A Death in Pilsen

Chapter 10

The sanctuary in Unity Temple was close to full when Catherine and I arrived a few minutes before 7:30. Our aged neighbor may not have forgiven the architect his transgressions, but apparently many others in the community had — or else they either weren’t aware of those transgressions or didn’t gave a rap.

A tall, very slender, silver-haired woman in a tailored blue suit stepped to the rostrum and favored us with a broad smile. “My, but it’s nice to see so many of you here tonight on this very special occasion in the life of our temple. I won’t ask for a show of hands to see who among you remembers when this wonderful building was completed, but I will confess that I was here myself at the time. Of course, I was very, very young then,” she said with a self-deprecating chuckle.

She waited for the requisite tittering to die down before continuing. “We are so privileged tonight to have the world-renowned architect himself here to talk to us about this masterpiece of design. It gives me great pleasure to present... Mr. Frank... Lloyd... Wright!”

The great man suddenly materialized. Apparently, he had been behind a door, waiting like one of the Barrymores to pop out and make a dramatic entrance onstage. And he got applause worthy of a Barrymore.

Although in his late seventies and brandishing a cane, Wright was still an imposing figure in a black cape, a long crimson scarf, and his trademark wide-brimmed, flat-crowned hat. At a quick glance, he could have passed for a Roman Catholic bishop.

He doffed the hat, flipping it casually aside in what probably was a practiced motion, then stepped to the rostrum — or was it a pulpit? — surveying his audience with piercing eyes.

“Here,” he intoned, spreading his arms wide, palms up, and looking up as if embracing the heavens, “is the very place where modern architecture was born. Look around you, all. This is a hallowed place. Is it any wonder that people travel here from the world over just to see this edifice, this temple, this welcome haven of refuge in the midst of that hurly-burly existence we call urban living?”

He was just getting warmed up. He ran a hand through his thinning white hair and leaned on the lectern.

“My goal here was not merely to create a religious structure, but one that fully embodies the principles of liberal religion for which this church stands: unity, truth, beauty, simplicity, freedom, and reason. Here is where you will find the first real expression of the idea that space within the building is the reality of the building. And it glows with the same radiance today as when it first opened its doors to its worshipers almost four decades ago. I remember that time as if it were yesterday.”

The architect went on to discuss his storied career, focusing on such seminal structures as Tokyo’s Imperial Hotel; the Johnson’s Wax headquarters in Racine, Wis.; Fallingwater, the dramatic house built over a waterfall in rural Pennsylvania; and the Guggenheim art museum in New York City, which was still on the drawing boards.

Using no notes, he then talked in general about architecture and his other favorite subject — himself. I scribbled down a few of his better quotes: “The mother art is architecture.” “Without an architecture of our own, we have no soul of our own civilization.” “Every great architect is, necessarily, a great poet. He must be a great original interpreter of his time, his day, his age.” “My lieber meister, Louis Sullivan, once said that ‘form follows function.’ That quote has, I believe, been misunderstood. Form and function should be one,” he said, interlacing the fingers of his hands, “joined in a spiritual union.”

Then, in self-revelation, he added: “Early in life, I had to choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. I chose the former and see no reason to change.”

After tossing off a few more aphorisms, he glanced at his watch: “I see that I have exceeded my allotted time. I thank you very much for your attention.” As he bowed theatrically and stepped back from the lectern to enthusiastic applause, the blue-suited lady came forward.

“Thank you so much,” she said to the architect. “What a simply grand evening, and it’s not over yet! Mr. Wright has graciously agreed to take questions from the audience, and immediately afterward we will be serving coffee and sweets in Unity House, which adjoins this sanctuary.”

Hands flew up around the room, and the Mrs. Blue Suit pointed to one. “Mr. Wright,” asked a bald man toward the back, “what is your favorite design creation?”

“The one that’s on my drawing board at that moment,” he answered to laughter.

“Mr. Wright, what do you think of Mies van der Rohe?” posed a woman down in front who wore a large, broad-brimmed hat with flowers on it.

“A truly engaging fellow. Likes good cigars and fine wine. I must say that I enjoy his company. But what he needs is to spend some time with me and my boys up at Taliesin learning about organic architecture. It would do him a world of good. He has been quoted as saying ‘less is more.’ Sometimes with Mr. Mies, less really is less.” That drew a few laughs and a smug smile from Wright.

“How do you feel about Eero Saarinen’s work?” came a question from the upper level.

“I traveled to South America with his father once, and all I learned from him was how to fill out an expense account. (more laughter) I’ve never met this younger Saarinen, but based on his work, I would term him possibly the best of the eclectic architects,” he said dismissively.

