(CW V: 94).
Two decades of Usonian Houses give Wright evid ence for his con
clusion that because of the freedom experienced when living in a house
wherein everything is genuine and harmonious one enjoys a better life,
as opposed to the traditional structure where habit ation is contained in
a series of boxes. Residents may recognize this for what it is or simply
benefit from the more pleasing atmosphere. Clients have written Wright
to this effect, which doesn’t surprise him: like plants in rich soil, they
have flourished, but because they are human beings they can take pride
in the purpose they feel as individuals and as a family.
Superintending it all is Wright himself as master of a consistent

grammar. This consistency is why his clients so enjoy their homes, but
it is not their duty to know why. “Grammar is no property for the usual
owner or the occupant of the house,” he allows. “But the man who
designs the house must, inevitably, speak a consistent thought-language
in his design” (CW V: 121). Note the coinage: thought-language. A
Usonian home, the true natural house, is not an assemblage of rooms
but a manner of thought. “I doubt that this affair can be taught to
anyone,” Wright warns, which is why his Taliesin Fellowship enrolls
apprentices and not students. Nor is it a philosophy derived from other
sources, not even the understanding of space expressed by Lao Tse. Yes,
there are parallels, Wright admits, but only ones he became aware of
“after I had found and built it for myself ” (CW V: 126). Democracy’s
celebration of the individual informs this organic principle that privi
leges the habit ation of space over any outward feature. Lao Tse may
have thought it, Wright reminds readers, but neither he nor anyone else
in history “had consciously built it.” Anyone other than Frank Lloyd
Wright, that is, whose history now stands as example. “When I thought
of that, naturally enough I thought, ‘Well, then, everything is all right,
we can still go along with head up,’ ” he concludes. “I have been going
along—head up—ever since” (CW V: 127).
The Story of the Tower appears in 1956, celebrating the opening of the
H. C. Price Tower in Bartlesville, Oklahoma. This commission dates
from 1952, but realizes the design proposed for the St. Mark’s Tower in
New York in 1929 and employs the cantilever and sheathing features of
the National Life Insurance Building project of 1924. With his building
finally in existence, Wright can be conclusive about its effect: what for a
third of a century beforehand was just thought has become material
reality. Frank Lloyd Wright the visionary can now enjoy talking in prac
tical terms, describing the cantilever and rating its efficiency, noting the
added living space gained from this saving of weight, and boasting of the
light gained from the abundance of glass made possible by this design—
“ten per cent more glass area as ‘exposure’ than you may see in the aver
age commercial building such as Gordon Strong’s Republic Building
down on State Street, corner of Adams, in Chicago” (CW V: 150), a
comically specific reference to a developer who had considered giving
Wright exceptionally daring commissions in the 1920s, including a
ountain-like drive-through planetarium, and then backed out. Emi

m
nently practical, the Tower is physically beautiful, drawing on the aes
thetic of the sleek ocean liner, streamlined airplane, and striking auto
mobile. Lyrically, it suggests a spider spinning its web to capture slivers
of glass. Iridescent colors rise from the cityscape that is the Tower’s park,
and the metal shafts themselves take on attractive coloration—all images
used decades before to describe the St. Mark’s project. This beautiful
and efficient wonder, Wright can now prove, has been delivered at “half
the cost of the stuffy caverns it replaces” (CW V: 153). With the reality
of his building before him, its beauty evident and its cost-effectiveness
proven, the architect cannot help but become visionary again. Eventu
ally all buildings will be like this, he rhapsodizes. No reality is ever enough
to bring rest to his manner of thought.
The publication of A Testament occurs in 1957; this is a book given
almost entirely to the refinement of the author’s ideas. It starts with the
notion of beauty itself, described by William Blake as the consequence
of utter fullness of nature in expression: expression intrinsic. Exuberance
and not excess is what both Wright and his model poet value. Excess is
vulgar, exuberance is sublime. In similar manner, there is a world of dif
ference between the physic ality of form following function and the spiri
tuality of form and function being one. Intellect itself faces the same
challenge: should it be degraded by education or uplifted by the principles
of one’s own being?
Should William Blake be too exuberant for readers’ tastes, there is
“the master-poet of our world” to heed, one who preached that “The
Kingdom of God is within you.” The “only visible evidence of this in
modern art,” Wright adds, “is organic architecture,” the subject of his
own preaching (CW V: 170). Before it had been Marx and Jesus, and in
a few more pages it will be Lao Tse and Jesus. For now, it is Jesus and
Frank Lloyd Wright. The architect feels comfortable in such company
because of his lifelong understanding, dating from his training with the
Froebel blocks, that there is an “innate sense of orig in” that works as the
“activating cause of all visible effects” (CW V: 189). When applied to
social life, this belief informs democracy with a faith in humankind as
individual, “a new kind of aristocracy—as I have said—of the man, not
on him” (CW V: 205). Organic architecture is the way to realize this,
Wright concludes; through its art a culture will develop that enriches
society, empowering individuals by letting them consider their lives as

their own. This idea of organic architecture is one that Wright has come
up with by himself, with no outside influence This is his testament as
published two years before his death.
Yet even at age ninety-one Frank Lloyd Wright could not let go of
the idea of Broadacre City. The Disappearing City had appeared in 1932,
When Democracy Builds in 1945, and other descriptions of his plan for a
decentralized democracy had been made in his lectures, essays, and
private publications. But there would still be room in his canon for one
last, conclusive statement on the topic: The Living City, published in
1958. At eighty thousand words, it ranks as his most exhaustive treat
ment of the Broadacre idea. Before, he has written as a social critic.
Now he speaks as a philosopher, looking at the world as it is today and
remarking that “space values have entirely changed to time values” in
terms of mobility (CW V: 284). Space, we know from Wright’s other
works, is determined by the interior. But as far as exterior spacing, it is
the time taken to cover the distance that is the determining factor, newly
introduced by telecommunications and the automobile. Because of
these new conceptions of time and space, humankind is closer to nature,
both in terms of travel and in the nature of housing that erases the “hard
and fast lines between outside and inside.” As a philosopher, the ultimate
status for any lifetime thinker whose ideas not only coalesce but have
some worldly proof, Wright can measure human progress. “Continuity,
plasticity, and all these imply,” he notes, “are fast coming home to him—
a miraculous new release in life as well as architecture” (CW V: 305).
Had Wright lived to see the Guggenheim Museum completed and
opened, he could have written about it, as he did for the Price Tower, as
an idea long held and finally realized. He did manage to push that idea
along, in the 1950s establishing “Taliesin East” in a suite at the Plaza
Hotel in New York so that he could be close for negotiations with city
authorities and contractors and ultimately for the construction itself. As
the structure rose with its distinctive spiral form, Wright climbed the
ramp, pointing with his cane as if willing the museum into existence—
photographs of him doing just this filled magazine pages in 1958 and
early 1959. In 1958 the building was close enough to completion that he
felt comfortable writing a short essay on the subject. Had he lived, it
would have been published to celebrate the Guggenheim’s opening later
in 1959; as it happened, the piece appeared in a volume on the museum

issued by the Horizon Press in 1960.
What Wright says to readers from the grave is simply what he could
see in 1958: that the building’s walls and spaces, both inside and out, “are
one in substance and effect.” That is the reality. Behind it stands an
idea, that of a unity present among the paintings, their viewers, and the
building that hosts both. Here Wright looks forward to how the art
works would be viewed. Famous painters, including such leading abstract
expressionists as Willem de Kooning and Franz Kline, had complained
that the slanted walls and ramps would make proper display of their
work impossible, but for them Wright has an answer. “The character of
the building itself as architecture amounts to ‘framing,’ ” he suggests.
Detached from the wall, the picture “is presented to view much as a
jewel set in a signet ring. Precious—as itself ” (CW V: 245). As in any
Wright design, everything works together for the proper notion of
interior space, whether for people in their homes or in a gallery to view
works of art. The walls curving outwards make for a sense of repose in
the spiral’s upward sweep, with the paintings “freely floated in an atmo
sphere of architecture instead of framed,” he remarks. The artists should
be happy, he implies, because in his design their works will be presented
“as features in themselves—not as if painted on or subservient to the
wall behind them.” Indeed, the architect accords them the highest
privilege he can grant: “They are now seen as master of their own allotted
space” (CW V: 248).
Frank Lloyd Wright’s last two essays speak to the future. In the first,
written for the forward-looking readers of The Progressive ( January
1959), he celeb rates “A Culture of Our Own,” as his title has it. What is
indigenous to American culture is the nature of things, of and for the
thing’s nature, he writes, adding that it is “only by way of a nature study
intimate, persistent, relentless, that young men or women can inform
themselves of what constitutes reality in this life” (CW V: 347). “Nature”
in this sentence does not mean flora and fauna, but rather the ultimate
reality of things, as described before. Wright would agree with Ralph
Waldo Emerson and the other Transcendentalists that nature’s physic al
creations are imprints of an ideal Nature, but simply as a basis for going
much farther with the idea, going into “the nature of things” themselves
as a principle for his own organic design. For Wright, architecture is
“the basic endeavor of mankind, the mother art,” the art that “presents
man” instead of simply talking about him (as does literature) or picturing
him (as does painting). To experience him, “go into his buildings. That
is where you will find him as he is” (CW V: 346).
In the very last of his writings, “Preamble to The Wonderful World of
Architecture,” Wright speaks to young readers. Not published until 1962,
the piece was found on his desk the morning he died, as Bruce Brooks
Pfeiffer notes when using it to close the Collected Writings. “Man’s
greatest gift lies in his vision,” Wright emphasizes, cautioning that an
over-reliance on science usually prevents this vision from focusing on
“the beauty of himself: man’s own spiritual haven.” When vision does
focus, however, beauty becomes an experience of greater importance.
And at the most important level stands “man’s creative architecture: the
greatest proof of his immortal soul” (CW V: 349).
It is hard to imagine any other architect, certainly of modern times,
being able to make such a statement. Just picturing their work, however
admirable, severely limits the notion. But with Frank Lloyd Wright’s
achievements in mind—Fallingwater, the S. C. Johnson Administration
Building, the Guggenheim Museum, and countless Prairie Houses and
Usonian homes—the sentiment soars. Very few can state, as he does in
1958, that “I have lived to see things happen few men see.” Who else can
add that “Ideas fought for when I was young and dark-haired have been
accepted.” And who better than Frank Lloyd Wright to say that “I know
the price of success—unremitting devotion, hard work, and an inextin
guishable love for the things you want to happen.” For over seventy
years he had designed and written. Now nearly all of that had come into
realized form, with the world so much different, so much better for it.
“You can’t achieve this much,” he concludes, “without this deep-seated
feeling for all life that we call love” (CW V: 232).
Appendix
Divorce Papers of
William C. and Anna L. Wright
The following public document is housed in the University Archives, Steenbock

Library, Room 425, University of Wisconsin, Madison, Wisconsin. It is kept
in a brown manila envelope labeled “Frank Lloyd Wright File from: Gaylord
L. Moser, 754 E. So. St., Richland Center, Wis. miscellaneous information re:
William C. Wright.” Words crossed out in the original are indicated as such
and spelling and punctuat ion idiosyncrasies have been retained.
Dane County Circuit Court

William C. Wright
vs.
Anna L. Wright
Drawer No. 734 [224 superimposed]
Tax pd. Fees pd
Action for Divorce
J. H. Carpenter Plaintiff ’s Attorney.
Ct Record, Vol. 10, Page 24
04/24/5
Folio 1
State of Wisconsin.
Circuit Court Dane County.
William C. Wright Plaintiff
vs
Anna L. Wright Defendant
The complaint of the above named plaintiff appearing by J. H. Carpenter

his attorney respectfully shows to this court that on the 17th day of August
167
168 Appendix: Divorce Papers of William C. and Anna L. Wright
A.D. 1866 the plaintiff and defendant intermarried:-that the plaintiff and
defendant are both residents of Dane County, Wisconsin and have both resided
in said county and state for six years last past.
The plaintiff further shows that he has always hitherto treated the defendant
with kindness and forbearance and in all respects been to her a true, kind and
faithful husband, and kept and performed his marriage vows, but the defendant
disregarding her duties as a wife did, on or about February 25, 1883, willfully
unjustly and without cause or provocation desert this plaintiff and has ever
since and still continues such willful and unjust desertion.
The plaintiff further shows that the parties hereto have three children, the
fruit of their marriage, whose names and ages are as follows: Frank L. Wright,
17 years old, June 8, 1884. Mary Jane Wright, 15 years old April 26, 1884. Margaret
Ellen Wright 7 years old, June 19, 1884.
Wherefore the plaintiff demands judgment that the bonds of matrimony
between the plaintiff and defendant be absolutely dissolved, and that the custody
of said children be awarded as to the Court shall seem just and proper and that
such other relief be granted the plaintiff as shall be just.
J. H. Carpenter Plaintiff ’s Attorney

