Finding Frank in Taliesin

September 27, 2025October 11, 2025 / wendyulfers / 5 Comments

On a warm October weekend in 2024, I lived in a bedroom on the lower level of Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Shining Brow” home outside the town of Spring Green, Wisconsin. He designed and built it more than 100 years ago in the rolling farm and woodlands where his Welsh ancestors had settled as farmers in the 1840’s. Taliesin, which means Shining Brow, is the Welsh word by which the 800-acre estate is known because it sits on top of the hill and blends seamlessly into the landscape around it. I wanted to experience Wright’s unique design philosophy by spending time in this geography.

Frank Lloyd Wright [1867-1959] was an American architect of renown in the last century. He designed houses and buildings in careful harmony with the natural environment, using the landscape’s resources, materials, and topography as guidelines. In his houses everything complements nature; low slung, wide, cantilevered eaves and flat rooflines, walls of windows framed in wood, and always a large, centrally located open fireplace. He designed the lighting and the furniture too, believing that spaces [both practical and aesthetic) should serve how people move and feel within them.

entry seating area with portrait of his mother, anna wright

cornered window, separation from settling

Since I was a young child, I have been intrigued by houses, how we create spaces in them that resonate with our spirit. I remember when I fell in fascination with Frank Lloyd Wright as a creator of special “places”. In my first job as a Pediatric nurse in Madison, Wisconsin, one of my colleagues lived with her boyfriend and several other people in a house they were renting. When I walked in, I felt something visceral; this was a place and a space that made me feel like I wanted to wake up there every day. A huge open fireplace in a large living room, red polished floors, floor to ceiling walls of windows bringing light and outside greenery in. I asked my friend if another bedroom was available to rent. I would have moved in that day.

Frank Lloyd Wright was a complicated genius, as many artists are apt to be. As the only son in an extremely dysfunctional marriage between a preacher and a teacher, his mother put all her efforts toward the goal that Frank would be an architect. He played for hours as a young boy building complex designs with geometric shaped blocks, called Froebel’s Gifts and Occupations, which she ordered from Germany. The “Gifts”, used educationally in advanced German kindergartens, consisted of different sized blocks, pegs, pieces of colorful paper or yarn. They were instrumental in fueling his imagination for crystalline and geometric design shapes.

seated at desk in studio, from photograph inside Taliesin

The premise of living at Taliesin for a weekend was a workshop on bread baking taught by Bazile (Elizabeth) Booth, a Spring Green baker. It was offered to a small group. Only ten people. Because we were paying guests and living on the grounds, we had the privilege of a private tour of the house and the Hillside School. The school, designed by Wright, was his first professional project in 1886. It was built for his aunts who taught a progressive day school curriculum. A later wing was added as an architectural drafting studio for interns, fellows and apprentices who lived and worked on site. We had freedom to wander the estate during the weekend, so I took advantage of photographing everything Wright designed–the school and apprentice studio, the big red barn, the Romeo and Juliet windmill, the family Unity Chapel, as well as the house and grounds.

architectural studio for apprentices, adjacent to hillside school

curtain designed by wright in hillside school theater

main living room with grand piano (not pictured) used for impromptu evening singing and music concerts

Frank inherited his father’s short stature and good looks, his charismatic charm and engaging ability to tell a story, his lifelong talent and love for music. Wright was a poor student and never obtained a degree in his chosen field. He had a terrible reputation with finances, cost overruns, and not meeting timelines. He presented himself with panache and flair in both speech and attire. Capes, canes, and porkpie hats were his later signature dressing style. He held lofty opinions of himself and his creative gifts and proclaimed them often, and publicly. He was conservative and religious by upbringing, but his actions were ingrained by the family motto “Truth against the World”. He used this to justify his nonconforming professional and life choices.

Our baking workshop group was geographically represented from the east coast to the west, the south, and the mountains of Colorado. There was a mother/daughter duo, a married couple, and the rest of us came as single bakers–four men and six women. Several people were already experienced bread bakers. After the welcoming introductory afternoon including a champagne reception in Taliesin’s main living room, touring the house’s inner sanctums, and dinner in town, we were bonded as a group.

I was probably the least interested in taking sourdough bread making into my own kitchen, challenged by an altitude of 8300 feet. I might have been the most versed in Frank Lloyd Wright history, trivia, and lore. To each their own interests. But baking my own “boule” of country loaf was what got me there and set the daily schedule of morning and afternoon. We started right after breakfast on Day 2.

