Inga Saffron
September 23, 2007
NEW YORK - In case you think landing the commission to design a glamorous new home for Philadelphia's Barnes Foundation might
go to the heads of architects Tod Williams and Billie Tsien, here's a bit of perspective:
Their landlord, Carnegie Hall, wants to evict them from the garret apartment they've shared for 30 years. So before they
start laboring on the project that will admit them to the pantheon of the starchitects, they must first find a Manhattan
condo they can afford.
This is a strange, telescoped moment for Williams and Tsien, who have been professional and matrimonial partners since the
late '70s. They knew as soon as the call came from the Barnes in early September that their lives were about to change in
unfathomable ways. Yet here they are, still juggling the same quotidian demands.
A client whose house they renovated about 15 years ago just called about finding replacement fabric for a custom pillow.
They need to shepherd their Yale University architecture students on a long-planned trip to India, where they are also
building a corporate campus in Mumbai. Between the rush of packing and last-minute meetings Thursday, Tsien
(pronounced Chyen), a compulsive reader, very nearly left for the airport without a Willa Cather novel for the plane.
And, oh, yes: They must hurry back so they can join their neighbors Oct. 3 for a street protest against Carnegie Hall's plans
to convert its 30 remaining artist studios into a music institute.
"We were originally going to get one of those big blow-up rats," Tsien said, sounding as if she were recounting the technique
for one of her exquisite, hand-worked architectural details. "But then we decided just to wear black T-shirts."
Of the six architectural teams who made it onto the Barnes' short list, Williams and Tsien probably operate the most low-key
design practice. Not that they are novices, having completed the Phoenix Art Museum, the American Folk Art Museum on 53d
Street, Skirkanich Hall at the University of Pennsylvania, and a California neurosciences institute for Nobel Prize winner
Gerald M. Edelman. Their serene, earthy buildings have never suffered a stinging review.
Eduardo Glandt, the Penn engineering school dean who commissioned Skirkanich Hall, said working with them "was like getting
a doctoral degree." Glandt became so friendly with the pair during construction of Skirkanich that he sometimes hashed out
details over a glass of wine or a home-cooked dinner.
Their reputation for lavishing personal attention on clients was what clinched the Barnes commission, said Aileen Kennedy
Roberts, the head of the building committee. Since the Barnes is under court mandate to replicate its Merion galleries, the
last thing the foundation wanted were architects who would later chafe at the restrictions. Williams and Tsien not only
committed themselves to solving the vexing puzzle, but they also offered innovative ideas for "avoiding a Williamsburg
version" of the Barnes.
"It wasn't so much about the architecture, or the architect," Roberts explained. "It was about trying to figure out who was
able to bring the Barnes from Merion to Philadelphia and maintain the integrity" of the unique art collection.
While some firms might handle 30 projects at once, Williams and Tsien work on only a handful at a time, so they can immerse
themselves in every detail, down to the doorknobs. Just 30 people work in their ground-floor studio on Central Park South.
The crew includes their son's former babysitter, who was drafted a few years ago to be the office manager.
"We don't even have a secretary," Williams said, and admitted that the Barnes was "a little concerned with our lack of
infrastructure."
They're planning to staff up for the $100 million museum project on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, which they consider the
most important commission of their careers. They're also trying to clear their schedules by shedding residential projects.
They've come to accept that they will have to hire an assistant. But it's not certain if Williams, 62, will be able to give
up his independent ways, such as keeping his own daily calendar and ducking out of the office for a jog or bike ride.
"If there is a chance to bungee-jump, to Rollerblade faster than anyone else, and cut as close and fast as he can in front of
a careening New York City taxi, he will take it," Tsien, 57, once wrote of her husband.
Spend five minutes with the two architects and it becomes apparent that they are very different personalities. Williams is
the tall, voluble one, who seems to operate perpetually in high gear and refuses to wear anything dressier than an old
T-shirt.
He is credited with the Escherlike staircases that dominate Skirkanich Hall and the Folk Art Museum, and give the firm's
architecture such unexpected drama. He loves intricacy, almost to a fault, said Tsien. Try not to bring up laboratory-
ventilation systems with Williams unless you have time for an epic saga.
