I’m Always Curious Part Thirty Three

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Warnings: Cursing, a lil fluff, a lil angst. Y’all know me. (I know these are the same as last week but they are.... Still True). Summary: I’d been on the Pinnacle for the last couple of days, once the briefing that Eli and I had completed was cleared by Command.

“I just hope that you are fully aware of the fact that you are never allowed to criticize me again.” “That seems a little extreme—” “Oh, that seems extreme?” I retorted, brows raising, “I’m going to have to disagree with you, Captain. You are not allowed to tell me that I have taken a reckless action or made a snap-decision ever again because you jumped on a Phaser.”

“Out of necessity!” Chris argued, “It’s not as though I did it for fun, just to see what it would feel like.” “Mm. And what did it feel like?” I watched Chris on the holo, and saw how he directed his eyes to the ceiling for a moment of consideration before he answered, “...Sharp, seering...Painful.” “I see.” “Mm.” “You know why that might be?” “I do know—” “Maybe it’s because you jumped—” “I get it—” “On a Phaser.” “This is a very rich argument from a woman that launched herself into a space without a tether.” I felt a shiver trickle down my spine and I shifted in my seat a little, pulling myself from a memory of a different mission— one undertaken in the midst of a war; I pulled myself from the darkness of a void, a sudden yanking at my ankle, my hands desperately clinging to the side of a K’Vek Class Battle Cruiser as the space around me rattled and filled with Warbirds. “Trust me,” I said, careful to keep my tone light, “It’s safer without the tether.” I averted my eyes, reaching for my glass. Even on the holographic communication system, Christopher seemed to have clocked that shiver and shift; I could see his brow furrowing and his head tipping, waiting for the story. It wasn’t one that I was itching to share. I nodded to the bandages wrapped around his midsection as I set my glass back down. “Pollard give you hell, at least?” He chuckled lightly, wincing with it as he nodded and patted over his bandage, “She did.” “Good. Someone needs to without Boyce and Una around to keep you in line.” Chris’ eyes narrowed minutely, but he couldn’t hide the smile that crept onto his lips. I couldn’t help mine, either. I’d been fighting off smiles since I’d gotten the message that Pike was calling me at all. I’d been on the Pinnacle for the last couple of days, once the briefing that Eli and I had completed was cleared by Command. Eli had yet to find a Communications Bridge officer for the Pinnacle, and until he did, I was subbing in. Christopher had called to ask about the briefing. But… Like the old days, when I had been called into his Ready Room to confirm the details of a report, we had drifted to other things. We’d actually been having a light, amiable conversation until I’d noticed the bandages wrapped around him. Jumped on a Phaser. Unbelievable.

“So how are you finding the Bridge?” He asked. “Fine,” I shrugged, “But it’s… Different. A little weird. I’m used to having someone else in charge— I mean, there’s Durling, obviously, but there’s always been another level of Communications above me and now there’s kinda just… Me.” “What about during the war? Durling was a strategy officer previous to this post, wasn’t he?” “...I guess I don’t really count the war as time spent in Starfleet,” I realized after a few moments, shaking my head a little, “Maybe that’s wrong, or...Or strange, but it’s not what I joined to do. I was still translating, sure, but it feels like there was such a dissonance between it and this,” I nodded back toward my current quarters. Christopher took a long moment with that, watching me, and I fought the urge to avert my eyes or turn my head from him. It was hard, talking to him about these things, but if we ever wanted any sort of friendship again, they did need to be discussed in some estimation. I did turn my head, though, as a message chimed from my PADD. “Sorry—” I leaned over, grabbing it and scanning it. I sighed softly. “I’m needed on the Bridge,” I gave him an apologetic look, but Christopher just smiled and nodded. “Be careful,” He urged. “... I’m so sorry, which of the two of us—” “Okay—” “Literally threw themselves—” “Thank you, Commander—” “On top of a firing Phaser?” “I’ll have to review the notes of this call and get back to you.” I shook my head, fighting the urge to mirror Chris’ smile. “Unbelievable,” I muttered. “Speak soon,” He tacked on, and I felt my smile push through, then. “We will,” I nodded before closing the channel. -- Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Dropping out of warp hadn’t been an issue the first time, but the Pinnacle had stalled jumping into it the second, and the drop out of warp that had followed was a hell of a bumpy landing. Our shields had been up, as had the shields of the ship that we’d nearly collided with— the Enterprise. We’d been hailed, and I’d expected to find Una on the other side, asking where the hell our helmsman had learned how to steer (though she’d never use those words exactly), but… But when the viewscreen had flickered to life, we’d been greeted by a man— a man with dark blonde hair and suspicious, narrowed eyes. His uniform was Command gold, but not in the form that we were used to— he had a black collar, and gold bands around his cuffs. I rose slowly, cautiously, taking in as much of the man and the ship behind him as I could. Eli’s brow furrowed as he glanced back toward me, as startled as I was. “Identify yourself,” The man requested. “Eli Durling, Captain of the U.S.S. Pinnacle,” Eli answered, “Yourself?” “James T. Kirk, Captain, U.S.S. Enterprise.” I blinked dumbly at him before I reached out, briefly muting our Communications as I turned to Eli. “This is bad.” “An astute observation, thank you, Commander.” “You’re welcome, Captain.” I raised my hand from the mute to allow Durling and this… Kirk to speak. Their stardate was years ahead of our time, and my stomach twisted, concerned. We were in another time, possibly another universe, so— “What is it?” I turned back to Eli, unable to help my folded arms and clenched jaw. “If he’s captain,” I nodded to the man, who had turned to consult with his own crew, “Then where’s Christopher?” Eli frowned, “Maybe he retired,” He offered. And maybe I would’ve accepted that before. Maybe I would’ve accepted that explanation and allowed myself to refocus on the matter at hand-- but in my time spent on Somonia, I’d come to trust my gut instincts strongly. I shook my head, turning back to my console as I muttered, “Something feels wrong.” “If you could send the coordinates which you jumped from,” We turned back to the viewscreen at the request from a new voice, “That would be most helpful.”  “An excellent suggestion, Mr. Spock,” Kirk smiled at the man that had said so. I stilled, staring. He was older, of course— but same haircut, same brows, same pointed ears. He caught sight of me staring, and he lifted a single questioning brow. I lowered my eyes, turning back to the console. If anyone was going to be able to tell me where Chris was, surely it would be him.

--

“You seemed quite alarmed by my name, Commander. Is it safe to assume that we are familiar with one another when you’re from?” “Yes,” I nodded, giving Mr. Spock a small smile. I had beamed over to the Enterprise, along with Durling, and two of his Science officers. “May I inquire about the nature of our acquaintanceship?” “We have been stationed on the same ship and we attended the Academy together. We’re friends.” I hesitated before, “Mr. Spock, if I may ask… Are you familiar with a man named Christopher Pike?” Spock’s brow rose again, his head tilting to the side for a moment as he seemed to contemplate both my expression and my question. “Quite familiar,” He nodded slightly. “Was he Captain of the Enterprise?” “Previously, yes.” “And now?” Spock went quiet again, eyes drifting briefly to the table. “You say that we are friends, in your time,” He said. “Yes.” “What relationship have you to Captain Pike?” I had to be careful. This Spock was not my Spock, but I could assume that he would reason through these things the same way: he wouldn’t want to tell me about anything, for fear that any knowledge on my part could lead to some change. So I was careful to keep my face neutral, and I lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “He is as good a friend of mine as you are.” I could see Spock considering my answer, and his. “Captain Pike suffered an incident that left him unable to command.” My gut twisted, but I was careful not to suck in a breath or reel away as I wanted. It was possible that whatever occurred in this timeline would not necessarily occur when and where I was from— I seemed to not be on the Enterprise at all in this timeline; it was possible that I hadn't even joined Starfleet. Whatever may've happened to Christopher here may not happen to Christopher when I was from. But on the off-chance it did— I had to learn what I could before returning home. That was, of course, assuming that we could make it home. “...What sort of incident?” Tag list: @angels-pie​ ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta​  ; @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo​ ; @how-am-i-serpose-to-know​ ; @onlyhereforthefandomandgiggles​ ; @inmyowncorner​  ; @tardis-23​  ; @paintballkid711​ ; @katrynec​ ; @hypnobananaangelfish ; @elen-aranel​ ; @blueeyesatnight​ ; @hotchswifey​​

Scared & Sacred - Ch. 2

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader Description: The Mandalorian had helped you while you were hunted for your family name and you had grown a little closer over the months, but you didn’t expect THIS. How was this possible after just three times of getting so close to him. You had to find a nurse as fast as possible. Warnings: pregnancy, angst, lots of emotions, canon typical violence, fighting

M A S T E R L I S T

Chapter 2 - The Letter

Every night you prepared some more food in little portions to keep you alive on the journey you would start soon. You had three pairs of every clothing in a compartment that you would put into a bag, bought another bag on the last planet to put the food, water and a blanket in. Even got a cheap med pack on the last planet. On the next planet you‘d leave. You‘d find someone to bring you back to that harmonic place where the nurse droid told you that you were expecting.

