Photo Essay: Desert Modernism Meets Sport Coupe Cool at the Loewy House, Palm Springs

I always find Palm Springs Modernism Week a little overwhelming. But now that I've learned to take the pressure off and just try to pick a couple of good tours and make a day out of it, knowing I can go back the next year, I've been having a better time of it.

After all, I wasted so much time not going to Modernism Week since I first started coming out to California. I hate to think of all the houses I missed seeing. (The Elrod House? Lautner's Bob Hope residence? I can't even.)

But even now when I take the daytrip down to Palm Springs, I know I've got to choose. I can't go to everything.

I don't have two weeks to spare. Some tours sell out immediately. And some overlap, so you can't go to both.

This year, though, there was one house tour I could easily prioritize above the rest: the Raymond Loewy House, designed by architect Albert Frey.



Never mind that Frey—credited for creating "Desert Modernism"—is one of my favorite architects. Because Loewy was the famed, Swiss-born industrial designer who changed the shape—literally—of the car industry.



Perhaps his most famous design was the Studebaker Avanti, a luxury sports coupe that was all slithering lines and slanted windows, dangerous curves that you could practically fly down the street. Loewy's team created it in a rented Palm Springs studio—in just 40 days.



It's funny, then, that Loewy chose Frey to build his Palm Springs home at the edge of the "Little Tuscany Estates" (established 1935), amidst the rock outcroppings and other rugged features of the landscape—including a boulder pile that had been pushed there during construction of a nearby road.



And while Frey's architectural style could be considered aerodynamic in a jet age sort of way—with arrows and angles pointing up to the sky—he had to make some concessions for Loewy's proclivity towards the streamlined and sinuous.



At the Loewy House, somehow the curvature of the glass pavilion and the angular edges of the flying V's of the wood pergola coexist in startling harmony.



Built in 1946, the Loewy House predates Frey's famed Tramway Gas Station (former Enco Station) by two years and his Frey II home by 18 years.



Frey himself had only been in Palm Springs permanently for eight years by then, but he'd already fallen in love with the Coachella Valley and its desert floor.



He loved to incorporate nature into his designs—including boulders in the Loewy swimming pool and the swimming pool literally lagooning into the Loewy living room!



When Loewy commissioned the house, and built it for a $60,000 price tag, it was to be a bachelor pad—leaving more "living" space in the exterior rather than the interior, and no way to reach the single man by phone.



But when the designer married his second wife, Viola Erickson, a couple years later—a marriage that would last nearly 40 years—he had to accommodate her requests for proper bedrooms and some enclosed interior spaces, including a laundry room and expanded kitchen.



A 1950s-era addition—essentially an extension of the L-shaped structure, done without consulting Frey, but ultimately with his blessing—is visible.



Frey wasn't, however, so happy with a later owner's full enclosure of the open air patio/dining room—after which he had "no interest" in the house.



The architect did, however, get to talk with the Marmol Radzinger Architecture firm ahead of its renovation, which was completed in the year 2000—two years after Frey's passing.



Fortunately, some telltale signs of the Frey-Loewy collaboration still remain—including the curvilinear ceiling of the swimming pool-facing living room, which was intentionally designed to be too small for a TV.



Sure, the Loewy House is no longer as exposed to the elements as it once was—and the television watching happens in an outbuilding that Loewy added as his studio—but it's remarkably preserved as an example of mid-century residential architecture in the modern-leaning low desert.

And the touches by its architect and its original owner—both renowned in their own unique ways—are still unmistakable.

For a nice array of historical photos of the Loewy House, visit Hidden Architecture's page.

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Photo Essay: The Spreckels Mansion at Coronado Island's Glorietta Bay

John D. Spreckels may not have founded San Diego per se, but he contributed to its prosperity more than probably any other investor.

And without Spreckels, Coronado Island may have never come to be the tourist destination it is today.

With a mere $500,000, Spreckels bankrolled the Coronado Beach Company's development of the Hotel del Coronado. By the turn of the last century, he owned all but five parcels of Coronado Island (including the parcel that would become the Naval Air Station).



And it was across from the Hotel del Coronado that Spreckels chose to build his own family home—or, rather, mansion—in 1906. He'd been shaken up by the San Francisco earthquake (and fires) that year and was looking for a little stability.



Two years later, architect Harrison Albright's six-bedroom, three-bath design was completed.



Just $35,000 also got the Spreckels family a parlor, dining room, and library...



...and an 800-square-foot, horseshoe-shaped music room, which was added in 1913 (and once housed a 41-rank pipe organ).



Fortunately, it was all constructed in earthquake-resistant reinforced steel and concrete...



 ...ornamented by a marble staircase and floors.



Instead of taking the stairs, the Spreckels family could've taken a brass cage elevator upstairs.

The Spreckels Mansion was sold a couple of times and, around 1950, it was converted into a bed and breakfast. In 1975, after some renovations and additions, it became the Glorietta Bay Inn.



