Introduction:
Julius Shulman is reknowned as one of the foremost photographers of 20 th century architecture, but he is also the kind of person who is called Julius or “Uncle Julius” to probably hundreds of people. What follows is an informal visit with a man who knows or knew most of the world’s greatest architects and immortalized their work. We visited him in his secluded but famous steel and glass house in the Hollywood Hills, a house that disappears into the garden and trees.

SHULMAN, UNABRIDGED:


photography by Barbara Lamprecht

World-famous architectural photographer Julius Shulman speaks his mind freely and corrects his listeners without apology.

And why not? Thanks to great genes and a lifetime of tramping the mountains ringing Los Angeles, who has followed the footsteps of John Muir and Ansel Adams through California Sierras. At 94 years old, Julius has outlasted most of the Modernist masters whose work he helped make famous. And now his meticulously documented collection , a unsurpassed wealth of the famous and the unknown history of architecture in Southern California and far beyond, now resides at the Getty Research Institute, where now, Julius chuckles, he’ll always have a free lunch. In the last few weeks he has been the subject of multi-page spreads in The New York Times and the Los Angeles Times.

Julius doesn’t so much occupy his spacious, light-filled, high-ceilinged studio so much as preside over it. Facing the lush patio separating the studio from the house, his sprawling desk also commands the view of the entrance as well. The place is adorned with everything from old family photographs and mementos of two-thirds of a century ago to fresh book galleys and letters from the seemingly endless lines of writers, editors and publishers who want something from Julius. The sign above his phone, “Old Age and Treachery Will Overcome Youth and Skill,” is now almost as well-known as the date he marks as the beginning of his career in architectural photography: 5 March 1936. That Saturday he photographed the Josef and Gertrud Kun House, designed by Modernist icon Richard Neutra with assistance from Gregory Ain who himself would also become an important Modernist. Fascinated with the radical architecture he witnessed that day, Julius took six photographs with his Eastman Kodak Vest Pocket camera. A friend saw the images, passed them along to Neutra, who liked the work and ordered a quantity of duplicates. At the same moment he asked if Julius would photograph others of his works .

What had been an aimless path in life, according to Julius, now offered focus and promise. Shulman became the requisite photographer for Neutra’s work for decades and soon was in demand by other 20 th century names including many of the Case Study House architects , in addition to Frank Lloyd Wright, Rudolf Schindler, Charles and Ray Eames,Pierre Koenig. He and other esteemed photographers such as Marvin Rand are responsible for crafting our view, in many ways, of Modern architecture here. Shulman himself photographed 15 of the 18 constructed case study houses in this area of Southern California. These men produced the images burned into our minds. (It was probably Julius’s eye that made the work of the young Gordon Drake, who died at 35 in a skiing accident in 1952, so searingly memorable. His integration of site, light, modular planning, were rendered gently in glass and wood and propelled by Drake’s insistence on an architecture of social justice as well as superb craftsmanship. His very first house won significant awards and influenced many later California Modernists. He was one of Shulman’s great favorites. ) Shulman’s own work often emphasized the drama of the architecture, sending the viewer through the house out into nature, or exaggerating, with a glancing blow, the horizontal qualities of the elements of a building. Architects loved his work and quickly understood that Shulman’s hand on their finished products could advance their careers, just as their work sustained his.

No matter when you visit, Julius’s lair bustles with activity and new and familiar faces, distinguished guests or awed students. Today Rose Nielsen from Woodbury University (which will collaborate in the new Julius Shulman Institute, intended to foster alternative career paths for design students) is reviewing and organizing slides; at another desk, another old friend, Ray Crites, a Fellow of the American Institute of Architects, an award-winning architect from North Carolina, quietly sketches out ideas for a house. Stephen Enkeboll and I make four.

Today we’ve come to interview him about one of his latest books, Malibu: A Century of Living by the Sea, (Harry N. Abrams, release date May 1, 2005, by Julius Shulman and Juergen Nogai.) which includes Shulman’s early work and more contemporary photography by Julius and his creative collaborator and partner for the past six years, Juergen Nogai. It is a handsome book, with imaginative graphics and images. We have also asked Julius to give us a tour of his steel-and-glass house, designed by Case Study House architect Raphael Soriano.

