Frank Lloyd Wright's Taliesin West

Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright’s summer design campus, began life as a patch of barren desert in Northeast Scottsdale. From 1937 until his death in 1959, Wright and his entourage of apprentices and staff escaped the harsh Wisconsin winters via the Arizona desert. Today, the site is owned and managed by the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation which offers audio and guided tours of the facilities. I stopped by on my way through Arizona, having flown into Phoenix before heading south to the Mexican border.

The odd glass elements installed around the property were part of an exhibit entitled “Chihuly in the Desert”, which showcased the work of Dale Chihuly. His glass sculptures were also installed at the Desert Botanical Garden I visited earlier in the day.

Wright’s first foray into the Arizona desert was as a rustic camp, dubbed Ocatilla, which was comprised of multiple wood frame cabins with canvas roofs. This first camp was established when Wright and his draftsmen were working on a handful of projects in the Phoenix area. A camp was a more economical solution than costly hotel rooms for the cash-strapped architect, and the total cost for the compound was about a season’s worth of accommodations at a Phoenix area hotel. Ultimately each cabin came out to around $200 ($3,418 in 2022). Wright abandoned the camp as his Phoenix area commissions evaporated with the stock market crash of 1928, .

Taliesin West started life in 1937 when the search began for a permanent winter home for the Wright Fellowship in the Phoenix area. Apprentices would pay $650 per year to work with Wright, but Foundation members found themselves implementing the very designs they were learning to draft. This free labor was instrumental in building everything from the winding access road to the last building completed by Wright in 1957, the Pavilion. Apprentices lived in tents away from the core buildings while construction was in progress, and dormitories weren’t completed until 1941. Even still, there were only 14 rooms in the newly completed Apprentice Court. A communal kitchen and dining room served meals at the camp.

Constructed of materials native to the desert itself, Taliesin West is anchored to the desert through foundations of desert sand, cement, and rocks acquired onsite (dubbed “desert masonry”). Buildings, paths, and spaces are oriented to complement the movement of the sun and showcase desert views. Large boulders featuring petroglyphs are installed prominently throughout the landscape and were scavenged from across the property.

The first structure on the tour, and the oldest occupied structure onsite, is Frank Lloyd Wright’s business office. A larger drafting studio, pictured below, was constructed afterwards as a space for his apprentices to work. Just a short distance from the office is a vault, built of desert masonry and designed to protect the irreplaceable drawings churned out by the Fellowship. To harness the natural lighting and breezes that swept through the desert, Wright experimented with canvas as a roofing material around Taliesin West. Tightly stretched over redwood frames, the canvas proved to have poor durability in the Arizona summers. After his death, fiberglass and acrylic panels replaced canvas to improve performance while maintaining the benefits of a retractable roof.

The audio tour I followed takes you on a loop through Taliesin West, starting in Wright’s business office and continuing to the garden room, the Kiva (a theater turned library, then back into a theater), the drafting studio, and finally the Cabaret. Like any Wright crafted building, the design element of “compression and release” is pervasive. I found myself ducking left and right just to squeeze into the Garden Room or under the portal heading to the Kiva. The tactic certainly works, making the space you’re about to enter feel bigger than it is, but I don’t think Wright designed these structures with 6’ tall people in mind. If I could take a trip back I’d do a longer guided tour, which wasn’t an option on the day I visited. I think that’s one of the reasons I enjoyed my tour of the Robbie House in Chicago more than Taliesin West - the audio tour just doesn’t provide the same experience as a knowledgeable guide.

The NJ Futuro House

Tucked away in a corner of Millcreek Park in Willingboro, NJ sits a decrepit bubble of fiberglass and plastic that looks like it was yanked straight out of the 1960s. Stacked boxes of laminate wood flooring block some of the windows, at least those which haven’t yet blown inwards. Taking a peek through the opaque plexiglass reveals an interior that matches the 60s space-age aesthetic of the exterior, with dingy brown-ish tan carpeting covering the floors and a drooping fan that clings to the off-white ceiling. The interior is relatively empty and mostly open inside, save for a rolling desk chair or two and a built-in bench/countertop that rings the outer wall. There are enclosed spaces carved out for a small utility closet and a bathroom, with a short staircase descending down to the boarded up front door.

