Palm Springs, Modern Architecture, and Herb Greene

Left to right: Moderator with Alan Hess, Lila Cohen, Craig Lee.

Modernism Week, celebrated annually in Palm Springs, is a melange of housing tours, cocktail parties, and lectures. It is one of the biggest tourism opportunities for Palm Springs and a chance to disseminate its unique modern image to the world. For aficionados of Modern architecture, the 2023 offerings did not disappoint. During the event I served as part-time docent at Desert Lanai, a Charles Dubois-designed condo project from 1965.  Andy Farr and five other Desert Lanai residents opened their homes to an international audience seeking a glimpse of mid-century modern architecture not normally available to the public. (Pictures below.) For me, the highlights of the week were the many lectures covering minutiae of modernism with a high level of academic discipline. Topics like “Googie” architecture were treated with depth and respect not usually associated with the subject. Another panel explained in detail the restoration of architect Paul Williams’s home in Los Angeles. And my personal favorite was a panel discussion on Herb Greene, who studied architecture under Bruce Goff at the University of Oklahoma (my alma mater) in the 1950s. 

The Herb Greene panel was important because it broadened the discussion of Modernism in significant ways. It is easy to reduce Mid Century Modern (MCM) architecture and lifestyles to a bundle of cliches: flat roofs, breeze block, martini bars, starburst wall clocks, and Mad Men color schemes. These are cliches worth loving—don’t get me wrong—but there is much more to Modern architecture. An examination of Herb Greene’s work lifts Modernism out of a stylistic rut. In fact, I believe we should stop thinking about Modernism as a style; it is more correctly understood as a philosophy. The pioneers of Modern architecture believed they were creating a new way of living with open floor plans, connections to nature, and optimism for the future. They prized innovation, creativity, and experimentation. Unlike most styles, where you can choose from a pattern book of approved architectural elements to create an acceptable simulacrum of Colonial or Gothic architecture, Modernism demands that we look at deeper connections between client, site, and materials. 

Herb Greene's Prairie House, Norman, OK. (1960)

Prairie House detail.

Herb Greene pictured with Lila Cohen.

The centerpiece of the Herb Greene panel was a film (a work in progress) by Greene’s niece, Lila Cohen, Remembering the Future with Herb Greene. Architect and nascent filmmaker Cohen presents Greene and his work as an ongoing exploration of the meaning of shelter. Greene started that exploration as a young man by traveling to Oklahoma to meet Bruce Goff. He came out of that meeting saying, “I have met my first genius.” I can personally attest to the genuineness of that sentiment, because that was exactly what I said after my first meeting with Goff some years later. 

Bruce Goff with unidentified student at Greene's Prairie House. 

Greene studied under the genius of Goff and went on to create a body of work uniquely his own. Greene’s work can be startling when first encountered. It uses materials in unexpected ways. Interiors can be transparent or cavelike, depending on the desired mood. His architecture is blithely non-orthogonal, demanding critical thinking by the user to be understood, but it rewards the effort with a new sense of what architecture could be. In addressing what could be, it looks to the future. 

Herb Greene's Cunningham residence. (1962)

Lila Cohen’s advisors for the film project include historian Alan Hess, author of over twenty books on architecture, and Craig Lee, curator of the Goff archives at the Art Institute in Chicago. Both gentlemen were on the panel and provided context on Greene’s rightful position in the panoply of modern architects. Hess linked Greene to an American architectural lineage that goes back to the nineteenth century: Sullivan, Wright, Goff, and the mid century generation that includes Lautner, Neutra, Dubois, and Greene. Lee emphasized the importance of the Goff connection. The built works of Goff and Greene do not look anything alike. But in their shared opposition to the conventional architecture of the time, it is obvious that Greene fully absorbed Goff’s assertion that “there should be as many styles of architecture as there are clients.” It would be difficult to find any definition of individualism more fine-grained than that. 
There is an MCM revival going on right now. It seems to be a national phenomenon in residential architecture. And, in commercial architecture, Modernism never went away. This is an ideal time to reassess what we mean by Modernism. Herb Greene and his work point toward an alternative to the pattern book approach. Modern architecture, thought of as a philosophy rather than a style, is an ongoing revolution that invites continuing examination. Lila Cohen’s documentary film is part of that examination. 

