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Tales of a patriarch Submit your comments.
A lifelong education A refreshing article about a refreshing, enlightening, fascinating and committed professor. Vincent Scully's exciting and vibrant lectures, from the "stretched and taut skin" around early colonial houses to the "cold, vertical steel and glass structures" of late '50s office buildings, have stuck with me for almost 50 years. Thanks to him, every place I go in the U.S. and in the world, my first interest is walking about to observe the architecture of the place and think about what Professor Scully would say about the shape and style of the structure and how it relates to other structures in the place and in architectural history. He has made inanimate objects come alive for me -- still!
Scully at home, circa 1960
I have enclosed two pictures of Vincent Scully at his home in Woodbridge that I made for an architecture magazine circa 1960, when I was a graduate student in art and architecture and a student in his classes. He was everything one would want as a teacher: gifted, dynamic, and very exciting in his classes. He maintained a very high standing among teachers and students for many years.
Yale has seen plenty of great lecturers The greatness of Vincent Scully as a lecturer, writer, and critic on art and architecture is simply beyond question. But I question the wisdom of the statement, perhaps not by the author, that Scully "may be the greatest lecturer Yale has ever seen." Scully may be the greatest of the last 20 years, but the long history of Yale boasts many superb lecturers who without notes or slides that ensure the right sequence of ideas were inspirations to generations to students. I think of Robert L. Calhoun and his lectures on the history of philosophy and Christian doctrine. Without notes, he could within the span of an hour present systematically Hegel's philosophy with a clarity and persuasiveness that Hegel rarely achieved. And he could fascinate a class with the nature of universals as he recalled the debate between William of Champeaux and Abelard, clarifying their differences. He also related with beauty and feeling the romance of Abelard and Heloise. There was also Roland Bainton, whose lectures on church history were so fascinating that students attended with the anticipation and pleasure of moviegoers. And let us not forget Maynard Mack, whose course on Shakespeare changed the lives and self-knowledge of all who attended his lectures. Or, from an earlier generation, we should recall William Lyon Phelps and his course on the Bible as literature. Once in that course, he fell off the lecture platform and broke his leg. Although in pain he brought down the class with comment, "I felt it appropriate to descend to your level." Yale's glory is that is has recognized the importance of great teaching no less than the importance of great scholarship. There is more than enough greatness in the history of Yale's faculty to make it unseemly to suggest who is the greatest of them all.
The lecture with no applause It began, "Gentlemen, I heard from Taliesin West that Frank Lloyd Wright is dead." The lights went down, the slides began, and his emotional tribute to the dead architect began. At the end, the lights came up and he vanished. Three hundred fifty men filed out of the lecture hall in absolute silence. It took me to Harkness Tower before I could whisper to my classmate, "I don't believe what I just witnessed." I remember it as if it were today. And I still don't believe it.
A note to Scully I was Class of 1951, a Marine Corps veteran who got called back for the Korean War after enjoying Yale and your excellent course in architecture. I worked somewhat in your field, being a builder in the West and other places in the States, producing many homes you would never claim for their design. Even though they were not up to your standards, I always held you in memory after compromising on their tract-market design. I came to Yale as high school graduate from Chicago (New Trier), and had a new double-vested suit which never came close to Brooks Brothers. Even today, I remember with fondness attending your class, even though you have now ruined my story of your breaking your leg falling off the podium. You should know that I today remember attending that class with great interest. I'm nine years your junior and will attempt to match your years with interest and enthusiasm.
Scully's house, and a dis from Breuer I wish to add a bit of humor to your history of Vince Scully. But first let me recall that Vince took Architectural Drafting with my class during our freshman year (1946-47). Whether he took it for credit I can't imagine. It was more likely he took the course in anticipation of doing the construction drawings for his own house. But, alas, he wasn't up to it, and a couple of the guys in my class did the drawings, based on his sketches. By then he had switched his adoration from Wright to Mies and Philip Johnson and produced a wonderful residence in their style: a glass and wood-panel exterior box with a cinder-block core containing the kitchen, bath, and mechanical rooms. There were no other doors within the house except for mechanical and toilet rooms -- the rest of the "rooms" were subdivided by freestanding closet-wall partitions, none of which went to the ceiling. What with his young kids and a passel of dogs in that open environment, sitting around his fireplace discussing the upper atmosphere of architectural philosophy was a chaotic, auditory adventure. Now the humor: I believe it was in 1949 that that the Museum of Modern Art in New York held a seminar on architectural monumentality -- presided over by then-master critic Thomas Creighton. Arrayed in two rows behind the lectern sat the participants: in the first row were the "stars" of the profession, in the second row were the up-and-coming, yet-to-be stars, including Vince. A bit past midpoint in the proceedings, after a number of the stars had spoken, Vince rose up, strode to the lectern, and delivered one of his fine and somewhat arcane talks. When he finished, the many Yale architecture students in attendance erupted in applause, whooping and howling appreciations. As Vince was making his way back to his second-row seat, Marcel Breuer, in his bearlike manner, shambled to the lectern, grumbled in his accented voice, "I do not understand!" and sat down! We all agreed that Vince should have "fallen" off the stage.
