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A Personal Stamp on the Skyline By Mark Lamster April 3, 2013 The New York landmark, on Park Avenue at 52nd Street, in 1958, not long before its dedication. Ezra Stoller/Esto, Canadian Center For Architecture. “It is beautiful, isn’t it?” Tapping a shaft of white marble in the lobby of the Seagram Building, the bespoke modern tower she willed into being more than 50 years ago, Phyllis Lambert was as close to wistful as her rather unsentimental constitution would allow. “I consider I was born when I built this building,” she said. Designed by the architects Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson, the Seagram Building was an instant classic upon its 1959 dedication and was once described by the critic Herbert Muschamp in The New York Times as “the millennium’s most important building.” Phyllis Lambert persuaded her father to make his Seagram Building a paragon of modern architecture in the 1950s. Marcus Yam for The New York Times. Ms. Lambert’s book, “Building Seagram,” being released next week by the Yale University Press, is something of a joint biography: a history of this stately Park Avenue landmark that many consider the pinnacle of postwar architecture in New York, rendered through the lens of her vivid memories of its invention and of her privileged early years as the daughter of the liquor baron Samuel Bronfman, who founded the Seagram distilling empire. The book reveals many new details about a building that remains among the most studied of the modern era. Though it now seems an implacable and timeless monument, a bronzed monolith standing resolutely behind its well-proportioned plaza, the tower’s existence was by no means ordained. In June 1953 Ms. Lambert was a 26-year-old recently divorced sculptor living in Paris, a self-imposed exile from her native Montreal and from her domineering father. It was then that she reeled off a missive to her father, a response to his own letter outlining plans for a New York skyscraper. She was not impressed with the undistinguished modern box his architects proposed and let him know: “This letter starts with one word repeated very emphatically,” she wrote, “NO NO NO NO NO.” Seven more pages followed, in which Ms. Lambert alternately scolded, cajoled and lectured her father on architectural history and civic responsibility. There was “nothing whatsoever commendable” in the proposed design, she wrote. “You must put up a building which expresses the best of the society in which you live, and at the same time your hopes for the betterment of this society.” Sitting at a corner table in the Grill Room of the Four Seasons, the Seagram Building restaurant that inspired the phrase “power lunch,” Ms. Lambert, still unyielding at 86, laughed with unguarded pleasure at the nerve she demonstrated 60 years ago. “When I read it now I think, ‘Wow, it’s amazing,’ ” she said of her letter. “I was thinking the whole thing through as I wrote.” Her father was impressed enough by her passion to invite her back from Paris, thinking she could, as she writes, “choose the marble for the ground floor,” a task he thought would assuage her. But Ms. Lambert was not content to play a subservient role. “When I come to the U.S. it will be to do a job and not to sit around the St. Regis making sweet talk,” she wrote to her mother, Saidye. She got her chance and eventually won the title director of planning for the project, along with a $20,000 salary. Determined to choose an architect who would “make the greatest contribution to architecture,” she recalled, she was referred to Philip Johnson, who was leaving his post as director of the architecture department at the Museum of Modern Art to devote himself fully to his fledgling architectural practice. Mies van der Rohe, center, touring the Seagram Building with its building committee in 1956. Phyllis Lambert, whose father founded the Seagram's empire, has written a new book about the creation of this monument to modernism, in which she played a pivotal role. Frank Scherschel/Getty Images. Together they made a shortlist of candidates. In one memorable afternoon they sorted the contenders with Eero Saarinen in the living room of Johnson’s Glass House, in New Canaan, Conn., now a landmark but then still new. Saarinen later tossed himself into the mix, proposing a tower similar to the one he would deliver to CBS for a site just a few blocks away. He was rejected, as were Marcel Breuer, Pietro Belluschi, Walter Gropius, Louis Kahn, Paul Rudolph, I. M. Pei and Minoru Yamasaki. One prominent architect Ms. Lambert did not have to worry about was Frank Lloyd Wright. He had already put himself forward for the job (among his proposals