WERNER SELIGMANN Distinguished Professor of Architecture

1930-1998

Memorial service speakers

Return to Seligmann index page

"I want to thank Jean Seligmann for this opportunity to speak.

I've known Werner Seligmann for nearly twenty-five years now. I came to Syracuse because of him. I confess it was not an entirely rational decision. At the time, I had a perfectly good job teaching at Carnegie-Mellon University. I left this behind along with a small, but growing practice and a girlfriend. I didn't come to Syracuse because of the reputation of the School or the University or the city and certainly not because of the weather. I came because of Seligmann. If there were more time, I would like to tell you about some of the many ways he made a great difference in my life. But_, instead, I thought I would read to you a letter that I wrote to him this past summer. At first, due to circumstance and later due to my concern that he might interpret the letter as a farewell, he never did receive it. I'm now sorry that he didn't, but grateful that I have this opportunity to share it with you. I must apologize in advance for a couple of grains of salt in the prose. It is, after all, a personal letter between two old friends who also happened to be two old guys.

Dear Werner,

Enclosed is the final draft of the Foglio article.  Although it's too late for another edit, I'm still interested in (and a bit anxious about) your reaction. As a first attempt at putting some of these ideas to paper, it owes a lot to your influence and encouragement. I hope it measures up. Please be brutally honest. But, then again, I know you will.

I've been thinking about you a lot lately. It is most certainly your illness that has focused my mind, but it has also been this writing exercise that has caused me to reflect back on our years together. The article, in fact, had its genesis nearly twenty years ago when you shipped me out to Italy to start up the Florence Program. You will recall that originally my posting was to be England and for many months I had been making preparations in that direction. I remember my disappointment the day you told me that you had decided to cancel the School's exchange agreement with the M and, instead, we would send our students to our own program in Italy. After three years of working long days (and some long nights, too) in the freshman studio, I was looking forward to the semi-sabbatical assignment to London. But this was not to be. You had decided that the M was much too expensive and not nearly rigorous enough. And, besides, according to you, except for perhaps Hawksmoor and maybe Vanbrugh, English architecture was merely imported Italian goods without the balls. I will always remember that mini-history lesson.

Anyway, this decision to move a major segment of the curriculum from London to Florence was made just about eight months before the start of fall classes This meant that we had to make arrangements for a studio, buy desks and other equipment, find faculty to teach history and Italian, negotiate all this with DIPA (in those days it was a much easier thing to do) and, oh yes, find enough students to make it fly. On top of this I had to somehow learn Italian, learn about Italian architecture and learn how to get about the Italian countryside with fifteen or so archi-tots in tow. When I expressed to you my concern about all this you replied, "Randall, don't vorry. Ve'll make a poster and then in the schpring ve'll go to Florenze and organize everything." Of course, I was greatly reassured by this.

Well, we did make a poster and, during Spring Break, we did fly together to Florence. And, it was a flight I will never forget.

You may recall that, at the time, PanAm was experiencing some financial difficulties and, as a promotional measure, they were offering discounted tickets to Europe (this was just before PanAm went belly-up). Mike Cab or Nirelle or somebody at DIPA saw it as an opportunity to save some money, so they booked us on an economy flight out of JFK. Of course, you wanted business class, but reluctantly agreed to coach on the condition that the plane had to be a jumbo jet. At the check-in counter I remember you specifically asking the ticket agent three separate times for assurance that the plane would absolutely be a jumbo jet and, on the third instance, there came her noticeably strained reply, "Yes, Mr.Segalmann, I can assure you that the equipment will be a 747." Well, you will remember, that at boarding time an announcement came over the PA system saying there would be a delay. We waited and waited and then an hour later there came another announcement of yet a further delay. With that you became just a wee bit agitated and stormed back to the counter inquiring after the problem and suspecting subterfuge. You were told that due to mechanical difficulties there would be a "change of equipment," but were assured that it would still be a jumbo jet. You were skeptical, but because the boarding area had no windows and we couldn't see what was happening outside, we had to take them at their word.

Well, after some further delay, we finally began boarding only to discover that the "equipment" was not a Boeing 747 after all, but rather a somewhat antiquated and frayed 707 that had been stretched to accommodate more people. Worse yet, the seats were configured for a discount charter. So, what should have been a comfortable-, half-full jumbo-jet flight to Rome, had transformed into an econo-cattle car about to wing its way to tourist hell. Now... I don't remember which pissed you off more, that the airline had apparently lied to us, or that you now found yourself in substandard physical surroundings, crushed in with people from places like Far Rockaway or Bayside, all on one of those "seven city/seven day" euro-tours. I'm sure they probably never went to the Opera, but I do remember that you went slightly ballistic. To this day, I can see you charging up and down that narrow, crowded aisle, trying to get the attention of one of the flight attendants, insisting that "This vas supposed to be a chumbo jet! They promised me a chumbo jet!" When you finally cornered one, the already harried attendant patiently replied, "Sir, please take your seat. The captain won't be able to taxi the plane until everyone is seated." Hearing this you responded with a regal, "Actually, I vant to talk to der captain, myself!" More than slightly distressed, she said, "Sir, that's not possible. Now, will you please sit down?"

Well, by this time, I had been around you long enough to recognize a characteristic expression that began to rise from your face like those slow motion shots of an erupting Mount St. Helens. And it was then that I began to worry that you might do something we would later regret. It seems that when your eyebrows find themselves confronted with an untenable circumstance, they tend to knit up into this fantastic nest that projects forward in the most remarkable way, threatening to impale anyone standing directly in front of you. Seeing this, I thought that the poor attendant was in for one of your classic verbal drubbings. But no, more to my horror, you simply pushed your way passed her and headed for the cockpit. She quickly followed and I after her. We all arrived together at the door to the flight deck with her demanding that you immediately return to your seat and me pleading with you that it wasn't worth the trouble, fully expecting at any moment the arrival of a sky marshal to escort us off the plane at gunpoint. You ignored us both and were about to knock on the entrance to the cockpit when the door to the adjacent toilet opened. Standing there and observing all this commotion was none other than the captain. With a slightly puzzled look on his face he said, "Howdy folks, what seems to be the problem?" Without hesitation you said, "PanAm promised me a chumbo jet. I bought a ticket for a chumbo jet. This is not a chumbo jet." In his best right-stuff, West Virginia accent, the pilot replied, "I'm truly sorry sir, but the scheduled equipment had mechanical problems and this was the only other plane available. Now if you will kindly return to your seat, we can get under way and... I'll tell you what... drinks are on the house."

Hearing this, your eyebrows miraculously unknitted themselves, your face receded to one of benign disdain, and, incredibly, you said, "Well, in that case, Ok." So, we returned to our sardine-can seats and, shortly thereafter, the plane was airborne. Within an hour, we were far over the Atlantic and, as I desperately tried to find comfort with my knees jammed somewhere up around my ears, next to me you sat, happily sipping your third Beefeater martini (viss three olives, please) regaling me with stories of Mike Angel, Al Berti and Bruno Leski.

Anyway, as you know, the trip went very well and the rest, as they say, is history.

And what a remarkable history it has been. The great lesson of that trip, and of all the years we spent working together, was... when you go, always go first class (or at least business class). Your characteristic unwillingness to settle for anything less than the best, is the hallmark of all that you've done and all that I've aspired to do. I will always be indebted to you for that. I look forward to more history and more lessons.

And, thanks for the memories, buddy.

Talk to you soon.

With great affection, Randall"