Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Outside the Dog Museum (2 page)
“Just think, Markus, no matter
what
you write, there’ll always be someone who wants me to build them billion-dollar buildings!
what
you write, there’ll always be someone who wants me to build them billion-dollar buildings!
“So suck on that a while, you Nazi fuck!”
Before he could say anything, I slapped the Lotus into gear and peeled out, feeling gloriously like an eighteen-year-old.
RUMOR HAD IT THE
Sultan of Saru owned the Westwood Muse Hotel, which explained why he and his entourage invariably stayed there when they came to Los Angeles five or six times a year. It was designed and built in the 1930s by a student of Peter Behrens and looked sort of like the jazzy factories Behrens designed for AEG in Germany. I liked the place because it was quirky, but couldn’t understand why the Sultan would buy it when he could have so easily afforded
any
real estate within a ten-mile radius of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Sultan of Saru owned the Westwood Muse Hotel, which explained why he and his entourage invariably stayed there when they came to Los Angeles five or six times a year. It was designed and built in the 1930s by a student of Peter Behrens and looked sort of like the jazzy factories Behrens designed for AEG in Germany. I liked the place because it was quirky, but couldn’t understand why the Sultan would buy it when he could have so easily afforded
any
real estate within a ten-mile radius of the Beverly Hills Hotel.
When I pulled up in front, an extremely tall black woman dressed in a dove-gray shirt and slacks stepped forward and opened my door. As usual, I looked up at her in pure appreciation. She was exquisite.
“Hello, Lucia.”
“Hello, Harry. Has he invited you again?”
“Summoned.”
She nodded and took my place in the car. The two complemented each other perfectly; the machine should have been hers on the basis of looks and stature alone. But it wasn’t. Lucia was only another beautiful failure in California, parking cars.
“He still wants you to build his museum?”
“Yup.”
“And you don’t want to do it?” Her long brown hands sat lightly on the steering wheel. She smiled up at me and that smile was a killer.
I thought about answering her, but asked instead, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Not sure whether I was being serious or not, she cocked her head to one side and said, “‘When I grow up’? An actress. Why?”
“You’d like that carved on your tombstone? ‘Lucia Armstrong, actress’?”
“That would make me very happy. What about you, Harry? What do you want written, ‘Harry Radcliffe, celebrated architect’?”
“Naah, that’s too banal. Maybe ‘The Man Who Built the Dog Museum.’” Said like that, the idea suddenly tickled the hell out of me. Walking up the gravel path, I turned to say something else to Lucia but she was already pulling away. I shouted to the back of my blue car, “That’d be a damned good epitaph!”
Was it because of the dead man in the car wash? Being able to throw the power of “a billion dollars” in Hebenstreit’s face? Or simply envisioning (and liking) the words “The Man Who Built the Dog Museum” on my gravestone that did it? Whatever the reason, walking in the front door of the Westwood Muse Hotel, I knew I would design the Sultan’s museum for him, although I had been saying no for months.
What I had to do next was get him to think he was not just lucky, but
blessed
to have me and, consequently, fork over the money I’d need both for myself and the project. A lot more money than even
he’d
imagined.
blessed
to have me and, consequently, fork over the money I’d need both for myself and the project. A lot more money than even
he’d
imagined.
WHAT ARE YOUR EARLIEST
memories?”
memories?”
Was the first question Fanny Neville asked me, the day we met and did our interview years before. I hadn’t even had the chance to sit back down after letting her in.
Without thinking, I said, “Seeing Sputnik and Rocket Monroe at the Luxor Baths in New York.”
“How old were you?”
“Three, I think.”
“Who were Sputnik and Rocket Monroe?”
“Professional wrestlers.”
MY FATHER, DESALLES “SONNY”
Radcliffe, came from Basile, Louisiana. He knew how to catch snapping turtles, charm women, and make money. He often said the three things had a lot in common and that was why he was so successful.
Radcliffe, came from Basile, Louisiana. He knew how to catch snapping turtles, charm women, and make money. He often said the three things had a lot in common and that was why he was so successful.
With his curveball Southern accent, he’d say, “The say-crit to catching a snapping turtle, Harry, is to stick your foot down into that soft mud and feel around really gently.
“Now, once in a while one of them monsters is in there and’ll grab hold of that foot. Hold still den! This is where the patience comes in. He’s thinking what to do with it. That turtle can’t decide ‘cause he’s mud-dumb. So
you
just take a deep breath and wait. I know you’re dying to pull it out and run like a motherfuck, but don’t. Hold still, boy, and you’ll be all right. Women and money’re the same: They clamp on ya and want to pull you down, but just wait ’em out and those jaws’ll loosen up.”
you
just take a deep breath and wait. I know you’re dying to pull it out and run like a motherfuck, but don’t. Hold still, boy, and you’ll be all right. Women and money’re the same: They clamp on ya and want to pull you down, but just wait ’em out and those jaws’ll loosen up.”