Bazile Booth is a professional baker with a successful storefront and business in downtown Spring Green. She is also a great teacher with a laid-back approach toward getting 10 pairs of hands to wind up with a successful loaf of bread. We measured and weighed ingredients, then waited to let the natural fermentation process of water and flour and sourdough starter begin their magic.

the sticky, the stretching, and the resting part

Bazile whipping up a huge batch of seeded rye

We hovered over our bowls, cheered each other’s success while bubbles formed as the yeast grew active. We stretched and turned the dough to aerate it. It took all day.

We didn’t bake the bread until Day 3. Instead, the dough “rested” in cloth lined baskets in the refrigerator until it was successfully turned into a beautiful brown loaf the next morning. After the final lunch we claimed our loaves to take home as if they were newborn babies.

yeast bubbles! and showing off the dough before refrigerating

Frank Lloyd Wright evolved into a successful and sought after architectural designer who was artistically ahead of his time. Then, he fell deeply in love with the wife of a neighbor and client in Oak Park, Illinois at a time when marriages were not easily dissolved. When they could no longer deny their attraction and desire to be together, Frank and Mamah (pronounced May-ma) sat together with their spouses, Catherine Wright and Edwin Cheney, to explain the situation. Frank’s Victorian-era wife flatly refused to divorce him so Frank and Mamah left the country for a year, in 1909, where they both worked in Europe.

Mamah was intelligent, highly educated, lovely, and an early feminist before that was a trend. Fluent in several languages, she taught school while in Germany. Then she was hired to translate the writings of a Swedish feminist, Evelyn Keys, whose work she and Frank admired and followed. Some of it formed the basis of what they believed about living together in love, even without a legal contract. Frank was busy working on a portfolio book of his work for publication in Berlin. They were often apart, but it was a break from the excruciating gossip back home. Upon returning in 1910, Edwin Cheney divorced Mamah, but Catherine Wright steadfastly refused to sign papers. Instead, she encouraged media attention to humiliate and denigrate her husband who broke convention and remained in his relationship with Mamah.

In 1911, to escape relentless criticism fueled by the newspapers, Wright designed and built Taliesin in the ancestral countryside west of Madison on land his mother purchased.

Three years later, in August 1914, Lloyd Wright suffered a devastating loss of love and property when a mentally deranged employee killed seven people on the estate while Frank and one of his sons were working on an uncompleted project (Midway Gardens) in Chicago. It was more gruesome than anyone could imagine, especially for Wright when returning to the aftermath.

Julian Carlton, houseman at the time, served the lunch soup on a hot summer day to Mamah and her two children, seated on a screened-in porch. Then he broke her skull with a “shingling hatchet” before turning the weapon on young John and Martha. Workers, gardeners, and apprentices were dining in another area of the house. Julian again served the soup, bolted the door shut, spread gasoline outside the room until it ran underneath the door, then ignited it. Men who tried to escape were attacked with the hatchet. By the end of that horrific day, seven people were murdered by axing and/or burning to death. Two-thirds of Taliesin was in smoldering ashes.

Frank’s son, John Lloyd Wright, made this observation about his father. “Something in him died with her, a something lovable and gentle that I knew and loved…As I reflect now, I am convinced that the love that united them was deep, sincere and holy in spite of its illegality–I am convinced that the woman for whom he left home was of noble character.”

Wright, numbed by emotional and physical pain, his body broken out in boils, eventually realized that faith and hope were now lost to him. “Something strange had happened to me. Instead of feeling that she, whose life had joined mine there at Taliesin, was a spirit near, she was utterly gone. After the first anguish of loss, a kind of black despair seemed to paralyze my imagination in her direction and numbed my sensibilities. The blow was too severe.” As a form of consolation, he felt that only by immersing in the work of rebuilding Taliesin could he get relief. “In action, there is release from anguish of mind.”

mamah’s resting place in the cemetery, headstone added much later, with inscription and signature by flw: “We lived–richly”

Taliesin II rose from the ashes in a completely new rendition. And then again, in 1925, when faulty wiring caused another fire, Wright rebuilt it for the third time into the current version.