„Cyare?“ You closed the compartment as you heard him come closer. „Hm?“ You looked up at him in front of you, holding a fuzzing Grogu. „Something‘s upsetting him.“ Arms reached up and grabbed Grogu out of Din‘s gentle grasp. „Hey, sweetpea, you‘re safe here. We won‘t let anything happen to you, yeah?“ You tried to calm him a bit. It worked a tiny bit, but he wiggled free again to sit on your lap and nuzzle into your belly. „Better?“ You chuckled and got a coo of agreement, making you chuckle. Eyes wandered up to the Mandalorian again, „It‘s okay, he can sleep here.“ It would be a nice last night having Grogu sleeping right on top of you, showing love to his sibling. You started to notice that region of your body growing harder to the touch. „Do you mind if we share?“ Din‘s modulated voice reached your ears. „I‘d prefer sleeping alone, if I‘m being honest.“ You answered softly, shutting him out of your heart and bed. „Did I do anything to upset you? You‘ve been very distant since we left Arcaro.“ That was the harmonic planet, you saved the name internally. „I miss your touch.“ „Oh, no no. Just having a lot on my mind at the moment. Going through memories of my childhood and all.“ That was only half a lie, so you didn‘t feel very bad. „If you need to talk, you know I‘m there.“ You nodded softly, starting to hear Grogu snore. „Get some sleep, Din. You have people to hunt tomorrow.“ You smiled and saw him nod before heading off to his cot.

You couldn‘t sleep with the journey ahead on your mind, so you grabbed a piece of flimsy and started writing a letter to Din that you would leave behind, attaching your soup recipe that the kid liked the most. You put it in an envelope and put it between your pillow and the mattress. Shortly after the exhaustion of the day got you to fall asleep for a few hours. 

Din and Grogu were hunting for a Corellian woman while you got the last important pieces for your journey and the ship. You filled up the food supply, bought another melee weapon and you found a very used vest that would hold off blaster shots that you put on under your gown. Once all of that was done you checked through your backpack and side bag and put them on your body. A deep breath went through you as you looked around one last time. This was a great home and protection for a while, but it was time for another chapter in your life. You‘d miss Grogu a lot, as well as the beskar armored man with the patience of a Jedi.

You headed down the main street of the city to find a ship you could fly with all the way back towards the planet of Arcaro. You ended up meeting a woman that used to be a fighter for the Republic. Hated the Empire and thought bounty hunters are annoying. Seemed safe enough. As you took off she asked, „What‘s your business here?“ „Leaving behind the people that helped me run from the people that hunted my family because I‘m with child and they weren‘t ready to accept that kinda life.“ You kept it short but clear. „Damn, that sounds like a lifestory if I ever heard one. Who knocked you up?“ She was direct. Reminded you of Cara. „The man that protected me for the last months. Very kind, kind of emotionally incompetent, definitely wouldn‘t take the news well.“ „I see.“ She nodded before jumping into hyperspace. She knew you had the credits to pay her, everything else was just listening to your interesting story and getting a good tip for a market.

— POV CHANGE —

Din stepped into his ship with Grogu. It was dead silent, not completely unusual. What was unusual was the fact you didn‘t react when he called out „Cyare?“ The child in his arms cooed in confusion and looked up at him with a frown. „She might still be caught up on the market. We‘ll wait.“ But even that plan fell away once he had fully arrived home and opened the compartment that you had fully stocked before leaving. „Oh, I‘m having a bad feeling about this,“ he whispered to himself as he closed the compartment and put the scanner on his helmet on. Only your footsteps, no others in sight. That didn‘t make sense. She never really went on walks, when she did she always was back in time to welcome him. He followed the steps and arrived in another hangar. „Hey, you there!“ He pointed at the slightly intimidated man near the hangar. „Y-Yes?“ „Have you seen a human woman in white and blue gowns, a green bag and braided hair? This big, cloak is blue too, with white details on it.“ „She went through here, yes.“ „Did she seem afraid?“ „No, she was acting normal. Talked to a woman that frequently takes travellers with her to other places. Seemed to be ready for a trip.“ „Dank ferrik! Thank you.“ NOW he was a different type of concerned. Why did you leave? Willingly! He scanned over the holopad the man held, taking in the information on it that he hoped was about the ship you were in.

When he got back he noticed one of his weapons missing in his arsenal, your blue blindfold on the co-pilot seat and everything neatly cleaned and organized in the kitchen. This was starting to kill him from the inside out. What had happened? What would make you get up and leave on purpose? From the man you loved and the child you cared for so much? He checked your bed. It wasn‘t made. The only thing in here that wasn‘t neat and tidy. And there he saw it, something sticking out from under your pillow. His mind went back to the time he found a little booklet there. A booklet about human children, medical stuff. He took off his gloves and grabbed the flimsy, opening the envelope he held in his hands shortly after and noticed it was a letter addressed at him.

*Dear Din, I know this might be confusing. That I‘m gone now, that I went without telling you. I know it‘s dangerous out there and that you are a big reason I‘m still breathing, but I couldn‘t bear the idea of making a decision benefiting you and leaving me lost. When you told me you weren‘t ready for a child, I knew I had to leave. I won‘t decide against it and I didn‘t wanna hear from your voice that I shouldn‘t keep it. I‘ll miss you. I‘ll miss Grogu. He‘ll miss his unborn sibling too. I know how excited he was for it. I‘m content with knowing that the child was created out of love. Two months and about a week ago. I hope that gives you rest about the situation. I‘ll go back to Arcaro. The place with the beautiful market and one of the best nurse droids I‘ve ever met. I‘ll figure out where to go and how to be on my own from there. I hope you don‘t mind that I took one of the weapons you barely used in the last months. Have this recipe for Grogu in return, he loves it the most and sleeps the best after eating it. Love, Y/N*

Din was drowning in an ocean of feelings. He wanted to cry, scream, beg, jump in happiness and yearned to have you in his arms. Oh, how much he wanted to have you in his arms right now. How much he wished you would‘ve told him that day. He would‘ve pushed away all your doubts. He would‘ve worshipped you, your body, the wonders happening inside of you. Instead you were running from him like he was some disgusting monster. 

He sat down in the pilots seat with Grogu on his arm and the letter in the other hand, setting it down gently and punching in the coordinates to the planet you mentioned. You‘d arrive there after him if he did this trick right. 

— POV CHANGE —

You gave the Republic lady a big tip and a hug. „It‘s rare to meet someone to talk to like this. Thank you for the ride and the long talk.“ You smiled at her and she grabbed both of your arms gently. „I land here every now and then, so if you ever see this piece of metal land, say hello.“ She grinned and let you go.

You stepped down the ramp of her vessel to see the market you loved so much fairly empty. It was really early in the morning on this planet. You got closer to the market and saw how some vendors currently refilled their little shops. „Where do you think you‘re going?“ A dark voice was audible behind you. It was familiar. „Kuuvi?“ You turned around to the man that has been hunting you for a year now. He used to be a good friend. „Yes, it‘s me.“ You turned around to him with a smile. „How have you been?“ You asked as if he didn‘t have the capacity to kill you right there. „Eating good, having a nice ship, good people around. How about you?“ He shrugged. „Except for the nice ship I can only say the same.“ „Where is your tin can?“ „Oh, he‘s just getting some supplies. Looking for a better ship at the moment. Razor Crest is great and all, but it gets crammed in there.“ You chuckled. Being royalty made you a master of lies sometimes „Twi‘ku still wants you on his doorstep.“ He gave a dirty grin. „You still work for that half-rotten idiot with bad rates? Moff Gideon would pay you so much more, I mean he‘s the source.“ „Either would pay me enough to retire if I deliver you.“ „Well, would be against the code of any guild.“ „Huh?“ „Pregnant women aren‘t allowed to be hunted.“ With a sweet grin you watched him realize the information you had just dropped and frown, enough distracted time to run one of your knives through his throat. He grabbed after you, getting out his vibroblade, but you had a gun trained on him in return, stepping on his lung and taking out the knife. „Traitor!“ You pulled the trigger and burned a hole through his heart. Two more men were running at you, one got a blastershot to the throat and the other got your new staff punched over the head.

You looked up to see people around the market hiding behind stuff, before hearing a saber lighting up behind you. „It‘s nice to see you alone for once.“ Moff Gideon. You were dead. You were so damn dead. „What do you want from me?“ you growled and heard him chuckle. „Not much, you just took something from me that you can‘t give back.“ „My brother killing your daughter isn‘t something that involves me!“ „No, but I overheard you are with child, so we might as well call it even.“ He charged at you with his dark saber, but just before it could hit you there was something big landing between you both.