Andy Farr residence at Desert Lanai. 

Charles DuBois's Desert Lanai. (1965)

New Video Channel: ARCHITECTURE MINUTE

Launched this month is my new YouTube channel, Architecture Minute. Like this blog, the channel explores all facets of architecture, including architectural history, philosophy, and new ideas. Iconic buildings and important architects are also part of the mix. The great thing about a video format is, of course, the expanded ability to present the visual aspect of architectural appreciation. 

There are many vlogs about architecture, including some with similar titles. (There are only so many pithy words you can combine with architecture!) It would be a great help to my efforts if, once you find my videos, you LIKE (the thumb-up icon) and SUBSCRIBE to the channel. If you're like me, it's kind of an annoyance to be asked to commit to yet another electronic "like". But that is the only way my YouTube channel will be searchable through the inscrutable algorithems of Google and YouTube. Please LIKE and SUBSCRIBE. It costs nothing. Sincere thanks!

The first season of Architecture Minute is ten episodes. In truth, with introductions and end titles, each episode is more like two minutes, but "architecture two minutes" is not very catchy. Forgive my temporal license. Architectural concepts explored in the first season are rhythm, focal points, and articulation. Also discussed are three architects responsible for inventing Mid Century Modern architecture: Mies van der Rohe, Corbusier, and Frank Lloyd Wright. Each episode is a simple lesson in architecture. It is my hope that everyone who has an interest in architecture will find something of value. In particular, young people starting out in architecture, or simply curious about it, will find this a great introduction to what architecture is or could be. 

Naturally, I invite your comments and suggestions. And please remember to LIKE and SUBSCRIBE!

Architectural Symbolism and the Sacking of the Capitol

In the past I have criticized the architectural merits of the United States Capitol. In playing architectural critic, I cited the bloated nature of the building: numerous additions have resulted in muddy (at best) proportions and a structure that no architect in his right mind would have created from scratch. But I also acknowledge that it is impossible to offer a fair critique of the Capitol architecture because the symbolism of the building overwhelms objective architectural criticism. The Capitol has long symbolized freedom, democracy, homeland, patriotism, truth, justice, and the American way. Architectural values have little relevance next to the abstract power of the Capitol of the United States of America as an icon. Whether on network news or the letterhead of a congress member, the mere outline of the Capitol Dome instantly communicates the high value people have attached to it -- all architectural criticism aside.  

This symbolic nature of the Capitol is only more clear after the 6th of January day of infamy. The sacking of the United States Capitol carries more weight than any run-of-the-mill riot or building defacement. It was an attack on every value that our democracy is. That is why, in the aftermath of the insurrection, shocked politicians and citizens expressed their dismay about the attack using words usually reserved for religious feelings. It was an assault on the "hallowed halls" of democracy. The building is described as "a sacred space" or "a revered sanctuary" or "a shrine of democracy."  None of this, of course, has anything to do with the physical architecture of the place. It has everything to do with the architectural symbolism of the building. 

During the Civil War, President Lincoln was urged by Congress to stop construction work on the new United States Capitol building. War funds were depleting the treasury and many saw the construction project as unnecessary spending in dire times. Lincoln saw things differently. He knew that the American people needed the symbolism of a completed Capitol. Construction continued. Lincoln, of course, was right. He knew what leaders have always known: people need a tangible representation of their most valued beliefs. The Catholic Church understood this in its ascendancy and used mammoth cathedrals to attract and impress the masses. Queen Victoria understood this when she moved her seat of power to Buckingham Palace where it would be visible to all Londoners. The pharaohs certainly understood this when ordering monuments big enough to ensure their influence even after death. Architecture can be a lasting and powerful tool around which to organize ideas and inspire devotion or -- at least -- respect. 

From TV reporting and a flood of video images, the average American now has more architectural understanding of the Capitol than ever before. We have seen how Officer Eugene Goodman, with his knowledge of the Capitol floor plan, deliberately led marauders away from the Senate chamber. Away from Vice President Pence as the mob frothed with "hang Mike Pence, hang Mike Pence..."  We have seen numerous replays of angry white males bursting into the senate chamber, invading private offices, and smashing doors and windows with abandon. All within the gravitas of marble halls, colonnades, and classical details that we recognize as our United States Capitol. 

