Showing posts with label Taliesin West. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Taliesin West. Show all posts

Monday, April 21, 2014

Frank Lloyd Wright Slept (And Took A Shower) Here

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The photo above is of the great room at Taliesin West, mentioned in yesterday's post. The chairs are based on origami. As Dave mentioned in a comment yesterday, when high power lines were built nearby to the west in the direction of Phoenix, Wright angrily revised the house to face east toward the McDowell Mountains. Note that the roof line to the right slopes so sharply that guests were forced to sit down, facing the host's preferred view.

Wright and his third and last wife, Olga, had separate bedrooms. Some think that's the only way someone could stay married to him. The bed in the foreground was only for lounging during the day. There's another one behind the divider for sleep. Who knows why. He also had his own tiny bathroom. Nothing like those in today's big American homes, so large you could play badminton. 

Olga Ivanovna Lazovich became a sculptor of some note. Some of her work is seen at the bottom.                        

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Madeleine Monday

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Gotta start 'em while they're young. (Bib found at the International Photography Hall of Fame in STL.)

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Taliesin West

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My favorite thing to do in Phoenix, a visit to Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright's winter home. Wright, a cantankerous genius, was one of the greatest architects of the 20th Century. His most famous work is probably the Guggenheim Museum in New York.

The building sits on the eastern outskirts of the Phoenix area, with nothing beyond but desert and mountain. He and his wife entertained the greats of the artistic and political worlds, holding grand salons that make make you think of a dessicated version of Gertrude Stein's.

The house is full of rectangles but also triangles, some quite subtle. Look for them in today's and tomorrow's posts. And, yes, I gotta do one more, featuring interior space and artwork.

It's hard to give an impression of the place without being there. Someone once said that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. And I can't dance to save my life.                         

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