One hundred years after the second redesign and rebuilding of Taliesin I walked around the estate grounds as the light changed from late afternoon to dusk. I wanted to feel what Frank and Mamah lived together in this rich green farmland with the hills and a river running through it. I wondered why Wright was compelled to rebuild after not one, but two devastating fires. What was it about this rural setting on a verdant hillside with expansive views overlooking the Wisconsin River that inspired him to continue life there after immeasurable tragedy?

I worked my way around the landscape, sitting in various spots to photograph scenery and imagining the bevy of apprentice architects who laboriously built the stone walls, walkways, and gardens a long time ago. I thought about how and why it framed Frank and Mamah’s short life together there over three years. The reasons began in his childhood.

Frank’s love and loyalty to the land began as a boy when he labored on Uncle James Lloyd-Jones’ farm summer after summer. It was a grueling learning curve to a stronger body and a fierce work ethic. He termed the phrase, “tired on tired” to describe the relentless fatigue and suffering endured from being wakened at 4:00 AM until falling into bed at night. But that steady seasonal diet of hard physical farm work set a high standard for the rest of his working life, seven decades, until his death at 92.

Wisconsin farmland, orchards, green wooded hills, a flowing river and nature were Wright’s roots. He built and rebuilt Taliesin here, pushing through times of great loss and suffering through the work. He returned when he needed to go home and restore his spirit. The landscape and the memories were the foundation of his physical, mental, emotional and spiritual health.

I first encountered the term “spiritual geography” in a book by Kathleen Nolan called Dakota: A Spiritual Geography. It’s the story of how she returned to the territory of her upbringing in South Dakota when her grandparents died. She and her husband traveled from New York City to settle the estate and ended up staying there for 25 years. The premise is that where you are from forms a part of your spiritual expression and never leaves you. Spiritual geography is the beginning of how we see and inhabit the world and how it inhabits us. It is where and how we learn the lessons to slow down, savor peace, solitude, and open spaces (where they are available). We take the lessons from our earliest remembered spiritual geographies and live the concept wherever we go.

I understand it two ways. My early childhood years were spent in a small suburb of St. Louis, Missouri with regular visits to the farm where my grandmother lived 30 miles away. It gave me comforts, freedoms and connection to both city and country living. Later, moving to Colorado in married life, a small town in the mountains bordering a national park became my grown-up spiritual geography. As we navigated life with two children in five countries around the world, always creating a home wherever we lived, I knew where the permanent “home” was waiting. It was where we refreshed our spirits every summer during the overseas years–in a mountainous landscape larger than we were that diminished the small details of life.

long’s peak from trail ridge road, first snow, september 2025, estes park, colorado

Frank Lloyd Wright’s return to the rural hills of his youth regenerated and nurtured his soul over a lifetime. Later, after his marriage to Olgivanna, he created a second spiritual geography near Scottsdale, Arizona. The desert environment and beauty of the southwest resonated with them both. Taliesin West was built, using the landscape as a guide, for their winter home. Wisconsin and Arizona remained an important summer/winter hiatus for the rest of their lives. They found spiritual renewal in both places.

The weekend at Taliesin reinforced my belief that how we create and inhabit our homes and personal spaces is another form of spiritual geography. Not landscape based, but living based. If we are fortunate, we can have both. Our home spaces (and how we live in them) provide emotional nurturing, too. Developing “inside geography” takes thought and effort. It requires letting go of anyone and everyone else’s notions of what is nourishing and meaningful in your life. It requires spending real time thinking, imagining, and playing with both practical and aesthetic beauty. Then, as Frank Lloyd Wright, you go about the work. You take up the action by collecting, arranging and rearranging. It’s a continual process. It can evolve over years. But, in time, you wake up every day in your version of spiritual geography.

WHY I LOVE WISCONSIN

By Frank Lloyd Wright

(Excerpts from an essay posted inside the Taliesin house)

I love Wisconsin because my staunch old Welsh grandfather with my gentle grandmother and their 10 children settled here nearby. I see the site of their homestead and those of their offspring as I write. Offspring myself, my home and workshop are planted on the ground grandfather and sons broke before the Indians had entirely gone away.

This Wisconsin valley with the spring-water stream winding down as its center line has been looked forward to or back upon by me and mine from all over the world, as home.

And I come back from the distant, strange, and beautiful places that I used to read about when I was a boy and wonder about; yes, every time I come back here it is with the feeling there is nothing anywhere better than this is.

