Happy 103rd Birthday Eva Zeisel!

We usually shun exclamation points at DWR, but I had to make the exception for Eva Zeisel who turns 103 today. (103!) Truly the matriarch of the industrial design, Zeisel has been producing her signature fluid looks since she was 18, and launched a new career as a furniture designer when she was in her 80s. Her career has spanned centuries, continents and cultural clashes, and the inventions that have occurred in her lifetime include the telephone, jetliner and penicillin, just to name a few.

Zeisel at her 1951 solo exhibition Eva Zeisel: Industrial Designer at the Akron Art Institute. Courtesy of the Eva Zeisel Archives.

Born in Hungary in 1906, Zeisel’s life has all the elements of a great novel, and in fact, part of her life inspired the book Darkness at Noon by Arthur Koestler. (A timely read considering it’s the 20th anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall.) It was May 1936 when everything changed for Zeisel. She was 29 years old and working as the artistic director of the China and Glass Industry in Russia – an important job that Zeisel says she got because of her “personal charm.” But charming or not, with the job came enemies, and one night “at 4am, the doors knocked and so began a different life.” Falsely accused of plotting to assassinate Stalin, Zeisel was sent to prison for 16 months, 12 of which were in solitary confinement. Her release happened as mysteriously as her arrest, and to this day, Zeisel doesn’t know how it happened. “I hadn’t seen any colors for a year and a half,” says the designer.

Zeisel’s sketch for a collection inspired by the Kispester-Granit factory in Budapest, where she briefly worked in 1926.

Despite this dark period in her life – and perhaps because of it – Zeisel is continually intrigued by what she calls her “playful search for beauty.” Upon her release from prison, she married Hans Zeisel. They lived in Vienna briefly, before the threat of Hitler made them leave for America. “I saw the Statue of Liberty and my fears came down. It was a very touching reception,” says Zeisel of her October 1938 arrival. The next day she went to the magazine China and Glass and was immediately commissioned for 10 ceramic miniatures for $100. She was also hired at New York’s Pratt Institute, where she became the first person to teach ceramics as industrial design for mass production, rather than handicraft.

DWR Design Studio worked closely with Zeisel to launch her Granit Collection. Originally designed in 1983, and inspired by the factory where she worked in 1926, the collection was put into production in 2009.

Zeisel’s work continued to gather acclaim, and in 1946, her all-white modern dinner service – a first by an American designer – was honored with an exhibition at MoMA. Her work is included in the permanent collections of museums worldwide, including MoMA, the Met and the V&A. In 2005, she was awarded the National Design Award for Lifetime Achievement by the Cooper-Hewitt, National Design Museum in New York.

When Zeisel was in her early 80s, she started designing tables. The medium may have changed, but her Coffee Table (1993) is still very Zeisel, with its whimsical lines and ornamental motifs.

A person of delightfully defiant spirit, Zeisel has never been one to follow the predictable path of the fashionable avant-garde. “I didn’t accept the purism of modern design,” she says. “In my definition, if it gave beauty to the eye, it was beauty.”

To learn more about the woman who many (including me) believe to be the most important ceramic designer of the 20th century, check out the documentary Throwing Curves – Eva Zeisel (click here for the trailer) and her talk at TED.

And of course, please join me in raising a glass to Eva Zeisel and wishing her a very happy 103rd birthday.

Gwendolyn Horton

Can it!

In Danish, the function of opening and closing is called “vipp,” which is also the name of a design company that’s been producing iconic pedal bins since 1939. To celebrate their 70th anniversary, Vipp has partnered with Design Within Reach to hold a charity auction that will benefit DIFFA (Design Industries Foundation Fighting AIDS). Being auctioned are 35 Vipp bins that have been customized by Ralph Lauren, David Rockwell, Calvin Klein, Nigel Barker, Yoko Ono and others.

While you can’t rub elbows with these celebs at the actual auction (it’s by invitation only) there are two other ways you can participate: Five bins are on eBay, and through October 28, all 35 bins are on display and available for bidding at the DWR: Tools for Living in SoHo. And I don’t want to make your head explode or anything (thus, needing a bin for a beastly task) but the SoHo store also has a new window design by artist Mike Perry.

Of the 35 bins, the award for the farthest-flying Vipp goes to Michael Aram, who sent the bin to his workshop in India to be transformed into a golden pear.

A Vipp Bin in size medium at left, and a Vipp Bin transformed by Michael Aram into a Golden Pear at right. (Pear photo courtesy of Christian Larsen.)

