Scales of Utopia

Today concludes my mom's and my trip through utopias with a quick tour through American Revolutionary history before heading to the airport (and what has become a very, very long adventure). Beyond our expectations, our final touring escapade in Philadelphia was surprisingly befitting to our journey. I had never thought about the foundation of the United States in such terms, but after focusing so closely on idealistic landscapes/societies for the past several weeks, I couldn't help but think about the aspirations of the Revolutionaries as being anything but similar. In that little room of Independence Hall, there were hopes for a better life not unlike Cabet or Owen or Rapp or even Mother Ann Lee...more humane, more inspired, a society closer to what might be considered perfect. Although from an economic standpoint, the Utopian Socialists and the early American Revolutionaries remain fundamentally very different, the dream for the perfect community pervaded both and inspired action similarly. Trying not to sound trite or corny, it inspires me as well.

Prize of the Labyrinth

Trying to offer up a little hope for today, Mom and I scouted New Harmony, Indiana, yesterday afternoon after settling into the hotel. Although I had been to New Harmony before, Bethel's promises of a utopia had left a bitter taste, and I thought it best to just "check it out" to be sure that we wouldn't be disappointed again. Yesterday was a lovely afternoon, and the setting sun provided very nice warm tones for pictures. Since we had spent most of the day in the car, the walk around New Harmony was a welcomed stretch. Of course, the museum had closed before we arrived, but the empty village proved perfect for afternoon ambling and picture-taking. More so than my previous visit in my third year of architecture school, Richard Meier's Atheneum appeared a little ridiculous with its aggressively anti-contextual white porcelain panels. Yet, in the setting sun it was oddly stunning sitting atop the well-kept grass knoll, and I could hardly help myself taking a shot from every angle.

On my previous visit, I had not taken the opportunity to explore the town of New Harmony; so, as we wandered I realized that I had missed the best that this former utopia had to offer. Throughout the town were little structures that recalled their precedents in Harmony, PA: simple, rectangular three-story structures either clad in wood siding or exposing their original brick and wood construction. Although not a part of the Harmonists' original village-scape, New Harmony also boasts a quaint Main Street that is not too different from most mid-western, southern Main Streets with local businesses and storefronts. What I found more interesting, however, was the preserved Harmonist structures dispersed among the more modern additions. Quite functionally, the Harmonists had named their streets according to whichever important public building occupied it. For instance, the Granary was on Granary Street, the Tavern was on Tavern Street, and the Brewery would have been on Brewery Street. At the corner of the latter two streets, we came across a relic of another manifestation of New Harmony, the secular New Harmony under the guidance and leadership of English economist/industrialist, Robert Owen.

Owen purchased New Harmony from the Harmonists as they departed for Pennsylvania (what would become Old Economy) to reestablish their eastern trade economy that had flourished in Harmony but had somewhat dwindled in their second home of New Harmony. As a secular communitarian, Owen's society found the existing communal dormitories and kitchens to be quite appropriate, but, as they were a community of intellectuals rather than divinely inspired laborers, they did not experience a stable, sustainable economy like the Harmonists. Not too unexpected, the Owenite community unfortunately failed after only a few short years, letting much of the property fall into disrepair.

While this is entirely understandable as an explanation of their failures, I found the docent's (or "interpreter" as she preferred to call herself) reflections on the situation practically (I mean in logical terms) unacceptable. As we stood in the steamy attic space of a dormitory, she explained a little of the Owenites' focus on education and pursuit of a secular utopia. Quite honestly, I was a little perturbed by her "interpretation." In discussing the Owenites' choice to dematerialize the nuclear family, she nearly came to tears as she was obviously condemning this experimental choice to separate children from the family and husbands from wives. She might be surprised to find that this was not an exceptional idea of Owen but actually stemmed from a longer tradition of the French Utopian Socialists of the eighteenth century. As if celibacy was a better idea! Regardless, I would have to say that this "interpreter" was kind and more than generous with her time; therefore, it would be awfully rude of me to continue with this minor point. After everyone had departed the guided tour through the village, she offered to take Mom and me by the Granary to drop in and see the space. This was definitely worth the patience. What an extraordinary room with four-feet thick walls on the lowest level that reduced to merely wood-framing at the upper level. At one time the space had been divided into (I believe she said) four or five levels, but they had been removed since. A treat indeed!

