Tag Archives: Adam Marcus


Interview by Adam Marcus
. . .
venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., learning from las vegas studio, 1968, photograph
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

“Is not Main Street almost all right?” asked Robert Venturi at the end of his 1966 manifesto, Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture, thereby sending modern architecture into a state of turmoil from which it has never really recovered. Venturi, his partner Denise Scott Brown, and their long-time collaborator Steven Izenour answered this provocative question with their 1972 opus, Learning from Las Vegas, which used lessons from the everyday American automobile city to critique the status quo of postwar modernist architecture. The book is often creditedâ€or blamed, depending on who you askâ€for opening the floodgates of postmodernist architecture that defined the 1970s and 80s.

This past January, I visited Bob and Denise at their home of almost forty years, a 1910 Art Nouveau house in the leafy Philadelphia neighborhood of Mount Airy. Surrounded by the eclectic artifacts of their long odyssey through the landscape of the American vernacular (Warhol and Ruscha casually mixed in with old casino marquees and the like), we talked about their roots, their writing, their architecture, their politics, and their legacy. Although they have produced an exceptional body of work by any measure, Venturi and Scott Brown occupy a peculiar position in a profession that largely misunderstands and often dismisses their work: they are at once legends and pariahs. The past decade, however, has seen a steadily resurgent interest in their work, culminating most recently in an exhibition and symposium at Yale School of Architecture in January, which celebrated and reassessed the legacy of Learning from Las Vegas.

Venturi and Scott Brown’s workâ€both written and builtâ€resonates especially with a younger generation of architects who are unscathed by and uninterested in the debates about postmodernism that consumed much of the past forty years. This new attention has shed light on aspects of Venturi and Scott Brown’s practice that have, despite the architects’ insistence since the start, been largely overlooked. One such aspect is their work’s rich social dimension, a topic foregrounded by Scott Brown in a recently published, long overdue collection of her writings, Having Words. The common thread remains the still-revolutionary notion of “learning from” that drove the early research and continues to offer a powerful model for architects to engage the everyday “ugly and ordinary.” In this sense, the most critical lesson to learn from Venturi and Scott Brown may ironically not be one of content, of the “forgotten symbolism of architectural form,” so famously resuscitated in Learning from Las Vegas, but rather one of method. And at a time when the architectural mainstream runs the risk of complete detachment from the realities of everyday life, the example set by Bob and Denise, one that balances pragmatism with a healthy dose of iconoclasm, once again becomes a compelling model for challenging the status quo.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., learning from las vegas studio, 1968, photograph
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

Adam Marcus: You have been designing, writing, and practicing together for nearly fifty years. Yet before you met, you came from such different backgrounds: Denise from southern Africa via London, and Bob from Philadelphia and Princeton via Rome. How have these backgrounds come to inform your work?

DENISE SCOTT BROWN: In some ways, our backgrounds are the same. My family is Jewish, his Italian, but you’d be surprised how interchangeable our relatives are. They feel the same in many respects. We are both what I call “marginal”â€half in and half out of our own groups and only partway into the dominant culture. And we share a wobbly foothold in several other groups but don’t quite belong in any. This may have skewed our vision.

Marcus: Denise, you’ve written much about your time as a student in London, after you left Africa but before you came to America. While in London, what was your connection to Team X and their nascent critique of modern architecture?

SCOTT BROWN: Peter and Alison Smithson were not teaching at the Architectural Association when I was a student there, but the atmosphere of rebellion that they embodied was around the school. Last night on TV, I saw a rerun of “Look Back in Anger,” a play that opened in London in the early 1950s. When the curtain rose on a messy student apartment with a young man reading The Observer and his girlfriend in her underwear, ironing, the theater erupted in laughter as students in the audience recognized themselves. The Smithsons were engaged in a parallel probing of architectural reality. And coming from the north of England, they were no more part of the “system” than I was.

Marcus: So they were marginal too?

SCOTT BROWN: Yes, but in other directions. Growing up in South Africa, I was aware from childhood of the difference between the way things were and the way they were supposed to be. Concerning attitudes to daily life and landscapes (not the country’s stark political issues), the way things were was African, and the way many pundits felt they should be was English. The Smithsons were attuned to such differences of is and ought, but in the UK, it was upper class vs. lower class rather than colonial vs. metropolitan. In England, at that time, a rigid class system affected almost everything. Peter and Alison, thanks to postwar social legislation, were university-educated in a society that looked unkindly on upward mobility. Perhaps their marginality engendered their rebelliousness, but its substance was social and professional. They cried out as architects against the relocation of people from the slums of London to new towns at the outskirts, and they studied life as led on the streets of London’s East End. With my African experience, I bought wholly into such ideas, but it wasn’t until I got to Penn that I found the tools for engaging with them. Sadly, the Smithsons had meanwhile decided that there was no way to engage.

Marcus: They famously said sociologists have to do it.

SCOTT BROWN: Peter said sociologists were going to have to extend their field if they were to help him with problems of urban rebuilding, and to some extent he was right. But he should have realized that he too would have to extend in order to use sociological information.

Marcus: What about the art scene in London at the time? Were you exposed to any of the proto-Pop Art of the Independent Group?

SCOTT BROWN: I got to know the Smithsons and Reyner Banham, heard Eduardo Paolozzi talk, and visited the “Parallels of Life and Art” exhibition. Ductless Air Conditioner . I managed to see the best of art, plays, and films in Londonâ€things I still feast my inner eye onâ€and I spent time at the ICA. But I was also a student, busy in the studio, and although I brought a Pop Art sensibility with me from South Africa and, at the AA, joined a group open to Brutalist ideas, I did not hear of the Independent Group during my time in London. And when “This Is Tomorrow” opened, I was already in Italy.

Marcus: When did you come to the States?

SCOTT BROWN: In 1958. My first husband, Robert Scott Brown, and I did what Peter Smithson told us to do: we went straight to Penn because Louis Kahn was there.

Marcus: And when did you meet Bob?

SCOTT BROWN: At a faculty meeting at Penn in 1960. But he’d seen me before that, and I had heard about him.