“In the world of mythology,” says Aram, “pears represent bounty and gluttony. What’s more perfect for a receptacle of waste than a golden symbol of excess?” Sporting an oxidized bronze stem (the leaf was lost in transit), the brass body was hand-hammered from the inside to give it the somewhat nubby texture of a real pear. Perhaps, however, it was a bit too realistic, as the bin ended up stuck in Customs when it was deemed a botanical and flagged as a possible restricted item for entry into the U.S. Fortunately, the Homeland Security folks didn’t blow up the suspected Trojan Pear, but I’m guessing that at least one of them jumped when they pressed on the pedal and popped open the top.

From a symbol of gluttony to an example of what’s at stake if we do not curtail our habits, the Vipp bin customized by Nigel Barker is wrapped in a photograph he took when he spent two weeks on the ice in northern Canada.

Nigel Barker, and a Vipp Bin wrapped in his photograph titled “Frozen Cauldron.” (Nigel’s portrait courtesy of Nigel Barker LLC. Photograph of customized bin courtesy of Christian Larsen.)

Barker took this photo in 2007 when he went to investigate the horrors of seal hunting. Since then, there have been significant changes, including strong bans on seal product trade, thanks to the efforts of the Humane Society. The seals, however, are still at risk. A few years ago, the ice melted earlier than usual and hundreds of thousands of baby seals drowned because they were not old enough to swim. The concept behind Barker’s Vipp bin is that it provokes the user to think about the climactic effects of waste before throwing something away. He selected his photo “Frozen Cauldron” because “it’s beautiful, and yet the ice also looks a bit angry, as if Mother Nature has something in store for us.”

David Stark with his Vipp bin transformed into a cactus. (Photo courtesy of Christian Larsen.)

To appease Ma Nature, designer David Stark used a material that is normally seen as trash to create his Cactus bin. Made of simple cardboard, the cactus was hand assembled out of 279 individual and uniquely shaped laser-cut pieces. When asked about his inspiration, Stark said, “it was a trip to Arizona and the various sculptural forms of cacti throughout the landscape, along with my ongoing interest in turning everyday unsung materials (including trash) into extraordinary objects.”

The fact that Stark chose a cactus – a plant covered in sharp thorns – is also interesting. As if to remind people that there can be painful consequences to the items we throw away. Congratulations to all the designers who participated in this special event for DIFFA.

Gwendolyn Horton

P.S. To see a Vipp bin transformed into a xylophone, click here, and to see a video of the Can It! exhibit in SoHo, click on the video below.

All a twitter about Russel Wright.

I paid $289 for admission to a Russel Wright exhibition in San Francisco. That price didn’t include a docent, but it did include a one-way flight from SFO to New York. You have to be a ticketed passenger to see many of the exhibits presented by San Francisco Airport Museums (SFAM), which have been treating the traveling public to a bit of culture to soften the feeling of cattle herding since 1980.

Through October in Terminal 3 is Wright at Home: Modern Lifestyle Design 1930–1965, an exhibit of dinnerware, furniture and accessories by the American industrial designer. Russel Wright is considered the first brand name or “celebrity” in home furnishings – the Martha Stewart of his time – largely in part to the brilliant marketing skills of his wife, Mary Small Einstein.

American Modern pitchers (left) in the SFO exhibit, and an American Modern pitcher (right) in Wright’s New York home.

It was Mary who encouraged Russel to put his signature on his work – a wise decision considering that 250 million pieces of his American Modern dinnerware were sold between 1939 and 1959. But the pair was interested in more than just giving people the tools for easier living; they also wanted to teach people how to live in more efficient, less formal ways, and in 1950 they published their manifesto Guide to Easier Living.

Speaking of Wright’s signature, it’s worth noting that he spells his first name with one “l” which isn’t a ploy to make him seem more unique (like the Wendy who spells her name “Wendi” with a heart over the “i”), but rather the missing “l” is the result of a typo. In the 1920s, a stationer who is certainly not a household name (except for @*%#$ typesetter!) produced letterhead with Wright’s name misspelled. Always the practical (cheap?) industrial designer, he decided to go with it, and Russell became Russel.