State of Wisconsin
Dane County s.s.
illiam C. Wright the plaintiff above named being duly sworn says that he is
W
the plaintiff above named & that he has read the foregoing complaint, and is
fully informed as to the contents thereof, and he further says that the foregoing
complaint is true to his own knowledge, except as to those matters therein
stated on information and belief, and as to those matters he believes it to be
true. Wm. C. Wright
Subscribed and sworn to before me this 13th day of December A.D. 1884
J. H. Carpenter
Notary Public Dane County Wisconsin
Filed Dec. 27, 1884

S. H. Butler Clerk
State of Wisconsin
Circuit Court Dane County
Appendix: Divorce Papers of William C. and Anna L. Wright 169

agst
Dane County s.s.
J. H. Carpenter being first duly sworn says he is the attorney for the plaintiff
above named-that on the sixteenth day of December A.D. 1884 he personally
served the summons and complaint in the above entitled action upon the above
named defendant Anna L. Wright who is personally known to the deponent
to be the defendant mentioned as such in said summons and complaint, by
delivering to and leaving with her true copies of said summons and complaint,
at Madison in said Dane County, and at the same time explaining to her the
contents thereof. The said summons and complaint are hereto attached.
J. H. Carpenter
State of Wisconsin
Dane County s.s.
Subscribed and sworn to before me this seventeenth day of December A.D. 1884
C. F. Lamb Notary Public Dane County Wisconsin Filed Dec. 27, 1884. S. H.
Butler Clerk
Circuit Court, Dane County.

vs.
Summons and Complaint
J. H. Carpenter Plaintiff ’s Attorneys
Filed Dec. 27, 1884. S. H. Butler Clerk [illegible notation]
Dane County, s.s.

I, [blank space], Sheriff of the County of Dane do hereby certify that I
have served the within summons and complaint on the within named Defend
ant Anna L. Wright personally, by delivering to and leaving with [blank] a
true copy of said summons and complaint, on the [blank] day of [blank]
A.D. 188[-], at the [blank] of [blank], in said [blank] County. Fees:-Travel
[blank] m., $ [blank] Service, [blank], Copies, [blank], fol., [blank] [blank]
Sheriff.
State of Wisconsin,
Circuit Court, Dane County.
against
The State of Wisconsin to the Said Defendant:

You are hereby summoned to appear within twenty days after service of this
summons, exclusive of the day of service, and defend the above entitled action
in the Court aforesaid: and in case of your failure so to do, judgment will be
rendered against you according to the demand of the complaint; of which a
copy is herewith served upon you. J. H. Carpenter Plaintiff ’s Attorney. P.O.
Address, Box 254 Madison, Dane County, Wis.
Wm. C. Wright
vs.
Anna L. Wright
Affidavit of No Answer
Filed Apr. 13, 1885, S. H. Butler Clerk
Dane County, Circuit Court

Wm. C. Wright Plaintiff
vs.
Anna L. Wright, Def ’d’t
Dane County S. S.:
J. H. Carpenter being duly sworn says he is the plaintiff ’s attorney in the above
entitled action that the summons and complaint therein were personally served
on the defendant at Madison, Wisconsin, December 16, 1884, and that no answer
or demurrer to said plaintiff ’s complaint in said action has been served upon or
received by the deponent or the plaintiff and no notice of appearance on the
part of the defendant has been served upon or reveived by the deponent or
plaintiff but the defendant is now in default. J. H. Carpenter
Sworn to and Subcribed before me this 24th day of January A.D. 1885.
C. F. Lamb Notary Public Dane Co. Wis.
Wm. C. Wright
vs.
Anna L. Wright
Order of Reference
Filed & entered in Order Book “K.” page 557 Apr. 13, 1885, S. H. Butler Clerk
State of Wisconsin,
Circuit Court, Dane County
Wm. C. Wright Plaintiff
vs.
It appearing to the undersigned by due proof that the summons and complaint in
this action, now on file in the office of the Clerk of this Court were duly and per
sonally served on the above named defendant at Madison, Wisconsin on the 16th
day of December, A.D. 1884 and that the time for answering said complaint has
expired and that no answer or demurrer to said complaint has been served upon
the plaintiff or his attorney, and that no notice of appearance of said defendant
has been received by the plaintiff or his attorney or either of them and the plain
tiff wishing to apply to the Court for the relief demanded in said complaint.
Now on motion of J. H. Carpenter, attorney for the plaintiff it is hereby
ordered that it be referred to C. F. Lamb, Esq. to the take proof of the facts
and circumstances stated in the complaint and report all the same to this Court
with all convenient speed. Dated this 26th day of January 1885 A.D. Alva
Stewart Judge
Circuit Court
Dane County.
William C. Wright Plff
vs.
Anna L. Wright Defdt
Referee’s Oath
Filed Apr. 13, 1885. S. H. Butler Clerk
Circuit Court
Dane County.

vs.
I, C. F. Lamb, of Madison, Wisconsin having by the above court been appointed

referee to take proof of the facts and circumstances stated in the complaint, do
solemnly swear to support the Constitution of the United States, and the Con
stitution of the State of Wisconsin, and to perform the duties of referee in this
case according to law, and to the best of my knowledge and ability, so help me
God. C. F. Lamb
Sworn to and subscribed before me this 6th day of April, 1885 F. J. Lamb Notary
Public Dane Co., Wis.
William C. Wright, plaintiff duly sworn and testifies as follows. I am the plain
tiff in this action. The defendant is my wife. We were married in August 1866.
I had previously been married and my first wife died in 1863. I have three chil
dren still living by my first wife. I reside in Madison and have resided here for
six years last past. The defendant resides in Madison and has for several six
years.
Since my marriage to my second wife I have treated her kindly and so far as
I know have performed my marriage vows. I have provided for her as well as
my means would permit, during the last two or three years she has had the
handling of the largest share of my income.
About two or three years ago in February last she refused to occupy the same
bed with me. I have since then repetedly solicited her to occupy the same room
and bed with me since she left me as stated she has not occupied [illegible] bed
or a bed with me and for the two years last past she has not occupied the same
room with me at night.
I have repetedly since she left my bed solicited her to occupy the same bed
with me but she her refused to do so. She sometimes said she did not love me
and somtimes she said she hated me she told me on 4 March 1883 I hate the
very ground you tread on. If you will give me the place you may go when you
please. I don’t care what becomes of you. She has twice said she would never
live with me as a wife and for two years has protested against and refused me
intercourse as between husband & wife.
Her language during the last three years has not been kind and I do
not know of any thing kind word or expression that she has used towards
me during the last three years. In Her conduct and temper toward me she is
ungovernable.
I have made special effort during the last two years to have her reconciled
to me and become so that she we could live with me togeather peacibly &
happily and. I made such an effort in August 1883, she was then visiting among
her friends. I went to see her. I trid to have a pleasant visit with her and went
for that purpose. I went intending to overlook every thing. I treated her kindly
pleasently and courteously. She treated me said I had blackend her to her people
and been the cause of all her unhappyness.
During this inteview there was no reconsailiation nor any apparent desire
on her part for a reconciliation-She has never since shewn any desire for a
reconciliation. I have sought both by interview and letters a reconciliation. I have
written letters three different times seeking reconciliation In these interviews
neither in my interview nor in response to my letters has she shewn any desire
for reconcilation. I have felt and still feel there is no hope of our ever being able
to live togeather.
I have never intentionally blackened her character. I had once confiden
tially inquired of one of her relations if there had been insanity in the family. I
did not suppose this was ever to be spoken of. It was communicated to her and
she complained of it. The idea of any insanity in the family was promptly denied.
I have three children by my present wife. I have no real estate anywhere except
my homestead here in the city. I have no personal property except household
furnitur at my house library, a little office furnitur, some musical instruments
in my office. I am a teacher of music.
It was It is now several months since I have lived in the same house with
her. For more than two years the last that I trid to live with her, I was compelled
to go upstairs and sleep alone. During all that time she shewed no signs of
relenting and living with me as my wife but was constantly grewing worse. The
reason I inquired if there had been any insanity in the family was on account of
her violent conduct towards me. Her expression about me giving her the place
and going when I had a mind to was not a solitery one, it has been often re
peated. In May 1883, thinking that a change for a few days might benefit her,
and give a more pleasent turn to her feelings, I gave her money to go on a visit
to Chicago, and presented it in a new purse that I bought. She took the money
about the 15th of May and exclaimed about the purse what a clumsey thing.
She went away and I supposed she was to be gone about a week, but she went
also to Milwaukee Watertown, and did not return for about 3 weeks. In the
mean time she did not write to me but wrote to my daughter Jennie. When she
got back I received her cordially, but she was very cold and repellant to me at
two other times she came to me for money ostensibly for nessaries but used it
in going to visit her relatins without notifying me that she intended to go. At
last her brothers came to me and spoke about the necessity of peace in the family.
I said there was nothing I wanted more, that I had been outrageously abused
and she had no just ground of complaint. They suggested we seperate. I asked
how or on what terms. They said give her the place and they would see that her
children were cared for. After deliberation I told them I had suffered a good
manny years that I was entitled to a divorce for cruelty, personal violence, and
refusal of my marital rights, that if a seperation was to take place it ought to be
by law. That I was willing to give up almost anything in way of property to her
and the children. Many times before I had thought on the subject of a divorce
but had made up my mind that for the sake of our children, and her friends on
with whom I supposed I was on good terms, I would never bring the case into
court if I could live without, but when after suffering violence indignity and
abuse for years I was represented as being prime offender I could endure it no
longer willing however to cause as little scandel and as little pain to all parties
as possible at the request of her friends I had the suit brought for desertion only
believing it could be maintained on that ground. There was other neglect and
abandonment of her duties as a wife on her part. Very many times I had to
make my own bed. Though I paid a kind girl at the time. She became during
the last year or two neglectful of my wishes and comfort in respect to food, a
larger part of my mending I did myself or carried away because when I requested
her to do anything it was often neglected, never chearfully cheerfully done, and
when it was done, often threwn in my face or on to the floor.
The room that I slept in was the coldest room in the house she slept in the
bedroom warmed from the sitting room, was unwilling I should go in there for
any purpose even in the day time, and often would drive me out. This was for
the two years last past. I left at last because comfert and peace were out of the
question and I did not deem it safe to stay.
Our married life had been unhappy from the start. She was jealous of the
three children by my first wife. I had to have send them away as soon as pos
sible. I sent the daughter away when she was 11 or 12. She wanted more money
than I could furnish and constantly blamed me for not having more, tortered
me with doing nothing for my family when I did all I knew how or was able to
do. She ran me in debt, contrary to express understanding, after giving her the
largest monthly allowance I could besides a large extra sum for putting new
things in the house, she would be violenty angry if I remonstrated a gainst her
course, would resent any suggestions about economy. Between 2 & 3 years ago,
when I had received some money from my fathers life insurance, and paid it
out to clear off the debt on the place besides making some improvments I had
about $50 left she wanted that at her disposal. I told her it must be saved for an
emergency for I had nothing else to fall back on. She has said several times
since that that the time when all the love went out of her heart for me was
when I withheld that $50 from her. But I had not been able to see the love for a
long time years before that one night. Wm. C. Wright
Taken Subscribed & Sworn before me this 6th April 1885

