Did Mr. Wright Get It Wrong?

Don't misunderstand me -- I love Frank Lloyd Wright, the father of American architecture, the creative genius who championed an "organic" style, blending his Prairie School houses into their surroundings, melding the inside and the outside, using clean horizontal lines and beautiful art glass windows, with even the furniture matching the home's design elements.

I've visited Taliesin and Taliesin West, his home and studio in his native Spring Green, Wisconsin and his adopted winter encampment in Arizona.

I first saw the Guggenheim Museum when I was in high school and stood a long time looking up to the ceiling with the circular levels, reminiscent of nature's take on the inner structure of a snail shell.

I've read the best selling Loving Frank by Nancy Horan and marvelled over Wright's larger than life personal saga--- three wives, one 'love of his life' mistress, a horrific fire and murder scene at Taliesin, bankruptcy, rebirth, a life spanning almost 92 years.

His own parties were legendary. He died in debt but left a legacy of a new way of looking at architecture and his often quoted "Take care of the luxuries and the necessities will take care of themselves" neatly summarizes his vision of life. 

But, I had never visited homes he built for other people until this past weekend. Pleasing the customer was not part of the deal and his projects routinely ran over budget - it was only money, after all, and more importantly his client's money. Clients were only too eager to comply, since owning a Frank Llloyd Wright house was the newest status symbol and Wright's magnetic, persuasive personality was a force of nature.

South view of Martin house

During a wonderful weekend with college friends, we visited the Darwin Martin House in Buffalo, a complex of five buildings begun in 1903 for a self made man, Darwin Martin.  Buffalo then was the 8th largest city in the US, situated at the end of the Erie Canal, booming with business and boasting more millionaires than any other city. Martin was a businessman with Larkin Soap Company and also solicited Wright to build the Larkin Administrative Building, Wright's first commercial building.

Darwin Martin became enamored with FLW and they considered themselves friends, even after the preliminary smaller house he built for Martin's sister came in well over budget. The next phase included a much larger house for Isabelle and Darwin Martin on the same one acre property with some truly beautiful features. Wright considered it years later to be his "opus" and the complex "a well-nigh perfect composition."

The charismatic Mr. Wright had convinced the Martin's to sell their Victorian home and move to this open space in the Parkside section of Buffalo. The family moved into the new house in 1905 and the last workmen left in 1907. That must have been a trying two years. With a controlling personality that would put even Steve Jobs to shame, FLW was notorious for requiring that clients sign a detailed (and unenforcible) agreement that they would not change even the placement of his originally designed furniture in the house.

View from the smaller Barton House

Our two hour tour encompassed three houses: the middle class smaller home of Wright's sister (Barton House), the big Martin house and the small gardener's cottage. Our docent was wonderful, knowledgeable and enthusiastic. While I marveled at the beauty of the house-- the detailed, patterned windows; the arresting view from the vestibule down a long hall to the Greek statue of Nike in the conservatory; the open floor plan, uniting the library, living room and dining area by means of a framed wood ceiling; the fireplace decorated with delicate glass pattern; the unusual half brick that dominated both inside and out, I kept asking myself one question.

What would it be like to live here?
We don't know if Darwin and Isabelle ever complained about the reality of living in the house. Can you imagine Darwin back from the soap company after a long day and Isabelle yelling down from the bedroom:

D.R. chairs; corners of the table had elaborate light fixtures (not shown)

Is that you , Dar? Crap, my back went out again, so I'm stuck in bed, staring at these freakin' wisteria windows everywhere I look. I blame those straight backed chairs -- they're killing me. I had the ladies for lunch. Gertrude couldn't find the front door and Mamie accidentally knocked the corner table chandelier off not once but twice during lunch. She's a klutz, but, really, you can't even pass the food with those 2 big lights in the way. Believe me we needed them today, though. So cloudy and the house so dark- depression city.

Highly unlikely conversation, but I could see from our tour group's questions that I wasn't the only one imagining living here.

Reception room with those infamous barrel chairs!

 

Why is the furniture so small?  asked one young man.
(and uncomfortable looking, he didn't add)
It's not really, said our tour guide. Maybe people were smaller then. We had yet to supersize everything in America from our food to our furniture. Nothing like a cozy barrel chair.

Why are there no closets?
Mr Wright thought they only encouraged clutter. The master bedroom does have a 'dressing room' and he conceded to add a closet in the guest room suite.
(Who knew the minimalist Mr.Wright could have had the first Declutter 101 reality TV show?)

Why is this vestibule have such a low ceiling? I'm claustrophobic.
You're supposed to be! Mr Wright was 6'3" himself and used the height of a room to encourage people to move out of the entrance hall and into the more inviting living area.