Is there some other form of architecture that could carry the weight of all this symbolism other than the Classical Revival building that has been bequeathed to us by history? Of course. Had the Capitol been designed in the twentieth century with modernist materials and details we would probably be in thrall by whatever that building looked and felt like. Or, perhaps, some Art Nouveau confection would be our inheritance. Or maybe a late-Gothic, spire-encrusted building like the British Parliament. Whatever it might have been, if it housed our government it would eventually grow into a symbol of our government and a symbol of who we are as a people. A symbol beyond the reach of architectural criticism. But our founding fathers and subsequent leaders decided that the proper receptacle for a democratic government was Greco-Roman architecture because the Greeks invented democracy. So there we have it. That architecture has been established, repeated, and embellished over the years. As a powerful and rich nation we have had the resources to build and maintain the Capitol architecture in top-notch form. What we see today on TV is a legacy from the past that is alive today.

 All buildings have a spirit in some sense. We have warm feelings about home, religious devotion in church, feelings of excitement in an arena. Under the best circumstances, architecture supports and encourages such feelings. That is the purpose of architecture, as opposed to merely encasing these functions in an ordinary building. For any architect fortunate enough to author a major public building, one hopes they are up to the honor. The symbolism they establish with architecture can be long lasting and very serious. And perhaps it would be good to remember that any outrage we may feel about the January 6th sacking of the Capitol, any fondness we may have about the lavish architectural details, and any heartbreak we have about the desecration of that building is not about the physical construct at all. Our outrage is about the defilement of the ideas which that building symbolizes after centuries of standing unmarred by internal political strife. 

Architect Walter Weberhofer

Casa Fernandini by Walter Weberhofer (1957).

I don't know why I have never heard of Walter Weberhofer (1923-2002) at some time during my architectural education. Weberhofer was a prolific modernist architect working in Peru. I recently stumbled across images of his Casa Fernandini (1957) built on the beach at Santa Maria del Mar, Peru. I am embarrassed to admit this design eluded my awareness for so long. It is a dramatic and romantic architectural work of art — worthy of inclusion in any history of Mid Century Modern design. 

Casa Fernandini.

Casa Fernandini.

Weberhofer's manually-drafted elevation for Casa Fernandini.

Floor plan, Casa Fernandini.

Casa Fernandini, with its cantilevered decks and horizontal emphasis, is obviously influenced by Frank Lloyd Wright's Fallingwater (1939) at Bear Run, Pennsylvania. However, it is not just a knock-off of Wright's work. Casa Fernandini hints at the New Brutalism movement about to emerge as well as being extremely vigorous with angular tension and structural panache. The house also reminds me of sets for the film version of  Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead (Warner Brothers, 1949.) The set designs by Edward Carrere were panned at the time by the architectural press as a perversion of modern architectural principles. Admittedly they were cartoonish and hyperbolic, but also viscerally enjoyable. Weberhofer's work is like that. Over the top, but fun. 

Set design for The Fountainhead.

Set design for The Fountainhead.

Trump, Speer, and the Queen of Hearts

In February 2020, Architectural Record reported that the Trump White House was considering an executive order entitled “Making Federal Buildings Beautiful Again.” While few would disagree with such an innocuous-sounding goal, Trump’s fiat is intended to put a noose around creativity until it sings Trump to the high heavens. Not so innocuous when you see the hubris behind the decree. 

The draft for the executive order mandates that “the classical architectural style shall be the preferred and default style” for new federal buildings. Unnoticed by the general public in this time of corona virus, the EO may seem trivial on its face. Most people don’t understand why architects would be agitated by the proposal. Generally, the public does not care about this issue. Who can blame them when there are so many immediately obvious threats hanging over our health, our democracy, the world economy.  Too many important things to occupy our worried minds. But “Making Federal Buildings Beautiful Again” is loaded with so many political and philosophical cluster bombs it stands — whether actually enacted or not — as a glaring emblem for all that is wrong with Trump World. There is so much malevolence in this one EO it is difficult to unpack all of its dangers. But we will try.