C. F. Lamb Referee
illiam C. Wright Plff.

W
vs.
Anna L. Wright Deft
In Circuit Court Dane County Wis.
Testimony taken before C. F. Lamb a referee duly appointed in the above

entitled action commencing on the 6th day of April A.D. 1885.
Present. J. H. Carpenter plaintiffs attorney. No appearance of defendant.
J. H. Carpenter sworn as witness on the part of the plaintiff. I am the plaintiffs

attorney in this action. I know both the plaintiff and defendant, have known
the plaintiff twenty years or more and the defendant from five to eight years or
more. They have both resided in Dane County more than five years last past
and both still reside in Dane County.
Prior to the commencement of this action at my request the defendant with
two of her brothers met the plaintiff at my office in the city of Madison, the
first object of the interview being to see if there could be a reconciliation, at this
interview the defendant stated to me in the presence of the other persons
named that she had not lived with the plaintiff as his wife since February 1883
and that she never would again live with him as his wife she gave as her prin
cipal reason for refusing to live with him as his wife, that there was no affection
on her part for him and none on his part for her as she believed and under such
circumstances she did not consider him it proper to live with him as his wife.
This inteview was in November or early in December 1884.
From February 1883 to the time of said interview they had for the most part
lived in the same house, but during all that time had never occupied the same
bed nor had any intercourse as husband and wife as she stated. In this inteview
she also stated that she should not oppose the plaintiffs getting a divorce. In
this same inteview the plaintiff insisted that he should commence proceedings
for a divorce and it was agreed between the parties the brothers the defendant
concurring, that the brothers would see that provision sho was made for the
children of the parties to this suit if the plaintiff would deed or cause to be
deeded to the defendant his interest in the homestead in Madison and leave for
the use of the defendant and family in such a way that the same should belong
to the defendant the household furniture and house keeping goods and a part
of the library, reserving only some few items of house keeping goods that be
longed to the first wife of the plaintiff.
The plaintiff has children living by his first wife and three children by his
present wife the names and ages of the children by his present wife are given in
the complaint. The plaintiff was also the to furnish some supplies for the use of
the family during the winter of 1884–1885.
In persuance of this arrangment, a deed has been made and executed, con
veying to the defendant the plaintiffs right in their homestead and it is in my
possession to be delivered to the defendant as soon as a decree divorcing the
parties to this action is rendered by the court.
There are generally other matters of difference between these parties which
with the difficulty already stated satisfies me beyond a question that they can
never live togeather a knowledge of these other matters comes to me from both
parties. They relate purely to their personal intercourse.
In this opinion that the parties will never live togeather and never be recon
ciled to each other the brothers of defendant before refered to concur. The
supplies that the plaintiff was to furnish during the pendency [?] of this action
to defendant and family have been furnished and I hold the defendants receipts
therefor. J. H. Carpenter
Taken Subscribed & Sworn to before me this 8 April 1885. C. F. Lamb

Referee
Filed Apr. 13, 1885, S. H. Butler, Clerk
Dane Circuit Court

William C. Wright Plff.
agt
Anna L. Wright Deft
Report of Referee
Judgment
In Circuit Court Dane County Wisconsin

William C. Wright Plff
vs.
Anna L. Wright Deft
To the said Court.

I C. F. Lamb referee in the above entitled action duly appointed to take proof
of the facts and circumstances stated in the complaint and report the same to
the court, would respectfully report
That I was attended by J. H. Carpenter Esqr. Plaintiffs attorney herein and
that there was no appearence on the part of the defendant That I have examined
under oath the plaintiff and J. H. Carpenter as witness for the plaintiff and
have reduced their testimony to writing which was is hereto annexed and made
a part of this report That the testimony was taken to be used in the above en
titled action wherein William C. Wright is plaintiff and Anna L. Wright is
defendant—That is was taken in persuance of the annexed order of reference.
That said witnesses before examination were by me sworn to testify the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth relative to said cause and their
depositions were severally read to the deponents witnesses and then subscribed
by them. All which is respectfully submitted. Dated April 10, 1885, C. F. Lamb
Referee
Dane Circuit Court

Wm. C. Wright Pltff
vs.
Anna L. Wright Defdt
Finding for Judgement
Filed & entered in Judgment Book “2” page 427 April 24, 1885. S. H. Butler
Clerk

Wm. C. Wright Plt’ff
vs.
Anna L. Wright Defd’t
The above entitled cause coming on in its order for hearing (and the defendant
not appearing) testimony having been taken on the part of the plaintiff and the
Court being now sufficiently advised finds the following facts and conclusions
of law.
As facts the Court find that the plaintiff and defendant intermarried on the
17th day of August 1866, that they are both residents of Dane County, Wisconsin
and have both resided in said County and State for more than six years last past.
That the plaintiff has always hitherto performed his full duty to the defend
ant as her husband and kept and performed his marriage vows.
That the defendant in February 1883 wilfully deserted the plaintiff without
cause or provocation and has ever since continued said willful desertion.
That the defendant and plaintiff have three children the fruit of their
marriage as stated in the Complaint.
That the defendant is a suitable person to have the care and custody of the
persons and education of said children and that all the allegations of the com
plaint are true. As conclusions of law the Court finds: The plaintiff entitled to
the decree of divorce for which he prays and judgment is hereby ordered accord
ingly, the custody, care, maintenance and education of said children to be by
said Judgment given to the defendant during the pleasure of the Court Dated
this 24th day of April 1885
By the Court Alva Stewart Judge
Dane Circuit Court