And it’s a good thing too, because if you want to learn more about Wright, and you accidentally google Russell (two l’s), you’ll stumble upon the Twitter account of a Wyoming-based musician who beautifully demonstrates why I think Twitter is a craptacular (thank you NPR for adding a word to my vocabulary last Sunday) use of time:

“Get Joel some wedding cake.”
“What the…”
“He, he”

However, Russell the Wyoming musician did tweet, “Wow, Frank is all that!” which made me wonder what Russel the iconic industrial designer would tweet about Frank Lloyd Wright. Unlike Wright and Wright, Wright has access to new technologies that Wright and Wright could never even imagine. And I’d bet you a potluck dinner that mid-century designers like Eames, Wright (you can pick which one I’m referring to), Bertoia, Panton and others would’ve used Twitter in smart, relevant, compelling and useful ways.

Russel Wright sent the plans for his Hudson River valley home (above) and studio (below) to Frank Lloyd Wright for review. The two met when FLLW was in New York working on the Guggenheim, but there’s no evidence that Frank visited (or tweeted about) Russel’s property.

I don’t tweet because things like, “Everyone in the IT department appears to be wearing the same shirt today,” are better left in my head than expressed to others. Instead, I offer you “tweets” by Russel Wright, taken from the pages of Guide to Easier Living, along with images of his work and Hudson River valley home:

Spun Aluminum designs by Russel Wright. In the 1930s, Wright discovered that this affordable metal was easy to work with and could be made to look like pewter.

The dining area in Russel Wright’s home is next to a wall of boulders and the trunk of a cedar tree, which serves as the building’s primary vertical support post.

Wright built his fireplace to accommodate logs stacked vertically because he believed they burned more efficiently this way.

The bathtub in Russel Wright’s studio overlooks the quarry and has a view of the pond.

Low-maintenance steps in Wright’s home.

The plate-like “Ceramic” clock that Wright designed for General Electric in 1951 is on display at SFO (left) and hangs in the kitchen (right) of his New York home. (Drat! If I’d taken the photo at Wright’s house a half-hour earlier, it would’ve accurately reflected the time difference.)

It’s unclear how the plate-clock is the ticket to easier living (perhaps in a pinch you can serve on it, if you don’t mind that pesky second hand sweeping through your food), but it’s a fun item to troll for on eBay. The original retail of $9 translates to about $75 today, which is close to the final hammer prices I’ve seen online.

Check out the Russel Wright exhibit if you’re traveling through SFO, and if you’re on the East Coast, be sure to visit the Russel Wright Design Center (pay attention to the doors and doorknobs) and if you’ve seen either one, let me know what you think.

Gwendolyn Horton

Swinging left and right, north and south.

“Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door,” said Coco Chanel. And yet, Ralph Waldo Emerson believed that “every wall is a door.” As the fashion designer and the transcendentalist agree to disagree, may I present a few doors (and windows) that caught my eye on a recent trip.

The birch-bark door shown below is at the Russel Wright Design Center in Garrison, New York. Wright created this for his own studio, which is next to his Dragon Rock home and surrounded by 75 acres known as Manitoga.

A birch-bark veneered door at Russel Wright’s studio where no two doorknobs are the same.

I applaud Wright for not making the door convex, as a literal tree-door was not what he was after. Both indulgent and playful, Wright used the birch bark to make a connection to the surrounding landscape and show the contrast between it and the few man-made materials used at the property.

It surprised me that this is the door to a bedroom rather than an exterior space, but the latter would have been impractical. Imagine herbalists stealing bits of bark to put in their tea, and woodpeckers tricking you into thinking there is someone at the door. 

Being an interior door also forces you to interact with it, and thereby with nature, each time you enter or exit the room. By snagging your sweater on its curlicues that grab softly at anything that passes by, Wright’s door makes it impossible to forget the source of this door’s (and many doors’) natural material.

Wright’s home is an hour north of New York City, where it was 95 degrees and news reports warned that wearing flip-flops could be fatal. (I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say that things percolate on sidewalks when it’s scorching in New York.) Seeking air conditioning, I strolled through the chaotic Chelsea Market at Ninth Avenue and West 16th Street where I was drawn to the gouged and scratched doors (below).

New York’s Chelsea Market.

Looking like an idea that began with a mistake, I discovered that there is an intentional “theme of industrial archaeology that runs through the space” and a desire to showcase damage, not conceal it (lucky break for the construction crew). The door was locked and I wondered what secret it held. Is it a utility closet, conference room or a practice stage for U2? If you know, post a comment below.

Rich in visual texture, it’s easy to imagine these doors having acoustic qualities as well. The look of the New York door reminds me of chains dragging on concrete, whereas the door at the Hatch Cottage (below) elicits auditory mirages of clicking ice in summer cocktails.

