Volume 7 - Issue 4

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Volume seven, number four( April22, 1974

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Louis I. Kahn, 1901-1974

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Volume seven, number four I April22, 197412

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Contents

Comment

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Comment: Except in cases of impeachment, Reinforcement for a Skinner freak

Except in cases of impeachment

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Reveille on the Old Campus

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"How am I doing, wonder?"

Reflections on Louis Kahn

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Dollars and Daffodils

Volume seven, number four Editor: Stuart Rohrer Managing Editor: Alan Strasser Design: Jim Liberman Junior Editors: David Sleeper Stephen Sternbach Executive Editor: Dan Denton Associate Editors: Jane Fellner Michael Jacobson Production Editor: Tammy Jacoby Design Assistant: MarlaSchay Staff: Crystal Pruess AnneSprunt Business Manager: Steve Ballou Publisher: RonRoel Credits: Jim Liberman : cover Peter Markman: page 10 George Pohl, in Progressive Architecture, May 1961: cover picture Marla Schay: page 2 Vincent J. Scully: page 6,7,8 Anne Sprunt: page 3,4,5 Cover: drawing of the staircase in the Yale University Art Gallery, designed by Louis Kahn.

The editors reserve the right to edit articles for clarity or length. The opinions expressed are not necessarily those of The New Journal.

The New Journal is published by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., 3432 Yale Station, New Haven, Conn. 06520, and is printed at Trumbull Printing Co. in Trumbull, Conn. Distributed free to the Yale community. For all others, subscription rate $5.00 per year. Copyright © 1974 by The New Journal at Yale, Inc., a non-profit corporation. Phone 776-9989 or 432-0404.

We wish to thank Ms. Helen ChiUman, the University Archives, and Vincent Scully.

A panel on "Watergate and the Media," which met at Yale on April1, discussed the issue of the individual's right to a fair trial versus the society's right to a free press.

The majority of the panel (Eliot Richardson, Anthony Lewis, Daniel Schorr, ~d Seymour Hersh) agreed that in the early stages of the Watergate affair the press overstepped its normal bounds. Its investigations and revelations may have infringed on the rights of some individuals to a fair trial.

Schorr spoke eloquently of a breakdown in our system of justice at the highest level. With the Government incapable of checking its own criminal abuses, the press took on an extraordinarily dangerous, yet necessary role. But now, Schorr said, the press is returning to the exercise of proper restraint. The Special Prosecutor is at work. Numerous indictments have been handed down.

Trials are in progress. The House Judiciary Committee is investigating impeachment of the President.

The system is working again, and the individual's right to a fair trial should again reign.

Who can disagree? Who would condone violation by the press of the secrecy of grand jury proceedings?

Being for a fair trial is like being against murder. But dQ all the safeguards and elaborate procedures designed to protect the person accused of a crime apply to the President during the process of impeachment?

I say the answer is no. Impeachment proceedings do bear a superficial resemblance to ordinary criminal trials. The House of Representatives is akin to a grand jury bringing an indictment. The Senate is akin to judge and jury deciding on acquittal or conviction. The managers appointed by the House are like prosecutors appearing before the Senate. The accused, called "the respondent," has the right to counsel, to crossexamine, and to call witnesses.

But impeachment proceedings are political, not legal. They are designed to deal with a political failure in the system. It is for the House to decide if there is sufficient evidence of "treason, bribery, or other high crimes and misdemeanors," and for the Senate to decide by a two-thirds vote on removal and disqualification for future office.

An individual accused of a crime has the right to challenge evidence, to seek postponement, a change of venue, disqualification of jurors, and

to seek a reversal of conviction in a higher court. We should cherish the individual's right not to be deprived of life, freedom, or property without due process. We gladly prefer that some who are guilty may go free rather than increase the chances of convicting the innocent.

But an individual does not have the same right to hold the office of the Presidency as he does to remain out of jail until proven guilty. I would even argue that a President under investigation for impeachment cannot invoke the spirit of the Fifth Amendment against selfincrim.i,nation.

A person who accepts the Presidency must acknowledge the political power of Congress to conduct a full investigation when impeachment is the issue. A President qua President cannot be granted the protections we accord to individuals.

His protection as President lies ultimately in his own integrity, his respect for the truth - in full disclosure - and in the faith that Congress will recognize truth and integrity where such .exist. 0 Gaddis Smith Mr. Smith, the Master of Pierson College, moderated the Aprill panel discussion entitled "Watergate and the Media."

Reinforcement for a Skinner freak Last December, I was taken totally by surprise when the phone rang and a voice said, "John, this is B.F. Skinner calling to wish you a happy 21st birthday." My roommates-knowing how much I admired his work-had asked Skinner to call, and he had cheerfully agreed. On the phone, Skinner offered to discuss psychology with me at a later date. I held him to his offer, and traveled to Cambridge where we talked for almost an hour. What follows is a personal reflection on Skinner- the man, and his work.

Burrhus Frederick Skinner, age 70, will retire from the Harvard faculty this summer, a man whose intentions have been thoroughly misunderstood. His theory of human behavior poses a radical challenge to the way most people like to think about themselves. Skinner believes that all behavior is solely a product of the interaction between an individual's genetic endowmf:"nt and environmental experiences; he denies man's autonomous control of his own actions. Man's behavior - like that of a rat or a pigeon in a Skiniter box - is no more than a series of sophisticated bar presses. By applying the scientific method to himself, man finds that he too, like the heavenly bodies, a falling apple, or a Mack truck, behaves according to discernible laws. Those who accept his theories consider Skinner a Newton among 20th century psychologists.

Of course, not everyone accepts his ideas. In fact, almost no one does.

Skinner estimates that 80 per cent of the comment on his work is unfavorable. Critics tend to focus on the implications of his theory that deal with the control of human behavior.

Either directly or by innuendo, Skinner is compared to totalitarian figures - the Orwellian prototypes for Big Brother - or the immoral scientist who shows Big Brother how it can all be done.

No image could be further from the one Skinner projects as a man.