By this time, Mom and I were about to gnaw through our own arms so we took off to find an eatery. We landed in the quaint little Yellow Tavern along Tavern Street and had a nice time (bread pudding included!) in the dank and dusky room. After spending the rest of the afternoon anticipating an enormous thunderstorm while strolling around catching other sights not included in the guided tour (Philip Johnson's Roofless Church, the original Harmonists' log cabins and sheds, and a public garden dedicated to one of Owen's descendants) we headed for the iconic Harmonist Labyrinth that lay just outside of town. I had never been in a labyrinth, but it reminded me of driving in Ohio...no road signs and a bunch of green. More seriously, though, after walking through it for only a brief time, I can better understand how it served the purpose of a meditative space. The hedges are tall enough to feel privacy and separation but low enough that you are not separated entirely from the rest of world in the sublimity of an enormous hedge-wall. What a nice analogy for the Harmonists as well as other separatist utopianists.

A typical Harmonist structure with the entrance on the side rather than the street to prevent dust from the street entering the house

Contemporary architect, Richard Meier's, Atheneum (a place of learning and education, quite appropriate in relation to both societies that occupied this "utopia" along the Wabash River)

The residence of Robert Owen on the corner of Tavern and Brewery, after moving a group of scholars and intellectuals to this former Harmonist utopia

The granary which was a common storage house used by the Harmonists. The "interpreter" did not believe that the Owenites used the Granary for such a purpose.

The Yellow Tavern

A typical log structure built by the Harmonists upon arriving to this new "utopia" along the Wabash after leaving Harmony, PA

A barn that was typically attached to the log structure and housed livestock

Philip Johnson's Roofless Church

Mom's little head wandering through the labyrinth

HoSPITable?

When one reads, "The Colony offers the public an opportunity to step back into a time when colonists lived by the golden rule and shared their crops, clothing, crafts and even their earnings. Spend a day with us: exploring an 1800s colony with a mapped walking tour, visiting shops and museums, enjoying homemade meals at the Fest Hall, taking part in festivals and parades, reliving a way of life when no doors were locked and yours was also your neighbors" it seems reasonable to expect at least a half day's worth of interest, right? Well, at least now I understand better why Bethel, Missouri's website posts very selective views of their historical buildings...wouldn't want to give away all the little town's secrets before you make the long journey to the middle of nowhere only to experience what might best equate a snake in the mailbox. Perhaps that is a bit of an exaggeration, but I do not exaggerate the unexpected spit and bite that we found in Bethel.

Certainly, we were a little surprised to find the "tourist office" (e.g. the General Store) as well as streets of Bethel seemingly vacant, but the cold stare welcome that we received upon entering the Fest Hall was almost as hard to swallow as the clouds of cigarette smoke that hung and seemed to have been hanging in this community eatery since ol' Wilhelm Keil, pipe in mouth, had founded the town in 1844. This was not the first strange restaurant-entering encounter Mom and I had had on our trip so far. In fact, just yesterday at the little restaurant in Bishop Hill, we stared down the hostess before Mom caved in with a feeble, "Two, please?" And, let's not forget the timidity of the Marshalltown-ites...but this was, without question, far from timidity. It was out-right annoyance that we could read on the only three visible Bethel-ite faces.