The Hatch Cottage in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

Speaking of chains, the Hopkins House (below left) by Charlie Zehnder was disparaged in a recent Boston Globe blog for looking like a prison. To which I reply, “Lock me up.” These windows edit the view and accent how light and foliage change with time. And because another house is nearby, the small openings ensure privacy (or maybe the peek-a-boo view teases the heck out of whoever lives next door).

The work of Charlie Zehnder: the Hopkins House (left) and the Kugel-Gips House (right) are in Wellfleet, Massachusetts.

Also by Zehnder is the Kugel-Gips house, which has two elevations that are bunker-like in their use of concrete blocks and oblique windows. Facing south and west, however, are ribbons of glass (above right) running the length of each wall, and butt-glazed corner windows that project the living space into the landscape.

The last windows I’ll share with you are in honor of the new school year.

In 1965, Louis Kahn was commissioned by Phillips Exeter Academy to build a library. Described by the American Institute of Architects as a “modern architectural masterpiece,” I’ll tell you more about this library in an upcoming Design Notes. Until then, I offer a preview of its windows, which showcase Kahn’s ability to pull the sky into his buildings, creating fields of blue on the exterior while filling the interior with natural light. 

Gwendolyn Horton

Wine, Corian and getting high.

After visiting the Guggenheim, I needed something to stop the spinning, so I checked out Clo Wine Bar’s bar. I went there for the Corian (and that’s not the name of a new wine). Like a built-in sobriety test, this interactive experience has users pointing and dragging in the air to “flip” through an encyclopedia of wine, which is projected on the white Corian surface of the bar. When you land on something you might like, you order a four-ounce taste, and if you like the taste of the taste you can order a bottle.

With images of wine bottles streaming by you like sushi boats from which you can pluck what suits you, your attention will not be on the plain-looking Corian bar. And that’s exactly why this seamless, germ-resistant material was a smart choice for this installation.

“Corian plays well with others,” said Michael Morris, designer of the recently opened Corian Design Studio in New York. Just like Emeco and its use of aluminum, Corian is one of the stalwarts of American post-war design. In the U.S., we tend to think of Corian as a countertop material but, as Morris explained, in Europe this material is used for radiator covers, interior walls, retail displays and more. In Bordeaux, Le Seeko’o Hotel claims to be the world’s first ever hotel to have its façade entirely covered with Corian.

Hospital interiors are an ideal market for Corian since it can be constructed with no seams (that’s where the germs hide) and it is bacteria resistant (even if they could hide, they couldn’t grow). It can also be embedded with LEDs, thermoformed into custom shapes, sandblasted, routed, etched, backlit and easily repaired. One final note about the Clo Wine Bar: Don’t be confused by the fact that there is a seam in that Corain surface. This is not the result of you having one too many (the installer is another story) but rather a mistake that they’ll fix shortly.

From a new bar experience to a new walking experience, the first section of New York’s High Line opened in June. If you’re not familiar with it, the High Line was an elevated rail on Manhattan’s west side that was abandoned in 1980. (Cocktail party trivia: The last train carried three carloads of frozen turkeys.) It then became the overgrown creepy place where bodies were found in NYC cop shows and the subject of a 22-year debate. In 2002, the Friends of the High Line finally received the City Council support they needed, and their reuse plan began.

I was there on the first weekend the High Line opened and was struck by how quickly New Yorkers “got” the space. They were there en masse. Lattes in hand and talking on phones while relaxing on one of the oversized benches that play to every urban dweller’s desire to have an outdoor deck. As I walked, I was intrigued by the geometry of the space, awash in angles, points, lines and grids. The palette consists of railroad tracks, concrete, plants and grasses, with one material leading to the next, giving the space balance and flow. I wasn’t crazy about the uneven concrete that I stumbled over a few times (alcohol, by the way, is not permitted), but visually, I liked the unexpected terrain.

Also unexpected was that I found myself being a voyeuristic tourist, peering into the apartments and offices that overlook the High Line. I watched a bit of a yoga class, saw someone in their kitchen talking on the phone (ordering mini-blinds no doubt) and noticed a handful of other folks watching me watching them watching me.

Over 80 years, these apartments have had quite a ride. Before 1930, many had unobstructed views of the Hudson River. Then the elevated rail was built and freight trains rumbled by at all hours. In 1980 the trains stopped but the drug dealers and vandals moved in. And in 2009, the non-stop parade of people began. The windows of these spaces are 30 feet off the ground, and yet they suddenly have the exposure of a street-level space in Times Square. It’s a lucky break for the folks at Phillips Auction House whose gallery is now clearly visible to every High Line visitor.