Meeting him is a disarming experience.

A short man, he wears thick blackrimmed glasses. His face belies his age; his skin is smooth, almost youthful, though sagging somewhat at the jowls.

Although he has done no laboratory research in years, he shares a floor in William James Hall with several dozen pigeons noticeable because of their smell and incessant cooing. His office is simple. Boxes of books and papers lie open on the vinyl floor. There is a desk, some bookcases, a few chairs, and a color photograph of his granddaughter.

Still it is recognizably Skinner's office. Copies of his works, bound in black and gold volumes, stand prominently on his desk between bookends. On the wall hangs a painting of a man's body with a duck's head, sitting atop a huge, partially cracked egg. The Saturday Review used the painting as a cover to go with an article Skinner wrote on the artist and society. In the article Skinner had characterized an artist as no more than a warm body within which creativity occurs. "They made me pay for the painting," Skinner told me, standing by the brooding figure on the egg, "but I thought it went nicely with the theme of the article." (continued on page 11)

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Reveille on the Old Campus

by David Sleeper

In the Fall of 1943, a large duck hawk built its nest among the gargoyles on top of Harkness Tower.

From its perch it could see the bomb spotter's catwalk on the roof of Sterling Memorial Library, the armed sentries who guarded the entrances to the Old Campus, and the clouds of dust raised by marching soldiers dressed in green, tan, and blue uniforms. In 1943, towering elm trees lined the streets with geometric precision and every blade of grass had been battered down by thousands of marching feet. Loudspeakers strung between the two courts of Berkeley College called trainees to formation on the Cross Campus.

Some of the 7,000 military personnel stationed at Yale thought the big bird living atop Harkness Tower was a vulture. Every time the bugle sounded for a meal, the hawk would swoop down and pick off a pigeon from the Old Campus or the New Haven Green. After returning to its perch, it would rain down pieces of pigeon on unsuspecting passers-by.

Yale had been signed over to theW ar Department for the duration, and it would emerge from the Second World War a changed institution.

Hillhouse A venue and stopped in front of University President Charles Seymour's house, waiting nervously for him to offer some kind of direction. Seymour responded by delivering a stirring speech. "This is not the fJ.rSt time in American History,' ' hesaid, "thatYalemenhave gathered together to express their loyalty to the nation." The crowd cheered, sang "He's a Jolly Good Fellow" and "Bright College Years," and then marched into the lobby of the Taft Hotel chanting "To Hell With Hirohito. " During the first year of the Second World War the government counseled students to help the war effort by staying in college and getting a thorough education. As hostilities intensified, and more and more students faced the possibility of service overseas, the popularity of geography and foreign language studies took a quantum leap upward.

In the minds of many, technology more than manpower would win the war- so the disciplines of math and science became absolutely essential.

This feeling was amplified six months after Pearl Harbor when over a thousand Yale graduates wrote the college saying that their greatest mistake as students had been not to take enough math. In other efforts to get behind the war, the News sponsored special broadcasts of InterThe path oftrue neutrality is not national Morse Code classes, and an easy one and sacrifices will be others volunteered for bomb warden demanded every step of the way. duty on the New Haven coastline.

Yet any sacrifice can be endured But as the war escalated overseas, an which prevents the supreme one, increasing number of students left the slaughter ofmen, women, college to enlist. and children.

"I can't remember one per80D," -Editorial in the Yale Daily News said Elias Clarke '43, "who tried to Sept. 25,1939 avoid service. In fact. there were a great many students who went to In the minds of most Yale great lengths to enlist-to the point students, isolationism represented of hiding heart murmurs and athletic the only way America could keep injuries." Members of theY ale its sanity in a world being torn apart by insane forces. Kingman Brewster, faculty followed right on the heels of their departing students. Many went Chairmanofthe 1940News,joined to Washington, got back their former the America First movement, and commissions, and worked for the testified before a Congressional subO.S.S. Inashorttimeitappearedas committee against America's policy of providing aid to Britain. "We were if only those too young for service and the "lame and the halt" would trying to save the world," Brewster said, "notjustYale."OnDec. 7,1941, be left on campus.

Faced with a possible shutdown of a quiet Sunday during reading facilities due to the c:hri.ndling student period, the number of isolationists population, the Administration on campus sank to zero. turned to theWar Department for a The news of the surprise attack on solution. The government had Pearl Harbor shocked students into already begun leasing buildings at an immediate orientation towards colleges for specialized training war. On the evenmg of December 7, activities -a practice which would Elias Clarke (present master of involve over 200 coDeges aDd 100.000 smiman College) and other members trainees before the war's ead Presiof the News staff brought the Yale dent Seymour, in an effort to support Marching Band to the Old Campus the war effort and simultaneously and gathered a crowd of over a thougenerate needed income for Yale. sand students. They moved onto virtually signed away the campos.

Elm Street singing "The Star On January 8,1943, 300ArmySpangled Banner" and shouting "On Air Corps cadets arrived in New To Tokyo." They then swarmed up

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Volume seven, number four I April22, 197414 il

Haven and moved onto the Old Campus. By summer, the Navy had sent 1800 more trainees, and quartered them in Branford, Davenport, Pierson, and Saybrook Colleges. The Army Specialized Training Corps (AST)soonfollowed. In June, 1944, at the height of Yale's military occupation, 7,328 military personnel were stationed on campus. Charles Rumford Walker, the Asst. Secretary of the University, estimated that it cost an officer eighty-nine salutes to pass the Sterling Memorial Library at noon-day.

Ostensibly, the military programs remained separate and distinct from Yale's education policies- the War Department had simply leased the university's facilities. But a substantial number of Yale undergraduates enrolled in the military programs, and their experience as soldiers at Yale-and Yale's experience as a military camp- would lead to permanent changes in the postwar era.

Certain members of theYale faculty fell right into the military routine. Emerson Tuttle, the Master of Davenport, became a regular tyrant when theN avy men moved into his college. Every night he would line the men up in the courtyard and review the troops.