According to the tourist information that Bethel provides both on their website as well as the distributed brochures, 117 people live the community of Bethel, but entering Bethel on this Sunday morning did not exactly conjure the days of a "successful communal colony" nor did it exactly exude the liveliness of a tourist destination; rather, in it's emptiness I more expected to see Clint Eastwood or at least a tumbleweed amble down the street accompanied by Morricone's eerie theme. On this quiet morning, it seemed that 114 of these Bethel-ites were tucked away in the church just down the street leaving the pleasant proprietors of the Fest Hall to serve as the town's tourist-welcoming committee. This time, "Two, please?" did not suffice to jump start any sort of hospitality, so Mom and I assumed two seats at a table anticipating that this might direct our intentions of actually eating there. I suppose that we were successful in this regard, but we were not so fortunate with our requests. Apparently 10:15 is fifteen minutes too late to order from the breakfast menu and forty-five minutes too early for the lunch buffet (complete with macaroni and cheese...). How could we not know this? It's not as if all the tourist information had lead us to believe the possibility of finding a "homemade meal" in Bethel. (Direct quote from website: "Fest Hall Restaurant -- open seven days a week from 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m., the Fest Hall Restaurant serves some of the best home style food in northern Missouri. Simple, good quality fare, generous portions and reasonable family prices make it a meal worth the trip to Bethel.") After waiting fifteen minutes for a coffee, Mom and I decided that the glass of straws must have spilled on their second draw for who would help us, and we laid a couple of dollars on the table on our way out the door. Since the General Store/Tourist Office was either closed for the day or forever, we had no hope of retrieving the promised audio walking tour of the little place. Instead, we gave ourselves a nice little self-guided tour finding at least the most amusing aspects of the town. Perhaps they do have a sense of humor here?

Architecturally, it was evident that this had once been the site of a nineteenth-century communal colony. The simple brick structures recalled several of the communal dwelling examples that we had already seen in Amana and the Harmonists villages, but the short-life of this commune testifies that the Keilites may not have possessed the determined industrious spirit of their northern communal neighbors. If they were anything like their descendants, their only determination was to run people out of the town...or at least to just make them incredibly uncomfortable.

We left Bethel before noon and decided to trek towards Indiana, a different state and hopefully different kind of folk.

Doubleness, doubleness, dumb

Illinois’s rolling hills of corn would astonish even the most farm-accustomed eyes. As we drove through corridors of corn-lined farm and county roads on our way to the next utopia, Mom and I could hardly believe the necessity of such an abundance of corn, but at the same time, we were taken by the beauty of the consistent color and height of the stalks as they doubled the shape of the land. Dotting this landscape occasionally would be the striking contrast of a red barn with double silos, but out of this steady, almost predictable, repetition of views emerged the vision that was and remains Bishop Hill. As we crossed the "mighty Edwards River" from the north and topped the hill, we were greeted with the sight of a large white structure that resembled a strange hybrid of a barn with its double gable and an opera house with double staircases leading to its upper floor. This building proved to be the most interesting among the surviving structures of this community established in 1846 as it was the first permanent structure of Erik Jansson and his followers. In order to reach the promise of freedom in the United States, the Janssonists pooled their profits from the sale of their farms and property in Sweden and collectively purchased passage and their new property in the New World. The survivors of the trip followed by a harsh winter built this oddity of a structure that served the dual functions of living and worship. Small rooms in the basement and ground levels each accommodated a single family while the entire space of the upper level was a sanctuary. As the docent pointed out, the economy of the rooms was sufficient for a family since the space was only used for sleeping; all families dined together in a large structure known as Big Brick (now destroyed), and the remainder of the day would have been spent laboring. The remaining assemblage of buildings was arranged quite interestingly around a central area that has been reserved as a common green space, cemetery, and memorial grounds. It was once the site of the original dug-out dwellings in which the residents of Bishop Hill stayed during the first winter, but it now serves as an excellent vantage point for observing the arrangement of this community.

Mom and I began our morning in Bishop Hill at the bakery where we enjoyed the latest round of baked goodies (lingonberry and orange muffin and a cherry cheese danish) and moved from there to the Bishop Hill museum where we met a descendent of an original colonist who had countless stories of growing up in post-colony Bishop Hill. Most impressive along our walk to the museum, which was just a few blocks outside of town, was the general attention to landscaping paid by almost all of the current residents. There is certainly pride, not only their Swedish heritage which is prominently demonstrated by the numerous native flags along the sidewalks but also in the dedication to preserving this town by actually living in it. While there, we also visited the Colony Hotel that once accommodated up to 10 guests. These were not tourists like the Shakers saw visiting their church services and observing the inspired believers; instead, almost all of these visitors to the Illinois prairies were potential buyers of the goods produced at Bishop Hill. Also on our self-guided tour of this community we visited the steeple building/meeting hall, and lastly, we had lunch at PJ Johnson's Dining Hall where the special was, of course, Swedish Meatballs...yum.

