Danger, Danger! High Culture!

The architect Philip Johnson died last week at the skyscraping age of 98. As happens, that for which he was criticized in life, he is feted in death. (See Susan Sontag for same.) Johnson was an aesthetic skank who slutted from Modernism to Post-Modernism and back again. Good for him. Both mods and post-mods tended to be ideologues (see Adolf Loos), and as such, crashing bores too.

Johnson designed the IDS building, the anchor of the Minneapolis skyline. In our old house there I was once small enough to slip through my bedrom window--which opened only halfway, forcing me to inhale sharply as I pushed through in one rib-scraping motion--and crawl out onto the roof. From there I could see the skyline, and the IDS held reign over it. The commanding heights of my imagination.

In this sense the IDS reminds me of the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey, a large opaque slab that draws the awe of those who look at it. And like Johnson, the building too is contradictory. On the one hand it is indeed a dominatrix, on the other it is one of the most humble of the city's skyscrapers. Perhaps it's the noblesse oblige that comes with great power properly understood. The IDS is humble in shape: a simple trapezoidal slab, easy enough for a small boy to draw obsessively in an impasto mash of dark blue crayon.

Which brings us to color. It is a brooding, obsidian shade of blue only occasionally. The fascade is entirely glass which means it reflects its surroundings. On a day of mottled clouds the skyscraper camoflauges itself in cumulonimbus fatigues. Seen while in downtown, the IDS reflects the colors and shapes of its neighbors. It defers to them. It even acts as a mirror to its prima donna co-star, the Wells Fargo building (itself a gorgeous cascade of golden light).

Once when I was twelve and riding into downtown Minneapolis on highway 396 with my grandparents, the IDS seemed to loom so large--larger and yet larger as we approached--that it necessitated comment. And to me specifically, as my IDS fetish is well known in the fam.

"Philip Johnson designed the IDS, Grant." My grandma said.
"I know."
"He's gay, you know." Though I couldn't see her face, she said this as if with an arched eyebrow.
"Mm." The most politic thing I could think to say. Or at least intone.

Speaking of. I hung out with Matt W. tonight. There are many reasons I like hanging out with him, one of them being that for as much as I may feel like a raging queen, my flame always seems to dim when compared to the roman candle of homosexuality that is Matt.

But not this night. We saw the movie A Very Long Engagement. (Incidentally, yes the movie is a very long engagement. Very long, but not long enough.) With absolutely no parking spaces at the megaplex we were forced to park at a nearby Hooters restaurant. I had never seen one up close, so before zeroing in on a space I drove past closely at an idling pace and looked through the windows. So exotic! alien! I felt like Jane Goodall. "Matt, is that wood paneling on the walls?? I love it!" I said. "Yeah but did you see the size of the breasts on the waitress?" Matt gawked.

No! I hadn't! That's right, instead of looking at the hooters of the girl at Hooters, I was checking out the interior design of the restaurant, while Matt was all about the mammaries. For at least a while I was the gayer of the two. That is, until after the movie when Matt said "And what about that little soldier boy in the movie [Gaspard Ulliel]? I'd suck his nose!"