Viewing page 3 of 21

This transcription has been completed. Contact us with corrections.

[[image]]

1953

Wednesday, Jan. 28 - BLOOMFIELD HILLS, MICH. --There was the day. The trip to General Motors and the book of photographs of your work and the slides. Seeing it all together, there was not only confirmation of all I'd thought about your architecture for many years but a new awareness and excitement for me. The General Motors job was all and more than everyone had written about it: really a twentieth-century monument, yes, "itself like a well-engineered industrial product," yes, a beautiful expression of our technology, yes, imaginative and big and wonderful in its changing relationships, yes, splendid in the carrying out the concept down to the careful and pleasing detail, yes, a group of buildings that recognized man's dignity vis-a-vis the machine, yes, very human--the "physical and the spiritual side." And then, seeing the work all together, the realization of stature, of fertility, of logic and imagination--of an extraordinary accomplishment to date and of signposts of a wonderful future.

And then there was Wilho whisking me off again in the sports car and bringing me to your house. There was the immediate sense of its non-committal character, but equally, a sense of you as a forceful personality and in this paradox both clue and confusion. There was an immediate response toward you as you went to ask for ice and search for bourbon and I liked the way you handled the wave of my enthusiasm about the G.M. trip and the afternoon in the office.

Then the ride out. And the first introduction to your humor--the Russian embassy "not quite as big as the Victor Emmanuel monument, but almost" --and to your voice and the long vowels I liked at once. You at the Girards--mature, reasonable, amusing, "I have an idea for a chair but not in front of all you Herman Miller people," and already full of magnetic attraction for me. The ride home--and me wishing somehow that we would be having a night-cap but brightening when you made the appointment for breakfast very early ("He never gets up that early," said Wilho).

Thursday, Jan. 29-BLOOMFIELD HILLS, MICH.--Then it was morning and you came for me and we went back to what I know now as the Vaughn House and there was a quick glimpse of Eric, lithe and tall and blue-grey eyed dashing off to school. And there was breakfast, with infinite numbers of cups of coffee served by whom I know now was Esther. And then the wonderful talk--you making things "visually concrete," you speaking of your work so that I was aware of the really organic thought (to borrow a dangerous adjective) which went behind each building, aware of the way your mind worked toward a conclusion, aware of integrity and idealism, and aware of human qualities, too, but, at this point, concentrated on the father-son relationship. And the endearing way you acquiesced to all the reporter's kinds of questions and went and got me the scrap-book (which I want to see again) of early [[strikethrough]] belligerent [[/strikethrough]] drawings of violently bloody battles and clippings of soap sculpture competitions.

Then there was lunch at what I know now is the "Fox and Hounds" and there were several martinis and suddenly we were talking about divorce and marriage and you were drawing a chart of what my life had been like. Then there was a brief moment in the office, where I could glimpse you as head of the firm. And then the drive to Detroit--and the conversation going behind reporter's questions for you began telling me things I mustn't print about why you wanted to be a great architect and me liking you more and more every minute. And then the fabulous model and your clear and illuminating remarks. And then, rounding that corner and the hand-clasp--and already the magic electricity began to work for I knew then the intuition of the night before was right--I did want very much to make love with you. Back to the office, deserted then, and you speaking Swedish to your mother and intriguing me with that, and then to your house. Susie in a bright red skirt practically killing herself by hitting herself on the head as she tried to twirl the new baton and charming me in the process. Dinner--