From William

From William. A painting by William, that’s what we liked to call him. William Rose. He sent it to me, and I was glad—even if the pose was a touch wooden—my own, I mean—but that’s what it must have looked like, up on the dias in 160 Kroeber, the lecture hall for ED 11A—the  drawing class, in a very different guise—where Rembrandt and Goya were king. Pierre Bonnard. And Titian’s stunning drawing of the chest of a horse, so white, expanding beyond the edges of any paper. Like the breasts of his courtesans. Ah, those Venetians—all color and light, the form disappearing into the waters of the canals. Why architecture, when life itself might dissolve?

These questions were never answered, but look we did. Closely, with much good talk. It was a path—to take in the whole world first, all the great and beautiful things humankind had made—and only then to specialize. Design would follow, the forms and the rules, but for now, be open…

A mantra, I suppose, but one I still believe. And I look at William’s paintings today, much admired—where Piero is reborn as cook or chef, those tall hats now both mythical and everyday—yes, all drama must proceed. It was his choice, to paint—and he did start here, upstairs, on the fourth floor, those slanting brushstrokes out of Cezanne, a keen eye and a great desire…


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