THE GLASS HOUSE, NEW CANAAN

This trip is not for those averse to planning ahead (and I know who you are). We booked in October and were able to secure a spot on a weekday in June. 2008 is sold out so I’d recommend booking soon for 2009. Or just immerse yourself in my story and enjoy a vicarious visit.

I’ve been waiting to see Philip Johnson’s Glass House for a good dozen years, from the day I read about the visitor’s center he designed on the property (built in 1995 – “Da Monsta”) in preparation for opening the house to the public upon his ultimate death. Johnson’s prescience that people would line up for hundreds of years to see his work pinched that secret chord of mine that longs to shout, “”I’m great, see, look what I did.” Awed by either the self-aggrandizing visionary or the unbridled control-freak (probably both) I scantily followed the obituaries for the next ten years until it was announced that Johnson died at the ripe age of 98.

After a quick (literally) four-train-trip from home we were deposited on Elm Street in New Canaan. We lady-lunched at Rosie and snagged the last of the two sidewalk tables just in time for a full-frontal view of the unloading of a produce truck from SoHo. After a leisurely jaunt around town we decided to head right back to New York after our Glass House tour rather than spend another minute surrounded by gaudy home décor, floral clothing and blondes.

Presciently, I reserved the one tour of the day that allowed for photography. (Eight months ago, who knew I’d actually have a camera? I imagined we’d simply be lingering while others clicked.) Right here I’m going to heed Johnson’s recommendation and “Just shut up and (let you) look around.”





Okay, you knew I couldn’t shut up for long … My thoughts: Seeing The Glass House didn’t give me that first encounter thrill of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater. It doesn’t have the same power of space and place. But if I had to choose which one I’d live in (imagine being given such a choice!) I’d pack my bag and move to New Canaan. The sheer simplicity coupled with the raw intensity of seasons exploding in my bedroom offers a palate for the contemplation and excitement of a consecrated life. (Of course you’d all be welcome to bunk down in the guesthouse with its solid brick façade. And we’d party lazily at the Lake Pavillion awaiting summer sunsets and have cozy winter-time celebrations in the underground painting gallery.)




And how do I feel after consummating a 12-year-desire? Older. And hopeful that other places of my day-dreams will be just as sweet. The complete rainbow that hovered serenely over the Empire State Building upon our return and greeted us from our slightly less alluring window-view reminded me of Dorothy's revelation at the end of her journey to Oz, "The next time I go looking for my heart's desire, I won't look any further than my own backyard."