benajam

Little Truss on the Prairie

Sat, 31 Jan 2009 14:00:38 GMT

In 1968 furrier Blackglama launched an advertising campaign, "What becomes a Legend Most?" . One of fashions most memorable ad campaigns. Ads featured celebrity icons Cher, Elizabeth Taylor, Judy Garland, Rudolph Nureyev, Catherine Deneuve and Diana Ross where wrapped in Blackglama Fur. The original ads ran until the early Nineties. Artist Andy Warhol would subsequently use a Warholian modified copy of the ad featuring Judy Garland as part of his silkscreen series legends. The premise of the ads were, what makes a legend as opposed to star or a mere celebrity. The simplicity of the campaign was its success, iconographic imagery combined with a through provoking statement. The use of iconic imagery and its manipulation isn't anything new. This trickery of gestalt is what makes an artist's signature. Absolut Vodka has used the distinct shape of their vodka bottle for years in an on going advertising campaign. Even employing many artists in the process.

Oklahoma City based architect Rand Elliott has achieved a similar success in his design of Pops, http://www.pops66.com a combination gas station, restaurant and soda purveyor located on the Mother Road, Route 66 just outside of Arcadia, Oklahoma. Elliot's design recognizes the iconic with a 66 foot high LED ringed bottle in front of a crisp wedge of a building akin the imagery of Ed Ruscha's well known print, Standard Station.

Although not the first architect to tackle such a project. Frank Lloyd Wright examined how to transform this mundane building type into high architecture. Architectural historian Henry Russell Hitchcock featured a Shaker Heights, Ohio Standard Oil gas station http://xroads.virginia.edu/~MA01/Lisle/30home/modern/modern.html in his seminal catalog, The International Style. Mobil hired industrial designer Raymond Loewy to create a signature gas station prototype in the 60's. Palm Springs based architect Albert Frey's design for a gas station now acts as the gateway to Palm Springs on Palm Canyon Drive as well as the tourist information center.

Pops not only continues and learns from its predecessors it incorporates its own regional influence. Elliott hails from Clinton, another Oklahoma city located on the Mother Road and is familiar with the roadside attractions created and used to draw the traveler in. As Elliott states, "There is 'gimmick' on Route 66. Some true, some tall tails. There is always a 'hook' to get you to stop and look and buy something." Elliott's interpretation of this building form also links its to its location. As Elliott states, " Its a building of our time... Imagine... a building emerging from the soil...growing out of the earth. connected to the place. "

Metropolis Magazine in their feature article on Rand Elliott said, "Often Elliott’s pitch comes in the form of a poetic description of the project, what he calls a 'word painting' that evokes the feeling of the space he intends to create." In this case the painting was sold to Aubrey McClendon the CEO of Chesapeake Gas. McClendon is a repeat patron who has used Elliott for several of Chesapeake's office facilities as well as provided the funds to build a boat house for a rowing club on the Oklahoma River near downtown Oklahoma City. Part of a redevelopment project of parkland that will also be designed by Elliott.

Patron, McClendon owns a commercial tree farm and a recreational site in Arcadia, just northeast of Oklahoma City, and with development increasing in the area, he asked the architect to design a gas station/convenience store to serve the community that wouldn’t look like every other one in America. Elliott imagined an homage to the soda fountain that would play on the nostalgic appeal of Route 66, with a glass facade displaying 12,000 pop bottles, an outdoor patio that looks into a redbud orchard, and a 66-foot pop bottle in front. His word painting for POPS went, in part: “Freedom…to travel the open road / to explore the countryside.

The design of Pops has the attitude of Howard Roark from Ayn Rand's, Fountainhead with a touch of Robert Venturi's learning from Las Vegas. My hope is that Pops is able to shine for many years and not suffer the insensitive adulteration or a bad remudling of a future owner. As in the Blackglama ad campaign, "What becomes a legend most?". Its the ability to surpass being a design star to becoming a legend.

If its Tuesday it must be Belgium

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 15:38:26 GMT

I received a text message from my friend Andy in Pittsburgh a day ago. It was brief , " I miss you". I was amused for a moment then thought how personal, a text message. Andy always had this comment he'd make about people who acted like they were so overwhelmed by their lives. The ones who seemingly were just too busy but really wanted to squeeze you in for a lunch or drink. In reality he was talking about himself . He suffered from failing to see the forest through the trees. I thought back to all the times he'd last minute cancel on me. I try to refocus and not be drawn into the dark side. Ultimately, Andy is an OK guy. He suffers from all the frailties that everyone else does. I'm just in a hyper critical mood.

