Vincent Scully (August 21, 1920 – November 30, 2017)：The Shingle Style Today 1974；Louis I. Kahn

WATCH
Vincent Scully’s
Modern Architecture Course





Watch vintage footage of the late art historian Vincent Joseph Scully, Jr. (1920–2017), the Sterling Professor Emeritus of the History of Art and Architecture at Yale University, teaching his famous classes.





1:02:02NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | The Architecture of Community, Part One (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





2

11:37NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | The Architecture of Community, Part Two (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures



3

1:14:01NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | The Natural and Manmade (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





4

1:15:51NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | French Gardens and Fortifications (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





5

1:10:13NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Thomas Jefferson (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





6

1:16:24NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | 19th Century Style and Type (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





7

1:14:59NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Skyscrapers of New York (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





8

1:05:35NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Skyscrapers of Chicago (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





9

1:11:33NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | The Shingle Style and Frank Lloyd Wright (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





10

1:12:43NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | English Garden Cities (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





11

1:12:02NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Art Nouveau, Gaudi, Expressionism (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





12

1:07:37NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Public Housing (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





13

1:16:48NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | International House I (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





14

1:09:04NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | International House II (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





15

1:15:55NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Le Corbusier, Urbanism, Early Buildings (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





16

1:10:40NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Le Corbusier, Late Modernism (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





17

1:09:11NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Frank Lloyd Wright 1914-1959 (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





18

1:08:31NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Louis Kahn, Rome (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures





19

1:14:10NOW PLAYING

Vincent Scully | Louis Kahn and Robert Venturi (Modern Architecture Course)

Vincent Scully Lectures











漢寶德翻譯：
　《路易士‧康》（Vincent Scully, Louis I Kahn），台中：境與象出版社，1973

Kimbell Art Museum

“Architecture is the thoughtful making of space.” – Louis I. Kahn
Kahn Building, Kimbell Art Museum; @arthnold #PicRepost #KimbellArt

In memoriam: Vincent Scully, beloved teacher ‘helped shape a nation’

分享

NEWS.YALE.EDU

 謝。昔日讀"The Shingle Style: Architectural Theory and Design from Richardson to the Origins of Wright" 1955, 就知道他不凡；此書台灣可能有兩譯本。不過，大家多不知道：The Shingle Style Today 1974......

Kang-i Sun Chang What are the titles of the Chinese translations?
me：我弄錯了。台灣翻譯的是1970年代的書The Shingle Style Today 1974。書訊後補：
【又見木瓦風：美國木瓦建築的老歌新唱】，畢光健譯，台北：明文書局總經銷，1986
肯定有另一翻譯本，待查。


Vincent Joseph Scully Jr. (August 21, 1920 – November 30, 2017)^[1]was an American art historian who was Sterling Professor Emeritus of the History of Art in Architecture at Yale University, and the author of several books on the subject. Architect Philip Johnson once described Scully as "the most influential architectural teacher ever."
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vincent_Scully

Yale Alumni Magazine

Vincent Scully ’40, ’49PhD, Sterling Professor of the History of Art, died at his home in Lynchburg, Virginia, last night. He was 97 years old. Scully’s ideas and enthralling lectures shaped generations of architects and art historians. Read Richard Conniff’s 2008 profile of Scully at https://yalealumnimagazine.com/articles/2007-the-patriarch. What do you remember about Scully? Tell us in the comments below.

The Slide-Show Epiphanies of the Architectural Historian Vincent Scully

By Alexandra Lange

December 5, 2017

Photograph by Michael Marsland / Yale University

My abiding mental image of Vincent Scully is seeing him stand at the front of the Yale Law School auditorium, a great wood-panelled room to which his course, History of Art 112a, had been moved because it had long outgrown the spatial resources of the art-history or architecture departments. He stood before us, craggy and tweedy, and beat the screen with a wooden pointer, making the silvery fabric billow. What was he mad about?

Nothing but architecture, whose effects roused him, year after year, to peaks of emotion. The low entryways and subsequent spatial release of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Prairie-style houses. The thick, compressed columns of Frank Furness’s Philadelphia façades. The dramatic peak of McKim, Mead & White’s Low House, a caricature of the gables sheltering the American dream. The drama of what might, to others, have looked like just a bunch of brown buildings was the drama that launched his career.

In the nineteen-eighties, Scully told James Stevenson in The New Yorker that “nobody liked nineteenth-century architecture, but it spoke to me, because it was part of my background—I understood it. My aim was to rehabilitate it. That’s what dissertations should do: bring back great areas of human experience that have been jettisoned. Everything in the past is always waiting, waiting to detonate.”

Scully, who died on November 30th, at the age of ninety-seven, taught his undergraduate lecture course in architecture for sixty-one years. I was there for what was supposed to be his last hurrah—Yale had a mandatory retirement age of seventy—but Scully retired and then kept on going until eighty-nine. He wrote a number of influential books, including “The Shingle Style and the Stick Style,” “American Architecture and Urbanism,” and “The Earth, The Temple and The Gods,” on Greek architecture, and the perhaps equally influential introduction to Robert Venturi’s 1966 book, “Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture,” the decisive turning point in twentieth century architecture that gave us “less is a bore.”

