Laid Bare: Essays and Observations

by Judson, Tom

  Even the names of these buildings summon up ethereal, yet vivid, pictures when spoken aloud.

  “Fallingwater”. Images of a never-ceasing cascade of bountiful water come rushing into one’s head; changing with the seasons, yet immutable in its purpose. Much as the water rushes over the exposed Pennsylvania schist, giving the house its name.

  The other house is more… well, it’s kind of… Alas, my craft fails me when I try to describe this other place. So, I’ll let its name speak for itself: “The Precious Moments Chapel”.

  A visit to both houses on the same cross-country drive prompted this writer to ponder how different these buildings--and the emotions they inspire--are, considering the seriousness with which both their creators viewed their commissions.

  ___________________

  One afternoon in 1936 in Spring Green, Wisconsin, Frank Lloyd Wright’s assistant ran breathless into the master’s studio. Edgar Kaufmann, tired of the delays and evasions he had been getting from Wright regarding the plans for his new country house, was on his way from Madison, just over an hour away. Unruffled, Wright tore off the top page from his sketch pad and ran his palms—smooth with age—over the equally smooth vellum. Reaching for a brown pencil he began to sketch planes and shapes. A student poked his head in the door and was “ssshh-ed” by the assistant. Within minutes word spread that something of importance was taking place in the room just off the main dining area, and the drafting table was soon surrounded by eager young men. As Wright formed the last letters of “A House for Edgar Kaufmann” on the drawing, the wheels of a hired Cadillac limousine crunched on the gravel driveway outside. “Please show E.J. into the studio,” Wright calmly uttered as he placed the pencil back in its holder.

  ___________________

  Midway through Ronald Reagan’s second term as president Sam Butcher, a multi-millionaire (thanks to his wide-eyed beige Precious Moments figurines), stood in the center of a crowd of fellow Midwesterners, his neck craned upward to take in the glory of the Sistine Chapel. He whispered to his wife, “Honey, have we got any Tylenol back in the room? I’m gonna have a heck of a headache by the time we get out of here.” Then he thought to himself, “Hmmm…. a painting on the ceiling. I’ll bet I could take that idea and really do something with it.” His mind started to race and a dream was born.

  ___________________

  A small, nondescript sign on a quiet country road directs one to Fallingwater. The modest parking lot, large enough to hold only the vehicles of the small groups allowed to tour the house at any one time, leads to a tasteful visitor’s center. In addition to vintage photographs recounting the history of the house, there is a gift shop that sells monographs of the world’s greatest architects. Neutra, Gehry and Mies van der Rohe share shelf space with numerous books on Wright himself. A small concession stand offers cappuccino and biscotti.

  ___________________

  The illuminated billboard on the interstate alerts the faithful that they are nearing their destination. Turning onto the secondary road one joins a caravan of cars whose license tags represent a panoply of these United States. Like the Magi drawn by the star, these weary travelers are united in the desire to witness the epitome of what they hold dearest. As uniformed attendants direct private cars to one parking area and chartered buses to another, the Visitor’s Center comes into view. A small village, really, the center is accessed by passing a fountain graced by three angels. Three Precious Moments angels. Oh, if they only sold something like this for the yard! Once inside, the streets are lined with quaint shoppes, each selling the same line of merchandise. Let’s get a bite before we go into the chapel. I feel faint just thinking about it, and it’s been 2 hours since we stopped at the Shoney’s breakfast buffet. Just a couple of hot dogs will be fine. Oh, and a diet Pepsi.

  ___________________

  Walking down the wooded path, the house comes into view through the trees. The lines of the structure mimic those of the forest, so imposing as it is, one must stand directly in front of the house before the full grandeur of Wright’s masterpiece is evident. Entering the almost-hidden front door you find yourself in a small entryway from which you are propelled into a generously proportioned living room. The walls on three sides are made of glass, allowing the woods beyond to become part of the décor. The only sound is the endless splashing of water as it tumbles over the waterfall underneath the house. Wright built the house over the falls, rather than facing them.

  ___________________

  Leaving the Visitor’s Center, the Chapel stands imposingly in the near distance, at the end of a forecourt lined with Precious Moments topiary figures. The carved wooden doors, featuring (oh, well… you know) open into the vestibule, where organ music is piped in. The guides corral the groups through the sides of the chapel. Traversing the interior perimeter of the chapel one can view Precious Moments-inspired tributes to all the dead (Christian) children who have been “taken too soon”, until, through a set of imposing doors, one is thrust into the main chapel. The Mecca of all Pretiosus Momentus.

  ___________________

  Little artwork graces the walls at Fallingwater. For one thing, most of the exterior walls are glass, for another, few works of art could compete with the house itself. And, not insignificantly, Wright wanted it that way.

  ___________________

  Every inch of wall space is enhanced with murals designed personally by Sam Butcher. The centerpiece of the room is a mural entitled “Hallelujah Square”, which depicts multitudes of angel children being welcomed into Heaven and invited to worship at the feet of Jesus Christ, who floats above the scene. The rainbow of facial hues runs the gamut from pale to less pale. But, wait! Yes, there is a little n-, uh, African-American child up there in the corner. Look, that’s him—the one playing basketball by himself.

