Frank Lloyd’s blog

If you live in the forest, you make your house out of wood.  If you live by the river, you make your house out of stones.  It’s an old idea: use the available material.

So what if you live in California?  The history of California architecture is full of strong examples of structures that use simple materials, and marry those materials to a natural setting.  I’ve been around craftsman homes since I was 8, when I moved to a neighborhood full of modest bungalows in South Pasadena. I often visited the work of Greene and Greene, and I still do.  The Gamble House is just across the Arroyo Seco from my present home.  I still walk along the streets nearby, where the Greene brothers’ designs abound.  On the banks of the Arroyo, there are plenty of homes built of sticks and stones.  Rounded river rocks and long shaped beams, in combination with generous overhangs, are typical.  The walls surrounding the houses are built with masses of granite and brick.

Recently, I re-read some of the essays in an architectural classic, Five California Architects, by Esther McCoy.  Included, of course, are the formative architects Bernard Maybeck, Irving Gill, and R. M. Schindler—in addition to the Greene brothers.  Active at that time were many others.  One who designed major projects was Julia Morgan. I recently took a road trip through central California, and decided to stay overnight at Asilomar, a conference grounds and resort (though hardly luxurious) near Monterey.

Asilomar, now a state park, was designed by Julia Morgan as a conference and meeting place for women in the early 20^th century. Based on lodge designs, and built from the forest and the stream, the buildings are set in an ideal location: Pacific Grove, near the famed 17 mile drive in Monterey. The name “Asilomar” translates to “refuge by the sea.” Here, Morgan worked within the fragile ecosystem and serene landscape. Blending into the pines and sand dunes, leading to the sea…with buildings made of wood and stone.

My late summer vacation was a road trip to Northern California.  I was invited to stay in an old bunkhouse in a semi-rural area, on property owned by artist Bob Hudson and his wife, writer Mavis Jukes. I often think about the biggest privilege of my job: being so close to the artists. I am lucky to see the work first, at the studio, and to intimately understand the artists’ process.

I am sitting at a desk that Hudson lovingly set up for me in the pitch-roofed pump house. To my left are bookshelves. On the top shelf, one of his assembled ceramic sculptures sits with a book of landscape photography. The next shelf is stacked with 7 new art publications from Yale University Press. But just below lies a collection of hawk feathers.

The lifestyle and art of Robert Hudson are essentially rustic, but marvelously eclectic. Though Bob is notoriously quiet, his work speaks eloquently of the artist’s mind—a kind of melding of collage, surrealism, and poetic juxtapositions.  He works in a large metal building, one of several structures on an old farm near Cotati, north of San Francisco. His materials are found objects—the detritus of our mechanized and industrial world. His sculpture, rooted in the Assemblage movement on the West Coast, is most often a combination of welded steel and joined, cast-off objects.  He usually adds color by painting in bright primaries.  I walked into Bob’s spacious studio, and entered the world of the brilliant poet-welder.

Hudson’s earliest works were exhibited in legendary Bay Area galleries during the late 1950s.  There were shows at the Batman Gallery in S.F.—where Hudson showed his early drawings in 1961 alongside some of the Assemblage movement’s main practitioners Wallace Berman, Bruce Conner, and George Herms.  According to Hudson, the Batman Gallery’s walls were black, and the floor was covered with squares of green grass-like material. He also showed in 1961 and ‘62 at the Bolles Gallery.  Later, in the early 1960s, Hudson showed at the Lanyon Gallery in Palo Alto.  Nicholas Wilder did some of the exhibition programming.  It was Nick Wilder who spotted rising talents in the Bay Area (Bruce Nauman had been a graduate student at U.C. Davis, and Hudson was teaching at S.F. Art Institute), and brought their work to Los Angeles. Hudson’s show with Wilder in L.A. opened in 1966.

The then-fledgling magazine Artforum featured an article by Phil Leider on three Bay Area artists, and placed Hudson’s work on the cover of the September 1964 issue. Leider’s text noted, “Elements of neo-Dada, suggestions from Pop Art, assemblage, junk sculpture have all found their way into the work, which is dominated by the employment of humor as a major value.  It is a humor which is raucous, dirty, mimicking and subtle, and which is the life-line of the best sculpture being produced in San Francisco.”  Hudson’s work has continued to employ many of these elements, as he combines found objects with a poet’s sensibility.  The welded masses of metal bulge with allusions to art and spring out like an exploded painting.

The banks of the Mississippi were populated with cyclists, runners and dog walkers when Adrian Saxe and I cruised along in July.  As others rode and ambled, we navigated by rented automobile. I wanted to see the museums, and had the Frederick Weisman Museum on my list.  It’s located on the campus of the University of Minnesota, and I found the best view from across the river.