In 1931 a German architect named Albert Speer joined the Nazi party. In short order he became Hitler’s confidant and chief architect. Possessing great natural talent and a flare for the dramatic, Speer orchestrated extravagant architectural backdrops for Hitler’s Nazi domination fantasies. Some of Speer’s creations were so grandiose they were unbuilt or unbuildable. Like the proposed Volkshalle intended to seat 150,000 people under a vast Neoclassical dome 820 feet in diameter and nearly as tall as the Empire State Building.  Here der Führer could address his adoring fans with rousing speeches composed of lies, impossible promises, and impassioned pleas to make Germany great again. (Need we even ask if this sounds familiar?) Another unbuilt design was Deutsches Stadion which would have accommodated 400,000 people for Nazi rallies in an outdoor venue.  

Other Speer buildings did actually get built. One of his most brilliant designs was little more than a stage set: what came to be known as the Cathedral of Light. For his annual mass rally in 1933, Hitler wanted a huge new stadium. But time ran out before the stadium could be completed. Speer punted by creating a virtual space. He commandeered 152 massive searchlights from the Lufwaffe. Arranged around the stadium at 39 foot intervals, their powerful 5-foot-diameter lenses were aimed straight up to make a colonnade of light. It could be seen from five miles distant. The monumental effect stirred German pride in service to the Third Reich.  

Speer was adept at eliciting powerful emotions from his brick-and-mortar designs as well. The German Pavilion at the 1937 World Fair in Paris and Hitler’s Chancellery headquarters in Berlin were both designed to intimidate. A Nazi architectural style emerged, incited by Hitler’s megalomania and executed by Speer with relish. 

Nazi architecture had two characteristics. First, everything was up-scaled to impress. Columns were taller than they needed to be, rooms were vast, processional hallways long and grand. Second, the style was invariably a pared-down version of Classical architecture. Intending to borrow the authority of timeless Greek and Roman forms, this bare-bones classicism was also influenced by then-current Art Deco modernism. But the real intent was to shock and awe. Hitler wanted an architecture that would legitimize his power and Speer was happy to oblige. Nazi architecture had a dystopian edge from the very beginning. Somber, cruel, dreadful. Dreadful in the real sense of the word: one is full of dread just gazing at pictures of the evil empire’s architectural fever dreams. Hitler understood that the glorification of his ego through public works could manipulate people as effectively as his finely-crafted speeches. It was all theater. (Again, does this sound familiar?)

Albert Speer's "Cathedral of Light".

Politics and architecture intersected in Nazi Germany. Architecture was manipulated to produce results amicable to the regime. The same impulse is the motivation behind the executive order being considered by the White House. The White House clearly perceives Classical architecture as a symbol of power and authority. We know this because Trump has already used the most vulgar forms of traditional architecture to display his wealth and establish his authority. (Try Googling images of his Trump Tower lair with its gilt excesses.) This shouldn’t be a surprise; every two-bit potentate has employed the same strategy. But Trump is an amateur. Speer celebrated Nazi corruption with fearless panache; the White House proposal is just a feeble grasping at perceived bygone glory.  

To avoid confusion, let’s be precise on exactly what type of  transgression we are criticizing. Architects are not incensed that Trump thinks the only “good” style is Classical. There are many practitioners who still specialize in Neoclassical architecture and approach it with sincere reverence. I have myself dabbled in the field and enjoy the occasional Doric column as much as the next guy. But even diehard proponents of classical architecture are dismayed by Trump’s EO. One, Michael Lykoudis, dean of architecture at Notre Dame, claims it “reduces an entire architectural philosophy to caricature.”  What is wrong here is the imperial willfulness of the Trump regime. Nobody cares if Trump’s personal tastes skew to the antique; it is his desire to impose his tastes on everybody — architects, government agencies, postal patron that rankles -- and his assumption that imperial architecture will convince everyone of his imperial-ness. 

When Alice was in Wonderland she encountered the Queen of Hearts. The Queen, being a queen, only wanted things one way: her way. Her preferred color for roses was red, not white. So her minions painted the roses red. A game of croquet in the Queen’s realm was never what it seemed. At the queen’s orders, flamingos acted as croquet mallets while terrified hedgehogs avoided being the targets. For all who defied the Queen’s wishes it was “off with their heads!” 

Trump wields his executive orders like the Queen’s scepter, forcing all of us through the looking glass into Trump World. When I mention this particular executive order it is met with disbelief.  Surely, that’s not true. Or, maybe you misunderstood. But for over three years we all have witnessed his attempts to create a bizarre world built on autocratic fantasy. This is true, no matter how ridiculous it sounds. In the realm of the Queen of Hearts, all orders, no matter how irrational, must be obeyed. Otherwise it is “off with their heads!” 