„Nobody hurts my child.“ You heard his possessive and protective voice. „Oh, how sweet.“ He attacked Din ruthlessly, making you both step back further and further. Troopers came at you from left and right and you took out the second weapon you stole from Din, shooting left and right while leaned against his back. Behind you the saber strained against Din‘s arm guards. „Give up. You won‘t win this.“ Gideon hissed at him. You heard more jetpacks land behind you. Three blue Mandalorians landed in Din‘s sight behind Moff Gideon. „You have something that‘s mine and you better give it to me.“ You heard a familiar female voice. „Bo-Katan Kryze.“ His voice was somewhere between a chuckle and an unsure shakiness. There were no living stormtroopers anymore in just seconds and the four Mandalorians closed in on Moff. His saber not working on their armor. „Any last words?“ Bo-Katan asked with a serious voice. „They‘ll never stop coming for you. For your children, your family, your friends, your religion. They will always watch.“ Din put a blaster shot through his head from a low angle, „Psycho.“

He turned around to envelope you into the safety of his arms, „Cyar‘ika!“ You were shaking and gripping onto his cape, „I‘m okay. We‘re okay.“ „You can‘t just run off like that.“ He sounded wound up, probably thinking about what would‘ve happened if he hadn‘t arrived in time. „I thought-“ „Your thoughts aren‘t the reality. You really thought I‘d tell you to get rid of your unborn child. I told you children are seen as sacred in Mandalorian culture.“ You looked behind him and got a nod from a helmetless Bo-Katan, „We‘ll get this done, go talk.“ Din tightly put his arms around you and you shot up into the sky before landing on top of a building. His hands, freed from gloves, wandered over your cheeks. „I wish you would‘ve told me. I wish so much that I could‘ve been able to tell you to stop worrying and I wish you would‘ve been able to see me jump in joy at the news. I know we don‘t talk a lot, but this was the time you should‘ve talked. If I had said something negative you still could‘ve left.“ Your lip started trembling, he was right. You were so dumb for doing this. „Hey, no no, I understand why you did it, cyare.“ His helmet touched your forehead. His hands wandered down your sides, „Can I?“ You nodded and felt his hand wander over the hardened skin on your lower belly. He went on his knees before you, hands on your hips before they wandered to his helmet. „Din, no.“ You whispered and heard the hiss. „I thought about this for a long time. There is not one way, there are multiple ways that all have the same core. Look at Bo-Katan, Boba, all these people we met. I grew up in a version of this religion that doesn’t work for me anymore, I don‘t want that to be our child's life too. I want to live it our way.“ And with that the helmet came off. „They are gone, no one can hurt you two and Grogu anymore.“ „But the Empire.“ „We‘ll deal with it.“ The helmet went down and you could finally see his face. Soft face, with harsh features, smiling, „Besides. You looked pretty hot fighting off those idiots.“ „Wait till I break your hand while delivering the child.“ You chuckled with tears streaming down your face. He was so beautiful, so gentle. His nose pressed against your belly, his grip on your hips tightening just enough for you to feel even safer. „Where‘s Grogu?“ „On the ship, probably eating all the supplies.“ You both chuckled and enjoyed the moment for a while longer. „I can‘t wait to meet you, ad‘ika,“ he whispered to your unborn baby. There was so much love in his eyes that you started crying again. „Oh, cyare.“ He took your face in his hands with a caring frown on his face. „Don‘t mind me, just hormones.“ You chuckled to lighten up the situation. „My riduur.“ His bare forehead met yours. „Huh?“ „It- It means partner.“ He said it with such an innocent unsureness that you had to whisper a small, „Oh, baby.“ „I‘ll open up to you more, yeah? We‘ll find a good planet to stay.“ „I like this one so much.“ „I know, cyar‘ika. But maybe we should go to Sorgan for a while before coming back here. Grogu will have children to play with and you will be able to relax.“ His thumbs still caressed your cheeks. „Okay, my knight in shining armor.“ You smiled and kissed his nose, before taking his helmet and putting it back on his head.

You flew back to where you had fought, finding Bo-Katan with the dark saber. „I can rule over Mandalore again and you both are more than welcome there once it‘s done.“ She sent you both a smile. „We might take you up on that.“ You smiled back at her. „We‘ll clean this up and make sure nobody else is hunting for your children. We owe you for finally having this in our hands.“ She held up the saber. „Thank you,“ Din said sincerely and nodded before you said your goodbyes and went back to the ship.

You found Grogu arms deep in a jar of nectar. „Oh Grogu.“ You giggled and he turned around with his signature coo, ears falling at being caught. „It‘s alright, but don‘t do it again. You wanna see your dada‘s face?“ You asked picking him up, cleaning him with something from one of your bags. His eyes got wider and his ears perked. You let down both your bags and the cloak before turning around to Din. „Ready?“ You smiled and he nodded before taking off his helmet. The child gasped and reached for his face, so you held him up to it. He babbled while touching all over his face, Din chuckling and intently listening. Had he always looked like that beneath the helmet when talking to Grogu? „Dada.“ His and your eyes widened at that. You turned Grogu around to look at you and praised him, „Good boy, you love your dada so much, don‘t you?“ A tiny giggle came from his body before he wiggled again. „You wanna say hello to your sibling?“ Another squeak. You sat down on the floor, so did Din while also losing some parts of his armor. He watched as the child put his hands on your belly and closed his eyes, you felt the gentle tingle again. His tiny green nose nuzzled into your skin right where he felt his sibling through the force. „You‘ll see it in a couple months.“ You smiled down at Grogu and gently touched his ears. He could sense that good things happened. That you both weren‘t as worried as you usually were. „Let‘s go to Sorgan and meet the children you like playing with, yeah?“ Another happy squeak came from the green child. „Ner aliit.“ Din murmured softly. You understood without asking. You were his family now and he was yours.

___

Reblog to support a content creator.

You've mentioned before that Bones pretty much never calls Jim anything but "Jim." Do you think it's significant that at his birthday party, Bones has everyone toast to "Captain James T. Kirk," and not to "Jim"?

Well, he’s not “Jim” to all those folks, is he?

Sure, during informal downtime like this or a Meaningful Moment while on duty, one of the captain’s inner circle might occasionally call him by his given name - but Leonard knows at the party that he’s speaking to a room full of people who look at James Tiberius Kirk and see their captain first.

Oh, granted, he’s their much adored captain: the captain who traded his life for theirs, the captain they’d gladly follow into hell because he’s proven that he has what it takes to get them out the other side. Any one of the people in that room would jump in front of a phaser blast for him. (In fact, Uhura effectively did just that earlier in the movie.) They admire him; they trust him with their lives; they are fiercely devoted to him. They love him, each in their own way - the senior crew especially - and they know that he loves them in return.

But none of them love Jim the way Leonard does.

They couldn’t if they wanted to, because none of them know Jim like Leonard does. The crew has been through a whole hell of a lot with their revered captain, but Leonard is the one who’s seen him at his worst, at his weirdest, at his lowest and loneliest and most unguarded. He alone has scraped Jim off bar floors and put him to bed on the couch under his granny’s quilt to sleep it off and been awoken the next morning by the melodious sound of hangover puking in the head. He alone has stuck steadfastly by Jim’s side since the day he met the already disreputable bar brawler on the shuttle, took in the busted face and the bloodstained shirt and the small empty smile that didn’t reach those absurdly blue eyes, and decided they were two of a kind. He alone devoted himself to Jim long before that was a popular or even justifiable thing to do, before Jim had proven himself to Starfleet or his peers, before it became unmistakably clear that Jim Kirk was going to Be Somebody.

Leonard loves Jim in a different way than his fellow crew members do, shares a different kind of bond with him, and he’s a touch protective of that love and that bond. I wrote recently that Jim mostly refers to Leonard as Dr. McCoy to the rest of the crew because Bones isn’t really for anyone else. Well, the same holds true in the other direction. Leonard sees only Jim when he looks at him, always, no matter the situation, but he’s not necessarily eager to share him with the rest of the class. The crew can have Captain James T. Kirk, so long as Leonard never loses Jim.

+

Consider this: Jim’s birthday isn’t exactly a secret. Everyone on the Enterprise knows that Jim was born the same day as his father’s famously heroic sacrifice, the same day as an historic event they literally study at the Academy. Every idiot in Starfleet knows that date, at least in the abstract. But Leonard is the only one who understands Jim’s complex relationship with his father’s memory, because Leonard is the only one Jim’s ever been willing to open up to about it. So it’s Leonard who makes a point of acknowledging Jim’s birthday even though he knows from all their years of shared history that Jim would have him ignore it, and it’s Leonard to whom Jim ruminates on what it means for him to be turning 30, and it’s Leonard who says to him: “You spent all this time trying to be George Kirk, and now you’re wondering just what it means to be Jim.”

