By Patrick F. Cannon

That’s the title of my latest book, done with one of America’s best architectural photographers, James Caulfield. We have been partners for 20 years, and this is our eighth book on Chicago architects and architecture. It may well be our finest.

            This year is also the 100^th anniversary of Sullivan’s death. He was 67 in 1924, broke, and without any architectural work. One of the friends who helped him in his last years was his former pupil, Frank Lloyd Wright. Largely forgotten by the public, his highly decorated designs were out of fashion in a profession that was moving towards simpler and more “rational” designs. But in his heyday – from the late 1880s to around 1905 – he created an architecture free of European influences, and gave form to the new tall buildings, today’s ubiquitous skyscrapers.

            While many of his greatest designs fell to the wrecking ball, each of the 40 that remain has been lovingly photographed for the book. They range from private homes to skyscrapers and include three magnificent tombs he designed for clients. Because he and his partner Dankmar Adler had a national practice, the book includes buildings from throughout the Midwest, and from New York, Tennessee, and Mississippi.

            The book is a generous 9×12, with 288 pages of stunning photographs to go with the story of Sullivan’s life and work. It is just now becoming available, published by Chicago’s Glessner House, and distributed by the University of Minnesota Press. The cover price is $49.95. Publication was made possible by a generous grant from the Driehaus Foundation of Chicago. 

You can purchase it from the Press’s web site; from the usual online sites; and from your local bookseller, who may offer a discount. To assist them in ordering, the ISBN number is 978-1517918859. It would also make a great holiday gift!

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

1. Where’s the Cat?

By Patrick F. Cannon

Dr. and Mrs. Fenton of Lake Forest, Illinois worked hard all their lives and looked forward to retirements filled with new hobbies and luxury travel. He had been a respected cardiologist, and she a beloved English teacher at the local high school. Their accomplished children were scattered around the country and had given them bright and loving grandchildren.

            The couple lived in a large and stately home with Mrs. Fenton’s mother and their beloved cat, Muffins. They had planned an extended trip to East Asia, and because of her age, didn’t want to leave mother alone with the cat. As it happened, Mrs. Fenton’s bachelor brother lived nearby and agreed to stay with them during the trip.

            Those were the days before cell phones and the internet, and it was only when they arrived in Japan that they were able to call home. They placed the call at 10:00 pm Tokyo time, which would be 8:00 am at their home in a suburb north of Chicago. When the brother answered, he asked how the trip was going. Mrs. Fenton said they were impressed with the bustle of Tokyo, and they planned to travel to Kyoto the next day, then on to Hong Kong. When she finished, she asked how Muffins was doing.

            “The cat’s dead,” replied her brother rather curtly.

            There was a stunned silence, then the sound of sobbing. Finally, Mrs. Fenton got herself together and said: “Why did you have to be so matter of fact and curt? Why didn’t you try a gentler approach?”

            “What do you mean?” he replied.

            “Well, you might have said ‘Muffin’s on the roof. I’ve put food on the ground, and I’m sure she’ll get hungry and come down soon.’ Then the next time we called, you could have said ‘She still hasn’t come down, so I’m going to call the Fire Department and have them go up and get her. That should work.’ Finally, on the next call, you could have told us the Fire Department found that she had died from hunger and dehydration. Then, at least we would have been somewhat  prepared for the sad news!”

             “Gee, sis. I get your point. I’m so sorry. Next time I’ll think before I give sad news.”

            “That’s good. Now, how’s mom?”

            “Mom? Oh, she’s on the roof.”

2. Why the Clock?

Back in the 1950s, Seamus O’ Callahan, one of New York’s finest (he was a cop) was reassigned from the far reaches of Queens to a downtown Manhattan precinct. As he was a bachelor, and it would have been a long commute to his new job, Seamus decided to find an apartment closer to work. He lucked out and found a nice one bedroom in the West Village, still affordable in those simpler days. It was on a quiet side street, but convenient to a grocery store, a deli, and a couple of nice little restaurants.

            There was also a store with a big clock hanging in front, which he assumed was a watch and clock repair shop. When he began having trouble with his own watch, he decided to stop by and have it looked at. He went in. No one was around, but there was a counter with one of those little bells, which he rang. Eventually, out came an old man, bearded, with a yarmulke on his head. “What can I do for you,” he said.

