PS37 Who Did What? New Thoughts on Gilded Age Collaborators

The portrayal of the architect as a singular creative genius has obscured the extent to which they depended upon the associates, specialists, and draftsmen in their offices. It has created the impression that principal architects acted as the sole designers within their firms, but that was rarely the case in firms that featured an advanced division of labor. The most pivotal member in many large offices was the chief designer, an associate who concentrated on design without worrying about other aspects of practice. They played a key role in creating preliminary schemes, overseeing the development of projects, and mentoring the staff of draftsmen.

This paper explores the relationship of architects and their designers in some of the more prominent firms of the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. It traces the changing character of the creative process in a period in which design authority began to be delegated to senior associates who were recognized for their design talent. It focuses in particular on work of Joseph M. Wells at McKim, Mead & White, Charles B. Atwood at D.H. Burnham & Company, and Thomas R. Johnson at Cass Gilbert’s office. While never well-known by the general public, they were revered by their colleagues for their contributions to iconic building projects. 

This paper offers a framework for analyzing authorship that emphasizes the interplay of individual creation, collaboration, and teamwork within the firm. I argue that we should discard the older notion of a single individual directing a staff of anonymous, and interchangeable workers, in favor of a more nuanced understanding of the inner workings of architectural practice.  

In “Louis Sullivan and George Elmslie,” [JSAH, Vol. 19, No. 2, (May, 1960), 62-68], David Gebhard substantiated that several buildings commonly attributed to Sullivan and built from 1894 to 1909 — the Prudential Building, the Gage Building, the Henry Babson house, the Harold Bradley house, the Schlesinger & Mayer Store, and the National Farmers Bank — were partly or mostly designed by Sullivan’s chief draftsman, George Grant Elmslie.  Gebhard hinted that Sullivan’s declining participation in the work of his own office was due to “continual mental depression.” (ibid, 68)

In The Curve of the Arch: The Story of Louis Sullivan’s Owatonna Bank (St. Paul: Minnesota Historical Society Press, 1985), Larry Millett reveals that Sullivan’s “mental depression” was in fact alcoholism and that Elmslie became Sullivan’s enabler: "When Sullivan was too drunk or too ornery to deal with clients, Elmslie would step in to smooth things over....  And when work needed to be done, it was usually Elmslie who ended up doing it….” (68)

Elmslie was conflicted in his feelings about Sullivan.  In an undated letter to William Purcell, his partner from 1909 to 1921, Elmslie described Sullivan in his prime “as one sitting on Olympus.”  But in a June 26, 1917 letter to Purcell, Elmslie said “I have never gotten over those L.H.S. years of giving all and getting nothing.  It was too long an experience of master and man.  You can’t dream of how queer a situation it was….”

Little has been published about how these experiences affected Elmslie.  Based on my research, I will show that Elmslie suffered from what today’s psychologists call clinical depression.  I will furthermore show how this tendency was expressed in Elmslie’s architectural designs, his dealings with clients, and his writings — and which, in the end, led to a mental breakdown and financial dependence on Purcell.

The years following the U.S. Civil War — the Gilded Age — witnessed the dramatic growth of American science, particularly in the fields of agriculture, engineering, medicine, and astronomy. This precipitous rise, characterized by federally-sponsored science research, the founding of scientific organizations and institutions, and the broadening of science education, shaped/reflected Americans’ perceptions of themselves and their place in the world. Astronomy in particular spoke to the national psyche. In the late 19th century, a series of observatories claimed territory in the American West — the exploration of the universe was thoroughly entangled with the discourse of westward expansion.

Lick Observatory (c. 1875–1888) was one of the first scientific institutions built in the western U.S. That it was paid for by James Lick, a private citizen made wealthy by real estate speculation following the California gold rush, only made it more emblematic of American aspirations. But the observatory has other tales to tell; they draw us away from the individual and toward architecture as collaboration. When the observatory was transferred to the University of California in 1888, the Lick Trustees thanked a long list of people responsible for the construction. Intriguingly, no architect is included in these statements of gratitude. We know from letters, drawings, and contract documents that Wright & Sanders, a firm that led the charge to found the Pacific Coast Association of Architects (now AIA-SF), was involved in the observatory’s design. Yet, the architects received little recognition and are scarcely mentioned in secondary literature. Using Lick Observatory as a case study, I examine the role of the architect in the building of American observatories. What did Wright & Sanders contribute, and what does their work tell us about the status of architects during the Gilded Age, when they were working toward the professionalization of their field?