More dramatic elsewhere, perhaps more strange, more thrilling, more grand, too, but nothing that picks you up in its arms and so gently, almost lovingly, cradles you as do these southwestern Wisconsin hills…

…Wisconsin soil has put sap into my veins. Why, I should love her as I loved my mother, my old grandmother, and as I love my work.

Wright’s current headstone in Unity Chapel cemetery with Mamah’s seen behind. When third wife Olgivanna died, she stipulated that his remains be removed from Wisconsin and buried with her at Taliesin West. His inscription reads: “Love of an Idea, Love of God.”

Resources (and quotes) used in this story are from:

Frank Lloyd Wright, A Life by Ada Louise Huxtable, 2004, Penguin Books (a short and very readable biography of the man, accounting for both flaws and genius)

Death in a Prairie House by William Drennan, 2007, University of Wisconsin Press (a detailed background, history, and accounting of the murders at Taliesin in 1914)

Dakota: A Spiritual Geography by Kathleen Norris, 1993, Houghton Mifflin Co. (coming home to find yourself)

A Brave and Lovely Woman, Mamah Borthwick and Frank Lloyd Wright by Mark Borthwick, 2023, University of Wisconsin Press (distant relative of Mamah Borthwick writes a detailed portrait of her life, before and with FLW)

More about creating spiritual geography at home: The Poetry of Space

Childhood spiritual geography in rural Missouri: The Coleman House, Villa Ridge, Missouri

Adult spiritual geography in the Colorado mountains: Bugling Elk and Sacred Spaces

End Note:

Over the past year the true bread bakers in our Taliesin workshop have shared multiple emails with suggestions, successes and failures, tidbits learned in their home kitchens, encouragements, book recommendations and photos. It remains a group where the journey continues in practice and spirit. I came to Taliesin because of an artisanal bread workshop and to gather information to write a story. I dedicate this to all the bakers from that weekend, and to Elizabeth (Bazile) Booth, teacher extraordinaire, owner of Sky Blue Pink Bakery in Spring Green, and Caroline Hamblen, our guide and Director of Programs at Taliesin Preservation.

The Poetry of Space

March 7, 2021October 8, 2025 / wendyulfers / 18 Comments

Your home has to be a refuge, the place you come back to after the world has done all the things it has done to you, where you can be truly yourself, power out, refuel. It should feel good every time you walk in the door. –Amanda Dameron

One year into the Covid-19 pandemic, where spending more time at home has been the norm, the importance of home space, how we create it, how we live in it, what it means, seems a timely topic.

Quarantine has redefined the rhythms of life at home. It has provided different ways to think about and use space. It’s not only about structure, but also light and air, comfort, privacy and intimacy in a place where we can safely talk, think, do, or just be.

colorado cabin, by elizabeth zareh, 2020

…as a child, I always wanted to be in other people’s houses. Now, though still fascinated by those other houses, I am only really comfortable and relaxed in my own. My house is like a garment, made to my exact measurements, draped around me in the way I like… –Margaret Forster

My interest in houses and interior spaces began in childhood. In a small town suburb of a mid-western city, my mother would pile my younger sister and me into the backseat of the station wagon whenever she visited a friend outside our neighborhood. I never refused to go. I knew we would drive past a certain house, on curvy Big Bend Road, where my imaginary friend Cindy lived. And every time we drove by, I said aloud, “Look, there’s Cindy’s house!”

Imaginary friends weren’t an option–they were essential. –Emory Ann, 23 Things Only Children Know to be True

I made up this friend, gave her a name, and pretended to call her on the phone from the car because there was something I loved about that particular house, shaded by tall trees on a curved lot. I wanted to run to the door and be invited to play with a friend who didn’t exist. In my eight-year-old mind, I even imagined living in this cottage-like home with people I didn’t know.

Like the body itself, a home is something both looked at and lived in.…it is an image, an idea, a goal; perhaps as it was for my mother…it has filtered down to me. –Rachel Cusk

It is common to find a family link in people who care about how they live, what their space looks like, how it feels to others. Often it begins in an environment during childhood, emulating a relative’s sense of design and comfort in the home. Sometimes it comes from other early life experiences.

I spoke with a sampling of family and friends about how their interest developed in creating a home that both nurtured them and resonated with others. I asked for a recollection or anecdote when they knew that space, of a certain style, just so, would be important for the rest of their lives.

