History: The Surprisingly Emotional Modernism Of The Farnsworth House
By Emma G. Gallegos in Arts & Entertainment on Jul 28, 2017 10:09PM
The story behind the creation of the Farnsworth House, an elegant and influential steel-and-glass house designed by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe in suburban Illinois, is dramatic and bittersweet. It has already been dramatized once in "The Glass House," a play that ran in New York, and it was reported earlier this year that Jeff Bridges and Maggie Gyllenhaal are eyeing a script that focuses on the relationship between the visionary architect and his patron, Dr. Edith Farnsworth.
The process of designing and building the Farnsworth house was a long and tumultuous one—especially given that it was a small, one-room vacation home in Plano, Illinois. The pair met at a party and began designing the house in 1946, but it wasn't finished until 1951. Their partnership made the iconic house possible, but it dissolved in a very ugly and very public way: they sued each other over cost overruns, Dr. Farnsworth badmouthed the house in the press, and Mies never once set foot in his masterpiece—not even after Farnsworth sold the place decades later. There were rumors that the pair were romantically involved, though neither ever divulged what exactly transpired between the superstar architect and the prominent nephrologist. "The Glass House" takes artistic license to imagine a turbulent affair, and if Hollywood takes a crack at the house's backstory, there's little doubt they'll do the same.
It feels somewhat tragic that Mies was never able to enjoy the fruits of his labor, but today the public can enjoy the Farnsworth House, operated as a museum by National Trust for Historic Preservation. The house is about 50 miles Southwest of Chicago, and it sits right above the floodplain of the Fox River. The design is essentially a very beautiful glass box raised up on stilts to keep it above flood waters (more on that later). It was made of little more than glass, steel, travertine and wood. It was stripped of any adornment—a hallmark of the modernist style. Here's what it looked like when it was finished in 1951:
Modernist buildings have sometimes gotten a bad rap for being cold, foreboding or even sinister, and they're often associated with a sleek urban environment, like the glamorous women in party dresses floating above midcentury Los Angeles in the Stahl House.
But Mies' design took advantage of the once-remote Midwestern landscape. Maurice Parrish, executive director for the Farnsworth House, told Chicagoist that Mies wanted to create a unique experience of being "in nature while still being protected." The house would seem to almost levitate over prairie grasses. Mies later explained (pdf):
Nature, too, shall have its own life. We must beware not to disrupt it with the color of our house, and interior fittings. Yet we should attempt to bring nature, houses, and human beings together into a higher unity. If you view nature through the glass walls of the Farnsworth House, it gains a more profound significance than if viewed from the outside.
The house has been called a temple, and Parrish says that it often catches people off guard: "Visitors are surprised when they turn a corner and have an emotional reaction to this steel-and-glass creation."
The structure changes not just with the seasons—Parris says the changing fall colors along the river are particularly astounding—but the time of day. "In the morning there's often a haze, and the house seems softer in appearance," he says. And the museum recently began conducting Moonlight tours that begin at dusk, allowing visitors to experience the home in the changing light over the course of 90 minutes.
The Farnsworth House is widely viewed as crystallizing Mies' stripped-down "skin and bones" aesthetic. The house became famous and even imitated before it was finished, when it was featured in a MoMA exhibit in 1947.
Construction was plagued by logistical issues right from the beginning. Mies' design couldn't be brought to fruition because the materials he wanted weren't available immediately after World War II. Farnsworth largely supported his vision but the costs and practical issues became untenable toward the end of its construction. The fight between Mies and Farnsworth spilled into public when Farnsworth refused to pay the bill. Farnsworth originally said she could pay $40,000, but the bill kept getting higher and higher until he was asking for $74,045—which was a very large sum at the time. Mies sued her for nonpayment and Farnsworth countered with a lawsuit accusing him of "fraud and deceit." The judge sided with Mies, but it was a hollow victory in some ways. Parrish says, "He was pleased about what he had accomplished but disappointed about how acrimonious it had been toward the end."
The finished house was attention-getting and controversial—it seems that even Farnsworth wasn't sure what she had gotten herself into. Though the glass house was outfitted with floor-to ceiling curtains for privacy, she complained to House Beautiful in 1953: "The truth is that in this house with its four walls of glass I feel like a prowling animal, always on the alert. I am always restless. Even in the evening. I feel like a sentinel on guard day and night."
And in the beginning, she sort of was. The residence's fame preceded it, and when it was first finished, modernist architecture groupies made the trek to Plano and jumped the property fence just to marvel at it. (Subsequent owner and architecture buff Peter Palumbo felt more comfortable embracing the building's rockstar status, and he opened up his home for tours in 1975.)