It’s phenomenal that Minneapolis has cultural buildings by so many world-class architects. In contrast to the sleek blue work of Jean Nouvel at the Guthrie, the Weisman is a curvaceous, complex and undulating grouping of forms. It is strikingly different when viewed from the river or from the street level.  One can enter the museum from the underground parking garage—and the pedestrian experience is complex as well.  Frank Gehry’s use of exposed structure is evident throughout.  I found an unusual and delightful feature: a room that contained the drawings, models and design process for the building.

So how is it that the citizens and philanthropists of Minneapolis have made possible such visible, prominent and striking architectural landmarks?  Whatever the many reasons, it’s an impressive group of buildings. Saxe and I had been informed upon arrival that “In Minnesota there are only two seasons: Winter and Construction.”  The short season for building only makes the architecture more of an impressive accomplishment for the city.

I had never been to the Twin Cities until this summer.  I traveled to Minneapolis in July with Adrian Saxe, and we attended the opening of “Dirt on Delight” at the Walker Art Center.  Adrian, a veteran traveler, did most of the preparation for our trip. I was pleased to have him take over—he’s naturally inquisitive, great at gathering information, and possesses what I call “built-in-GPS”.  He calls it his “pigeon-brain”.  Whatever one wants to name it, he is a marvelous navigator.

I expressed interest in going to see the great Mississippi River—something a tourist from a dry region would find a rare natural resource.  After we landed and checked into our hotel, Saxe drove our rented car right down to the locks in the heart of old Minneapolis. I saw the river, the bridges and some real river barges.  I was interested, intrigued and informed, realizing that we were in the shadows of Gold Medal Flour’s distribution point.  But then, I saw something that really caught my eye: the rising form and reflecting blue of a stunning architectural work. The design of the Guthrie Theatre is the work of architect Jean Nouvel, along with the Minneapolis architectural firm Architectural Alliance.

We drove up to the building, and made our own impromptu tour of the exterior and all the interior amenities. Anything I write would probably be redundant, since critics and architecture buffs have been giving this building glowing reviews—and Jean Nouvel  won the 2008  Pritzker Architecture Prize for the Guthrie Theater.  But I will note that I understood the central axis, the great pedestrian experience, and the “endless bridge”. It all made my day, to see how the architect had worked with the site and the concept.  I managed to take a couple of tourist photos: Adrian standing at the Guthrie, the interior hallways, and the exterior elevations.

An artist can transform our vision.  It’s something we’ve all experienced, following a great exhibit. We walk out of the show and into the street; our visual perception has been changed, or our normal mindset has been subverted.  That’s what I like about art.

Sometimes, the artist’s work is so elemental, so…essential and minimal, that we see it everywhere.  Such is the case with Larry Bell.  After all, Bell’s true medium is reflected light.  He’s also concerned with the right angle, and defies anyone to deny its importance in the built environment.

Soon after I selected and installed our first Larry Bell show in 2006, I was sitting at a small dining table, and gazing at the array of water and wine glasses.  The vessels were illuminated by a raking late afternoon light from a Venice window.  I saw how the light had penetrated the rich amber of the wine, and cast that pale color across the tablecloth.  I saw how the reflection of one glass was captured on the surface of another.  And, I saw my own reflection in the water glass. I had to thank Larry for that moment of presence and immediacy.

It never goes away.  There are always moments to pause and see the reflected light in our everyday environment.  If I am driving at night on a rainy street, the tail lights and streetlamps are a woozy reflection on the pavement.  If I happen to glance at the wall in the gallery, I might catch a reflection of light from a car windshield, through our front doors, and onto the entry wall.  Bell has often addressed these qualities of light in his work with glass—or his “Vapor Drawings”.

Or, I might be in Minneapolis, taking a tour of art museums.  I happened to glance at the intriguing surface of the Jacques Herzog and Pierre de Meuron addition to the Walker Center.  I was scanning the raised surface of the perforated metal panels on the exterior.  There, amid the grid of the architects’ materials, was the outline of an early Larry Bell shape: the rectangle with corners sliced off—Bell’s precursor to the Cubes.

Sometimes the gallery seems to be an information kiosk.  Visitors ask all kinds of questions.  I’ve written about some behind-the-scenes topics on this blog in the past, including how our announcement photos are taken, and how I was introduced to ceramics.  But frequently I’ve also answered the question, “How did you become a dealer?”

I learned about the art business from lots of people, mostly dealers and artists in Los Angeles.  But, when pressed, I would have to say that the most influential was Jan Turner.  I had an entry-level job at her Janus Gallery, during the early 1980s.  I was the exhibition preparator.  It was during that time that I met Ed Moses, Peter Shire, and many other artists. It was at the Janus Gallery that I learned how to present an exhibition.