Responses varied from a childhood obsession for re-arranging furniture in a tiny bedroom until it felt right, to sewing curtains, bedspreads and pillows to create a signature space. Others spoke of a fascination with miniature rooms in doll houses, or a teenage bedroom on the top floor of a Victorian house with a sink built into the closet, or annually setting up a primitive cabin in a summer boys’ camp.

My friend Marilyn Larson wrote a beautiful memory about playing with her younger sister on the family farm in southern Minnesota. In a small grove of trees, they carefully raked the ground and removed debris in preparation for setting up rooms for a home. Each room was given a name designated by purpose, furnished with orange crates, lumber, or broken implements scavenged outside the barn. Sometimes they played “restaurant” by setting up a counter on a long plank of wood dragged from the junk pile, accessorized with broken dishes. They served homemade “mud cakes” and tried to entice their brother to buy one.

My brother-in-law Erik, a professional designer, has two memorable stories. The first was when he carved the skyline of New York City into the pine headboard of the bed his father had just built. Only six-years-old, using pointy scissors and ballpoint pens as primitive tools, he was proud of the creation of what he thought New York might look like. His parents were not impressed. He also secreted clear plastic food containers from the kitchen to an empty neighborhood field where he spent hours constructing houses, buildings and towns in the open, weedy landscape. His mother had no appreciation for this either. But he was onto something that evolved into a life of designing and building sets and spaces for theater, television, and corporations.

Frank Lloyd Wright, whose work organically synced with nature, was influenced by space as a boy. His schoolteacher mother bought a set of educational blocks created by the German educator, Friedrich Froebel. These geometrically shaped blocks were designed to teach children about form and relationship to nature. Wright remembers being fascinated by them, assembling shapes and compositions for hours at a time. He credited them for kindling his creative mind toward architectural design.

…there is no true understanding of any art without some knowledge of its philosophy. Only then does its’ meaning come clear. –Frank Lloyd Wright

Considering houses as art forms, Wright suggests that to really understand them they should be viewed philosophically. But it was a book by Gaston Bachelard that first started me thinking about houses metaphorically.

Gaston Bachelard [1884-1962] was a French philosopher from the last century. His idea of the house as poetic space that holds memories and opens portals to dreams and imagination is timeless.

Bachelard uses the image of houses “as a tool for analysis of the human soul”. Simplified, the house is the container that shelters our body, which is the container for our inner life. To access inner life requires daydreaming. In order to daydream we need solitary time. With solitary time, we learn to love “the space inside us”, the creative dreaming place. Learning to happily “abide” within ourselves while in the shelter of the house is poetry, because the house is in us as much as we are in it.

What does this mean?

The house, a physical space, provides shelter for us to dream and make memories. These dreams and memories are held in our unconscious, a metaphysical place. Remembering dreams is easier with connection to an actual space. When the house offers places to curl up, in solitude, such as nooks and crannies, window seats, attics and garrets, one’s own bedroom, there are built-in places to think and dream and create. The circle of house around us housing the soul within us is poetry.

Bachelard says children must be allowed time to daydream. They need to learn to love being alone and, at times, even bored. Solitary time opens and invites new thinking in unexpected ways–just as poetry does. Time alone teaches children to live within themselves, too. Inside their daydreams is where they experience the immensity of imagining worlds within worlds.

The house protects the dreamer. The houses that are important to us are the ones that allow us to dream in peace. –Gaston Bachelard

The house you were “born in” is your first space of material warmth, protection and rest. It is imprinted in a place in the subconscious that you may or may not return to in dreams. If we dream about houses they are often not easily described by words. There’s where the poetry comes in.

In the house I was born into, my older sister had the best room. Her bedroom was underneath the roof. To the right, at the top of the stairs, was an aromatic cedar closet where seasonal clothes were stored. To the left, down a narrow hallway was the door to her room. The walls and ceiling were honey colored pine and the ceiling angled like a triangle from the peak. Low walls ran along both sides with cubbyhole doors that hid spaces further under the eaves. There was a tiny closet with low hanger bars and a narrow shelf for folded clothes. The only window opened to a flat roof over the front porch. It was forbidden to go out there because you might “fall through” the unsupported porch ceiling. But I learned that my sister crawled out the window to climb onto the higher roof and [secretly] smoke with her friends.