An article in a newspaper published by theY ale Army-Air Corps cadets referred to the Payne Whitney Gym as the "Temple of Sweat."

Robert J .H. Kiphuth and his staff at Payne Whitney worked closely with the military. Mandatory physical fitness programs brought as many as 1,000 trainees every hour to the gym for survival training, obstacle courses, body building classes, selfdefense training, and swimming practice. Kiphuth, who had always been a physical fitness advocate, enjoyed working with students eager to fulfill the fitness requirements -a cadet always had the nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he might profit from the training if he ever got into actual combat. So they gritted their teeth, ran up and down the stairways in the gymnasium tower, took assorted "bruhah-ha" tests, and ran The military wanted specialistslaps around the Grove Street doctors, engineers, chaplains, interCemetery. "Bob Kiphuth," an article preters-and it wanted them fast. in the American Mercury said, "is Soldiers were paid $50 a month to "go building muscles for victory over to college" and learn pre-medical, Hitler, not Harvard." engineering, and language skills. The Other members of the faculty dismilitary 's emphasis on producing agreed sharply with military policies. specialists led to a devaluation of George W. Pierson, University Hismost liberal arts courses. A typical torian and an Associate Professor of Navy program required its trainees to History during the war, objected to take math, English, American the " jettisoning" of the liberal History, science, and a course on arts curriculum in favor of more naval organization ("How to tell a technical training. " We felt becop from an admiral," wrote Charles trayed," said Pierson. " Some faculty Rumford Walker). The Navy did, members thought that we should however, allow its students to major train a soldier's mind and morale, in the Humanities if they satisfied all not just his computer.' • Pierson and the other requirements. The Army three other junior faculty members students took twed'ty-four class - Maynard Mack, Thomas Menden· hours a week, and spent twice as hall, and Richard Sewall - would much time in math and science as meet secretly in the Sterling Library they did in the liberal arts. and discuss possible actions to save Many of the Army trainees the beleaguered Humanities. Pierselected to attend Yale were woefully son's " Young Turk" movement sucunprepared for college level instrucceeded only in bringing the junior fation. The president of another college culty's discontent to the attention of remarked that his AST boys were the Administration. The military's "splendid-fine physical specimens, policy did not change. "It taught me of good moral character, and high how helpless a major university can native intelligence. The only criticism be," said Pierson, " when dealing my faculty has to make is that they with the government on issues that cannot read, write, add, subtract, can't be given an obvious emotional multiply, or divide. ' ' This fact, comvalue." bined with the military's policy of getting its trainees out into the field of combat as soon as possible, led to notorious "refresher" courses and accelerated programs of stud~ One apocryphal story involved an Army Undergraduate Regulations for trainee at Yale who looked out the Navy Vl2 Program: window during a mathematics resmoking or eating on the street fresher course; when he looked back, in uniform. ........................ 5 ckJ<MritS he found he had mi•aed trigonometry.

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failure to salute a superior officer............................... 5 demerits playing radio or musical instruments during hours set aside for study................................ 5 demerits soliciting an unauthorized ride in an automobile...................... 1 0 demerits The mobilization of Yale and its facilities by the military was totalalmost nothing remained of the prewar college life style. Connecticut Hall became the Air Corps Dispensary. No one ("not even if you were President Seymour") could enter the Old Campus without a pass. Heeling for the Lit, Dramat, and the News became a nostalgic memory. The Briton Hadden building, which formerly housed the News, was turned into the Navy V12 headquarters. The Army command took over DKE House. A rigid military schedule structured the lives of the trainees: reveille blew at 6:40; classes, exercise sessions, and marching practice filled the day; evening study hours restricted students to their rooms; and the lights went out at 10:30.

Trainees found numerous ways to circumvent military restrictions.

They quickly discovered that the lights in the basements and steam tunnels operated on city power, and were not shut off at taps. "We would sneak down to the basement and play squash all night long,' • said John O'Connell, '45W, a member of the Navy program stationed in Davenport. Fred Rose, '44E, present Chairman of the A Y A, tells of a poker game late one night in a J .E. tunnel.

It was during the summer term and a poker player who had run out of funds decided to put up an extremely rare item - a direct current electric fan. After several raises the fan's worth was estimated at more than $100. "I won the fan," Rose said, "and might add that the proposed summer term should not be viewed with so much horror."

Dr. Griswold of the Dept. of University Health acted as a one man anti-service brigade. Students who skipped a class or formation reported that the doctor never failed to provide them with a needed medical excuse.

Not all trainees successfully bucked military regulations. One weekend, three quarters of the men in Branford College had their Saturday afternoon liberty cancelled for failing a white glove inspection.

The tremendous influx of military personnel resulted in a severe housing shortage. Six to nine students were assigned to rooms that hold four people today. Each trainee was allotted half a desk. The dining halls forever abolished the practice of

Volume seven, number four I April22, 197415

personal catering - long food lines and metal trays replaced the obedient waiters and menus of the pre-war days.

Friction between trainees in different service branches was common.

On one occasion members of the Army-Air Corps living in Wright Hall called across High St. to the Navy men in Saybrook, "When I was a teeny-tiny little boy my mom· ma dressed me up in a nice sailor suit too." A barrage of coke bottles from Saybrook followed, shattering windows on the Old Campus. Navy men, who woke up a half hour before everybody else, would slap their feet loudly on the pavement as they marched by the sleeping Army men in the Law School.

Army trainees were not allowed to play on Yale Varsity teams, but they did participate vigorously in intramuralsports programs. Calhoun College boasted that its tackle football team could "wipe up the Bowl" with the Yale Varsity. Calhoun's first string had former players from Michigan, Ohio State, Washington, and Notre Dame.

Town-Gown squabbles enjoyed a moratorium during the war years.

Indeed, New Haven residents idolized the soldiers stationed on the Yale Campus. Every morning, a col· or guard from Yale would march down to theN ew Haven Green and raise the flag. Parades and full dress retreats held on the Green (accompanied by the music of Glenn Miller's band) attracted thousands of civilian spectators.