Pop liked someone watching TV with him at night. That was usually me from the very earliest because my mother had no patience for the tube.
He liked wrestling because he said it relaxed him. Channel Five from Uline Arena or Commack on Long Island.
I REMEMBER SITTING ON
my father’s lap and he’d say, ‘That’s Sweet Daddy Siki, Harry.’Or Bobo Brazil, Johnny Valentine, Fuzzy Cupid. Because I was young, and those names sounded so fairy taleish, I remembered them. Sputnik and Rocket Monroe were two bad guys with long black hair and white streaks painted down the middle of their manes so they both looked like skunks.”
my father’s lap and he’d say, ‘That’s Sweet Daddy Siki, Harry.’Or Bobo Brazil, Johnny Valentine, Fuzzy Cupid. Because I was young, and those names sounded so fairy taleish, I remembered them. Sputnik and Rocket Monroe were two bad guys with long black hair and white streaks painted down the middle of their manes so they both looked like skunks.”
Fanny sat forward and pointed her eyeglasses at me. “That’s where you got the names for your collection?”
“Exactly.”
“You named furniture after professional wrestlers?”
“Yes, but then Philippe Starck stole the idea and named
his
stuff after characters from some science fiction novel.
his
stuff after characters from some science fiction novel.
“Look, everyone takes design too seriously. I thought by giving my work names, ridiculous names, it’d put things in perspective. A person
who pays five thousand dollars for a chair doesn’t have much perspective.”
who pays five thousand dollars for a chair doesn’t have much perspective.”
She slid the glasses back on for the fourth time. Her face was oval and thin with large dark lips that sat in a fixed rosebud pout. The square black Clark Kent glasses made her look like she was trying too hard to appear serious.
“Then why do you
charge
five thousand dollars for a chair that you call ‘Bobo Brazil,’ Mr. Radcliffe?”
charge
five thousand dollars for a chair that you call ‘Bobo Brazil,’ Mr. Radcliffe?”
“Do your homework,
Ms.
Neville.
I
don’t charge anything for the furniture I design—the company does. And they aren’t charging for the chair or lamp, they’re charging for my name. Anyway, I come cheap—Knoll charges ten grand for a Richard Meier chair.”
Ms.
Neville.
I
don’t charge anything for the furniture I design—the company does. And they aren’t charging for the chair or lamp, they’re charging for my name. Anyway, I come cheap—Knoll charges ten grand for a Richard Meier chair.”
“Don’t you feel immoral being involved in that when you know so many people are suffering in the world?”
“Don’t you feel immoral writing for a magazine that’s only bought by pseudo-intellectuals and rich people who don’t give a shit about the poor?”
“Touché. What were you doing at the Luxor Baths?”
“I was with my father, who was a Turkish bath nut. He believed you could do anything you wanted—drink a bottle of brandy or carouse all night, so long as you went to a Turkish bath the next day and sweated out your transgressions.”
“Transgressions?” She smiled for the first time.
“I believe in words of more than one syllable.”
“You like language?”
“I
believe
in it. It’s the only glue that holds us together.”
believe
in it. It’s the only glue that holds us together.”
“What about your occupation? Doesn’t the human community depend on its physical structures?”
“Yes, but it can’t build them unless it can explain what kind it wants. Even when you’re only making grass huts.”
“What
do
you think of your work, Mr. Radcliffe?”
do
you think of your work, Mr. Radcliffe?”
Without missing a beat or feeling the least bit guilty, I stole from Jean Cocteau once again. This time replacing only one word—“architect” for “writer.” “‘I believe that each of my works is capable of making the reputation of a single architect.’”
“You don’t believe in modesty.”
It was my turn to sit forward. “Who do you think is better than me?”
“Aldo Rossi.”
I waved him away. “He makes cemeteries.”
“Coop Himmelblau?”
“They design airplanes, not buildings.”
“Honestly, don’t you think anyone is better than you?”
I thought for a moment. “No.”
“Do you mind if I quote you?”
As obnoxiously as possible, I slid into my father’s Basile, Louisiana, drawl. “Aww now, Fenny, do you really think that’s going to hurt me? Every interview I give, they quote that. Know what happens? I get more commissions! People like hiring a man who’s sure of himself. Most particularly when you’re responsible for a few hundred million dollars!”
Which was true. While talking to Fanny Neville that first time years ago, I was also thinking about the three projects on my desk: the Aachen, Germany, airport, the Rutgers University Arts Center in New Jersey, and the house I was building in Santa Barbara for Bronze Sydney and me.
