Thursday, October 21, 2010

Brittle crossroads

Nothing is simplified by knowing where one is, one had argued in the previous posting; and anyone can attest to that, who's ever adopted a favourite place of escape. Using The Connecticut Walk Book, back issues of Architectural Record, and a great deal of time purchased for tuition instead at a law school down the road, a man can immerse himself most gainfully in Litchfield, Connecticut, in pilgrimage to a masterpiece by Marcel Breuer, the second of three houses he designed for the same client.

It isn't necessarily a bad idea, to allow a brittle plan to find a crossroads to break up; and after all it was Philip Johnson who'd said, architecture must be experienced by the muscles of the feet. Litchfield boasts its own ancient school of law, for that matter, a nicely preserved salt box of much touristic use to the community's tax base.

Breuer's house is gorgeous in its austerity of form and warmth of materials, and redeems any quest for clarity in one's abode. A minor fortune might purchase it, but who can know how to acquire its qualities?


  1. Well, you're very kind. One didn't want the suppositions of long ago, that this was all about a house, to plunge this posting into details about it, but you now allow me to "make it up" to something which was simply known all over the world as the Rufus Stillman House (for further study by anyone who is curious), and to Mr Calder's mural for the pool out back. Litchfield is a high-impact destination and one doesn't wish to add too greatly to those pressures. The walking trails of Connecticut, on the other hand, so well repay Mr Johnson's muscles of the feet and will only benefit from the maintenance of usage, that nobody can feel guilty for recommending them. They track a topography of lenient, coherent variation, as if waiting for a civilisation to embrace them.

  2. I love the quote "architecture must be experienced by the muscles of the feet"...I will think about that for a long time.

    Many thanks for your visit and kind comment.

  3. Philip Johnson's epigram, invented solely to insult the motorcar, has turned into something of a marching song around here of late. Who could resist such a ride, for a fragment of his own self to make its way to contemplation in a gentle mind in Maine?

    I love the menacing readership of Ivan Terestchenko, seldom touching upon a case without remanding it for further proceedings, below.