Trump’s proposed EO almost seems whimsical, but he has already put in place the mechanisms to enforce it. Architecture in Washington passes before the U.S. Commission on Fine Arts (CFA). One might think their review would provide a certain amount of protection against such arbitrary rules. But Trump has already appointed a new member to the CFA, Justin Shubow.  Mr. Shubow is not even an architect, but he is president of the National Civic Art Society (NCAS), an organization devoted to the promotion of Classical architecture. The NCAS web site proclaims that “contemporary architecture is… a failure.”  Mr. Shubow’s organization believes architecture should “return to its pre-Modernist roots.” Trump reinforced Mr. Shubow’s appointment by adding two additional NCAS members to the CFA. 

I usually avoid any discussions that conflate architecture with politics. They are not related in any way, but there are times in history when it is made to seem so. Art movements come and go, are reviled or proclaimed, promoted or suppressed. But one can be certain that anytime the state gets involved in such distinctions, it is a sure sign of bigger shenanigans going on.  Now, as in Nazi Germany, politics and architecture once again intersect. Not in exactly the same way, but with the same amount of hubris and megalomania. With overwhelming dismay from architects, this proposed order may never see the light of day. But it should be (yet another) warning sign that something is amiss in Washington. Trump does not have at his command the talent of an Albert Speer, but he is crashing around the hallowed halls of government like a drunken Queen of Hearts. How much damage can our institutions endure under such relentless attack? 

God save us from the Queen. 

The Architecture of Power 2: The White House

If the Capitol building is a symbol of a powerful nation (see previous blog entry), the White House is the symbol of a powerful individual, the President of the United States.

White House stationery.

The White House is interesting as much for what it is not as for what it is. The White House, as signified by name, is not a palace. It is not a castle. It is not even called a mansion. It is a house. (Although it should be noted that early appelations referred to it as the President's Mansion or the President's Palace.) As seats of power go, it is comparatively humble, meant to reflect the idea that our President is a man of the people. He is not a king or sultan or dictator. We do not have, therefore, something like Buckingham Palace with its brutally imposing facade and massive size.  Where palaces of potentates are deliberately intimidating and seemingly impenetrable, the White House is gentle by comparison. The grounds are bucolic and welcoming; most powerful administrative functions are downplayed. It presents a domestic visage. The Oval Office, the epicenter of power, is tucked to the side of the main quarters. Other important functions are shifted to to the executive office building. (An exceedingly ugly and ornate Victorian structure a block away). The core of the White House looks like a white house, not the nexus of national and international activity it certainly is.  Sure, it is a mansion, but a mansion not much different than your local run-of-the-millionaire might inhabit. The leader of the free world lives here, but that fact is cleverly downplayed.

The north facade looks like a two story building. Note how the east and
west wings and third floor are barely visible. 

Earliest known photo of the White House. (South Lawn.)

This self-effacing White House is a deliberate illusion.  The under-played west wing is one device that keeps the main house looking like a "simple" mansion. The third floor above the main house is downplayed as an incidental attic, set back from the outer walls and mostly hidden behind a Palladian balustrade. In reality, it houses full size rooms put to various support purposes.  Major functions are hidden from public view, including extensive basement bunkers and tunnels, and certainly a lot of things to which only the secret service is privy.

The White House structure is much more complex than first meets the eye.  At a glance it appears to be a two-story home.  In reality, the ground plane has been manipulated so the ground floor is hidden from view on the north (front) elevation.  The "first" and "second" floors are raised a full story above natural grade. The apparent attic is essentially a fourth story.  Two levels of basement below the ground floor make this a six story enterprise - half of it hidden or disguised.  Contiguous with the main building, the west and east wings are attached by the ground level and basement, visually diminishing their true importance and extent. It is all very clever.

White House interior during the Truman renovation.

The basic form of the current White House can be attributed to the Truman renovation constructed from 1949 to 1952.  When Truman took office, the White House, without exaggeration, was a wreck. Things were so rotted and shaky that Truman claimed there was imminent danger of his bath tub crashing through the second floor while the Daughters of the American Revolution were having tea in the room below. He would be forced to greet them "wearing nothing more than reading glasses." Indeed, in 1948 a leg of Margaret Truman's piano actually crashed through a second floor sitting room through the ceiling of the dining room below.