The hidden bookcases

If Mr. Martin loved to read, where are the bookshelves?
Our guide pulled open a door to what looked like a solid wooden support. Voila! A book shelf! Push it open and there was another behind it--along with the radiators for the house.

As the chilly Buffalo wind whipped around us, I heard: Does anyone else wonder why an open covered pergola walkway would be an ideal choice for this weather?
I guess we've never experienced a hot Buffalo summer.

Where was the front door?
Mr. Wright believed your house was your private space, so not just anyone should casually come knocking at your door. They'd have to look a bit or know where they were going.



All in all, a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon and a deep appreciation for Frank Lloyd Wright's vision and artistry, but I have to admit I reexamined my own house critically when I got back to NJ.

Uh, oh, a generic center hall colonial with those double hung windows that Wright described as looking like 'guillotines.' Big kitchen and bathrooms which Wright dismissed as unnecessary. (Oh to have a serving staff to deal with the banalities!)  My kitchen does have a Chicago window (picture window, flanked by matching casement windows) and looks out on a wooded backyard, which FLW would have approved. But the house seems proud of its comfortable clutter and I can't imagine it any other way. I slumped into my favorite la-z-boy, popped up the foot rest and sank deep into my own definition of luxury. Ah, the plebeian lifestyle has some merits!

HOME SWEET HOME!

PS: Thanks to my good friend Anne, whose own hilarious insights on living the FLW style, gave me the idea for this post.

More pictures of the Darwin Martin House Complex:

The conservatory looking back toward the main house

Nike, the Winged Victory of Samothrace in the Conservatory

Dining room in Barton House-FLW loved those chairs!

Note wisteria windows in Reception room of main house

Charming Gardeners Cottage

Overview of the complex

Missing the "SPA" Gene

Hard to believe, but I'm in the 1% of women who are missing the SPA gene. Relax and read on---I'm not talking about new breast cancer research. No, I'm speaking about every woman's innate longing for relaxing, rejuvenating spa treatments to restore the body and de-stress the soul.

I am spa-challenged, but I'm wondering now if it's nature or nurture? Perhaps I just got off to a bad start with spas? Can I trace it all back to my first Nordstrom spa seaweed wrap? Many years ago, with 3 kids and the hectic suburban child-centered lifestyle, I remember being thrilled with my husband's gift of a spa adventure. The seaweed wrap seemed perfect-- I love the ocean! So, why not be painted with soothing green paste of mashed kelp and fragrant herbs, wrapped in a warm blanket and allowed some alone time to just breathe in and out without a care in the world? Alas, if only it were so. The green seaweed was fine, but I began to sweat in the cocoon-like wrap and worried about the green goo dripping into my eyes. I would have snuck my hand up for a quick wipe, but my Houdini skills failed me and I was unable to liberate my arm from my organic cotton strait jacket. It was too hot and the lingering, faint odor of lightly simmered seaweed was giving me a headache. My attendant finally returned and I gratefully followed her directions for the cleansing finale. I'm sure there was a shower involved, but my memory returns only one image--the attendant manning an elephant-sized hose aimed in my direction, blasting me sparkling clean, my body plastered against the wall.

I wrote all this off as beginner's bad luck, and persisted over the years in giving it "one more try." I learned to avoid Swedish massages, since they often involved a large Swedish-like woman who would comment on how tense my neck and shoulders were and then proceed to isolate a knot of muscle which she would "work" until it became rock hard, permanently ensuring that it would remain a proud emblem of my tenseness for all eternity. Perhaps this was part of the strategy for return visits?

I decided to switch to water cures. Sitting in a $120 hot bath of brownish cappucino-colored water, I thought: "Could I get the same results in my own tub at home by just not cleaning the tub?" Of course not!  

I progressed  from plain water cures to a hot mud bath. I knew I would never have the energy to drag bags of mud up to the 2nd floor bathroom of our house, so it was worth a try and, after all, we weren't just talking plain old ordinary backyard sandbox mud. I was in the Northern Napa Valley and this was primo Calistoga deep earth primordial ooze. My daughter and I shared a gloomy room with 2 huge metal tubs filled with bouncy oatmeal-laden mud. It was springy to the touch, warm and welcoming, until Beth asked: "How do you think they clean this mud between customers?"  Hmm... I pondered this as I sank deeper into the lumpy, chunky mud. Before leaving us alone for a half hour of slippery solitude, the attendant had covered our eyes with a soothing eye pillow--soothing?... or a way to discourage us from examining our muddy entrapment too closely?