            “Well, this watch of mine is running slow and I’d like you to have a look at it.  Maybe it needs cleaning and adjusting.”

            “I can’t help you, young man. I’m not a watchmaker. I’m a mohel.”

            “What’s a mohel?”

            “ I do the bris. You know, the ritual circumcision, removing the foreskin from the penis, that’s performed on Jewish boys when they’re eight days old.”

            “Oh, I see,” said a confused Seamus, “but then why do you have the big clock outside?”

            “What do you want me to have?”

Copyright (sort of) 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Pity the poor doctor or nurse who checks either “male” or “female” on a birth certificate without asking the baby in question, or at least “its” parents for their preference. The evidence of one’s eyes – or science or logic – no longer applies when making such a momentous decision. It’s like saying Donald Trump is sane, or President Biden is just entering his prime.

            If sex can be reassigned, what are we to say to the man who thinks he’s Napolean? Don’t invade Russia? Or, instead, try to determine why he harbors this delusion and seek ways – medical or psychological – to return him to some sense of reality. We certainly don’t give him a uniform and a musket.

            Yet, when some prepubescent child decides he or she was “assigned” the wrong sex at birth, doctors in this country are only too willing to prescribe puberty blockers to prevent a stage on the natural progression from childhood to adulthood.  And, of course, they could not do this without the complicity of the parents.

            (By the way, does anyone doubt that the internet and social media sites have contributed to the reasons why increased number of kids are “confused” about their sexuality?)

            Later, after hormone and other treatments have given the patient some of the physical attributes of the other sex, a surgeon may be called upon to perform so-called sexual reassignment surgery. Now, when you go under the knife, you expect it will cure some defined illness. You have blocked arteries; the surgeon opens them up, thus restoring better circulation. You have a bum knee; it’s replaced with something that works better and doesn’t hurt all the time.

            Sexual reassignment surgery – once, more properly, sex-change surgery – cures no physical condition. Even plastic surgery can have a positive effect beyond just giving you a nicer nose – it can help burn victims, or those born with birth defects. But sexual reassignment surgery is irreversible. It removes existing sexual organs and replaces them with non-functioning fantasies. In truth, nothing can be done – not chemically, nor surgically – to change the sex you were born with (“assignment” is a euphemism, isn’t it?).

            In this wonderful modern age we live in, we often do things because we can, not because we should. So, it came as something of a shock when Britain’s National Health Service (NHS) published a study by Dr. Hillary Cass that found that the evidence for medicalized treatment of adolescent gender distress (or dysphoria, as its commonly known) was “inadequate or poor.” As a result, the NHS will no longer cover such treatment. Other European countries, including the ultra-progressive Scandinavians, have followed suit.

            Not the United States. Groups like the American Medical Association and the American Academy of Pediatrics predictably held fast to their support of puberty blockers and gender-affirming care. But they can’t offer any study comparable to the NHSs to support their position. If you’re looking for reasons why so many Americans are drifting away from the Democratic Party – which is associated, fairly or not, with such policies – this must be on the list.

            There have always been people who would prefer to be the other sex and have lived their lives that way. And if they reach an age when they can make an informed decision (which I contend must be at least 21), then gender-affirming care and even surgery should be available to them, so long as they don’t ask me to pay for it. Of course, although you may not be aware of it, some insurance plans are required to cover it, and the Federal Government pays for it in prisons and in the armed services. The barracks shower must be a far more interesting place than it was in my day.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

All you progressives out there should prepare yourself for the strong possibility of Donald Trump being elected president for a second time. Because of the unwillingness of President Biden to admit he’s too old to serve another  term, Trump’s lead in the polls is increasing. And now, because he survived an assassination attempt – which many of his supporters say was through God’s intervention! – that lead will only increase.

            Now I see there’s a plot afoot from the Biden campaign to do the delegate vote in advance of the convention to forestall any attempt to get him off the ticket. If you are truly frightened of Trump’s return, you should be writing, calling, emailing, faxing, or even visiting your elected representatives in DC, to tell them to do more than fret and fume about Biden, but band together to insist he withdraw. Of course, since they already know most Democrats think he should retire, that may be a vain hope.

