I was best at, rather than what I was capable of.
Naturally that was an even greater incentive to design a kitchen that would knock his eyes out. I showed him the work of architects as diverse as Bruce Goff, Richard Meier, and even Daniel Liebes-kind. I showed him buildings, furniture, kitchen utensils. Anything to get even the smallest feeling for what he wanted, but he was of little help.
“I don’t know what I want, Harry. I want a kitchen where I can cook a good meal and where the animals and me’ll feel comfortable just sitting around, relaxing.”
So I sat down with my pens and paper and designed a kitchen. Black and white tiles, bird’s-eye maple, German stainless appliances. A few original bits and a few surprises. I liked it. Venasque did not.
“This is nothing, Harry. This is for anyone. I want a kitchen that’s mine. Venasque cooks here—not Betty Crocker or Julia Child. This drawing is Harry Radcliffe, Mr. Famous Architect’s kitchen. But this isn’t your place, remember, it’s mine!”
He rarely became angry, but this time he glared at the drawing. I was ashamed although I honestly believed the plans had been done with him foremost in my mind.
“Give me a thousand dollars, Harry. I want you to write me a check right now.”
Without a thought, I wrote the check and handed it over. He looked at it, shook his head, put it in his pocket. “Every time you draw something that’s not mine, I want another thousand dollars. Do you understand? Maybe that’s the only way to get you to learn.”
“Venasque, I’m telling you, I did that design—”
“Shut up! Shut up and go back to work! You’re not crazy anymore. You don’t have any excuses. Just remember, a thousand dollars each time you design for yourself and not for me!”
I worked like a paranoid student preparing for the final examination. I thought kitchens most of the day and did more drawings than I had for the forty-floor Andromeda Center in Birmingham. Only when I was sure I had it this time did I dare go to the old man and nervously hand over what I thought was surely it this time.
I gave him seven drawings, which immediately resulted in handing him seven checks for a thousand dollars. Once, when writing the sixth, I thought to myself not only was he getting a free kitchen, but two thousand bucks more than his previously stated fee. As I wrote my name on the check, Venasque said, “Lucky I have such a rich and famous architect to sponge off, huh, Harry?” Which was the first time I realized he could read my mind. I was embarrassed, but not surprised.
His reaction to my seventh idea was novel. We were out on his
patio, the pig and dog sitting at our feet. He took the drawing, looked at it for perhaps a second, then put it down on the ground between the animals.
“What do you think of this one, guys?”
The pig sniffed the paper loudly and put her head down again. The bull terrier got up, moved a bit over, and calmly pissed on my drawing. Pissed and pissed until urine ran off the expensive paper onto the concrete.
“What the fuck do you want from me, Venasque? I’m giving you a hundred percent! I can’t help it if you don’t like them! Can I help it if you don’t understand architecture?”
“You can go crazy again, Harry, but stop being an asshole so much. You make me tired.”
I got up and started away on angry feet. “I’m not wrong about this, Venasque. I’m giving you a hundred percent. I don’t care how much you know. You’re just not seeing that.”
“Go make me another thousand-dollar drawing.” He flicked a dismissive hand at me, leaned down and petted the pig.
We didn’t speak for two days, although I didn’t come out of my room much, doing drawing after drawing in a rage of “I’ll show that fucker!” But what came of my creative fury? Very little. What I realized later was he probably goaded me into that anger to see if I could get mad without going mad.
He set meals out on the dining
Naturally that was an even greater incentive to design a kitchen that would knock his eyes out. I showed him the work of architects as diverse as Bruce Goff, Richard Meier, and even Daniel Liebes-kind. I showed him buildings, furniture, kitchen utensils. Anything to get even the smallest feeling for what he wanted, but he was of little help.
“I don’t know what I want, Harry. I want a kitchen where I can cook a good meal and where the animals and me’ll feel comfortable just sitting around, relaxing.”
So I sat down with my pens and paper and designed a kitchen. Black and white tiles, bird’s-eye maple, German stainless appliances. A few original bits and a few surprises. I liked it. Venasque did not.
“This is nothing, Harry. This is for anyone. I want a kitchen that’s mine. Venasque cooks here—not Betty Crocker or Julia Child. This drawing is Harry Radcliffe, Mr. Famous Architect’s kitchen. But this isn’t your place, remember, it’s mine!”
He rarely became angry, but this time he glared at the drawing. I was ashamed although I honestly believed the plans had been done with him foremost in my mind.
“Give me a thousand dollars, Harry. I want you to write me a check right now.”
Without a thought, I wrote the check and handed it over. He looked at it, shook his head, put it in his pocket. “Every time you draw something that’s not mine, I want another thousand dollars. Do you understand? Maybe that’s the only way to get you to learn.”
“Venasque, I’m telling you, I did that design—”
“Shut up! Shut up and go back to work! You’re not crazy anymore. You don’t have any excuses. Just remember, a thousand dollars each time you design for yourself and not for me!”
I worked like a paranoid student preparing for the final examination. I thought kitchens most of the day and did more drawings than I had for the forty-floor Andromeda Center in Birmingham. Only when I was sure I had it this time did I dare go to the old man and nervously hand over what I thought was surely it this time.
I gave him seven drawings, which immediately resulted in handing him seven checks for a thousand dollars. Once, when writing the sixth, I thought to myself not only was he getting a free kitchen, but two thousand bucks more than his previously stated fee. As I wrote my name on the check, Venasque said, “Lucky I have such a rich and famous architect to sponge off, huh, Harry?” Which was the first time I realized he could read my mind. I was embarrassed, but not surprised.
His reaction to my seventh idea was novel. We were out on his
patio, the pig and dog sitting at our feet. He took the drawing, looked at it for perhaps a second, then put it down on the ground between the animals.
“What do you think of this one, guys?”
The pig sniffed the paper loudly and put her head down again. The bull terrier got up, moved a bit over, and calmly pissed on my drawing. Pissed and pissed until urine ran off the expensive paper onto the concrete.
“What the fuck do you want from me, Venasque? I’m giving you a hundred percent! I can’t help it if you don’t like them! Can I help it if you don’t understand architecture?”
“You can go crazy again, Harry, but stop being an asshole so much. You make me tired.”
I got up and started away on angry feet. “I’m not wrong about this, Venasque. I’m giving you a hundred percent. I don’t care how much you know. You’re just not seeing that.”
“Go make me another thousand-dollar drawing.” He flicked a dismissive hand at me, leaned down and petted the pig.
We didn’t speak for two days, although I didn’t come out of my room much, doing drawing after drawing in a rage of “I’ll show that fucker!” But what came of my creative fury? Very little. What I realized later was he probably goaded me into that anger to see if I could get mad without going mad.
He set meals out on the dining
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