If you live near the High Line (bonus if you have Corian countertops), I’d be interested to hear how this space has impacted you. Please share your comments below.

Gwendolyn Horton

Remembering Julius Shulman.

This special edition of Design Notes is a continuation of the following post that appeared on the DWR blog on July 16:

It is with great sadness that we learned of the passing of our dear friend Julius Shulman. The legendary photographer died on July 15 at the age of 98. Shulman has been part of our family since the beginning, and it seems like everyone at DWR has a great story about Shulman or one of his photographs above their desk or a favorite book of his work in their library. Shulman amazed us with his talent and kept us laughing with his stories. We loved him dearly, and as my colleague Matt Wilkerson so graciously put it, “we should all be so lucky to live a life as full as his was.”

After posting this, my coworkers sent me photographs and stories to share, and I invite you, our readers, to share your own stories as well.

At home with Shulman.

“In 2003, a group of DWR folks visited with Julius Shulman in his Hollywood Hills home. It was a wonderful visit. Shannon and I sat in matching vintage Egg chairs in his Studio/office.” Editor’s note: The Egg chairs were a gift from his friend Arne Jacobson, after Shulman photographed them in Denmark. “When Shulman spoke to us about his work, it was clear that his approach to life was to stay true to himself. He talked about real living in the modern world and the homes he photographed. He was big on being comfortable and indoor/outdoor living. He also made a point of having us take note of his new plush lounge chairs in the living room. After that visit, I added an Egg Chair to my home. It lives in my son’s room where many books will be read, stories told and fond memories of Julius Shulman will be had.” – L.R.

“I was new to DWR when we visited Shulman in 2003. All I knew was that we were going to some architectural photographer’s home. It was a little awkward at first, but then this man started talking about how perturbed he was at Martha Stewart. Her team had just photographed a ‘Dining Al Fresco’ spread at Shulman’s home for her magazine, and he was disappointed at the proofs they sent over. ‘All they show is this damn tabletop, and the stuff she sells,’ he ranted. ‘There is not one photo that shows any architecture or any space where you can actually dine al fresco.’

“The rant continued for some time, and he was constantly stopping to answer the 1950s telephone on his desk. ‘That was Taschen. I guess they want me to do another book,’ (he’d shrug) ‘I guess, so.’ More rant…another phone call. ‘Shulman. Where? Germany? If you say so.’ Click. ‘I guess I’m going to Germany for some award.’ It was like a scene from a movie.

“While he was talking I noticed a large book promotion poster on the wall. It was at that moment that I realized that this ‘architectural photographer’ was Julius Shulman. And that poster was the front cover of a book that an architect friend had given me for my birthday years earlier. The book was Julius Shulman: Architecture and its Photography. It is a big, beautiful book with amazing pictures of mid-century homes. Up until that point, my education in design and architecture had been focused on heavy moldings, lots of fringe, boxed ceilings and Corinthian columns. But then I was given this book and everything changed. It was an epiphany. I started emptying my shelves and cleaning off my tabletops. I started receiving this very cool catalog from some company in San Francisco called Design Within Reach. My interest grew, and within a year of being given that book, I was working for DWR, sitting in Shulman’s home. It was a magical moment, the kind that affirms you are on the right path. I had made a decision at a fork in the road, and here was confirmation that I went in the right direction.” –M.W.

"A certain talent."

"His humility and almost self-effacing attitude were very endearing as well as refreshing. He told me that as a young man he sent some photos to Frank Lloyd Wright, asking if he could photograph some of Wright’s designs. Wright responded with a very FLLW-type no, saying he did not allow amateurs to photograph his work. At the end of the letter, Wright added a P.S.: 'But stick with it young man. You do appear to have a certain talent.' Shulman still had this handwritten letter from Wright pinned to his office wall when I met him. I knew that Shulman had later become Wright’s exclusive photographer and friend, so I asked him why he kept the letter. He said it was to remind himself." –R.B.

Shulman’s wit.

“Julius Shulman was a regular guest and honoree at DWR Studio events. One evening in 2008 we hosted a book signing at Beverly Boulevard for Julius Shulman: Palm Springs. When Julius took questions from the crowd, someone asked him what the key to his success had been. Julius simply replied, ‘I am a damn good photographer.’ Later that evening, after a few cocktails, he pulled me aside and handed me a card on which he had written ‘Vodka Within Reach’ and chuckled. We are going to miss him very much. I feel so fortunate to have met him.” – S.W.

