Originally published in 1931, John Gloag’s book Men and Buildings examines architectural history and trends.  Gloag gives special attention to Italy, England, and changes in more contemporary times.  Gloag notes that “despite new materials and the need for work on a bigger scale, it is a peculiar weakness of our time to take refuge in the past for inspiration” (pg. 4).  He argues that “only if they are humanized can the austere experiments of the present prepare the way for an eventual coherence in architectural taste and a new majesty of form,” one which reflects modern values and an understanding that others will inherit those forms (pg. 228).

Men and Buildings is nearly as focused on the future as it is on the past.  The epilogue even includes a theoretical discussion in the 50th century among archaeologists interpreting the uncovered remnants of a 19th century bridge.  Gloag discusses the recurring theme in architecture of looking to the past for inspiration.  He pays particular attention to England’s recycling of Roman architecture, even naming the chapter “England Edits Rome.”  Additionally, Gloag notes Italy’s reuse of Roman architecture, as well as the numerous advances in materials and the dearth of quality modern architecture featuring new ideas.  Overall, he seems to mourn the state of architecture as of 1931, feeling that it lacks originality and does not reflect the values of society.

In Gloag’s fictional discussion in the epilogue, the archaeologists discover coins under the bridge.  The elder archaeologist believes the coins to be there by chance, while the younger theorizes that they were thrown intentionally.  The young archaeologists, it is revealed, is correct – the coins were thrown by those wishing for luck.  The story serves several purposes.  Gloag consistently argues for the reflection of “values” in architecture.  While it is easy to sort some priorities from the architecture of a home, for example (e.g. a large dining room might indicate the importance of entertaining and family), but it is more complicated with a bridge.  However, the presence of the coins might indicate a bridge so grand and so beautiful, that it inspires people to treat the river below as a wishing well.  The epilogue also implies the importance of the younger generation in innovation and discoveries.  The elder archaeologist dismisses the theory of the younger outright – had the determination of the apprentice archaeologist not been so strong, he might never have been proven correct.  In this sense, Gloag seems to be suggesting that it is time for the older generation to listen to and pass the baton on to the next.  Humans are taught to respect their elders due to their wisdom and experience, but new developments often come from the young.  Oftentimes, the ideas that change the world start as a radical, preposterous notion in the mind of an adolescent.

Letters to Apprentices: Frank Lloyd Wright is a publication containing selected letters from Frank Lloyd Wright to his many apprentices. Alongside the many letters is commentary from the editor of the book and the Director of Archives of The Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation and The Frank Lloyd Wright Memorial Foundation, Bruce Brooks Pfeiffer. This commentary provides context for some of the letters and information on the goings-on in Wright’s life and works at the time.  The letters themselves contribute valuable insights into Wright’s personality and work, as well as those of the Taliesin Fellows to whom the correspondence primarily concerns.

In the preface, Pfeiffer explains how the letters mostly pertain to “the Taliesin Fellowship, that group of young men and women who were his apprentices from 1932 to 1959…[and] throughout those years many hundreds of Taliesin Fellows arrived” (pg. ix).  The book seeks to capture the experiences of Taliesin Fellows, both in their work and their relationships with Wright.  As arguably the most influential and prolific architect of his time, the opportunity to work with Wright was undoubtedly one of the greatest opportunities any young architect could hope for.  The style of the Taliesin Fellowship, preparing students to be architects within only a few years and nothing like a standard curriculum, influenced training programs and apprenticeships across the country, in addition to giving the program a reputation that increased work opportunities.  Over time, “as there came an increase in architectural work, the demands required of him to answer letters…necessitated that letters to applicants and former apprentices be briefer,” so the longest and perhaps most interesting letters are near the start of the Taliesin Fellowship in 1932.

Interestingly, Wright made a point to note in a 1932 letter to an applicant that Taliesin “contemplates exactly 100 apprentices, about 40 girls and 60 boys,” and was intended to serve as an extension of the Taliesin studio (pg. 14).  The fact that Wright, as early as 1932, made a point of including women apprentices is fascinating, even somewhat radical.  Today, many still note an excess of gender discrimination in the field of architecture, as well as a dearth of female architects.  In contrast, Wright dedicated 40% of the apprenticeships to ensuring women had opportunities.  While there may have been no follow-through on this goal (Wright notes that he has decreased the number of fellows to 70 and mentions that the fellowship would likely be only 30% girls), there are letters to female apprentices throughout the collection.  It is worthwhile to note that Wright offers less praise for his female students than his male students, sometimes merely relegating them to “furnish” a project or “housebreak the owners” (pg. 96).  He also proves somewhat haughty at times, such as after a student left Taliesin, telling him, “we all make errors of judgment, if we have any judgment, and being a young fellow, you ought to acquire a collection of errors in your own name as I have in mine,” indicating that he believes the student’s abandonment of Taliesin to be a mistake he will later regret (pg. 97). Wright also showed himself through the letters to be dedicated to keeping up with his pupils, often offering them work or advice, and asking about their families and personal lives.  While Wright definitely showed a preference for his male students, he remained a loyal correspondent with many of his students whom he respected.