Perhaps no group on campus suf· fered more than the handful of civilian students. These students had to live with accelerated course schedules (an entire Yale education was squeezed into 2 yrs. 8 mo.), sum· mer terms, early morning bugles, and thousands of soldiers marching to the loud strains of" Allouette" and " The Air Force Song." The turnover rate for civilians, many of whom were under draft age, was fantastic. The few civilian law students had to listen to their lectures over the roar of full sized airplane engines, bolted to the Law School floor for an Air Corps class. Civilian students were stigmatized as "misfits." The devastating psychological impact of being a civilian on a military campus led to numerous nervous breakdowns - many more than during peacetime.

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I uiew the war years as one of the great watersheds in recent Yale memory.

Fred.Rose '44E

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The turmoil of the Second World War caused a breakdown of rigid social patterns. In an effort to con· form to the nation's urgent need to win the war, Yalesteppedoutofits ivy-covered suit of armor. The smooth transition from an institution of higher learning to a 7,000 man military camp, and then back again after the war, showed Yale's flexibility.

The war left behind many concrete changes. Half year courses were first introduced; the college system became stronger; the number of credits needed to graduate decreased; selfservice replaced the waiters and menus in the dining halls; and an excellent language and foreign area studies curriculum came into being.

The influx of students to Yale during the war from every state in the Union and varied social backgrounds augured Inky Clark's revolution in admissions policies which would cur in the sixties. And the hot weather of the summer terms cast the first shadows of doubt on the inviolability of the jacket and tie dress

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The war years taught one bitter lesson. The all-out effort to win the war nearly resulted in a perma· nent weakening of the Liberal Arts curriculum at Yale. The military's demand for more and more technical experts came very close to making t he Humanities a war casualty. History repeated itself in the fifties following the Sputnik scare. Government grants earmarked for the sciences once again shifted educational emphases and threatened the excellence of Yale's Humanities.

Yale insisted, though, on graduating Renaissance men rather than specialists. The secret wartime meet· ings in Sterling Library by four members of the junior faculty helped maintain this tradition. The staunch defense of a liberal education shown

by George Pierson, Thomas Mendenhall, Maynard Mack, and Richard Sewall was perhaps the war's most valuable legacy. 0

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"How am I doing, wonder?"

Reflections on Louis Kahn

by Richard Weinstein and Charles Moore

Louis Isadore Kahn was born in 1901 on the Baltic island of Osel, Estonia.

When he was four years old, his family emigrated to the United States, settling in Philadelphia. There Kahn attended school, displaying talent in music and painting. After refusing several art scholarships, he entered the School of Architecture at the University of Pennsylvania.

Trained in the classical Beau:x: Arts tradition, Kahn received what he later called an "introduction to the spirit of architecture." He learned little of the modernistic

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Vincent Scully calls Kahn "the most effective teacher of his time in America. His ideas influenced Romaldo Giurgola, Richard Weinstein, Robert Venturi, and Charles Moore. "He liberated them from the outworn architectural models and restrictive patterns of thought of the fifties," says Scully. "He set them free to think through the whole prob· lem of architectural form and program from the beginning. " On Sunday evening, March 17, Kahn was returning from India, where he had been working on ~ne of

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movements during his years at Penn; he developed, instead, an affection for the balanced geometric masses of Greek and Roman antiquity.

Kahn graduated from Penn in 1924. During the next ten years, he began independent practice. His first commission was the Akavath Israel Synagogue in Philadelphia, the city where he did most of his early work.

Only much later, at the age of 52, did· Kahn design what critics consider the first strong statement of his approach-the Yale Art Gallery. After that, professional recognition and more commissions came easily.

Among his later projects are: Rickards Medical Laboratories at Penn (1960); the Salk Institute, La Jolla, Cal. (1965); New Haven's Hill Central urban renewal project (1967); the second capital at Dacca, East Pakistan, now capital of Bangladesh; Kimbell Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas (1972); the new library at Phillips Exeter Academy in Exeter, N.H. (1972); and the Yale Center for British Art and British Studies, still under construction.

Kahn taught for most of his life.

He was a professor of architecture at Yale from 1947-57, and lectured here frequently even after he returned to Penn, this time as a teacher. He spent one year (1950-51) as resident architect at the American Academy in Rome. In 1960, he was a visiting lecturer at Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and several other universities.

his projects-the Institute of Man· agement in Ahmedabad. He col· lapsed and died in Pennsylvania Station, apparently of a heart attack.

He was 73.

Form comes from wonder. Wonder stems from our "in touchness" with how we were made. One senses that nature records the process of what it makes, so that in what it makes there is also the record of how it was made. In touch with this record we are in wonder. This wonder gives rise to knowledge. But knowledge is related to other knowledge and this relation gives a sense of order, a sense of how they inter-relate in a harmony that makes all things exist.

From knowledge to sense of order we then wink at wonder and say "How am I doing, wonder?"

Louis Kahn Louis Kahn's office was furnished with a concrete bench, a brass telescope, and a complete set of the Arabian Nights in Burton's translation. I remember a large sack of walnuts and a wooden mallet in the comer. Old folios and huge architectural books lay on his desk. The place was simple and friendly, the drafting room outside was silent and rumpled looking; it impressed one as a place of work and serious effort which it was, day after day and frequently all through the night. We would work in the office through din-

ner and then relax at the local bar for some talk, sometimes too much for the hour, and then be back with Lou at the board, drawing and drawing and drawing until you looked up in the quiet before dawn to find he had fallen asleep while working, his cheek upon a smudgy sketch and the charcoal still in his hand.

Louis Kahn was single-minded and passionately serious about architecture. In it he found a meaning so broad and humane that his entire experience of literature, music, painting, science, or people could be turned to the purpose of making buildings, or else consumed by his own architectural imagination. He made a heroic effort to be intellectually rigorous about the realm of feeling and value, developing a new language to work out his thoughts.

