Christopher Barlow

Art History 202 (Dr. Zabel)

April 15, 2013

Of the meeting between an English gentleman and his Eastern Pennsylvanian reincarnation, Or: the spirit of the Arts and Crafts Movement living on in the Americas

Upon my awakening, a blinding white light filled my gaze. Thin jagged lines cut rapidly through the celestial glow like black lightning. Suddenly, there was before me a dense forest of trees against a cloudy background. I peered through the vegetation to behold a deeply disconcerting sight, something so peculiar and unfamiliar to my wits that I was forced to arrive at this undeniable conclusion: I had somehow been transported to another world. Curiously, here were the same trees with which I had become so familiar with on Earth; here too was the identical feel of grass beneath my feet. Taking my first cautious breath, a familiar smell of warm atmosphere filled my nostrils. Averting my eyes eastward, toward the valley below, I could almost trick myself into believing that I was home; however, the obscure monolith looming over my shoulder, which knew nothing of the history of Earth or its inhabitants, insisted otherwise. I turned to face the strange construction and realized it was not one building if one could even call them buildings but three, each more obscure than the one before it, making no effort to conform to its neighbor. Even among the various pieces which composed these three incomprehensible figures, the total lack of unity of color, shape, materials, or any of the primary elements of a building led me to wonder whether this was perhaps a mere trash heap. Alternatively, perhaps this bizarre menagerie conformed to an entirely different esthetic. Admittedly, despite my initial state of bewilderment, I began to feel a certain sense of homeliness emanating from this outlandish mass of wood and stone akin to my own Red House back in Bexleyheath, England.

With burning curiosity, I began to observe the main building. My mind raced as I observed its strange complexity. Where to begin? I wondered. Eventually, my eyes landed on a tall, silo-like figure on the southern faade of the building1. What struck me about this strange figure was the manner in which it was decorated. The surface was smooth and painted with colors that mimicked the natural world around it, yet there were no lines to distinguish where the green of the leaves ended and the blue of the sky began (Bascom 241). Rather, it all blended together in a manner that rendered only an impression, or a vague feeling of the presence of nature without an emphasis on its idyllic patterns. This greatly confounded me. Why would anyone ever desire to omit the most beautiful element of nature: its geometry? A sudden feeling of dj vu overcame me. Memories floated through my subconscious as I desperately attempted to fish out the one generating this odd sensation of familiarity. At last, there it was: a painting I had purchased from a dear friend of mine, Ford Madox Brown. The keen attention that the artist of this silo paid to lighting, which seemed to greatly outweigh his interest in replicating natural forms, reminded me of Browns own work entitled: The Hayfield2. I recalled then the words I used to describe his painting in a letter: The Hayfield portrays an entirely unique and profound emphasis on the differing effects of light with lovely violet shadows and long shades of the trees thrown athwart all and melting away one tint into another imperceptibly (Parry 24). Yes, standing before this silo now, I see that it generates the same effect. Perhaps then this strangers esthetic is not so far removed from my own after all, I wondered aloud. Indeed, the more I observed this home, the more I began to feel a closeness to its peculiar charm. Such is the nature of a building constructed with raw, natural material. At this moment, I recalled with bitterness the day my family travelled to see The Great Exhibition in Hyde Park. I

remember protesting angrily against the trip and eventually refusing altogether to enter Paxtons hideous Crystal Palace on the grounds that I would not like any of what I would see inside (Parry 13). Horrible glass and steel monstrosities constructed not by the hands of man but the cold, forceful claws of machinery. As I looked around me now, all the beautiful variation in texture and form brought comfort to my senses. I closed my eyes and traced a finger along a log nearby. The manner in which it was cut simplistic and almost archaic, unaided by machinery showed that this was an artist who appreciated the intrinsic beauty of nature (Levins). Eventually, I opened my eyes and looked upward. My heart skipped. The entire building appeared to be collapsing right on top of me! Yet it remained still. How could something with so much movement, something so entirely off balance, possibly stay aloft? I wondered aloud. Indeed, its seemingly impossible, non-Euclidean geometry and juxtaposed patterns enraptured me, but only half as much as the color scheme3. A thin layer of alizarin crimson stained the front faade; a touch of malachite green lintel spread across the doorway; the timber along the sides was painted a chromium oxide green; the mortar between them contained yellow ochre an ode to autumn (Bascom 98). Evidently, the artist held a grand appreciation for nature and its many wonderful forms. The colors here even reminded me of my own Pimpernel wallpaper4. Admiring this strange place more and more, I moved toward the final building where, at last, I discovered the source of all this grandeur. To my surprise, he had no tentacles jutting from his midsection, nor antenna sprouting from his forehead. In fact, he was no more alien than I. If I were asked to say what is at once the most important production of Art and the thing most to be longed for, I should answer, A beautiful House, I said as I approached him (Parry 136). Indeed, though rather unique, you have created just such a thing, Mr. May I ask your name?

He looked up at me, unconcerned at my sudden arrival, as if he had been expecting me. He laid down his plane and extended his hand toward me. Wharton Esherick, he stated. William Morris, I replied as we shook hands. To my amazement, we shared many sentiments regarding art. Here is how our subsequent conversation proceeded: Of furniture, I put forth plainly my belief that one should never design anything that one does not know how to produce with ones own two hands (Parry 34-35). I absolutely concur, he replied. He then motioned for me to follow him. We walked toward the back of his workshop where he kept his latest work-in-progress: a marvelous wooden desk6. I was amazed by his utilization of space, none of which went to waste in any of his furniture7. This I noted as I looked around. Truly, nothing about these pieces was not easily defensible or mere extravagance, a quintessential feature of every well-made piece of furniture (Parry 155). Most importantly, all of this was created by hand. Of architecture, he stated simply that architects would be a lot better off if they put their T-squares away (Eisenhauer). He meant that there was too much focus on rigid form without any curvilinear creativity. I agree, I replied after a moments reflection on the many progressive curving forms in my own works. He regarded buildings as nothing more than habitable sculpture and thus a home required an artists own personal sensibility (Bascom 96). Indeed, I could see now that everything around me was a manifestation of this one mans essence just as my Red House was an extension of my own5. The countless days I spent reading John Ruskin, my greatest influence, came through in many aspects of the building: the emphasis on verticality in the high-pitched roofs and tall pointed windows as well as the medieval tower-like bannisters along the stairway (Parry 14).

When I mentioned Ruskin to him, he brought up an American man named Frank Lloyd Wright. It seems, according to Mr. Esherick, that this man wrote a great deal on organic architecture, buildings at one with their surroundings. Mr. Esherick praised the mans words but quickly dismissed his physical handiwork. He should go back and read his own books, he said in a huff (Bascom 68). Wharton did not believe in striving for pretense; he did not seek to dominate the landscape, but rather to work with it. These were values I sought after in my Red House as well5 (Zabel). Thus, it would seem that this stranger was in fact no stranger to me at all. Despite the preliminary shock of awakening so abruptly in this foreign place, I came to realize that much of what thrived here existed in my own zealous disposition: a deep love of nature, a disdain of the purely conventional, and a desire to extend ones own temporary existence through eternal art. All of this and more could be found within the grounds of Wharton Eshericks delightful home.

Works Cited:

Bascom, Mansfield. Wharton Esherick: The Journey of a Creative Mind. New York: Abrams, 2010. Print. Eisenhauer, Paul. Personal interview. 7 Apr. 2013. Parry, Linda. William Morris. New York: Abrams, 1996. Print. Levins, Hoag. "Wharton Esherick: A Thoreau in Wood." Levins.com. Woodworker's Journal, 1996-2004. Web. 14 Apr. 2013. Zabel, Craig. Art History 202. Forum Building, University Park. 3 Apr. 2013. Lecture.