William C. Wright Pl’tff.
vs
Anna L. Wright Def ’d’t.
Judgment
Filed and entered in Judgment Book “2” page 428 April 24, 1885. S. H. Butler
Clerk
State of Wisconsin
Wm. C. Wright Pl’tff
vs
Anna L. Wright Defd’t
This action coming on in its order for hearing on the 13th day of April
A.D. 1885 and at the April Term of said Court for 1885 and the Court now
being sufficiently advised and having made and filed its finding of facts and
conclusions of law wherein the Court finds that the defendant deserted the
plaintiff as alleged in the Complaint all the allegations of the Complaint fully
proved and true and the testimony having been by order of Court taken by a
Referee and reported to the Court and as a conclusion of law that the plaintiff
is entitled to the divorce for which he prays and awarded the custody, education
and maintenance of the children named in the complaint to the defendant.
Therefore on motion of J. H. Carpenter attorney for the plaintiff it is
hereby adjudged that the bonds of matrimony existing between the plaintiff
and defendant be and the same are hereby dissolved and each of said parties is
freed from all the obligations thereof and at liberty to marry again
It is further adjudged that the plaintiff deed to the defendant all his interest
in Lot one Block one hundred thirty nine in the City of Madison, Dane
County, Wisconsin and leave to the defendant the house keeping goods now in
said house on said lot not including books and that the same shall be in full for
all suit money and alimony both temporary and permanent and shall be re
ceived by said defendant as her full share of said plaintiff ’s estate and in full for
all claims and demands of every kind against said plaintiff or his estate, and
that all further claim on the part of the defendant against plaintiff or his estate
for suit money, alimony or right to support shall be hereafter forever and the
same are hereby forever barred and the plaintiff is hereby ordered to deed or
cause to be deeded his interest in said lot to the defendant on or before May
1st 1885.
It is further hereby adjudged that the defendant have the care, custody,
maintenance, and support of the children named in the Complaint until the
further order of the Court. Dated this 24th day of April 1885
By the Court Alva Stewart Judge
State of Wisconsin.
Circuit Court for Dane County.
April 25 1885
Wm. C. Wright
vs.
Anna L. Wright
Clerk’s Fees.
Entering cause of record, 50 cents
Indexing cause, direct and inverse 10 cents
Entering cause on trial calendar 3 times, 10 cents each 30 cents
Entering 3 motions, 15 cents each 45 cents
Entering 3 orders, 15 cents each 45 cents
Making 1 certificates, 25 cents each 25 cents
Filing 12 papers, 10 cents each 1.20
Recording papers or other matter 14 folios, 10 cents each 1.40
Copies of papers or records 6 folios, 10 cents each 60 cents
Making judgment roll 50 cents
$5.75
Bibliography of Works Consulted
Aguar, Charles E., and Berdeana Aguar. Wrightscapes: Frank Lloyd Wright’s
Landscape Designs. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2002.
Alofsin, Anthony. Frank Lloyd Wright, Art Collector: Secessionist Prints from the
Turn of the Century. Austin: University of Texas Press, 2012.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Lost Years, 1910–1922. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1993.
, ed. Frank Lloyd Wright: Europe and Beyond. Berkeley: University of
Calif ornia Press, 1999.
, ed. Prairie Skyscraper: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Price Tower. New York:
Rizzoli, 2005.
Amin, Kamal. Reflections from the Shining Brow. Santa Barbara: Fithian, 2004.
Ballon, Hilary, et al. The Guggenheim: Frank Lloyd Wright and the Making of the
Modern Museum. New York: Guggenheim Museum, 2009.
Barney, Maginel Wright. The Valley of the God-Almighty Joneses. New York:
Appleton-Century, 1965.
Bercovitch, Sacvan. The American Jeremiad. Madis on: University of Wisconsin
Press, 1978.
Besinger, Curtis. Working with Mr. Wright: What It Was Like. Cambridge,
England, and New York: Cambridge University Press, 1995.
Birk, Melanie. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fifty Views of Japan. San Francisco: Pome
granate, 1996.
Bixler, Kim. Growing Up in a Frank Lloyd W right House. Privately published,
2012.
Boyd, Virginia Terry, and Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Frank Lloyd Wright and the
House Beautiful. Washington, D.C.: International Arts and Artists, 2005.
Boyle, Bernard Michael. Wright in Arizona: The Early Work of Pedro E. Guerrero.
Tempe, AZ: Herberger Center for Design Excellence, 1995.
Brierly, Cornelia. Tales of Taliesin. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2000.
Brooks, H. Allen. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie School. New York:
Braziller / Cooper-Hewitt Museum, 1984.
. “Frank Lloyd Wright and the Wasmuth Drawings.” The Art Bulletin 48
( June 1960): 193–202.
181
182 Bibliography of Works Consulted
. The Prairie School: Frank Lloyd Wright and His Midwest Contemporaries.
New York: Norton, 2006 [1972].
, ed. Writings on Wright. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981.
Brownell, Baker. The Human Community. New York: Harper, 1950.
Brownell, Baker, and Frank Lloyd Wright. Architecture and Modern Life. New
York: Harper, 1937.
Cahan, Richard, and Michael Williams. Richard Nickel’s Chicago: Photographs
of a Lost City. Chicago: Cityfiles Press, 2006.
Cannon, Patrick F. Hometown Architect. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2006.
Casey, Dennis. Stained Glass Window Designs of Frank Lloyd Wright. New
York: Dover, 1997.
Cheek, Lawrence W. Frank Lloyd Wright in Arizona. Tucson, AZ: Rio Nuevo,
2006.
Chusid, Jeffrey M. Saving Wright: The Freeman House and the Preservation of
Meaning, Materials, and Modernity. New York: Norton, 2011.
Cleary, Richard L. Merchant Prince and Master Builder: Edgar J. Kaufmann and
Frank Lloyd Wright. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1999.
, et al. Frank Lloyd Wright: From Within Outward. New York: Skira
Rizzoli / Guggenheim Museum, 2009.
Connors, Joseph. The Robie House of Frank Lloyd Wright. Chicago: University
of Chicago Press, 1984.
Danzker, Jo-Anne Birnie. Art of Tomorrow: Hilla Rebay and Solomon R. Guggen
heim. New York: Guggenheim Museum, 2005.
Daugherty, Tracy. Hiding Man: A Biography of Donald Barthelme. New York:
St. Martin’s Press, 2009.
De Long, David G. Auldbrass: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Southern Plantation. New
York: Rizzoli, 2003.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: Designs for an American Landscape. New York:
Abrams, 1996.
, ed. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Living City. Milan, Italy: Skira / Vitra
Design, 1998.
DesBarres, Michael. Fieldnotes: A Multi-Generational Ethnography of Appren
ticeship: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin Fellowship. Spring Green, WI: Frank
Lloyd Wright School of Architecture, 2007.
Drennan, William R. Death in a Prairie House: Frank Lloyd Wright and the
Taliesin Murders. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2007.
Dunlop, Beth, ed. Frank Lloyd Wright: Architecture 3 [includes Robert McCarter
on Unity Temple, James Steele on the Barnsdall House, and Brian Carter
on the Johnson Wax Administration Building]. London: Phaidon, 1999.
Bibliography of Works Consulted 183
Eaton, Leonard K. Two Chicago Architects and Their Clients: Frank Lloyd Wright
and Howard Van Doren Shaw. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1969.
Eifler, John, and Kristin Visser. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Seth Peterson Cottage.
Madis on, WI: Prairie Oak Press, 1999 [1997].
Fell, Derek. The Gardens of Frank Lloyd Wright. London: Frances Lincoln,
Ltd., 2009.
Fields, Jeanette S. A Guidebook to the Architecture of River Forest. 2nd ed. River
Forest, IL: River Forest Community Center, 1990.
Filler, Martin. Makers of Modern Architecture. New York: New York Review of
Books, 2007.
Fishman, Robert. Urban Utopias in the Twentieth Century: Ebenezer Howard,
Frank Lloyd Wright, Le Corbusier. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1982
[1977].
Forrer, Matthi. Hiroshige: Prints and Drawings. Munich, Germany: Prestel,
2007.
Fowler, Penny. Frank Lloyd Wright, Graphic Artist. San Francisco: Pome
granate, 2002.
Frampton, Kenneth. The Evolution of Twentieth Century Architecture: A Synoptic
Account. Vienna, Austria, and Beijing, China: Springer / China Architecture
and Building Press, 2007.
Friedland, Roger, and Harold Zellman. The Fellowship. New York: Regan /
HarperCollins, 2006.
Friedman, Alice T. “Frank Lloyd Wright and Feminism: Mamah Borthwick’s
Letters to Ellen Key.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 61
( June 2002): 140–51.
Futagawa, Yukio, and Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Frank Lloyd Wright GA Traveler
Series 001 (Taliesin West), 002 (Taliesin), 003 (Fallingwater), 004 (Prairie
Houses), 005 (Usonian Houses), 006 (Elegant Houses), 007 (Architecture).
Tokyo: A. D. A. EDITA, 2002–2003.
Gannet[t], William C. The House Beautiful. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2006
[1896–1898].
Gass, William H. Fiction and the Figures of Life. New York: Knopf, 1970.
Gay, Peter. Modernism: The Lure of Heresy. New York: Norton, 2008.
Gebhard, David. Purcell & Elmslie: Prairie Progressive Architects. Salt Lake
City: Gibbs Smith, 2006.
Gill, Brendan. Many Masks: A Life of Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Putnam’s,
1987.
Gottlieb, Lois Davidson. A Way of Life: An Apprenticeship with Frank Lloyd
Wright. Mulgrave, Victoria, Australia: Images, 2001.
Griffin, Marion Mahony. Drawing the Form of Nature. Evanston, IL: Block
Museum of Art / Northwestern University Press, 2005.
. The Magic of America, online edition. Chicago: Art Institute of Chicago,
2007 [ca. 1940s].
Griffin, Walter Burley. The Writings of Walter Burley Griffin. Edited by Dustin
Griffin. Cambridge, England, and New York: Cambridge University Press,
2008.
Guerrero, Pedro E. Picturing Wright. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 1994.
Guggenheimer, Tobias S. A Taliesin Legacy: The Architecture of Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Apprentices. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1995.
Gurda, John. New World Odyssey: Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church and
Frank Lloyd Wright. Milwaukee, WI: The Milwaukee Hellenic Commu
nity, 1986.
Gyure, Dale Allen. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Florida Southern College. Gainesville:
University Press of Florida, 2010.
Hagan, Bernardine. Kentuck Knob: Frank Lloyd Wright’s House for I. N. and
Bernardine Hagan. Pittsburgh, PA: Local History Co., 2005.
Hanna, Paul R., and Jean S. Hanna. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hanna House: The
Clients’ Report. New York and Cambridge, MA: Architectural History
Foundation / MIT Press, 1981.
Harrington, Elaine. Frank Lloyd Wright Home and Studio, Oak Park. Stuttgart,
Germany: Edition Axel Menges, 1996.
Heinz, Thomas A. Frank Lloyd Wright Field Guide. Evanston, IL: Northwestern
University Press, 2005.
. The Vision of Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Chartwell, 2002 [2000].
Henken, Priscilla J. Taliesin Diary: A Year with Frank Lloyd Wright. New York:
Norton, 2012.
Henning, Randolph C., ed. “At Taliesin”: Newspaper Columns. Carbondale:
Southern Illinois University Press, 1992.
Hertz, David Michael. Frank Lloyd Wright in Word and Form. New York:
G. K. Hall, 1995.
Hertzberg, Mark. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Hardy House. San Francisco: Pome
granate, 2006.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s S. C. Johnson Research Tower. San Francisco: Pome
granate, 2010.
. Wright in Racine. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2004.
Hession, Jane King, and Debra Pickrel. Frank Lloyd Wright in New York: The
Plaza Years, 1954–1959. Salt Lake City, UT: Gibbs Smith, 2007.
Hildebrand, Grant. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Palmer House. Seattle: University of
Washington Press, 2007.
. The Wright Space: Pattern and Meaning in Frank Lloyd Wright’s Houses.
Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1991.
Hitchcock, Henry-Russell. In the Nature of Materials: The Buildings of Frank
Lloyd Wright, 1887–1941. New York: Da Capo Press, 1975 [1942].
Hoffman, Donald. Frank Lloyd Wright: Architecture and Nature. New York:
Dover, 1986.
. Frank Lloyd Wright, Louis Sullivan, and the Skyscraper. New York:
Dover, 1998.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Dana House. New York: Dover, 1996.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater: The House and Its History. New York:
Dover, 1993 [revised from Western Pennsylvania Conservancy edition of
1978].
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s House on Kentuck Knob. Pittsburgh, PA: University
of Pittsburgh Press, 2000.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House: The Illustrated Story of an Architectural
Masterpiece. New York: Dover, 1984.
. Understanding Frank Lloyd Wright’s Architecture. New York: Dover, 1995.
Hokanson, Margo O’Brien. Monona Terrace: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Vision on the
Lake. Madis on, WI: Madison Newspapers, 1997.
Hoppen, Donald W. The Seven Ages of Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Dover,
1998 [revised and expanded from Capra Press edition of 1993].
Howard, Hugh. Wright for Wright. New York: Rizzoli, 2001.
Hunt, Sara, ed. The Wright Experience: A Master Architect’s Vision. New York:
Metro Books, 2008.
Huxtable, Ada Louise. Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Lipper / Viking, 2004.
Jacobs, Herbert. Frank Lloyd Wright: America’s Greatest Architect. New York:
Harcourt, Brace & World, 1965.
Jacobs, Herbert, and Katherine Jacobs. Building with Frank Lloyd Wright.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1986 [1978].
Jencks, Charles. Kings of Infinite Space: Frank Lloyd Wright and Michael Graves.
London and New York: Academy / St. Martin’s, 1985 [1983].
Johannesson, Lena. “Ellen Key, Mamah Bouton Borthwick, and Frank Lloyd
Wright: Notes on the Historiography of Non-Existing History.” NORA:
Nordic Journal of Women’s Studies 2 (1995): 126–36.
Johnson, Donald Leslie. The Fountainheads: Wright, Rand, the FBI, and Holly
wood. Jefferson, NC: McFarland, 2005.
. Frank Lloyd Wright versus America: The 1930s. Cambridge, MA: MIT
Press, 1990.
Johonnot, Rodney F. The New Edifice of Unity Church. Oak Park, IL: Unity
Church, 1906.
Jones, Chester Lloyd. Youngest Son. Madison, WI: privately printed, 1938.
Jones, Richard ( Jix) Lloyd, et al. A Lloyd Jones Retrospective. Spring Green,
WI: Unity Chapel, 1986.
Kaufmann, Edgar Jr. Fallingwater: A Frank Lloyd Wright Country House. New
York: Abbeville Press, 1986.
Key, Ellen. The Woman Movement. Translated by Mamah Bouton Borthwick.
New York: Putnam’s 1912.
King, Rebecca. Frank Lloyd Wright Revealed. London: Compendium, 2007.
Kingsbury, Pamela D. Frank Lloyd Wright and Wichita: The First Usonian
Design. Wichita, KS: Wichita-Sedgwick County Historical Museum,
1992.
Kleinman, Kent, and Eric Jackson-Forsberg, eds. On Wright: Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Darwin D. Martin House Visitor’s Center Competition. Buffalo, NY:
School of Architecture and Planning / University at Buffalo, 2005.
Klinkowitz, Jerome. Rosenberg / Barthes / Hassan: The Postmodern Habit of
Thought. Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1988.
Knight, Carolyn. Essential Frank Lloyd Wright. Bath, England: Parragon, 2001.
Kruty, Paul. Frank Lloyd Wright and Midway Gardens. Urbana: University of
Illinois Press, 1998.
. Prelude to the Prairie Style: Eight Models of Unbuilt Houses by Frank Lloyd
Wright. Urbana: School of Architecture / University of Illinois, 2005.
Kruty, Paul, and Paul E. Sprague. Marion Mahony and Millikin Place: Creating
a Prairie School Masterpiece. St. Louis, MO: Walter Burley Griffin Society,
2007.
Langmead, Donald. Frank Lloyd Wright: A Bio-Bibliography. Westport, CT:
Praeger, 2003.
Larkin, David, and Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Frank Lloyd Wright: Master Builder.
New York: Universe / Rizzoli, 1997.
Legler, Dixie, and Christian Korab. At Home on the Prairie: The Houses of
Purcell & Elmslie. San Francisco: Archetype Press / Chronicle Books, 2006.
. Prairie Style. New York: Stewart, Tabori & Chang, 1999.
Levine, Neil. The Architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright. Princeton, NJ: Princeton
University Press, 1996.
Levine, Neil, et al. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Zimmerman House: A Work of Art for
Kindred Spirits. Manchester, NH: Currier Museum of Art, 2004.
Lind, Carla. Lost Wright. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2008 [revised and
updated from Archetype / Simon & Schuster edition of 1996].
. The Wright Style. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1992.
Lipman, Jonathan. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Johnson Wax Buildings. New
Lipman, Jonat han, and Neil Levine. The Wright State: Frank Lloyd Wright in
Wisconsin. Milwaukee, WI: Milwaukee Art Museum, 1992.
Longstreth, Richard, ed. The Charnley House. Chicago: University of Chicago
Press, 2004.
Lucas, Suzette A. In the Realm of Ideas: An Interpretive Guide to Taliesen West.
Scottsdale, AZ: Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation, 1993.
Maddex, Diane. Frank Lloyd Wright’s House Beautiful. New York: Hearst,
2000.
. Wright-Sized Houses. New York: Abrams, 2003.
Mahoney, Patrick J. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Walter V. Davidson House: An Examina
tion of a Buffalo Home and Its Cousins from Coast to Coast. Buffalo: State
University of New York College at Buffalo, 2011.
Maldre, Mati, and Paul Kruty. Walter Burley Griffin in America. Urbana: Uni
versity of Illinois Press, 1996.
Maloney, Cathy Jean. The Gardener’s Cottage in Riverside, Illinois. Chicago:
Center for American Places, 2009.
Manson, Grant Carpenter. Frank Lloyd Wright to 1910: The First Golden Age.
New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1958.
Marty, Myron A. Communities of Frank Lloyd Wright: Taliesin and Beyond.
DeKalb: Northern Illinois University Press, 2009.
Marty, Myron A., and Shirley A. Marty. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin Fellow
ship. Kirksville, MO: Truman State University Press, 1999.
McArthur, Shirley DuFresne. Frank Lloyd Wright: American System-Built Homes
in Milwaukee. Milwaukee, WI: North Point Historical Society, 1985.
McCarter, Robert. Frank Lloyd Wright. London: Reaktion, 2006 [biography].
. Frank Lloyd Wright. London: Phaidon, 1997 [critical study].
, ed. On and By Frank Lloyd Wright: A Primer of Architectural Principles.
London: Phaidon, 2005.
. Unity Temple: Frank Lloyd Wright. London: Phaidon, 1997.
McCoy, Robert. “Rock Crest / Rock Glen: Prairie Planning in Iowa.” Prairie
School Review 5, no. 3 (1968): 5–39.
McCrea, Ron. Building Taliesin: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Home of Love and Loss.
Madison: Wisconsin Historical Society Press, 2012.
McGregor, Alasdair. Grand Obsessions: The Life and Work of Walter Burley Griffin
and Marion Mahony Griffin. Camberwell, Victoria, Australia: Lantern /
Penguin, 2009.
Meech, Julia. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Art of Japan: The Architect’s Other
Passion. New York: Japan Society and Harry N. Abrams, 2001.
Meehan, Patrick J., ed. Frank Lloyd Wright Remembered. Washington, D.C.:
Preservation Press, 1991.
, ed. The Master Architect: Conversations with Frank Lloyd Wright. New
York: John Wiley, 1984.
Menocal, Narciso G., ed. Fallingwater and Pittsburgh: Wright Studies, Volume
Two. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 2000.
. Taliesin 1911–1914: Wright Studies, Volume One. Carbondale: Southern
Illinois University Press, 1992.
Moe, Doug, and Alice D’Alessio. Uncommon Sense: The Life of Marshall Erdman.
Black Earth, WI: Trails, 2003.
Mollenhoff, David V., and Mary Jane Hamilton. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Monona
Terrace: The Enduring Power of a Civic Vision. Madison: University of
Wisconsin Press, 1999.
Moran, Maya. Down to Earth: An Insider’s View of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Tomek
House. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1995.
Morton, Terry B., ed. The Pope-Leighey House. Washington, D.C.: National
Trust for Historic Preservation, 1974 [reprint of Historic Preservation 21
(April–September 1969)].
Mumford, Lewis. The Brown Decades. New York: Dover, 1955 [1931].
. Sticks and Stones. New York: Dover, 1955 [1924].
Muschamp, Herbert. Man About Town: Frank Lloyd W right in New York City.
Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1983.
Nemtin, Frances. Frank Lloyd Wright and Taliesin. San Francisco: Pomegranate,
2000.
. Life in the Taliesin Fellowship. Privately published, 2007. [comprises Life
on Midway Farm, Children at Taliesin, Zrazi Anyone, Music at Taliesin,
Work at Taliesin, Taliesin Migrations, Taliesin at Play, 2002; Web of Life,
2001].
Neufeld, Lesley. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Martin House Complex. Buffalo, NY:
Martin House Restoration Corporation, 2004.
Nisbet, Earl. Taliesin Reflections. Petaluma, CA: Meridian, 2006.
Oldsberg, Nicholas, ed. Between Heaven and Earth: The Architecture of John
Lautner. New York: Rizzoli, 2008.
Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks. Frank Lloyd Wright. Cologne, Germany: Taschen,
1991.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Heroic Years, 1920–1932. New York: Rizzoli, 2009.
. Frank Lloyd Wright, 1885–1916: The Complete Works. Cologne, Germany:
Taschen, 2011.
Taschen, 2010.
Taschen, 2009.
. Frank Lloyd Wright Designs: The Sketches, Plans and Drawings. New
. Treasures of Taliesin: Seventy-Seven Unbuilt Designs. San Francisco:
Pomeg ranate, 1999 [1985].
Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks, and David Larkin. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Master
works. New York: Rizzoli, 1993.
Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks, and Gerald Nordlund. Frank Lloyd Wright: In the Realm
of Ideas. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1988.
Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks, and Robert Wojtowicz. Frank Lloyd Wright and Lewis
Mumford. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2001.
Pleisch, Mark L. The Chicago School of Architecture. New York: Random House,
1964.
Pridmore, Jay. The Rookery. San Francisco: Pomeg ranate, 2003.
Quinan, Jack. Frank Lloyd Wright: Windows of the Darwin D. Martin House.
Buffalo, NY: Burchfield-Penney Art Center, 1999.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Buffalo Venture: From the Larkin Building to Broad
acre City. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2012.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Larkin Building: Myth and Fact. Chicago: Univer
sity of Chicago Press, 1987.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Martin House: Architecture as Portraiture. New
York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2004.
Rattenbury, John. A House for Life. Toronto: Warwick, 2006.
. A Living Architecture. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2000.
Reed, Peter, and William Kaizen. The Show to End All Shows: Frank Lloyd Wright
and the Museum of Modern Art. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2004.
Reilly, Donna Grant. An American Proceeding: Building the Grant House with
Frank Lloyd Wright. Hanover, NH: Meadowside Press, 2010.
Reisley, Roland. Usonia, New York: Building a Community with Frank Lloyd
Wright. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 2001.
Riley, Terence. Frank Lloyd Wright: Architect. New York: Abrams / Museum of
Modern Art, 1994.
Robertson, Cheryl. The Domestic Scene (1897–1927): George M. Niedecken, Interior
Architect. 2nd ed. Milwaukee, WI: Milwaukee Art Museum, 2008 [revised
and expanded from Milwaukee Art Museum edition of 1981].
. Frank Lloyd Wright and George Mann Niedecken: Prairie School Collabora
tors. Milwaukee, WI: Milwaukee Art Museum, 1999.
Rogers, Wallace J. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Samara. West Lafayette, IN: John E.
Christian Family Memorial Trust, 2001.
Rosenbaum, Alvin. Usonia: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Design for America. Washing
ton, D.C.: Preservation Press, 1993.
Rosenberg, Harold. The Anxious Object. New York: Horizon Press, 1964.
. The Tradition of the New. New York: Horizon Press, 1959.
Rubin, Jeanne Spielman. Intimate Triangle: Architecture of Crystals, Frank Lloyd
Wright, and the Froebel Kindergarten. Huntsville, AL: Polycrystal Book
Service / New Century Pharmaceuticals, 2002.
Sanderson, Arlene. Wright Sites. New York: Princeton Architectural Press,
2001 [revisited and revised from 1995 edition].
Scott, Margaret Helen. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Warehouse in Richland Center,
Wisconsin. Richland Center, WI: Richland County Publishers, 1984.
Scully, Vincent, Jr. Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Braziller, 1960.
. Modern Architecture. New York: Braziller, 1961.
Secrest, Meryle. Frank Lloyd Wright: A Biography. New York: Knopf, 1992.
Sergeant, John. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Usonian Houses. New York: Whitney,
1984 [1976].
Simo, Melanie. Barnsdall Park: A New Master Plan for Frank Lloyd Wright’s
California Romanza. Washington, D.C.: Spacemaker Press, 1997.
Siry, Joseph M. Unity Temple: Frank Lloyd Wright and Architecture for Liberal
Religion. Cambridge, England: Cambridge University Press, 1996.
Slotkin, Richard. The Fatal Environment: The Myth of the Frontier in the Age
of Industrialization, 1800–1890. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press,
1998.
. Regeneration through Violence: The Mythology of the American Frontier,
1600–1860. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000.
Smith, Kathryn. Frank Lloyd Wright: America’s Master Architect. New York:
Abbeville Press, 1998.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: Hollyhock House and Olive Hill. New York: Rizzoli,
1992.
. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Taliesin and Taliesin West. New York: Abrams,
1997.
Smith, Norris Kelly. Frank Lloyd Wright: A Study in Architectural Content.
Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: Prentice-Hall, 1966.
Sokol, David M. The Noble Room: The Inspired Conception and Tumultuous
Creation of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Unity Temple. Oak Park, IL: Top Five
Books, 2008.
Spencer, Robert C., Jr. “The Work of Frank Lloyd Wright.” The Architectural
Review 71 ( June 1900): 61–72 [reprinted in H. Allen Brooks, ed., Writings
on Wright (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1981), 105–10].
Sprague, Paul E., ed. Frank Lloyd Wright and Madis on: Eight Decades of Artistic
and Social Interaction. Madison, WI: Elvehjem Museum of Art, 1990.
Steele, James. Barnsdall House: Frank Lloyd Wright. London: Phaidon, 1992.
Stodola, Barbara. Frank Lloyd Wright and Colleagues: Indiana Works. Michig an
City, IN: John C. Blank Center for the Arts, 1999.
Storrer, William Allin. The Architecture of Frank Lloyd Wright: A Complete
Catalogue. 3rd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2002 [1974, 1978].
. The Frank Lloyd Wright Companion. Rev. ed. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2006 [1993].
Sukenick, Ronald. In Form: Digressions on the Act of Fiction. Carbondale: Southern
Illinois University Press, 1985.
Sullivan, Louis The Autobiography of an Idea. New York: Dover, 1956 [1924].
. Kindergarten Chats and Other Writings. New York: Dover, 1979 [1918].
Sweeney, Robert L. Wright in Hollywood. New York and Cambridge, MA:
Architectural History Foundation / MIT Press, 1994.
Tafel, Edgar. Frank Lloyd Wright: Recollections by Those Who Knew Him. New
York: Dover, 2001 [reprint of About Wright (New York: John Wiley,
1993)].
. Years with Frank Lloyd Wright: Apprentice to Genius. New York: Dover,
1985 [reprint of Apprentice to Genius: Years with Frank Lloyd Wright (New
York: McGraw-Hill, 1979)].
Toker, Franklin. Fallingwater Rising. New York: Knopf, 2003.
Treiber, Daniel. Frank Lloyd Wright. 2nd ed. Basel, Switzerland: Birkhäuser,
2008 [1995].
Twombly, Robert C. Frank Lloyd Wright: His Life and His Architecture. New
York: John Wiley, 1979.
Van Zanten, David, ed. Marion Mahony Reconsidered. Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 2011.
Visser, Kristin. Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie School in Wisconsin. 2nd ed.
Madis on, WI: Prairie Oak Press, 1998 [1992].
Von Holst, Hermann Valentin. Country and Suburban Homes of the Prairie
School Period. New York: Dover, 1982 [reprint of Modern American Homes
(Chicago: American Technical Society, 1913)].
Waggoner, Lynda S. Fallingwater: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Romance with Nature.
New York: Universe / Rizzoli, for Fallingwater, 1996.
, ed. Fallingwater. New York: Rizzoli, 2011.
Watterson, Kathryn. Building a Dream: The Sara Smith Story. Santa Barbara,
CA: Smith Publishing, 1999.
Weil, Zarine. Building a Legacy: The Restoration of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Oak
Park Home and Studio. San Francisco: Pomeg ranate, 2001.
Weil, Zarine, Paul Goldberger, Cheryl Bachand, and Brian Reis. Frank Lloyd
Wright’s Robie House. Oak Park, IL, and Seattle, WA: Frank Lloyd Wright
Preservation Trust / Marquand Books, 2010.
Weintraub, Alan, and Alan Hess. The Architecture of John Lautner. New York:
Rizzoli, 1999.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Buildings. New York: Rizzoli, 2008.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Houses. New York: Rizzoli, 2005.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: Mid-Century Modern. New York: Rizzoli, 2007.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: Natural Design, Organic Architecture. New York:
Rizzoli, 2012.
. Organic Architecture: The Other Modernists. Salt Lake City, UT: Gibbs
Smith, 2006.
Weintraub, Alan, and Kathryn Smith. Frank Lloyd Wright: American Master.
New York: Rizzoli, 2009.
Weston, Richard. Twentieth-Century Resid ential Architecture. New York:
Abbeville Press, 2002.
Whiting, Henry II. At Nature’s Edge: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Artist Studio. Salt
Lake City: University of Utah Press, 2007.
Wickes, Molly. A Guide to Frank Lloyd Wright and the Prairie School Historic
District. Oak Park, IL: Oak Park Historic Preservation Commission, 1999.
Wilson, Richard Guy, and Sidney K. Robinson. The Prairie School in Iowa.
Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1977.
Woodin, Larry A. The Gordon House: A Moving Experience. Hillsboro, OR:
Beyond Words, 2002.
Wright, Frank Lloyd. An American Architecture. Edited by Edgar Kaufmann,
Jr. New York: Horizon Press, 1955.
. An Autobiography. San Francisco: Pomegranate, 2005 [reprinted from
second edition (New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1943); first edition of
1932 is reprinted, with additional sections from 1943, in Collected Writings,
which is the source cited in this study].
. An Autobiography. 3rd ed. New York: Horizon Press, 1977.
. Collected Writings. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. 5 vols. New York:
Rizzoli, 1992–1995.
. Drawings and Plans of Frank Lloyd Wright: The Early Period (1893–1909).
New York: Dover, 1983 [reprint of Ausgeführte Bauten und Entwürfe von
Frank Lloyd Wright (Berlin, Germany: Wasmuth, 1910)].
. The Early Work of Frank Lloyd Wright: The “Ausgeführte Bauten” of 1911.
New York: Dover, 1982.
. The Essential Frank Lloyd Wright: Critic al Writings on Architecture.
Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University
Press, 2008.
. Facsimile of the 1933 Taliesin Fellowship Brochure. Scottsdale, AZ: Frank
Lloyd Wright Foundation, 2003.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: His Living Voice. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer.
Fresno: California State University Press, 1987.
. Frank Lloyd Wright: The Complete 1925 “Wendingen” Series. New York:
Dover, 1992 [1925].
. Frank Lloyd Wright: Essential Texts. Edited by Robert Twombly. New
York: Norton, 2009.
. The Future of Architecture. New York: Horizon Press, 1953.
. Genius and the Mobocracy. New York: Duell, Sloan & Pearce, 1949.
. The Guggenheim Correspondence. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer.
Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press, 1986.
. Letters to Apprentices. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Fresno: California
State University Press, 1982.
. Letters to Architects. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Fresno: Calif ornia
. Letters to Clients. Edited by Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. Fresno: California
. The Living City. New York: Horizon Press, 1958.
. Modern Architecture: Being the Kahn Lectures for 1930. Princeton: Prince
ton University Press, 2008 [facsimile of 1931 edition, with a new introduc
tion by Neil Levine].
. The Natural House. New York: Horizon Press, 1954.
. The Story of the Tower. New York: Horizon Press, 1956.
. Studies and Executed Buildings. New York: Rizzoli, 1998 [facsimile of
Wasmuth edition of 1919 (first edition in 1910), with a new preface by
Anthony Alofsin].
. A Testament. New York: Horizon Press, 1957.
. Truth against the World. Edited by Patrick J. Meehan. New York: John
Wiley, 1987.
. The Usonian House: Souvenir of the Exhibition: “60 Years of Living Archi
tecture.” New York: Guggenheim Museum, 1953.
Wright, John Lloyd. My Father Who Is on Earth. Carbondale: Southern Illinois
University Press, 1994 [reprint of 1946 Putnam’s edition, plus comments by
Frank Lloyd Wright].
Wright, Olgivanna Lloyd. Frank Lloyd Wright: His Life, His Works, His Words.
New York: Horizon Press, 1966.
. Our House. New York: Horizon Press, 1959.
. The Shining Brow: Frank Lloyd Wright. New York: Horizon Press, 1960.
. The Struggle Within. New York: Horizon Press, 1955.
Index
Abraham Lincoln Center, 8, 150 Architectural Record, The, 3, 36, 45, 52, 53,
Abstract expressionism, 28, 64 56, 68, 72, 74, 81, 82, 83, 140, 160
Addams, Jane, 8, 33, 60, 101 Architectural Review, The, 36
A. D. German Warehouse, 60 “Architecture” (Griffin), 18–19
Adler, Dankmar, 101 Architecture and Modern Life (Brownell
Adler and Sullivan, 22, 29, 66, 69, 101, 105 and Wright), 141, 142, 143, 147
Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (Twain), 82 “Architecture of Individualism” (Wright),
Aguar, Charles E. and Berdeana, 5 142
Alofsin, Anthony, 109 Arizona Biltmore Hotel, 72, 74, 119, 146
“American Architecture Today” (Wright), “Art and Craft of the Machine, The”
139–40, 141–42 (Wright), 33–35, 82
American Federation of Architects, 143 Art Institute of Chicago, 27, 28, 40, 81,
American Renaissance (Matthiessen), 7 90–92, 107, 108, 121
Anderson, Margaret, 60 Arts and Crafts Movement, 16, 33–34, 46,
Anderson, Sherwood, 126 147–48
Annunciation Greek Orthodox Church, Arts Club of Chicago, 60, 62
153 Ashbee, C. R., 16, 33, 124
Anthony, Susan B., 8 As You Like It (Shakespeare), 13
“Antique Color Prints from the Collec “At Taliesin,” 11
tion of Frank Lloyd W right” Auditorium Building, 69, 101, 102
(Wright), 63–64 Ausgefürte Bauten und Entwürfe (Wright).
Anxious Object, The (Rosenberg), 64 See Wasmuth portfolio
App rent ices hip of Wilh elm Meist er, The Autobiography, An (Wright), 27, 55, 58, 72,
(Goethe), 100 85, 92, 93–123, 153, 154, 156–57, 158, 159
“Architect, Architecture, and the Client” Auvergne Press, 16, 22
(Wright), 24–27
“Architect, The” (Wright), 29–31 Bach, Johann Sebastian, 75, 115
“Archit ect and the Mac hine, The” Ballon, Hilary, 12
(Wright), 15–24, 29, 46, 69–70 Barney, Maginel Wright, 55
Architectural Forum, The, 140, 144–47, 152, Barnsdall, Aline, 65–66, 71, 115, 116, 118
153, 157, 158 Barthelme, Donald, 67
“Architectural Forum, The” (Wright), Beethoven, Ludwig van, 79
144–47, 152, 153, 157 Bercovitch, Sacvan, 7
Architectural League, 27, 29 Berlage, Hendrik Petrus, 61
195
196 Index
esinger, Curtis, 42
B Chicago Tribune, 44, 140
Beth Sholom Synagogue, 153 hrist, Jesus, 160, 163
C
Blake, William, 7, 98, 134, 135, 136, 163 “City, The” (Wright), 88–90
Blossom House, 21 City Residential Land Development, 59
Bock, Richard, 33 Clemens, Samuel L., 82, 97
Bogk, Frederick C., 60 Columbian Exposition, 9, 29, 105–6, 140
Bogk House, 60 Comm un ities of Frank Lloyd W right
Booth, Sherman, 60 (Marty), 10, 130
Borthwick, Mamah. See Cheney, Mamah “Competitive Plan for a ‘Scheme of Devel
Borthwick opment for a Quarter Section of Land
Brickbuilder, The, 36 in Chicago’” (Griffin), 59–60
Broadacre City, 120, 130–37, 150–51, 154–57, “Conc erni ng Lands cape Archit ect ure”
164 (Wright), 31–33
Brooks, H. Allen, 36 “Concerning the Imperial Hotel Tokio,
Brown, John, 132 Japan” (Sullivan), 68–70, 74
Brownell, Baker, 147 Conover, Allan D., 99
“Building a Democracy” (Wright), 159–60 Coonley, Avery and Queene, 33, 47
“Buildings for Recreation” (Desmond), 7 Coonley House, 33, 47, 146, 157
Building with Frank Lloyd Wright ( Jacobs), Corbusier, Le, 72, 73, 75, 80, 92, 126, 145
138 Corwin, Cecil, 10, 21, 36, 100, 103
Burnham, Daniel, 60, 106 “Country Doctor, The” (Wright), 137
Byrne, Barry, 11, 56, 57 Course in General Linguistics (Saussure), 41
“Cult ure of Our Own, A” (Wright),
Cahiers d’Art, 80 165–66
Capitol Times, The (Madison), 11
“Caravel or Motorship” (Wright), 140 Daugherty, Tracy, 67
“Cardboard House, The” (Wright), 86–88, David Copperfield (Dickens), 100
107 Deconstruction, 49
Carlyle, Thomas, 27, 30, 98 De Kooning, Willem, 63, 165
Casals, Pablo, 126 De Long, David G., 7
Centennial Exhibition (Philad
elphia), 97 Desmond, J. Michael, 7
“Century of Progress, A,” 121, 140 Derrida, Jacques, 49
Cervantes, Miguel de, 128 Dewey, John, 23, 28, 127, 128
Chandler, Alexander, 72 Dickens, Charles, 100
Charnley, James and Helen, 29 “Dinner Talk at Hull House” (Wright),
Charnley Cottage, 29 147–51
Charnley House, 24, 104 Disappearing City, The (Wright), 131–36,
Cheney, Edwin, 41 154, 164
Cheney, Mamah Borthwick, 11, 40, 43, 47, Drummond, William, 11, 56
52, 53, 56, 58, 62, 84, 101, 105, 110, 111,
112, 113, 114, 119, 157 Easton, Leonard K., 47
Cheney House, 47 Eliot, T. S., 70
“Chicago Culture” (Wright), 60–61, 66 Elmslie, George Grant, 10, 103
Index 197
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, 6, 7, 8, 42, 97, Gessell, Silvio, 156