Marcus: When was the first time you collaborated?

SCOTT BROWN: We taught a course together at Penn,1962-64, and collaborated on the Fairmount Park Fountain competition in 1964. From 1960, I would go into his office, when asked, to give crits, and he would visit my studio class in the evening to do the same. We started working together full-time in 1967 when we married.

ROBERT VENTURI: A major collaboration was for the Las Vegas studio in 1968. By that time, I was teaching at Yale.

SCOTT BROWN: I had left Penn for Berkeley in 1965 and moved to UCLA to help start a new school there. I had a good visitors’ budget and invited various people, including the cultural geographer J.B. Jackson and the sociologist, Scott Greer, to come and talk. I had already decided to do my next studio on Las Vegas, but I thought it would be at UCLA. Then I invited Bob to visit UCLA and come with me to Las Vegas. He, I felt, of all the Penn architecture faculty, would like to see the city. Others had scorned my interests in everyday architecture and the automobile city. For them, I had been corrupted by the sociologists.

VENTURI: At that time, the mid 1960s, architects were interested in Le Corbusier’s Ville Radieuse and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Broadacre City, not in Los Angelesâ€the city of the automobileâ€and not in the everyday landscape. When we went to Las Vegas, I was really interested in Los Angeles, but I realized that Las Vegas was similar in some respects and simpler to study. Then I fell in love with Las Vegas. Then I fell in love with Denise.

Marcus: What about Las Vegas attracted you at that time?

SCOTT BROWN: Many things. Coming from South Africa, I saw the differences between San Francisco and Los Angeles as similar to those between Cape Town and Johannesburg or Edinburgh and Glasgow. And I was on the side of the “uglier” citiesâ€Johannesburg, Glasgow, and Los Angeles. Later I was taught in planning school that architects who turn their backs on life as it is led, especially in the emerging auto city, are not very realistic. If you don’t study it, how can you tell what kind of stance to take toward it?

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., learning from las vegas studio, 1968, photograph
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

Marcus: Legend has it that on the way to Vegas in 1968, you visited Ed Ruscha at his studio in Los Angeles before heading to Vegas.

VENTURI: We did take our students to see him, but I was sick and couldn’t join the group until a few days later. I never met himâ€Denise took them.

SCOTT BROWN: I’m very happy that Nicholas Ouroussoff wrote about this visit in his article on the Las Vegas exhibition at Yale, but he was mistaken when he said that Bob took his students to visit Ed Ruscha! Bob had the flu. He didn’t join us till about a week later.

Marcus: What was the biggest lesson you learned from Las Vegas?

SCOTT BROWN: We often say we learned first about symbolism. It was a valuable lesson. Recognizing symbolism once again as a necessary function of architecture; connecting communication with community; showing that you can be just as functional about symbolism as about any other aspect of architecture †these were important contributions. And only the Las Vegas of then could teach the lesson of signs in vast space. That’s all gone today.

But we also went to Las Vegas to study the urbanism of the automobile, and this taught us life-changing lessons about cities and architecture in other important spheres. The Yale exhibition displayed these other studies too. One team colored the plans of hotel casinos in standard urban land-use colorsâ€gambling areas red, the color of commerce; hotel rooms yellow, like housing; and patios, of course, green. The colors revealed that, despite huge variety in their designs, most Las Vegas hotels of that era maintained the same basic relationships amongst their activities. From this and other investigations we learned, as designers, to do land use and transportation planning inside buildings. We start with the fact that where main streets cross in a town you find a market place that is also a meeting place; and we posit that this should hold for the “streets” that run through buildings and for meetings of minds. In a lab building, where the main corridor and the vertical circulation cross on every floor, we plan the coffee lounge. Here people come to rest, eat, and drink away from expensive computers. As they relax, informal communication can take place among researchers, maybe from different fields, who happen to sit beside each other. This opens an opportunity for the interdisciplinary connections needed in the sciences today.

So we learned how patterns of activities are influenced by the systems of movement that give access to them; how the two patterns, activities, and movement, are inextricably intertwined; and how patterns too have a symbolic aspectâ€consider the terms “corner store” or “across the tracks.” We reflected as well on how physical structures relate to the activities they house and how these relationships change over time. Our ideas on generic architecture derive from this type of analysis.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., learning from las vegas studio, 1968, photograph
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

Marcus: One could argue that the most remarkable thing about the research that produced Learning from Las Vegas is not so much the contentâ€the discourse about symbolism and functionalism, which no doubt is significantâ€but more the method, the idea of “learning from.” I sense that this plays a significant part in the contemporary reappraisal of your work.

SCOTT BROWN: Yes, and also important is our admonition, “Be open. Don’t rush to judgment.”

Marcus: What do you think we should be learning from today? What contemporary urban models do you think architects should be studying?

SCOTT BROWN: Tokyo, Lagos, Shanghai, new Pacific Rim urbanism in general, but really anything. We learn from our trip to work in the morning. And as Bob says, pay special attention to what turns you on.

Marcus: Let’s talk about the Vanna Venturi House. It seems that many of your later projects are present in some way in that very early project.

SCOTT BROWN: Almost everything we’ve done is in embryo there. For example, the relationship between public and private is essentially the same as in all buildings we’ve designed since, even the largest. In the Vanna Venturi House, the public sector spans the driveway, the front entrance, the dining room, and the “nowhere stair.” It consists mainly of circulation elements, the exception being the dining room, which doubles as an entry space and announces its public nature through its marble floor.

Marcus: In publications, the house has always been dated 1964. But obviously, it took many years of development leading up to that.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., vanna venturi house, 1964, chestnut hill, pennsylvania
(photo: rollin la france, courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, Inc.)

VENTURI: It took a long time. My mother moved in in 1964, but I had been working on it for almost ten years.

SCOTT BROWN: In the student skits at Penn, Bob was lampooned for designing his mother’s house over and over again, but he was teaching himself his trade.

