the ford mugs
One of the many pleasurable things about our wedding was that the ceremony was at the near-perfect Parker Chapel, a room that was designed by O'Neil Ford. Any San Antonian has seen several buildings of his: plain-to-ugly exteriors, in the manner of the middle twentieth century, sheltering incredible interior spaces that are miracles of space and light.
The most recognizable icon he created was the orange brick bell tower of Trinity University. It's the perfect example of his style. It's straightforwardly modern in its lines and materials and aesthetic, and yet it looks unmistakably San Antonian. There's some gesture there in its pared-down silhouette that reflects the four-century architectural tradition of this region. That's O'Neil Ford for you: uncompromising modernism with a local accent.
Parker Chapel is both soaring grandeur and modest graciousness, with iconographically churchy shapes and forms and colors translated into twentieth-century high modernism, and suffused with an authentic and original glow. We were thrilled to be able to have our wedding ceremony there. The icing on the cake: when we were seated for the family-blessing time, we found ourselves sitting in Thonet chairs. A charmed life, I tell you.
Ford was a minor celebrity in these parts when he walked the earth. He died in the seventies, and his wife died a few years ago. The kids have just gotten through going through all the stuff and are finally ready to sell off the huge chunk of land they lived on (right next door, appropriately, to Mission San Jose). The Ford estate, an arts villita with several houses and barns and workplaces connected by brick-paved alleyways, was by all counts a mess: gorgeous decor, an enviable library, all the gracious trappings — scattered about like an artist's mind.
The estate sale was this week. Catherine and I went down to have a look. By the time we got there the only things left were thirty-eight-thousand-dollar desks and ten-cent Dallas Cowboys pens: the junk everyone's grandparents couldn't bear to throw away, mixed with incredible treasures.
We passed on the thousand-dollar sterling set, though it was simply brilliant twentieth-century design, spare and perfectly balanced. We also passed on the very inexpensive Haviland Limoge china, also a brilliant expression of the middle century, but horribly chipped and damaged.
We didn't, though, pass on everything. We came away with a pair of champagne saucers — de rigeur until those flutes came along in the eighties — and a set of elegant, plain green-gray coffee mugs. Both are the perfect remembrance of Ford's virtues, and both fit right into our household.
So. O'Neil and Wanda, cheers.
The most recognizable icon he created was the orange brick bell tower of Trinity University. It's the perfect example of his style. It's straightforwardly modern in its lines and materials and aesthetic, and yet it looks unmistakably San Antonian. There's some gesture there in its pared-down silhouette that reflects the four-century architectural tradition of this region. That's O'Neil Ford for you: uncompromising modernism with a local accent.
Parker Chapel is both soaring grandeur and modest graciousness, with iconographically churchy shapes and forms and colors translated into twentieth-century high modernism, and suffused with an authentic and original glow. We were thrilled to be able to have our wedding ceremony there. The icing on the cake: when we were seated for the family-blessing time, we found ourselves sitting in Thonet chairs. A charmed life, I tell you.
Ford was a minor celebrity in these parts when he walked the earth. He died in the seventies, and his wife died a few years ago. The kids have just gotten through going through all the stuff and are finally ready to sell off the huge chunk of land they lived on (right next door, appropriately, to Mission San Jose). The Ford estate, an arts villita with several houses and barns and workplaces connected by brick-paved alleyways, was by all counts a mess: gorgeous decor, an enviable library, all the gracious trappings — scattered about like an artist's mind.
The estate sale was this week. Catherine and I went down to have a look. By the time we got there the only things left were thirty-eight-thousand-dollar desks and ten-cent Dallas Cowboys pens: the junk everyone's grandparents couldn't bear to throw away, mixed with incredible treasures.
We passed on the thousand-dollar sterling set, though it was simply brilliant twentieth-century design, spare and perfectly balanced. We also passed on the very inexpensive Haviland Limoge china, also a brilliant expression of the middle century, but horribly chipped and damaged.
We didn't, though, pass on everything. We came away with a pair of champagne saucers — de rigeur until those flutes came along in the eighties — and a set of elegant, plain green-gray coffee mugs. Both are the perfect remembrance of Ford's virtues, and both fit right into our household.
So. O'Neil and Wanda, cheers.
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