132, 142, 143, 165 Gill, Brendan, 96
Ennis, Charles, 71 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 98, 100
Ennis House, 71, 75, 117–18 Gordon Strong Planetarium and Auto
Exp erim enti ng with Human Lives mobile Objective, 72, 74, 163
(Wright), 66 Grady Gammage Auditorium, 12
Great Depression, 3, 81, 84, 123, 125, 126,
Fallingwater, 47, 79, 127, 131, 139, 144, 145, 127, 130, 138, 139, 154
152 Griffin, Walter Burley, 11, 18–19, 20, 32,
Federal Architect, The, 143 33, 44, 56, 57, 58, 59–60, 136
Fellowship Club of Oak Park, 31, 33 Gropius, Walter, 145
Fenollosa, Ernest, 9 Guggenheim, Solomon R., 158
Fiction and the Figures of Life (Gass), 64 Guggenheim, The (Ballon et al.), 12–13
“Fireproof House for $5,000, A” (Wright), Guggenheim Museum, 12–13, 28, 50, 153,
11, 44–45 157–59, 164–65
“For ‘Izvestia’ ” (Wright), 141, 142 Gurdjieff, Georgei Ivanovitch, 59
Francke, Kuno, 109 Gutheim, Frederick, 153
Frank Lloyd Wright (McCarter), 6 Guthrie, William Norman, 47–48
Frank Lloyd Wright (Secrest), 13
Frank Lloyd Wright and the Art of Japan Hanna, Jean S. and Paul R., 47
(Meech), 9, 42 Hanna House, 47, 138, 146
Frank Lloyd Wright and the Living City Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 82
(De Long), 7 Heller, Isadore, 29, 31
Frank Lloyd Wright: Europe and Beyond Heller House, 29, 31
(Alofsin), 109 Henning, Randolph, 12
Frank Lloyd Wright: His Life and Architec Hickox House, 38–39
ture (Twombly), 36 Hiding Man (Daugherty), 67
Frank Lloyd Wright: In the Realm of Ideas Hildebrand, Grant, 5
(Pfeiffer and Nordlund), 7 Hillside Home of the Allied Arts, 84,
Freeman, Samuel, 71 123–26
Freeman House, 71, 117 “Hillside Home of the Allied Arts, The”
Froebel blocks, 6, 7, 29, 42, 96–97, 163 (Wright), 123–26
Furbeck, Rollin, 31 Hillside Home School, 28–29, 55, 84, 107,
Furbeck (Rollin) House, 29, 31 123, 127–28
Hinzenberg, Vlademar, 59
Gannett, William C., 8, 16–24, 25, 26, 29, “Hiroshige” (Wright), 40, 43
30, 33, 39, 46, 74, 150 Hiroshige, Utagawa, 9, 40, 42, 44, 63
Garrison, William Lloyd, 132 Hitchc ock, H enry-Russell, 80, 81, 82,
Gass, William H., 63, 64 153
Genius and the Mobocracy (Wright), 155–56, Hofmann, Hans, 63
161 Hokusai, Katsushika, 76
George, Henry, 128, 132, 134, 135, 139, 155, Hollyhock House, 71, 113, 116
156 Home and Garden ( Jekyll), 32
198 Index
“Home in a Prairie Town, A” (Wright), “In the Cause of Architecture: Purely