The White house had been altered many times to accomodate the tastes and preferences of different administrations. Most notably, perhaps, was the restoration after a major fire during the War of 1812.  But the Truman renovation created the basic shape of the White House we know today. This rebuilding preserved the outside walls of the White House, but not much else.  This extent of rebuilding is quite obvious in period photographs.

Schematic overview of the White House complex. 

Detail plan of the west wing. (Reversed and up side down from the preceding drawing.) 

Like the Capitol building, the White House is an icon of political power. As such, it is almost impossible to judge as architecture. What can we say about the design? It succesfully uses architectural  deceptions to hide its true size. It is an textbook example of neo-classical residential architecture, completely in tune with the architectural fashion the late sixteenth century. The original design was created by architect James Hoban, selected by George Washington in a competition.  (Thomas Jefferson had anonymously submitted a competing design.) In the end, is it good architecture? Maybe. Probably. But that is overshadowed by everything else it represents.

Basic plans of the first and second floors. 

The home of the president of the United States is an awesome presence in Washington D.C.  Perhaps we should be grateful it's impact has been somewhat tempered by design lest any self-centered, duplicitous, megalomaniac president assume more power and authority than is actually allowed the office. One can hope.

This aerial view reveals the attic addition as well as part of the ground level.
There are two additional basement levels. 

Architects, Artists, and the Internet

A while back I wrote about paintings by architect Bruce Goff ("Bruce Goff: Architect and Painter"). The images of Goff's paintings were given to me by John Bowles years ago. A fellow architecture student, I've long been out of touch with John Bowles. He was an amazingly talented person and, for  a time, apprenticed to Bruce Goff in Kansas City. (Thus the Goff connection.) Like so many friends from the past, we did not keep in touch.

Now, a story about the power of the Internet.

John Bowles contacted me recently by email.

This is John Bowles, one of your architecture classmates... Well, this evening my family was gathered around the dining table talking about architecture... and my son did a quick search of my name and Bruce Goff's. Your blog came right up and we all were amazed to see Bruce's drawings. They are real beauties. You said on the page that I gave you slides of them - hmmm, maybe I did. Sounds familiar. But we all had to laugh to see the third one... that was one of mine.  In fact, it hangs in my house right now. Can't you see how rough it looks besides Bruce's? Might want to pull it from that listing on BG.  Anyway, it was a real accent to our after-dinner discussion. Thank you for adding surprise and delight to our evening. 

It is a pleasure to show this painting again and give credit to its rightful artist, John Bowles:

Painting by John Bowles.

I'm sure John will forgive my mistake. In fact, there are probably many paintings floating around by former Oklahoma University students that could be mistaken for an original Goff.  Bruce Goff, chairman of the school in the 1950s, used painting as a teaching tool.  A typicial assignment for freshmen architectural students would be to throw powdered tempera paint on huge sheets of wet construction paper. The resulting images were usually swirly abstracts that were totally unpredictable.  The paper would be allowed to dry overnight; the second phase of the assignment would be to "control" the swirly abstract painting by adding intentional paint, colored pencil, or other media. The point of this was analogous to an architect presented with a difficult site. The site is a "given" out of your control. Architecture is a way to control, augment, and even enhance the site.

This teaching tool was, as far as I know, invented by Bruce Goff. Later, it was famously continued by the legendary professor Dean Bryant Vollendorf. When I was teaching at Oklahoma University I adopted and adapted the same method for my students.  They produced many beautiful paintings.

John Bowles did not continue with architecture, but he carries on the teaching tradition with his family...

...as the creative works of my children... will attest. (Soon I will conduct painting exercises for our kids - just like the ones that produced the pictures in your blog. And my youngest daughter and her husband are headed out to Arizona this coming weekend for their second annual trek to Arcosanti. They are so inspired by Soleri's ideas. They were absolutely shocked to hear I had already been there 48 years before!)

Best wishes to John and his family and thank you for continuing an artistic/architectural/educational tradition.

Is Dr. Ben Carson an Architect?