“We have a book on Malibu here. And it’s going to create a sensation, because Malibu has never been shown in any respect to this degree … But I’m a little disappointed that they didn’t use some of my dramatic mountain photographs … if you read the opening sentence on the cover: ‘Legendary architectural photographer Julius Shulman first discovered these qualities in Malibu in 29 [with his 1928 Chevy], the day he drove up there with his Kodak vest pocket camera to take photographs of the landscape and the wildlife …’ Most people who live in Malibu look out over the sea … but we have too many ocean scenes … That’s not ‘what Malibu is all about.’ ”

Julius even does public relations for his books, he says, asking whether the publicist had called the City of Malibu’s Chamber of Commerce “… who else would sell the books, besides the Chamber of Commerce?” he queries.

Malibu was first popularized by the “cute little shacks in which the starlets, the cute little girls, the casting couch kind, lived. They never had any names in their pictures, not like the big stars … in the early days, you could buy a lot along the waterfront for $500 – people who came to Malibu used it for a playground. The highway in those days was just a little access road. Now there are multi-million dollar houses and 80 mile-per-hour- plus, traffic.”

“Now, in this book, there’s a number of houses of the rich and famous, but some important smaller houses have been left out. Now, what we are also trying to say that when a book is complete we respect it. It’s the result of a lot of amount of work, the photographs, the writing, the text … and the energy.” He stops talking. “So we won’t say anything more about that. The book is good, and when two people are in a bookstore, they’re going to say “hey, look at this beautiful book on Malibu . Let’s buy it .

Julius points to the images from the 1929 Adamson House, the beloved house and tourist venue featuring the best of the colorful and beautiful Malibu tile. “Now, that house exudes the quality of Malibu. Native materials -- and design. “[Architect] Stiles Clements was one of the early traditionalists, and one of my first clients in the ‘30s. If, by the way, he had designed modern houses, the image of Malibu would have been better. I don’t agree completely with Modernism, even though I live in a glass house like this,” he said, nodding around the room. “I grew up in Modernism. But Modernism is fine when you allow it to express the quality of an area … the Adamson house is elegant. I use that term not advisedly but arrogantly, with an exclamation point. The term applies to a life style of elegance [and ritual, Julius agrees with us, saying ‘that’s a good word.’]. It’s not just to having floor-to-ceiling glass windows.”

Stephen: “I like what Julius said [about Malibu being about the canyons and mountains in addition to the sea] You know, the homes by the beach, they’re beautiful … But my house is set back two miles from the sea, so I have this dramatic vista of the mountain coming down to the sea.”

Julius agrees: “You can taste its flavor!” He also talks about the old rural character of Malibu … “Now, Malibu was originally ranch country, and the experience of doing the book was wonderful, we met some great people. You know, I grew up on a farm in Connecticut. My mother would milk the cows every morning, bringing in a bucket of milk with cream on the top, that was 1913. He came from the Ukraine around Kiev, and emigrated to Brooklyn. That’s where I was born, and when my father decided to become a farmer in Connecticut, in 1913, he drove a horse and wagon. No electricity, no heating in the house, coal stove, kerosene lamps. My mother stored jams and jellies, jars and jars and jars of them.” (Julius, always curious, asks me about my father’s heritage, which, began with my owns father’s emigration from the Ukraine.)

Then, with some irritation, he spies a photo whose cropping retained the most prominent element – a rough-cast concrete fireplace – without the elements that breathed its style: the larger context of the room, the relationship to the outdoors, the sculptures in the room, which he originally included.

There is one pair of images that especially reveals the changes in Malibu’s character and the people who live there. Julius pointed to a scene of the 1968 Stevens Residence, a remarkable concrete, glass and wood house built on an impossibly narrow lot and designed by John Lautner, who apprenticed with Frank Lloyd Wright. In Shulman’s first photograph, taken after the owners and their children moved in, a ball lies on the sand, which is a sea of footprints. Everything looks casual, easy going, with some none-too-elegant but obviously well used beach chairs facing the sea. In the second and much more recent image, the sand has been replaced with a series of low concrete walls and planters. The hardscape feels hard indeed, even hostile, I suggest. (“Yes, that’s it, hostile,” Julius says, happier with my choice of words now than at the beginning of the interview, when I suggested choices of topics he might find ‘interesting.’ “Hold it right there. If you are going to write something and you dare to write the word ‘interesting,’ I’ll tear it up, “ he said, more exasperated with an over-used word than displeased with me personally, I choose to think. That out of the way, he shifts his attention. “OK, now we can go to work on whatever you want.”) In the later incantation of the house, the last thing the owners want is an interaction with the sand. In contrast, the first owner’s attitude, written in the relationship between house and sand, says, “Of course there’s sand in the house! This house floats on a sea of it!”