I have an ability to attract the overwhelmed. I recalled in the past week how this guy James who works for a financial services company has been after me to hang out. We make tentative plans, then, the last minute extension for more time followed by the inevitable cancellation. I really never book any of these meetings in pen on my social calendar. Therefore, I don't typically feel upset when this is the outcome.

James is one of those guys who claims he's not the typical fag. He's as real as they get according to him. Then he qualifies his free spirit persona by stating how stressful his job is. An immediate cue that reality must be alluding him. 3 broken dates doesn't make you real. It just makes you rude or even worse inconsiderate. To be honest I never take any of these offers to get together seriously. If it happens it happens becomes my mantra whenever I receive one of these offers from James or the multitude of others in the past, names to vast to mention.

I know I'll never be eulogized for my social skills. I've blown people off and have been less then charming on occasion. Nor will I be writing the big book of gay etiquette. I just know I won't be making a commitment I can't keep this week and will try to be more gracious when dealing with the overwhelmed.

Free at last, free at last, thank god we're free at last.

Tue, 20 Jan 2009 10:48:05 GMT

"Make no little plans. They have no magic to stir men's blood and probably will not themselves be realized."Daniel Burnham

I remember back to my last semester of college in the landscape architecture program at the University of Wisconsin taking the senior design practicum. Much of the dialog was regarding the design theory and the real life practice. It was at a time where the concepts of the design charrette were coming into vogue. Urban and architectural project design by committee thus, removing the designer's ego. Process mapping, focus groups, resource inventorying became the basis of good design. This was the ultimate insult to the ego based designer and the final blow to the egotist , the post project evaluation. I sort of always knew I would never really become a designer. But I sort of ate this stuff up as I always saw myself as a big picture guy.

Conservative pundits love to claim that liberals hold no real values. That its easier to attack than support. I sometimes find that later true but not the first part of the statement. Actually both parties can be accused of the later part of the statement. Ann Coulter doesn't seem to ever run out of venom, nor Sean Hannity. I find it amusing that the conservatives who don't want big government to regulate the robber barons of business find it necessary to micro manage the social morays of society. I can lay out most of my core values on any given day and at a minimum I can't say that greed is one of them.

To me the failure of the last 8 years of the Bush administration has been the removal of the charrette. This was the ultimate insult to democracy. It appeared that every major policy decision and resulting failure could be tied back to this ego based design process. Energy policy, the wars, post disaster recovery ala FEMA, economic policy, and so on and so on. Which makes all of Bush's rhetoric regarding nation building democracy creation in other countries even more ridiculous.

Today we are swearing in a new president to me whom I believe will bring back the charrette. My expectation isn't that a miracle is going to happen. Nor do I hope the charrette runs his decision making process. My hope is that the remaining vestiges of democracy we have will be a part of the decision process.

Que Serra, Serra

Sun, 04 Jan 2009 04:10:12 GMT

Today was the most perfect day weather wise. High clouds, blue sky, perfect temperature and humidity. I met my friend Tim for breakfast. Afterwords we determined that there had to be a way to enjoy the gift that had been given us. Before departing the restaurant in our separate vehicles I made a commitment to come up with something to do out of doors and call him.

I drove home and pondered the task. For some reason I thought there was an art fair going on in the Dallas Arts District downtown. I went on line to check out the details to find that it would be February before that event would start. Looking at the other venues in the arts district I discovered there was free admission for the day at the Nasher Sculpture Center a roofless museum as its advertised on their website for the enjoyment and study of sculpture.  Calling Tim back it was now set that a visit to the sculpture center would be the activity of the day.

I left to pick Tim up and drive to the museum. Unfortunately I had forgot that the King Tut exhibit was also going on next door to the Nasher at the Dallas Museum of Art. That reality hit when we throngs of hapless mummy seeking zombies being drawn to the museum grounds. We began to look for parking and saw a sign that indicated parking for $20 and other for $15. Scrambling around the block to find the holiest of hollies an on street metered parking spot with 40 minutes remaining. The gods had once more shined upon us this day.