"Beth," my lonely, disembodied voice floated over the tubs. "Have you stopped sinking in? Do you feel like the mud is creeping up your neck, your chin...?" Was I being pulled slowly downward to death by suffocation? "Don't struggle," I yelled, remembering the quicksand from the Tarzan movies of my youth and the admonition to stay calm. (not my strong suit!)   "Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm!"  I screamed, unable to free my arm to remove the sensory deprivation mask. Could the attendant not hear me? I finally pulled my arm out and pushed the mask back, tried to breathe slowly, until our attendant returned to liberate us from the black holes. Sucked out of the mud bath by the hefty arms of Shana of the Jungle (names have been changed to protect the guilty) we were momentarily relieved until Shana produced --- yes, you've guessed it --- the elephant-sized hose. 

All of this was valuable research for future experiences. We composed our guidelines for reading a spa menu, concentrating on red flag words to avoid: 

scrub -- being scoured with a brillo pad

removing dead skin -- (they neglect to tell you that live skin can go with it)

exfoliating -- same as above

pressure points -- see knot story above

petrissage--French for muscle torture

brisk friction -- see brillo pad 

grit  -- best left on dusty roads
sea salt -- best left in the ocean

invigorating, stimulating -- it will hurt, but you will rationalize that it was worth it.

I was beginning to get really worried. It was enough for me to be a spa-less outcast, but was I poisoning my daughter and relegating her to a life of misery when female friends suggested a "fun weekend getaway." Did Beth lack the SPA gene, too, or was I just starting her down my path of experience? I decided the second annual mother-daughter spa-cation at Mohonk Mountain House would be a test and my last ditch effort to let Beth happily join the 99% of women who love to spa.

It didn't start out well. Beth had to catch the NFC wildcard final of the Giants vs Atlanta, as soon as we arrived on Sunday. Can you say football and spa in the same breath? Luckily there was a tv room, filled with all males who looked like they had been reluctantly dragged by their wives to a romantic getaway vacation. The Giants won convincingly and Tebow and Denver won the 2nd game. After all those body slamming tackles and punishing falls, I hope the teams all got relaxing aromatherapy massages after the game. Yes, there is a football-spa connection!

Beth must have been identifying with her football heroes, because unlike her weaker mother, she successfully managed the Swedish massage. She did arrive at her appointment a little late, was whisked through the application process and spent the first few minutes of her stress free treatment wondering what she had signed and worrying about whether tips were included.

Her downfall came with the Moss Hydrating Body Mask with Exfoliating Body Glow. Had she not listened to the spa wisdom her mother had tried to convey over the years? Does moss hydrating mask not sound suspiciously like organic seaweed paste? Did she not fear the elephant hose? She had some choices for the exfoliating scrub, but I've bolded the red flag words:

• Rosemary Citron – a traditional stimulating sea salt scrub
• Espresso Mud Scrub – a rich, earthy mud scrub featuring ground Arabica beans    -- ground up beans? really? 
• Lemongrass Mimosa – micronized walnut shells and bamboo; remove dull, dry skin --Getting more serious now grinding up walnut shells and bamboo. Hope nothing goes under fingernails.
• Lemon Verbena -- the most gentle, yet effective exfoliation, for sensitive skin, with jojoba beads and oat proteins --Ah, not to worry . Here was the perfect choice.

Trouble was when Beth entered her treatment room, her 250 pound, ex-roller derby attendant said she was out of all those choices and substituted the Mohonk Fragrant Earth -- a melange of dandelion and pine essence mixed with Mohonk Preserve rock salt from the parking lot. To be fair, Organic Osama (names have been changed...) warned Beth the first part would be rough, but it would get better. Despite Beth's protests that it hurt and Organic Osama's attempts to ratchet down the intensity, OO really only knew one effort level--full speed ahead. That evening at dinner, I could see Beth was becoming a convert. She extended her arms out and proclaimed to our table: "Feel my skin- it's soft as a baby's butt!"  It got a little embarrassing when she got up and visited three other tables of strangers, exhorting them to stroke her soft skin.  "Beth," I said, maneuvering her gently back to her seat, "they just want to finish their dinners."

me and Beth

I'm glad there's hope for Beth and spas. As for me, I've identified the one foolproof treatment -- the hot stones massage. No probing fingers knotting and unknotting your muscles, just smooth pressure from warm stones and lots of moisturizing oils. Heavenly.

All kidding aside, it was a wonderful vacation-- relaxing with friends, enjoying fabulous food and good conversation in a beautiful mountain setting. Here are some pix:

Me and Carol

At the entrance

sitting room

on the trail

Nancy and Cindy

Nancy and Megan

Rocking chair pavilion

The shining?

Mohonk Mountain House and Lake

The green team