Leonard cares more than anyone else on the crew about Jim finding the answer to that question, because it’s always been Jim he’s concerned with first and foremost. He’d follow him anywhere - hell, death itself, or even (shudder) New Vulcan - not so much because he trusts him as a captain, but because he wants to be where Jim is. If Jim were to decide to leave the great Captain Kirk behind and instead take on the role of a vice-admiral or an Academy instructor or a goddamn pig farmer, Leonard would be right behind him, grumbling the whole way and death-glaring anyone who suggested he didn’t actually have to follow Jim’s lead if he was so aggrieved about it.

Not that that’s likely to happen any time soon. Jim is an outstanding starship captain: it’s a role perfectly suited to his strengths and passions, and (outside of the odd existential crisis) it’s deeply fulfilling and gives him both the community and the sense of purpose he’s been chasing his whole life. Leonard understands that even better than Jim does; thus the party. But at the end of the day, captaincy is only a role, a means to an end, and Leonard is far more devoted to the man than to the chair. He just wants Jim to be happy - and to be happy, he just wants Jim.

+

I want to be clear that in no way am I seeking to devalue the relationships Jim has with all the other folks at the party. The Enterprise crew is a textbook case of found family, and Jim and Leonard both have incredibly rich and meaningful relationships with many other people. And at the end of the day, they are a family which exists because they are a crew, because they’re stuck with each other for (at minimum) five long, crazy, claustrophobic years, because they have been through no end of shit together, because their bonds and sense of shared identity are what keep them alive and sane and kicking ass as the very finest crew in the Fleet.

And, like many families, they will change, grow, and scatter over the years. Alone or in pairs, crew members will take promotions, accept new assignments, or retire from active starship duty. Many of them will prioritize remaining with these people on this ship for as long as they can, but eventually even Captain Kirk himself will leave the command chair, and life and duty for his hundreds of former crew will go on. The core group will almost certainly come back together occasionally, professionally and otherwise, but in the times between, their bonds be stretched across lightyears, a little muted and faded by the immediacy of daily life. Everyone is the hero of their own story, after all, and those stories will take them through new places and new adventures and new relationships and, yes, new families too.

Jim and Leonard are a different kind of family. They became that for each other long before they came onboard the Enterprise, and the essence of their relationship is unaffected by pesky details of rank or mission. Leonard will never accept reassignment or seek advancement if it means going somewhere without Jim. He’s a doctor, not a ladder-climber, and he’s never been especially passionate about Starfleet or its mandate. He’ll stay on the Enterprise as long as Jim does, and when Jim leaves, he’ll follow him wherever he goes next. Simple as that.

(I have a...complicated...relationship with the comics, but I’d be remiss not to note here that of all Jim’s tight-knit and loyal crew, Leonard is the one who ships out with him on the Endeavour in the Boldly Go comics - even taking a demotion to do so - not long after the birthday party in question.)

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You may have noticed that I haven’t even touched on the capital-L Love aspect of things. The birthday party is pre-paradigm shift, by my reckoning, and I honestly believe that all of the above holds true whether or not you imagine that they are inevitably headed toward romance. Leonard and Jim’s relationship is just different in AOS. Their friendship is older and deeper and more exclusive than in the original timeline. They’ve grown together in every way, become more integral to each other’s sense of self. They are simply different people than their TOS counterparts, Jim especially, and I’d argue that Jim being a different person has made Leonard a different person along the way.

But, as I so often say, that’s a post for another day.

Speaking of An Unspoken Thing

(read it on ao3)

After almost losing Peter twice, Gamora decides that it’s finally time to tell him how she feels.

(Starmora Week 2017, Day 7: Unspoken) 

She was relieved Peter was alright. In fact, she was more than relieved-grateful, even. She almost skinned Rocket alive, thinking that Peter was dead. It was the second time that day. The first, she had hope that Peter had made it out of the Lazer Drill that had exploded. The second, she wasn't as hopeful. Ego's whole planet-form had exploded and he didn't have his helmet, nor an aero-rig to escape with.

When Kraglin had announced that the Quadrant was detecting a sign of life near the floating remains of Ego's planet, her heart started to flutter. It was that moment when she started to have hope again. However, her heart broke when she ran to the cargo hold only to see Peter crying hysterically while clinging onto a lifeless Yondu for dear life.

Only an hour had passed since the blue Centaurian's funeral. Nebula had left in a pod, in hopes of stopping Thanos. Gamora had hope for her sister, too-hope that one day, maybe not that exact day, they would be able to reconcile with one another. But for that moment, she could only watch as her sister's pod slowly drifted away from the Quadrant.

Long after Nebula's pod disappeared from view, Gamora was still staring out the window in the direction of her sister. It wasn't until almost a hundred Ravenger ships started to block her view that she stopped staring out the window.

Curious as to what was going on, she joined the rest of the group in the cockpit. "It's a Ravenger funeral." Peter explained as the green woman stood beside him. Gamora jumped a little when Groot hopped off of his shoulder to hers. The tiny tree's black eyes gazed into hers like a child would to his mother when she held him to her chest.

The Ravenger ships started blowing off beautiful fireworks of various, bright colors. Gamora's eyes quickly shifted back down to Groot as he started reaching for Drax. It was such a heartfelt sight to see.

However, she couldn't focus her attention back to the fireworks; her eyes shifted immediately to Peter. They started to well up when she started to think about everything that happened that day. Even though she was confused earlier on why he insisted that they had an 'unspoken thing', something that was clearly spoken of, she couldn't help but to admit that they didn't really talk about it. After almost losing Peter twice in the same day, she knew that if they didn't talk about it soon, it may never be spoken of.

So, she stood there next to him, analyzing every single detail of his face from the stiff hairs of the stubble on his chin to his gentle and loving hazel eyes. It wasn't long until he noticed her in his peripheral vision. He turned to her with the gentlest of all smiles. "What?"

"It's just-" She slightly shook her head, unable to think of how she was going to word what she was about to say. She gazed into his eyes lovingly and started to talk again, "Some unspoken thing."

Peter nodded in agreement with an 'I-told-you-so' look upon his face. To be honest, she wasn't going to roll her eyes at his cockiness. In fact, she couldn't have been happier to see that side of him, even if it wasn't as playful as it usually was.

All of the anxiety she was feeling was lifted once she felt his arm slowly snake around her to shoulder. Feeling his gentle touch let her know that he wasn't dead and she wasn't dreaming. He was real. He was alive. She took a deep breath before wrapping an arm around his back, laying her head lightly on his shoulder.

Hours after the funeral ended, Kraglin insisted that Peter should have the captain's quarters, despite how many times he declined the offer. He finally gave up on arguing with Yondu's second-in-command and towards the room with Gamora's fingers intertwined with his. He took a deep breath before entering.

It was just how he remembered it. Although he was rarely allowed to even walk near Yondu's quarters, there were those few times he ended up having to go in there. Yondu always threatened to eat him if he ever dared to enter, but didn't really seem to mind the company once he was inside.

The room was grungy and filled with dirt and grime. He could've sworn he saw Gamora cringe at the filth from the corner of his eye. A dusty, metallic dresser was connected to the wall beside the door. It was wide and had three rows of two drawers. A dirty mirror full of fingerprints sat above it. A queen-sized bed laid in the center of the room against the back wall. The platform frame and headboard were both made from scraps of rusted metal. Despite how unkempt the rest of the room was, the cream-colored bedding was fairly clean and almost new-looking. Peter couldn't tell if it was because he liked getting laid or if he just liked to sleep on a nice bed at night.

He jumped when he heard Kraglin speak behind him, "Uh...don't know if ya know dis, but uh...he wuz thinkin' bout namin' you the new cap'n once he's retire...least til' ya left. He seemed purdy upset bout that. He wuz always checkin' up on ya and evr'yone thought it wuz cuz he wuz goin' soft, but I always knew it'd was cuz he cared bout you." Peter and Gamora both turned to him as he spoke. "That's why I wanted ya to have Cap'n's quarters so badly. You deserve it, Pe-Cap'n." He left awkwardly, leaving the two alone.

The door closed behind him and Peter watched as Gamora wandered around the room. She stopped in front of the dresser, picking up one of Yondu's only oddities that was left after his funeral. She thumbed it and didn't tense when she felt Peter wrap his arms around her from behind. He propped his chin up on her shoulder and looked down at the bobble-head in her hands. It reminded him of an animal back from Earth-a black fennec fox, if they had three eyes.

"He bought that not too long after he abducted me." Peter muttered in her hair. She placed it back down on the dresser and looked at her fingers. They were covered in dirt and soot. She felt him unhook his arms from her abdomen and gently grab her hands. Still resting his chin on her shoulder, he rubbed the grime off her hands. "He must've recovered it from when his ship crashed on Xandar."

Peter broke out of their embrace, turned out the lights and grabbed her hands, pulling her towards the bed. Sleeping in one other's arms every night wasn't anything new and they had become accustomed to it. In fact, it felt wrong to sleep without the other.