Preserve Scully's lectures Richard Conniff's article on Vincent Scully was, in a word, fabulous. It points to a body of work that is very important and ought to be preserved.
The greatest I read with great interest and emotion the article on Vincent Scully. I have spent my life in academics, and he is the greatest lecturer that I have heard, anywhere. His style is the model for every presentation that I give.
Temple pain Another part of the Scully legend (which I witnessed in the '50s) was the occasion when the slides failed him. Apparently someone had inadvertently shuffled the slides of that day's comparisons of Greek temples. Scully pointed to the slide at his right expecting a Doric temple but an Ionic temple appeared. A tap of his pointer brought forth another slide, but not the desired one. Professor Scully proceeded to describe the comparison while the audio-visual assistant hunted for the desired Doric. But when he found it on Scully's right, Scully was looking to his left. And by the time Scully understood the front-row students' calls and gestures and turned to his right, the AV assistant had moved on to the next slide! Nevertheless, Scully didn't let the lack of slides spoil the program.
An open letter to Vincent Scully Dear Vince: Your first assignment scared the hell out of me in September 1951. It was to walk the path behind Jonathan Edwards from High Street up to the park behind the Art Gallery and report not on what I saw but what I felt. I've been trying to get the second part right ever since. Whenever I have wandered around a meaningful space -- whether the Piazza della Signoria or some more pedestrian venue -- I have thought back to that first time. You opened my eyes to possibilities and they have stayed open for more than half a century. Many thanks!
Already a legend, 50 years ago How happily astounding for a graduate, 50 years on, to discover that a former college professor is still alive, active, sentient! Vincent Scully could have been only in his mid-30s when I took History of Art 112a, though he seemed older, already a legend for his spellbinding, theatrical lecture style, which we students so gleefully parodied in late-night bull sessions and even papers for other courses. In person, of course -- I now forget why I had to visit his office -- he was unaffected, forthcoming, down to earth. Your article was fascinating, and "maybe the greatest lecturer Yale has ever seen" is not hyperbole.
Cave paintings and beer-can bouquets I enjoyed reading Richard Conniff's profile of Vincent Scully. I was a science major and took Scully's introductory art history course pass-fail, but the eye-opening impact and energy of his lectures had a more profound effect on me than most of the courses I took for letter grades. I still recall how Scully vividly conveyed in his lecture the story of the amateur archaeologist's young daughter who looked up at the ceiling of Altamira Cave, the "Sistine Chapel" of Stone Age art. Accompanying her father to the cave one day, she discovered the prehistoric bison painted above her, while her father, who had always lowered his head to examine the cave floor for artifacts (and avoid injury), had never noticed them. I will never forget the excitement and sense of wonder in Scully's voice when he repeated the girl's shout to her father ("Mira! Toros pintados!"). This story encapsulates what Scully's lectures did for me: they opened my eyes to new perspectives and expanded my field of vision, not only about art but life. However, one of my most lasting -- and amusing -- memories of Vincent Scully is outside of the lecture hall, in a chance encounter in about 1986 during a semester-end exhibition of graduate art student sculptures on Old Campus. Some of the residents of Durfee Hall, uninspired by the grad students' work, responded by installing their own sculpture, best described as a weeping willow tree of straightened wire clothes hangers with beer cans stuck on the ends. I was standing next to this beer-can bouquet when Professor Scully happened to walk by on the path between Wright and Durfee Halls. The undergraduate contribution to the grad students' exhibition caught his eye and, with a wry smile and a chortle, he stopped to study it for half a minute before going on his way. To this day, I regret that I didn't have a camera with me to record this incident.
A constant challenge to our way of seeing Tears came to my eyes at seeing Vincent Scully on the magazine cover. I sat through two of his architecture courses, one for credit, the second one just for inspiration, and I can still hear the sound of his pointer scratching the slide screen as he insisted we see what he saw. "Autochthonous," he would yell, describing some ancient ruin, blowing my mind open to a new word and concept that was as much about the history of human thought as about architecture. His lectures constantly challenged our way of seeing, and thus our way of thinking about buildings, cities, and how we live in the world. Thirty-some years later, I am still grateful for Scully's insights and his passion for sharing them.
Praise for Mary Ellen Mark The cover image is striking -- a fitting tribute to a great teacher and scholar, Vincent Scully. This is one of the best covers ever. Congratulations to the expert photographer, Mary Ellen Mark.