Marcus: When people talk about the house, they focus primarily on the outsideâ€how it represents a renewed interest in decoration, ornament, how it was part of a stylistic or aesthetic revolution at the time. But you can also argue that there is much spatial complexity going on inside the house.

VENTURI: Absolutely.

SCOTT BROWN: It’s Le Corbusier inside.

Marcus: The stair, the chimneyâ€it’s very sculptural.

VENTURI: Right. I was very influenced by Le Corbusier, especially the Villa Savoye, which I worship. That building has a strict-seeming exterior of abstract screens. But you can see through the long openings at the perimeter to all sorts of “stuff” going on inside and popping up over the top. Le Corbusierâ€and Frank Lloyd Wright tooâ€said you should design from the inside out. Even though they were enemies, they essentially said the same thing. And in designing my mother’s house, I began, like them, from the inside out. But then I realized that I should also design from the outside in.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., vanna venturi house, 1964, chestnut hill, pennsylvania
(photo: rollin la france, courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, Inc.)

Marcus: The outside of the Venturi House is sometimes described as flat pastiche, but there is more going on: both the front and the back have an ambiguity with regard to the thinness (or thickness) of the façade.

VENTURI: You’re right.

Marcus: The depth of the entry is ambiguousâ€you see this in the Sainsbury Wing and in a lot of your projects.

VENTURI: Yes, but in another sense it’s not like the Villa Savoye. Only its back and front are flat screens. Go around the sides and you see “stuff” going on.

SCOTT BROWN: We used to walk around palazzos from the fronts to the sides, looking to see where the façade ended and the rest of the building began. The façade ends at the Palazzo Pitti the way ours ends at the Sainsbury Wing.

VENTURI: Many of those palazzos are very busy in the front because they face great piazzas. But the sides are on narrow streets, and they are very functional there: just what they need to be.

SCOTT BROWN: The façades are one or two meters deep, which is appropriate for load-bearing masonry in a high building. Away from the piazza it’s a different building. And that’s the same in the Sainsbury Wing.

There’s an interesting historic relationship between decoration and depth. Renaissance decoration needed about a foot to do its thing, Baroque a yard, Rococo half an inch, and Art Deco can indicate seven different surfaces in a bas relief one inch deep. Poster art, taking off from Cubism and Art Deco, can suggest depth or complexity on a flat surface without use of perspective. That’s where we came in.

VENTURI: Then you get the façade that’s made of lightâ€of LED. Its decoration has no depth. It emits light. The façade of our second (unbuilt) design for the Whitehall Ferry Terminal was covered with LED. Approaching it from the ferry, you would have seen changing signs full of news and information. Communication helps make communityâ€that’s an important idea for us. Communication is so much a part of civic and religious architecture. People look at stained glass windows as art, and they were incidentally very artful. But essentially they told stories about Christianity to a public that couldn’t read. Renaissance frescoes, too, were communicators of messages and only incidentally art.

Marcus: Which of your unbuilt projects do you most wish had been built?

VENTURI: One building was built and then significantly modified. It wasn’t demolished, but in a way it was demolished. That was the North Penn Visiting Nurses Association in Ambler, outside Philadelphia, the first building we ever built. I loved that building.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., north penn visiting nurses association, 1963, ambler, pennsylvania
(photo: george pohl, courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, Inc.)

SCOTT BROWN: I would have liked to see our design for the Philadelphia Orchestra Hall built.

VENTURI: Yes, our version of it.

SCOTT BROWN: Our design’s relationship to the street, its lit windows and lights, the views into its lobbies from Broad Streetâ€these would have been a real joy.

Marcus: What about your more recent work? You’ve commented on how people associate you with your mother’s house built over forty years ago, but your firm has produced a tremendous amount of work since then, particularly in the academic realm.

VENTURI: Yes, most of our work is for universities. So it doesn’t make sense to apply the communication systems of Las Vegas to the façades of our buildings. But our academic projects are an opportunity to design loft buildings. These interest us because their interior uses change over time. The Italian palazzo is a wonderful example of a loft. It starts out as the home and warehouse of a noble family, but it might become a library or museum, even an apartment building. Flatted factories, college halls, and lab buildings could and did change constantly on the interior, and they still do. For this reason, they can’t be designed for their first use alone and from the inside out only, in the modern tradition.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., university of michigan, palmer drive complex, 2005, ann arbor, michigan
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

SCOTT BROWN: They need another philosophy. Our Life Sciences complex at the University of Michigan incorporates ideas from nineteenth-century industrial lofts and warehouses, including our own offices on Main Street, and academic loft structures like Princeton’s Nassau Hall and Albert Kahn’s lab buildings at Michigan. Built of brick or stone, they are ample and made to last. Their simple rectangular plans, wide structural bays, and large windows regularly spaced can support various wall and lab bench subdivisions and a rational distribution of utility systems, and allow all systems to change over time. These buildings helped us form our ideas on the design of generic architecture. And their ornament, placed frugally around entranceways or at beam and column junctions, lay behind our hypothesis of the “decorated shed.”

We use decoration to help relieve the boringly squat proportions of today’s large labs. In Michigan we sought continuity with Albert Kahn’s larger scale of building via a decorative pattern that suggested a giant order spanning several bays and stories. Variety can be found at an urban scale too. While designing the complex, we broadened our “land use and transportation” analyses of building interiors with studies of contextual patterns at campus and site scale. We mapped patterns formed by systems of movement, utilities, topography, water flow, and especially the linked activities of town and gown. When overlaid in different combinations, these pointed toward design, just as do the required relationships among activities within buildings. Then we followed the patterns, activity flows, and “desire lines,” to locate buildings and design routes and spaces, indoors and out, to take people to and through the campus and its buildings.

These ways, passing via our complex, connect campus academic and medical sciences and cross a large declivity where a lake had been. This produced a many-layered project and medieval-like urban routes that widen and narrow as needed to give access to buildings and form outdoor sitting and meeting places. Pedestrians and cyclists gained a much-needed short cut that bridged a state highway. The result was functional efficiency and an aesthetic vitality derived from the interplay of ground floor uses and spaces rather than from buildings. The new environment grows from its context and flows where it needs to flow. It serves and relates building entryways but is not restricted by the grid of the buildings. It is so convenient that students broke down the construction fences to get to it before the projects were complete. And the decoration is the urbanism.

Marcus: Tell me about the two religious buildings that your office recently completed.

VENTURI: The Episcopal Academy Chapel evolved out of a long-term interest. I was educated there (class of ’44), and 60 years ago I chose its chapel as the subject of my Master’s Thesis at Princeton. The new chapel has no nave. I love naves. Many wonderful buildings have naves. But the particular needs of the client led to an interesting half-circle plan.

robert venturi, a chapel for the episcopal academy, 1950, thesis drawing (unbuilt)
(courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

SCOTT BROWN: They didn’t want people to see the backs of those in front of them. Instead, worshippers sit across from each other and see the altar and each other’s faces.

Another important issue was lighting. If light shines in at a low level behind you, I see your silhouette but not you. In traditional Christian churches the windows are high to avoid this problem. You have to look up to see God’s light. This holds for our chapel too, and as in Gothic churches, our high windows are clerestories. But they follow the circular perimeter of the chapel walls. So they’re traditional in some ways and not others.

VENTURI: There’s ornament on the outside. There’s a steeple. It isn’t literally a steeple but has two intersecting, steeple-shaped planes that rise up together. There’s not too much decoration. This is an irony, given that I have written so much about bringing ornament, symbolism, and communication back into architecture. But it didn’t make sense here, because even though this is an Episcopal academy, it welcomes all religions, and the chapel embraces the spirituality of all students.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., episcopal academy chapel, 2008, newtown square, pennsylvania
(photo: matt wargo, courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

Marcus: You were also designing a synagogue roughly at the same time. Did these projects inform each other at all during the design process?

SCOTT BROWN: The synagogue is smaller. It’s in a small town called Sunbury, Pennsylvania. It’s called Congregation Beth El, and it’s a red brick building like all the other civic and public buildings in the town. It’s very square, a bit like a supermarket. Comparing the synagogue and the chapel is interesting. In a way, the Episcopal Chapel wanted the same thing as the synagogue: a meeting house. So the plans, in that sense, aren’t too different.

But the synagogue has a much larger public sector. It includes a courtyard, in which they can put a Sukkah and a community space separate from the worship space. Each building has a detached screen façade, a type invented by Bob. It gives depth to the entrance and, instead of bringing you in via a front door, it lets you percolate through an arcade. The screens allude to the architectural history of each religion, pointed Gothic for Episcopal, a Byzantine dome for Beth El. Both say that crowds can come into these public buildings from many sources and through many doors, whereas in a house or a college building, small groups would enter through a front door.

And there is quite a different attitude to light. In the synagogue, as in the chapel, it streams into the worship space, but the roof light, arc, and processional of Beth El don’t combine to reinforce each other axially as they do in the chapel. The effect is to turn attention more to the worshipping group than to an individual’s aspiration toward Heaven.

venturi, scott brown and associates, inc., congregation beth el, sunbury, 2007, pennsylvania
(photo: matt wargo, courtesy of venturi, scott brown and associates, inc.)

Marcus: You could argue that the synagogue is a classic decorated shed. The chapel, in contrast to the synagogue, stands out as being really plan-driven. It’s not a decorated shed. It deals with symmetry and complexity in plan.

VENTURI: No, it’s not a shed. Not everything need be a shed.

SCOTT BROWN: It’s still a shed-like duck, which may be the closest we can come to a duck. But, except for the front, it doesn’t have decoration. It has an interesting and beautiful support structure that faintly echoes the rafters and arches of a medieval chapel. It’s quite atypical for us to use structure in this way.

Marcus: Maybe that’s the only time you’ve ever done it?

SCOTT BROWN: Yes, partly because we realized that this particular client had a very good functional reason for not wanting decoration.

Marcus: One of the most remarkable aspects of your careers has been your steadfast commitment to writing about architecture in polemical and provocative ways. Rem Koolhaas famously called Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture the last architectural manifesto, and in a sense, he was right (although one could argue that Learning From Las Vegas is just as much a manifesto). With a few exceptions, architects today don’t really stake out polemical positions. What are your thoughts about the importance of writing as it relates to design and practice?

VENTURI: I don’t have a theory about this. Quite simply, I wrote at that time because I could not design buildings; I could not practice. I was relatively young. I accommodated my frustrations by writing down ideas that I did not have the opportunity to project through buildings and design. If you can’t do it, you write about it. People in other media can make their art more easily. Even if you’re starving, you can compose music, or you can paint paintings or make sculpture. But an architect can’t make buildings without a client, and you have to have a reputation to get a client. So, it was as simple as that. It derived from this characteristic of the medium.

Marcus: One of the themes in your writing has been an aversion to ideology. In other words, you reject the notion that there is only one way of doing things. This relates to Denise’s distinction between the “is” and the “ought.”

SCOTT BROWN: Yes. We believe in growing the “ought” carefully from the “is.” It’s an evolutionary process.

VENTURI: I think the closest we come to ideology is saying that we are Mannerists. We’re into Mannerismâ€it’s complexity and contradiction. The democratic way of doing things could be defined as not ideological.

SCOTT BROWN: It’s a messy way.

Marcus: Could you imagine a situation where the “ought” took precedence over the “is”?

VENTURI: I think so. There could be.

SCOTT BROWN: We don’t say don’t develop “oughts.” We often tell our clients, “This is the way it ought to be.” But we take time to learn as much as we can before formulating the oughts. We don’t judge too soon, and therefore, our clients tend to believe us. Yet there have been projects, the Sainsbury Wing in London, for example, for which we have needed to strongly defend what we believed we should do, saying “It really needs to be this way.” But it’s always well into the process and it results from functional and sometimes aesthetic requirements, not from ideology.

Marcus: For me, architecture is always about changing the status quo. If you’re building something, it is going to change what exists, in some way, no matter how small. But you are proposing a more evolutionary view of this change. A bottom-up, not top-down, approach.