Admission was courtesy of Target as a part of their on going support of the arts and education. Little did Tim and I realize that we were outside the targeted demographic for the free admission. Upon entering the building there were more children running around out of control than at a burning orphanage. It appeared that every suburban McMansion must had be evacuated for the day to bring the kinder for a brief glimpse of culture. These were the parents determined to exposure their children to sculpture outside of the bounds of the life size Ronald McDonald sitting on a bench or the Hamburgler and Mayor McCheese at their local McDonald's restaurant playground.

The current show at the Nasher was a homage to Raymond and Patsy Nasher, the museum's patrons. It focused on how they became interesting in sculpture, how they lived with their collection and the relationships they established with many of the artists represented in the collection. A french family found particular interest in early acquisition of the Nashers, a Brancusi piece entitled the Kiss. A relatively small rectilinear piece about 10 inches high by 6 inches wide. The attribution tag on the wall showed the piece on the Nasher's dinning room table as a centerpiece flanked by 2 floral arrangements.

Passing through the galleries we reviewed other seminal treasures procured over the years, each with their own compelling back story. The crowd made it difficult to maneuver so we sought the open space of the garden. The frontispiece to the Nasher is a pavilion by Renzo Piano. One of his jewel box buildings that I believe he does well. The garden in the back is by landscape architect Peter Walker. Walker's work is palatable but never really inspiring.

Tim commented how mature the trees looked for having only been planted less than 10 years ago. I mentioned it helped to have full size plantings to begin with. We began our walk through the garden on a path of cold springs granite. The path ended abruptly and Tim turned to me to say, this doesn't really make a lot of sense and that the sculptures don't really seem to have enough presence in the way that they're displayed and laid out.

I was more consumed by dwelling on the rampant children everywhere. I brought a camera with me hoping that I'd be able to have a remembrance of this beautiful day. Alas each one of the sculptures had kids clinging to them like lint in the dryer trap. I eaves dropped on the conversations between parents and children with a snide sense of amazement. Did they really think little Johnny and Suzy even if they were hopped up on their morning dose of Ritalin were going to appreciate any of this?

I spied in front of me a piece by Richard Serra. The scale, shape and canted walls prevented anyone from approaching too closely. The only other people near were 2 girls that I'm guessing were 6ish. The one said to the other, where is the sculpture? Validating my earlier thought. Even so the comment had a certain sense of truth. I snapped a shot from inside the 2 curved walls that this sculpture presented. Is pure form sculpture or just form ran through my head.

Serra isn't particularly one of my favorite sculptors. His use of monumental size rusted cor-ten steel plates always makes me leery of a catastrophic structural failure. Or even worse that my tetanus shot may not be current enough if I encounter a rough edge accidentally.   My seeming mistrust is also attributed to a large installation piece that he did in New York City. Covering a plaza in the financial district the arced wall provided muggers the perfect staging ground for purse snatching just as the Somali coast does today for pirates.

After a few more moments strolling. Tim receives a text message asking if anyone was going to brunch today? That was our queue to exit the museum after a quick stroll through the gift shop. I mentioned that I would like to look at the Winspear Opera House by Richard Rogers under construction down the street. I thought that might at least salvage some of the desire for an aesthetic moment. We left for our next venue and the task of deciding where to eat lunch under the high clouds, blue sky, perfect temperature and humidity.

2001 a Taco Bell Oddity

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 16:22:28 GMT

Monday through Friday on the days I actually go into to work. A few blocks from the my house I drive by the bell tower for the Cathedral of Hope, designed by the architect, Philip Johnson en route to my banal office cubical. This structure has always confused me. I never quite got what it was suppose to symbolize. What statement was this monolith suppose to represent.

I always want to queue Also Sprach Zarathustra by Strauss on my CD player as I pass by. First as a comedic gesture and reference to the monolith in 2001 Space Odyssey. In 2001 the monolith seemingly only appears when there is an alignment of the sun, moon and stars. Unlike the magic or special effect of the movie, Johnson's monolith is present everyday. I love the reference to Strauss, because its a literal reference is to Frederick Nietzsche and his Zarathustra Essays. In which Zarathustra is the god of the Zoroastrians, the early holders of the alchemical tradition,

Johnson always loved to quote Neitzche in his writings and his talks. He uses references to define his source of aesthetic philosophy. However, unlike the great Zarathustra there would be no gold produced from tin here in Johnson's work.

