Frank Lloyd Wrong
There's a craft lesson in here somewhere...
I was in Arizona last week (family vacation! not a book trip! whee!) and we went to Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Arizona home and studio. Leaving the midwest to go look at Frank Lloyd Wright stuff is like leaving New York for a bagel, but this place was truly extraordinary.
Here’s a picture of the main gathering room:
At the very back of this photo, above the left of the two orange chairs, there’s a pot in the window.
The story is that there was originally no glass in the windows. When they finally decided to add glass, Frank (he told me I could call him that) was not happy with the idea that this pot would have to move. Because it was already in the perfect spot. So he made the glass guys install the window around the pot, so it could stay right there, jutting out less than an inch into the outdoors.
It’s impossible to see something like this and not look for the metaphor. There must be one! And he was a genius, so it must be some profound lesson about what we’re supposed to do to make good art!
I thought for a second that the lesson here might be “You don’t actually have to kill your darlings,” but really… this is a ridiculous solution and now the window has to have a seam up it. The weather has banged up that shelf over the years. Let’s not pretend this is the most elegant of results.
Then I thought maybe the lesson was “Do kill your darlings, even if you’re Frank Lloyd Wright.” But I really do admire how he stuck to his guns. The man knew what he wanted, and he wanted that pot there. He was right. Mostly.
Then I realized it’s this: “You want the pot exactly there? Then move the damn wall.” You built the room, and it was perfect. You put the pot in the perfect spot. Now you want to add glass. You can’t have all three things.
In architecture it’s hard to literally move the wall. In writing, it sucks, but it’s possible. You really care about this character saying this one thing in this one moment, but it doesn’t fit? Maybe you need to tear down your scene and rebuild it around that moment. We love to hang onto the architecture of a novel when it no longer suits the story. Because it was a done deal, and it sort of worked at one point, and it would be so much work to de-intact an intact thing.
But yeah, maybe that opening scene that started it all is just not your opening scene anymore. Maybe the ending you worked toward for years is not your ending. Maybe you’ve built your room to the wrong dimensions.
This is what we mean by revision. True revision has more to do with the wrecking ball than with the red pen.
Don’t leave your pot sitting there with its ass out to the wind.
Anyway, here’s an Arizona sunset to cheer things up:
I think the lesson ( a non-craft one) is that Frank has OCPD and needed a diagnosis and some meds, stat., I feel sorry for that pot!
This reminds me of a similar writing analogy that has stuck with me. A homeowner finds a beautiful vase and puts it on her living room mantel. It looks great only now the mantel looks shabby. She changes that and realizes the walls are the wrong color. The living room is repainted, then the hall would look better in a different color and, well, it goes on. Soon her entire house is just lovely, but when she goes back to her living room, that beautiful vase no longer fits. She realizes she needs to take it down. Sometimes our darlings no longer serve the beauty of the whole.