            At the same time, it might be well to admit that the country isn’t “progressive.” If Biden were to drop out – he won’t do it willingly – the worse thing the Democrats could do would be to replace him with a member of the party’s far, or even near, left. Here’s something to remember – most American are moderate. They may be awake, but they’re not “woke.”

            A good example of Democratic foolishness took place recently when the legislature of California passed a law forbidding schools in the state from informing parents when their child chooses to change pronouns. Think about it. Little Charlie decides he’s a girl, or maybe both sexes. He (or she or they now) tells the teacher and everyone goes along, but the California legislature tells the school that Charlie’s parents can’t be told. While so far this only applies to California, voters in the rest of the country see Big Brother looming over their lives.          

            Of course, if Trump triumphs (I couldn’t resist), you could always leave the country. For example, I could apply for Irish citizenship, as my father was born there. But I like it here. I survived Trump once, and besides, I never did like Guinness.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

If you look up lists of the world’s top universities, including lists compiled by other countries, on average seven of the top ten are likely to be in the United States. In the Chicago area, the University of Chicago falls just outside the top ten; my alma mater, Northwestern, ranks in the low thirties. The quality of these schools draws students from around the world.

            For much of the 19^th Century, in contrast, Americans seeking higher education in engineering, architecture, the sciences, medicine and the visual arts had to travel to Europe to complete their education, with Paris the preferred destination. The story of these pilgrims is recounted in David McCullough’s 2011 book, The Greater Journey, which I recently re-read for my book group.

            While Americans had access to a more than adequate education in the liberal arts – literature, history, languages, philosophy, etc. – the only engineering school in America until M.I.T. was founded in 1861, was the military academy at West Point. M.I.T. was also the home of the country’s first architectural school, founded in 1868.

            Since I write about architecture, let me concentrate on the architects who attended the Ecole des Beaux Arts in Paris. As was true with the fledgling painters and sculptors who also attended, they would have had to be fluent in French, as all the instruction was in that language; and would have had to pass a stringent competitive entrance examination, also in Franch. For example, only 30 places were available for budding architects in 1874, the year Louis Sullivan took  and passed the test.

            (As you’ll find out if you read my new book with photographer Jim Caulfield, Louis Sullivan: An American Architect – published by Glessner House and distributed by the University of Minnesota Press – Sullivan left the Ecole after only a year. He felt he had learned all he needed, which was the process of designing a building, not its style. He would emphatically reject the dominant European models for a more purely American style.)

            In 1846, Richard Morris Hunt was the first American architect to attend the Ecole. He would become America’s leading architect, responsible for New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art; the base of the Statue of Liberty; and two homes for the Vanderbilts – the famous Breakers in Newport, Rhode Island for Cornelius, and the country’s largest private home, Biltmore in Asheville, North Carolina for George

            America’s most admired architect when he died at only age 48 in 1886, Henry Hobson Richardson attended the Ecole from 1860-62. My Pittsburgh area relatives will know his Allegany County Courthouse and Jail; here in Chicago we have his Glessner House, a Chicago landmark and museum. Sanford White and his later partner William McKim attended – they designed the famous Penn Station in Manhattan – as did White’s close friend, the sculptor Augustus Saint Gaudens.

            These architects and those in other disciplines who studied in Paris brought their knowledge back and helped educate new generations that would move the centers of knowledge to their own country. At the same time, Americans like Thomas Edison were proving you didn’t need a Paris education to change the world; self-education could do just fine!

Interestingly, McCullough’s next book would be 2015s The Wright Brothers, about two young men with high school educations from Dayton, Ohio who would accomplish what highly-educated engineers had been unable to do – put a person in a flying machine that could take you to a defined destination. Although they weren’t yet able to fly to Paris, they eventually got there as the most famous brothers in the world. An even more famous American – a dropout at the University of Wisconsin – Charles Lindburgh managed to drop into Paris from the sky. By then, we were well into what would become known as “The American Century.”

