My Father, Frank Lloyd Wright by John Lloyd Wright

Author:John Lloyd Wright
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780486140629
Publisher: Dover Publications
Published: 2012-10-06T00:00:00+00:00

The Han

16. ARCHITECTONICS

DESIGNERS LIKE DAD recognize the spiritual source that transcends any earthly formula or logic. That is why their work expresses something in addition, something contrary and often inconsistent with the bare logic of formula.

Louis H. Sullivan gave us the formula “Form follows Function.” I believe he meant: form should follow function. Frank Lloyd Wright says, “Form and Function are one.” I believe he means: form and function should be one. However, we must beware of words. These are foolproof formulas which if followed will save a design from failure. By following them, an architect can see to it that his client doesn’t get a cow barn when he wants a garage; a factory when he wants a theater; or an office building when he wants a residence. Of course, that is of some benefit. But don’t think that either Sullivan or Wright followed formula in an academic sense, or that any great designer could.

Dad instinctively raises the function in his own imagination to a logic not on earth. He shuttles the apparent logical function through the cosmic until it “has a feel” that he loves;—then, he forms the function or functions the form down on earth.

Just say “house” to Dad, if that’s what you want. With one eye, he will look you over from head to foot—with the other, your building site. Then he will start to dream, not about the functions as you see them. He will hear the birds sing, he will see them nesting in the protective limbs of the trees round about. He will hear the tinkle of the waterfall as it plays its way over and around the rocks, giving life to nature’s many forms of plant growth. Ah! He spies a colossal boulder, half buried in the slope toward the mountain stream. You don’t know it but that boulder is already sheered flat by some strong stonecutter to become the hearth for a great stone fireplace, marrying the house to the ground. In his mind, the building grows in and out of the friendly earth, over the water, under the sun. He impregnates the material forms with his own romantic nature. He builds a romance about you, who will live in it—and you get the House of Houses, in which everyone lives a better life because of it. It may have a crack, a leak, or both, but you wouldn’t trade it for one that didn’t.

Or, say “chicken coop,” if that’s what you want. Of course, you think of a logical house for chickens, but not Dad. He hears the cock crow, the hen cackle. He sees the hen laying eggs. He tastes eggs with ham, eggs with bacon, eggs with sausage—eggs scrambled souffléed boiled fried and poached. He smells the aroma of steaming coffee. He feels the joy of living. Now he is ready to build. He weaves a romance around the gullibility of the chicken and the chicanery of the human being—and you get the Coup of Coops in which every chicken lives a better life on its own plot of ground.

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