He forged ideas in a dialogue that was really with himself but was also mediated through conversations with his students, his colleagues, like Robert L. Ricolais, the remarkable engineer and teacher, or anyone who would listen. During these discus· sions he spoke in a metaphysical tongue, casting the spell that allowed him to pursue the substance of a thought or feeling relentlessly until it was caught, examined, worried over - until its meaning for him was exhausted. With the splen· did passion of the Talmudic scholar, his mind was sublime in concentra· tion through the torture and exaltation of the argument, but rigorous and careful to preserve integrity of spirit and liveliness of feeling. He loved to talk and dispute, until sometimes late at night we would have to manage and cajole him back to the drafting room under the threat of an impending deadline. After class a . conversation might also continue, and usually did without any sense of boundary or limit.

He was an unimposing figure, slight, with a scarred face. Lou was channing and full of warmth and sly wit, at times relentless, selfcentered, and repetitive (though always useful and alive to his inner purpose). At these latter times you felt isolated by the spectacle of his obsessive passion - indifferent and cruel and chilling, in the way it separated him from everybody else.

To us it seemed that he was never home; he lived in the office, in the circle of conversation, in the homes of students and friends. He enjoyed being charming to women who were drawn to his blithe anecdotes and a watchful blue-eyed gaze touched with insolence. He used to drink Plymouth gin neat and without ice.

The first time I met Lou was in the comforting courtyard of the museum at the University of Pennsylvania. It was a reception for new students and

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Volume seven, number four I April22, 197417

he had a huge gin in his hand and said with an impish smile, "I'm Lou Kahn, who are you?" How different from Harvard which I had recently left in despair. There my promising beginning as a student had been cut short by a fateful indiscretion. I carried a book on Frank Lloyd Wright into the first year drafting room and then went on to defend my interest to our haughty professor. -

hoven.

Cities, and the design of buildings in cities, were naturally seen as an issue, not of isolated structures, but of making places and streets. The larger meaning of the city was regar· ded as a primary influence on indi· vidual buildings. We were taught to integrate them into the idea of the street or the public place and to ad· just their conceptual organization

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This brought down on my bewildered head all the awful old baggage of the Bauhaus system, and led me even· tually to Pennsylvania. There Louis Kahn had opened the window and invited us by his example and his work, to look out and see. And I could sense that the International ~ Style, which had purged history and which had distorted and isolated modem architecture, was now losing its influence; the past with its traditions, monuments, and ruins was being restored to us.

We were taught design with an approach that had only a tangential relationship to form. How was the essence of a library different from that of a museum, of a fair from a market place? We were encouraged to search for a primary concept which gave intuitive choice a reason - a reason which would be validated by a sense of fitness and appropriate feeling, rsther than mere physical utility. In fact, we tried to sharpen our insights by cultivating a disengagement from formal commit· ments at the early stages of work. « This attitude made us more receptive to historical influence, because we felt rewarded by discoveries of meaning that were independent of style. As a result, the context for architectural design was enlarged and enriched not only by historic examples of building, including the building of cities, but also by drawing upon achievements in all the humanities. Lou could find the premise for a building in the Arabian Nitlhts or the piano music of Beet·

and physical arrangement to a pur· pose greater than themselves. To emphasize this point, Lou would speak of beautiful cities made up of ugly buildings. On the other hand, the separate structures along Park A venue, each with its little plaza, were to him disturbing, discon· nected and absurd-he called them overstuffed matrons. Mies van de Robe, and even Lou's beloved Le Corbusier, had done much to disin· tegrate the fabric of the city to which Kahn, almost alone, felt such a profound loyalty.

Shortly after my arrival at Penn· sylvania, Vincent Scully came to the University and gave a lecture on Kahn and Frank Lloyd Wright, and showed beautifully how the concep· tion and mood of Wright's early buildings, particularly Unity Temple and the Larkin Building, were reas· serted in Kahn's work. Wright's notion of structure is dependent on the space which it shapes and modifies. As a result, there is a strong expressive purpose in the way the building is made to stand up, and Kahn's work, while differing in many respects, is also particularly rich in its concentration on structure as a carrier of meaning.

But Kahn had a different idea of mystery, less exuberant, less dark, though no less brooding and impres· sive. This idea issued from a strict· ness of construction and the assertive willingness to share the meaning of an architectural decision with the beholder- a willingness reflected in his conversation and

teaching. In the buildings of Ahmedabad, the union of brick and concrete slab construction are analyzed and argued, until a formal situation is found which proclaims the stresses at work, the nature of materials, and their function in rela· tion to the larger purposes of the space they define. The way these rooms are lit, their dimension and sound, are finally intended to convey a conception of value and an idea of conduct. They are intended to speak.

This didactic, ethical discipline should be the criterion of all architectural decisions; it qualifies all reasons of the heart, resulting in the austere, grave mood of the work, and allowing you to trust what you see. Wright's purpose was never as rabbinical. For Kahn, architecture was a way of sharing the mystery, rather than weaving the spell.

Largeness of spirit was Louis Kahn's greatest gift. It opened him to everything that is profound and beautiful in the record of civilization, permitting him truly to venerate what is fine in the new as well as the old, and to use this inspiration in his teaching and his work. He under· stood the purpose and power of tradi· tion at a time when process and change are valued for their own sake, and managed amid both the trivial and awesome distractions of contemporary life to create about him an aura of stillnesR and concern for truth. Yearning for the timeless, he was drawn to what has endured.

-Richard Weinstein

TheYale Art Gallery and the unfin. ished Yale Center for British Art, two buildings flanking Chapel Street, mark the beginning and the end of the career of Louis Kahn-the architect who for so many of us meant more than any other in our time. As so often happens with archi·

because we thought he was immor· tal. He didn't need death; he didn't even seem to need sleep. The loneli· ness of his dying in Pennsylvania Station, 90 miles from home, after a trip from Bombay, and having hi.s very identity mislaid in a series of police blunders, makes it shudder· ingly clear how late in the centw:y it has become. It was suddenly so dark, when that light we all were used to went out.