In that introduction, Scully compares Venturi to Le Corbusier, the bespectacled god of modernism, and does not flinch. Venturi “makes us see the past anew.” Venturi “values before all else the actions of human beings.” Venturi refuses “to pander to fashion.” Like many great critics, Scully had at last found a subject through whom he could also write about himself. Boom went postmodernism, rattling the windows of the glass skyscrapers, opening the door to the return of those shingles and gables and playfulness, remixed by Venturi, the then Yale student Robert A. M. Stern, and others.

Later, that boom would detonate the orthodoxies of urban renewal, which Scully saw remaking his native New Haven for the worse. Even Yale’s campus was not sacrosanct: in the mid-sixties, he was horrified by Skidmore, Owings & Merrill’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, a marvellous granite sugar cube, describing it in conversation with the sculptor Claes Oldenburg as a tabletop radio next to Isamu Noguchi’s sunken sculpture court, the ashtray. When Yale planned to tear down a number of nineteen-thirties buildings at the Divinity School in 1999, Scully threatened to resign.

But it was his class that is his legacy, and his best lines have the ring of performance. In recent years, Scully has most often been quoted on the destruction of McKim, Mead & White’s Beaux-Arts Pennsylvania Station, with its Baths of Caracalla waiting room: “Through it one entered the city like a god. Perhaps it was really too much. One scuttles in now like a rat.” Here was architecture of the past, fit for new purpose, cruelly thrown away for something cheap and fashionable that we have only come to despise more with age. In Stevenson’s 1980 Profile of Scully, however, we see him workshopping the language. A student reports, “He was showing slides of the waiting room and the stairs and the columns, and suddenly there was a slide of the very columns we’d been looking at and they were smashed in half, and there was wrecking equipment all around . . . For a moment, Scully’s voice broke—he choked, and couldn’t go on. Then, quickly, he said something about how it was ‘obscene.’ ”

Students who took “Scully,” as his course was called, include the architecture critics of the newspapers of America’s three largest cities, as well as a handful of other members of that small tribe. More formative of our built environment may be the students who became clients—as developers, C.E.O.s, and board members—and heard the echo of Scully in their heads as they selected the architect for this housing, that headquarters, those dorms. Someone spoke to them of architecture so beautiful it made him cry. In a 2015 essay on Scully at Places Journal, Keith Eggener suggests that tears seem, today, a bit much: “Emotions are fine for talk shows or talk therapy, sometimes even the lecture hall, but in academic writing they are often viewed as inappropriate and best suppressed.”

Along with his Profile in The New Yorker, Scully also made the cover of Time. That huzzah from the past, repeated in the early obituaries, struck me as so improbable that I checked it, and there he was. Not, as I imagined, with arms folded in front of the canyon-like corrugated-concrete entrance to Paul Rudolph’s Yale Art and Architecture Building (“The main entrance stair on York Street . . . lifts grandly . . . It is open to the sky between the towering, overhanging cliffs that rise on both sides of it . . . This is the most dramatic entrance in the United States of America, bar none”), but as part of a May 6, 1966, group cover on “Great Teachers,” a.k.a. nine headshots of white men in ties.

The only way to reinterpret this cover today would be as a Photoshopped collection of “Thought Leaders,” diverse in gender and skin color, united by art-director-approved black turtlenecks. Scully’s teaching wasn’t limited to the privileged few (who eventually numbered in the thousands) who saw him at Yale but in generations of readers of his work, who found in him an immediacy and accessibility that caused them to seek out architecture, and, eventually, to seek to preserve it.

My notes from Scully’s class are filled with scribbled pictures—a floor plan, a bit of ornament—notations of where he dwelt in his lecture, as if retracing his path around a building in his mind. Eventually I, too, would go to Chicago and marvel at the flamboyance of Louis Sullivan’s Carson Pirie Scott store. One day I, too, will stand in the shadows of Louis Kahn’s National Assembly Building of Bangladesh, so dramatically filmed by Kahn’s son Nathaniel, another Scully student, in “My Architect.”

What I take from Scully is the idea that we can make our own mentors, Frankenstein’s-monster-like, from the elements great teachers and writers lay before us. I can leave aside the parts I don’t like: Scully’s embrace of New Urbanism as the alternative to urban renewal, his hero worship of Thomas Jefferson (his tendency to hero worship, period), even the way he yelled at his projectionist when the images did not drop. Usually a slide screwup was played, in Scully profiles, for laughs, but I worked in the slide collection as a student, and I saw how the women who worked there scurried when he entered the premises. I’ll take the swash and the idea of experience as the root of criticism, and leave the transformation into a demigod.

Scully, like most critics, couldn’t help himself. For a ninetieth birthday celebration, in 2011, he recorded a video greeting at his home in Lynchburg. Thinking of his audience sitting at the Yale University Art Gallery, another building by Kahn, he spoke as if he were there in the room with them, invoking abstract paintings “intense, burning red and blue and gold under the dark cement of Kahn’s slab” and the gallery’s signature ceiling of concrete tetrahedrons floating “almost like a cloud.” He transported himself to them on a cloud of words.