Johnson always said a trip to the Chartres Cathedral was the most inspiring moments of his childhood and it followed him throughout his life. I recall a quote in which he roughly says, he'd rather live in the Chartres Cathedral with the nearest bathroom blocks away than in an uninspiring work of architecture. If that's the case you're in good fortune here. The tower is safely tucked away behind the 24 hr Jack in the Box and Taco Bell with extended late night hours. Your need for an open restroom is only steps away.

If you didn't know that this structure was the bell tower for a church, one could easily mistake it as a beacon for fast food mini mall. In a way I guess it actually is. If you believe the need for a mega church to worship has a smell of crass commercialism. The tower is only part of a campus that has yet to be fully realized.

Gay church pastor, Rev Mike Piazza is the brainchild of the yet unrealized Johnson designed project. He was inspired by Rev Dr Robert Schuller and his Crystal Cathedral also designed by Johnson. Seeking a gay brand image equivalent to Schuller's ministry he saught out Johnson. When he also found out that Johnson was gay, I believe he must of had a spiritual orgasm. Had he done a bit more research he might of discovered that Johnson didn't believe in god and wasn't particularly spiritual as well as being closeted most of his adult life. Legend goes that Barbara Walters was one of the first of his high powered friends to out him for not ever bringing his long term companion to any society dinner parties.

So many crazy associated thoughts pass through my head. I focus for a moment on Victor Hugo and The Hunchback of Notre Dame where he refers to cathedrals as books of stone. The Great Work of human transformation were embodied in Chartres, Notre Dame, etc. I sarcastically think to myself that Johnson had another source of stone in mind when designing the Cathedral of Hope. Bedrock, the mythical hometown to the Flintstones. The design of the unbuild cathedral is essentially a windowless block of concrete that looks like an iceberg. Perhaps the source of the crushed ice for the nearby Sonic. I'll cut Johnson some slack here as the proposed building is directly beneath the final approach to nearby Love Field. No one particularly wants their prayer to be interupted as the 1:30 PM Southwest flight to Austin is over head.

Your choice to enter the church property is 3 fold. One is to drive through the parking lot of defunct Ruth's Chris Steak House, alternatively you can enter through a car dealer's back lot or on a short street between Jack in the Box and Taco Bell. The main entrance sign appears to on the route through a car dealer lot. I turn left at the stop light, pass the Texico Station and Sonic Drive In, the tower is just there for another fleeing moment.

A 1957 speech to the Washington State Chapter of the AIA comes to mind, entitled 100 years, Frank Lloyd Wright and Us, by Philip Johnson discusses his love hate relationship with Wright. "Mr Wright has been annoying me for some. (I didn't say that he wasn't a great architect) was the aside comment. The speech goes onto a diatribe about romanticism, beauty and how poorly some of Wright's buildings, especially homes were constructed. At this point it dawns on me that I've had the distinction of having lived next to structure by both architects.

A bunch of quips that Wright used to describe Johnson come to mind. Johnson was often called the enfant terrible of architecture for his "intellectual" approach to architecture. I agree with a comment that a fellow architect made referring to Johnson. In Sonheim's musical, Into the Woods the prince reveals, "I was trained to be charming, not sincere".

Johnson's official biographer, Franz Schulze, has said that anyone ready to accuse Johnson of lacking originality has to wait his turn in line. Ambitious beyond his talent (or, as Frank Lloyd Wright said, educated beyond his capacity), Johnson is one of the century's most gifted copyists. I prefer to think shameless self promoter who like a gay stylist who somehow convinced his patrons in believing in they've recieved the Emperor's new clothes.

The Frank Lloyd Wright structure I lived by was the Robert (Robie) Lamp house (1903)in my back yard when I lived in a late Victorian house in Madison, Wisconsin. The Lamp house also confused me but in a different way.

The story goes that Lamp was childhood friend of Wright when he lived in Madison, Wisconsin. For some reason Wright took an affinity to Lamp who had some sort of congenital condition that made it difficult for him to walk. Wright had previously designed another house for Lamp on a rocky out cropping on Lake Mendota which was aptly named Rocky Roost.

The oddity to me of the later of the 2 houses was that if Lamp used a wheel chair, the house Wright designed had to be the most ADA non-compliant house possible as it was 4 levels included the basement level used as a business office by Lamp and a 3rd story roof top pergola. It sort of looked in plan and elevation like one of those bad student projects one would do in their first semester of drafting at a tech school.