…and sometimes biting wit.

“For the opening of DWR: Tools for Living in Santa Monica, Matt and I decided to escort Julius to the event in style. We rented a large comfortable car but we got stuck in traffic on Sunset Boulevard and were very late picking him up. He wasn’t pleased. All the way to the party, he was giving backseat directions to avoid traffic, and referring to our VP as ‘driver.’ Fortunately, he settled down when we got to the party, he loved being the center of attention and basked in the affection of many ladies.” –V.C.

The documentary.

“Julius was a national treasure; mostly cheerful, quick-witted, well weathered and never short to task. If you would like to fall in love with him all over again, I recommend seeing the documentary film Visual Acoustics, the Modernism of Julius Shulman by Eric Bricker. You will cry when, in his 90s, he receives an honorary architecture degree from Woodbury University and laugh with him and his anecdotes through the whole film. The DWR Studio in Austin is working with Bricker to host a reception for the release of the film.” – V.C.

“Driver, pay attention.”

“The night that we picked up Shulman to take him to the opening of Tools for Living – when he was calling me ‘driver’ for the entire ride – that night was the last time I saw him. He was a great man. He inspired me, he helped me realize how much can be accomplished in 98 years. His world was big, and he said yes to so many things, and at 98 he was still saying yes and still enjoying new experiences, people and great design. He will be missed.” –M.W.

A final toast.

“About a month ago, I spent a day with Shulman. We talked, laughed and planned a future event together. He wanted to come to San Francisco and photograph my home and was going to stay with us. As we were making these plans, I noticed a photograph of Shulman in the corner. He was wearing a smart sport coat and an ascot, and there was a comely redhead sitting on his lap. I told Julius that this woman appeared to be smitten with him. He laughed and told me to turn over the photo. (It was three feet tall, more of a poster, but in Julius’ office anything could get lost in a corner.) On the back were Polaroids of this lovely young lady emerging from a large champagne glass. The photos were taken at Shulman’s 98th birthday party. When I told him she seemed to be a lovely gift, he advised me that he did not get to keep her and he laughed. At 98 he was still a young man, enjoying every minute. So when I heard of his passing I poured a glass of bourbon, toasted him one last time, and thanked the fates for allowing me the privilege of calling him friend.” –R.B.

- Gwendolyn Horton

Two Franks and one city.

I flew to NYC to sit on a bench. Actually, that’s an exaggeration. I flew to NYC to ogle a bench. Not just any bench, but a polished aluminum wing-like creation by Frank Gehry. The architect created this one-of-a-kind item with Emeco, the folks who make indestructible aluminum chairs like the 1006 Navy® Chair.

Included in the Sotheby’s Important 20th Century Design auction on June 12, the bench was available for preview in the days before. I went to see Tuyomyo (the name of the bench, which means “yours and mine”) and arrived in a bubble of ladies-who-lunch, walking en masse through the gallery. With the exception of one woman who used the mirror-like bench to check her lipstick, none of them tested the bench for its ability to position two sitters facing each other so they can converse. And conversing was not something these women were afraid to do. Instead, they gave “the tush test” (their words) to the nearby Maria Pergay “Target” Chairs (final hammer price: $32,500 for the pair).

Perhaps you have to be a hard ass to understand the auction world.

As for the Gehry bench, Sotheby’s estimated selling price was $250,000 to $350,000, and when the final bid did not meet the reserve (it was very close), Emeco donated the bench to the Hereditary Disease Foundation. In 1968, Berta and Frank Gehry helped establish this Foundation for research in genetic and brain disorders. All proceeds from the sale of the bench will go to the Foundation’s Leslie Gehry Brenner Award for Innovation in Science, a research fund established in honor of the Gehry’s late daughter. “Interested buyers should contact the Foundation,” says Emeco’s Dan Fogelson, who’s already got his hands full selling $400 aluminum Navy chairs.

From a sinuous bench to a swirling museum, the next Frank on my list was Mr. Wright who’s having a banner year. There’s a novel out about his form-follows-function love life, and the Guggenheim, which he designed, is featuring an exhibit of his work. The NYC landmark was completed 50 years ago, and this is the first FLLW exhibit within his circling walls. Perhaps it’s true that “the mother art is architecture,” as FLLW would say.

I’m a wall-hugger at the Guggenheim. I fear that a suctioning force will come from the void in the center and pull me down, like a giant toilet flushing, dragging with it tourists, tchotchkes and works of art. The white porcelain-like walls don’t help alleviate this sensation, and as if Wright recognized this, the toilet in this restroom appears to have been installed with a wink and a smile. 