33, 37–38, 44 Personal” (Wright), 75
Honeycomb, 47, 138, 146 “In the Cause of Architecture: Second
Hood, Raymond, 140 Paper” (Wright), 56–58
House Beautiful, The (Gannett), 8, 16–24, In the Nature of Materials (Hitchcock), 153
25, 150, 160 “In the Realm of Ideas” (Wright), 90–91,
“House of the Future, The” (Wright), 137 107
Howe, John, 129 “In the Show Window at Macy’s” (Wright),
Howells, William Dean, 97 140–41
Hugo, Victor, 26, 85, 98, 101, 103 Iowa State Historical Society, 96
Hull House, 8, 33, 60, 82, 147, 150, 151 Izvestia, 141, 142
Hunchback of Notre Dame, The (Hugo),
26 Jacobs, Herbert, 47, 138
Hunt, Stephen M. N., 45 Jacobs, Katherine, 47, 138
Hunt House, 45 Jacobs First House, 47, 138, 139, 146
James, William, 23, 42
Ianelli, Alfonso, 33 Japanese Print, The (Wright), 41–43
Imperial Hotel, 40, 56, 60, 65–70, 71, 74, Jefferson, Thomas, 132, 149
113, 114–15, 118 Jekyll, Gertrude, 32
In Form (Sukenick), 64 Johnson, Herbert F., 47, 87, 88, 146
International Style, 48, 80, 92, 119, 140 Johnson, Philip, 80, 81
“In the Cause of Architecture” (Wright), Johnson Wax Buildings. See S. C. Johnson
45–51, 56 Administration Building; S. C. John
“In the Cause of Archit ect ure I: The son Research Tower
Architect and the Machine” (Wright), Jones, James Lloyd, 55
72–73 Jones, Jane Lloyd, 28–29, 55, 97, 107,
“In the Cause of Architecture II: Stan 127–28
dardization, The Soul of the Machine” Jones, Jenkin Lloyd, 8, 9, 10, 16, 55, 100,
(Wright), 73–74 101, 150
“In the Cause of Architecture II [second Jones, John Lloyd, 55, 93–94
series]: What ‘Styles’ Mean to the Jones, Nell Lloyd, 28–29, 55, 97, 107,
Architect” (Wright), 76–77 127–28
“In the Cause of Architecture III: The Jones, Richard Lloyd (cousin), 78
Meani ng of Mat er ia ls—Stone” Jones, Richard Lloyd (grandfather), 95, 97
(Wright), 77 Jones (Richard Lloyd) House, 78, 131
“In the Cause of Architecture IV: Fabri
cation and Imagination” (Wright), 74 Kagaku Chishiki, 66
“In the Cause of Architecture IX: The Kahn Lectures, 81, 82–90, 99, 107, 118, 119,
Terms” (Wright), 3, 78–80 131, 132, 147
“In the Cause of Architecture: Composi Kaufmann, Edgar A., Jr., 131
tion as Method” (Wright), 75–76 Kaufmann, Edgar A., Sr., 47, 79, 131
“In the Cause of Architecture: Confes Key, Ellen, 43
sion” (Wright), 80–81 Kimball, Fiske, 75
Index 199
Kline, Franz, 165 Marx, Karl, 160