This abandoned structure is a Futuro House, an invention of Finnish architect Matti Suuronen. Futuro Houses first gained traction as ski cabins in Finland, where they were easy to heat and quick to construct via truck or helicopter delivery to remote mountain locations. The Willingboro Futuro House I visited started life as a “Space Bank”, which isn’t immediately evident when you look at this house today. Upon closer inspection, there are some unique features which stick out on this model: the below-average number of windows (8 vs 16 on a standard model), and an old bank-style security alarm box which remains affixed to the exterior. The “Space Bank” context helps make more sense of the conspicuous lack of bedrooms, a kitchen, or really any partitioning that would make this space livable. It was manufactured just across the Delaware River from Willingboro in Philadelphia, and moved between shopping plazas as a bank branch until it was donated to Willingboro Township in 1975.

Futuro Houses never really took off in the United States as local residents opposed how the radical architectural style clashed with the broader neighborhood aesthetic. Municipal building codes also hampered adoption as Futuro Houses were not designed with US municipal code compliance in mind. Additionally, the 1973 oil crisis shot the cost of plastic through the roof, making them prohibitively expensive to produce. New Jersey’s other Futuro House, once abandoned down the shore in Greenwich, NJ, was removed in 2021 and moved to Oxford, OH for restoration. The former “Space Bank” served for a time as the Parks Department’s headquarters, the township Recreation office, and as a headquarters for the Police Athletic League before falling into disuse.

I doubt the township of Willingboro will do anything with this historic structure until it collapses, as I’m sure it would cost less to tear down than rehabilitate. Maybe somebody like the folks who took the empty shell of a Futuro House from Greenwich will come along and save it. If it can be done in Greenwich (that Futuro House was in far worse shape than this one), then maybe it can happen in Willingboro?

William S. Seward House

At the northern end of Cayuga Lake is the city of Auburn, NY, which was home to William H. Seward and his family. If you’re like me and the name Seward doesn’t ring a bell, he was the man who facilitated the Alaska Purchase and helped Lincoln lead the United States through the Civil War. Born in 1801, Seward purchased the house 1824 and lived there until his death in 1872. The interior is largely as it was in 1872 thanks to William Seward III, who maintained the furnishings and donated the property upon his death. The site occupies a triangular slice of downtown Auburn, and one corner of the property is dedicated to a small park with a towering statue of Seward himself. The house is a New York State Historic Site and on the National Register. It actually began life as a much smaller dwelling and was progressively expanded starting in 1847.

During his storied career, Seward served as an NY State Senator, US Senator, NY Governor, and Secretary of State after loosing the Republican presidential nomination to Abraham Lincoln. His home reflects his travels and pursuits - shelves of books adorn the study and parlor, paintings and prints from around the globe hang from the walls, and artifacts collected from far-off lands sit atop shelves. At one end of the dining rooms is a giant globe, the other a stately portrait of Mrs. Seward. China cabinets filled with fine dinnerware for hosting lavish but crucial dinner parties are posted in the corners. Diplomacy and a good meal often go hand in hand, and Seward would host large dinners to convince other politicians of his positions.

Possibly my favorite collection of Seward’s is the portraits of famous world leaders he encountered that encircle the second floor atrium, often bearing the signature of the subject pictured. While not all of them are authentic (Queen Elizabeth, for example), there’s quite a number of portraits that span from the Middle East to Europe. You can take a guided tour of the entire house from the basement to the 2nd floor where the family lived. My tour guide was great and answered every question I could throw at him.