Since they didn't have any clothes to wear to bed, they took off their boots and climbed under the covers. They were both surprised as to how comfortable the mattress was. Peter thought of it as lying on a marshmallow. After adjusting to the pleasantness of the mattress, the two got into their usual sleeping position; Peter laying on his back with Gamora curled into his side. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling closer to him, and started to thumb her arm. She nuzzled into his chest-something that was becoming more and more frequent as time went by.

"So, this...'some unspoken thing' you were talking about earlier-" He felt Gamora chuckle a little into his chest and looked down at her, only to realize that she was already looking up at him. Peter gazed into her eyes, waiting for her to say something-anything.

"I was so confused about what you meant by an 'unspoken thing'. I figured that since Mantis had already announced it...it was already spoken of. I didn't think about the fact that we never really talked about it."

"Well, do you want to talk about it?"

"Of course, I do-"

"No, I know you do. I meant do you want to talk about it, now?" He chuckled a little as Gamora's lips twitched upwards.

"With everything that happened today, I don't know if I'm going to fall asleep anytime soon. I guess it would only make sense."

Peter shifted to his side so he could get a better look at Gamora. She was smiling and it was that genuine, soft smile that she only used around Peter and Groot. The half-Terran took a deep breath before speaking, "I never wanted to get emotionally attached to anyone. I was always afraid of getting hurt or hurting others. Then, here comes this 'Diane'-" The woman scoffed and playfully rolled her eyes. "She's beautiful and selfless and such a badass." He paused when she started to quietly chuckle. "I knew from the moment I saw her outside of the Broker's shop that I was screwed. Even when I tried to be Star-Lord around her, she always managed to bring out Peter Quill, the scrawny kid from Earth who always got picked on." He thought back to when they were on Knowhere to sell the orb. "I didn't realize how much I actually cared for her until we were on Knowhere. She was the first person I ever really talked to about my mom. Then, the meeting with the Collector went by so fast and before I knew it, she was floating in space. I told her when I saved her that I didn't know what came over me-why I couldn't let her die-but I guess I was lying to not only her, but myself."

Gamora, fascinated at how he was telling her how he felt through a story, couldn't take her eyes off of his. "What came over you?"

He gazed into her eyes for a moment before speaking, "I was falling in love with her. Not only because of how beautiful she was, but because of her personality. Even though she lived most of her life in Hell, she always had a heart of gold. Even though I have friends now, she was-is-the only person I can always depend on."

Gamora was speechless. She had never heard Peter say anything so heartfelt about her before. He normally wasn't one to be so straightforward with what he said, always using pop culture references to explain what he was feeling. He started blinking at her like he thought he broke her. She wanted to say something, but nothing came out of her mouth. Instead, she kissed him-on the cheek. Her lips remained there for a while as he lifted his hand to her head and started playing with her hair. A few tears fell onto Peter's shirt.

Quickly wiping her eyes, Gamora laid back down. "I'm sorry. I'm just-not used to this."

Peter lifted his hand to cup her cheek. He used his thumb to wipe away the last few tears from her eyes. "Hey, don't be. It's been a hell of a day." The woman nodded, slightly embarrassed. "Your turn. Tell me how amazing I am." He teased, trying to lighten the mood. Gamora smacked him upside the head. "Yup, I deserved that." He felt content when a small chuckle escaped Gamora's lips.

She sighed and shook her head slightly. "When I first met you, I told you that you had the bearing of a man of honor. At first, I didn't mean it at all, but now-I mean every single word. Peter, you've showed me that I don't have to view myself as a daughter of Thanos anymore. At first, I didn't want to care for others, too. I didn't want anyone to care for me. Every second that goes by, I fear that Thanos will murder everyone I care about. Just as he did to my parents. There have been times where I've thought it'd be best if I left, but I couldn't-mostly, because of you." She muttered the last part and if it wasn't for how silent it was in the room, Peter would've never heard it. "And Mantis-she touched me earlier and for the first time in years, I felt fear. You almost died, twice. In those moments, I felt like a young girl again, seeing my parents get murdered. I think Mantis did something to me. It's almost as if I can't control what I'm feeling."

"Or maybe it's because you're starting to let people in." Peter smiled at her softly, before returning to lay on his back. He gestured for her to come into his embrace. She laid her head on his chest and took a deep breath. Without a second thought, Peter pressed a kiss to the top of her head and started rubbing her arm. "Damn, I've fallen truly, madly, and deeply in love with you."

"You're so melodramatic." She chuckled a little before closing her eyes. "But I feel the same." Peter could've sworn he heard her whisper one last thing before falling into a deep sleep: "I love you, too."

Homeward, ch. 2 (POTC OC)

Synopsis: Eleven years ago, Adonia Barbossa was abandoned as a child by her father for no discernible reason. Now a pirate captain in her own right, she seeks him to finally demand answers.

Rating: T for language and any various and sundry innuendoes.

A/N: Holy geez, look at the love. Ye olde shout-outs to @soulventure91 and @and-will-nice-hat because this is my life now. <3

Adonia sat on the beach until sundown, her chin on her arms as the sun sank into the rippling waves. Behind her, Tortuga got progressively louder and bawdier the darker the sky became. The lights on the Lass slowly glowed to life, and she knew at least one crewman was aboard. She got to her feet and dusted the wet sand off her breeches, returning the compass to her pocket and wiping the tear-salt from her cheeks. Some captain she was, sitting on a beach in tears when there was work to be about.

She headed back for the Lass, lost in thought. So Beckett and his ilk had somehow jumped in bed with a full-on sea legend. Or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, it did not bode well for anyone who wished to sail the sea as he pleased. All Adonia wanted to do was live her life. She wasn't actively hurting anyone, but oh, she'd heard the panicked whispers on the winds. Beckett had taken to killing anyone even remotely associated with piracy. It was a miracle she'd dodged his "justice" as long as she had. Helped that she was banned from Port Royal, she figured. But what to do, what to do? Eventually she would run out of places to run, but if she stood alone to fight, she'd lose everything.

How could she figure all this out without panicking or acting too swiftly? For all she knew, these were just bad rumors, but her gut said no. Her gut was rarely wrong and oh, God, she hated that about herself sometimes. Besides, sightings of the Flying Dutchman had been more plentiful in recent weeks, and she knew Beckett's boundless malice was legitimate. It might be wise to collect hard proof, but she had a terrible sense of not having time for that.

Adonia returned to a quiet and empty Lass. The men had taken their leave for the evening, off to waste their gold on what Adonia had come to call "tits and tipple." The company of her ship better suited her anyway, and once she was aboard, she made her way to the wheel, leaning against it with a sigh. Her hands swept tenderly down the wheel, its wood rubbed smooth by years of human touch. The handles seemed almost to melt into her hand as she curved her fingers around one of them. Adonia gazed down the length of her speedy little brig, leaning so to rest her chin on the wheel. Think, Addie, think. Cap'n Barnes didn't bequeath you this ship for you to lose it to the likes of Beckett.

No, she corrected herself. I earned this ship. He gave me a shot, but I've earned it. I am my father's daughter after all, whether he knows it or not.

And she was not like to surrender all she'd won out of fear. But then, neither was she like to endanger her crew for the sake of her pride. Aye, she'd fight to the death for her own honor, but she would not throw other men's lives away like that. They'd signed on to sail under her, not die for her, though Adonia knew a few probably would volunteer. She didn't want to get to that point.

The thud of familiar footsteps made her look up to see Jim approaching her. He gave her an easy smile in the blue-black of evening, stopping near the wheel and looking out across the harbor, hands on his hips.

"Turned a pretty penny, capitaine," he told her. "Crew's happy. Where to next?"

"...I don't know," Adonia sighed. Jim dropped his hands and studied her with an arched brow.

"You don't not know. I know how you think, and it is not like that. Qu'est-ce qui se passe?"

Addie sighed a second time and relayed the news about Beckett and Davy Jones. Both of Jim's eyebrows arched at that, and he exhaled heavily, running a hand across his shorn scalp.

"Foul winds, captain," he grumbled. "I don't like it."

"Neither do I, and there's a more interesting bit too." She took a slow breath. "My father's been sighted in Cuba."

"Oh, non, mon capitaine," Jim immediately said, recoiling and shaking his head. "That be a bad idea. Find the Black Pearl, see your father, what for? More grief? You can't possibly—"

Adonia had turned her gaze out to sea. In the distance, a dolphin leaped into the air and splashed back down with a happy, chittering gurgle. Jim groaned.

"You want to find him."

Adonia turned back to Jim, brows furrowed. "Aye, of course I do. This is the single thing I haven't had in all me years at sea, and now I've a chance to demand why."

"And you an' I both know bad things happen when you go askin' too many questions."

"Bad things also happen when I don't ask nearly enough," she said with a smirk.

"Aye, which is how we got banned from Port Royal three years ago."

"It is not!"

"Is too, and you know so. Just because you didn't check the goods..."