The Lamp house also had a dubious site. It is centered in the middle of the block behind houses and commercial buildings a stones throw from the State Capital. I was only in the house once. The years hadn't been kind. It was divided into apartments. The roof top pergola with a view of lakes Mendota and Monona long since badly enclosed. It looked like a sad and forlorn. The owners at the time made an attempt of period furnishings with a couple of Stickly Morris chairs in the living room. Even so the house still had glimce of charm left in it.

My 20 min drive is nearing an end. I turn into the entrance drive of my office, pull out my encoded badge to open the gate to the back 40 parking lot. This is my queue that my mental masturbation regarding architecture is done for the day. Its into to the uninspiring cube for the day.

No Country for Auld Lang Syne

Tue, 30 Dec 2008 07:02:43 GMT

On a fateful winters day, December 31, 1983 I embarked on a journey that would forever alter my perspective for the meaning of New Years Eve. My friend Tim had convinced me that it would be a great idea to spend the hallowed night in Appleton, Wisconsin with his high school friend Greg.

The drive from Madison was uneventful until we hit a blizzard somewhere past Columbus. Unyeilding we trekked onto the wilds of the Fox River Valley like Mormons heading west for the promise land. For this was to be the New Years to end all New Years.

Tim had just broken up with his first boyfriend and I was terminally single. So the opportunity for a new adventure seemed exciting. Besides we'd be new meat in uncharted territory. Added enticement was for a $10 cover charge you could drink and eat free all night at the local gay bar 1101 West.  How could this formula fail. Booze, boys and food a virtual endless feeding trough The glamor and glitter of Appleton awaited but first we had to pick up Greg in Oshkosh.

For some reason which has long escaped me we switched cars. Leaving the safety and comfort of my 1979 Buick Century or the Bui as we called it, since the C and K had long fallen of the name plate on the trunk, for Greg's Fiat station wagon.    Affectionately named Chitty Chitty Bang Bang by him.

The Fiat was a marvel of Italian engineering. The marvel mostly centered around the fact that the thing ran after you push started it and if you scrapped the windows clear of frost from the inside you had a marginally fit vehicle that was unsafe at any speed. Apparently it doesn't get cold enough in Italy to require putting heaters in their cars or at least ones that work. I think I would of felt safer in a Covere with no brakes that ran on hydrogen and Von Hindenburg painted on the side.

The 20 mile drive from Oshkosh on a normal day would be about 30 minutes. Unfortunately the blizzard first encountered earlier in the day had continued adding another 10 inches of snow. Thus making the trip last for what seemed like over 2 hours. I remember my right arm becoming numb from either gripping the arm rest in out of fear or it could of just been frost bite.. Had it been my left arm I would of probably diagnosed myself with the beginnings of a heart attack or stroke. I should of only been so lucky.

After a 2 attempts we managed to plow our way through the snow into the parking lot of 1101 West. We had arrived. I had begun to have misgivings. I wasn't going to be the wet blanket for the evening. However, I noticed there were only a handful other cars in the parking lot. Even so I pretended to be excited about entering the club.

As the door swung open the scene was far from festive. There was group of what appeared to be a herd flannel clad farm girls on on side of the club and a gaggle of overly coiffed guys in shinny polyester shirts on the other. A large smorgasbord loomed in the center of the room just askew from the dance floor separating the opposing teams like the Berlin Wall. We paid the cover and proceeded to stake out our real estate in what I referred to as Switzerland, somewhere in the middle and by the front. I wanted to make sure if the apparent cold war broke out into full confrontation we'd have a clear exit route to the front door.

I think I handled the situation the best of the 3 of us, at least initially. Tim, wanted to ensure drinks were flowing and ran to the bar. Greg, was a bit defensive about the grim situation he had drawn us into. The crowd seemed about as welcoming as Jews would have been received in 1950 at a Greenwich, Connecticut Country Club.

I remember having a couple of drinks before I thought I should venture to check out the buffet. What a feast it was. The heights of Wisconsin cuisine was represented. Swedish meatball. steak tar tar, a cheese wheel of cheddar the size of a small SUV tire, herring, pickles, jello fluff salad and other church social favorites I've long forgotten. I was a bit nervous approaching the spread for fear that one of the lesbians would view this as invasion of their territory and attack me with the cleaver planted in the cheddar wheel.