After lunch, we took off through more fields of corn for what I was hoping would be the highlight of my utopia visits. Nauvoo, I knew, would contribute to the evolving “double” theme of the day as it was a double-layered utopia itself. First founded by Joseph Smith and his brother, Hyrum, this Mormon settlement was established in a bend of the Mississippi River and prospered for several years. After the murders of the Smith brothers, however, many of the Mormons left the Illinois establishment and headed west for Utah. My interest in Nauvoo begins here where large sections of the town were sold to another group of utopianists searching for a place that might become the realization of what Plato, Thomas More, and Charles Fourier had only dreamt of. Etienne Cabet and several hundred followers (known as Icarians after Cabet’s fictional account of a utopia named Icaria) came to Nauvoo with an already somewhat broken idealism since their first settlement in the plains of Texas had proven almost disastrous, but upon arrival in Illinois, their hope resurged. I had read several listings of a museum that documented this group, and before arriving I had attempted numerous times to contact someone about a visit. My hopes resurged upon arrival in Nauvoo, like those French settlers, when I saw a sign that heralded an Icarian Living History Museum. Sadly, as I rounded the corner of the cornfield I saw no museum, only a house with a kiosk in the front yard. Bravely, I walked onto the porch in hopes that this might be the gem of my trip, and just as my knuckles approached the door, I realized that the small green post-it with faded handwriting clarified that this was now a private residence and no longer a museum. At least, now, the ignored phone calls were explained. Nauvoo turned out to be just as much a bust for me as it had been for the Mormons and the Icarians.

Mom and I didn’t let this get us down though. We headed for town in hopes of finding treats, and we lucked out. We found a funny little place that we overheard had been in operation for three generations. It resembled a movie theater from the exterior but was a soda fountain on the inside. After refreshing ourselves with a bowl of ice cream, we set out to explore the rest of Nauvoo finding that most of the preservation energies in this little town had been spent on its Mormon heritage. The temple at the edge of town overlooking the Mississippi River was lovely in its monumentality, and we had a pleasant time driving through the Joseph Smith Historic Site dodging children, listening to a group of bagpipers, and snapping photos from the cool interior of the car.

Leaving Nauvoo, we traveled along the shore of the Mississippi, something that sounds much more ambitious than it really was. It was beautiful, but I can’t resist including here the unspeakably irritating drivers that populate both sides of this section of the Mississippi River. Maybe it’s in the water. Because of the short of interest we found in Nauvoo we arrived at our evening destination much earlier than we had planned. Hannibal, Missouri, birthplace of Mark Twain, turned out to be a charming little place, also along the Mississippi River. Mom and I ordered take out from a little local pizza place downtown and explored the shops as we waited. It was a nice, quiet evening…we were only almost run over by speeding, unyielding downtown drivers maybe three times.

Bruised Idealism

After countless mentions by Mom of my inattention to food on our trip down to Arkansas, I made certain this time to include meals in our travel plans. So, our first stop on this second leg was the renowned loose-meat diner (infamous according to the Lemasters who have told me about stopping in on almost every trip to Iowa). Taylor’s Maid-Rite in Marshalltown, Iowa, I’ll admit, definitely did not disappoint, even though we thought we might never find it in the little town. Thanks to the guys at the hardware store between 3rd Street (where we thought the restaurant was) and 3rd Avenue (where the restaurant actually is), though, we finally found the joint. We got a nice taste of what might be considered traditional American fast-food heaven – you know, the stuff that makes everyone at least hopeful every time they drive-thru Wendy’s – but we were pleasantly surprised by the flavor of Iowan hospitality. The timidity of the wait staff was astounding; perhaps it was because Mom and I were out-of-towners incapable of properly ordering a Maid-Rite (a failure that we didn’t realize until we overheard two locals spit out “I’ll have the special low and dry” – in Maid-Rite terms I assumed that “dry” meant without mustard, but “low”…well, I’m still baffled). This is hardly something to complain about, though, since we never sensed any rudeness, only stuttering timidity. We left Marshalltown almost in silence, but when I finally brought up the awkwardness of the whole meal, Mom whole-heartedly agreed. We remain unclear, however, in being able to pin-point exactly what it was that made Marshalltown such an odd experience; so, I’ll try to do better in describing the rest of our day which deserves much more clarity.