  ___________________

  The respectful comments elicited by the visit to Fallingwater are what one might expect from a group touring such a masterpiece: “How much did this place cost?” “I hope it doesn’t fall over the edge; at least until we’re outa here.” “Well, it might be okay if it had comfortable furniture.”

  ___________________

  Visitors to the chapel, when they can speak at all, offer the kind of sardonic comment one might expect from a group touring such a monument to kitsch: “It’s so beautiful. I wish Emma could see this. You know she has one of the largest collections in the country.” “The colors are so bright.” “See, George, I told you you’d like art.” “I… I… I’m sorry, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry and here I am like a faucet.”

  Huh?!

  ___________________

  To paraphrase P.T. Barnum, no one ever went broke underestimating the taste of the American public. Both Fallingwater and The Precious Moments Chapel, are, in their unique ways, masterpieces. Both are products of men with driven minds and ideas set in cement. Oddly, the buildings share the same exterior color. But, beyond that, the two could not be more dissimilar. At both places I was momentarily filled with rage: in Pennsylvania while listening to the insipid comments and, in Missouri, witnessing the almost sensual outpourings of devotion lavished on such an affront to good taste.

  But I do not despair. One can only hope that some future visitor to Fallingwater, dragged there by his/her spouse will look around and think, “Wow, this is pretty cool.” And I envision a fine golden day when one of the pilgrim ladies at the Chapel begins to giggle uncontrollably until, gasping for breath, she turns to her friend and says, “When we get back to Minneapolis, Emma, you and I are finally going to that art museum in the park. No, the modern one! With the big spoon. Lord, could I use a frank. C’mon!”

  AN EMPTY BOWL

  There is a water bowl that has been sitting on the front porch of my cabin in the Catskill Mountains for the past year. It’s beige earthenware and has D-O-G crudely stenciled on its side. I bought it last year at a Mom and Pop store in Hell’s Kitchen after returning from the National Tour of the show “42nd Street.�
�� No dog drinks from this bowl, even though it was meant for one: Dan, a cute little terrier mutt I adopted from an actress friend of mine.

  Dan had a pretty sketchy history by the time he came to live with me. He appears to be a mix of (mostly) Chihuahua and Border terrier. Picture Toto if he had fallen in with the Bowery Boys and you’ve got Dan. As a puppy, he was discovered in a prison yard in Hartford, Connecticut by a work-release prisoner named Dan. Dan (the prisoner, not the dog) knew of a woman in town who rescued abandoned animals and then placed them with new owners.

  This woman put an ad in the local paper to find Dan (the dog, not the prisoner) a home. The accompanying picture showed a dog with a face and body language that said, “Adopt me… don’t adopt me… makes no difference,” while his eyes pleaded, “Please, please, please take me home!”

  My friend Cass succumbed and kept him for 6 of his 7 years. When she gave him to me--because she was traveling too much--she reminded me that Dan “has issues”. Don’t wear boots around him or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to pick him up the wrong way or he’ll turn into the Tasmanian Devil. Don’t try to scratch his back or… Well, you get the idea.

  But, bring out his rope toy and he’s as playful as a pup. Scratch his tummy when he runs into the room and rolls over on his back and he’s sweet as taffy. And, first thing in the morning, whisper in his ear that it’s time to get up and he’ll let out a sigh and stretch just as far as he can, sometimes letting out a little squeak as he reaches across the bed to touch your nose with his paw.

  Dan and I lived like country squires in my cabin in the woods. He’d lie contentedly in the sun on the front porch, or show his utter disdain for squirrels with a condescending bark. I was going to miss this little fellow being away for a year with the show. But, I knew he’d be okay. I was leaving him in the city with my boyfriend. What could possibly go wrong?

  Three months into the tour my boyfriend broke up with me. Let’s say I carried 50% of the blame and leave it at that.

  For the remainder of my time on the road I maintained a mostly one-sided correspondence with the boys back home. Dan and The Ex received Christmas presents and Easter goodies at the fifth-floor walkup on 10th Avenue. I sent money to pay for a year’s worth of dog food and always reiterated my intention to have Dan back with me at the cabin when the tour was finished.

  Toward the end of the year I got an e-mail from Cass that said, “I don’t want to sound paranoid, but ____ wrote me asking about the idea of implanting an I.D. chip under Dan’s skin.” She talked him out of it, but I had to assume my address was not intended to be on that chip.

  It was starting to feel like a Hitchcock thriller starring My Dog.

  I refused to believe it. It wasn’t a thriller; it was a romantic comedy. Boy meets dog, boy loses dog... Returning home from the tour at the end of summer would be the part where boy gets dog back again. Dan and I would walk up the hill to the cabin, stealing affectionate glances at one another, as the sun set and the credits rolled.