VENTURI: I think pragmatism is the one word that describes our approach. It’s a very American idea.

Marcus: What about the more rebellious and revolutionary aspects of your career? Denise, you have written about how the social and cultural backdrop of the 1960s played an important role when you came to the United States and while you were studying urban planning at Penn. Do you see your early iconoclasm and rebellion as explicitly part of the counterculture of that time?

SCOTT BROWN: Yes, but it’s not that simple. The iconoclasm the social planners and we represented was to favor “is” over “ought.” Paradoxically, our “oughts” were about “is.” And we were too old for the counterculture. fix my computer . I could envy all those hippies with their bare feet at Berkeley, because I had grown up barefoot in South Africa. But by that time, I was a professor. I was very aware of my role as challenging that bright generation. Allard Lowenstein of the Dump Johnson movement, who was a friend of mine, asked the students, “What did you do after you marched on Washington?” That was my roleâ€to say to them, “It’s lovely having all these grand sentiments, but what are you actually going to do about it, right now?” That’s what the social planners asked, too. At the same time, the backdrop of 1960s social revolutionâ€not necessarily the hippie counterculture, but the social revolutionâ€was very much part of where the thought came from.

This ferment found its way into architecture when, after World War II, money was pumped into urban renewal to help achieve a peacetime economy. I heard about “shovel ready” projects from my professors at Penn in the late 1950s as they had been the ones who helped to select such projects during the Great Depression. Money from Washington brought social scientists into universities, and specifically to the urban planning departments of architecture schools, as urban researchers and lecturers. That’s how Herb Gans and Paul Davidoff came to Penn. They left again when Nixonism and Reagonomics took the money away. But while they were with us, they were very beneficial for people like Bob and me.

Marcus: You could argue that there are many parallels between that time and today.

SCOTT BROWN: I think the ongoing reappraisal of us and our work is part of those parallels.

Marcus: I am struck by how relevant your writings still are, and how, in recent years, it seems like there has been a surge in interest in your work, particularly among the younger generation of architects.

SCOTT BROWN: We’re strongly aware of it. It’s been going on a while. I think we first heard in 2003 that students at the Architectural Association in London were reappraising the Smithsons and us; everyone else they considered their grandparents.

Marcus: And it’s not only those who are reading and re-reading your written work. There is a whole crop of younger firms who are indebted to you, both methodologically and stylistically.

SCOTT BROWN: Rem, of course, and our long-time friends and colleagues, Carolina Vaccaro in Rome, Fred Schwartz in New York, Richard Pain in London, and Francoise Blanc in Toulouse. There’s the FAT group in London; Basurama in Madrid; AOC in London who adapted our studio work topics and philosophy statements to “Learning from” projects in England; artist Mathieu Borysevic who produced Learning from Hangzhou; and Steven Song, whose “Paradigm Shift: Renovating the Decorated Shed” takes our ideas into global urbanism and new communication technologies. The world of architectural historians, too large to span here, can be represented by Stanislaus von Moos, Karin Theunissen, and Martin Filler, and our correspondence continues with architectural students worldwide, some seeking a quick fix for a term paper due in two hours.

We’re very happy that creative people are adding their intelligence to the concept of “learning from” and hope it will continue. We’ve tried to bring together colleagues we see as thoughtful extenders of our ideas and to encourage them to support each other. fix computer . I hope to find time to write down further forms and topics of research that have occurred to me since 1989 when I taught my last studio.

Marcus: Another interesting aspect of your influence in contemporary architecture is precisely the extent to which architects will not acknowledge it. Much of the experimentation with new digital technologies, for example, leads to an architecture rich in ornament, pattern, and new and exciting decorative strategies. But few people will talk about it in those terms.

SCOTT BROWN: There were times when people were happy to say that they learned from us, but they dropped us when fashions changed. I think architects come at decoration now from a structuralist viewpoint. The pattern evolves from concerns for sustainability, for example. They say, “Look at what we can do with glass to augment heat and sound isolation.” We too have generated patterns structurally, but from the social sciences, from “city physics.”

VENTURI: That’s how we got them, not where we got them.

SCOTT BROWN: Well, I don’t know quite the difference. But we’ve also quoted from tablecloths, stationery boxes and Zipatoneâ€everyday things that we’ve scrambled to form mixed metaphors. They generate theirs by saying “we need windows of a certain type.”

VENTURI: They’re not being explicitly communicational.

Marcus: Right. You’re describing a kind of technologically deterministic way of generating pattern.

SCOTT BROWN: Yes, at least that’s what they say. It’s what the early Modernists said but didn’t do.

VENTURI: Exactly. That’s not us.

SCOTT BROWN: But a structuralist approach need be no more deterministic than a functionalist approach; and neither leads inexorably to expressionism. That’s a really old argument in Modernism. And there’s another important differenceâ€the one between Postmodernism and PoMo. PoMo is what Philip Johnson and his followers did in their commercial architecture. I’m not against commercial architecture (look at early Chicago), but their way of doing it distorted things. The postmodernism we were involved with was not an architectural style. It had its origins in popular culture, the humanities, and theology and was concerned with diversity, values, and loss of innocence since the Holocaust.

Marcus: The social content disappeared very quickly with the rise of Postmodernism in architecture.

SCOTT BROWN: Not of Postmodernism, of PoMoâ€and not only the social content. For example, I think NeoMo is a form of Pomo. Early Modern is the style the Neomodernists imitate, but they don’t understand the essence of early Modernism, and they aren’t thoughtful about functionalism, which they see as a boring old hang-up of the 1930s. For us, functionalism is one of modern architecture’s glories and central to what we do. And both NeoMo and PoMo lack skill in handling strictly architectural elements such as scale and proportion.

Marcus: One could argue that you both, ironically, are more modern than anyone.

SCOTT BROWN: We think so. When I tell people of our generation that Learning from Las Vegas is in part a social tract, they reply “You’ve got to be kidding.” But people of your generation say, “We know that. What else is new?”

. . .