Taylor's Maid-Rite in Marshalltown, Iowa

Without getting lost once, we drove to Amana, Iowa, the first “utopia” of our return trip as well as the first of the seven Amana colonies that we planned to visit today. As expected, it was a quaint village nestled, as all other mid-western utopias have been, in a green, lush river valley. Unlike the other utopias that we’ve seen, however, a feeling of complete contradiction thickened the air. While it is not strange that commercialism has settled comfortably into all of these once thriving communes, the conversion of Amana into a promenade of antiques and folk arts and crafts was unquestionably disturbing, and I hesitantly admit that Mom and I participated almost whole-heartedly in Amana's new identity of the twentieth- (and now twenty-first-) century.

Streetscape in Amana

I clarify with "almost" because I felt the tinge of hyprocrisy creep up as I added the fifth bag of small purchases to my collection. Only when the triumphant haze of the satisfaction of finding the "perfect gift" thinned did I take a moment to reflect on the former reality of Amana and, consequently, the cause of its dissolution and the creation of the present Amana. Established by German Pietists of the Community of the True Inspiration in 1855, the seven colonies of Amana boast the longest-lived communist experiment in the United States, only to dissolve, ironically, in the wake of economic hardships of the Great Depression. For almost eighty years every resident of the seven colonies was provided with housing, food, clothing, and tools by the collection of communal apartment houses, communal kitchens, the woolen factories, and the various tradesmen's workshops. The new Amana, however, divided the properties and locked the doors to many of these facilities changing not only the lifestyle of the residents but, likewise, the space of community. While I did not collect these thoughts in time to ask the current residents of the Amanas, such as the amazing Amanan descendent who oversaw the muesums of the cooper's workshop and one of the communal kitchens in Middle Amana, where the space of community is defined today, I could reasonably assume that it remains strongest in the churches, which maintain the religion of the original colonists, and I would even add that community is found in the daily operation of these museums and various shops. Certainly, we witnessed such sharing in both the Kitchen Sink in Amana (quoted as offering a collection of 'original' Amana crafts as well as gourmet kitchenware - both of which were difficult to determine amongst the clutter of knick-knacks) as well the High Amana Store. In both shops, day long exchanges of gossip that one might expect to (or hope to, I might add to be the case if you were a local) hear continued as customers (ignorant of the names, faces, and histories under discussion) streamed in and out.

High Amana Store, built 1857

Grape trellis along the Cooper's Workshop with the Communal Kitchen in the background (Middle Amana)

Bakery in Middle Amana, still in operation, once standing between the two acres of vegetable gardens and the communal kitchen

Wash House near the Historical Museum, Amana

Yet, as I collected that fifth bag of goodies at the register, I found disappointment hard to resist. Disappointment not just in the conversion of these spaces into their present contribution but disappointment in myself for encouraging this conversion, which could be so reductively represented by my growing collection of bags. A phrase that I had heard in the museum's beautifully compsed introduction video kept ringing and repeating in my head, "...setting aside their bruised idealism ..." Of course, the narration continued with optimistic tones of the success of Amana since the distribution of property and shares, but the combination of "bruised" and "idealism" stung in its relevance. Even as I salivate at the thought of such prolonged beautiful cooperation among a group of people, I realize the difficulty of maintaining it, and this realization stings like a punch in the thigh or a table corner to the hip. Regardless of these thoughts, however, I have come away with a nice collection of treasures crafted in Amana including material goods, an exercised idealism, and let's not forget the tasty treats from the Chocolate Haus.

At the Chocolate Haus you can watch the candy makers dip caramel apples and make fudge among many other goodies

We ended the afternoon driving through the plains of Iowa and crossing over into Illinois so that I might catch a sunset view of Eero Saarinen’s cor-ten beauty in Moline. The John Deere Corporation Headquarters was relatively easy to find along John Deere Road where one might find John Deere Credit Union, John Deere Farm Supplies, or even the John Deere Gas Station. We arrived just in time to catch the last glints of sun as they reflected off of the tinted glass onto the velvety red surface of the patina-ed steel and, I kid you not, a doe grazing on the nice complimentary greens. Does John Deere Corp. plan this for visitors? Probably just coincidence, but I’d rather imagine that it’s a feature of the ride.