Koch, Kenneth, 70 Marx, Leo, 7, 163
Masselink, Eugene, 129
Ladies’ Home Journal, The, 36, 37, 38, 39, Matthiessen, F. O., 7
44 McCarter, Robert, 6
La Follette, Robert, 8 Meech, Julia, 9, 42
La Miniatura, 71, 117, 118 Melson, Joshua, 58
Lamp, Robie, 98, 103 Melson House, 58
Lao Tse, 163 Melville, Herman, 82
Larkin Building, 37, 61, 107–8, 109, 157 Mencken, H. L., 124
Larkin Company, 37, 46 Mendelsohn, Erich, 126
Lautner, John, 12, 118, 123 Michelangelo, 88
Lazovich, Olgivanna Ivanova. See Wright, Michigan Society of Architects, 139, 140,
Olgivanna Lloyd 141–42
Leaves of Grass (Whitman), 18 Midway Gardens, 56, 58, 60, 67, 69, 111–12,
Levine, Neil, 12–13 113, 114, 116
Lewis, Sinclair, 124 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig, 72, 73, 80,
Liberty, 142 145
Life-work of the American Architect Frank Mikkelsen, M. A., 72
Lloyd Wright, The. See Wendingen Millard, Alice, 71, 117, 118
Lincoln, Abraham, 27, 29, 31, 132, 144, 149 Milliken Place, 57
“Line Between the Curious and the Beau Modern Architecture (Wright), 82–90, 118
tiful” (Wright), 80 Modern Architecture: An International Exhi
Little Review, 60 bition, 80
Living City, The (Wright), 154, 164 “Modern Gallery, The” (Wright), 158–59
Lloyd, Mary, 95 Möhring, Bruno, 109
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 97 Moore, Nathan G., 24, 27, 106
“Louis Henry Sullivan: Beloved Master” Moore House, 24, 27, 106
(Wright), 70 Morris, William, 16, 18, 26, 33, 34, 148
Mosher, Bob, 129
Machine in the Garden, The (Marx), 7 Mozart, Wolfgang Amadeus, 115
“Machinery, Material, and Men” (Wright), Munkwitz, Arthur R., 60
82–84 Museum of Modern Art, 80
Mackintosh, Charles Rennie, 16
Magazine of Art, 158 National Association of Realtors, 137
Mahony, Marion, 10–11, 32, 33, 52, 56, 57, National Life Insurance Building, 72, 78,
58, 121, 136 118, 153, 162
“Man” (Wright), 160 National Real Estate Journal, 137
Many Masks (Gill), 96 Natu r al House, The (Wright), 22, 154,
Marin County Civic Center, 153 160–62
Martin, Darwin D., 33, 46 Nature (Emerson), 42
Martin House complex, 33 Neutra, Richard, 11, 118
Marty, Myron A., 10, 11, 130 “New Direction, The” (Wright), 155
200 Index
“New Front ier, The: Broad ac re City” “Prea mb le to The Wond erf ul World of
(Wright), 154–55 Architecture” (Wright), 166
“New Imp er ial Hotel, The” (Wright), Price, Harold C., Sr., 48
66 Price Tower, 48, 70, 78, 134, 146, 153, 162–
“New Imp er ial Hotel, Tokio, The” 63, 164
(Wright), 67 Princeton University, 81–90, 118, 120, 131,
Niedecken, George Mann, 33 132, 147
Noel, Miriam, 58–59, 62, 71, 113–14, 115, “Print and the Renaissance, The” (Wright),
118–19 63–64
Nordland, Gerald, 7 Progressive, The, 165
Oak Park Home and Studio (Wright), 10, Radio City, 140
20, 24, 56, 59, 103, 105, 107, 109, 121, “Raymond Hood” (Wright), 140
122 Rebay, Hilla, 158
Ocatilla Desert Camp, 119–20 Red House (Morris), 16
Old England, 95 “Reflections on the Tokio Disaster” (Sul
On Architecture (Wright), 153 livan), 68, 69–70
O’Neill, Eugene, 126 Republic, The (Plato), 136
“One Will Kill the Other” (Hugo), 26 Republic Building, 162
“On Marriage” (Wright), 43–44 Residence A, 71
Organic Architecture, An (Wright), 138, Residence B, 71
143, 144 Richards, Arthur L., 60
“Organic Architecture Looks at Modern Richardson, Henry Hobson, 102
Architecture” (Wright), 160 Ripley’s Believe It or Not, 137
Roberts, Isabel, 58
antheon, 88
P Roberts House, 58
Parker, Francis, 29, 127 Robie, Frederick C., 47
Parthenon, 85–86, 88 Robie House, 40, 47
“Passing of the Cornice, The” (Wright), Rock Crest/Rock Glen, 57
84–86 Rockefeller Center, 131, 140
Pater, Walter, 65 “Romeo and Juliet” windmill, 107
Peters, Wes, 129 Roosevelt, Teddy, 46
Pfeiffer, Bruce Brooks, 7, 75, 127, 132, 166 Root, John Wellborn, 60, 102
“Philosophy of Fine Art, A” (Wright), Rootabaga Stories (Sandburg), 31
27–29 Rosenberg, Harold, 28, 63, 64
“Plan by Frank Lloyd Wright” (Wright), Royal Institute of British Architects, 138,
59–60 143, 144, 152
Plato, 136, 147 Ruskin, John, 15, 16, 18, 24, 26, 30, 41, 98, 148
“Poor Litt le A merican Archit ect ure”
(Wright), 81–82 Sandburg, Carl, 31
Pound, Ezra, 70 San Marcos in the Desert, 72, 119, 146
Prairie House, 22, 23, 32, 33, 37–38, 39, 40, Saussure, Ferdinand de, 41, 48
46, 59, 87, 107, 139, 146, 157 Schindler, Rudolf, 11, 71, 115, 116
Index 201
S. C. Johnson Administration Building, 92, 101–3, 104–5, 118, 123, 125, 132,
47, 79, 127, 131, 138, 139, 140, 147, 152, 155–56, 161
157, 159 Sullivan Cottage, 29
S. C. Johnson Research Tower, 47
Secrest, Meryle, 13 Tafel, Edgar, 79, 123, 129
Seven Lamps of Architecture, The (Ruskin), Taliesin, 41, 52, 53, 55–56, 58, 59, 71, 94, 111,
15 112, 118, 122, 144–45, 157
Shakespeare, William, 13 “Taliesin East,” 164
Shaw, Howard Van Doren, 47, 60 Taliesin Fellowship, 11, 42, 84, 92, 94, 95,
Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 98 123–29, 130, 131, 136, 138, 139, 144, 145,
Silsbee, Joseph Lyman, 9, 10, 55, 100, 101, 152, 153, 157
102 “Tal ies in Fell ows hip, The” (Wright),
Siry, Joseph M., 8 127–29, 130
Slotkin, Richard, 7 Taliesin: Journal of the Taliesin Fellowship
“Small House with ‘Lots of Room In It’ ” (Wright), 137
(Wright), 33, 38–39, 44 Taliesin magazine, 154
Sociology: A “Tract” (Wright), 110 Taliesin Square-Papers, 12, 139, 159
Solom on R. Guggenheim Museum. See Taliesin Tract, 160
Guggenheim Museum Taliesin West, 95, 122, 131, 157
“Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, The” Testament, A (Wright), 163–64
(Wright), 165–66 textile block houses, 71, 72, 74, 75, 116–18,
Song of Myself (Whitman), 77 146
Sorrentino, Gilbert, 70 Thoreau, Henry David, 7, 132, 144
“Speech to the A. F. A.” (Wright), 143 Tiffany, Louis, 32
Spencer, Robert C., Jr., 6, 36, 44 Tobin, Catherine. See Wright, Catherine
Steel Cathedral, 153 “To the Fifty-Eight” (Wright), 152–53
Stella, Joseph, 126 “To the Young Man in Archit ect ure”
St. Mark’s Tower, 48, 70, 72, 78, 120–21, (Wright), 90, 91–92, 108
134, 145–46, 153, 162, 163 Tower Hill, 8
Stockman, George, 45 Tradition of the New, The (Rosenberg), 28,
Stockman House, 45 64
Stokowsky, Leopold, 126 Transcendentalism, 6, 165
Stones of Venice, The (Ruskin), 15, 18 Trend, 142
Storer, John, 71 Tribune Tower, 140
Storer House, 71, 117 “Trier Center Neighborhood and Other
Story of the Tower, The (Wright), 162–63 Domestic Communities” (Griffin),
St. Peter’s Basilica, 88 59–60
Stravinsky, Igor, 126 T-Square, 140
Strong, Gordon, 72, 162 Twain, Mark. See Clemens, Samuel L.
“Style in Industry” (Wright), 83–84 Twentieth-Century Residential Architecture
Sukenick, Ronald, 63, 64–65 (Weston), 21
Sullivan, Louis, 6, 9–10, 13, 17, 21, 22, 24, Two Chicago Architects and Their Clients
29, 30, 37, 57, 60, 66, 68–70, 74, 78, 88, (Easton), 47
202 Index
Two Lectures on Architecture (Wright), Willey House, 131, 145