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon   

By Patrick F. Cannon

I went to the Art Institute of Chicago the other day to see “My New Yorks,” which focused on painter Georgia O’Keefe’s cityscapes from her time living in a Manhattan high-rise building in the 1920s. While the exhibit includes work from other periods – including her more famous and typical work from her years in Taos, New Mexico – it focuses on views of the city seen from her apartment window.

            While “realistic” in the sense that you can recognize what you see, it’s obvious that the artist was more interested in the city’s shapes as abstractions than in precise realism. In some, the Sun (or Moon) provides dramatic lighting effects. In general, the colors are muted, and no people intrude. No people, in a city that would have a population of seven million by 1930. In fact, you can look at O’Keefe’s work as a whole and find only a few female nude sketches; even animals are represented only by desert-bleached bones and skulls.

              There are exceptions, but painters and sculptors went in the 20^th Century from an exclusively human-centered art to one where people are mostly absent. Indeed, figurative artists like Andrew Wyeth have often been criticized for being too concerned with realism. In fact, the word “figurative” is often used dismissively by critics. The only acceptable figurative art seems to be graffiti-influenced, or the kind of manipulation of photographs and everyday objects that made Andy Warhol famous.

            Yet, there are eight billion people in the world, each one unique. When Diego Valazquez (1599-1660) painted “Aesop” in 1640 – that’s a portion of it above – he didn’t imagine what the ancient Greek, reputed to be the author of the famous fables, looked like. Instead, as his model, he chose a local beggar, whose face showed the kind of world-weary humanity that Aesop must have had. Valazquez – who many consider the greatest of all painters – was the court painter in Spain, but in addition to doing portraits of the royals, was among the first to paint scenes of everyday life.  

            When we see the great paintings and sculptures of the Renaissance, we are meant to imagine they are famous saints, gods, and mythical creatures. But in most cases, the artists used their friends, relatives, and strangers as models – in other words, living human beings standing in for creatures from the heavens. And then, if you were notable and had the cash, a portrait became the ultimate status symbol. And the frugal Dutch favored a group portrait by the likes of Rembrandt and Hals, each of the subjects paying his share! Rembrandt’s “Night Watch” is a perfect example.

            The reaction against “academic” art in 19^th Century France was perfectly understandable. Anyone who has seen the massive canvases in the Louvre that show the ancient Romans in orgiastic complexity can understand where Corbet, Manet and the Impressionists came from. Their people inhabit a recognizable world. Their break with the past gave license to artists like Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Miro, and others to see people in new ways. Then, inevitably, came Mondrian and pure abstraction.

            I have no argument with abstract art, except it has now, I think, reached a dead end. Most if it is simply design. It is human only in its creation and our reaction to it. I’m reminded of a psychiatrist interviewed on Charlie Rose’s show who reported breaking into tears while looking at a Mark Rothko painting. While he did not admit it, his reaction was certainly related to his knowledge that Rothko had committed suicide. Absent this knowledge, when I first saw one of his color-field paintings, my only thought was that it must have been difficult to create those subtle shadings of the same color.

            I think there’s a reason people respond positively to the murals that are appearing on blank walls around the world. Although many are poorly pointed, they are full of people – some of the eight billion who should demand the artist’s attention.

(P.S. Happy 4^th!)

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

Even though I am an announced candidate for president of the United States, you may notice that I will not be on the stage for tonight’s debate. I have complained vigorously to  the Committee to Hold What Are Supposed to Be Debates, but Are Shouting Matches With Memorized Talking Points, or CTHWASTBDBASMWTP, as it’s more commonly known.

            Not even a courtesy of a reply, which I understand the unhinged vaccine denier RFK, Jr. did get. Must be his name. The only famous Cannon these days – save yours truly – is that judge down in Florida who’s paying Trump back in spades for nominating her to the bench. Of course there was Earl “Mad Dog” Cannon, the famous Chicago drug dealer who was buried in his Cadillac. We always were a classy bunch.

            Why have I been excluded? I think it’s because I’m older than both of those “official” candidates, and thus wiser. And I’ve actually worked for a living. Trumpy inherited his dough; and Biden has spent most of his life in the fantasy world of elected office. I’ve bussed tables; cooked bad food; stocked grocery shelves; worked on the railroad and in a steel mill; even set pins in a bowling alley (if Trump ever bowled, he would have found a way to cheat).  Now, it’s true that both candidates have published books, but I actually wrote mine.