After Wright had aimed a few more barbs at other architects and their work while heaping praise on himself, our mistress of ceremonies called a halt to the festivities, and we all migrated over to the social hall. Catherine and I stood at the outer edge of a throng that pressed in on Wright, asking questions and seeking autographs. Some had copies of his books that they asked him to sign. He smiled beatifically and patiently responded to each query and request, perhaps hoping there might be a prospective client somewhere in this well-to-do suburban assemblage.

Gradually, the crowd dispersed in the direction of the refreshments, and I approached the man himself.

“Mr. Wright, my name is Steve Malek. I’m a reporter with the Chicago Tribune.”

“Mr. Malek,” he acknowledged with a nod, indicating that because of a cup of coffee in one hand and a cane in the other, he was unable to shake hands. “Do you know what I’ve said about journalists?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

His eyes twinkled. “I’m all in favor of keeping dangerous weapons out of the hands of fools. Let’s start with typewriters.”

“Interesting words,” I parried, “from someone who has used the press so skillfully over the years.”

“Well said! Well said!” Wright responded with a hearty laugh. “How did you like my talk?”

“Entertaining, I must say. I have a proposition for you.”

“Indeed?” He raised his eyebrows.

“My son is an architecture student at the University of Illinois in Champaign, and—”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Wright snapped.

“Yes, I know a little about your attitude toward architectural schools.”

“Which is why I created our own school, up at Taliesin.”

“That’s precisely what I want to talk to you about. I’d like you to take my son on this summer, as an intern there.”

“Mr... Malek, is it? We do not engage summer interns at Taliesin,” Wright harrumphed.

“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. I was hoping that we might come to an accommodation.”

He arched his brows again. “Oh? What sort of an accommodation?”

“As I said, I’m a reporter with the Tribune, which, as you probably are aware, has one of the largest circulations of any newspaper in the U.S.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that I think it’s time for a major Sunday feature on you and your work in the Tribune. A feature that I would write. Over the years, you have shown tremendous resiliency, and today your popularity is greater than ever.”

“Don’t patronize me, Mr. Malek.”

“Far be it for me to do that, Mr. Wright,” I shot back. “I’m merely stating a fact. People want to know what you are doing today, and what your thoughts are on the current state of American architecture. We all got some insight on the latter tonight, I might add, at the risk of being accused, once again, of patronizing you.”

Wright’s eyes narrowed to slits. “A Sunday feature in the Tribune, you say?”

“Yes.”

“What makes you qualified to write such a feature?”

“One, I am an excellent writer, or perhaps ‘superb’ is a more apt adjective. Two, I am an extremely skilled interviewer. Three, I study my subject and his work thoroughly before any interview.” I thought I’d throw my own self-confidence right back at this supremely confident egotist.

“Would this feature have photographs of the... subject, and of his work?”

“Of course. Probably in rotogravure color.”

“And I take it that you are suggesting a quid pro quo involving your son?”

“Precisely.”

The architect pursed his lips. “I don’t believe that I can do that,” he said, thumping his cane twice on the floor to underscore his words.

“A pity. Chicago readers would have loved to get an update on your work and your theories about design and the future of architecture.”

“I will not be blackmailed,” he said, but his tone began to lack conviction.

“Of course not. You are well known for sticking to your principles, and I respect you for it. If you don’t want to do the interview, I’ll have to go to my fall-back position with the Tribune’s editors.”

“And what would that be?”

“A Sunday feature on your friend Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Now that he’s building what amounts to a whole new campus for the Illinois Institute of Technology on the south side of Chicago, he’ll be of particular interest to our readers. As you yourself said a few minutes ago, he’s an engaging fellow. I’m sure he would make a fascinating subject.”

“Do your editors know that you operate this way?” Wright snapped.

“What way is that? I just know that they’re looking for a feature on architecture right now,” I lied. “I’m sure they would be equally happy with an article on you or on Mies.”

“There’s no comparison!” he barked, thumping his cane on the floor several times and causing several people to throw puzzled looks in our direction.

“You were my first choice,” I conceded. “And I thought you might be pleased that I think enough of your work to suggest my son could benefit from a summer of study under your tutelage at Taliesin.”

“Of course he could benefit from it! God knows what notions they’re filling his head with at that mass-production design factory down there in Champaign. All right, Mr. Malek,” Wright said grudgingly. “I believe we can find a spot for your son this summer up in our verdant hills of Wisconsin.” We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to work toward finding a time for the interview on Wright’s next trip to Chicago.

I thanked him and went to rejoin Catherine, who had watched our conversation with a puzzled expression. I was a bit puzzled myself as to how to proceed. Mike Kennedy, the Trib’s Sunday Editor, had liked the magazine-length features I had done for him in the past, many of them built around interviews. The question now was whether he would find an architect who was pushing eighty a compelling enough figure to be the subject of a major article.