Photo Essay: A Theatrical House of God (and the Study of the Cosmos), Newly Landmarked

"What is God? Who am I? Why am I here?"

Don't we all ask those same questions of ourselves at some point?

And yet no one seems to have come up with the answer—though plenty have tried.

One such philosopher was a mystic named Dr. Ernest Holmes, who went on to found the practice of Religious Science in the 1920s as a  a spiritual, philosophical, and metaphysical movement.

Dr. Holmes resisted calling it a "church," thinking of it more as an educational opportunity to encourage the arts and teach what he called the "Science of Mind"—a New Thought philosophy or positive spiritual principles that addresses the way God works in the world.

In fact, his congregation met for services at theaters, like the Wiltern, the Wilshire Ebell, and what's now the Hayworth Theatre (a playhouse that opened in 1926 as the Masque Theatre).

But a church it became—the Founder's Church of Religious Science, to be exact—and it grew into an international organization.

And now, the church building that Dr. Holmes commissioned in 1958 has just been added to the National Register of Historic Places—announced this year on February 3, exactly 60 years and one month since its dedication.

The Founder's Church project in the Wilshire Center/Koreatown neighborhood of Los Angeles first broke ground on March 3, 1959—and just 10 months later, it was officially dedicated (on January 3, 1960).

Though Founder's Church is now A Center for Spiritual Living—one of nearly 400 such centers throughout the world—the building itself has retained its historic integrity, with minimal alterations.

It's earned its landmark designation (both nationally and locally, as Historic-Cultural Monument #727)—and not only as a unique example of ecclesiastical architecture.

It's also one of the few religious structures designed by master architect Paul Revere Williams.

And the way he evoked post-war Modernism in creating it really caused a splash on 6th Street, just one block north of Wilshire Boulevard.

Instead of the typical cruciform shape found in many church buildings, Williams designed the building in an elliptical shape—highlighted by a 110 feet-long domed roof. According to Dr. Holmes, the ellipse was the "perfect symbol for the wholeness, unity, unending and all-inclusive power of love" that were basic to his teachings.

Despite its geometric simplicity, the unusual oval form presented some structural and engineering challenges—not the least of which was the more than 30 tons of structural steel that builder George W. Carter (of Carter Company Contractors and Developers) needed to complete construction of the reinforced concrete dome.



In line with the Mid-Century Modern movement, the concrete exterior walls lack embellishment...



...save for the metal lettering.



A 14-foot-tall breezeblock wall runs along the perimeter, providing a kind of Modernist cross pattern  in concrete.



Place a hand on one of the wood-and-metal door pulls, and you find yourself entering a curved lobby...



...which is largely day-lit, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling glass walls that face the outdoor garden and forecourt area.



The main sanctuary seats a total of 1,483 (522 in the balcony), which is in addition to a lower chapel (added in 1964) that seats an additional 400. There's a remarkable absence of conventional church pews, with the congregation getting cushy upholstered seats, like at the movies or a show.

The theatre-style auditorium's ceiling is four stories high...



...and at the top, you'll find a projection booth, just like at a theater.



Outside the projection room (used mostly for lighting) is a set of reed stops for the pipe organ that have been mounted horizontally—and are notoriously like a really loud set of trumpets, hence the name "Trompette en Chamade."



What provides the music here isn't a church organ—but a 4-manual/31-rank Wurlitzer theatre organ. At the Founder's Church since 1984, the horseshoe-style console relocated here from what's now the North Shore Center For the Performing Arts just outside of Chicago.



But the pièce de résistance of attending a service (or organ concert) at Founder's Church is curtained off, behind the choir loft—"The Wisdom of the Ages" mural by Hollywood set painter (also actor and minister of Religious Science) Wallace Roland Stark.



Added later in the year in 1960, the painting glows like stained glass—but only under UV or "black" light, thanks to a special kind of light-sensitive paint. Reportedly, Dr. Holmes was an avid student of symbology and collected over 100 different symbols of spiritual, artistic, scientific achievement for Stark to incorporate into it.