This blog is about exploring architecture in all its facets. It says so right on the masthead. Architecture is my area of expertise and I am pretty scrupulous about limiting my observations to just that subject. Sometimes other realms overlap this singular intent, as when I felt compelled to write about Donald Trump being “classy.” (The architecture he espouses is distinctly not classy.)  Now it happens again: politics intrudes into the world of architecture with Republican candidate Dr. Ben Carson's assertion that the ancient Egyptian pyramids were built to store grain. In 1998 at Andrews University he said “when you look at the way the pyramids were made…. My own personal theory is that Joseph built the pyramids in order to store grain.” On November 4, 2015 Dr. Carson confirmed his original statement when questioned by reporters. The subject has become entwined with 2015 presidential politics.

Is Ben Carson an architect? Or an archaeologist? No on both counts. So on what authority does Dr. Carson make this ridiculous claim?  He knows the pyramids aren’t hollow, doesn’t he? A grade-school-level of knowledge tells us the pyramids are mostly solid rock with a few small chambers and tunnels. Egyptian writings tell us their purpose: for royal entombment.  The pyramids also happen to predate the biblical Joseph. Furthermore, the Bible itself provides no corroboration for this empty idea. Dr. Ben Carson has no training in architecture; he had best stay away from the subject altogether and stick to something he knows, like politics. Oh, wait. He has no experience in politics either…

Pyramid at Giza.  Mostly solid.

Dr. Ben Carson.  Mostly hollow. 

For a detailed analysis of the pyramids-as-granaries idea, read Jason Colavito’s November 6th blog: The Long Strange History of the Pyramids as the Granaries of Joseph.

The Architecture of Two Cathedrals

Minneapolis and St. Paul are fun to compare (see previous blog entry) and nowhere is the temptation to compare more compelling than in their two major cathedrals. The Basilica of St. Mary is adjacent to the central business district of Minneapolis; the Cathedral of St. Paul sits on a promontory on the west edge of St. Paul. Both buildings have been hailed as among the finest examples of ecclesiastical architecture anywhere in the United States. The St. Mary cathedral opened in 1914 and was designed by architect Emmanuel Louis Masqueray. St. Paul cathedral opened a year later and was also designed by Masqueray. That's right: two spectacular edifices by the same architect at the same time in neighboring locations. What architect today would not salivate over such opportunities? Masqueray did not squander his professional good fortune, producing two masterful examples of beaux-arts architecture. They compare favorably to just about any European example of spectacular church design.

The arrangement of St. Mary's is straightforward. A truncated transept rapidly forces attention on the altar, bathed in light from above. Heavenly aspirations pull the viewer/audience/supplicant forward to glorious resolution. Light floods the space with heavenly grace.

1. The barrel-vaulted nave of St. Mary's focuses attention on the alter.

2. Hints of light. 

3. The dome above the alter at St. Mary's. 

4. The alter at St. Mary's. 

5. Exterior, Basilica of St. Mary's in Minneapolis.

Nobody does it better than the Catholics, of course, in manipulating emotions through architecture. They learned long ago that modulating space on a grandiose scale induces awe.

Across the river at the Cathedral of St. Paul, manipulation of interior volume is more obviously thematic with a hypnotic repetition of circles, arcs, and domes. If anything, it is even more spectacular than its sister in Minneapolis. The ambulatory unfolds with a stunning series of chapels, resplendent with monumental statues and some of the richest marble floor designs found anywhere. All culminates in a magnificent dome full center in the space.  Here the main upward thrust is over the nave, not the altar (though the altar is celebrated by a baldachin that rivals the Vatican's). The effect is uplifting - the spirit soars with the crescendo of the architecture. Man seems exalted - a theater-in-the round with the audience in the middle, blessed by glorious light.

6. The great dome over the nave of St. Paul's Cathedral.

7. Rose window at St. Paul's.

8. Central dome over the nave; secondary apse over the alter at St. Paul's. 

9. The benediction of heavenly light.

10. Space unfolding. 

11. Exterior, St. Paul's Cathedral in St. Paul.

12. Floor plan, St. Paul's.

The tale of two architectures at Minneapolis and St. Paul is a story of one architect squeezing as much theatrical energy out of classical forms as is humanly possible. Both are worthy of visits the next time you venture near the Twin Cities.

Images: 
1-11. MJK
12. Minneapolis Star Tribune