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                                              McCoy-18

of [[underlined]]Direction[[/underlined]] asked me for a piece on California. A month after the manuscript was delivered he was supprised to learn that I had not submitted it for his approval. I took him a carbon, and the next morning there was a stack of paper and his heavily edited version beside the typewritter.
"Don't you want it to be right." he demanded when I objected.
"No, I want it to be mine." There were no real factual errors; he had superimposed his self image on my image of him. I said it was already in type, which may have been true. The session ended when I read aloud to him from his rewrite a long Germanic sentence, adding that sentences like beams had their bearing load, their bending moment. He broke into a laugh.

A number of draftsmen came and went while I was in the office. The only one with experience beyond a summer in an architect's office was Sully who had worked for several years at Lockheed; he was also the only one who could be tough with contractors. I came to see that our inexperience was in our favor. None of us had much to unlearn.
No one touched the design in the office. Schindler was in complete control, and for the most part carried everything in his hand. He developed no talents. There was a group of shops on Ventura Boulevard that was added to occasionally, and he gave us all, one after another, a chance to design an addition. He praised us, then with his soft, ever-blunt pencil showed us that he was swifter. He laughed as he slowly demolished