In the decades after World War II, when America was assuming its new role as the center of the known universe, Eero Saarinen was the man who supplied it with an architecture suited to the place where the future happened. For the marquee names of American capitalism — General Motors, IBM, CBS — he designed buildings that were more than just corporate facilities. They were signposts for modernity, theirs and the nation’s. For New York City and Washington, Saarinen provided airport terminals that were symbols of the excitement and glamour of air travel. (It was once possible to think of air travel that way.) Then there was his St. Louis Gateway Arch, a gleaming vertical curve that even now could serve as the logo for Tomorrowland.
When he died in 1961 — at 51 years of age, after surgery for a brain tumor — Saarinen was just arriving at the peak of his fame and success. He’d been on the cover of TIME, he had A-list clients, and his streamlined furniture for Knoll was so of the moment that Coca-Cola used his Womb chair in a magazine ad showing an exhausted Santa Claus slumped in it.
(See TIME’s video “The Legacy and Return of Architect Eero Saarinen.”)
But if his momentary fame was secure, his long-term reputation was unstable. To rigorous Modernists, there was something slack and accommodating about his work. The swelling lines of his TWA terminal at what is now JFK International Airport — weren’t they a bit too delicious, too far from the square-shouldered Modernist grid? The bright blue exterior of his IBM facility in Rochester, Minn. — since when did austere Modernists do big color?
Over the past few years, however, there’s been a Saarinen reappraisal. Set free by computer-aided design, contemporary architects like Santiago Calatrava, Frank Gehry and Zaha Hadid have moved quite a distance from Modernist orthodoxy. And a great deal of Saarinen’s work, especially his adventures in fluid geometry, today looks as if it’s the predecessor of theirs. It’s easier now to regard his expressive buildings as a principled attempt to reconcile the Modernist drive to purify and clarify with the abiding human desire for something that strikes other, warmer and no less essential chords.
(See pictures of modernist architecture.)
Yale, where Saarinen earned his degree in the 1930s, has been restoring the buildings he designed in the 1950s for its campus. Work on the David S. Ingalls Hockey Rink, designed in 1956, has just been completed. An obvious precursor to the arabesques of the TWA terminal, Ingalls represents Saarinen at his most voluptuous, with a roofline forming a gentle curve that swells in the middle, then dips and rises at both ends like the prow of a ship, or two prows. Yalies call it the Whale. Meanwhile, at Yale’s Morse College, an undergraduate residential complex by Saarinen that was inspired by the plan and proportions of an Italian hill town, something close to a gut renovation is nearly finished. Restoration of the adjoining Stiles College begins in the spring.
The rereading of Saarinen gathered speed in 2002, when a trove of his papers and drawings was donated to the Yale University Library by the architect Kevin Roche, who had joined Saarinen’s firm as a young man and saw to completion several important Saarinen projects that were unfinished at the time of his death. That archive laid the basis for a museum show that began traveling in 2006 and runs through Jan. 31 at the Museum of the City of New York before moving to Yale, its final stop, on Feb. 19. It tells you something about Saarinen’s tricky place in the architectural canon that nearly half a century after his death, this is the first full career retrospective devoted entirely to his work.
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The Drama of Powerful Forms
Saarinen was a Modernist by birthright. His father Eliel was a Finnish architect whose radically clean-lined entry in the 1922 competition to design the Chicago Tribune Tower took second place in the contest but first place in history. For a rising generation of architects, that unbuilt proposal was an arrow pointing straight to the future and a strong influence on the Empire State Building and Rockefeller Center. The fame it brought the elder Saarinen in the U.S. persuaded him to emigrate the following year from Finland to Chicago. A few months later, his wife and children, including his precocious 12-year-old Eero, joined him.
The most important project of Eliel Saarinen’s American career was Cranbrook Academy, a school of the arts situated on the estate of a wealthy patron in Bloomfield Hills, Mich., where the Saarinens soon relocated. In his teens, Eero worked occasionally on projects in his father’s studio. From early in his career, the younger Saarinen’s buildings grew out of the Modernist principles of simplified form and clearly expressed structure. But soon he was looking for ways to move beyond the arctic purities of Modernism’s first generation. Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier had done what they could to cancel architecture’s debt to the past and remake it from a kind of formal and historical ground zero. The second generation — of which Saarinen was a part, along with Philip Johnson, Louis Kahn, I.M. Pei and Edward Durrell Stone — would struggle in different ways to reconnect architecture to its sources in history.
They would also struggle to accommodate it to the appetites of postwar America, an abundant, full-of-itself nation. The country’s corporate and institutional élites were open to the idea of seeing their power expressed in a contemporary idiom, with none of the grand and intricate ornament of earlier generations. Yet the bare-bones Modernism that came of age in Europe between the wars was not quite what they were looking for.
In Saarinen they found a man who operated in their sweet spot. His work had the richness and lyricism that so many Modernist buildings lacked. At the same time, he had taste and intelligence. He wasn’t about to give them the kind of thing suited to Vegas casinos and Miami Beach hotels. For the most part, the wow factor in his buildings was a matter of structure, not sparkle. Saarinen was enchanted by the drama of powerful forms. His mother was a sculptor, and he had studied sculpture before switching to architecture. The massive curve of the Gateway Arch, the muscular reach of the tilted pylons of Washington’s Dulles International Airport, the black-granite palisades of the CBS headquarters, his only skyscraper, a thing that appears to shoot skyward from the bedrock of Manhattan — these are works of an architect, like Gehry and Calatrava today, who was thinking in sculptural terms.
All the things that pure Modernism excluded from architecture, including symbolism and psychology, Saarinen brought to his TWA terminal. With the wide concrete wingspread of its flaring roof, it resembles a bird in flight. But more than that, it has an almost maternal quality, one that’s re-emphasized by the Fallopian coils of the stairways inside. And the long enclosed tunnel that passengers had to walk from the main terminal to the gates — isn’t that like a birth canal leading you to the moment you are launched into the sky? This is, after all, the man who invented the Womb chair.
The Greeks called architecture the mother of all arts. Maybe it took Saarinen to show how true that was.
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