Suddenly, all attention swivels from architecture talk. There is a squirrel hanging upside down on the bird feeder. Birds and all kinds of critters treat the Shulman House as their own, and watching this squirrel navigate his way to great dining, jumping off the feeder as one approaches with a camera, is all the entertainment one needs, and illuminates an important fact about Julius: his green environment is vital to his well-being. “You know,” Julius says quietly, “We’ve been here 55 years. [His first Emma died in 1973; his second wife Olga died in 1998.] All this was all bare land, and empty hill. Over the years, we’ve planted all these hundreds of trees and shrubs. I’ve counted about 85 different species of birds here – you know, I’m a bird watcher from way back. Then on top of that we have the animals, the deer, the skunks, the foxes, and the coyote. Gophers? No gophers: they’re controlled by owls and hawks. Snakes? No snakes either,” he said, comparing notes with Stephen, who lives in Malibu. “The squirrel’s back, by the way … Now, when it comes to the house itself … I love that! He’s eating upside down. No, walk up to him. You can’t get him in a long shot without a telescopic lens. Go into the kitchen, take it from there!”

For a while, Julius and Stephen talk about the focus of the Foundations they are involved with, how to share architecture and the arts, how to influence students. Then more stories emerge, many of them focusing on the house and Julius’s history.

Raphael Soriano worked for a time for Neutra; Shulman and Soriano were about the same age and liked each other. When interviewed by British architectural historian Neil Jackson, Shulman said, “To [Soriano’s] his dying day, we always felt a mutual quality of reverence for good design and good architecture, and openness of expression and feeling.” The slender pipe column and I-beam with timber-framed paneling, plaster or high-quality plywood walls, clear and translucent glass and screened patios lend the house and studio an “ethereal quality” according to daughter Judy McKee, who moved in with her mother Emma and father Julius on March 5, 1950 (March 5 seems to resonate with Shulman.) “Soriano was such a sweetheart, so Southern European, with his twinkling eyes that turned into crescents when he smiled. This house is just gorgeous, so calming, and so simple that you don’t notice it. It becomes a presence in every aspect of your life. Soriano was an artist, meaning, he could be belligerent, self-absorbed, I’ve heard …” but not to Judy, who loved growing up here and enjoyed Soriano’s bright company.

Julius continues: naming a few well-known architectural writers, he says, “they write about architecture as though it’s cold dead fish. I’ve seen more architecture, thousands of houses, than most architects! They never see what I see.

With that, he illustrates an important point: the Modernist ideal of “indoor-outdoor living,” a phrase that is de rigeur in any article on a Modernist house. One of the objectives of Modernism, after all, was to erase the traditional 19 th century boundaries between indoors and outdoors. Glass and sliding doors let in light, sun and the fresh air that were also cornerstones in early 20 th century thinking. The “white dresses” of Modernism – lots of white paint – signified “hospital clean.” White, representing purity, responded to dark, dank, small and enclosed environments that bred diseases such as tuberculosis. But indoor-outdoor living has to be smartly rendered to make sense, Julius points out: “I’ve seen a lot of sliding glass doors, and often they are closed by owners to keep things out: flies or mosquitoes, lizards or bees. When I worked with Soriano, I said to him, we need transitional spaces, we need screened-in rooms. He didn’t want me to have screens. It interfered with his ego. ‘Indoor-outdoor living!’ It’s a bunch of crap … [when] you open the doors you invite your home to the elements, all the elements! You’ll see [in contrast] our dining area, all screened in, we ate all our meals out there. You have an [outdoor] room 10’ long by 24’ wide, and it didn’t cost anything except for the cost of the screens.” Inside, the kitchen is small, brightly lit, with a sliding pass-through between the lush screened patio just beyond the long kitchen, where the original built-in stove and cooktop work as well as ever.

