Category Archives: Blaservations

The Man Mound: A Transformative National Historic Landmark

 

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Aerial View of the Man Mound after the spring “burnoff” of dead prairie grass, 2014.  Image via Sauk County Eagle.

Deep in the rolling hills of the northern flanks of the Baraboo Range, and about two miles northeast of Baraboo, Wisconsin, lies an ancient and mysterious earthen figure, cut off at the shins. An amputee.

The Man Mound of Greenfield is the only surviving anthropomorphic effigy mound in North America.  It was formed of earth between 700 and 1000 AD by the Late Woodland effigy mound builders, who constructed both humanoid and zoomorphic mounds across the eastern and middle western portions of what is now the United States.  Until the turn of the 20th century, Sauk County had as many as twelve humanoid mounds, with hundreds of others depicting birds, snakes and other animals.  Despite early recognition by surveyors of these earthworks as special monuments, almost 75% of the mounds previously identified have disappeared.

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Looking north towards Man Mound’s “horns.”  Despite the snow cover, the rise above grade is clearly visible.  Mowing of the mound ceased in 2008, attributing to an array of prairie grasses and flora seeding from it, including ferns not native to Wisconsin.

Not long after measurements of the Man Mound were taken and the mound was brought to wider public attention by civil engineer and naturalist Increase A. Lapham, an east-west road was cut below the figure’s knees, detaching the body from the feet, an unmistakably adverse effect that would be inconceivable today, and illegal in terms of federal and state laws regarding the mound’s historic and cultural status.  But this was the Midwest in the 1860s, less than a lifetime after the Indian Removal Act, and the center of a century where transportation routes and the opening of government lands pushed non-native people westward.  Immigrants of German and Irish decent were coming by ship, steamboat, railroad and then in wagons through the Baraboo Valley.  Thirty years prior to the construction of Man Mound Road, Native Americans were the primary inhabitants of Wisconsin.  The name of the road has a deeply disquieting effect, as if the mistake was acknowledged as soon as the road was laid.

The Man Mound is a transformative being, a curiosity of the Lower World, a primordial deity, a water spirit, a bear, or a rabbit, or any of these things.  And to native peoples like the Ho-Chunk Nation, who lay claim to the Late Woodland effigy mound builders as parent stock, a symbol of renewal.  In 1908, the Wisconsin Archaeological Society, along with the Federation of Women’s Clubs and The Sauk County Historical Society moved to acquire the Man Mound Site, establishing it as one of the first archaeological sites preserved specifically for preservation purposes.  This purchase occurred in the nick of time, as the previous land owner had disclosed that he was looking into cultivating the site.  Man Mound Park was dedicated on August 8th, 1908.

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Historical marker erected by the Sauk County Historical Committee, 1969, alongside the Wisconsin Historical Societies’ plaque from the 1908 park dedication.  The Man Mound’s torso and right arm are visible in the background.

While the dedication of the park did include an invocation of indigenous peoples, accounts of that day paint a woefully misguided picture of appropriation as appreciation, showing a version of the disconnection between Americans and native peoples that we see today, from feathered headdresses at Coachella to the Washington Redskins to referring to a work meeting as a pow-wow.  Native Americans were not considered a part of the 20th century narrative of the Man Mound, and were instead relegated to a cultural footnote during the celebration-tipis, wampum and all.

Detached from the rest of the body, the feet were now located in a cow pasture on the other side of Man Mound Road, and would over time get trampled down to grade. Even without legs, which is certainly an integrity problem for the ages, Man Mound was listed on the National Register of Historic Places in 1978.

Rob Nurre is a landscape historian and longtime steward of the Man Mound who has come to live “seventeen man mound-sized steps away from the park.”  With the 100th anniversary of the park looming, Nurre began thinking about the Man Mound’s amputated legs and feet, along with ways to raise public awareness for the site.  Using measured drawings from the 1850s and a can of white paint, Nurre gave Man Mound new prosthetic limbs stretching across the road, and worked with the land owners north of the road to mark off the area where the feet once stood.