At the center, there's the Eternal Cross of Life—an ankh disguised as a Christian cross—positioned in front of the Holy Bible, above the Lamp of Knowledge, and surrounded by an olive branch (for peace) and the Egyptian symbol for The Healing Arts.

You can also see the burning bush from the Old Testament and the "loaves and fishes" from the New Testament—as well as concepts from Islam (crescent), Buddhism (lotus flower), Taoism (yin yang), Judaism (Jehovah), and Freemasonry (the square and compass). (For a key to 77 of the 102 symbols, scroll to the last page on this document.)

At Founder's Church, science is inextricably linked to religion—and therefore everything from botany, geology, and metallurgy to mathematics and even "outer space" gets its due.

As an all-embracing institution, it's acutely aware of the cosmos and its connection to spirituality. Whether that means studying the Universe as a whole or just acknowledging other dimensions, I don't know—and couldn't possibly have learned during my two secular visits there.

But there is something very intriguing about it.

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Photo Essay: A Beacon of Banking That Got Reincarnated As a Hotel

Founded in 1889, the former San Diego Savings Bank got a new name in 1925, officially becoming San Diego Trust and Savings Bank.

In 1928, it was about to get a new home, too—its fourth in San Diego, and its most magnificent yet.

There had been just one obstacle to its construction. The Hotel Beacon was standing on the corner lot at 6th and Broadway, which SDSB had purchased in 1924.

So, the old hotel got demolished; the new 13-story bank headquarters got built as the tallest building in San Diego at the time. (It would hold that honor until 1960.)

The funny thing is, though the bank building is still there, it's no longer a financial institution—but a hotel!

It's now the Downtown/Civic Center Marriott Courtyard (and probably the nicest Marriott Courtyard anywhere).

What goes around, comes around, I guess.



Built by William Simpson Construction Company at a cost of approximately $1.4 million, the San Diego Trust and Savings Bank building is one of only three banks ever designed by master architect William Templeton Johnson. Most would probably agree it was his best.



Its "bones" are made of steel reinforced concrete, but what you see on the outside is two stories of buff-colored sandstone quarried from Briar Hall in Ohio (perhaps its first exterior use on the West Coast)...

...perched atop a base of pink granite known as Scotch Rose.



The experience of walking through the bronze revolving door of the main hotel entrance now is meant to be quite similar to when the building functioned as a bank.



The Grand Lobby is largely intact from its former financial function—the circular antique chandeliers still hanging from the hand-painted, coffered plaster ceiling (rising 32 feet in height) and surrounded by 35 marble columns topped with Corinthian capitals. In all, 19 different types of marble were quarried from several Mediterranean countries as well as other sources around the world.



The lobby in particular evokes a medieval atmosphere, as it features all the ornamentation that came into fashion in the Middle Ages—clerestory windows behind iron grilles, grand arches, medallions, and such. Much of those arise out of the Italian Romanesque Revival/Italianate Renaissance Revival architectural style (the The San Diego Union called it "Lombard-Romanesque" at the time of its opening)—less common in commercial buildings like this one and more frequently found in churches.



In addition to the banking services offered to the public (from the basement through the mezzanine levels), the building also housed offices in its upper stories...



...and its original office building entrance is still there, just beyond the massive arches of the elevator lobby, the wall paneling of Italian marble, and the floor of Tennessee marble (from Gray Eagle Quarry).



One of the original bank tables—once positioned near the teller cages for customers to fill out their paperwork and sign checks—has been relocated to the elevator lobby, with others sprinkled throughout the current hotel as well.



The original mail chute is still mounted in a recessed niche in the elevator lobby—and the post office still picks up the mail every afternoon at 1 p.m.



Behind sculptured bronze doors, hotel guests would find the most technologically advanced, high-speed elevators, which traveled at a maximum rate of 660 feet per minute—more than double most other buildings at the time.