"Well, now, let's not drag up bygones," Adonia sniffed, lightly tossing her hair.

Jim just rolled his eyes and shook his head. Adonia smirked because she knew he wouldn't fight her past this point. He would argue with her all day, but at the end of it, Jim was the sort of sailor who followed his captain to hell or beyond—even if sometimes he had to drag her by her collar out of whatever foolery she'd gotten knee-deep in. With Jim, there was the sense that everything tested the limits of his tolerance, but nothing Adonia had done had broken those limits yet.

This, however, might come dangerously close. Jim's slim, athletic frame was tense, a whole-body reaction opposed to pursuing the Black Pearl. Adonia was sorry to make him feel that way. In a way, she felt she was using him and, by extension, the whole crew. Was this really such a bad idea? It seemed fair that after so many years alone she should finally get answers, but not at the cost of her crew's trust. Jim met her gaze and rolled his shoulders back.

"So, when do we go after ton père?" Jim asked.

"We can wait 'til the morn," Adonia said. She reached over and laid her hand on his shoulder. "S'il tu plaît, Jim. Please. C'est dans le besoin qu'on reconnaît ses vrais amis."

"I'm your friend always, not just when you need things," Jim sighed. "And your French is still terrible."

"You'll just have to teach me some more, aye?"

"Stick to Spanish," Jim said as he left the wheel for the main deck to begin his first watch. "You're better at it."

"That was highly uncalled for!" Adonia yelled after him. Jim laughed loudly in return.

Adonia leaned on the wheel with a sigh as Jim left.  

"What d'ye think, Lass?" she breathed to the ship. "Am I makin' a huge mistake?"

The ship didn't answer, of course, but Adonia listened just the same. You'd think a child abandoned by her father would want to go the opposite direction of him. If he was in Cuba, maybe she should be somewhere even farther away, like Barbados or, hell, the Far East. But no. Adonia had grown up with her father for six years, day in and day out, watching him be a clever first mate (if a hard taskmaster) and watching him lead the mutiny against Sparrow. She knew, at least in part, how his mind worked. She knew he did nothing without a reason. But then, she'd been over this again and again in her own head. Maybe she was wrong and reason had nothing to do with it. Or maybe they were terrible, vile reasons, like greed and hate and malice. Maybe she didn't know her father as well as she'd thought and she had never been as precocious and bright a child as she'd assumed.

Self-doubt clawed at her the way a drowning man clawed at his own throat. Thanks to her observation skills she had honed over the years, she wasn't often wrong, but what if she was this time? The little girl crying inside her begged her at least to try, and Adonia knew a hungry heart like hers wouldn't take anything else. She sighed and slipped away from the wheel, leaning back over the rail to gaze outward, her back to the port.

There was music in the way the Lass's hull creaked as she bobbed at anchor, the way the gathered sails whispered for freedom and the lines grumbled with impatience. This ship, with its sleek lines and elegant rigging, was the steadiest home Adonia had ever had. Six years with Papa, eight with various crews and captains, the rest on her own—her whole life had been on the move. That part didn't bother her. With the Lass, she took her home wherever she might wander. What bothered her was a restless churning in her spirit, the way the sea whipped itself into foam when a storm loomed. Suddenly home seemed to abstract, as if it was something out there rather than here aboard the Lass. What did she want?

The tide gurgled against the hull. Not too far off, seagulls screeched to each other as they bedded down for the night. The Lass's lanterns glowed softly against the deck and, farther below, the shabby, rotting boards of the dock. Uproarious laughter and howls echoed from the evening's festivities ashore. Somebody fired a pistol, then another, then another. Adonia sighed and slipped down to the quarterdeck and toward her cabin.

"Beaux rêves," Jim called to her from his post closer to the stern. "Men'll be ready to sail tomorrow."

"Good," Adonia replied. "Anyone not sober enough to sail gets left behind. I'll not be slowin' this vessel on account of headaches."

She retired to her cabin and locked the door, tossing her hat onto her desk and shrugging off her coat. She pulled her compass out of the coat's pocket before tossing the coat onto the nearest chair, and she flopped down onto her cot, turning the compass over in her hands. I'll find you, Papa. Maybe then you'll tell me why. At least she could count on this compass always pointing north, for north was the way she was bound.

MY favorite teacher; MUD LA

Ray Shaffer

When you ask anyone about Ray Shaffer, industry profession or student will tell you is the kindest, most genuine, and hard working man they know. He is the gentleman of this profession. His road to makeup wasn't a direct course, but that's what has made him an excellent artist and a phenomenal teacher.

"I was born at the Submarine Base in Groton, CT. My Dad was in the Navy at the time and worked on nuclear submarines. Part of my childhood was very residential, and part of it was moving around a lot because I was part of a navy and a coast guard family.

I first got interested in makeup when I was very very young. My Mom still is a nurse. She's been a trauma nurse for about 54 years, and she's finally going to retire this spring. She used to work the 3-11 shift at St. Vincent's Hospital. She would get off work around midnight or so, and come home to get me out of bed to watch Mission Impossible reruns together. There were lots of disguises in the show and my head just smoked at the idea that people could be different people. My Dad, who really wasn't into monster movies, but when I was 5 or 6 he would stay up with me to watch the Creature Feature at night. That was really cool because he's a very down to earth guy and monsters really weren't his thing."

Your first introduction to practical makeup came in the friendly familiar form.

"I remember when I was 12 or so, Dick Smith had a Monster Makeup Kit that you could buy at toy stores. I was saving up from my paper route to buy it, and I would go into KB toy store and look at it longingly. My birthday is in October and I was hoping to have it in time for Halloween, but I knew I was going to be a few bucks short. Well on my birthday my grandparents came over. My Grandpa drove a big green Chrysler, and I was feeling bummed when he called me over to it. He pulled out a box and he had bought me the Dick Smith Makeup Kit!

Basically it was vaccuform molds that you could make your own appliances on out of gelatin, although Dick called it flesh flags. He was looking for something easy to use and relatively non toxic, which it was. The whole heating it up thing was a little weird. You probably couldn't get away with that now. But the first makeups or appliances I did were out of the Dick Smith Kit. Later on I found Stage Makeup by Richard Corson in the library and that put me up on a different level.

I remember the first appliance makeup I ever tried to do on my own was a Rocky makeup. I was 14 or 15 trying to recreate the boxer damage makeup. I remember being very happy with it at the time. Then I lost the pictures, but I'm very glad because it was probably awful. It was a lot of fun. Later I remember what a thrill it was to meet Mike Westmore when he came out to MUD to talk. He had been the makeup artist on the first few Rocky movies, and on First Blood and Raging Bull, and all these cool films, plus Star Trek. It was really cool!

So how did you turn your interest in makeup into a career?

"I started out wanting to act. I'd always loved makeup, but being from the east coast, I may as well have being talking about being a rocket scientist or being a ping pong player in China. I didn't understand enough about the field to figure out how to make that happen. I wanted to be an actor, so I used makeup to augment my range as an actor. I'm a pretty unique looking guy. So unless I just wanted to wave a steak knife, or be the guy yelling "die grandma die", I needed a little help to make me believable as other characters.

In the course of working in theater in college, I was working on a play called a reconstruction. It's where you take a classic text and rearrange it. It's usually experimental theater. My college did Hamlet, and my roommate was playing Hamlet's Father. Our director had the idea in his rebelling of it to make him a Viking Chieftain. And what do they do when a they die, but put them in a funeral pyre. So we needed to have this crispy critter corpse kind of guy. A role like that is an awful lot for a 20 year old actor to wrap his head around. He tried different things, but wasn't happy with what he was doing. So I built the mask for him.

I remember him putting it on and staring in the mirror and being very very quiet about it. When you see your face burnt down to the skull the whole idea of how much you've been violated hits you. That night at rehearsal he was a whole different cat! I remember him walking off the stage and hugged me. I was so emotionally overwhelmed by that, that it was probably at the point I jumped ship. I felt I was doing better work influencing other performers than I was enjoying acting myself."

"I sort of dividde my career into East Coast and West Coast. My first prosthetic makeup job ever was in a theater in Massachusetts. I remember they thought I could age a whole cast for $50. I did it! I ended up having to augment it with cotton and latex.

My first job on the west coast was for Rob Burman. It's funny because it just got released! Andrew Gettty who was the grandson of John Paul Getty was a sort of auteur. He wanted to be a film director. He had some very nightmarish visions and he tried to write a narrative around it. Basically he picked away at this film for a long time. He would shoot it a little bit, then he would get upset and stop, then he'd start again with a different crew...and so on and so forth. He passed about 2 years ago or so and his estate had the work completed since he was in post production, and just released it on dvd and video on demand. It's called The Evil Within. There was some creepy stuff in there. There was a spider that was stitched together from human body parts. Lots of practical gags and lots of in camera tricks, things with perspective. I'm not sure if there was any cg at all. But that was my first film. That was also my first job for Rob Berman."