Essay by Adam Marcus
. . .
yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

If you drive northeast of the tiny town of Eldorado, Texas (pop. 2,000) on Schleicher County Road 300, there isn’t much to see, save the occasional oil well and the limitless, low-lying brush of the dry landscape. But four miles or so out of town, as the calm monotony of west Texas ranch country begins to set in, you’ll come upon an unmarked, padlocked gate, initially indistinguishable from those found at countless other dusty turnoffs along the road. This one is different, though: in the distance, far beyond the wire mesh fence, a collection of buildings, anchored by a prominent white structure, conspicuously rises like a mirage from the otherwise vacant prairie. An agricultural complex, you might think, or perhaps some kind of industrial park. But no: inside the gate lies the site of the most recent chapter of America’s history of confrontation between fundamentalist religion and organized democracy. The gate itself represents nothing less than the front line in the enduring battle over the power of the state to interfere in private religious affairs, an unresolved conflict that, in many ways, is written into this country’s DNA. It’s a complex story of migration, polygamy, alleged pedophilia, vast sums of money, and of course, great controversy. But perhaps more than anything, it’s a story of one of the most radical and compelling utopian experiments in recent American history.

The saga begins with a man named David Allred, who materialized in Eldorado in the fall of 2003 looking to buy some land. For a reported sum of $700,000, Allred secured a 1,700-plus-acre tract of land northeast of the town, completing the sale under the auspices of YFZ Land, LLC, explaining that it would be used as a corporate hunting retreat for wealthy clients of his Utah company. Upon the closing of the transaction, dozens of workers arrived almost immediately, quickly installed a small camp of trailer homes on site, and commenced construction on three large structures, supposedly hunting lodges for guests of the new ranch. But as construction continued around the clock, and as materials, equipment, and personnel continued to arrive en masse, by the following spring, townspeople began to whisper about the goings-on up at the ranch. Stoked by reports from local pilots who had flown over the property, the aggressive investigative reporting of the town’s newspaper, and, most of all, by rumors emanating from an obscure corner of Utah, an alternate reality began to emerge.

Allred was no ordinary Utah businessman. His company, YFZ Land, was in fact a front for a much larger entity, the United Effort Plan (UEP), a religious trust founded in the 1940s by a reclusive splinter group of Mormons, designed to consolidate assets and shield its members from public oversight. Operating under the rubric of the Fundamentalist Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (FLDS), this branch of Mormonism traces its roots back to the 1890 grand bargain between the mainstream Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints (LDS) and the federal government of the United States, in which the Church agreed to forswear its controversial practice of polygamy in return for gaining statehood for Utah. Polygamy persisted, however, in the rural reaches of the new state, as certain members of the Church refused to renounce a fundamental tenet of Mormonism as established by founder Joseph Smith earlier in the nineteenth century: the belief in a direct correspondence between the number of wives a man has and his chances of gaining entry to Heaven.

The FLDS was thus born as a breakaway sect in protest against the LDS’s compromise with the federal government, and its followers slowly built a stronghold in the southwestern corner of Utah, in and around a border settlement called Short Creek, now known as the sister municipalities of Colorado City, Arizona and Hildale, Utah. Seeing themselves in the age-old American tradition of religious groups withdrawing from mainstream society to escape persecution, the FLDS flourished in isolation, building their own institutions and economy, amassing great wealth in the communal UEP trust. Their strategic location, straddling a state border, afforded a protective measure of jurisdictional ambiguity that shielded them sufficiently from state interference for most of the twentieth century. By the 1990s, the UEP had mushroomed into a one-to-two hundred million dollar entity, and the FLDS had become a de facto dictatorship under the reign of member Warren Steed Jeffs, who inherited control over the church and its trust from his ailing father. A self-declared prophet who claims direct descent from Joseph Smith and Jesus Christ, Jeffs quickly assumed control over all aspects of FLDS life, arranging marriages, reassigning wives at his discretion, confiscating houses, and excommunicating those who refused to bend to his will.

Jeffs’s fervent insistence on expanding the scope of polygamyâ€he is rumored to have more than seventy wivesâ€exacerbated an implicit problem with the practice. Within a finite population (the FLDS is said to number some 10,000), there is an equally finite supply of potential brides, and the more aggressive the pursuit of polygamy, the more rapid the logic of supply and demand takes effect. As the men turn to ever younger girls for their so-called “celestial brides,” a pattern of institutionalized pedophilia sets in. By the early part of this decade, lurid tales began to seep out of the FLDS community, particularly from excommunicated FLDS members, disenchanted with Jeffs’ increasingly erratic stewardship, which attracted the attention of state authorities. Drawn by sensational stories of polygamy, pedophilia, and forced marriages, the media began sustained coverage of the sect’s activities, and the FLDS was once again thrust unwillingly into the national spotlight.

It was within this unstable milieu of mounting scrutiny, suspicion, and incipient internal dissent that Jeffs began to formulate his Plan B. Perhaps knowingly, Jeffsâ€who before long would be indicted on a host of sexual assault charges and subsequently placed on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted Fugitives listâ€concluded that the FLDS would need to retreat from their twin citadels and relocate their nerve center, once again escaping the public eye. But he had more in mind than merely going underground: instead of maintaining the sect’s dependent relationship with the machinery and institutions of mainstream America, Jeffs reconceived the FLDS as an autonomous sovereignty, divorced from American society and its laws. He envisioned a shift away from the lifestyle of parallel coexistence popularized by the HBO drama “Big Love,” and instead, towards an idealistic notion of a self-sustaining polygamist society that would thrive independently, outside the realm of contemporary civilization. It was at this moment, fueled by vanity, fear, and delusion, that Jeffs became a utopian visionary. Dermawand .