            I suspect another reason I wasn’t invited was my threat to wear a brown suit and green tie, instead of the usual politician uniform of navy-blue suit and red tie. Or I might point out that those great patriots had never served in uniform by hauling out my Army duds, including my Sharpshooter badge and Good Conduct Medal. (Of course, the uniform might need a bit of subtle enlarging.)

            But, since I have been unfairly excluded from being on the stage with those young whippersnappers, as a public service I’m providing these generic questions for moderators Jake Tapper and Dana Bash of CNN. I won’t even ask them to credit me, although it would be nice to be at least mentioned as a candidate.

• When you first awaken in the morning, do you sometimes wonder where you are and what your name is?
• Since you both will have added about $7 trillion to the national debt in your respective administrations, how much more do you plan to add in your next term, if elected?
• Do you ever wonder what will happen when people stop lending us money?
• This is for you, former President Trump: how many felons – not including your self – do you plan to pardon and appoint to your cabinet?
• This is for you, President Biden: if you’re re-elected and can’t run again anyway, would there be any downside in pardoning your son?
• Since 65 percent of the country thinks we’re headed in the wrong direction – and you two will have run the country for the last eight years – do you ever wonder if it’s your fault?
• President Biden, since you’re so busy forgiving debts; and former President Trump, you’re famous for not paying yours; could you see your ways clear to paying off my mortgage?

Good luck to Tapper and Bash. They’ll need it.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

The picture up there is of the 1951 Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois, designed by the German American architect, Ludvig mies van der Rohe. The image was taken by my collaborator on eight books on Chicago area architects and architecture, James Caulfield. The Farnsworth is unquestionably one of the most famous houses of the 20^th Century. It was designed as a weekend getaway for Chicago physician Edith Farnsworth.

            As you can see, the house is surrounded by trees on three sides: the fourth faces the Fox River. The opening to the river was originally narrow, so you would be unlikely to get much of a view as you went floating by. One can imagine Edith and her friends cavorting in the nude, with no one the wiser (I’m not suggesting that they did, but who knows?). The point is: if you’re going to have a glass house, this is the place to have one.

            (By the way, as you can see, the house is elevated on stilts to protect it from occasional flooding of the Fox. As it happens, it wasn’t high enough and has been seriously damaged on at least two occasions.)

            Now imagine if you can that the Farnsworth House has been magically raised from its bucolic site and set down in the middle of a block of charming older homes in Chicago’s Lincoln Park, Old Town, or Wicker Park neighborhoods. Impossible, you say. No one in their right mind would put a glass house in a charming neighborhood of period houses. Guess again. Chicago – and other cities – are suffering from what I would call the “Cubist Invasion.”

            As it happens, young architects are taught and presumably believe that their designs should consider the building sites “context,” which simply means its location and what may already be there. I’m sure they wholeheartedly agree that context is important, right up to the point they are given an empty lot and an owner who wants a “modern” statement house. These days, what that means are variations of the cube and rectangle, with really big windows. Exterior materials are usually some kind of concrete, or metal panels. Colors run the gamut from white to off white to sometimes beige, but the bolder might throw in an accent in a primary color to make the invasion complete.

            Just the other day, I passed a cubist exercise with a vast two-story window exposing a truly impressive glass-treaded staircase, seemingly supported by some hidden power. Could you descend such a miracle in your jammies? Or do you need a white tie and tails? Presumably, back stairs are provided for the slovenly?

            Some architects are respectful of the neighborhood context. It may be just a choice of materials – warm brick or stone instead of grey concrete or white stucco. And what happened to the sloped roof? After all, it does snow here. And don’t get me started on the tall buildings that turned the charming North Michigan Avenue into just another high-rise canyon. Thank God for Paris, where the center of the city retains its height limits and charm; and where steel and glass are banished to the outskirts.

            I’m not opposed to modern architecture. Far from it. But everything has its proper place. Edith Farnsworth found it for her weekend getaway. But how would it look on Astor Street?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

In 1955, after the post World War II occupation was over and the new Federal Republic Germany came into being, it became a member of NATO, not without some controversy. However, the need for another bulwark against the looming threat of the USSR overcame these misgivings in many minds, including President Eisenhower’s, whose endorsement tilted the balance.