But it would be wrong to underestimate Tsien's influence just because she is a good foot shorter than her husband, can
remain silent for long stretches, has a closet full of elegant dark clothes, and considers staying in a hotel without
room service to be roughing it. "It must be something in my Chinese heritage, because I don't reveal myself right away,"
she told the audience during a lecture at Penn several years ago.
The soft-spoken Tsien, whose parents immigrated to the United States after the communist takeover, is prone to unleash
zingers suddenly, as she did last week after Williams went into an extended rhapsody about his plan to orient their Mumbai
corporate campus around a giant mango tree. He envisioned cafeteria tables spilling outside and employees eating under the
tree's shady canopy.
"Just remember," Tsien interjected, "if you're eating under a mango tree, the birds are going to [make a mess on the
tables]."
Tsien didn't mince words when she talked about her experience on the board that chose the rebuilding plan for the World
Trade Center site. "It was a huge waste of time," she recalled; George Pataki, then New York's governor, "decided
everything." Then she added, "They picked me only because I was a minority, a woman, and an architect, a three-fer."
While Williams loves to construct spatially complex buildings that resemble puzzle boxes, Tsien comes at architecture from
the perspective of an artist. She loves to work with fabricators to customize ordinary materials. At the Folk Art Museum,
she not only oversaw a special acid treatment of its metal facade panels, but she also insisted that the manufacturer lay
them out in a field so she and Williams could arrange their composition in advance. The mysteriously glowing facade is as
much a work of American craft as anything inside.
But, then, Tsien was an artist long before she became an architect. She studied painting at Yale and worked as an art teacher
before following her first husband to California.
Feeling adrift in the strange surroundings, she decided to go back to school to study graphic design. When she learned that
the University of California, Los Angeles, didn't offer a program, she abruptly switched to architecture. She liked that
architecture was an art form with clear boundaries. "With architecture, there are ways to determine if you did a good job,"
she explained. "With painting, it's subjective."
By the time she graduated, her marriage was breaking up. She moved back east and began cold-calling small firms. One
professor recommended Williams, who had been singled out in an article on young architects. Little did she know that he was
suffering from his own career drift.
Although he found a prestigious job with Richard Meier's New York office after graduation from Princeton, Williams felt
doomed to be a lowly associate. When an acquaintance commissioned him to design a house, he decided to strike out on his
own. But almost immediately, the job fizzled - the client had decided to divorce. Williams' own breakup with his first wife
soon followed.
Newly divorced and unemployed, Williams discovered in 1974 that he could rent a cheap, postage-stamp-size studio with 20-foot
ceilings in Carnegie Hall, in a suite of apartments built over the rafters of the concert hall. To survive, Williams teamed
with a friend and set up an architecture studio in the apartment.
They squeezed six desks in the tiny front room, and Williams inserted a sleeping loft just below the north-facing garret
windows. While there was hardly room to stand, the light was fantastic, and he could glimpse the greenery of Central Park
every morning.
When Tsien showed up, she was assigned one of the desks. The small practice survived by designing corporate interiors and
retail spaces. "It taught us a lot about putting materials together," Williams recalled.
Eventually, he moved the fledgling firm to Central Park South. But Tsien stayed at Carnegie Hall, and the two married. Not
only did they raise their son in the 900-square-foot space, but they also often hosted Williams' two children and a rotating
cast of visiting architects.
No wonder they're rushing back Oct. 3 to protest their eviction by the Carnegie Hall management. Two days later, the Barnes
board will be in court again to defend its Philadelphia move. A loss would cost Williams and Tsien the commission of a
lifetime.
"It's awful to contemplate," said Williams.
Which loss?
Both, they replied in unison.
Contact architecture critic Inga Saffron at 215-854-2213 or isaffron@phillynews.com.
Find this article at:
http://www.philly.com/philly/news/homepage/9943922.html
Photo credit: Michael Perez/ For The Inquirer
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