Laid Bare: Essays and Observations by Judson, Tom (read 50 shades of grey .TXT) 📕

A visit to both houses on the same cross-country drive prompted this writer to ponder how different these buildings--and the emotions they inspire--are, considering the seriousness with which both their creators viewed their commissions.

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One afternoon in 1936 in Spring Green, Wisconsin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s assistant ran breathless into the master’s studio. Edgar Kaufmann, tired of the delays and evasions he had been getting from Wright regarding the plans for his new country house, was on his way from Madison, just over an hour away. Unruffled, Wright tore off the top page from his sketch pad and ran his palms—smooth with age—over the equally smooth vellum. Reaching for a brown pencil he began to sketch planes and shapes. A student poked his head in the door and was “ssshh-ed” by the assistant. Within minutes word spread that something of importance was taking place in the room just off the main dining area, and the drafting table was soon surrounded by eager young men. As Wright formed the last letters of “A House for Edgar Kaufmann” on the drawing, the wheels of a hired Cadillac limousine crunched on the gravel driveway outside. “Please show E.J. into the studio,” Wright calmly uttered as he placed the pencil back in its holder.

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Midway through Ronald Reagan’s second term as president Sam Butcher, a multi-millionaire (thanks to his wide-eyed beige Precious Moments figurines), stood in the center of a crowd of fellow Midwesterners, his neck craned upward to take in the glory of the Sistine Chapel. He whispered to his wife, “Honey, have we got any Tylenol back in the room? I’m gonna have a heck of a headache by the time we get out of here.” Then he thought to himself, “Hmmm…. a painting on the ceiling. I’ll bet I could take that idea and really do something with it.” His mind started to race and a dream was born.

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A small, nondescript sign on a quiet country road directs one to Fallingwater. The modest parking lot, large enough to hold only the vehicles of the small groups allowed to tour the house at any one time, leads to a tasteful visitor’s center. In addition to vintage photographs recounting the history of the house, there is a gift shop that sells monographs of the world’s greatest architects. Neutra, Gehry and Mies van der Rohe share shelf space with numerous books on Wright himself. A small concession stand offers cappuccino and biscotti.

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The illuminated billboard on the interstate alerts the faithful that they are nearing their destination. Turning onto the secondary road one joins a caravan of cars whose license tags represent a panoply of these United States. Like the Magi drawn by the star, these weary travelers are united in the desire to witness the epitome of what they hold dearest. As uniformed attendants direct private cars to one parking area and chartered buses to another, the Visitor’s Center comes into view. A small village, really, the center is accessed by passing a fountain graced by three angels. Three Precious Moments angels. Oh, if they only sold something like this for the yard! Once inside, the streets are lined with quaint shoppes, each selling the same line of merchandise. Let’s get a bite before we go into the chapel. I feel faint just thinking about it, and it’s been 2 hours since we stopped at the Shoney’s breakfast buffet. Just a couple of hot dogs will be fine. Oh, and a diet Pepsi.

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Walking down the wooded path, the house comes into view through the trees. The lines of the structure mimic those of the forest, so imposing as it is, one must stand directly in front of the house before the full grandeur of Wright’s masterpiece is evident. Entering the almost-hidden front door you find yourself in a small entryway from which you are propelled into a generously proportioned living room. The walls on three sides are made of glass, allowing the woods beyond to become part of the décor. The only sound is the endless splashing of water as it tumbles over the waterfall underneath the house. Wright built the house over the falls, rather than facing them.

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Leaving the Visitor’s Center, the Chapel stands imposingly in the near distance, at the end of a forecourt lined with Precious Moments topiary figures. The carved wooden doors, featuring (oh, well… you know) open into the vestibule, where organ music is piped in. The guides corral the groups through the sides of the chapel. Traversing the interior perimeter of the chapel one can view Precious Moments-inspired tributes to all the dead (Christian) children who have been “taken too soon”, until, through a set of imposing doors, one is thrust into the main chapel. The Mecca of all Pretiosus Momentus.

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Little artwork graces the walls at Fallingwater. For one thing, most of the exterior walls are glass, for another, few works of art could compete with the house itself. And, not insignificantly, Wright wanted it that way.

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Every inch of wall space is enhanced with murals designed personally by Sam Butcher. The centerpiece of the room is a mural entitled “Hallelujah Square”, which depicts multitudes of angel children being welcomed into Heaven and invited to worship at the feet of Jesus Christ, who floats above the scene. The rainbow of facial hues runs the gamut from pale to less pale. But, wait! Yes, there is a little n-, uh, African-American child up there in the corner. Look, that’s him—the one playing basketball by himself.

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The respectful comments elicited by the visit to Fallingwater are what one might expect from a group touring such a masterpiece: “How much did this place cost?” “I hope it doesn’t fall over the edge; at least until we’re outa here.” “Well, it might be okay if it had comfortable furniture.”

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Visitors to the chapel, when they can speak at