Footnote: Bronze Sydney was my second wife. Bronwyn Sydney Davis. Bronze Sydney. We started out as partners, then married, but quickly realized we functioned better together as professional colleagues. A calm divorce followed. We are still partners and friends.
Both the Aachen and Rutgers projects came about because I’d assured specific people I was the best. That self-confidence, along with my plans and proposals, convinced them. I don’t think the designs
alone would have done it, although they were very significant and appropriate.
alone would have done it, although they were very significant and appropriate.
Ask anyone about the high point of their life. Odds are, whatever they say, it’ll have something to do with being busy. I felt comfortable answering Fanny’s question so bluntly because at that time I was a hurricane named H. Radcliffe, Important American Architect. I did feel like one of those tropical storms that builds in the Gulf of Mexico and scares everyone when the weather man says ominously, “Hurricane Harry is still biding its time out there, just growing bigger. But batten down those hatches, folks. This one is going to be a doozy!” I
was
a doozy, and getting bigger all the time because of the buildings we were putting up. There was fame, money by the pound, jobs designing anything I wanted. Bronze Sydney and I were working too hard, but loving the full-tilt feel of our lives. When we went to bed at night, we were still so wired that we’d often fuck for hours just to ground some of the electricity, angst, excitement, anticipation … that’d built up in both of us over the day.
was
a doozy, and getting bigger all the time because of the buildings we were putting up. There was fame, money by the pound, jobs designing anything I wanted. Bronze Sydney and I were working too hard, but loving the full-tilt feel of our lives. When we went to bed at night, we were still so wired that we’d often fuck for hours just to ground some of the electricity, angst, excitement, anticipation … that’d built up in both of us over the day.
Then the storm hit, all right, but
me,
not the mainland.
me,
not the mainland.
MONTHS LATER, AFTER I’D
won the Pritzker Prize (the second-youngest recipient in its history, let me add), the real honor came when I was invited to participate in the seven hundred fiftieth anniversary of the City of Berlin. As part of the celebration, the city fathers had intelligently decided to ask prominent architects from around the world to design new buildings with which to give that fearful, nervous city a face-lift.
won the Pritzker Prize (the second-youngest recipient in its history, let me add), the real honor came when I was invited to participate in the seven hundred fiftieth anniversary of the City of Berlin. As part of the celebration, the city fathers had intelligently decided to ask prominent architects from around the world to design new buildings with which to give that fearful, nervous city a face-lift.
A late twentieth-century city perched like a crucial and formidable lighthouse on the edge of communism. I thought it was as noble and utopian as we were ever going to get.
They asked me to design a section of the Berlin Technical University. Within an hour of the request, I knew what to do: What could
be more appropriate for a technical university than a robot, seven stories high? I kept a collection of toy robots on my desk, and friends knew if they ever saw an interesting one to pick it up for me.
be more appropriate for a technical university than a robot, seven stories high? I kept a collection of toy robots on my desk, and friends knew if they ever saw an interesting one to pick it up for me.
After spending the better part of two days with the door closed, all calls held, and the desk lamp tipped to illuminate the various figures, I began sketching a building that looked like a mixture of Russian constructivist collage, the sexy robot girl in Fritz Lang’s
Metropolis,
and a “Masters of the Universe” doll. It was brainy, but not exceptional. I needed more stimulus.
Metropolis,
and a “Masters of the Universe” doll. It was brainy, but not exceptional. I needed more stimulus.
There’s a store in Los Angeles on Melrose Avenue that sells nothing but rubber spiders, Japanese robots, horror movie masks … . Your typically overpriced, chic kitsch paradise where the pile of rubber dog shit you bought as a kid for forty-nine cents now costs seven dollars. Truth be told, I’d spent much time and money at that place when searching around for ideas for a new building. A thirty- or forty-dollar bagful of glow-in-the-dark werewolf fangs, little green-rubber-car pencil erasers, get-the-ball-in-the-hole puzzles … spread out together in front of me usually helped, for some unique reason. Mallarmé got his inspiration from looking at the ocean. Harry Radcliffe got his from a fake fly in a fake ice cube.
The owners of the store gave me the heartiest of hellos whenever I came in. I think they were nice people, but I’d spent so much money there in the past that I could never tell if they were really nice or only money-nice. Money-nice lasts as long as you’re a good customer.
“What’s new?”
“We just got something I think you’ll like very much.” The man went to the back of the store and waved me over to him. I walked back as he was reaching down into a box on the floor.
“Look at these.” He held out two handfuls of vividly colored little buildings, each about four or five inches long. I picked one up and gave a tickled yelp. “It’s the Sphinx!”
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