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The Man Mound’s “ghost legs” stretch across Man Mound Road.

“How do we best care for these sites,” asked Nurre. “When they are such a reference point in terms of how we see the world?” Perhaps the Man Mound’s painted legs are an arbitration between a careless past and a conscious, deliberate future.  They also “get in your face” Nurre said, as they clearly do not relate to roadway safety, and you’ve got to drive over them in order to get west of the mound.  Rebuilding the missing extremities from grade wouldn’t be appropriate mitigation, as it would serve to erase the lessons in stewardship and our cultural dialog with the past that the flattened legs and feet force us to interface with directly.

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The location of Man Mound’s trampled feet, fenced off from a cow pasture.

In 2016, the Man Mound was designated as a National Historic Landmark, a distinction only given to historic places that have a profound national significance, and are already listed in the National Register of Historic Places. Only 2,500 of our nations historic landmarks meet this criteria.  The boundary of the Man Mound National Historic Landmark was extended beyond the boundary of the National Register of Historic Places listing to include the area of the road containing the “legs” as well as the section of pasture where the feet once were.  The creative mitigation of modern interference is now a part of the Man Mound’s official story.

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William H. Canfield’s map of the Man Mound, 1859.  Canfield shared Man Mound’s discovery with Increase A. Lapham, and Lapham publicized the find.  Image courtesy of the Wisconsin Historical Society, WHi-77567.

In 1859, Increase A. Lapham wrote that the Man Mound “is in the act of walking, and with an expression of boldness and decision which cannot be mistaken.” At over 214 feet tall, Man Mound is striking when viewed from the ground, but aerial views are truly mystifying, and beg some serious questions.  Was the Man Mound meant to be viewed from the sky?  Where is it walking to?  What is the true meaning of the iconography?  We as a modern people know so little about the purpose of effigy mounds, and almost as little about their contents.  As many as 87% of effigy mounds that have been subject to archaeological investigation were used to mark or contain human burials, with most contained near a figures’ heart or inside the head.  While archaeological digs have occurred in the area where the feet once were, yielding nothing of interest, there is no record of disturbance for the rest of the body.  Digging into a cultural monument that is over a thousand years old would be a selfish, obscene choice, and would produce nothing of value.

The Man Mound will continue to yield information on our collective reference point, but by way of our understanding of what has occurred above ground, and how we weigh our current decisions against the established effects of the past and the unknown future.  So what is the best practice in terms of an effigy mound without legs, when there are no other effigy mounds with legs to compare it to?  Perhaps this is the Man Mound’s true character as a transformative being.  One that continues to learn from us as we learn from it.

The author would like to thank Rob Nurre for his generous contributions to this article.

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Blaservations + Emily Speed

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Louise Freer Hall, University of Illinois (Charles A. Platt, 1930)

This fall, I had the pleasure of writing text for UK-based artist Emily Speed’s superb exhibition at Fort Worth Contemporary Arts in Fort Worth, Texas.  Ms. Speed’s work tackles a micro and macro sense of place, from a perspective that addresses the body as a house for the mind, and architecture as a personal matter.

Body Builders is a tongue in cheek film with both sculptural elements and paintings that looks at the recreation and duplication of Roman and Classical architectural around the world, with a focus on campus architecture.  Below is an excerpt of the exhibition text:

It’s the fall of 1986, and college freshman Thornton Melon is strolling through the campus of Grand Lakes University.  It’s a bucolic setting, with vividly hued-leaves falling to the ground around beautifully authoritative academic architecture.  Ornate pediments top columns of the highest order with Ionic capitals between, like blooming stone mushrooms.  Tweeded students await fellow classmates underneath deeply recessed porticos, textbooks in hand.  Egg and dart moldings dash around corners.  Windows are so carefully arranged within fields of red brick that they almost look mathematical.  Fresh pledges scurry up dramatic staircases and into grand temples of learning.  “When I used to dream about going to college this is the way I always pictured it,” remarks Melon, “When I used to fall asleep in high school.”

