The
Guggenheim Museum (1959) on 88th Street and Fifth Avenue in New York City and
the living room of the Little House (1913) in Wayzata, Minnesota, both designed
by Frank Lloyd Wright, function separately as contrasting programs in opposing
landscapes: a public art institution across Central Park East in the wealthy
Upper East Side of a cosmopolitan metropolis in the former versus a private
residential villa in suburbia overlooking Lake Minnetonka[1]. In
spite of their functional differences, both celebrate nature through the
skilled and unique handling of abstraction, structure, materials, and geometry
which work altogether to fulfill meaningful experiences and methods of
circulation within the interior space. The all-encompassing effect of the glass
dome at the Guggenheim alludes to the Pantheon: just as the Little House is the
modern domestic ‘Doric’ temple for the family, so too, the Guggenheim is the
new temple of art for ‘all-art’ instead of ‘all-gods’.
Both the living room and the facade of the Guggenheim may share
the common imagery of a ship, not in the spirit that Le Corbusier appraises the
machine architecture: the former in motion while the latter in station. The
abstract exterior of the Guggenheim appears as two parts integrated into one: a
giant spiraling sculpture atop the deck of a ship with nautical circular
windows evident on the sides and the roof. From across the road, the white,
concrete, parapet walls that run like fences in front may suggest a possibility
of a (shallow) pool feature, such that the 'ship' sits upon the waters.
Although the 'ship' stands still, the spiral adds a sense of visual motion as
opposed to true motion. Moreover, while the exterior shows an inert spiral, the
interior reveals that people actually circulate through each ramp of the
spiral, illustrating a parallel to nature as oftentimes inanimate and silent
but invisibly brimmed with life, movement and growth. The notion of a ship that
has voyaged far and wide alludes to internationalism and epitomizes modern
industrialization; a ship stationed at its harbor implies a port of arrival and
rest, a place and destination for local and foreigners alike to collectively take
refuge away from the hustle and bustle of the city and hark closer to nature.
This imagery would align with the motif of nature that Wright adored: an oasis
facing the serenity and vastness of the largest park in the concrete jungle.
Similarly in Wayzata, the low-ceilinged rectilinear box-like structure of the
living room overlooking Lake Minnetonka through a series of glass windows
vaguely reminds one of the lower decks of a ship overlooking the waters. If the
Guggenheim is stationed at the dock, then the Little House is a gently sailing,
elegant cruise, aligning with the function of the private living room as
associated to relaxation, leisure and entertainment.
In both works, Wright allows materials to speak for
themselves to serve both structural and decorative purposes. Staying true to
the properties of the materials, he also pushes their inherent limits as an
experimentation of creativity, such as the curvaceous, organic quality of
reinforced concrete at the Guggenheim. As opposed to a purely aesthetic and non-structural
quality of the wooden roof decoration in the living room, every structural
component at the Museum plays a key role in the true support and composition of
the architectural experience. The white, concrete elevator shaft that
reinforces strength and solidity appears as the spine and the ramps as the
ribcage or as embracing arms in warm welcome, as though proud of the art
collections and people it carries on each level. Both the Museum and the living
room employ glass windows as a way to connect nature with architecture, especially
in the latter case. At the Little House, rather than adding projections or
extensions as a call to invite in a Bernini-esque manner, Wright brings in the
natural landscape of Wayzata into the interior quarters of the living room by
removing the walls from the two lengths of the room and relying on the
transparency of glass windows. The replacement on each length reminds of a
wooden post-and-lintel system with uniform linearity, like a Doric temple with
colonnades, architraves, metopes and triglyphs except unornamented and
positioned with a rational rhythm in a modern, non-historicizing, manner.
Furthermore, the horizontal band of rectangular windows on the second tier
recalls the clerestory windows in cathedrals that bring in natural light from
the ceiling level. Despite his unintentional historical parallels to the
Classical temple and Gothic cathedral, Wright pays no attention to
historicizing detail, but takes more interest in the styles and techniques of
the Japanese temple, a radical shift from Western to Eastern architecture.
Regardless, in light of ‘temples’, one may loosely see the domestic institution
of the home as a modern ‘temple’ where family and friends unite to share warmth
and company at the fireplace, where Wright believed to be the centerpiece and
heart of the living room. The enclosure may look like a box in the crudest
terms, but in the metaphorical light of an altar, it more accurately resembles
a skeletal tent for collective shelter and social gathering, its structure
harmoniously composed of rectangular glass windows supported by a balance
between horizontal beams and vertical pillars; likewise, the strength and
darkness of wood counteracts the fragility and transparency of glass. The
rectangular framing of the windows performs as the border of a painting,
capturing, like a camera, the scenes of nature outside; instead of artificial
representations in painting, real-life ‘paintings’ become the natural
decoration of the house.