A law student's illicit love Professor Vincent Scully's class was the best class I took at Yale Law School 41 years ago. It wasn't on our law schedule, however. I wandered past the Law School auditorium one day, looking for a place to eat my sandwich. Something was happening in the darkened room. I snuck in the back -- and continued to sneak in for the rest of the semester. Unofficially (illegally?) auditing his Introduction to History of Modern Architecture changed my life. Does any other class in America get resounding applause at the end of every session? Scully joyfully carried his students through the built environment with his photographs and his arms. He transported us into new experiences of culture with his language. I was there when Scully fell off the stage as his arm swept up to the heavens to make a point. His love of teaching penetrated deep into my heart and stayed there. As I enter my 31st year of teaching environmental, administrative, and constitutional law, your article brings back a rush of memories. But it also challenges me. Am I teaching with as much near-religious passion as Vince? How can I do it better? On Scully's pedagogical timeline, I guess I have 30 years more to get it right.
It all becomes clear Often I have wondered why I (devoid of a degree in art or architecture and bereft of talent in either discipline) spent 9 of the last 15 years as chairman and CEO of the Southern California Institute of Architecture (SCI-Arc). I just read Richard Conniff's article "The Patriarch," on Vincent Scully. Aha!
When he fell off the stage I can add something important to your fine story on Vince Scully, in particular the "legend" that he "got so carried away during a lecture that he fell off the stage." We members of the Class of 1957 were graduating in a week or so, and my roommate Ernie Pepples, enrolled in Scully's legendary course, persuaded me to attend the last lecture. It was dazzling, and as the 50th minute arrived, Scully had a slide of Monticello on the screen. With a flair I will never forget, he recited Jefferson's words: "I have sworn on the altar of God eternal hostility to all forms of tyranny over the mind of man." The power of those words as a culmination carried Scully to the front of the platform in a magnificent closing lunge, and into the front row of us he went, missing me by only a little. I do not remember any bleeding, only the thunderous and endless applause.
Time travel Very high marks go to Richard Conniff's superb portrait of Vincent Scully. It read like one of the best of the New Yorker's pieces: smart, loving, whimsical, and true to the man. Without a doubt, Vince's class was my best at Yale and really shaped how I saw not just architecture but life. Conniff caught the pulse of the man, his subversiveness, traditionalism, passion, courage, and vulnerability. I can see still his his slides -- and hear his asides. That is what education is all about. And sadly, so rarely replicated. I was back in his lecture hall, standing and applauding as he exited the stage. Thank you for recreating and sharing the man.
Life lessons My two fondest (printable) memories of my time at Yale are first walking into the Sterling Library, and taking History of Art 112a. I use things I learned from Vincent Scully every day -- not in my work, but in my life.
The man and his pointer Having just finished the wonderful piece on him in the March/April issue, I couldn't help but ponder what Vincent Scully would have to offer concerning the "Green College" concept by Louis Hellman on page 54. Surely he would note the blend of themes from the Taj Mahal and Egyptian fans, executed in vegetarian phallic fantasy, and plopped fittingly in front of the Beinecke as if to welcome and properly prepare the newly-arrived freshmen for their dining experience at Commons. My most lasting memory of Professor Scully's class is of him repeatedly slapping the 12 or so-foot-long bamboo pointer against the screen and thrusting it upwards to accentuate the verticality of some structure or other, perhaps Gaudi's cathedral in Barcelona. For this student, he brought his subject to life in a way that few of his colleagues could.
His teachings were "a foundation stone" What a nice profile on Vincent Scully -- one of the essential foundation stones of the Yale education for the last sixty years. Scully's enormous impact on architectural scholarship and practice has been acknowledged by his many awards, but I wonder if his greatest legacy isn't the many buildings that are better because of the clients that he helped create in the darkened lecture room, for the vast majority of his students did not go on to become architects or historians themselves. Those of us who did become architects often credit the value and honor and grace that he revealed in the architecture of the past and that helped inspire us to try to create those same qualities in the architecture of the future. I spend a good deal of my time in Newport, Rhode Island, the home of the "Stick and Shingle Style" about which Scully wrote his doctoral thesis. When I first came to Newport in the mid-1990's, I felt like it was a homecoming to a place I had never been before because so many of the buildings were familiar to me from Scully's class. Elsewhere, the works of McKim, Mead, and White and other great American architects have been torn down long ago, but fortunately, the passion that Scully inspired helped preserve them here and elsewhere. Now, in addition to practicing architecture, I write the regular column on architecture for the local paper and serve on several boards that help maintain and protect these buildings. In all these activities, Vincent Scully's teaching and passion for architecture remains a foundation stone for what I do each day.
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Related Read Richard Conniff's March/April 2008 profile of Vincent Scully. Send your memories and comments. Hear Scully discuss his work and life. |