As the midnight hour approached it was clear that Tim was getting sauced. Greg had revealed to me that one of the reasons that he wanted me to present this evening was that he had a crush on me. I began thinking that I should make another trip to the buffet and maybe this time one of the lesbians would bludgeon me. Greg was a nice enough guy, just not someone I could ever see myself with. The moment was interrupted when, Tim began to have a breakdown. Lamenting his recent break up and the lack of any prospects for a kiss from a cute boy at midnight combined with 10 drinks caused a scene that rivaled Neely O'Hara's breakdown in the Valley of the Dolls.

Thankfully, Greg, a drama major err theater was drawn to the comfort Tim as Rodolfo was to Mimi in act VI of La Boheme. This was my opportunity to flee to the sanctuary of the restroom. My head was reeling as I stood in front of the urinal. At which point I notice that 2 of the coiffed boys were in front of the large mirror that flanked a row of sinks. Both were applying eyeliner and lip gloss with intensely that Michael Angelo had painted the Sistine Chapel.

I eaves dropped on the restroom conversation to discover that pending in a few weeks would be the Miss 1101 contest. "That bitch's days are numbered", one said to the other. As he discussed his plans to claim the title that his rival had held for the prior year. "Those other bitches are going down as well" was the comment that followed.

Dear god what spiral of horror had the entire evening become. I didn't want to rush out the pending emotional crisis that awaited outside with Tim and Greg. Nor, did I want to be hear the rest of the plot to dethrone the current monarchy. Also I feared the venomous drag queens of Winnebago County would find the need to kill me if I knew any more of their clandestine plan. If I had the ability to click my heels like Dorothy I would of even preferred the bleak black and white version of Kansas to this dilemma.

I returned to Switzerland, the table that I once thought was neutral territory. Even though I never really liked Tim's ex that much and I resented the manor in which he behaved after they broke up even more. I understood the pain of love lost and knew I needed to be there for support. I would deal with the Greg situation as best as I could which at the time which was to pretend nothing really happened or was said.

Midnight hit like the first atomic bomb test at the Trinity site. We all knew something had been unleashed that would have repercussions for a long time. I couldn't qualify my feelings at the time and I don't really remember what really happened at that point. I was still numb with the power of the explosion that had just took place.

The evening at 1001 ended shortly after that and the drive back to Oshkosh was silent except for spinning tires in the snow and the sound of the windshield whippers rhythmically slapping back and forth. I contemplated that in one way or another everyone had fatefully gathered that night. Perhaps each seeking something.   At a minimum companionship, the comfort spending it friends who provided a peer support group or the envy and desire of a prize befitting a queen.

A quarter century has passed. I'm not sure who became Miss 1101 West or what became of the lesbian farm girls.  I imagine years of fights with girl on girl action in the parking lot at bar time and in the men's room during pageant time. I know through second hand information Greg lives in New York City with his long term companion. Form letters enclosed in Christmas cards summarize his year in review. Many of them I've read year after year detail how fabulous his life has turned out to be. Insert vicious snide, catty or satirical comment here. Tim has found love and loyalty with his boyfriend Gary.   I'm still terminally single.

I once again will be spending this New Years Eve with Tim along with 2 other friends. For Tim and I it will be another in many we've spent together since our first ill fated celebration. I will take comfort in knowing that I'm spending time with only person I think would ever want to on this night. For him I hope that it provides the love, loyalty and admiration that our friendship has been all these years.

Chicago Dinner Party

Mon, 29 Dec 2008 16:13:32 GMT

My friend Patrick called me last night while he was in route back to Chicago from Madison, Wisconsin. He is such a creature of habit. I usually get a call when he is between Madison and Milwaukee while he's passing the former Gobbler restaurant. http://gobblermotel.blogspot.com/ We had several missed connections in the past week in an attempt to catch up with each other.

I wanted to hear about his recent trip to Barcelona and he about my LA/Palm Springs weekend. I told him I felt like I relived our 1997 trip there as I had just recently seen the Woody Allen flick, Vicky Christine Barcelona. I was the role of Christine and Patrick was Vicky. Our conversation continued about art and architecture in LA. He was going to be in LA for 5 days for work and wanted to know my opinion on the Renzo Piano addition to the LA County Art Museum.

After a bit of a drawn out critique of how dysfunctional I thought the way-finding of the museum's campus was. He brought up the topic of a new installation piece that Jeff Koons was going to do. Something about a full size replica of a steam locomotive hanging 70 feet in the air from a crane spewing steam. I sort of tuned out other than to say what I'm sure I thought was a comment with the cleverness of a Dorothy Parker quip.