temple, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

Enter David Allred, dispatched by Jeffs under the guise of YFZ Land, LLC to secure a site for a new polygamist utopia. Yearning for Zion, it would be called (hence the acronym YFZ), and it would be realized with the vast financial resources accrued by the FLDS over the past half century. While details of the design and planning of the new settlement are not known, it is evident that there was an overarching vision from the start. For unlike the towns of Colorado City and Hildale, in which the FLDS homesteadsâ€oversized yet conspicuously unadorned McMansionsâ€are improvisationally integrated into an existing urban context, Yearning for Zion presented a carte blanche for the FLDS to express their ideology as an explicitly architectural proposition. And while the Eldorado locals continued to refer to the site as a “ranch” even after the revelation that Allred’s corporate retreat was in fact a project of polygamist colonization, that term belies the ambition of the FLDS: Yearning for Zion is no mere ranch, but rather a city, complete with all the attendant complexities, contradictions, and aspirations inherent in any city.

original three houses, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

Given the reclusive, secretive nature of the FLDS, outsiders can only experience Yearning for Zion from the air. Thanks to J.D. Doyle, a local pilot in Eldorado who has compiled photographs of the city under construction, we have a relatively complete record of its development. As the city expanded, two notable characteristics of Yearning for Zion became apparent: the relentless grid pattern of its growth and its immense scale, the latter somewhat deceptively minimized in aerial photographs. The first three buildings to be constructed, presumably residences for the first FLDS settlers who arrived from Short Creek, were built ad hoc, in a diagonal row along the north-south axis, perhaps in response to the site’s topography. But these buildings were soon followed by the construction of a host of support structuresâ€greenhouses, grain silos, maintenance sheds, workshops, and a concrete production facilityâ€all of which were organized along a strict grid pattern, oriented precisely to the cardinal directions. The first three buildings were quickly subsumed into an ever-expanding Jeffersonian grid of the kind that so often provided the template for American frontier settlements. To date, the original residences are the only structures that deviate from the grid.

cement plant, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

As construction on the city progressed, a distinctive architecture emerged. The first three buildings, each at least 10,000 square feet in size, established the FLDS residential typology: stacked log construction on a concrete base, raised porches, green gabled roofs, and consistently awkward, oversized proportions. The contrast of these buildings with their landscape is exacerbated by the odd choice to build with logs in an area of the state where there are no trees. Thus it seems that the FLDS’s intention is to invoke the mythologized American cabins of past settlers, and by extension, portray themselves as the quintessential American frontier society. In a remarkable, bizarre synthesis of formal convention (notions of what a house ought to look like) with the functional demands of a polygamist lifestyle, the typical FLDS house strives to project the idealized image of American domesticity, yet everything is scaled up in size as needed in order to accommodate the numerous sister-wives, as the brides are called, and scores of children who live inside.

warren jeffs’s home, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

The siting of the residences is similarly dictated by a grossly exaggerated sense of scale. Each superblock, several thousand feet square and easily equivalent to a New York City block, contains just one or two of these units. But although the American democratic ideal of a house and lawn is taken to the extreme here in Zion, the urban model is not without hierarchy. Within the first year, a large H-shaped structure was built adjacent to and on axis with the sect’s meeting house. Said to be Jeffs’s private compound, this enormous abode could easily house hundreds, and its completion marked a turning point for the church’s new Texan outpost: their leader and prophet would soon arrive.

temple, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

Jeffs’s architectural ambitions went well beyond a new home for him and his sprawling family. On January 1, 2005, he materialized in Eldoradoâ€his last reported appearance before going on the runâ€to conduct a dedication ceremony for a massive structure that had only recently commenced construction. This new building, the first and only FLDS temple, completed within a matter of months, was marked by a comprehensive depth of utopian vision and would become the iconic emblem of Jeffs’s Texan endeavor and the controversy that ensued. Dedicated to the Lord, Mormon temples are reserved for special forms of worship and differ from the relatively ordinary meetinghouses used for weekly prayer. Clad in white limestone quarried and cut on the property, the YFZ temple rises above a pristinely manicured grass lawn and can be seen for miles. In fact, it can only be seen from a significant distance, due to the twelve-foot-high perimeter walls that surround it. Its whitenessâ€in stark contrast with the drab Texan prairieâ€is arresting, but even more breathtaking is its scale, which taps into the small-town American imaginary of civic architecture, in which an imposing stately structure on a green anchors the town. But the incongruity of the structure is jarring in the land of “Friday Night Lights,” where visionary architecture is usually limited to high school football stadia and grain silos.

temple, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

Jeffs’s audacious decision to build a major temple in Eldorado was part of his broader attempt to usurp the mantle of Mormonism from the mainstream LDS church, which has a history of constructing iconic temples throughout the world, with notable examples including those in Oakland, San Diego, and Kensington, Maryland near Washington, DC, as well as the central temple in downtown Salt Lake City. The importance of the temple dates to the earliest days of the Church, which, under the leadership of founder Joseph Smith, was settled in Nauvoo, llinois in the late 1830s and early 1840s, after Mormons fled persecution at earlier settlements in New York, Ohio, and Missouri. Smith had prophesied a Mormon Zion from the outset, and his hope was that the new city of Nauvoo would fulfill this vision. At the center of the city was a temple, constructed of white limestone, and the Mormon settlers rapidly established a civic infrastructure, complete with their own newspaper, university, judiciary system, and militia. But this first Mormon experiment in municipal theocracy was not fated to last. Smith was murdered by an anti-Mormon mob in 1844, and his followers, under the leadership of Brigham Young, fled westward in 1846, eventually founding Salt Lake City. In 1848, the Nauvoo Temple was destroyed by fire under suspicious circumstances and, to this day, remains for Mormonsâ€both mainstream and fundamentalistâ€a reminder of the tumultuous origins of their Church. For the FLDS particularly, the dream of the Nauvoo experiment and its destroyed temple represents the Zion to which they yearn to return.

temple, yearning for zion ranch, texas, 2005

A number of the YFZ temple’s features, such as the tablet-shaped windows and steeple comprised of a dome perched atop an octagonal drum, refer directly to those of the Illinois building; the scale, white limestone material and basilica-like proportions suggest a connection as well. Jeffs and the FLDS have always insisted on their rightful title as the true standard-bearers of the Mormon faith. Roof boxes . But the construction of the Eldorado temple in the approximate image of Nauvoo takes this challenge to new heights by establishing an architectural bond to the structure associated with Mormonism’s inception, thereby linking the FLDS cause to Smith’s utopian mission.

