by Daniel Frisch, AIA
Essays, Observations, Dispatches
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To my parents Nelle and Don Frisch, who set the bar high.
To my wife Darcy and children Nelle and Buddy, who inspire me to be my very best.
To every member of the DFA team—now and through the years, for patiently enduring so many Monday Morning Meetings and for helping to get it right.
To every classmate, professor, colleague, client, consultant, contractor, and collaborator for everything.
To my many, many friends, who together have made me richer than George Bailey.
All of you have been, and continue to be, my teachers. If my words ring true, please know I borrowed them from you.
INTRODUCTION
DFA Client Graph - See “Bubble Chart,” page 199
Looking Forward To Monday Morning
During the fall of 2016, I was strolling along one of Olmstead’s Central Park paths with a fellow dad from our kids’ school, and he said quite casually that I should write about my work. Although I had thought about it over the years, his remark gave me that little push to go out the next week and buy my first laptop. My initial efforts were introductory roadmaps for what I was going to write about and why. I was simply trying to explain and justify my project to myself, and looking back on the earliest pieces, it is very clear how much I didn’t know. I didn’t know how trying I would find writing to be or how proud I would feel when I finally came back to rewrite this “introduction.”
I was born a year after the baby boom in Manhattan, the second child of two natural science academics. At six months and with me just emerging from the NICU, my father accepted a teaching position at Northwestern, and we moved from New York to Chicago. Six years later, it was on to Grand Rapids, Michigan, for an exciting but short-lived teaching and research position, followed by an equally short-lived early retirement. After a few years of selling real estate, my parents opened an independent bookstore in Grand Rapids, and after that closed (a long family tradition of passionate but questionable entrepreneurship), they wrote and published a farmers’ market cookbook. I still reference the volume and occasionally search the internet for used copies in good condition. My parents have been gone for a while (father 1996, mother 2008), and while I miss them very much, I think they would have enjoyed watching me
start a family of my own, nurture a firm, and finally, to welcome another writer to the family.
My formal studies in architecture began in the tenth grade at East Grand Rapids Senior High School where I took both shop and mechanical drawing classes. While I took typing but skipped home economics, it was our mechanical drawing teacher, Dan Graham, who lit the fuse. And, upon the recommendation of an artist friend of my parents, I applied to the summer 1982 Career Discovery Program at Harvard University. The acceptance letter was the first of a number of surprisingly affirmative responses to school applications. That summer I was the youngest student in an intensive six-week program at Harvard’s Graduate School of Design (GSD), taking lecture, seminar, and studio classes—exactly as I would for seven years in architecture school.
Those seven years of architecture school were spent at the University of Virginia and Columbia University, with a one-year sabbatical between. At Virginia, I fell in love over and over again with architecture and design, demonstrably reinforcing the decision I had made to pursue my future in the field. After graduation, I moved to Manhattan and landed an intern position at a young firm, a training that was every bit as valuable and confirming as my studies. Graduate school at Columbia gave me useful insight into the competitiveness of the field; in the academy and in the profession, stiff spines and broad shoulders are required. I graduated in 1991 during a recessionary trough and was thrilled to get a job offer even before receiving my Statement of Arrears – my physical diploma would come ten years later. The only problem being that the job offer wasn’t for a job, but more accurately, for an industry-norm internship. This one was for a “Starchitect” for whom I had been a teaching assistant during my last two years of graduate school. When I effusively thanked him for the offer, I also asked about some of the job particulars including hours and compensation. He seemed a bit taken aback, or possibly, insulted by the question. As for the number of hours I would be expected to “work,” he referred me to his other apprentices, many of whom I knew, and who routinely logged eighty hours a week. As for compensation, the starting base salary was zero, to be adjusted at the principal’s discretion at such time that my work product was a contribution to the firm. Wasn’t I the fortunate one?
