Kettle’s Whistle: The Creator and the Critic

By Michele Robecchi

Undisputable geniality and stunning longevity were two of the main ingredients that made Frank Lloyd Wright reach his legendary status, yet there was a time, in the mid-1920s, when the life of the man whose work would revolutionize architecture as we know it, seriously hit the skids. Self-exiled in Wisconsin, and plagued by a series of financial and personal setbacks, Wright was faced with the grim perspective that his creativity was no longer able to sustain him when unexpected solace came in the form of an article of support by Lewis Mumford, at the time an architecture critic on the rise, and author of the seminal book Sticks and Stones (1924). When Wright read Mumford’s ‘Poison of Good Taste’ in the Mercury, in which he was referred to as a “poet in architecture,” he was impressed enough to write a letter to the author to express his admiration. Mumford replied with gratitude, and from then on took off a correspondence that would last until Wright’s death in 1959.

Guggenheim Museum building in New York City. Photo: David Heald. © The Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation, New York

The book, Frank Lloyd Wright and Lewis Mumford: Thirty Years of Correspondence (Princeton Architectural Press, 2001), covered their exchanges through an extraordinary time of their life and history in general, and is a testimony of the society of mutual admiration that the architect and the critic had established over the course of their epistolary talks. Albeit 30 years his senior, Wright was deeply inspired by Mumford’s thinking, often praising his “Emersonian mind” and clarity of vision. Mumford, on the other hand, shared with Wright an interest in the American landscape and was fascinated by his imagination and genius. Far from being limited to architecture, their conversations would touch on every subject, from life to politics and art. As in every long-distance relationship, there was plenty of room for misunderstanding, and the dialogue suffered a major break in the late 1930s when they found themselves in disagreement about the war (Mumford, whose son was in the army, was incensed at Wright’s pacifism and lack of perception of the dangers of the German threat; Wright was scandalized at Mumford’s hypocrisy. The two quarreled and the correspondence ceased for almost a decade). Eventually contact was resumed, predictably in a much more cautious fashion. Careful not to step on each other toes, Wright and Mumford went at it in an exploratory way, until formality eventually melted down and the common ground that originally put them together was fully rediscovered.

What emerges from the Wright/Mumford correspondence, apart from a unique insight on a significant chapter of the history of American modern architecture, is the dynamics that characterize the complex, sincerely complimentary, but somehow diffident rapport that exists between creator and critic. It is indeed a parasitic and at times competitive relationship, often defined by sentiments of esteem, envy, respect, and resentment; but bearing in mind that this was the 20^th century, where the written word had a lot more relevance and impact on people’s life, the position of both men was intelligently based on the healthy premise that as it’s important to make art, it’s also damn important to talk about it. Being a lecturer and writer himself, Wright was more prone to territorial invasion than Mumford, but quick in acknowledging that the freedom of his counterpart implied more independence, and consequently, authority. Mumford, on the other hand, fought tooth and nail to protect the aforementioned independence, to the point of turning down Wright’s numerous invitations to visit Taliesin, his residency in rural America, and do some work together. If read one by one, Mumford’s elaborate excuses, that go from health reasons to professional engagements, quite make sense. However, when one thinks that this long list of refusals spans over a period of 30 years, something doesn’t add up. Was Mumford fearful that being enlisted in the army of Wright supporters would automatically diminish his power? Or was his resistance based on concerns of more personal nature? Wright himself was perplexed, and the bitter feelings that all these missed opportunities generated are best expressed by Olgivanna Wright after her husband’s death in response to Mumford’s condolences letter (”Your words are good. I wish there were more of them when Frank was alive [...] It is sad that so often death opens the eyes of the living.”). There is an evident effort on Mumford’s side, despite his younger age, to hold ground and affirm the importance of his work by maintaining a safety distance; Wright happily strings along, but is outraged when Mumford has the ardor to sign one of his letter ‘from one master to another’ in 1953, as to suggest their equality, to the point of addressing the issue during a breakfast of the Taliesin Fellowship a few weeks later (”Well, he’s a master of the pen, yes. [...] but I am saying that the master of the pen has all down the centuries almost invariably and infallibly being wrong.”) and even revisiting the subject in a letter to Mumford four years later. Never mind that the two men’s egos had a size that could fill the Met, a chord was definitely struck.

As is custom, history put everything in perspective, and there is little doubt of where Frank Lloyd Wright stands in comparison to Lewis Mumford today. Yet it was thanks to a multitude of events, including the discussions with the critic, that his work now is what it is. It’s just a shame that the electronic evolution of the last few years has in fact erased the possibility of reconstruct this kind of exchange and deprive us from the opportunity to look at the discursive element that informs the creative process.