Embracing my vertigo, I took the elevator to the top floor and worked my way down through the museum’s spiraling ramp. This is the Wright way, and how he intended the space to be experienced, but the museum – in some sort of Guggenheim guffaw – arranged the FLLW exhibit to start at the bottom. Write to me if you know why. Security grumbled when I asked.

The Guggenheim followed me to lunch at Elmo, where there’s a painting by Robert Loughlin, an artist with a story that’s as interesting as his work. Actually, make that two stories. Story one, as told by the maitre d’, is that Loughlin is a homeless man who has been painting the same face of his late boyfriend since the 1970s. Story two, as I discovered in my research, is that Loughlin works in antiques and the face is actually his boyfriend Gary, who he has been with since the 1980s. Either way, this macho face with cigarette is compelling, and I imagine that what he’s saying about the Guggenheim is: “Start from the top. Work your way down.” 

And if being followed by the work of one Frank wasn’t enough, I was also followed by Gehry, as I could see his IAC Building from my hotel room. (You can also get a great look at it from the High Line, which I’ll discuss in the next Design Notes.)

Gwendolyn Horton

Iridescent California.

In San Francisco’s Castro neighborhood there is a giant rainbow flag, and flying above it today is a banner in black, the color of mourning and judges’ robes. The mood in California is prickly, and as I work in my office, surrounded by swatches of fabric and leather in a spectrum of colors, I find that I’m thinking about rainbows. Not in a unicorn or pot of gold kind of way, but in a humanity kind of way, and in terms of the symbols chosen to express our beliefs.

The rainbow flag made its debut at the San Francisco Gay and Lesbian Freedom Day Parade in 1978. Gilbert Baker designed and hand-sewed the first flag for his friend Harvey Milk, who was assassinated later that year. “I will always remember Harvey riding through the streets under the giant rainbow flag waving to the crowds,” said Baker. “It was an incredible moment of joy and we all felt that we were going to change the world.”

Originally made with eight stripes – pink for sexuality; red for life; orange for healing; yellow for sun; green for nature; blue for art; indigo for harmony; and violet for spirit – the combination proved impossible to mass produce because hot pink (always the drama queen) was not commercially available in nylon. The flag was reduced to seven stripes, and then to six after Harvey Milk was murdered. Following that tragedy, Baker’s flag was the symbol needed to demonstrate the unity of the community, but because the Pride Parade Committee of 1979 wanted to hang the flag from light posts with the stripes divided evenly, the indigo stripe (sorry harmony) was removed so there would be three colors on each side.

Today, these six stripes are recognized by the International Congress of Flag Makers (a colorful group, I’m sure), and used worldwide as a symbol of gay rights and LGBT pride. When researching this story, I came across a Leather Pride Flag which at first I thought would be a great idea to support our upholstery collections, until I realized that the pride that flag symbolizes has more to do with bedroom furniture.

No matter what your beliefs, or your feelings about this week’s decision by the California supreme court justices (I’m lowercasing them because I can), I encourage you to keep an eye out for rainbows. Even if you’re like a guy I saw waiting for the commuter ferry recently who, as a rainbow draped itself over our foggy city, called his wife and told her to look out the window. His right to marriage will never be challenged, but he recognized the beauty of a rainbow, and that gives me hope that people’s hearts and eyes are still open.

Gwendolyn Horton

Otis, my man.

Some of the most heated discussions I’ve been involved in at DWR have been over naming products. People take this very seriously, and yet, we all know that the name is forgotten as soon as the customer gets the product home. I seriously doubt that anyone says “Andrew, how many times do I have to ask you to get your elbows off the Spanna Extension Table and put your Fog Linen Napkin on your lap? Shape up or I’ll send you to your Matera Bed with Storage without dinner.”

Dare to dream, DWR.

At least I don’t have to name cars. This morning I idled behind a Toyota Rogue (are they kidding?) and pitied the poor bastard who came up with that one. Actually, make that two poor bastards. Toyota used the name in the 1980s and Nissan recently slapped it on the back tailgate of their compact SUV.

Nail polish colors would be fun to name, and I’d suggest the name “Less is more,” in case anyone from Revlon is reading. Naming lingerie would also be enjoyable (again, I suggest “Less is more” as the name).