My phone battery was dying so I told him I'd call him from my other phone. A few minutes passed as I looked throughout my house to find it. Finding the phone in my kitchen my thoughts turned to a dinner party that Patrick had once planned when he first moved to Chicago. I called it the Chicago dinner party back when it was in the planning stages. A lame reference to Judy Chicago's 1977 art installation. I think I also had some obscene alliteration to kunstwerk in the mix as well.

Patrick always took joy in finding the obscure or the kitch in rummage sale objects. One summer while on his yearly sojourn to Edgefest, the annual week long fund raising event for Edgewood College. An event only seconded in sacredness to him by the Sun Prairie Cornfest. He found 5 state commemorative plates. These were the kind of souvenir that you'd find at the Howard Johnson rest stops that littered the Illinois Tollroad to the Pennsylvania Turnpike in the 50's though 60's and pre-McDonalds.

Snatching up this find as if he had found the Arc of the Covenant. He decided he would host a dinner party inviting his dearest friends. I think my comment was who gets Indiana? So the plans were in the works. For some reason he had concerns about the safety of the dinnerware. He was so forward thinking. This was years before had discovered tainted dog food, toothpaste and lead paint toys imported from China.

A few weeks later he purchased a lead testing kit. His suspicions had proved to be valid. The testing procedure was to put a drop of this mystery substance on the object you were testing for lead. Spreading the plates on the table he methodically took the eye dropper provided in the kit and proceeded with a tear sized drop on each place. The diagnostics of the test would be that if the object had the presence of lead a chemical reaction would take place and testing chemical would turn various shades from pink to red depending on the lead content present. A color key was provided on the back of the kit's packaging.

Illinois, Wisconsin and Minnesota had only a minor tint of pink. Iowa, fared less favorably. Indiana and Pennsylvania turned shade of flame red so intense that it wasn't even indexed on the color key. Fearing that the content of lead on these plates reached the level of immediate cognitive disorder or imminent death if you consumed anything served on the plate. The dinner party plans came to an screeching halt.

The call arrived to my house with the sound of disappointment in Patrick's voice. He mentioned the test results were in and the party would have to be canceled. I said well you really don't have to cancel. You just have to rethink the guest list. I claimed Wisconsin and provided a few suggestions on who should get Indiana and Pennsylvania for the main course. But alas it was not to be.

Calling Patrick back after finding my phone he was now approaching the second leg of his driving ritual. Kenosha and Woodmans grocery store to stock up his rental car like a Calistoga wagon heading west. It would be another month at least before he'd have to opportunity to shop the open spaces of the prairie sized big box retailer. We talked a few more minutes while he sat in the parking lot. I knew he wouldn't want to talk once in the store as it would be a whirlwind of activity akin to the 60's game show Supermarket Sweep.

I said goodbye and that we'd hopefully chat again soon. But in the back of my mind I was thinking if the dinner party was today, who would I want to get Indiana and Pennsylvania.

Sun, 28 Dec 2008 05:33:30 GMT

Multiple articles and books have been written with the topic of home as an expression of self. I recently came to the epiphany that if this is true. I have issues, as I have no comfortable furniture. Don't get me wrong. Its not that I don't think I have the epitome of taste in decor. Even though Paige Rense has never ask to publish any of my residences in Architectural Digest. The issue is more that I choose style over comfort.

At any given point in past 30 years my living room has hosted a who's who of contemporary designers and architects; Alvar Aalto, Jens Rison, Hans Wegner, George Nelson, Eero Saarinen, Charles Eames and Isamu Noguchi to name drop a few. Its not so much that I'm a design snob. I just aspired to the sleek furniture that I saw paging through Abitare and Progressive Architecture magazines as a youth. I yearned for the optimism, the contemporary sleekness, honesty of materials and lightness that I though these pieces had. Its as if good design would provide a future that could solve all the world's ills.

As a youth, the schizophrenia of watching a television housed in a faux colonial dry sink on a Shaker wool braided rug with ladder back chairs and a wing back sofa scarred me for life. Even our basset hound didn't like the sofa. He managed to rip the arm off it with the vengeance of a velociraptor. Shockingly revealing to me that it wasn't pilgrims, Shakers, nor early colonists who made our furniture. It was from someplace called J.D. Bassett and Company. Our house was an impostor. Although I did find irony that the same moniker as the manufacturer was shared by our dog.

