Columns in Contention: Thomas Jefferson vs. Frank Lloyd Wright

Thomas Jefferson has become as controversial as he was a Virginian. His legacy assumes the characteristics of a cocktail gone wrong, blending revered 1776 ideals with a disconcerting personal life at odds with those very principles. Revelations, like his enslavement of over 600 people, add a bitter aftertaste to the classic tale of the humble farmer turned patriot, leaving us a historical hangover of sorts.

Luckily, the third president lived a prolific 83 years, tapping into a rich tapestry of interests outside of his dysfunctional philosophical, legal, and political work. As evidenced by his epitaph, he held his service as UVA’s founder in higher esteem than his gig as president. Unfortunately for Jefferson aficionados, his university’s history has not escaped its fair share of controversy either.

Perhaps Jefferson’s least controversial endeavor and saving grace was his foray into architecture. His dual triumphs, Monticello and UVA’s very own Academical Village continue to stand proudly two centuries later—some might say conceitedly—as true reflections of architectural brilliance. This view is not something contained to the halls of a 1987 UNESCO convention that earned them recognition as World Heritage Sites. Rather, it remains to this day in the hundreds of thousands of annual tourists who make the trek to serene Charlottesville just to witness them. These visitors, hailing from all corners of the world, lace up their finest walking shoes to be greeted by the majestic ascent of marble stairs and resplendent crowing domes.

 Expansive colonnaded wings extend on either side, warmly embracing them, as they step into the luminous interiors where a radiating sense of spaciousness and intricacy unfolds. The red brickwork, tightly woven like Jefferson’s own breeches, complement columns even whiter than his own powdered wig. The spans of arches, perhaps as elegant as his own silk cravat, add a touch of grace. While some might label these structures as neoclassical—indicative of Jefferson’s French sojourn— their styles are unique and distinctly Jeffersonian, nonetheless, undeniably beautiful.

 Yet if we shift our focus to the case of a man born in 1867, Jefferson’s designs take a backseat. Frank Lloyd Wright, a name that reverberates throughout architectural history, is lauded by The Smithsonian Magazine for his “messianic zeal and pragmatic resilience, which made him quintessentially American.” With a career that spanned seven decades, he not only emerged as the preeminent American architect but also, to many, as one of the greatest in global history.

 Nestled in the picturesque wilderness of southwestern Pennsylvania, Wright’s magnum opus, Fallingwater, stands as a testament to his genius. Completed in 1939, it’s frequently hailed to be one of the most uniquely significant architectural feats. For starters, about a quarter of the 5,330 square feet house cantilevers gracefully over a 30-foot waterfall—perhaps some numerical compensation from its creator, who stood a modest 5 feet 7 inches in stature. Expansive horizontal terraces and balconies, anchored to a central stone chimney, provide mesmerizing views of cascading waters and the lush woods that cradle them. Inside, one can find a celebration of simplicity, organic forms, and integration of natural material—stone, concrete, and wood. An open floor plan and ample windows, create an airy and light-filled living space. Every piece of furniture and fixture, custom-designed by Wright himself, further enhances the unity of the space. Even before its completion, the audacious floating house had already captured the world’s gaze and boldly defied contemporary thought. The house allowed its residents to experience the beauty of nature from within its confines, erasing and blurring the boundaries between humanity and world. This philosophy, the cornerstone of Wright’s legacy, is coined “organic architecture,” where the building and its natural surroundings become one harmonious whole. 

 In examining the holy grails of these iconic architects, the parallels between Wright and Jefferson’s masterpieces are perceptible. In line with Jefferson’s creations, Fallingwater also boasts a UNESCO World Heritage designation and welcomes an equally impressive influx of global visitors annually. The question then arises: why does the acclaim for Monticello and the Academical Village seem to take a backseat? First, we must confront and set aside the unmistakable differences in materials and aesthetics.

Trying to draw a comparison between the material specifics—such as the religious use of columns in Jefferson’s design versus windows in Wright’s case—would be like comparing the 80s mullet with contemporary hairstyle trends: an exercise that only explores the absurdity of hindsight. Frank Lloyd Wright, in a lens like our perception of the mullet today, undoubtedly chose not to employ the same stylistic elements, and it’s not due to a lack of breeches, wigs, and cravats. Wright’s disagreement wouldn’t be with the specific material aspirations, but with the very concept of Jeffersonian architecture as a whole.

Stepping onto Grounds for the first time, and with each subsequent daily visit, I cannot help but acknowledge that the awe-inspiring grandeur of Jeffersonian architecture comes at a cost—the overbearing verticality and disharmony with nature  inherent to their existence. They imprint an indelible mark on the world, perhaps echoing the call for UVA members to do the same. These buildings, though now surrounded by trees and vegetation, create an illusion of natural balance that diverges from their true nature. It’s not a coincidence that both the Rotunda and Monticello are both perched at the highest point on the top of the hill, standing out, presenting an ostentatious, almost cultish visual.

It is clear to me that Jefferson’s architectural legacy encapsulates an intrinsic ambivalence; there’s a tension between admiration and critique. Is it a convenient evasion, a tool we can use to distract ourselves from his unmistakable controversies?

I have to wonder if there’s any trace of architecture on UVA’s grounds that captures the essence envisioned by Frank Lloyd Wright—which, as you have probably deduced by now, resonates more with my preferences. It’s tempting to dismiss the idea outright, as the majority of buildings, particularly on Central Grounds, draw heavily from the overt Jeffersonian style. 

The answer to this architectural inquiry only revealed itself when I started paying closer attention during my daily commutes to and from my dorm: Scott Stadium. A true marvel in architecture, Scott Stadium is not just constructed on the ground but into it, seamlessly coexisting and harmonizing with the surrounding nature and topography. It emerges as the leading UVA structure, defying the utilitarian norms found elsewhere.

 Challenging the entrenched narrative centered around the Rotunda, perhaps UVA should consider a transformative rebranding, pivoting its focus to Scott Stadium as the new Rotunda. This departure from Jeffersonian architecture and ideals could usher in a new era—one where the legacy of Frank Lloyd Wright rightfully takes its place of honor at the heart of our university—and the ideals of authentic American greatness can truly seep in.

The opinions expressed within this piece represent the views of the author alone and do not necessarily reflect the views of The Jefferson Independent.