The Janus Gallery, in several locations over a fifteen-year period, exhibited paintings, sculpture, photography, and ceramics. The stylish and sophisticated Jan Turner showed paintings by Ed Moses and Carlos Armaraz, as well as the ceramic sculpture of Peter Shire, Elsa Rady, and Mineo Mizuno. This was in the context of the hippest architecture (Coy Howard designed the space), at openings that featured Hollywood’s “A” list, and to much critical acclaim. The risk taken was enormous. For one exhibit by Elsa Rady, architect Frederick Fisher designed the installation, special walls and fixtures were built, and the largest space in the gallery was dedicated to “Conjugations”—a series of works that grouped Rady’s vessels in oscillating, mutable forms.

From the beginning of the gallery, Turner promoted the work of Peter Shire. Shire’s playful architectonic works, rooted in constructivism but altered by bright color and a zany sense of humor, eventually became known internationally. His experiments with the teapot form bridged into the design world and their playful form adapted well in the postmodern world of architecture and design. So well, in fact, that they were featured in several magazines in the early 1980s, and one article caught the eye of Ettore Sottsass. Peter Shire was invited to join the Memphis Group, becoming the only American member of the European design team. Shire branched out into furniture design, worked in glass, and gained major sculptural commissions, but has since returned to ceramics on occasion.

The hallmarks of the Jan Turner years were exquisite presentation, and the paintings or sculpture were displayed in a perfect sequence, with just the right isolation. No expense was spared in lighting, pedestal design, or detail. As one might imagine, Jan presented herself with impeccable style as well—and still does. She was our guest at the opening of our Ed Moses show, with her daughter Aimee. I often think of how much I learned, over 25 years ago, from working in her gallery.

I am lucky to have Jennifer Lee’s work in my collection.  I have a sense of solitude when I look at the small pot, and a feeling of balance, a kind of stillness. Her quiet, contemplative work has an intimacy, communicated by the scale and surface. The pot in my collection is a darker olive-brown form and shows Lee’s use of banding, haloes and painterly color. Nature, perhaps the dry desert landscape or the sedimentation in geologic forms, seems to be a source.  Jennifer’s work also has a sense of personal poetry and tremendous presence.  I am looking forward to her show at the gallery, opening April 4.

Right now, Jennifer is part of an amazing exhibit in Tokyo. The Issey Miyake Foundation in Tokyo, 21_21 Design Sight, currently hosts an exhibition that features 100 works by 3 different artists.  It is organized by Issey Miyake and the installation is designed by Japanese architect Tadao Ando.

Miyake had previously encountered Lucie Rie’s work, and was impressed by its presence.  When describing Lucie Rie’s work, the world-renowned designer Miyake noted the simplicity, nobility and natural character.  ”The appeal of her work lies in the warmth and nostalgia of the hand-work that floods our hearts,” he wrote. For this Tokyo show, Miyake included the work of two more contemporary artists. Jennifer Lee, “who has inherited Lucie’s sensibility and who has given modern ceramics a new direction” has been presented on a huge table of water, as if the perfectly balanced works were floating. Tadao Ando frequently uses pools of water in his architectural designs. As Miyake notes, “photographer Hiroshi Iwasaki has captured the cosmic beauty of the vessels.”

Writing about Lee’s work in a recent publication, Alun Graves of the Victoria and Albert Museum noted: “Lee’s pots have frequently and not unreasonably been compared to landscape, their tilted horizontal striations appearing like geological strata. Yet unlike some of the freer branches of organic sculpture, these are clearly not objects formed by natural processes, brought into being through the chance accumulation and manipulation of earth and rock. For the viewer who knew nothing of their age and origins, their status and human artifacts would be immediately apparent.”

What makes an ideal museum experience? Perhaps the first thing I think of is the collection. Increasingly, as contemporary architects have designed museums, I have become more conscious of the effective presentation of art. I am more aware of the way that I move through a space, of the color and composition of the walls and floors. I am especially attuned to the use of natural light. I continue to seek that solitary and serene moment when a painting’s presence comes strikingly alive. For me, that ideal has been realized. It is the Fondation Beyeler.

I am in Zürich to attend the opening of an exhibition tomorrow. With a free day to explore, I chose to take an hour’s train ride to Basel today.  A well traveled route for the sophisticated art traveler, but a first trek for me, this was a day trip worthy of an expedition. From the moment I stepped through the red stone walls, into the idyllic nineteenth century landscape garden, I was entranced by the scale and proportion of the building. With restraint and respect for the vistas and setting, Renzo Piano designed the Fondation Beyeler, which houses a superb permanent collection of about 200 works. The museum also presents curated exhibits.