By comparison, the first-ever commercial passenger elevator (in NYC) took a full minute to climb just 40 feet.  Today's fastest elevator in the world (China's Rosewood Guangzhou, Guangzhou Chow Tai Fook Finance Centre) travels more than 4100 feet per minute. 



The heavy gates leading to the Bond and Investment Service and the one-on-one meeting area still swing—though now they only separate the public from the snacks for sale and a billiard table surrounded by framed, historic photos.



You can still walk down the stairs to the basement in search of the Safe Deposit Department...



...but when you walk through the painted metal vault gates...

...which are no longer locked...



...you'll find the Safe Deposit Room...



... its original 47,000 lb, stainless steel door (manufactured by the Mosler Safe Company of Ohio, which also provided secure storage for Fort Knox) permanently in the "open" position.



Inside, the safe deposit boxes are empty, but you can still pull them out like the drawers of a cabinet of curiosities, hoping to find something secret, special, or valuable inside.



Although the bank catered to customers of all economic status (including children, who could open an account with a starting deposit of 10 cents), the safe deposit boxes attracted some pretty big-ticket valuables that shouldn't be flashed around out in the open.



Their respective owners would be ushered into tiny offices outfitted with telephones to do their business in private. The three booths are still there—but the old style phones are now push-button, and lifting the receiver directs you to the front desk.



The bank theme continues in the Vault Meeting Room...



...though the "Donsteel" security doors on display are just for show.



San Diego Trust and Savings Bank managed to stay a family business—run by descendants of the bank's co-founder and first president Joseph Weller Sefton, Sr.—until 1994, when the Sefton family decided to get out of banking and sold all 53 branches to the LA-based First Interstate Bank, which was later acquired by Wells Fargo. In 1996, Wells Fargo unloaded several of its San Diego properties and closed up shop on SDTSB.



In its heyday, the bank owned the entire building and occupied most of it—with the exception of the 7th floor's FBI offices and holding cells! (Note how the elevator eliminates the 13th floor, which was rechristened the 14th floor.)

A shooting gallery (for lady tellers to practice their aim in case of a bank robbery) shared the top floor with architect William Templeton Johnson, who occupied a 1,000-square-foot office until 1954. The space is now used as the hotel's Presidential Suite, its master bedroom located in Johnson's former library (decorated with the same kind of hand-painted ceiling as in the Grand Lobby).



Exit onto the patio outside the Presidential Suite, and the view reveals yet another level, above the 14th floor.



It's the copper-domed cupola, a.k.a. the "Lantern," which housed San Diego's first aviation beacon—243 feet above where the Hotel Beacon once stood. This was a really biug deal for San Diego, which had become known as "The Air Capital of the West" in World War I.



Appropriately, the "Father of San Diego Aviation" Major T.C. Macaulay dedicated the beacon, and pioneering aviator Eddie Stinson first switched it on. Visible for more than 25 miles, it revolved from dusk till dawn to guide aviators and navigators trying aim their planes toward the airport—but only during its first five years.



They'd also light the beacon when a ship was coming into the Port of San Diego—not only to help it avoid getting wrecked but to also notify local laborers that jobs were opening up.



Today, the cupola still provides one of the best panoramic views of Downtown San Diego—certainly the best I've seen. Unfortunately, you can't just go up there on your own.

But ask a bellman to give you a tour, and he'll gladly oblige.

When the new San Diego Trust and Savings Bank building opened in 1928, it was the year before the stock market crash that kicked off the Great Depression. But the bank was steadfast.

The bank's second president, M.T. Gilmore, assured its customers that "the present situation is not nearly so perturbing as a more restricted view might suggest"—recalling that in the nearly 40 years since its founding, they'd already experienced five periods of "panic," two wars, and mixed periods of revival and recession.

"This, too, will pass" were the words that continued to carry San Diego Trust and Savings Bank through the next 66 years until the later generation decided to throw in the towel.