The differences, however, between the two are also consequential for understanding the nature of utopia as imagined by the FLDS. The Nauvoo Temple, which has since been rebuilt by the LDS (2002), fits into the American tradition of neoclassical municipal building that can be found in small towns throughout the country. One could imagine such a building alternatively serving as a city hall, school, or post office. The FLDS reinterpretation departs from Nauvoo in its sloped roof, more characteristic of Christian spiritual architecture, but the neoclassical ornamental embellishments are gone, replaced by an almost abstract checkerboard field of square limestone panels, punctuated only by mirrored glass windows, peculiar features for any religious building. And, perhaps most notably, each corner is anchored by a round turret, a form typical of military fortification. The turrets are topped with crenellations that continue around the roofline, suggesting the profile of a castle or a fort, thereby producing an uncanny confusion of religious monumentality and the architecture of military defense.

Like Smith’s experiment at Nauvoo, Yearning for Zion’s ambitious scope only increased the unwanted scrutiny and suspicion of outsiders, which was not conducive to the ongoing legal struggles of the FLDS. After a long period of investigation and subsequent flight, Jeffs was apprehended for sexual assault in the summer of 2006, although it is suspected that he still maintains firm control of the FLDS from prison. State authorities in both Utah and Arizona looked to Eldorado in their efforts to uncover the murky dealings of Jeffs and the FLDS, financial and otherwise. As the legal troubles escalated, it became clear that it was only a matter of time before the brewing tensions between FLDS and state government bubbled over into a more direct confrontation.The tipping point came on March 29, 2008, when a hotline in Texas received a phone call from a sixteen-year-old FLDS girl who resided at Yearning for Zion, claiming that she had been forced to marry an older man, bear his children, and endure sustained sexual assault. The state was convinced that this was the long-awaited smoking gun that would at last confirm the alleged misdeeds of the FLDS. A week later, in a dramatic and coordinated display of force, federal, state, and local law enforcement agencies entered the Yearning for Zion property. SWAT teams, helicopters, and an armored personnel carrier descended on the ranch, and authorities began a thorough search of the grounds, expecting to find evidence of sustained patterns of child abuse and pedophilia. Speculation abounded that the templeâ€off limits to all but the most senior FLDS membersâ€contained all the secrets and was where the celestial marriages were consecrated. The national media arrived, ecstatic and hopeful.

In a now familiar story, the state Child Protective Services agency, suspecting abuse, proceeded to remove more than 450 FLDS children from the ranch, separating them from their parents and placing them in foster care throughout the region. In the following weeks, the media paraded images and interviews of devastated FLDS mothers grieving for their children. Fielding the womenâ€with their trademark pioneer dresses, braided coifs, and strange dialect (a product of a century of cultural isolation)â€proved to be a media-savvy counterassault by the FLDS. The women conveyed a sense of united desperation and undeserved trauma, but the spectacle of grief masked their stubborn refusal to compromise their polygamist principles or admit any fault. The ACLU issued a statement in tentative solidarity with the FLDS, Larry King and Oprah arrived, and the nation found itself pondering yet another potentially catastrophic standoff between state law enforcement and religious extremists.

The standoff never came. On May 29, after a series of appeals, the Texas Supreme Court ruled that Child Protective Services must return the children to their families, and that the state’s actions were unwarranted. It also later emerged that the original distress call was a hoax, perpetrated by a disillusioned former FLDS woman in Utah hoping to provoke exactly the kind of reaction that the phone call set in motion. Many had anticipated a rehash of the 1993 Waco conflict, in which the confrontation between David Koresh’s Branch Davidian cult and federal law enforcement ended in a violent climax, but such hostilities never materialized. iphone application developer . The FLDS emerged relatively unscathed; a handful of charges related to sexual crimes and bigamy have been handed down, but otherwise life in Zion continues much as it did before the raid.

Despite the fact that the FLDS utopia in Texas was founded upon the morally taboo practice of polygamy, and despite that YFZ is, in many respects, an exercise in Jeffs’s narcissism, it’s hard to dismiss the group as simply another religious cult that built itself a compound in the hinterland. The logistical foresight is staggering; the FLDS were able to build, from nothing, an infrastructural apparatus that includes a water pumping station; wastewater treatment plant; provisions for food including agricultural fields, orchards, livestock pens, and grain silos; and education, healthcare, and security systems, while also making plans for the construction of future buildings, with the intent of supporting a population in the thousands. But like all utopian projects, this one too is incomplete and contradictory: FLDS members are often spotted in the big-box stores of San Angelo, forty-five miles to the north, eagerly purchasing consumer items in bulk. But this, in a way, underscores Zion’s place in the context of American utopian thought and American society at large, as theirs is a drive to imagine a future different from that with which they would otherwise be faced. And though it may require a temporary suspension of judgment, as the alternate future imagined by this utopia is rife with its own unsavory implications, we discount the lessons of Yearning for Zion at our own peril.

With their prophet incarcerated and their financial assets now frozen in the state of Utah, the members of FLDS at Yearning for Zion persevere nonetheless. Although the anticlimactic outcome of last year’s raid, which failed to produce the violent apotheosis expected by so many, is a kind of vindication, the FLDS can take nothing for granted and remain as vigilant as ever in the defense of their way of life. For the moment, the sect exists in limbo, waiting to see how this latest round of trouble plays out, but they are still clearly guided by Jeffs’s visionary paranoia. His lasting legacy, no doubt, will be the FLDS’s renewed commitment to the nomadic strategy of self-defense that has defined Mormonism since its outset. Indeed, it turns out that the ranch land in Texas was not the only property purchased by Allred, the FLDS land scout, in the fall of 2003. He secured two additional large tracts of land in the rural stretches of the American west, near Mancos, Colorado and Pringle, South Dakota; locals in both areas have reported construction activity and the arrival of polygamist settlers. It is also rumored that the FLDS’s goal is to create a settlement in Missouri, their presumed location of the Garden of Eden. The march to Zion goes on.

. . .