Now, there's still an elevator—but it's reserved only for penthouse suite guests (and can only fit two people at a time).



The former mansion part of the inn now has a total of 11 guest rooms...



...including Mrs. Spreckels's master suite, now called the Sugar Baron Suite, once attached to the Spreckels Suite.



The entire hotel now reflects the legacy of Spreckels—as a sugar baron, railroad magnate, real estate developer, and even pianist.



It also pays tribute to the history of the island it sits on—including the adjacent "Tent City" camping attraction that provided a cheaper alternative to the Hotel del Coronado.

The Glorietta Bay Inn might be the lesser of the two attractions in terms of scale or number of visitors annually, but its Spreckels history is fascinating—and fortunately, they don't mind at all when you ask to look around.

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Photo Essay: Getting Romantic At the Blufftop Casa By the Sea

Located midway between Los Angeles and San Diego, San Clemente is located on the former Rancho Los Desechos, once property of Mission San Juan Capistrano.

In the early 20th century, long after the heyday of the Spanish missions, the area was considered the middle of nowhere. But former Seattle mayor Ole Hanson, himself having been born in a Wisconsin log cabin, had a dream to convert this coastal parcel into a "Spanish Village By the Sea."

Hanson and his family maintained permanent residence in Los Angeles—but it’s San Clemente where he commissioned architect Carl Lindbom to build a vacation home.

circa 1940 (Photo: OC Public Libraries, from the Tom Pulley Postcard Collection)

The result was the 15-room "Hacienda San Clemente"... 

circa 1928 (Photo: OC Public Libraries, from the Tom Pulley Postcard Collection)

...with an "old Spain elegance" that influenced the streetscapes of the rest of San Clemente.

At least, for a time. After changing hands over and over again over the course of nearly 70 years, the mansion was reborn in 2003 as Casa Romantica—and it's one of the rare few examples of what San Clemente used to be like.



The Spanish Colonial Revival-style home was completed in 1928—built around a 5400-square-foot central courtyard, much like the layout of the missions themselves.



In addition to several bedrooms and bathrooms (enough for 10 children!), the 7200-square-foot house also had an outdoor family room with "beehive fireplace"...



...surrounded by lush landscaping and Mediterranean tile that's designed to look like area rugs.



Unfortunately, the outdoor reflecting pool, goldfish, statuary, and exotic birds (including peacocks) are gone.



But the encaustic tile floors—made from concrete—have retained their color pattens beautifully (nine different styles in all!).



Inside, the tile-floored solarium—with its Italian ceramic fountain and original fireplace—served as the home's main salon.



Although once furnished with Persian carpets, the original oak hardwood is now exposed—illuminated by the original English Empire-style chandelier (which, over time, was converted from gas-burning to electric).



Although all but one original piece of furniture has gone, many of the home's decorative elements—at least, the ones that aren't as easy to remove—remain.



The purposes of some of the rooms have changed—like the octagonal reading room, with its original redwood ceiling.



That used to be Ole Hanson's home office, where the ocean breezes would circulate through the windows and the scenery would inspire Hanson while he worked.



He'd have plenty of privacy in there, too—as it used to be only accessible through an outside entrance.



On the Ocean Terrace, as you stand beside the recently-added fountain (also in the Spanish style)...



...the blufftop location of Hanson's hacienda gives a good view of the Pacific as it merges with the horizon in the west, as well as San Clemente Pier in the distance.



The hacienda was just one example of the Spanish Colonial Revival style in San Clemente—a theme Hanson “borrowed” from Santa Barbara and required for the rest of the city's development.



Tragically, Hanson lost everything in the Great Depression—including his home, which was repossessed by the very same bank that helped fund the creation of San Clemente itself.



In 1934, Hanson left the city he'd founded for his home in LA, where he spent the rest of his life (aside from developing some property in Twentynine Palms). Two years later, a judge ruled against Hanson's rule that required Spanish-only architecture to be built.



New structures jumbled up the once-heterogeneous seaside village. Old buildings were torn down, leaving only about 200 of those white stuccoed, red tile-roofed buildings—no taller than four stories, except their towers—remaining today.



There are now 2.5 acres of coastal gardens that have been added—including a yucca planted by Hanson himself in 1927 and a prickly pear cactus that’s original to the home, as well as many newer and water-wise plantings.

The Beauty of the Butterfly by Matthew Placzek, dedicated 2017

As a historic site, it's really bounced back from multiple ownerships—including having been used as a senior citizens' home in the 1960s—and a fair amount of neglect.

The house is now, as its name indicates, not only romantic—enough for a full schedule of weddings—but also quiet enough to simply reflect atop the seaside cliffs.

I could've spent all day there—if it hadn't taken me nearly two and a half hours to get there from LA that morning, and if I hadn't had another two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of me to get back home.

Was five hours' worth of driving worth just a few hours to bask in what's left of the Spanish village of San Clemente?

Absolutely. 

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