The obituary in Time listed some of us as his "disciples," but I think the term doesn't fit. He wasn't a master in the sense that he exacted from us some sort of followship. His great strength as a teacher, as he once pointed out, was that he wasn't facile-things didn't come easily to him. The struggle to understand, and get it right-more difficult but more exhilarating than any architectural struggle I, for one, had ever knownwas a struggle which involved him as well as his students. He wasn't, when I knew him best, laying down any laws from on high; like the rest of us, he was looking for tho:se laws, and making the search take on a transcendental importance. He said wonderful things along the way and I, like his other students, have notebooks full of them ("the sun didn't know how wonderful it was until its rays fell on the wall of a room"). Out of the context of the particular search they were part of, Kahn's words don't seem to make much communicable sense. Even the build· ings, magic as they seemed, were not altogether complete and independent of the search. I remember someone asking Kahn how he could justify the elevator tower on his little AFL-CIO Medical Center in Philadelphia as architecture. "That's not architec· ture." he replied.

I first met him in 1955, in the Princeton Graduate College. He was on a panel about Monumentality (a special issue of the fifties) with Paul Rudolph. I had just spent some time

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.. tects, that beginning did not come until late. Lou Kahn was already in his fifties when President Griswold asked him to design the addition to the Yale Art Gallery. That became, as the critics say, his first "mature work"; it was just 20 years later that his death overtook him, and stunned the rest of us.

The blow was staggering, not because 73 is so young, but, I guess,

in Korea, and had never heard of Kahn. I was struck with how small he was, and how badly his face was scarred (from a fire when he was a small child in Estonia). And I can't remember anything he said. Paul Rudolph was teaching that term at Princeton, and Kahn had come down from Yale, though he was a Philadel· phian. George Howe, another Phila· delphian, had brought him to Yale,

Volume seven, number four I April22, 197418

where, according to stories I heard later, he had not been a particularly revered teacher before he started to think about the Art Gallery. My most vivid image of Kahn at the time (because it was so hard to imagine), was of him as the sidekick of Edward Durell Stone. The two of them, it was said, played violin and piano (in bars?) (for money or dinners?) during the Depression.

In the late fifties, Paul Rudolph went to Yale and Kahn left for the University of Pennsylvania. His office in Philadelphia grew. It was run then by Tim Vreeland, now at UCLA, whom Lou thought was the best American architect. (I think he may have been, as usual, right.) In the school year 1958-59, when I was teaching at Princeton, Kahn became (on the side, of course) thesis critic there. I volunteered to help, because every mmute with him meant so much to me. One night a week, four students and I would drive to Philadelphia and meet Lou in his office after dinner. We would sit around his desk while he looked at four theses, and criticized them, and elicited criticism from us, and talked about his current projects (there was the Jewish Community Centetin Trenton, which was never built,¡and there were the Richards Laboratories at Penn, and later the Salk Center).

Those evenings were food for a lifetime, not so much for those aphorisms that were filling our notebooks

as for the communicated sense of caring about how the tiricks in Richards Laboratories wanted to sit on each other, or about the student projects in front of him. He gave those student projects the full weight of his concern, not as reflections of himself, but as serious, independent works. He reserved his scorn (which could be nasty) for the projects that had been encrusted with the shapes of Kahn's own recent inventions, and his most joyous transports came for the projects where new institutions could find form. His favorite of those theses, I guess, was one done by Robert Church, who became, before his death, Dean of the Architecture School at the University of Tennessee. Church was designing an athletic center for Stone Mountain, near Atlanta; and Kahn managed to impute an Olympian splendor to the act of suiting up for events there, or even of parking your car to spectate.

My role after those thesis sessions in Philadelphia had been to expand upon them, back at Princeton with the students. We all read different meanings into them, of course, but every word had had moment. After that year I went to Berkeley, where Kahn would sometimes come to talk, and I found myself again as an interpreter afterwards. That was much harder. The weight of Kahn's thought-and especially his carewas not really compressible into a 90 minute lecture, and my explanations

didn' t help enough.

Projects I had seen in his office were built, and some, especially the Salk Center in La Jolla, were magic.

And fascinating new commissions came, in India and Pakistan and Venice and across the United States.

But the harassments of fame must have brought him closer to despair than even his failing vision. Most of us who had been moved by him speculated about his late works before they came. Wouldn't they be in some way like the deaf Beethoven's late quartets? Because, thanks in some part to him, we were looking to history for parallels, and for direct inspiration, and for help.

Kahn's late works, unless I misunderstand, weren't like Beethoven's; they were more confident and complete than Kahn â&#x20AC;˘s own earlier works, simpler and clearer, far less tentative and I am afraid, for me, far less full of that searching which lay at the center of my regard for him. There is, though, not much room for disappointment. Lately, it had come to

,,

seem from his manner and his work, that he had found something at the end of his lifelong quest, and that the preferences of some of the rest of us for the rainbow rather than the pot of gold might be temporary too.

But I don't think it occurred to any of us that he was mortal. He was, except for Alvar Aalto, the last of the century's towering architects- and like Aalto, he was reviled for that by the new realists of the late sixties.

It's hard to imagine that there is room left for such grandeur of spirit to arise soon again. And it is even harder, so soon after those dismal lonesome events last month in Penn Station, to recall that the grandeur was based on deep humility and the honesty of his search, and was transmitted to a great many people, so it will not vanish in the circumstantial act of dying. But Lou Kahn's ismust be - a spirit that will live. 0 - Clw.rks Moore

Richard Weinstein is Director of the Mayor's Office of Lower Manlw.ttan Development. He studied architecture at Harvard and the University of Pennsylvania where he did his thesis under Louis Kahn. He is a winner of the Prix de Rome of the American Academy of Arts and Letters.

Clw.rles Moore, Professor of Architecture at Yale, is a New Hav en architect whose works include Church Street South, a low- and medium-income housing project. He was chairman of Yale's Department ofArchit~cture from 1965-69, and subsequently became the Dean of the Yale School of Architecture , a post he held for two years.