Ironically, the glass rotunda at the Guggenheim fulfills a
more naturalistic effect than the electrical skylight in the living room, even
though the latter seems more integral to nature than the former in terms of
materials. Inside the Guggenheim, the central rotunda maximizes natural light
into the enclosure not only for architectural aesthetic but also to protect the
paintings within. Bearing in mind of the diagram featuring the Concert Hall
for 3,000 (1863-72) by E. E. Viollet-le-Duc[2], the glass dome at the
Guggenheim, supported by modern versions of rib-vaulting using steel reminds
one of the industrial train shed at St. Pancras Station in London. The
circularity of the low dome may summon the idea of the sundial, displaying the
movement of the sun throughout the day. By implementing a rotunda to expose the
real sky and natural light from outdoors into the exhibition, the viewers
studying the art on the ramp partake in a dual journey of timelessness in the
art and real time in the world, all at the same moment. Wright succeeds in
breaking the barriers of time and space between past and present, echoing Bruno
Taut’s Glass Pavilion in Cologne, Oskar Schlemmer’s Bauhaus Stairway and
Picasso’s Still Life with Chair Caning. Perhaps less triumphant at the Little
House, Wright instills a long, rectangular skylight in the low ceiling run by
warm electrical light.
In terms of geometry, unlike the curvatures at the
Guggenheim, the interior design of the living room reduces to straight lines,
including the roof decorations. In contrast to the rotunda, one cannot quite
pinpoint the meaning behind the abstraction of the rectangular skylights, both
real (in the middle) and faux (on the sides), just like the peculiarity of the
triangular lights cut out of the ramp ceilings at the Guggenheim: in the
latter, the abrupt appearance of linear geometry in the fabric of curvaceous
shapes may be best explained by the abstract art of Kandinsky that involves
pure geometry and art for art’s sake. The notion of abstraction continues in
the interior of the living room: against the linearity of the brick, the wooden
piers and beams, the roof decoration, and parquet flooring, the furniture, from
the different couches to the carpets, take on unique geometric patterns and various
combinations of verticals and horizontals. Moreover, the glass panes on windows
and the door feature delicate triangular and sometimes square ornamentation, as
well, altogether stimulating the eye with distinct rhythms and shapes as one
surveys the interior space. Back at the Guggenheim, however, it is interesting
to note that the use of square tiles on the top ramp as opposed to circular
tiles in the rest of the architecture points to the fact[3] that
Wright had intended to close off the top ramp for storage, so the square tiles symbolized
utilitarian space, separate from the architectural and artistic experience
marked by the circular tiles.
At the Guggenheim, the spiral with
its low ramp barriers provides an openness and complete transparency across and
down the central atrium, allowing maximum natural light from the rotunda. The
shape of the spiral and the minimal separation between paintings on the ramps
produce a byproduct result similar to the audience experience at the Paris
Opera (1861-75) designed by Charles Garnier: viewers can see each other and
multiple paintings at once across the ramps from every angle. This naturally
causes viewers to study the behavior of other viewers, whether intentionally or
not. Visitors themselves become an exhibition, as well: we are all on display
like the paintings, which is achieved especially efficiently since the
paintings themselves are not enclosed in rooms, but rather, are minimally
separated by the structural beams of the architecture. Furthermore, if one was
to fix his eyes on the rotunda from the fountain on ground level, the human
periphery vision perceives the moving visitors on the ramps as not simply
walking but as though traveling steadily up and down a conveyor belt. The
spiral seems to be transporting them through the different time periods of when
the artworks were produced. This illusion was most probably unintentional but
arose naturally as a result of the purely white, concrete spiral structure
itself.
Less complicated than the Museum, the horizontal expansiveness and furniture arrangement at the Little House replaces the vertically spiraling circulation at the Guggenheim. In place of a singular, dominating mode of movement, such as the spiral, Wright, following after Morris, designs his own household furniture to divide and allocate the freedom of space within the living room into smaller areas for an array of different purposes. In effect, he not only creates the choice of activities in the living room, but also to designate where and how one is to participate and enjoy in the activity. As such, he uses specific, couture-made props to control life in the living room, which may be seen as megalomaniacal but nonetheless very thorough, detailed and intentional in his design and conceptions of space: for example, in terms of how one moves between, say, the study table to the sofa, and how one sits on the long couch to affect how one views the scenery outside.
Compared to the white, concrete bulk and artificial
invention of the elevator at the Museum, the living room in the Little House
stands out as being more compatible with nature: the organic origin of mahogany
wood, the natural formation of soft-gray pebbles used around the perimeter, the
primary use of maple-red and moss-green colors, and the panoramic prospect of a
vast body of lake beyond the horizon, altogether evokes the image of the living
room as growing out of the ground and belonging to nature, a naturally safe and
organic haven for the modern family. Architecture no longer acts as a barrier
but as a facilitator: when all the windows open, light, fresh air, chirping of
birds, and sounds of insects flow lucidly into the interior, uniting man and
nature as one for the emotional, mental and spiritual well-being in the home.
Photography by Author, 6 Dec.
2013.
[1] “Then & Now | Frank Lloyd Wright Deephaven Home.” Lake
Minnetonka Magazine. Apr. 2012. Web. 10 Dec. 2013.
<http://lakeminnetonkamag.com/article/francis-little/frank-lloyd-wright-deephaven-home>.
[2] E. E. Viollet-le-Duc,
Concert hall for 3,000 with new method of vaulting. (From his Discourses on Architecture, Vol. II,
1863-72). Retrieved from Trachtenberg, M., and I. Hyman, Architecture, From
Prehistory to Postmodernity. Print. 10 Dec. 2013.
[3] Guggenheim Museum Staff,
Personal communication, 6 Dec 2013.