Thornton Melon isn’t a real college student, and Grand Lakes University is a fictional institution.  What’s described above is a memorable scene from the 1986 American comedy Back to School, starring the delightfully bug-eyed Rodney Dangerfield as a pension-age freshman.  Back to School centers on Melon’s attempts to survive his first year of college, with his lovably crude personality and eye-roll inducing one-liners (“Remember, the best thing about having kids is making them”) as an accelerant for the various atypical university hijinks he seems to innocently fall into.  If the comedic films of the 1980s have shown us anything, it’s that we will always be fascinated by watching an element of the past (i.e. Rodney Dangerfield) flop around in our kooky contemporary world like a fish out of water.  See films like Big (1988) 18 Again! (1988) or any of the three movies in the Back to the Future cannon (1985, 1989, 1990) as examples.  As Thornton Melon himself quips, “Read.  Who has time?  I see the movie.  I’m in and out in two hours.”

The sense of place that Dangerfield dreamed about and also experienced, however, is spot on.  Grand Lakes University (or in the real world, the University of Wisconsin-Madison, where Back to School was filmed) is the built environment one dreams about when one dreams about–thinks about—going to college.  While it’s difficult to peg whether this dream is one minted via popular culture or the experience of actually attending a university, it’s reality.  Columns, fanlights, triglyphs and dental patterns abound.  Entablature sandwiches so layered they are almost difficult to look at.  Order and symmetry rule, as well as proportion.  Cue Pomp and Circumstance, if it hasn’t already become an earworm since you began reading this.

Much like a senior citizen aged college freshman, the Classical design language of caryatids and columns was recontextualized from the ancient temples and churches of Leon Battista Alberti, Andrea Palladio and all the Greeks, and smacked down into late 19th and early 20th century college campuses across America.  Classical revival buildings connect us to our ideas, history and culture, but also reflect them.  It’s a powerful visual statement for an educational setting.  College is often a person’s first taste of adulthood-be it a slightly simulated one; when we leave the protective cocoon of our parent’s house for the larger body of the college campus.  Unless you were one of the lucky kids to grow up in a historic house, the White House, the Neutra House or This Old House, chances are you spent your formative years within the architectural indifference of the suburbs, where the only thing we ask of buildings is that they have enough bathrooms and convenient parking.  The transition from this underwhelming built environment to the grandeur of the college campus is one of many shocking readjustments.

The student gathers their shower caddies, desk lamps, folders and highlighters and packs them tightly into giant Tupperware bins in preparation for the epic move into the dorm room, a 12-foot by 9-foot space, all of 200 square feet that they will share with a complete stranger.  There are classes to register for, the dining hall and library to find, and an abundance of exciting new faces.  The campus is sprawling and old; it feels like it’s been around forever.  It’s likely less than a hundred years old, but the constant ebb of students and the continuous creation of significant memories within the context of the authority of the built environment makes everything feel very ancient.  The architecture couldn’t be more intimidating, with its clearly formal tendencies a constant reminder that this time is just as serious as the surroundings.  This abundance of “old” forms in a new context for eighteen year olds is a salient visual to students of the importance of the decisions they make right now, and not just whether you’re going to get the townie outside the convenience store to buy you Natural Light or Keystone.  Perhaps it is the extreme order and traditionalism of the Classical architecture of the college campus, the strictness of it, that pushes some students to transgress and break rules.  College is an important time, but it’s also a silly trial and error time where we test who we are against who we want to become.  College is a life event where we are almost authorized make odd or bad informal decisions, like rolling the cuffs of our jeans up to mid-calf, or hanging a Phish poster on the back of our dorm room door.  All the while, the formal campus architecture keeps its arrangement, and keeps watching us change, like it’s watching us from high above, a cultural acroterion.  Four years of experience-based memory in terms of place is an incredibly short time.  The classical revival architecture of the college campus sees it all, and somehow absorbs all the secondhand embarrassment on our behalf.  Perhaps this is why a part of the perception of higher education is forever connected to high architecture, and we will be forever passing out on the steps of timeless, archaic temples of learning donated by alumni (“I hereby dedicate this building to…myself”) and Collegiate Gothic will not only be an architectural style, but the font used to emblazon the most iconic piece of university apparel ever, a sweatshirt screen printed “COLLEGE.”

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Rodney Dangerfield

Blaservations + Pizza Hut

A recent conversation with a friend went something like this:

E: I love Mansard Roofs.

M: What’s a Mansard Roof?

E: Think “Pizza Hut.”

Pizza Hut, Louisville, Kentucky.

Pizza Hut took a highfalutin Beaux Arts decorative feature and used it to jazz up the physical environment of almost every suburban sprawl with a hunger for pizza and a salad bar.  This is an architectural minutiae that almost everyone can understand.  Make the building look cool so people will be attracted to what’s inside (breadsticks).

Francois Mansart (1598-1666) is the father of the Pizza Hut, or Mansard, roof.  This became his specialty (toppings are extra) and years later was used to outfit Nepolian III’s Second Empire Paris, which sent the Victorians in America swooning wildly over their fainting couches in the late 19th century.

Unfortunately, the use of the Mansard as of late has left me a bit light-headed.  Paris on the Prairie or a Claes Oldenburg work entited “Sharpie Marker”?

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Waldorf Astoria Hotel, Chicago, Illinois.

The Division Street Newsstand

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For a few hours each weekday morning, Ronan cracks open the padlock on his forest green wooden newsstand on Division Street between Milwaukee and Ashland, maintaining an urban tradition that has almost completely disappeared.  Hailing from a family that made their living off of newsstands, Ronan now operates the newsstand for pleasure, as he makes the argument that “what else is an old blind Polack to do?”  Ronan is in fact, blind.  He has lost his central vision, but is still able to see people and objects peripherally.  This handicap is completely undetectable, as Ronan maintains eye contact as he speaks.  His eyes are a shocking neon blue.  He’s been operating the newsstand for twenty years, but the newsstand itself has been around for fifty, if not longer.  Ronan sells the New York Times, Crain’s, and Barron’s Investment News, but not much else.  A rack of Chicago Readers and New York Times Magazines hang off the door of the newsstand, all free items meticulously organized beside a broom and a cart.  Every aspect of the newsstand has a reactionary feel.  The reflective strips on the door seem to suggest that at some point during the newsstand’s existence, a driver veered too close to the newsstand, knocking the door off.  An analog clock, a long ago freebee from USA Today, hangs above an air conditioning unit covered in reflective orange tape.  Locks in various conditions suggest multiple lifetimes of securing.  Observing the newsstand closed, it resembles a ramshackle stronghold.

The interior of the newsstand is full of Ronan’s personal effects, Beanie Babies, a nest of tangled electrical cords and packages of Rice Crispy Treats.  The Rice Crispy Treats are not for Ronan to eat, but to feed the pigeons that come up to window when Ronan is alone in the newsstand.  They hold court vigilantly atop the tarred roof when customers approach.  There are so few things to buy that the concept of customer seems odd here, as every bus driver, construction worker and Busha seem to know Ronan, but no one is buying anything.  They ask how he is.  They bring him Makowiec and Perogi.  They chat about the weather.  These casual relationships at the newsstand are small, but critical.  This is why Ronan is here.

It is estimated that the City of Chicago Department of Transportation regulates fewer than 40 independent free standing newsstands like Ronan’s.  They have disappeared without advocates, being of a pale vernacular that modern life has hushed, like a lost language.

 

The Mysterious Architecture of Fraternal Organizations

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Masonic Lodge #272, Camp Douglas, Wisconsin

Knights of Pythias, Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, Knights of the Maccabees, the Fraternal Order of the Free and Accepted Masons.  These American fraternal organizations, many with unfamiliar and almost Medieval sounding names, had memberships in the millions at the beginning of the 20th century, and had a ubiquitous presence in the social life of people across the country.  In urban areas, they served as an anchor for neighborhoods, and in small American towns, they operated as community centers for families and business owners, as well as gathering places along Main Street, hosting fish frys, rummage sales and bingo nights.  Membership in a fraternal organization was the original social network.