A series of unfortunate events befell Seward, starting with the assassination of Lincoln and the simultaneous botched assassination attempt on his own life. He had been injured in an accident days before when he jumped from a runaway carriage and broke his arm. The family members staying at his Washington, D.C. apartment encountered the assassin before he could reach Seward, and ultimately 5 would be stabbed including Seward himself. While no-one was killed, his wife Francis died only a short time afterward in 1865. Daughter Fanny, his pride and joy, died in 1866 from tuberculous. He commissioned a painting of her after her untimely death, and it still hangs in the parlor today. The bundle of flowers she clutches and her ghostly pale complexion indicate that the portrait was painted post-mortem. Fanny’s death was a sore subject for Seward, and it was best not to ask about the painting.

Titan II ICBM Site 571-7

Between 1963 and 1984, a complex hosting a 340,000 lb. Titan II missile with a 9 megaton nuclear warhead stood at the ready just 25 miles from Tucson, AZ. One of the six squadrons that operated the Titan II missile across the western United States, the 390th Strategic Missile Wing operated 18 silos in total. With the United State’s entrance into the SALT treaty and having outlived their projected service life, the Titan II missiles were phased out of service starting in 1982. Under an agreement with the Soviet Union, site 571-7 was deactivated and saved as the single remaining example of a 24-hour alert liquid-fueled ICMB missile launch site. The LGM-30 Minuteman III is the only land-based ICBM currently operated by the United States, and is expected to remain in-service until the 2030s.

As the Cold War raged on, the United States turned to a network of Titan II missiles stationed in hardened bunkers to ensure that the threat of nuclear attack remained under control. Mutually assured destruction relies on the Nuclear Triad, which consists of three components: the land, sea, and air based delivery of nuclear weapons. In the post-WWII era, the United States developed their first land-based intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) to effectively deliver nuclear payloads to the Soviet Union. The Titan I and SM-65 Atlas both predate the long-lived Titan II by 3 years, and both platforms had the disadvantage of using volatile liquid fuels and oxidizers. These early missiles would be fueled just before launch, leaving the missile exposed outside its silo and delaying any retaliation against a first strike by about 20 minutes.

The Titan II was the answer to the shortcomings of the Titan I and SM-65 Atlas series ICBMs. It used a stable fuel and oxidizer that could be ignited instantly and stored indefinitely at 60º F. The missile resided in an underground silo protected by a 740 ton concrete sliding hatch. The entire facility was hardened, designed to withstand a nearby nuclear strike or seismic event but not a direct hit. 4’ x 3’ thick springs suspend the multi-story launch control center and acted as shock absorbers, with similar measures installed on a smaller scale throughout the complex to protect critical components.

Despite its size and destructive power, it only took a 4 man crew to operate the launch site: 2 missile combat officers, an analyst, and a facilities technician. Crews worked 24 hour shifts, and the launch procedure could be executed in under a minute: on order of the President, a 35 character launch code would be transmitted over radio to the missile sites like 571-7. The two missile operators would write down and compare their translation of the code. If the codes matched, they’d open a locked safe to authenticate the launch order. After unlocking the missile with a separate code and inserting the launch keys into the console, the silo doors would open and allow the missile to strike a preprogrammed target. The decrease in launch procedure from 20 minutes to under 1 minute was a major advantage of the Titan II program.

Tours of site 571-7 take you through the blast lock, launch control center, cableway, and missile silo. After a short introductory video in the visitors center, we descended down the 55 steps to the blast lock. Massive 6,000 lb. blast doors guard the entrances to the underground segments of the base. The launch control center looks as it did back when the site was on alert, and you can see the safety suits worn by technicians who maintained the missile in the equipment locker. Back up on the surface, we were able to take a peak at the missile from the top down, thanks to the viewing platform that abuts the silo. Also seen at ground level are the high frequency discharge antenna, fuel and oxidizer hardstands, and TPS antennas used to detect intruders via radar. And while I thought the tour was a little rushed, I was still excited to document such a critical piece of our nation’s nuclear history during my trip through Arizona.

The Case for Digital Contact Sheets

Whether I’m shooting digital or film, contact sheets are an important part of my editorial process. Taking pictures is only the first step in creating a new project: developing, researching, and editorializing all contribute to the final presentation of my work. While the workflow itself differs slightly when I’m working with film or digital, contact sheets are my favorite way to curate and annotate my photographs.