Dollars and Daffodils

by Dan Denton

One by one Yale's grand old traditions fall victim to the times. In the last decade alone we have seen the end of neckties at dinner, the slow death of the fraternities, and coeducation charging through the door of Mory's. Yet one important tradition will survive no matter what changes mold the new landscape of the University - Mother Yale will continue to call on her wealthy progeny for financial support.

And generations of Yale children will no doubt continue to respond, both with the unrestricted funds called for by the current $370 million capital fund drive, and with more specific personalized grants for buildings, awards, collections, and who knows, maybe even an elephant scholarship. ''The endowment is a superb act of faith," wrote Amos P. Wilder, '84, during the $20 million Endowment Fund Campaign in 1926. "It is not a call for money; it is a challenge to ordinary men to be great." But somewhere in the long tradition of alw:n.ni giving, some of those wealthy progeny got the idea that a gift to Yale could be an opportunity to leave a personal stamp on the University.

Some, like the Sterlings and the Beineckes, donated useful buildings, but a good number let their imaginations run away with their checkbooks. When alumni givers express themselves through curious collections and lecture series, ancient books and daffodils, they leave memorable-if often obscurecontributions to the diversity of Yale. For proof, we need only look at Yale's roster of rococo endowments.

To David C. DeForest, a finerYale meant a Yale with more DeForests.

In 1823, he established an annual gift of $1,000 in memory of his mother, Mrs. Mehitabel Lockwood.

The scholarship was to be given to her direct male descendants, or to any other DeForests at Yale. If, however, no such candidates existed, the sum was to be "applied to the education of young men in indigent circumstances and of good talents, who are willing to assume the name of DeForest."

Othniel C. Marsh had a different idea. When he died in 1899, Marsh

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leftYale $30,000 to be used "in publishing the results of his explorations in the West." Marsh also bequeathed his house on Prospect Street, to be used as the University Botanical Garden "a.n d for no other purpose."

The University scrupulously complied with Marsh's requests, as it has even with the bizarre will of the late Col. John Trumbull. Trumbull left his vast art collection to Yale-with two provisos. First, that Yale build the first university art gallery in the nation to house it; second, that when the gallery was completed Yale exhume Trumbull's remains and place them in a vault in the basement beneath the paintings. If Yale ever reneged, both the colonel and his art would go to Harvard. But Yale has kept the collection by keeping Trumbull's trust, taking his remains wherever his paintings go, andwhen the collection is not on display-carefully stacking the paintings in the basement above the colonel's grave.

In the 1700's, while Yale struggled to stand on its own, dollDrs attached no such strings to their gifts. Every pound of sterling helped pay for the project at hand. Thus Yale's first fund drive, conducted in 1721 by Gurdon Saltonstall, Esq., financed the building no college could be without-the rector's house. And when the primal Eli-Elihu Yalesent his silver, he placed no restrictions on its use. Unfortunately, his gifts suffered other limitations. " Mr. Yale sends you by this Ship, " wrote Jeremy Dummer, the College's London agent, " one hundred pounds Sterling... ! am glad to get what I can of him, tho it be less than his engagements; for he promised me that he would send you over 200 Pounds per anno as long as he lived, & make a settlement upon you forever, to commence immediately after his death. But I am afraid lest being old he should dye & neglect it."

But once these early bequests had

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established the skeleton of Yale College, the school could no longer justify funneling all donations into a single project. The initial urgency had passed. Yale would survive. For the fleshing out of that skeleton, the University would depend more on on the fetishes and fancies of its affluent sons.

To the distress of Yale's fundraisers, the alumni gift became a mode of self-expression. Timothy Dwight, President of Yale in 1888, sought to discourage this trend when he told the alumni, "The main object is the special want of an increase in the General Fund of the University as a whole." Despite President Dwight's plea, the trend toward special grants has continued even to the present day, according to John Ecklund, the current University Treasurer. ''When someone decides to contribute," says Ecklund, " we try to convince them that a gift unrestricted in its potential uses is best for Yale."

One fundraising tactic designed to untie the strings from endowments has been to de-emphasize the alumnus's memory of his particular experience at Yale, pushing instead a composite image of Youth at Yale.

If the fundraiser can plant the memory of an immortal education bound neither by time nor special conditions, then the resulting gift should be just as limitless. This strategy is best illustrated by the grandiloquent Amos P. Wilder. " Yale men hear the rustle of wings," Wilder said, referring to the memory of " those plastic years when mind and heart quivered under first revelation of truth and glimpses down corridors of aspiration and beauty." ''The son of Yale,'' he continued, " has his eyes fixed on a composite teacher who is all wisdom; on a Yale boy who is all that a generous, highspirited, noble-minded youth should be; on an immortal Yale."

Nevertheless, the restricted

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Volume seven, number four I April22, 1974 110

Adrienne Kennedy's

U.S. Premiere

Sam Shepard's

Geographv

An Evening

of a Horse Dreamer

with Dead Essex

Provocative and entertaining.

Hartford Courant

Tremendous power ... beautiful.

Yale Dally News

At 8 p.m. April 23, 25 and 27, and at 2:30 p.m. on April 27.

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Remember that line you had to wait in for WATERGATE CLASSICS? With a Student Pass you can see seven plays for only $12.00

funds- that patchwork of the sentimental and the superfluous-now total nearly twice the unrestricted endowment. And though University officials may wish those restricted funds could be tapped for genew use, even the eccentricities add something. Their frills lend a flavor to the place.

Would Yale be the same without its daffodils? Each spring they bloom with the help of sun, soil, and the Barbara Foster Vietor Memorial Planting Fund, established in 1966 by the Vietor family and the Acorn Foundation.

Would the library be complete without its authoritative six-volume critical edition of Bracton's Tractatus de Legibus et Consuetudinibus Angliae-the most important legal work of the Middle Ages?

John E. Parsons, 1851, left $5,000 for its publication.

Nor need we starve for sea adventure. The friends of Arthur Sturges Hildebrand, who was lost at sea while sailing from Greenland to Labrador in 1924, have endowed the purchase of "books on adventure by sea and other kindred subjects."