As one of the most famous architects in history, Frank Lloyd Wright remains a fascinating figure to study, for the controversy of his personal life, for his celebrity, and for his unique style.  There is something enigmatic about Wright.  He is remembered as fiercely proud of his own accomplishments, selective in his taste, and loathe to give compliments.  Yet in his correspondence with his students, he is shown to be loyal, to have great faith in his students’ talents so long as they display a similar loyalty and dedication to their work, supportive of female architects (certainly for the time period), and yes, a bit haughty, yet more affable than he is remembered. Letters are a unique historical resource – they unveil personality and information that, for example, Wright’s autobiography, would not. These letters were never meant to be ready by anyone other than the recipients, making them a more unvarnished, honest source than something written to be read publicly.  In this sense, Wright’s letters are a powerful resource.  As much of a celebrity as he was, and as much as he and his work has been researched, no source could explore his personality and the complicated relationships he had with his apprentices as well as the letters in Letters to Apprentices do. The collection of letters provides captivating insights into one of America’s best-known architects, supplying glimpses into Frank Lloyd Wright and the proteges who followed him in shaping modern architecture.

Sue Flanagan’s book Sam Houston’s Texas “attempts to place Houston in proper perspective against the backcloth of past events and to show him still a part of the changing pattern of our time” (pg. ix).  The book is organized chronologically, running from 1832 to 1863, with a chapter devoted to each year.  Included in every chapter are photographs of relevant buildings and the Texas landscape, as well as historical context for the year, based mostly in primary sources from the era.

Beginning in 1832, Flanagan examines Houston’s childhood in Virginia, his time as a Congressman and Governor in Tennessee, and as a delegate for the Cherokee Tribe to Washington.  Houston came to Texas to buy up land and serve as an envoy to Native Americans in the territory, a role assigned to him by then-President Andrew Jackson.  Moving year-by-year, Flanagan details the increasing dissatisfaction in Texas with Mexican governance, Houston’s rise to General of the Texas army, the price of Texas independence, and the early years of the Texas Republic.  One of the longest chapters is the one on 1836, the year Texas won independence from Mexico, featuring discussion of the Battle of the Alamo, the massacre of all inside the mission, and the subsequent surrender of Santa Anna to Houston less than two months after the loss of the Alamo.  Houston declared on March 2, 1836, that “Independence is declared; it must be maintained.”  Houston recognized that once Texas was free of Mexico, its best chance of maintaining independence was joining the United States.  However, before Texas joined the Union, it was its own nation for ten years, with Houston remaining a prominent leader throughout, serving twice as President of the Republic of Texas, a Senator to the US Congress, and Governor of Texas. Flanagan’s book ends in 1863, the year of Houston’s death. Throughout this narrative are photographs of relevant places and spaces, showing the Texas Houston fought for and loved so dearly.

Published in 1964, Sam Houston’s Texas came just over 100 years after Houston’s death and just short of 100 years of the start of the Civil War.  Houston foresaw the Civil War, and feared that secession and alliance with the Southern states would irreparably damage Texas and the United States.  Instead, he thought Texas would fare better as its own empire if it conquered Mexico.  With this in mind, as Governor of Texas, Houston refused to secede from the United States.  This stemmed not from a belief in abolition (Houston himself owned slaves) but rather from his wish to avoid more war on Texas soil.   As a result, Houston was forced out as Governor and replaced with someone more sympathetic to the Confederate cause.  Much like in the 1860s, the 1960s were filled with racial tension and turmoil. President Lyndon B. Johnson, a Texan, passed the Civil Rights Act the same year that Sam Houston’s Texas was published, a reminder of how much had changed in the last century for the state and the nation.

Sam Houston’s Texas is a fascinating look at Sam Houston himself, as well as the indelible mark he left on Texas.  Houston is an incredibly complicated figure: a representative for Native American rights, yet an advocate for slavery; a believer that Texas should be in the United States while also wanting Texas to be a great nation in its own right; a war hero who wanted to avoid war at all costs in later life.  He was the first President of the Republic of Texas, a U.S. Senator for Texas, the man who made Santa Anna surrender and won Texas’ independence in a battle lasting only 18 minutes against a seemingly unstoppable Mexican Army, and he is the namesake for the city of Houston. The tales of Sam Houston are larger than life.  Flanagan’s book reveals the man who inspired the legends.  Using Houston’s own words, letters, and accounts from others who knew him, Flanagan shows Houston to be a complicated and flawed, yet remarkable man. In short, Houston was human, with all the complexities and contradictions that come with the human experience.