Eventually you made a transition from practical or teaching.

"I came out to the west coast in the summer of 2000, and I worked intermittently then continually was a makeup artist and primarily as a lab technician. Which means I made molds, I did hair work, I did castings, sometimes when the sun shone in the right direction I even sculpted. I did that for 10 years. In the late 2000's, a lot of things really depressed the film industry. SAG went on strike, and the the WGA went on strike. And then the banks crashed, and I navigated that as best I could but nobody was working.

I had to look for another opportunity. Also around this time my mother started getting sick. Mom is a tank so I knew if something was wrong with Mom then I wanted to be there. So I went back to the east coast to try to be of use to my family. In the course of wanting to stay busy I was going through Craig's List, and there was an ad the MUD NY was looking for instructors. At the time I didn't even know MUD had a campus in NY. So I contacted them.

I know that I'm a patient guy, and I hoped that I'd be descent at teaching. I was surprised by how much I loved it! There was an adjustment. It's challenging to take 20 people who are all at different motivation levels, ability levels, artistic levels and to guide them as a unit through things they sometimes don't believe they can do. So there is a learning curve. What started out as something I wanted to try, turned out to be something I love very very much. I think of friends back home who are knocking rust off of boats and making t shirts and working in fast food stores, and I've got the best job on planet earth.

With having a career sculpting, molding, applying, and painting, what part of the process is your favorite?

"What do I love doing? I love sculpture and molding. What is it that I love about makeup? I just love the whole idea that we can make things that never existed before. That you can sit down with a motivated actor and a little artistic vision and hard work, you can take a bag of cement and a block of wax clay and turn that into people, and species and creatures that the world has never seen before. It's so creative and only limited by your skill set and your imagination. And there's not a lot of that left in the world anymore. Everything is prepackaged. For us to be able to make something that is so unique individual in this world is something else."

What has changed about the industry from your perspective?

"I think computers have become a bigger part of it but even that is cyclic. Now there's a big push back. I think makeup and computers are both awesome tools, provided they are used appropriately for their strengths. If I use a hammer to hammer a nail it's a wonderful tool. If I use a hammer to saw a table in half, it's sort of a mess.

When all of the changes started happening was when Avatar came out. That scared the begezus out of all of us. There had been fun cg characters for some time, but Avaatar was the first instance where a director could look through the viewfinder on the camera and in front of him was people in motion capture suits. In real time he was seeing blue kitty people in the jungle. Basically when everyone saw that it was a huge hit, it freaked everyone out. Everyone making films at the time stopped and went into turn around. They wanted to evaluate this new option, and there was only one studio in the world that was doing work that good, WETA. Other studios caught up, but it took a while and meantime nobody was working.

There was a time when every action or adventure film you saw was just filled with lots of cartoons. Then there was almost a backlash against it. People were tired of watching confused looking actors standing around monsters that clearly aren't there. The Star Wars Prequels are a great example. People standing around in a green room looking confused. I think people missed what makeup brought to performances. I think the physical space that they fill on screen. There's a real tangible quality to them. If you look at the cast of Phantom Menace, they are clearly great actors but you look at how they struggled in that movie. Then you look at a movie like Alien, you have Sigourney Weaver in a real space with a guy in costume in a smokey alley with smile dribbling on her, that affects your performance.

Great makeups in your presence effect your performance. All the sudden you feel like you're in the presence of an alien, or a senator from another planet in a way that someone standing talking to a mark on the wall does not. They're effecting in a way that cg often does not. It's nice to see it come back. I think everything runs in cycles. In some ways opportunities have declined, and in other ways they have not. There are far more people making movies now a days, whether it's a YouTube movie, netflicks, a feature, a low budget thing. In some ways there seems to be more work."

And what does the future hold?

"I would be happy teaching as long as MUD is happy having me. I would be happy sculpting and making makeups. I'm getting better and look forward to continuing getting better all the time. There are things I think that are good or bad, but there's always improvement that can be made."

What advice do you want to share for makeup artists?

"Work hard and don't quit. I know that sounds like such a stereotype. A lot of these pieces of advice you hear so often that they lose their meaning but I've seen wonderfully talented people not succeed when they only need to try a little built harder and not quit. A lot of time common sense and a work ethic are super powers. Don't let anybody tell you that you can't do it.

If I have no other gift, I hope a teacher I have a gift to help someone who's straight out of high school, or wherever they are in life believe that they can get through a sculpture. And then they can get through fiberglass. And if you keep on trying doors will open. All luck is is your preparation meeting the right opportunity. So don't quit and believe you can do it. The whole idea of being able to make something from nothing is very empowering. Rob Burman used to say, "once you learn you can make stuff, you're never the same again"."  

The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

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The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2l3dJHY

The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2l3dJHY

The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2l3dJHY

The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2l3dJHY

The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners

Paul and Helen Olfelt | Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Gerte and Seamour Shavin of Chattanooga, Tennessee, were sure the legendary Frank Lloyd Wright would be too busy to design a house for them. So they wrote a letter, in 1949, asking him to recommend a good architect. Wright responded, “The best one I know is myself,” Gerte, now 95, recalls.

In 1954, Bette Koprivica Pappas, now 90, and her husband, Theodore (since deceased), spent a week composing a missive to Wright, asking him to design a house for them outside St. Louis. They expressed both trepidation (“I don’t know if we can afford two bathrooms”) and excitement (“Our faith in you is so great that I am sure if you did accept our offer it would be exactly what we wanted”).

When Wright agreed to work with the Shavins and the Pappases, they felt he was doing them a favor. Perhaps, but at the same time they were allowing him to extend his creativity into the last years of his life.

Wright, whose 150th birthday is being celebrated this year, was phenomenally productive up until his death at 91, in 1959. As the late architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable noted in her 2004 biography, Frank Lloyd Wright: A Life, “More than one-third of his total executed work was done in the last nine years of his life.” Those projects included not only important public buildings, like New York’s Guggenheim Museum—16 years in the making, it opened just months after Wright died—but also scores of private houses, each one customized down to the built-in furniture. “I think he was flattered when young people would seek him out,” says Paul Olfelt, 92, who was 33 in 1958 when he commissioned Wright to design his house in Minneapolis.

Original homeowners like Olfelt, Shavin and Pappas are a source of valuable insight into Wright and his practice, a 21st-century connection to the man Philip Johnson puckishly called “the greatest architect of the 19th century.” Barry Bergdoll, the curator of a major retrospective at New York’s Museum of Modern Art, opening in June, says that “because Wright’s work always arose from conversations with clients, their memories are almost as important as drawings to understanding the origins of his designs.”

Wright was born in Wisconsin in 1867. After taking classes at the University of Wisconsin–Madison, he moved to Chicago in 1887 and found work as a draftsman. The next year, he was hired by the architect Louis Sullivan, and in 1893 he opened his own studio. In 1911, Wright commenced work just south of Spring Green, Wisconsin, on his famous Taliesin compound, which would become his home and studio. (In contrast to his well-ordered designs, his personal life was somewhat turbulent, involving a scandal-making affair, a murdered lover, tragic fires, ongoing financial stress, eight children, three marriages and two divorces.)

During the Great Depression, to help make ends meet, Wright began taking on apprentices, called fellows, who paid tuition. In 1937, he started building the outpost that became Taliesin West, in what is now Scottsdale, Arizona. Wright and his students were soon dividing their time between the two Taliesins, where Wright worked with T-square, straightedge, compass, triangles—and lots of sharpened pencils.

In the postwar years, Wright’s practice flourished as his innovative approach jibed with the country’s newly optimistic mood. His relatively affordable houses, which he called Usonian (the term is sometimes said to be a combination of U.S. and utopian), were generally single-story brick or wood structures. Large living/dining rooms, often with massive fireplaces, were served by small, efficient kitchens. Bedrooms lined up like ships’ cabins. Outside, roofs extended over carports (which Wright claimed to have invented) in front and terraces in back. The layouts, Huxtable wrote, were designed for “a generation living a simpler, more mobile and much less formal life,” attracting, she noted, “well-educated professionals and intellectuals in middle-class communities.”

Gerte Shavin in her living room, seated on a banquette typical of Wright’s designs.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

OVER THE COURSE of his 70-year career, Wright completed more than 300 houses. A decade ago, when I started tracking the Wright clients still living in their Wright homes, I found dozens, including several spry octogenarians whose houses seemed to give them a sense of purpose. When I returned to the subject last year, for this article, the number of houses still in original hands had shrunk to five. There were seven owners: two widows (Bette Koprivica Pappas of St. Louis and Gerte Shavin of Chattanooga); a widower (Roland Reisley, who lives in Westchester County, New York); and two couples (Paul and Helen Olfelt of Minneapolis and Bob and Mary Walton of Modesto, California).