  But things didn’t play out like they do in the movies. I attempted, without success, to get in touch with _____ through e-mail and phone messages. After several weeks of no response I began losing sleep; at the end of a month I was having recurring nightmares. As the leaves on the oaks and maples around the cabin announced the onset of autumn, I found myself at my wits end.

  My friend Debby, always a source of solid practical advice, said without hesitation: “_____ must be in a bad place to be doing this. You have to think about him and do what’s best for him, and, in doing so it will also be what’s best for you. You have to give Dan to _____.” My heart sank. Then I remembered a proverb I once heard: “The things you keep for yourself are lost for good; the things you give away are yours forever.”

  The course of action seemed clear. I wrote _____:

  “After much soul-searching I have decided I need to do what is best for you. And if that means making a gift to you of Dan then that is what I will do. I hope you will allow me to come and say goodbye to him.”

  I never heard from _____, and I never saw Dan again.

  I tried to feel good and angry about it all, but couldn’t seem to. Frustrated? Sure. Helpless? You bet. But, one has to be in a deep, dark place to keep someone from saying farewell to his own dog. I might as well have gotten mad at my ex-boyfriend because his eyes are brown and not blue.

  The other day I took a load of rubbish to the town dump. Along with a broken lamp and leaky garden hose—other things I don’t need anymore—I left a water bowl with D-O-G stenciled on the side.

  The bowl may be gone, but as the proverb says, Dan is mine forever.

  HOWARD, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

  I read that the Times Square Howard Johnson’s is closing its doors after almost fifty years. When I was 18 and moved to West Forty-Fifth Street in 1979, this last Howard Johnson’s was going strong. The food was mediocre at best, and none of the twenty-eight flavors of ice cream could match the richness of Haägen-Dazs.

  Back then, 9th Avenue was something of a wasteland and HoJo’s was the only place to get a late-night snack or a cup of coffee and make “a couple of deals before dawn.” At that time of night, the restaurant was usually empty and I had my pick of seats, which was always the same booth in the window that looked out onto 46th Street and the Helen Hayes Theater. The orange vinyl seat would let out a sigh as I settled in.

  Moving at a glacial, graveyard-shift pace, the waiter approached, and ignoring my greeting, he’d wipe the table with a wet rag and then place a glass of ice water on the table--overfilled and dripping—along with a laminated menu.

  I marveled at the insouciant style this late-middle-aged African-American man gave to the place. He was a dressed in the regulation uniform of white shirt and black pants, but on any given night, he would be sporting hair from a large collection of toupees. There was the crazy Little Richard style and the Nat “King” Cole (neatly parted and slicked down on the top and sides). My favorite hairpiece, however, was The Nipsey. The Nipsey was a modest yet shapely Afro rising just slightly from the forehead. The waiter didn’t seem to choose a toupee to complement his personality, as he didn’t appear to have a personality, but I still liked The Nipsey best.

  After ordering a dish of peppermint-stick ice cream, I took out a pen and started on the puzzle in the early edition of the Times. I rarely got very far before my imagination would begin to conjure up images of my own name gracing the marquees in the neighborhood. My plan was to be a Broadway composer by age 30. Across the street, at the Helen Hayes, there was a musical version of “Flowers for Algernon” (complete with mouse). So how hard could it be? With my chin in the palm of my hand, I sat gazing out the window into my future when the reflection of my waiter darkened the glass. He placed the metal sundae cup in front of me, filled with already melting ice cream. How did it melt between here and the counter? I didn’t care; it contained chips of real peppermint stick and had a fan-shaped wafer cookie stuck into the conical—not spherical—scoop.

  I tasted a spoonful, took one last look at the retreating Nipsey, and returned to my 2 A.M. daydream.

  I did make it to Broadway, but as an actor, not a composer. That dream is long gone, along with the old Helen Hayes Theater. So, too, is the Broadway that could support a musical version of “Flowers for Algernon." For that matter, so am I, having left Hell’s Kitchen over a decade ago. And soon Howard Johnson’s will be just a memory as well.

  That’s New York, I guess.

  THE BEAUTY CURSE

  My friend Tim and I were browsing the profiles on BigMuscle.com the other day, consigning the especially attractive men to horrible fates: a fatal disease here, a terrible disfiguring accident there. You know what I mean—the kinds of things that guys imagine when confronted with particularly demoralizing beauty. This God-play knew no geographical restrictions; there seem to be stunning specimens of maleness in every region of the U.S. Heck, we even found a few fer’ners destined for the rack (once
Tim and I take over the world, that is.)

  I’d pull up a profile picture and wait for Tim’s reaction. “Oh, my god, he’s gorgeous. I hate him.” Tim would point out an attractive face or bicep and I’d respond with, “Amazing. Beautiful. His days are numbered.” Then we closed the Powerbook, sunk back on the couch and sighed in tandem as Tim opened another bag of chips and I reached for the remote to flip back and forth between Paula’s Home Cookin’ and the “Diff’rent Strokes” E! True Hollywood Story.