Definitely, but our finished home turned out dramatically different from how we pictured it. Sandy and I always saw ourselves snuggly settled into a wood and irregularly stone-faced, Lou Kahn looking place
on a slightly larger lot in a nearby neighborhood designed by a very good architect. Much to our surprise, we wound up on a 6.5-acre flag lot half an hour away in New Vernon, a semi-rural town then populated by more horses than people. The only wood in our home went into its framing that was totally concealed by 32-inch square white porcelain-enameled steel panels
that echo the 32-inch architectural grid that defines our house. All our stonework is either square or rectangular flat cinder block or slate.
When it came to selecting our architect, we considered the work of a number of top names before finally arriving at our first choice, who shall remain nameless. We were both impressed with his taste, the portfolio of his work, and his personality, but knowing the worldwide scope of his practice, we weren't convinced of the likely extent of his participation in our endeavor. To him, the Grotta House had to be small potatoes, to us, it was clearly the most important architectural undertaking since Stonehenge.
Our families were long-time friends. Dickie Meier, that's what everyone called him, growing up in his unlikely-to-appear-in-any-reputable architectural publication Maplewood home.
Dickie and I went to Sunday school together, were bunkmates at Camp Kennebec in Maine
and were both members of Temple B'nai Jeshurun and Mountain Ridge Country Club. During our high school and college days, we often played basketball in his backyard. The games we're not as much defined by the high quality of our play, as by the high intensity of our constant kidding. Meier was a man of few words, but capable of delivering a ‘zinger’ with the best of them. A far more vocal occasional kibitzer was his cousin, Peter Eisenman. Amongst all the words of wisdom bantered about, I don't ever recall any discussion that had anything remotely to do with the world of architecture. When I first saw the house Richard designed for his parents published in the New York Times,
I must admit I was thrown for a loop. From what I thought I knew of Dickey's abilities, I would have thought his name was more likely to appear in the lineup of the New York Knicks than in a glowing architectural review by Ada Louise Huxtable.
After college, we saw a lot more of Meier in the media than in person. We closely followed his career and greatly admired his work, even though his material sense, other than using wood floors, was the polar opposite of ours. He was a big glass man, we came from small panes. We thought of Richard not as our potential architect, but as a mentor who could guide us in our choice of an architect.
On the way into his office, our designated interior designer, Sandy,
casually questioned, “What if Richard says he would like to be our architect?” “Ain't going to happen” I replied, as I had recently read an interview Richard had with Barbara Lee Diamondstein in which he stated, “I don't think I would do another house where I didn't have total control of its interior design.” Following a little reminiscing, we began laying out where we were coming from and where we hoped to arrive architecturally. Halfway through, we were interrupted by Richard, who firmly pronounced, “I've got the perfect architect for you…… ME,” to which I instinctively replied, “MEIER YOU ARE A REAL WHORE.” He let out a laugh, and then explained why he felt confident our two seemingly conflicting aesthetics could work together without seriously compromising each other's vision. He noted he had designed a number of museum installations and felt comfortable he could do justice to our prized possessions, whose natural colors he was positive would show off better than ever in his world of white.
I can’t say either of us we're totally confident in his conclusion, but we both felt totally comfortable with my old bunkmate.
When Richard first came to visit our old house, we showed him how we lived, told him our spatial and storage requirements, and the obvious importance of our crafts.
We also requested wherever possible, he architecturally platform our pieces so they could be seen from different directions. In our house, I told him the only thing that goes on a pedestal is my wife! Otherwise, we heeded the lessons learned from years of Sandy’s decorating experiences by making a point of not throwing too many requests his way that could constipate his creativity and curb his enthusiasm.
Very much so. He told us many projects fail even before starting out because they're stillborn from the site. It took months of looking and a couple of Meier vetoes before we found a suitable site on the high ground of a wheat field that served as a playground for a good-sized population of horses, sheep, and deer. To quote Richard, “We were lucky our property needed nothing to visually defend the house from any bad view.”
It seemed forever through two years in conception and three years in construction.
Two things: one, building a house from scratch is performing an unnatural act, and two, we had a damn good marriage.
The new home is distinguished by the free flow of its spaces animated by their ever-present natural light. We had often read about the impact of light in articles on other Meier projects, but until we came to live in our new space, we couldn't appreciate its true magic.
Happily, yes. A perfect example is the 18.5-foot wide platform steps that take you down from our front hall into the living room. While simultaneously serving as the setting for many of our favorite pieces.
Another example is the two 14-feet elements of Sandy’s desk that comfortably house her files and computer, and over forty of our favorite pieces.
Definitely, but a few have remained in one place. Over the past 35 years, change has been a constant in the Grotta House for good reasons. First, our options are limitless. Except for the color blue and an occasional wisp of yellow, most of our things are nature's natural colors. Barring a mismatch of scale, this allows them to be moved harmoniously from room to room. Second, relocating gives our pieces, our spaces, and ourselves a constantly fresh perspective.
Finally, I particularly enjoy moving pieces when a brainstorm strikes me at 2:30 in the morning. Before any move is made, we must always take into account that we live in a glass dominated house where what looks good from inside has to similarly look good from outside.
Every once in a while, we get what we call a “clean break,” where a piece is randomly moved during house cleaning, and much to our surprise, looks better in its temporary location. Three of our major ceramic wall pieces, a subtle Paul Soldner raku,
a Ken Ferguson large black rabbit plate,
and our only Pablo Picasso plate,
which is one of a multiple edition, can best be appreciated from up close.
Paul, Ken, and Pablo might not have been enamored by their place settings, but there’s no question they are best seen when viewed straight ahead while seated on the throne in our bathrooms.
By far, our best move was our latest move. For 33 years our two Mies Van Der Rohe heavyweight chairs we're anchored in our living room facing their matching sofa.
Handsome as they were, their immobility forced our focus in only one direction… straight ahead. Our living room had a revolution when we switched Mies’s chairs with two Eames swivel chairs from our downstairs den. Besides dramatically improving the room’s flexibility and sociability, it now allows us to spin around, sight seeing upstairs and downstairs,inside and out in Meier’s greatest Grotta space. When we previously recorded an audio interview for our website, I was quoted as saying, “Only on special occasions do we sit in our living room.” How the times have changed. Now it ranks as my favorite personal parking space, meals included. The room still has a great looking Anderson table surrounded by four iconic Hans Wegner chairs, but I much prefer to set my drink on the slate floor with my meal on my lap while spinning about.
We recently acquired a couple of lightweight, Saarinen Tulip Swivel chairs that we move about inside and outside that have greatly improved our all around visibility.
Good architecture has had no shortage of coverage, what it could use is more patronage. One can't truly appreciate architecture from a picture or from the outside. Its true power only comes through when you experience its space inside in person. The late noted architect Hugh Newell Jacobson summed it up perfectly when he first visited our house and he told us, “YOU KNOW WHAT GOOD ARCHITECTURE IS? IT’S WHEN YOU OPEN THE DOOR, AND SPONTANEOUSLY SHOUT OUT, ‘SON OF A BITCH!’’’
Different people respond to our house in different words; indifferent isn't one of them.