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Tripoli Shrine Temple, Milwaukee, Wisconsin

The architecture of American fraternal organizations is one of classicism, mystery and allegory, with an occasional splash of Revivalism that brings a Mughal influence to Milwaukee and the rustic features of a Mayan temple to Aurora, Illinois.  The buildings themselves are covered in symbols and emblems, but many are meant to symbols themselves, a testament to the morality, timelessness, and brotherhood that membership in these organizations represented.  Their dedication to the intellectual development of members is obvious in their inspiration from high classical architecture, in the same way that houses of worship use the design language and iconography of antiquity to inspire the praise of a higher power.  Complex rituals and rites dictated the interior design of these buildings, and many are filled with ante-rooms and chambers for confidential communication.  In Masonic lodges, rooms had entrances for different degrees of membership, whether one was an apprentice or Master Mason, with spaces designated specifically for business, ritual or committee.

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Plan for an entered apprenticeship, from Duncan’s Ritual and Monitor of Freemasonry, 1866.

In communities where vernacular buildings were the norm, fraternal organization buildings were the true stunners.  Even some of the simplest temples, housed in common two-story buildings may feature decorative columns flanking the entrance, or a hand-painted annunciator lamp covered in depictions of squares and compasses, five-pointed stars or the letter “G”, representing the role that every act is governed by geometry as well as the “Great Architect of the Universe.”

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Annunciator Lamp, Masonic Temple, Pekin, Illinois

 

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Aurora Elks Lodge No. 705, Aurora, Illinois
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Louisville Scottish Rite Temple, Louisville, Illinois
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Knights of Pythias Grand Lodge 191, Jackson, Ohio

Many temples, shrines and lodges of fraternal organizations have experienced the same problems that have befallen houses of worship in the mid and late 20th century.  With membership declining and stewardship the responsibility of an aging population, large-scale temples, like the South Side Masonic Temple in Chicago’s Englewood neighborhood, no longer made sense for the Masons to continue to operate.  Constructed in 1921 and designed by Clarence Hatzfield, the South Side Masonic Temple was used as an auditorium and clubhouse through the 1950s until its ownership was transferred to the Department of Human Services.  The temple’s second life continued to serve the community until the 1980s, when the Department of Human Services relocated.  While redevelopment plans have been presented, the South Side Masonic Temple has slowly deteriorated over its thirty year period of uncertainty, leaving the physical fabric exposed to the elements and leading to numerous building code violations.  The South Side Masonic Temple was featured on Landmarks Illinois statewide endangered list in 2015 and Preservation Chicago’s “Chicago 7” most threatened buildings in 2004.

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South Side Masonic Temple, Chicago, Illinois

While the current state of the South Side Masonic Temple is a worse case scenario, the Logan Square Masonic Temple in Chicago’s Logan Square neighborhood has fared far better.  Constructed in 1923 and also designed by Clarence Hatzfield, the Logan Square Masonic Temple was sold and converted to a house of worship in the 1960s.  The Armitage Baptist Church purchased the building in 1982 and has remained there ever since.

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Former Logan Square Masonic Temple, Chicago, Illinois, (Armitage Baptist Church)

Large urban areas have a greater percentage of adaptively reused temples and shrines, while many fraternal organizations in rural areas and small towns are still running out of buildings constructed for their exclusive use.  The role that these organizations play within a cultural landscape is largely determined by the size of the population that it serves.

The exclusivity of these organizations has made a sweeping contribution to their decreasing impact.  Women are not permitted to join most Masonic lodges, and until the 1970s, the Fraternal Order of Eagles required all members to be Caucasian.  While the architectural character of the buildings that fraternal organizations built gives them a reason to be celebrated, their legacy of selectivity and discrimination decreases the emotional significance of these buildings as they were originally intended.  A second life as a residential development, event space or house of worship allows them to serve a greater percentage of people in a community, and in many cases makes them not only viable, but neutral.

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Former Knights Templar Hall, Chicago, Illinois, now operating as a mixed-use event space.

 

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Former Masonic Temple, East Lansing Michigan, converted to a residential development.

 

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The former Eagles Building, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, now a concert venue.

 

 

 

Eligible as Fuck: The Gold Pyramid

Tucked into the northernmost corner of Illinois, Lake County is where Chicagoland thins out. Highways widen, development becomes sparser, and strip malls give way to midcentury ranch homes on acre lots.  Small farms are still spread along the Tri-State Tollway, with silos and barns peeking above the treeline during the winter.  The rollercoasters of Six Flags Great America sit tight and quiet, awaiting another thrilling season.

Along with an optic white, 55 foot statue of Ramses II.

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Am I high?

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Probably.

This is the home of Jim and Linda Onan, who would serve as collaborators throughout the design and construction of the six-story Gold Pyramid and its spectacularly bizarre and exciting 10 acre grounds.  Assisted by their son Rocko, and inspired by the pseudoscience behind Pyramid Power in the 1970s, Jim acted as de-facto gentleman architect, designing and building a replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza that is 1/9th the size of the original in Egypt.  While President Thomas Jefferson found inspiration in Italian villas, Jim Onan, a concrete contractor by trade, looked to the ancient world.  That’s right.  This is a house like no other.  The only pyramid shaped house in the world.

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The Gold Pyramid in Wadsworth is proportionally perfect to its sister structure at Giza, and set along the same true north directional axis. This alignment was so important to Onan that when it was discovered that an original foundation wall was off of this axis during construction in 1977, the existing work had to be scrapped and the wall realigned.  This axis, along with the natural spring located below the pyramid, is believed to give the pyramid supernatural powers.  However one may feel about this claim, the spring allows the pyramid to be heated and cooled through a geothermal system that Jim Onan designed himself.  Construction was ripe with the Onan’s trying different techniques to solve complex engineering problems.  The Onan’s don’t claim to be architects, fans of high architecture, kitsch or postmodernism.  This is their home, and a physical manifestation of their love of all things Egyptian.  This is a family obsessed over generations, and that dedication shows in the objects and the stories behind them.

The exterior of the Gold Pyramid is simple and harmonious. Currently clad in gold paint (the Pyramid was originally covered in 24 karat gold plates) the pyramid’s front door is barely visible up a set of stairs within a rectangular recess.  Windows are mullionless plate glass set in a haphazard but functional rhythm.

It could easily be believed that Michael Graves travelled to remote Lake County to build a structure that had all of the promise and fun of his renderings, designing a series of workhorse front-facing gables that worked so hard they mighty-morphed into a pyramid. Jim Onan found inspiration in his own interpretation of Egyptian visual language, an approach vastly different than the architects of the lotus flower capitals and cavetto cornices of the Reebie Storage Warehouse in Chicago (George Kingsley, 1922) or the First Presbyterian Church in Nashville (William Strickland, 1848).  Is there a precedent for Egyptian Revival Postmodern Outsider Architecture?  There is now.

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For all of the simplistic elements of the exterior, the interior is very busy-part family home, and part gallery, where Egyptian objets d’art and collectables live freely among pastel Chintz upholstery and billowing white window valances. The ultimate result is a lovingly curated space, where obsession and domestic ease work joyfully together.  This is Linda’s contribution as interior designer.  Family portraits, suggesting the life of an atypical Midwest family growing up in the 1980s, surround a tapestry of Ramses in the living room, collaboration between Linda and Rocko.  The dining room, designed in the shape of a cartouche and located at the absolute center of the pyramid, is filled with real gold objects.  A needlepoint portrait of Nefertiti, a gift from a family friend, is displayed beside 16th century Shawabtys, given to the family by the Egyptian government, with whom the Onan’s have enjoyed a fruitful relationship across decades.  The home is full of Rocco’s ambitious adolescent projects, including a detailed medallion nearly four feet in circumference, and a 24 karat gold leaf front door.  Walls throughout are covered in bright, beautifully stylized depictions of life in ancient Egypt, and done over the course of three years by a sign painter from Zion, Illinois.