“I’m aware that I’m part of a rapidly dwindling group,” notes Roland Reisley, a retired physicist. But he’s hanging on. “People have observed that I’m in pretty good shape for 92,” he says. “It’s pure speculation, but I have reason to believe that living with a source of beauty in a comforting, enriching environment is psychologically beneficial. There’s not a day of my life when I don’t see something beautiful: the sun on a particular stone; the way the wood is mitered.”

The two wings of the Olfelts’ home overlook a sloped lawn. “I did all the mowing until last year,” Paul says. “Then the kids got after me.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Not all the homeowners are faring as well. Last year, because of health concerns, the Olfelts reluctantly moved out and put their house—their home since 1960—on the market. Still, in December, the couple hosted their annual Christmas Eve celebration there, as they have for more than 50 years.

A few months before the Olfelts moved, I met with them in their living room, where a vast sloped roof extended the house into the landscape. “We feel like we’re practically outside,” Paul said, adding, “Mr. Wright believed the outside should be a living space.”

Helen Olfelt, 92, pointed to a Wright-designed coffee table, which she noted was big enough for all of her great-grandkids to crowd around at mealtimes. Paul put his feet up on a hexagonal ottoman and recounted how the couple came to own a Wright house. “Helen and I were both undergraduates, and we knew someone working at Taliesin,” he said, referring to Wright’s Wisconsin studio. “We asked [our friend] if there were any good apprentices. He said, ‘Speak to the boss.’ ”

The next thing they knew, Wright himself was designing a home for their nearly four-acre plot. (The architect never visited the site; he worked off detailed topographic maps and photos.) Paul, a retired radiologist, led me on a tour of the house, which included two small children’s bedrooms. In Wright’s original plan, there were doors from those rooms to the backyard. Paul remembered, “I said, ‘Mr. Wright, we don’t want our children escaping in the middle of the night.’ ” Helen jumped in, saying, “He gave us quite a lecture on why we shouldn’t be so controlling of children.” The Olfelts were adamant, and Wright replaced the doors with windows. But other issues remained, including a master bedroom with windows so irregular, Paul noted, “it was impossible to hang drapes.”

The Olferts’ large living room features a dramatically angled ceiling. Wright hid structural supports in the window mullions.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

In Modesto, Mary Walton explained that her older brother studied under Wright, and while still in high school she met “the master” at his Arizona studio. Impressed with the architecture and the “marvelous conversation,” she waited until she was married and then told her husband, who is British, that she wanted a Wright house. “Bob was very skeptical of the whole thing,” she says—which makes it ironic that their house, completed in 1957, became known, in the sexist terms of that era, as the Robert G. Walton House.

The Waltons scheduled a meeting with Wright. “I took to him when I met him,” says Bob, who is 94. “What impressed me was that before he would even think of designing the house, he wanted an aerial photograph, he wanted to know the flora and fauna. And he wanted to know how we were going to live.” Bob had to persuade Wright to factor in a living room wet bar. Meanwhile, the couple thought two dormitory-style bedrooms would suffice for their six children. Wright told them, Bob recalls, that “every child needs a place to be alone, to meditate.” On this point, Wright prevailed, designing the home’s most distinctive feature: a bedroom wing with a hallway nearly 100 feet long.

The Waltons wanted an adobe house, but Wright persuaded them to use concrete block. The flat roof leaked for many years.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Asked what he thinks of the house today, Bob says, “We enjoyed having a large family, and the house fit very well into the management of that family. And I’m happy that Mary got something she always wanted.” Bob adds, of other Wright homeowners, “There is a tendency for some people to almost make Wright a religion. I look to him as a man who made good-looking houses that were very practical.”

WRIGHT SPENT a lifetime challenging structural conventions. Each commission gave him a chance to try new materials, new room arrangements and new geometries. Reisley marvels at Wright’s genius in basing his suburban New York house not on rectangles but on hexagons: “It wasn’t about showing off; it was a geometric system that gave him two more directions to work with.”

And unlike most 1950s houses, which stood straight up on flat suburban plots, Wright’s houses often burrowed into the land. “It looks like a part of the hill, like it’s been there forever,” says Gerte Shavin of her house, completed in 1952. Made of crab orchard stone and cypress, it has stunning views of the Tennessee River.

But Wright’s unusual designs often caused complications. “Getting a building permit wasn’t easy, because they didn’t know if the roof was going to stay up,” Paul Olfelt explained. “Eventually the building inspector said, ‘If you’re that crazy, go ahead.’ ” The flat roofs of some of the houses resulted in leaks; Mary Walton said it took “10 or 15 years” to get their dripping under control.

For all his talk about accommodating clients’ wishes, Wright, Huxtable wrote, “was relentlessly dictatorial about building in furniture of his own design and including his own accessories—he was known to go into his houses during the owners’ absence and rearrange everything to his taste.” Reisley had a formula for working with him. “If you said, ‘I’d like this here instead of there’ ”—questioning Wright’s judgment—“that’s what led to all the sparks. But if you described a need, he’d try to satisfy that.”

The carport of the home of Roland and Ronny Reisley, an innovation Wright claimed to have invented.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

Wright, by all accounts, didn’t care much for budgets, either. Reisley says his house came in at “several times the estimated cost”—about $100,000 altogether. He adds, “I was frustrated, but I was lucky that as our circumstances improved it became affordable.” Wright, meanwhile, wrote him, “Stretch yourself. Building this house is one of the best things you’ll ever do. I promise you’ll thank me.”

Paul Olfelt says he gave Wright a budget of $30,000–$40,000. “We stayed within twice that. It was a lot of dough for me.” The couple did much of the construction themselves. But, Olfelt says, “cutting bricks at 60-degree angles was a lot of work.”

When Theodore and Bette Pappas told Wright they were concerned about money, he advised them, self-servingly, “Don’t worry about the money. It will come. It will come. It always does.”

Meanwhile, the couple asked his advice on finding the right piece of land. According to Bette, Wright told them, “Go out as far as you can go, and when you get there, go 10 miles farther, and still you won’t be out far enough. By the time your home is completed, you will be part of suburbia.” He was correct, especially because the house, which he designed in the 1950s, wasn’t completed until 1964. (Bette couldn’t be interviewed or photographed, but she told the story of the house in her 1985 book, No Passing Fancy.)

Roland Reisley has kept the house exactly as it was when it was finished.

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

The owners didn’t think of their houses as investments, and it’s just as well. Several Wright masterpieces, such as Fallingwater, in western Pennsylvania, are considered priceless, but most of his houses go for little more than nearby listings by lesser architects. At savewright.org, the Frank Lloyd Wright Building Conservancy maintains a database of Wright houses for sale. At press time, there were five, including the Olfelt House, at $1.395 million. The others ranged in price from $365,000 for a small house in Beaver Dam, Wisconsin, to $1.95 million for a larger place in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

Janet Halstead, the conservancy’s executive director, explains the market this way: “Wright houses do receive a premium in some cases, but that premium might not be as high as the sellers imagine.” The maintenance required and the scrutiny of preservationists are drawbacks. Brokers say it can often take a year or more to find the right buyer.

Though a number of Wright’s best houses are open to the public, including the Frederick C. Robie House (1910), in Chicago; Fallingwater (1939), in Mill Run, Pennsylvania; and Wingspread (1939), in Racine, Wisconsin, most Wright homes are privately owned, and their owners often struggle to balance notoriety, which brings steady streams of architecture buffs, with the desire for privacy.

“Our kids were not impressed that we lived in a house by probably the best architect of the 20th century,” Paul Olfelt says. But his daughter Jean notes, “It was impressive to have busloads of Japanese tourists outside.”

Reisley, who has also written a book about his experiences with Wright, didn’t mind the attention. He says that he and his late wife, Ronny, expected the home to be “beautiful and a good place to raise a family.” But unexpectedly, he says, “it turned out to be much more than that: A community of Wright owners and Wright enthusiasts developed that continues to this day. It has become a central core of my life that I could not have anticipated.”

Each time an owner dies, a Wright house is endangered. “Even selling to someone who appears to be very preservation-minded can lead to surprises later as the new owner’s circumstances change,” says Halstead. To protect his house, Reisley plans to execute a preservation easement, limiting the ability of future owners to alter it—and almost certainly lowering its market value.

“I don’t like mismatched things,” says Mary Walton, “so I like the furniture because it was all made for here.”

Victoria Hely-Hutchinson for WSJ. Magazine

But the Waltons have chosen not to go that route. “My children really thought that would make it harder to sell the house after we died,” says Mary Walton. “I’ve had a lot of enjoyment from it, but you have to be somewhat practical about it.”

The Olfelts too have no control over the future of their house. “Its fate is entirely in the hands of the next owner,” Paul Olfelt said in a phone message. Sounding emotional, he added, “I think we were good stewards of the house, and we assume that anyone who buys it will be the same.”

The post The Last Original Frank Lloyd Wright Owners appeared first on Real Estate News & Advice | realtor.com®.

from DIYS http://ift.tt/2l3dJHY