90–92 William and Mary College, 141
Twombly, Robert, 36 Williams, Chauncey, 24
“Two-Zone House” (Wright), 137 Williams, William Carlos, 70
“Tyranny of the Skyscraper, The” (Wright), Williamsburg, 141
88–89, 120 Williams House, 21, 24
Willits, Ward W., 37, 40, 43
Unitarian Meeting House, 20 Willits House, 37, 38, 39, 40
Unity Chapel, 55, 98, 100, 157 Wingspread, 47, 87, 146, 157
Unity Temple, 8–9, 37, 45, 74, 107, 108–9, Winslow, William Herman, 16–17, 22
159 Winslow House, 16–17, 22–23, 24, 104, 106
Unity Temple (Siry), 8 Women’s Aid Association, 60
University Guild, 15, 17, 24, 25, 26, 144 Woolley, Taylor, 52
University of Wisconsin, 55, 98–99, 123 World War II, 136, 139, 159
Usonian Houses, 5, 47, 131, 137–39, 145, Wright, Anna Lloyd, 62, 96, 97, 100, 101
146–47, 153, 159, 160, 161 Wright, Catherine, 31, 40, 43, 51, 56, 58,
101, 104–5, 110, 121
Vall ey of the G od-Almighty Jones, The Wright, Elizabeth Amelia, 96
(Barney), 55 Wright, Frank Lloyd: and Italy, 40–41,
Varieties of Religious Experience ( James), 42 52–54, 110; and Japan, 40, 43, 62–70,
“Village Bank Series” (Wright), 37 83–84, 112–13; and Japanese prints, 3,
Von Holst, Hermann, 52, 57 9, 41–43, 44, 63–64, 71, 76, 113; and
Voysey, C. F. A., 16 literary postmodernism, 24, 28, 41, 48–
49, 63–65, 67, 70, 145; and modernism,
Wainwright Building, 88, 89 13, 48, 70, 80, 92, 140, 145; and organic
Wallace, Mike, 154 architecture, 3, 10, 13, 20, 22, 36, 54,
Wasmuth, Ernst, 109 68, 83, 86, 90–91, 141–42, 143–45, 160;
Wasmuth portfolio (Wright), 52–54, 56, and the Progressive Movement, 10,
109 24, 46, 47, 82, 101, 136; and writing, 3,
Wendingen, 65, 68, 72, 74, 119 14, 81
Weston, Richard, 21 Wright, Iovanna Lloyd, 59, 122
“What Is the Modern Idea?” (Wright), Wright, John Lloyd, 58
142 Wright, Lloyd, 52, 71, 115, 122
What’s My Line?, 154 Wright, Olgivanna Lloyd, 7–8, 11, 59, 71,
When Democracy Builds (Wright), 164 72, 92, 95, 114, 118, 119, 122, 123
Whitman, Walt, 6, 7, 10, 18, 77, 109–10, Wright, William Cary, 96, 97, 116, 156
125, 126, 132, 142–43, 144 Wrightscapes (Aguar), 5
Whittier, John Greenleaf, 97 Wright Space, The (Hildebrand), 5
Wilde, Oscar, 28, 65 Writings of Walter Burley Griffin, The,
Willey, Malcolm E., 131 18–19

(KLINKOWITZ) Frank Lloyd Wright and His Manner of Thought

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

(KLINKOWITZ) Frank Lloyd Wright and His Manner of Thought

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

(KLINKOWITZ) Frank Lloyd Wright and His Manner of Thought

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Frank Lloyd ­Wright and

His Man­ner of ­Thought

3 Hen­rietta ­Street, Covent Garden

­Printed in the ­United ­States of Amer­ica

Li­brary of Con­gress ­Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Frank Lloyd ­Wright ­quotes are used with the per­mis­sion of

Intro­duc­tion: Truth ­against the World

Ap­pen­dix: Di­vorce ­Papers of ­William C. and Anna L. ­Wright

Al­though Frank Lloyd ­Wright is a tow­er­ing fig­ure in ­American cul­ture,

wish to thank Margo Stipe, Cu­ra­tor and Reg­is­trar of Col­lec­tions at The

“i would much ­rather build than write about build­ings, but

in­de­pen­dence. The ­phrase had char­ac­ter­ized the Lloyd Jones ­clan’s

the Froe­bel ­blocks used as in­struc­tional de­vices in the most ad­vanced

think of us, they will think of us as one. We blend, Ol­gi­vanna. We are

era’s pro­gres­sive re­li­gious ­thought. Again, the struc­ture works per­fectly

1934 and 1937, as col­lected by Ran­dolph C. Hen­ning (1992). The great

archi­tec­tu­ral work,” says Neil Le­vine, “the Sol­o­mon R. Gug­gen­heim

“the more true cul­ture a man has, the more sig­nif­i­cant

would bring to mind the Arts and ­Crafts Move­ment. Pop­u­lar­ized by

Both Gan­nett and ­Wright pro­ceed by em­pha­siz­ing the pos­i­tive,

was under­stood.” Noise re­sulted from the inter­fer­ence of sound waves

whole as­sures re­pose, which is the se­ren­ity Gan­nett prom­ises, if sim­i­lar

­ ieces, but it is re­mark­able the ex­tent to which his com­ments in 1894

hearth­side sit­ting room that over­looked the pri­vacy of a rear gar­den,

built on the near north side of Chi­cago in an urban neigh­bor­hood quite

Like a ­preacher, ­Wright ­chides his lis­ten­ers with shame­ful char­ac­

by one of the best ­French Im­pres­sion­ist col­lec­tions in the coun­try, and

pass­ing ones at that: in a pros­pec­tus for the Ta­lie­sin Fel­low­ship and in

fac­tor. These were years when ­Wright coop­er­ated most com­fort­ably

ma­chine. ­Wright’s the­sis is that the ma­chine is in truth their ­friend.

­ hough not so iden­tified, this vi­sion ­matches what ­Wright en­coun­

as the twen­t i­e th cen­t ury gets under­way , Frank

one an­other, an axial sense de­riv­ing from a cen­trally ­placed fire­place, a

Mrs. Wil­lits would ­prompt the ­architect’s next piece of writ­ing by

makes bold moves with the con­stit­u­ent ele­ments in home con­struc­tion,

Le­o­nard K. Eas­ton ­contrasts ­Wright’s re­mark­able cli­ents with the

Nor­man Guth­rie, so­cially pro­gres­sive rec­tor of St. ­Mark’s in lower

An in­teg­rity of gram­mar pro­duces an in­te­gral whole, ­Wright be­lieves,

and more than com­pen­sate for any re­duc­tion in ven­ti­la­tion, il­lu­mi­na­

un­threat­en­ing to his ego. Not men­tioned in the essay, of ­course, is his

The basis of that con­trol is ac­tu­ally broad­ened in his in­itial com­ments,

­ lease them just as well—with a copy of ­Wright! And by def­i­ni­tion any

worse. Mir­iam was soon threat­en­ing di­vorce her­self, on in­creas­ingly

by means of bet­ter cir­cu­la­tion and oc­cu­pancy (his own man­tra) in which

un­named, but de­scribed by a per­son no less than Hen­drik Pe­trus

the art of japan is not an in­flu­ence on the work of Frank

com­mis­sions a huge home and sur­round­ing the­a­ter com­plex in Hol­ly­

­ right’s in­no­va­tions of con­struc­tion and de­sign come to­gether to serve

and a grow­ing con­scious­ness that his slav­ery has been ­self-imposed”

pro­jects such as the Na­tional Life In­su­rance Build­ing in Chi­cago and

the lib­er­a­tion of think­ing from such ob­struc­tions to its nat­u­ral, or­

mind, and how ar­tic­u­late build­ings such as the ­textile-block Ennis

ex­pressed in geom­e­try at the cen­ter of every ­Nature-form we see” (CW

owes its de­vel­op­ment to the ­individual’s crea­tive power, each per­son

pro­pound­ing a phi­lo­so­phy not just of archi­tec­ture but of art, and

re­di­rected to­ward a cel­e­bra­tion of all the ma­chine can ac­com­plish. As

of art. For his own ­country’s cul­ture, he rec­om­mends a sim­plic­ity that

first anec­dote is a scene pre­sented as dra­mat­i­cally as any­thing from his

in­teg­rity as a work of steel and glass. ­Wright looks for­ward to Broa­da­cre

frank lloyd ­wright’s story of his own life be­gins in

Frank Lloyd Wright and

His Manner of Thought

3 Henrietta Street, Covent Garden

Printed in the United States of America

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Frank Lloyd Wright quotes are used with the permission of

Introduction: Truth against the World

Appendix: Divorce Papers of William C. and Anna L. Wright

Although Frank Lloyd Wright is a towering figure in American culture,

wish to thank Margo Stipe, Curator and Registrar of Collections at The

“i would much rather build than write about buildings, but

independence. The phrase had characterized the Lloyd Jones clan’s

the Froebel blocks used as instructional devices in the most advanced

think of us, they will think of us as one. We blend, Olgivanna. We are

era’s progressive religious thought. Again, the structure works perfectly

1934 and 1937, as collected by Randolph C. Henning (1992). The great

architectural work,” says Neil Levine, “the Solomon R. Guggenheim

“the more true culture a man has, the more significant

would bring to mind the Arts and Crafts Movement. Popularized by

Both Gannett and Wright proceed by emphasizing the positive,

was understood.” Noise resulted from the interference of sound waves

whole assures repose, which is the serenity Gannett promises, if similar

ieces, but it is remarkable the extent to which his comments in 1894

hearthside sitting room that overlooked the privacy of a rear garden,

built on the near north side of Chicago in an urban neighborhood quite

Like a preacher, Wright chides his listeners with shameful charac

by one of the best French Impressionist collections in the country, and

passing ones at that: in a prospectus for the Taliesin Fellowship and in

factor. These were years when Wright cooperated most comfortably

machine. Wright’s thesis is that the machine is in truth their friend.

hough not so identified, this vision matches what Wright encoun

as the twent ie th cent ury gets underway , Frank

one another, an axial sense deriving from a centrally placed fireplace, a

Mrs. Willits would prompt the architect’s next piece of writing by

makes bold moves with the constituent elements in home construction,

Leonard K. Easton contrasts Wright’s remarkable clients with the

Norman Guthrie, socially progressive rector of St. Mark’s in lower

An integrity of grammar produces an integral whole, Wright believes,

and more than compensate for any reduction in ventilation, illumina

unthreatening to his ego. Not mentioned in the essay, of course, is his

The basis of that control is actually broadened in his initial comments,

lease them just as well—with a copy of Wright! And by definition any

worse. Miriam was soon threatening divorce herself, on increasingly

by means of better circulation and occupancy (his own mantra) in which

unnamed, but described by a person no less than Hendrik Petrus

the art of japan is not an influence on the work of Frank

commissions a huge home and surrounding theater complex in Holly

right’s innovations of construction and design come together to serve

and a growing consciousness that his slavery has been self-imposed”

projects such as the National Life Insurance Building in Chicago and

the liberation of thinking from such obstructions to its natural, or

mind, and how articulate buildings such as the textile-block Ennis

expressed in geometry at the center of every Nature-form we see” (CW

owes its development to the individual’s creative power, each person

propounding a philosophy not just of architecture but of art, and

redirected toward a celebration of all the machine can accomplish. As

of art. For his own country’s culture, he recommends a simplicity that

first anecdote is a scene presented as dramatically as anything from his

integrity as a work of steel and glass. Wright looks forward to Broadacre

frank lloyd wright’s story of his own life begins in

ephyr, or in the era’s supreme example of automotive luxury, a Cord,

none available at present. Come back in a few months, he’s told—hardly

phantasmagoria of streetside advertising he’d encountered when first

when his country’s culture surrendered to the falsely classic. It is when

block, letting them function as ventilation. In the Larkin project, charac

was the square or cube, with its suggestion of integrity, as opposed to

practice, from the bootlegged projects to the Prairie House, and so

a refusal to face the tragedy, or—at worst—a suggestion that Frank

In writing this epitaph for Midway Gardens—opened in 1914,

marriage and celebration of the sounder ethics grounded in honesty that

means of a cantilever. In terms of its footprint, the building is divided

rive-in fare as The Howling II: Your Sister is a Werewolf. As such,

two principles he would cite frequently in coming years: the saguaro

An Autobiography appeared in the spring of 1932. By October, its first

s tudents’ rounding as well. Reading the brochure today, in light of

would be not only innovative but based on the informing principle of

Note the inhibitors, which are the restrictions by conventional edu

favorite words, and if he used it in the conservative sense of “root,” then

rompted many parents to withdraw their children from the Hillside

in 1932, with the publication of An Autobiography and the