Many Americans have gone through a reckoning in recent years, realizing that the Founding Fathers were not infallible men.  For years they have been literally placed on pedestals, had cities, buildings, and monuments named for them and built in homage to them, with few questions asked about who they were beyond the iconic image. Thomas Jefferson, George Washington, and many of the other Founding Fathers preached the values of liberty and equality while owning slaves.  This does not make them entirely unworthy of admiration, but it does mean that Americans must recognize that they were imperfect men who accomplished exceptional things. Texans must face a similar reckoning with their heroes, and Sam Houston’s Texas is an excellent start to rewriting that historical narrative. Houston was all things: a friend to Native Americans, a slave holder, an American, a Texan, a leader of the Texas Revolution, and an advocate against the Civil War.  These seemingly contradictory traits make Houston a more tangible, relatable figure. Sam Houston the legend provides an unattainable vision of what it means to be human.  Sam Houston the man, with all his flaws and contradictions, provides a realistic example to which Texans can aspire. Sam Houston will forever live on in Texas folklore, but it is time to separate the legend from the man.  It may be simpler or more appealing to tell tales of Houston as a perfect, Arthurian icon who led Texas to independence, but the truth of the man behind the legend is a far more fascinating story.

Published in 1947, Images de Salzbourg is an Italian booklet featuring a brief introduction to and numerous photographs of Salzburg, Austria. The introduction, in Italian, describes Salzburg as a “city of festivals” and “one of the most…original [cities] of Europe” due to its love of music (especially Salzburg-born composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart) and natural beauty (pg. i)

The photographs themselves highlight the landscape and architecture of Salzburg.  Nestled in a valley near the Austrian Alps, the scenery is breathtaking.  On one side of the city are green rolling hills, and on the other, the rugged Alps.  The Hohensalzburg Castle, a medieval fortress, sits atop a mountain in the heart of the city, its white stone gleaming in the sunlight as it watches over Salzburg.  At the foot of the mountain is Salzburg Cathedral, renowned for its Baroque style of architecture.  Mirabell Palace is a common feature in the photographs, as it provides an uninterrupted view to Old Town Salzburg, including the Salzburg Cathedral and the Hohensalzburg.  The narrow streets, the beautiful buildings (some of which are Baroque, others medieval, and still more Renaissance in style), and the grand landscape of Salzburg make it, as the introduction notes, “one of the most attractive cities” in Europe (pg. i).

The photos capture Salzburg’s beauty in black and white, merely two years after the end of World War II.  Austria had been occupied by Nazi Germany from 1938 to the end of the war in 1945.  Adolf Hitler himself was born in Austria, and the nation welcomed the annexation by the Third Reich.  The Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camp was established not long after the Reichstag established its government in Vienna, as well as hundreds of other sub-camps across Austria.  In 1945, Austria seceded from the Third Reich, following heavy Allied bombing efforts and the capture of Vienna by the Soviet Union’s Red Army.  After the war, Austria was divided into Soviet, American, French, and British zones, only regaining full independence in 1955. Salzburg was at the heart of the American zone. Although Salzburg had been hit heavily by the bombing, most of its major buildings and architecture remained intact, turning Salzburg into a major tourist destination for Americans.  The photographs in Images de Salzbourg, taken in 1947, reveal a city mostly unscathed physically from World War II.

Today Salzburg is primarily known  for its gorgeous location near the Alps, its utterly charming Old Town, as the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and as the setting for The Sound of Music.   Images de Salzbourg shows the city to be remarkably intact two years after World War II.  But while its buildings and landscape were as beautiful as ever in 1947, Salzburg’s citizens had to contend with the horrors committed by the Nazis.  Salzburg installed small metal stones outside of homes where Jewish citizens had lived before they fled, or were taken to concentration camps or ghettos. The stones mark their names, their birth and death dates, and the place of their death.  They are called “Stolperstein” in German – literally translated as “stumbling stones.”   In a city of festivals, of music and Mozart, of such grandeur in the form of its buildings and its landscape (which somehow escaped the devastating damage seen in other European cities following World War II), the Stolperstein serve as a reminder of Austria’s complicity in carrying out the atrocities of the Holocaust.  Walking through the winding cobblestone streets past pastel-colored buildings, with the gleaming Hohensalzburg above and the Alps beyond, it is easy to forget the darkness of the 1930s and 1940s, as Images de Salzbourg does, and become lost in the charm of Salzburg.  The Stolperstein jut out from the otherwise flat sidewalks throughout the city, tripping tourists and locals, forcing them to look at their feet as they walk, taking note of every name.  Max Matschke, 1897-1939, Deported.  Uri Aron, 1942, Auschwitz.  Irma Herz, 1870-1942, Theresienstadt.  Countless names, dates, and fates are etched forever into brass stones along the streets of Salzburg, a reminder that for all its charm and beauty, the Holocaust came to Salzburg too.