A Builder’s Pilgrimage: Chicago, Crown Hall, Robie House, and a Preview of Farnsworth

Crown Hall IIT

I never thought I’d be grateful to theater for giving me an excuse to indulge my architecture obsession. But there I was, packing my bag for Chicago under the noble pretense of supporting my wife’s play opening. Don’t get me wrong – I was proud as heck of her. I even put on a clean shirt and pretended I knew how to behave at a fancy opening night. Still, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t just as giddy about the other plans rattling around in my brain. Chicago! The Mecca of American architecture. Skyscraper Central. A place where even the alleys have stories built in brick and steel. I had a feeling that once the curtain fell on her show, my own little architectural adventure was just getting started.

Sure enough, the morning after the triumphant performance (which I absolutely paid full attention to – promise!), I set out on my pilgrimage. Wife in tow, coffee in hand, off to the Illinois Institute of Technology we went, like it was the most natural romantic destination in the world. See, I’ve had S.R. Crown Hall on my bucket list – one of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s modernist masterpieces. To a self-admitted architecture geek like me, Crown Hall is basically holy ground. And let me tell you, it did not disappoint. Even from afar, it looked simple and understated – just a big minimalist glass-and-steel box plunked down in the middle of campus. But walking up to it, I felt a goofy grin spread across my face. The proportions, the clean lines, the way the whole building seemed to float slightly above the ground – it was like meeting a celebrity in real life and finding out they’re even cooler in person.

We strolled around the perimeter first. The sun was out, and light was pouring through those enormous glass walls, making the interior glow. Pressing my nose to the glass (yes, like an unsupervised five-year-old at a candy store window), I could see the vast open space inside. No interior columns at all – just one huge, uninterrupted hall bathed in daylight. I stood there imagining all the student architects over the decades, drafting away in this glorious open room, probably feeling just as inspired as I was at that moment. “It’s basically a cathedral,” I whispered to my wife. She just smirked and said, “If this is your idea of a church, I hope you remember to say amen.” I probably deserved that one. In my excitement I may have looked like I was about to drop to my knees in reverence. We made sure to snap a photo out front – me beaming like I’d just found the Holy Grail of Modernism (which, let’s face it, I kind of had). It’s a great shot: I’m standing there in front of Crown Hall. You can practically see the kid-in-a-candy-store sparkle in my eyes.

After I had my fill of Mies’s marvel (and after my wife physically steered me away so we could go have lunch), we set course for another icon across town. You can’t drag an architecture nut to Chicago and not visit Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House. That would be like taking a kid to a theme park and skipping the roller coaster. So that afternoon we headed to the quiet South Side neighborhood of Hyde Park, where the Robie House has been chilling on a corner lot since 1910. Now, I’ve built my share of modern homes and I love steel-and-glass minimalism, but coming up to the Robie House, I felt a different kind of awe. This place is over a hundred years old, yet it still looks oddly modern – or maybe timeless is the word. Long, low horizontal lines, brick walls and overhanging roofs that seem to stretch out to hug the prairie landscape. Wright’s genius was in making a home feel like it grew straight out of the ground, like it belonged there. And boy, did he nail it.

We joined a small tour group to go inside (no way was I gonna settle for just an exterior peek). The interior was a revelation: stained-glass windows throwing colorful patterns on the floors, beautiful woodwork on the ceilings and built-in cabinets, and that famous open living room with a huge fireplace anchoring it all. I swear I could smell a hint of old wood and history in the air – or maybe that was my imagination running wild. Our tour guide rattled off details about Wright’s designs, but I was happily lost in my own world, examining every fixture and detail like a kid in a toy store. At one point, the guide mentioned how Wright designed everything in the house down to the furniture. My wife nudged me as my eyes widened – she knows I get positively giddy about that level of obsessive craftsmanship. And she’s right: I mean, here’s a guy (Wright) who not only designed the house, but picked the carpets, drew the chairs, probably even told them where to put the sofa. That’s commitment to vision. As a builder who appreciates a clear plan (and has endured many a client changing their mind mid-project), I have a special respect for that kind of confidence in design.

We took the obligatory snapshot on the front steps afterward – me grinning ear to ear, and my wife patiently humor-ing my enthusiasm with a smile of her own. In the photo I’m pointing up at the cantilevered roof overhang like I’m explaining something very important (I’m sure I was spouting some fact about Prairie style architecture at that exact second). She’s politely pretending to listen, indulging my passion, me being a total nerd about it, both of us happy in our own way.