            Nevertheless, they mounted a public relations program to allay any remaining qualms. Part of the program was to send members of the new German armed forces on speaking tours of the United States as a way of proving they had put the bad old days behind them. One of the officers sent to the Chicago area was the young Luftwaffe general Werner von Klingler. He had been an ace in the war, but only on the Russian front, so had not shot down any Americans.

            His main Chicago speech was at the Council on Foreign Relations, but he was also booked to speak at Oak Park’s 19^th Century Women’s Club, whose members were at the social top of that prosperous and conservative suburb. Owning their own impressive building, among their former members had been both the mother and wife of Frank Lloyd Wright, and Ernest Hemingway’s mother. (It survives today as the 19^th Century Charitable Association, and now includes men among its members.)

             After a fine lunch of Iceberg Lettuce salad, Chicken a la King, and Banana Cream pie, the general was introduced. Although his English was adequate, he spoke from a prepared script, emphasizing how West Germany had abandoned its formerly wicked ways and had embraced democracy and would help us stand firm against the Russian hordes. When he was finished, his aide, a young German officer, joined him at the podium. “The general,” he said, “will have time to take some of your questions. Please raise your hand if you have one.” Several did, and the office recognized one of them, a formidable matron in a flower-bedecked chapeau.

            “General,” she asked, “is it true that during the war you were shot down by your own men?”

            “Ya, das is true,” replied the general.

            “Could you give us details?”

            “Vell, I vas flying along looking for Russians to shoot down, ven out of da blue come dis fokker…” At that, the room erupted in screams, cries and even moans, such a word never having been uttered in these genteel precincts. The young officer quickly sought to quiet the ladies. “Ladies, please, you have misunderstood the general. We can explain! Please calm down and let us provide an explanation!” Eventually, the crowd grew quiet enough for the young man to address the general.

            “General, isn’t it true that during the war the Luftwaffe had a fighter plane called the Focke-Wolf 190?”

            “Ya, das is true. We had such a plane.”

            “And isn’t it true that the pilots of these planes were sometimes call  “Fokkers”

            “Ya, das is also true, but this Fokker was flying a Messerschmitt!”

            At this, the room erupted again, some of the ladies even fainting. Nowadays, of course, Oak Park having changed socially and politically to the point it is often fondly called the Socialist Republic of Oak Park, one can hardly walk a block without hearing the F word, even from the mouths of babes.

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon

By Patrick F. Cannon

It’s putting it mildly to say I wasn’t a fan of Bill Clinton. It seems long ago now, but it was only about 25 years ago on December 19, 1998, that he was impeached, charged with lying under oath and obstruction of justice in the notorious Monica Lowinski sex scandal. Despite being clearly guilty, he was acquitted by the Senate on the following February 12. You won’t be surprised that it was on a party-line vote.

            Donald Trump was given two tits for Clinton’s one tat. Again, he was guilty, but also acquitted on party-line votes. Conviction and removal from office is clearly impossible in a closely divided and partisan Senate. But that hasn’t stopped the Republicans from trying to find some (any!) evidence that would let them impeach President Biden. So far, no dice, but who knows?

            I clearly recall Hillary Clinton railing on about a “vast right-wing conspiracy” during Bill’s tenure, as she learned painfully that being smart wasn’t the same as being wise. By the way, the conspirators didn’t stop him from serving two terms.

              Now, of course, we have the “vast left-wing conspiracy” out to get Trump. So far, they seem as ineffective as the righties since Trump is leading in the polls. I’ll be interested in seeing whether his lead holds up after his conviction last week in New York. I’m not sure if he should have been charged with felonies or charged at all. On the other hand, there’s no question that he was guilty.

            So, folks, we’re faced with the same dismal choice we’ve been facing since the 2016 election. Two old men. One is thoroughly corrupt, and increasingly deranged. The other is trying and failing to appear strong and smart enough to lead our great country for another four years; and is desperately trying to buy votes by forgiving student loans and standing in picket lines. These are the best our political parties can give us? Are you depressed too?

Copyright 2024, Patrick F. Cannon