Fortunately, the doors on the bank didn't close forever—because it reopened as a hotel in 1999, preserving and reusing a large majority of original elements for the building's new purpose.

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Photo Essay: A Space Age Desert Enclave for Comedy Royalty and An Ice Cream King

About a dozen miles southeast of Palm Springs, the desert community of Rancho Mirage boasts its own Mid-Century Modern architecture and historic Hollywood connections—much of which centers around the Tamarisk Country Club.

It was the second such 18-hole private club in the desert cities in and around Palm Springs when it launched in 1952 thanks to the "Golden 65"—a group of founding members that included 4 of the 5 Marx Brothers.

But Tamarisk was "unrestricted"—which meant it welcomed Jews at a time when not every country club did.

The club later attracted such icons as Frank Sinatra (who snatched up five lots along the 17th fairway in 1954), President Gerald Ford, and inventor and entrepreneur Leo Maranz.

A mechanical engineer, Maranz invented the soft serve ice cream pump and freezer that led to him co-founding the Tastee-Freeze brand in 1950 and expanding it nationally with his partner Harry Axene (formerly of Dairy Queen).



In 1960, the Maranz Residence was to be the Chicago-born ice cream man's first foray into homeownership after years of apartment living. He told Palm Springs Life, "If I'm going to have a house I want it to be the most unusual one on the Tamarisk fairways."



In stepped structural engineer and architectural designer Valentine Joseph Powelson, Jr. (a.k.a. Val Powelson), whose cutting-edge design gave the Maranz Residence a three-pointed, winged roof straight out of the Space Age handbook—thanks to a post-war engineering innovation that had reached its height in the 1950s, the hyperbolic paraboloid.



The "Gullwing House," as it's been nicknamed, evokes more Googie than other residential mid-century buildings in the Palm Springs area—and features one of Powelson's signature touches. Facing the country club's fourth tee, there's a steeply pitched gabled roof that projects to a sharp point supported by an exposed beam at the apex.



Hyperbolic paraboloid (or simply "h/p") roofs curve in two different directions, giving it a shape that looks like a saddle. Its double curvature not only makes it seismically stable—but it also eliminates the need for view-obstructing internal supports.

Powelson further ensured a good view of the fairway by avoiding right angles in the house's interior.

The nearly 4,000 square-foot landmark reportedly took only five months to build—and it's still in impeccable condition.



The sculptural roofline has held up well, despite the home's proximity to the San Andreas Fault.

Leo and his wife Esther added a two-bedroom guest house in a similar style shortly after the completion of the main home—their expectations likely far surpassed.



Around the corner from the Maranz Residence is another Tamarisk landmark and mid-century masterpiece—the 1957 "Sputnik" House, so named after the Russian satellite that launched in October of that same year.



Also designed by Val Powelson, it was built on the third fairway for the youngest of the Marx Brothers, Gummo—whose fellow founding members of the Tamarisk Country Club were Groucho, Harpo, and Zeppo. Gummo himself signed the club's original incorporation papers in 1951 alongside LA developer Lou Halper and Joe Blumenfeld.



The connection between the Maranz Residence and the Gummo Marx Home? For both, Powelson had been commissioned by the same local contractor/developer—Robert Marx, son of Gummo, and also the son-in-law of Maranz.



Bob had left showbiz to step out from the shadow of his father and no longer be known as just "Gummo's son." Gummo explained to Bob that he understood, having forever been known only as "Groucho's brother."



Together with Powelson, Bob Marx formed the MarVal Construction Company—"Designers and Builders of Elegant Living," based in Palm Springs.



The nearly 3,000-square-foot Tamarisk home was Gummo's third in the area, after also living at Estates and on Golf Circle. Neither of those predecessors could compare, however, to the Sputnik house.



As with the Maranz Residence, a prominent center beam projects from through the living room and out to the apex at the rear of the house...



...practically pointing its residents and visitors out to the concrete patio and swimming pool, if not up into the ever-blue desert sky.

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