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Through the 1980s and 1990s the Onans raised their five children, while continuing to add elements to their Post Egyptian estate. The site now includes a four car garage in the form of three small pyramids, a moat, and an exact replica of King Tutankhamen’s tomb in the Valley of the Kings that includes a model of Tut’s mummy and sarcophagus.  After the Onan’s opened up the pyramid to tour groups, they filled a gift shop with Cleopatra beach towels and replica brick-a-brac, and the long strip of pavement leading up to the house was flanked with repeating Bull Mastiff-sized Sphinx figures.  After some interference from Lake County zoning officials, a 55 foot, 2,000 ton statue of Ramses II was constructed at the end of the driveway.  Beats the hell out of a concrete goose wearing a Blackhawks jersey, doesn’t it?

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Perhaps what’s more outstanding than the pyramid itself is the desire by the Onan family to be a part of an official conversation about cultural heritage, and there should absolutely be a seat for them at the table. The Onan’s have come to their interest in being designated as a landmark because they recognize and celebrate their own work and dedication to a level of creativity.  This lies at the core of why we want to preserve what is special about our built environment, and the type of people that heritage conservation should want to please.  They wish to see the Gold Pyramid included on local and national lists of landmarks, and have come to this conclusion on their own, without any prodding or outside influence from state agencies or historians.

Truth be told, we desperately need the Onan’s on our team. Recent legislation challenging local landmarks districts in the nearby states of Michigan and Wisconsin have put the field on the hard defensive.  Detractors have called foul on the process and its restrictions on everything from property rights to the replacement of siding and wood windows.  While we fight to keep these ordinances intact and local commissions from making sound decisions, people wince.  This has created a major public relations problem.  Landmarking anything, whether local or national, has come to be seen as prohibitive

This is the type of progressive thinking about cultural heritage, the type that comes naturally to the folks at the Gold Pyramid, that we need to encourage in order to survive-the type that people-not preservation, pushes on its own. Perhaps it’s magical thinking to envision a world where we don’t need historic districts, local landmarks designations, or demolition delay to keep great buildings around to serve our future, but maybe this is a start.  Could we realign ourselves with a message that in preserving our architectural heritage, we provide a place where memories can live forever?  Could we put ourselves in the frame of thinking that realms of kitsch and roadside attractions have the potential to transform over time into an acknowledgement that history takes peculiar and miraculous terms, and that the word “historic” belongs not to the historian, but to the drive-ins, movie theatres and pyramid houses that are given historic status by the people that love them?  Perhaps the deepest question is “how do we get historic preservation to happen without historic preservation”?  The answer might be Jim, Linda and Rocko Onan, as well as a bit of our own pyramid power.

Drawing Home

I’ve drawn all of the places I’ve lived.  These drawings, all done informally in ball point pen and within a small Moleskine notebook, were partially inspired by the small-scale architectural models placed in tombs of the Incas, Aztecs and their predicessors in ancient Mexico.   Their materials, just like the buildings they portray, are simple.  Buried alongside jewelry and ritual objects, these models are vital in their telling of the ordinary, everyday lives of these ancient civilizations.

This exercise also came out of a need for me to see the raw architectural data of each place that I’ve lived, and compare the design, age and typology of each.  All of the places I drew I lived for three months or longer.  These are the buildings of my ordinary life, all through the filter of my brain and hand.

I have lived in a total mixed bag of buildings, from a contemporary ranch in suburban Detroit, to a modernist highrise in Honolulu, to the ultra vernacular Chicago graystone.  These structures range greatly in age.  Many are older with a scatterbrained sense of integrity.  They have missing cornices, or cheap new windows.  Many have design features specific to their location, like the tall concrete wall surrounding the house I lived in when I worked in New Delhi, India, or the attached garage on the house in Troy.

What (and where) we call home inevitably shapes us, but architectural significance has no role in making these structures iconic.  I have borrowed time in many buildings but have possessed none of them, and my occupation of each is only a sliver of a story that spans across decades.

The most surprising revelation is poignant and timely.  These buildings display an element of undeniable privelidge, as I have always had the means to live where I have wanted.  Millions of people are not in a position to ever make that choice for themselves.

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