When she was away, I lay on her bed, stared into the peak, re-arranged the furniture in my head, and imagined how I would live if this were my space. Eventually I had a claim to the coveted room when it was time for her to go to university. But then my father took a job in a different state. And that perfect bedroom nest, which I never fully inhabited, still recurs in my nighttime dreams. [With the addition of a bathroom through the back wall of the closet invented by my subconscious.]

Our house is our corner of the world…it is our first universe. If looked at intimately–even the humblest dwelling is beautiful. –Gaston Bachelard

All inhabited space is essentially the notion of home. A house doesn’t necessarily have to be the shelter opening the doorway to creativity and dreaming. A hermit’s hut, a childhood bedroom, a tent in the woods, the car on a road trip, a favorite hike, a deep soaking bathtub, a tree next to a river–places where we can be alone are also conduits to accessing “inside” spaces where we think and dream and create. Even the humblest, most primitive space can be this place.

You have to filter out stale ideas that your mother gave you about how you should live, or what you should have in your space. Does it have to do with you, or not? –Interior designer, New York Times

My mother had a knack for making houses into homes. She intuitively knew how things should be arranged and was true to her own tastes for creating comfort in the places I grew up. She was on the sidelines with advice as I began experimenting with my own living spaces.

The time came when we both realized that choices going forward needed to be mine and not hers. One birthday she gave me a clear glass ginger jar lamp stuffed with white seashells. The shade had accordion pleats the color of beige sand. I didn’t say I hated it, but it had nothing to do with me. It was her idea of a cool accessory. So I diplomatically said I didn’t want a lamp as much as I wanted a professional bread knife with serrated edges. She kept the lamp. I got the knife. Future gifts were checks.

My first apartment living alone was in Madison, Wisconsin on the top floor of a house across the street from Lake Monona. It had a glassed-in porch that looked into trees on the lake shore. The bed was a saggy mattress on top of bouncy coil springs hauled down from the attic one floor above. I arranged green trees and plants for window treatments, hammered Indian cotton tapestries to the walls to hide plaster cracks, and covered splintery floors with funky patchwork rugs. There was no bedroom door so I tacked up a curtain of wooden beads that clinked and swayed in long strands. It was perfect.

Marriage followed with several changes in geography in the U.S. Eventually we made the decision to move overseas. Different stories accumulated while living in five countries over the next 30 years. Apartments or houses in Singapore, Cyprus, Taiwan, Germany and France were woven together by the layout of affordable space that fit our family and by treasures we collected from each place we lived. There were always challenges while adapting to a new job, unfamiliar languages and cultures. But whatever the outside world threw at us, when we crossed the threshold of each dwelling we breathed in familiar sights and scents. It was our space, our comfort, our sanctuary, our home.

courtyard and house in oberursel germany, paris apartment in 16th arrondissement

My artist friend, Catherine Ventura whom I met in Taiwan, said it best, “I make familiar spaces in unfamiliar places.” We all did.

The ideal of happiness has always taken material form in the house, whether cottage or castle. It stands for permanence and separation from the world. –Simone de Beauvoir

Frances Schultz recovered from a failed relationship and missteps in mid-life by buying and renovating a tiny dilapidated cottage with good bones. She wrote a therapeutic memoir, The Bee Cottage Story, about healing herself with the power and creativity of making a beautiful home.

There are no rules about how a house becomes a home. It requires thought, time and attention, and putting your stamp on it by living in the space. As far as decorating, Schultz advises intuition; “If it feels right, it probably is. If it doesn’t, it isn’t. Instincts are not wrong. Ignoring them is…when a space is right for you; there is an instinctive response to it–an intuitive sense of how you would live there, where your things would go, what you would keep, and what you would change. It’s a project, not a struggle.”

Ruth Bender, a long time friend, wrote these thoughts; “Making a home is a mentally engaging and creative gift to oneself. It is an expression of love to those we are lucky enough to actually be with and to those dear ones who are gone or far away.”

Houses that become homes are like a poem. They have structure that represents how we want to live in the world. They shelter our feelings for people and surroundings we love. And if the home is nourishing to the soul and allows expression of the “inner self”, then we are fortunate to have created our own poetry of space.

…believe that place is fate. Where you are is who you are. The further inside you the place moves, the more your identity is entwined with it. Never casual, the choice of place is the choice of something you crave. –Frances Mayes

A Taste of Mind

window to a life overseas

Frank Lloyd Wright

Finding Frank in Taliesin

The Poetry of Space

Share this:

Share this: