
The Nakashima Compound in New Hope, Pennsylvania feels well-loved, impressive when visited, and very haphazardly documented. Probably because it is and has been in near constant use and change since George Nakashima built his first workshed in the 1940s. Maybe also because Nakashima did all the designs, and though he was trained as an architect, he was most known by the photographing and publishing classes, at least, as a woodwizarding furnituremaker.

Whatever the situation, it has been difficult to find the photos I need to understand something that fascinates me in the Arts Building (1965 or 1967), first known as the Minguren Museum, the pointy, triangular-looking open structure with a hyperbolic paraboloid roof made of plywood. [There is also a poured concrete paraboloid roof structure, the Conoid Building, and the slatted, curved ceilings look similar inside, which is confusing. Also, did Nakashima really name buildings after his furniture lines as part of the marketing? I think a trip to the Compound/showroom/workshop was part of many large commissions, when clients came to select a tree or whatever. Maybe it all makes sense on the ground.]
In this Pennsylvania Historic Preservation blog post, it says this experimental roof was, in 2021, the subject of a Getty-funded conservation project undertaken by the University of Pennsylvania. After it had been flagged by the World Monuments Fund. So maybe there’s documentation after all. [Also, as someone from Raleigh, a town whose pioneering concrete hyperbolic paraboloid roof house masterpiece was neglected and destroyed by absolute idiots, I have to say the potential longer term viability of the Nakashima plywood roof gives me new hope.]

But that’s not the point right now. Look inside the Arts Building or Minguren Museum, or the Nakashima Foundation for Peace. Entering at the building’s apex into a coffered concrete and fieldstone foyer, and discovering the space opening up, yes, and then the Loft definitely not floating above you.

When I saw @denbeers’ tumblr of the cantilevered stairs, I wanted to lose twenty pounds, but first I wanted to know what in the world is going on with that concrete wall at the top. It is thin as can be, and angled. And the top looks just a little crumbly, or imperfect. But again, what is that wall? Why does it transfix me? I don’t care, I just want to know its story. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, I have found no one who visits the Nakashima Woodworkers Compound in the forest of New Hope who leaves writing about the concrete.

So I’m trying to intuit it. I think it’s the angle from the exterior wall behind it. I think it’s the angle of the edge of much thicker—but lower, and topped with a floating shelf—parapet. Is it the angle of recline of the Conoid chairs surrounding that table? Is it the angle of the keystone-shaped slabs under the Minguren dining tables?

It’s not just he angle, but the thinness, and the imperfection, that all belie the purported nature of concrete. Maybe I’d just come from seeing Isa Genzken’s show at Buchholz and had a refreshed, visceral appreciation for concrete in space?