I was fortunate to see two such exhibits today, both superb. The first featured artists’ visions of Venice—from Canaletto and Turner to Monet.  Painters have been intrigued by the way that light plays on the surface of the water in Venice for centuries, and this show assembles works from private collections as well as museums. Especially stunning were Turner’s works and small but striking, immediately rendered paintings by Sargent.  The ideal setting was the building itself, proving that the proportion of the galleries, the sequencing of the rooms, and the occasional open landscape vista are the work of a brilliant architect.

Another show, Visual Encounters: Africa, Oceania and Modern Art, turned the tables on the oft-told story of modern art.  We are all familiar with the role that Primitive and African art played in the development of European Modernism. This show does not repeat that lesson, but rather demonstrates the sheer power, and visual presence of, large and highly powerful groups of sculpture from Mali, Nigeria, and other areas. Just a few highly select early 20^th century works by Picasso, Giacometti, Rousseau, Brancusi and others are juxtaposed in a stunning way.

I reluctantly left the exhibit, stepped into the light snowfall, and had a delightful lunch at the nearby Berower Villa. I was still savoring the view of the Renzo Piano building with its light-suffusing roof.

Every day we pass through all kinds of doors. If I focus my attention on how many doors I use in my daily life, it’s mind-boggling. One day I tried to count, but lost track after this sequence: out my front door, into and out of the car door, in the elevator doors to my gym (and out again), in the locker room, out again, back to the car doors.

I figured I would do a little research. I looked for a definition, but words like “moveable barrier” didn’t help. I found a tattered copy of Architectural Graphic Standards, Student Edition.  But dimensions and specifications were hardly the answer. Architects and builders speak in materials and physical dimensions —but I wanted poetry, imagery. So, I decided to take a tour of some exceptional examples in nearby Pasadena.

Early architectural influences are with me for a lifetime, and as I’ve noted before, I was lucky to grow up in South Pasadena, where the heritage is strong. It’s easy to find examples of great Craftsman doors—even the garage doors that Greene and Greene designed are superb. I revisited these double garage doors, framed with a massive masonry walls on a clear winter afternoon.

Inspired, I walked over to see another street-side monument to architectural design.  La Miniatura, Frank Lloyd Wright’s 1923 Millard House, was the first time the architect used hollow, pre-cast concrete blocks. On the north side of this perfectly sited house are the powerful wood doors, amazingly compatible with the Mayan monumentality of the building.

I recalled many other times I had become conscious of the passages we make in daily life, and how artists have addressed the idea. Some of the artists that I know have designed and sculpted the best solutions. I considered the inspired example of Georges Jeanlcos‘ doors to the Cathedral in Lille, France. I remembered my trip to see those doors with his son, Marc.

I once built an entire show around a pair of doors by John Mason. I rescued the massive doors that were made for a house in Laguna Beach. The 1963 commission, for the actor Sterling Holloway, was the entrance to his art collection. For our exhibit, I designed a simple post and lintel framework to hold the powerful portals.

There is a reason for my focus. For the past seven days, since I walked up to the plaza level of the cathedral last Wednesday, I keep seeing the image of the pallbearers surrounding the casket of Robert Graham. A group of men formed a rectangle around the casket. The body was moving through a portal, through a symbolic passage. There was such a profound presence to the sight of the procession entering the very doors that he designed and sculpted.

What does an art dealer do on his day off? Well, on Monday I took my mother to a museum. We’ve often gone to railroad baron Henry E. Huntington’s Library and Art Collections in nearby San Marino. I first went there as an eight year old. In the early visit, I took home a reproduction of Thomas Gainsborough’s Blue Boy, but on Monday I was delivering a seminal work by Peter Voulkos. Who knew that I’d return, decades later, as a lender to an exhibit?

After we checked in the 1954 Voulkos, Hal Nelson, who is now a guest curator of American Art, gave our museum tour. We met briefly with the Director, John Murdoch. We learned that the desk of Hal Nelson was once the personal desk of Mr. Huntington.  We admired the Peter Voulkos, which was properly unwrapped and inspected by the Registrar. But wait a minute, you may ask, what’s a Voulkos doing at the Huntington?

The Huntington’s reputation was built on the library and the British aristocratic portraits, to be sure. There are fantastic gardens, too.  But, as it turns out, the Huntington’s collection of American art has grown impressively over the past 20 years. Now it includes paintings, sculpture and decorative arts from the late 17th through the mid 20th centuries. The curators are busy preparing the Scott Gallery and the Erburu Gallery for a May 26^th opening. It’s then that I will see the Voulkos, in the company of Glen Lukens, Laura Andreson, Otto and Gertrud Natzler, and Harrison McIntosh.

Recently mentioned by Christopher Knight in his top 10 for 2008 list, the renovated Main House is impeccable. Now, as another sign of the cultural maturity that Knight discussed, we’ll see the links of early California ceramic pioneers, in the context of Arts and Crafts. There’s also an installation of works by the early 20th-century Southern California architects, Charles and Henry Greene.