“When we open the sliding doors in the summer, we close the side screens. I apologize to the raccoons and the coyotes, but it’s only for a short time. And look what you get with screens! You get that much more useable space. More square feet of useable space, controlled space, wonderful space! In my bedroom, when the screens are open, the birds come in to the landscaped patio: it’s a shelter, not just for me but for my birds and animals. When my daughter was little, sometimes we would ‘go camping,’ with old Army cot beds, and we’d sneak outside … my wife would be in bed, and we’d be talking back and forth. That’s why this is a prize-winning house.”

“Now, look at this: let’s go through here. [We are at the entrance to the house]: I angled this wall [the principal, cork-clad hallway with a pony wall on the right, where the living room is, and before us lies the bedroom wing.] See how this hallway narrows from 10 feet to four feet? Here, where the front door is, people gather. Soriano hated that diagonal line. He didn’t like it, but we made good use of the extra space [created by carving out closet space out of the hallway.]”

Julius looks away sharply. “By the way, the azaleas are blooming out there. No wisteria yet.”

In the next minute, we all mill around in one of the best, and least known, parts of the house. This is the handsome wood veneer dressing area that acts as a hub for the private wing at the back of the house: a room filled with all kinds of opportunities for more intimate outdoor views along with storage: mirrors, a dressing table, built-in drawers everywhere, all saluting the post World War II servantless household. This “hub” opens to the hallway, to the bathroom, and to the bedrooms. Echoing the diagonal line of the hallway, a second angled wall here is angled, and, again, at Julius’s insistence. “I wanted a large shower, and the shower Soriano gave me was about 2’ x 2’. So I said, ‘Well, let’s get rid of that third bank of drawers, and swing the wall out, and tuck the shower in behind it.’ Hence, Julius says, he now has his large shower that looks out towards the leafy redwoods he and Emma, and then he and Olga, planted. The back of the garage, typically dark and murky, has sandblasted clear plastic panels at the back: like the rest of the Shulman “compound,” dappled light dances everywhere, even in humble places.

Despite the predictable clashes between strong-will architect and an equally strong-willed client, in a letter to Soriano dated December 29, 1978 Shulman wrote,

“Our home seems to accelerate in spirit and excitement as the years pass by … The garden is even more exciting for Olga has transformed it into a flowery retreat. The above added to the density of our jungle of trees makes this home in my estimation the most complete in every respect … I say that because with the passing years I truthfully have seen very few complete homes. So much is done for architectural trickery, or the decoration is an obvious attempt to gild or to impress people and too often the gardens are manicured and stiff, formal statements."

In Shulman’s autobiography, the last photograph but one is haunting. It is the young Soriano, sitting on a wind-whipped hill with a Basque shepherd, who lies on the hill, leg crossed, talking, his shepherd dog gazing intently at something in the distance. It feels like fall, from their outerwear. The date is 1936. Julius, of course, photographed it.

Afterword: In Julius’s autobiography, he writes about photographing a dead leaf whose decay reveals all its major arteries and tributaries, or “boulevards and primary highways,” as he puts it, down to the tiniest veins and capillaries. That leaf told a story for Shulman: how we can learn lessons from Nature that we can apply to urban form. Instead of sprawl and long commutes, we can design our cities more compactly and commune with our families in more wholesome settings. What Julius is really talking about, in scientific terms, is the functional beauty of fractals, or “self-similar scaling,” which we see daily in leaves and trees … and hopefully, in our human-made environment as well. This is the very point of the new book which the Foundation is supporting and publishing, Why it’s OK to like Ornament: Ornament in the 21 st Century: Ornament – a kind of scaling that “knits” urban spaces together in major and minor ways – is vital to our well-being.

What is evident about Julius is that he exists in nature, in that world of light and shadow that reveals the both architecture of nature and the human. Without light and dark, photography would not exist. He may be abrupt and crotchety sometimes, but he is also curious and concerned for the world and his fellow human being. Eric Bricker, who is producing a documentary film on Julius, has a good story about Julius. In a recent lecture for architecture students in Mexico, Julius showed a slide of children crowding around a water fountain. To paraphrase, he exclaimed, “Don’t go into architecture for the glory. These are your future clients – make sure you build houses for them and enough water fountains for them.” In other words, be responsible for your world, but have a great ride, and bring others along.

Julius Shulman. Architecture and its Photography (K öln, Los Angeles: Taschen, 1998.)

If you would like to learn more about Julius Shulman and view some of his photographs click here.