Six weeks after graduation, I tacked a different way and with two partners, started our firm. I was twenty-five years old and young enough not to know better and also certain there was a better model than the one I had otherwise considered. I could not have done this without my two partners, Edward Cabot, a friend and classmate from Columbia, and Amy Lesser, an architect and my first cousin. While the partnership didn’t survive, I’ll never forget the giddy enthusiasm we felt during the first years and know with the clarity of hindsight that I could not tell these stories without our shared belief and optimism.
When we founded the firm, our unwritten business plan was straightforward: meet clients, design their homes, and celebrate our success. Easy. Although I recall innumerable struggles and difficult decisions, most were reactive to circumstances, not the product of our planning or, more accurately, our lack of planning. For many years, I would start the week onerously writing in longhand on a yellow pad, a to-do list of everything needed to be done. The top of the list was dominated by items which were repeated every week yet were unlikely to be undertaken. While the endeavor took discipline and was proof, largely to self, of unwavering dedication, the exercise was much less productive than intended. The numbing repetition was not a predictor or celebration of success but the recording of the unaccomplished. Without knowing it, I had created a depressing and solitary way to start the week whose only salvation was saving others from writer’s cramp. After a dozen or so years and with a great sense of relief, I abandoned the practice of Monday morning to-do lists.
In 2016 and with our practice flourishing, we committed to a longrange growth plan. We leased the floor above our townhouse home of twenty-two years and expanded the team to a headcount in the low double digits—and fingers crossed—we keep growing. Amongst the dust and upheaval of the expansion, we began holding Monday morning meetings. While nothing compares to the Quaker meeting with its prolonged silence, our meetings have become my personal bully pulpit. My Monday morning conversations with our team sometimes cover recent project developments, yet more often introduce broader concepts, addressing the “why” of what we do - a running conversation seemingly without limits. In the posts that follow, you will have a seat
at our Monday morning table, enjoying a weekly discussion that always leaves me “Looking Forward to Monday Morning.” There’s no place I’d rather be.
Acknowledgments and Appreciation
Better judgment aside, many people have believed in me. My parents, for sure, no matter how trying those early parent-teacher conferences must have been. So, too, did Keith and Tig; Chuck, Greg, and Roger, and so many others, when I arrived at college more than a little wet behind the ears—and who are still in my corner so many years later.
Here’s to my first partners, Edward and Amy, and every associate who has worked at DFA through the years. Here’s to Kate, Devon, Kent, Jamie, and Deborah—who have helped lead the team these last ten years (more like thirty for Jamie).
Here’s to the admissions committees of the schools who controlled the gates of higher education and saw something in me that my transcripts didn’t describe. Here’s to my teachers: Dan Graham at East Grand Rapids Senior High; Jim Thule and Ken White at UVA. More recently, thank you to Kim Haggart, Malo Hutson, and Bill Sherman for asking me to come back to teach, and to Theo van Groll for both keeping me in school and helping me find my way back.
Here’s to the Valmarana family. To Mario for teaching and mentoring me and to Betty for mentoring and minding Mario. To Francesco and Alex and Boody—and to Stucky, too.
Here’s to the friends I made so long ago on the pitch and courts and course. To Marc, John, Bill, Jamie and Phil. To Mark and David, and Tom and Scott.
Here’s to the builders. To Gus and Steve and Johnny, to Tad and Wojtek; to Arlen, Kent, and to Vinny. To Jared, Neil, Brad, Randy, Tim, and Eliot. And to Buddy, too. Thank you for making our plans come to life. And, to my readers. To Charlie Defanti, John Weber, Joel Rosenman, Adam Van Doren, and Alex Birnbaum; and to Tom Casey and Silvia Erskine. To Nancy Bentley and to Greer Levy. To Celia, who not only read and edited but tried to teach me to write.
Here’s to Jake Anderson, Brooke Biro, and the team at ORO Editions for making the book better at every turn. And to Courtney for helping bring all we do to a larger audience.
Here’s to the clients, classmates, and friends—too numerous to name. None of this happens without you and I raise a glass to every one of you.
And finally, to my family. To Darcy, Nelle, and Buddy. Thanks for putting up with my talking in paragraphs and for sharing—begrudgingly at times—my love of grammar and manners.