Don't shed tears for the sofa. After an emergency call to Black's Furniture Store a clone arrived 30 days later to take its place. Clad in the same brown plaid Herculon miracle fabric that fail to protect the first time. This go round my mom had a secret weapon. With the mystical power of the shroud of Turin a crocheted afghan covered the back for the sofa over a slip cover that provided the safety of a condom. The impostor was now impervious to another vicious attack Out living by 10 years the offending hound.

My first real serious piece of furniture as from Gimbels. It was a Stendig chair called the lasagna chair. Stendig was a contract furniture company that imported and distributed design classics. Now defunct the only remnant is the graphic Stendig calendar by Massimo Vignelli. The chair looked like the illegitimate love child of Charlotte Perriand and Marcel Breuer. It consisted of chrome tubing and leather strap arms as well as a leather seat and back held tight by a corset of springs. My mom's comment upon seeing my purchase was where is the cord to plug it in and begin executions.

Ok it wasn't the most comfortable piece of furniture. But in my head I had arrived. I had entered the world of furniture couture and I wasn't going back. As god as my witness I would never own a unattributed piece of furniture again.

For short period I was distracted by Scandinavian modern. I was side tracked by being lured into reading Mobilier a small Danish publication on design. My home at the time Madison, Wisconsin had several venues in which one could procure the exotic woods of teak, Norwegian pine and European red oak. I craved them like the mythical spice in Dune. But that period of my life ended just as a Hans Christian Andersen fairy tail with the defeat and elimination of several ogres and witches (ex boyfriends). After the loss of a ergonomically correct office chair and pine day bed I was free to move on.

From there it was onto the New York Times Sunday Magazine. Joan Kron and Suzanne Slesin were my new spiritual leaders. At the time they had recently published High-Tech, the Industrial Style and Source Book for the Home. From there it would be goodbye to comfort forever. Ward Bennett, Joe D'urso and Bray-Schaible were my svengali's. If it was grey, black or industrial carpeted covered it was mine to be had. The only pattern outside of the Mondo floor tile and diamond plate metal was yards of stretched Maarimekko fabric on the walls. Hey we all have carry over baggage from our prior relationships.

Unable to literally take the industrial mess I created to the scrap yard I had to figure out where my next move would be. Like a beacon in the night arrives Andree Putman. Her severe personal look accompanied with the revival of classic french modernists fit the bill. Mallet Stevens, Eileen Gray and a funky desk lamp from a Paris flee market entered my life. I also found the love of my life. An original Noguchi biomorphic coffee table at an estate sale. Au revoir French Modernism. I found a new mistress, American Mid-Century Modern.

I moved to Pittsburgh and into a crazy castle faced apartment building named Peacock Manor. Despite the grand facade the apartment was actually very austere and unadorned. I painted the walls glossy white, laid sisel carpet and added a Saarinen dining table with Bertoia chairs to the mix. The few guests I had over to entertain would look from the entry hallway into the living room and say, "oh you like modern". As if that was grounds for being black balled from the Jr League tour of homes.

Fortunately for me that mindset proved to be bounty of opportunities to collect more pieces of Mid-Century furniture. I was able to find Saarinen executive chairs and a side table as well as an Eames walnut topped aluminum group conference table for $20 each. No one found value or appreciated the objects of desire. My collection grew to include a Nelson daybed, tray table and bench. All the new acquisitions required new digs.

Enter Malibu Barbie's dream house morphed with the Brady Bunch house. I had found the quintessential Atomic Ranch. It was a perfect fit for my furniture and included in the deal was a custom designed/built 12 foot oak, marble and foam cushion sofa build for the house. Equally as uncomfortable as the rest of my stuff it fit the bill.

Today I live in Dallas, TX. I've downsized from a house to a one bedroom condo. I've had to edit my possessions. Most days I feel my house has all the charm of a Design Within Reach showroom sample sale. Gone are the Bertoia dinning chairs that everyone complained gave them waffle butt at dinner. Missing are the Saarinen chairs. But walking to my car one afternoon past a garden shop I spied the precious. A Russell Woodard orange Sculptura chair. You will be mine my pretty, I muttered under my breath. Uncomfortable seating will be back in my life soon.