Farnsworth and Mies clashed over the interior, which had see-through walls and meant that what was placed inside took on greater aesthetic importance. And Mies was a notoriously detail-oriented architect. Farnsworth was interested in practical matters like storage, while Mies suggested she should only bring what she needed for the weekend. Parrish said, "He was focused more on the pure aesthetics of the house—not so much the level of convenience."
When the relationship between client and visionary soured, Farnsworth hired someone else to create the furniture—including a wardrobe for storage—as well as finish the rest of the structure according to Mies' designs. Here's what it looked like in 1951:
The year after it was finished, the Chicago Tribune did a spread in its real estate section with the headline: "Dinner in Yesterday's Bedroom—It's Possible In This Flexible Plan."
Mies hailed the open design as the future of family homes: "Since there seems to be a real need for such homes, we have attempted to solve the problem by developing a steel skeleton and a core that could be used for all houses. Their interior is left open for flexibility. It would be suitable for a family with no children, one child or several children. The note of individuality would depend on the individual site."
But some critics pilloried it precisely for its impracticality. House Beautiful wrote (pdf):
Does it work? The much touted all-glass cube of International Style architecture is perhaps the most unlivable type of home for man since he descended from the tree and entered a cave. You burn up in the summer and freeze in the winter, because nothing must interfere with the “pure” form of their rectangles—no overhanging roofs to shade you from the sun; the bare minimum of gadgets and possessions so as not to spoil the “clean” look; three or four pieces of furniture placed along arbitrary pre-ordained lines; room for only a few books and one painting at precise and permanent points; no children, no dogs, extremely meager kitchen facilities—nothing human that might disturb the architect’s composition.
But Farnsworth did eventually get used to the unusual home, Parrish says, and she ended up keeping the house for 21 years, until she retired to Italy in 1972. She loved the space enough that in 1968, she fought to preserve the peace of her weekend abode. She unsuccessfully sued Kendall County when they decided to build a bridge across the Fox River near her home.
Parrish said that Palumbo and his family enjoyed living in the house when they purchased it in 1972. He made his own tweaks. An avid art collector, he used the space to highlight his sculpture collection. He manicured the lawn and space around the house, so that it no longer looked so natural and unruly. It truly did become a weekend retreat: he built a tennis court, boat house and an in-ground pool. He also brought in Mies-designed furniture. And he made one very practical change: he installed an air conditioner, since the house—despite being under a large maple tree—would get warm and its ventilation system was poor.
The Palumbo family sold the house off to the National Trust for Historic Preservation and Landmarks Illinois in 2003. Development on the Fox River means that the stewards' biggest challenge is figuring out a way to save it from the inevitable flooding. When the structure was initially built, records for floods and locals' memories weren't particularly accurate. The stilts that raised the house above the flood plain weren't tall enough. The Farnsworth House experienced its first bad flood in 1956, and this continued to be a problem throughout its history. One flood in 1996 caused millions in damage. A photographer captured a shot of the rising river in the 1960s:
Parrish said to be good owners and stewards, the time has come for The National Trust for Historic Preservation to retrofit the historic structure. Flooding is only expected to worsen in the coming years, so the Trust has hired experts to analyze the problem and recommend the best solution. He says the one option that seems to solve the most problems is a hydraulic system that allows the house to be raised up when the flood waters threaten it. Moving the house to higher ground would ruin Mies' vision, since the natural context was so important, Parrish says. Most of the other options, like barriers and even a kind of buoyancy system sometimes used in New Orleans, risk not being very effective. Not doing anything seems like a bad idea, too, because repeated flooding risks eventually destroying the original materials.
In the meantime, the Farnsworth House wants to make sure that the space is being enjoyed by all generations, and not just as a "precious object." Parrish wants to create excuses for people not only to visit but to return again and again for unique experiences. This summer the house will host a big band concert—a nod to the era in which it was built. He is amazed at the house's continuing ability to inspire artists and designers as well as architects around the world. The museum has invited some of these artists to the home for performances and installations. For instance, a few years ago, Luftwerk transformed the space into the home of the future it was always meant to be with an otherworldly sound-and-light installation. In September, there will be a contemporary dance performance that emphasizes the transparency of the walls.
"We're exploring new ways to present the house to a wider population and show that there are different ways of experiencing and enjoying the house," Parrish says. "It's a historic structure, but it's not locked in one time in history."
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