When it comes to the darkroom, contact sheets play a key role in determining what photos are worth printing. By exposing a sleeve of cut negatives directly onto photo paper, the photographer can view positives of an entire 35mm roll on a single sheet of 8x10 paper. Every enlargement costs materials and time to print, dry, and spot the final product. Contact sheets help the photographer craft their story and determine what photos are worth enlarging. The book “Magnum Contact Sheets”, which I reference frequently, gives a fascinating look into the mind and process of famous photographers like Robert Capa and Elliot Erwitt. The book shows contact sheets of Capa’s famous D-Day photographs and Erwitt’s capture of the “Kitchen Debate” between Nixon and Khrushchev, among many other famous photographs. I haven’t printed in the darkroom since college, but I still print digital contact sheets with my Canon PRO-100 at home.

The process begins in Lightroom where I import my pictures for the first round of review, immediately rejecting any photos with glaringly obvious errors like terrible lighting, poor framing, camera shake, or missed focus. I then start tweaking the development settings of the remaining photos, getting them to a point where I can print a contact sheet. I have two different Lightroom preset that print 5x7 (35mm) or 3x4 (6x6) contact sheets on 8x10 paper, which I then review and annotate with grease pencil. I like Sharpie China Markers, red for color photographs or yellow/white for black & white.

The scans below are of some contact sheets I printed for the blog post I put together on The Holmdel Horn Antenna shot on my RX100VA - a box denotes a favorite, x a reject, and just the corners a crop. I’ve found that printing contact sheets and looking at them over multiple days helps me visualize the story I want to tell, weave my photographs into a cohesive narrative, and be more critical of my work. After I finish annotating a contact sheet, I’ll use it as a reference to construct the webpage layout and make any final edits to my images. I think there’s something about physically printing and annotating your photos by hand that will help you see them in a whole new light - give it a try!

Marconi Tower

One of the many upcoming projects I have planned is focused on documenting what still remains of the Marconi Wireless Telegraph Company’s network of telegraph receiver stations in the United States. During my research I uncovered numerous sites which remain in various states of preservation, stretching up the East Coast from New Jersey to Massachusetts. I was driving around Binghamton, NY while working on a different project about IBM Endicott when I came across a rusted tower with an NY State Historic Marker nestled under it. Not far from the Delaware, Lackawanna, & Western terminal, the marker reads “ERECTED NOVEMBER 1913 BY GUGLIELMO MARCONI TO TEST THE POSSIBILITY OF TRANSMITTED TELEGRAPHIC SIGNALS TO MOVING TRAINS ALONG THE LACKAWANNA RR”.

Patented by Marconi in 1900, wireless communication was still in it’s infancy in November 1912. Less than a year before Marconi’s experiment in Binghamton, Marconi Wireless Telegraph operators onboard the Titanic spent most of their time sending messages from the ship’s wealthy passengers back to shore as a novelty of sorts. The wireless telegraph later proved itself a lifesaving technology when the receiving station at South Wellfleet, MA relayed news of the Titanic’s sinking to RMS Carpathia, facilitating the rescue of survivors left stranded in the Atlantic.

Marconi built two sets of towers in 1913 to test the feasibility of receiving wireless telegraph messages at high speeds. Until this point, the radio telegraph had been used to communicate with ships across great distances, but never something like a train. On November 27, 1913, a 350 word message was successfully transmitted to a Delaware, Lackawanna, & Western railroad train traveling 60 mph using the two test stations in Binghamton and Scranton, PA.

While the experiment was a success, the system Marconi envisioned never came to fruition. Fixed stations were to be spaced every 50 miles along the track to combat poor reception onboard trains, thus incurring prohibitively high infrastructure costs. The railroad would completely replace Marconi’s equipment with radio telephony transmission towers in Hoboken and Buffalo, establishing their system in 1914. While almost all evidence of this experiment is long gone, the rusted remains of one tower that once supported the 150 foot aerial needed to conduct Marconi’s experiment still stands today in Binghamton.