was a 100-story tower) only to be dismissed by Seagram executives as ungovernable. That left two options: Le Corbusier, the Swiss-French modernist, and Mies, who had moved to Chicago from Germany in 1938. Ms. Lambert chose Mies, whose career Johnson had championed for decades. Mies, in turn, made Johnson a partner, and put him in charge of much of the interior work. “Mies forces you in,” Ms. Lambert wrote in October 1954. “You might think this austere strength, this ugly beauty, is terribly severe. It is, and yet all the more beauty in it.” That severity represented an aesthetic about-face for the Seagram company, then with headquarters in the flamboyant Art Deco Chrysler Building. One of Ms. Lambert’s more amusing revelations in the book is that Seagram’s offices there were designed by a young Morris Lapidus, future maestro of Miami kitsch. Ms. Lambert with Philip Johnson, left, and Mies van der Rohe in 1955. United Press International/Canadian Center For Architecture Mies and Johnson were in some respects unlikely architects for the Jewish Bronfman family, in that both had checkered histories during the 1930s. While Mies had been apolitically opportunistic in Germany, Johnson was a fascist and anti-Semite. The Bronfman family had its own past to contend with. “The fortune was started or hugely advanced by the sale of liquor into the United States during Prohibition,” said Daniel Okrent, author of “Last Call: The Rise and Fall of Prohibition.” Ms. Lambert is somewhat evasive on that subject, but she writes that the “stigma” of that past was on the minds of Seagram executives, who were concerned that they might have trouble finding renters for a building owned and occupied by a liquor company. But first they had to build it, a task that required all the backbone Ms. Lambert revealed in her initial letter to her father. That meant, in May 1955, staring down a conference room packed with some 30 builders, all men, who questioned the feasibility of Mies’s plans. “I only had one thing in mind, and that was making sure Mies built the building he wanted to,” she said. “When you’re young, you’re very clear about what’s right and what’s wrong.” She was uncompromising in her defense of Mies’s vision, even after he returned to Chicago when New York State authorities claimed that he lacked the proper qualifications to practice architecture. When a contractor tried to dissuade her from using an expensive brick bonding technique because it would be hidden from view, she channeled the aphoristic Mies, countering, “God would know.” (The building’s structural integrity, in any case, was assured by its chief engineer, Fred Severud, who was later an author of a cold-war primer on safety titled “The Bomb, Survival, and You.”) Carol Willis, the founding director of the Skyscraper Museum in New York, said the Seagram Building gave “a modernist corporate identity to a city that was changing from stone to glass.” That transformation did not come cheaply. While Mies averred “Less is more,” that was not a philosophy he applied to the budget. The highly customized building cost about $36 million, an astronomical sum at the time, and then incurred what was effectively a luxury tax from the state, an imposition that became the subject of a protracted legal fight. In a 1964 editorial, The Times described this “tax on architectural excellence” as nothing less than a “catastrophe.” There were other frustrations. In 1958 Ms. Lambert commissioned Mark Rothko to create a series of murals for the Four Seasons. He began work but backed out and then vented to a reporter that he had only accepted the job with “malicious intent,” so he could make paintings so disagreeable as to spoil the appetites of the restaurant’s fat-cat patrons. (The episode became the subject of the Broadway play “Red.”) Ms. Lambert puts little stock in Rothko’s rant. “He had this religious feeling about his work,” she said, and simply didn’t want it hanging where it would serve merely as decoration. “I kind of understood his point.” Other artists Ms. Lambert tried to enlist were Brancusi and Picasso. Brancusi treated her to Champagne in his Paris studio, where he kept a gong over his bed. Nothing came of the visit. She recruited Picasso to create a suite of sculptures for the Four Seasons. She met him for lunch at his studio in Cannes, and he charmed her by forming animal shapes from pieces of bread. But the meeting came to nothing, a failure Ms. Lambert, who had sharp features and bright eyes, attributed to the jealousy of Picasso’s lover Jacqueline Roque. “That was what we all assumed,” she said. “I was a very pretty young lady.” She did get her Picasso, however.

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