By this point, I was riding an architectural high. Two legendary sites in one day – not too shabby. Over dinner that night, I was practically bouncing in my seat, babbling about everything we saw. My wife, saint that she is, listened patiently (and maybe got a word in about her play’s success, which I did care about deeply, I promise). We were exhausted but satisfied. Still, there was one more place tugging at the back of my builder/architect brain, and I couldn’t leave Illinois without addressing it, at least in conversation. “So, Farnsworth House…” I began, cautiously. She raised an eyebrow. Farnsworth House is another Mies van der Rohe creation – a legendary glass house set in a tranquil landscape about an hour outside the city. It’s basically a glass box on stilts, the epitome of elegant simplicity. I’ve read about it, seen countless photos, and dreamed of visiting for ages.“I knew you couldn’t resist,” she laughed. Caught red-handed! I admitted I was dying to go see it, and felt grateful for my patient wife, who quietly indulged my architectural nerd-out.

So we managed a quick jaunt out to Plano, Illinois, to visit the Edith Farnsworth House. Now, this house deserves its own dedicated story, and believe me, that's coming. But for now, suffice it to say that this delicate glass box perched above a meadow left me genuinely speechless. (There's a photo of me smiling like a kid in front of Farnsworth House, a teaser for a future blog.)   

Our last day in Chicago, we decided to cap things off with something a bit more touristy: the famous Chicago architectural boat tour. By now, even my wife was suggesting we do it – I think my enthusiasm rubbed off on her a little. Or maybe she just figured if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. Either way, we found ourselves sitting on the lower deck of a tour boat, drifting down the Chicago River with the skyline towering around us. And let me tell you, seeing those skyscrapers from the water is a whole different experience. I’ve spent my life around construction and buildings, but floating through the heart of Chicago, craning my neck up at a canyon of glass, steel, and stone, I felt like a wide-eyed tourist all over again – and I loved it. There was a short little shower and a refreshing breeze (which tried its best to steal my hat), the sun was glinting off skyscraper windows, and our docent – a witty older gentleman who clearly knew his stuff – kept up a lively commentary as we cruised along.

We glided past the elegant Wrigley Building, its white terra cotta facade gleaming, and I got a kick out of hearing how it was one of the first skyscrapers here to flaunt electric lights to shine at night. Then came the twin corn-cob shaped towers of Marina City; I’ve seen a million photos of them, but up close from the river, they look like something straight out of The Jetsons – delightfully quirky and still cool decades later. We passed modern giants like the sleek Aqua Tower with its wavy concrete balconies (that one got an appreciative “wow” from my wife – she thought it looked like a giant sculpture, and I agree). And of course, the king of the skyline, the Willis Tower – “Sears Tower,” I muttered under my breath, refusing to use its newer name out of principle. At 1,450 feet, it still dominates. As I looked up at it, I couldn’t help thinking about the ironworkers and engineers who put that monster together in the 1970s. Here I was, a builder who fusses over houses and occasional low-rise structures, and these folks were hoisting steel at dizzying heights with far less computer power than we have now. It gave me a profound appreciation – and maybe a slight bout of vertigo – just imagining it.

My wife glanced over and noticed my misty-eyed stare at the skyline. “You okay?” she laughed. I realized I must have looked completely gobsmacked, mouth slightly open like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time. “Yeah,” I said. “Just thinking about how incredible this all is… and maybe plotting how to build a skyscraper when we get home.” She rolled her eyes playfully. “One project at a time, cowboy.” She’s probably right – best not to scare our clients with sudden ambitions to recreate the Sears Tower in Marin County (perhaps the Farnsworth house). The tour continued with more tales – how Chicago basically invented the skyscraper after the Great Fire, how architects here kept trying to outdo each other in making buildings taller, stronger, prettier. I was eating up every word. I had to bite my tongue a couple of times to keep from interjecting with extra trivia (what can I say, I was enthusiastic and maybe wanted to show off a teensy bit of knowledge). But ultimately I just relaxed and enjoyed someone else telling the story. For once, I was content to sit back with the wind in my beard, my wife’s hand in mine, and let Chicago show off. It was a perfect finale for our trip.

That night, as we packed up to head home, I found myself reflecting on the whole experience. We’d originally flown out to see my wife’s play she directed – and she absolutely nailed it, by the way (husbandly pride compels me to mention that). But in the days that followed, we got to share something else special: exploring a city filled with creations that inspire me in my work and passion. It struck me that in a way, her play and the architecture tours were both forms of art playing out on different stages. She brought a story to life under theater lights, and these architects – Mies, Wright, and all the rest – brought their visions to life under the wide Chicago sky. Different crafts, same magic.

On the plane ride home, I joked that I wasn’t sure what thrilled me more: seeing my wife shine in her element, or finally standing under the roof of Crown Hall. She gave me the look. So I quickly revised: “Of course it was you, dear… Crown Hall was a close second, though.” We both laughed. She knows me too well. I gave her a forehead kiss and added, sincerely, that nothing beats seeing her do what she loves. And that was the truth. But Chicago – that grand old city – sure gave us a trip to remember. I came to cheer on one kind of star, and ended up marveling at a whole skyline of them.