At DWR, the name “Otis” was recently suggested for a new table we’ll be introducing. My mind immediately went to elevators and “Otis, my man!” in Animal House. Generally, we try to avoid using personal names because: 1. It’s too much like other retailers, and 2. If a customer has a bad association with a name – an ex-boyfriend or a mean boss, for example – then that product is not going to elicit feelings of serenity and relaxation.

Of course, we make exceptions, so you can stay seated in your Ray Club Chair and keep reading rather than emailing me to point out this fact. (That goes for you lounging on the Albert Sofa as well.) So, I gave some thought to Otis. Mostly I wondered how Otis Elevators got their name. It turns out that Otis was the last name of the man who founded the company in 1853. Elisha Graves Otis did not invent the elevator, but rather, he invented a safety mechanism that prevented these “lifting platforms” from plummeting to the ground. (Kudos to them for not choosing to use his middle name.)

The company made its first elevator sale to a furniture factory at 275 Hudson Street in New York City. The price was $300, and it was partially paid for with a cannon. Otis elevators were originally powered by steam, in the 1870s they switched to hydraulic elevators that relied on water pressure, and in 1889 the first electric elevator was installed. This innovative company also solved the problem of how to install an elevator into the curved lower legs of the Eiffel Tower. The solution was a hybrid of sorts – part elevator, part inclined railroad similar to funicular lifts used on steep hillsides. The Otis machines went into service in 1889 in the north and south pillars, only to be dismounted in 1910. The relationship between the Otis Company and Gustave Eiffel had its ups and downs (forgive the pun), causing dramatic statements like, “we have borne and suffered and achieved on your behalf,” to be written to one another. Read more about it on the Otis website.

As far as naming conventions, the elevator had its awkward moments, from “ascending rooms” (apparently they did not descend) to “hoisting apparatus” which was the name Otis used in his 1861 patent. For our table at DWR, we named it the Metric Table – look for it in June. The name Otis will remain in my tickler file, in the event that we introduce a table or chair that’s height adjustable. For insights about our own name – Design Within Reach – read a recent blog post by our CEO.

Gwendolyn Horton

Digging up dirt on John Deere.

My aunt and uncle recently sent me pictures taken on Maine Maple Sunday, an event that includes maple syrup tasting. My guess is that this process is a bit like wine tasting in Napa, but with more sugar and no hangover. It was fun to see photos of my syrup-tipsy family, but what really caught my eye was the John Deere tractor with the vat of maple sap in back.

According to my aunt, this “modern hauling vehicle” replaced the horse and sled that were traditionally used for transporting the sap. It takes 40 gallons of maple sap to make one gallon of pure maple syrup, but I have no doubt that John Deere is up to the task.

Indulging my passion for these green-and-yellow machines (what is it about them that reminds me of basketball uniforms?), I researched John Deere and discovered that the future-founder of the farm-machinery conglomerate began his career as a blacksmith in Illinois. In 1836, he was approached by a group of farmers who asked, “How can we stop the #&*$%! soil from jamming up our #&*$%! plows?”

Deere quickly recognized that cast iron wasn’t the right material for cultivating the sticky soil in the Midwest, so in 1837 he introduced his “self-polishing” plow made of steel that the soil would not adhere to. Combining innovative thinking with an expertise in materials, Deere solved the farmers’ problem. Today his steel plow is archived at the Smithsonian.

Fast forward 100 years and countless happy farmers later, the John Deere Company decided to design a new building for its Moline, Illinois, headquarters. With a goal to create something that was unique but also reflected the character of the company, their choice of architects was none other than Eero Saarinen.

Staying true to Deere’s legacy, Saarinen designed the building in steel. Not polished steel like the plow, but rather Cor-ten® steel, a material that had never before been used in architecture. When this material is left unpainted, “a rust coating forms which becomes a protective skin over the steel itself,” explained Saarinen. This corrosion-resistant coating gives the steel an earthy color that the folks at John Deere describe as being “much like newly plowed soil.”

If you know anything about Saarinen, you know that one of his greatest strengths was the ability to express a client’s identity through architecture. That talent is made even more notable here by the fact that the architect died in 1961, two years before the John Deere building was completed. If you’d like to see the structure, it’s open to visitors 365 days a year. In addition to marveling at Saarinen’s work, be sure to check out the 180-foot-long mural by Alexander Girard. This three-dimensional timeline depicts the company’s first 75 years of operation, from 1837 to 1918, and contains 2,200 pieces of memorabilia (it would take a genius like Girard to make that look interesting). And of course, be sure to check out the displays of John Deere products.

Gwendolyn Horton