Were it not for the 1909 Sunday Opening Fund, Yale's museums and galleries would be closed on Sundays. Graduation, too, would be different without the Jerome B. Lucke Commencement Attendance Fund, which each year brings the four oldest living graduates to Yale on commencement day.

And where would we be without the Mrs. Hepsa Ely Silliman Memorial Lectures, which "illustrate the presence and wisdom of God as manifested in the Natural and Moral World"?

Certainly Yale ~ould survive without these unique gifts, and the other curious contributions its alumni con· tinue to bestow-2,000 bushels of soybeans, for example, or two polo ponies, a yacht, a summer cottage.

It could surely have done without 50 prize cattle that had to be fed

thi-ough a Midwestern winter, costing the University more than the herd eventually brought at auction.

But deprived of the eccentricities these funds scatter about the College, Yale would be a more prosaic place. Only a tradition of gifts that assures quality in even the most obscure comers of the University could breed myths like the Strawberry Shortcake Fund and the F. Wells Hodges elephant scholarship.

•'The strawberry shortcake in the dining halls used to be so good," says George D. Vaill, Assistant Secretary of the University, "that everyone decided it must be an endowment.'' Undergraduates now hear of endowments for salad, cheesecake and ice cream. But when officials in the dining halls and the Treasurer's office learned of these windfalls, they all replied with amused regret, "No such thing."

The same answer awaited a group of ladies in Darien, Conn. when they inquired about the F. Wells Hodges Scholarship, which was to be "awarded to any student in the University who shall possess an elephant of good character and unquestioned need, with qualities of leadership, outstanding ability, and future usefulness." Darien had just received a baby elephant from its civic pen-pal- Mecara, India -and the ladies wanted to know if all of Darien's boys would now be eligible for Yale scholarships.

After a most careful investigation, the admissions office found that the scholarship was an inner-office spoof of Yale's other, more legitimate endowments. They notified Darien that there were no funds for such a scholarship.

Undaunted, the ladies of Darien quickly mailed in their response, payable to the F. Wells Hodges account: five quarters, eight dimes, eight nickels, 23 pennies, one British shilling, one New York City subway token, and five green stamps: 0

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CVolume seven, number four I April22, 1974111

yale repertory theatre corner of york and chapel streets

Presents

Reinforcement for a Skinner &eak (continued from page 2) We talked about the weather- he hadn't much liked the cold March in Cambridge. He told me about his impending'tetirement a.n d his poor eyesight. His depth perception is particularly bad. He carries a cane to help himself over curbs. "This is the one profession, I suppose, where I could work as long as I have," he said. But retirement from teaching would not mean an end to his work.

There would be more time in fact for his writing.

The attention Skinner attracted • with the publication of Beyond Freedom and Dignity more than two years ago has affected him very little. He became an instant celebrity, appearing on several television talk shows. In the Spring of 1972, Skinner came to Yale for three days and allowed a panel of critics to open fire on him and his theories.

He seems to have grown weary of such distractions. While we talked, the phone rang. Someone on the other end offered him a speaking engagement. "No, I'm sorry," he said, "I'm turning down everything without exception. That sounds very interesting, but if I took every interesting offer, I would never get any work done."

During the past year, Skinner told me, he has refused invitations for expenses-paid speaking engagements in Hawaii, Switzerland, and • Palm Springs. Why not go and enjoy the free vacation?

"Why would I want to go to Palm Springs?" he answered. "I'd be bored there; there'd be nothing for me to do there."

Implicit in the comment was Skinner's dedication to his work. He described the intense effort involved in his writing. "I write very, very slowly,'' he said. ''Someone figured it out to one or two words a minute."

Though critics often compliment Skinner for the clarity of his writings, they frequently misinterpret his meaning - a pattern to which he has resigned himself. When his Utopian novel Walden Two was published in 1948, Life magazine called it "a slur upon a name, a corruption of an impulse." Skinner himself believes that Thoreau could have • appreciated the community he designed. He read me an early review of his next book, written to correct the mistaken interpretations that followed the publication of Beyond Freedom and Dignity.

Skinner held up the review and pointed to a typographical star appearing next to it in the clipping which signified the importance of the review. "My publisher sent me this with a note saying 'oh look isn't

this great,'" Skinner said dryly.

The review was highly unfavorable.

Skinner, it asserted, recommended controlling human behavior by threat of punishment, that is, by pairing unacceptable behavior with aversive physical or mental consequences.

"I've spent my life arguing that people should be free from aversive control,'' Skinner said. "I just don't understand it," he said of the review.

"This isn't someone writing about my book - it's someone letting out some ideas he already had about B.F. Skinner."

The assumption that any control of human behavior must be coercive is not uncommon among Skinner's critics. He argues that their mistake is assuming that behavior is ever free from one sort of control or another.

Once man has admitted that heresponds to structured contingencies in his environment, he may learn to manipulate them to solve the problems of social organization in the 20th century.

Walden Two speculates about possible manipulations. Only its livestock are controlled by threat of punishment. Its human members live there because they like it. The community's managers and planners have eliminat.ed aggressive behavior between members. Each resident contributes about four hours of labor a day to the necessities of subsistence. The remaining time is devoted to leisure, athletics, or creative and intellectual pursuits.

Skinner believes that realistic solutions to current social problems must come in piecemeal fashion. "No one in this society could have the position Frazier does in Walden Two," he said. Yet he remains enamoured of the vision of that mythical community. He smiles openly when he speaks of it. He believes most people would prefer it to the lives they presently live.

I asked him if given the chance he could create such a community today."! never had the courage to found Walden Two when I was younger," Skinner said, avoiding my question bu t revealing more than I had asked for."Now of course I'm too old." He glanced at me and then looked away quickly. It was as if he had just excused himself to a young admirer for something he ought to have tried.

As I was leaving his office, Skinner consulted a bookcase and presented me with reprints of two of his articles. "Here's some reinforcement for you," he said. 0 John YandeU John YandeU is a junior history major in Berkeley College.

.

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