This piece was drawn from a conversation with Moshe Safdie that has been edited and condensed for clarity.
Frank Gehry was my friend for more than 50 years. I knew him long before the prizes, long before Bilbao, long before the world understood what he was capable of. In those early years his work was doubted—even ridiculed—but he never stopped.
We met in the early 1970s—I believe in 1973 or ’74. At the time, I was working on Coldspring Newtown in Baltimore with the Rouse Company. Frank had designed their headquarters and was doing other projects for them. We were both from Canada, and we liked each other immediately.
My work often brought me to Los Angeles, and we always saw each other. We talked about work, of course, but we also gossiped—architects do. And we talked about personal things. When I went through a difficult period in my life, he introduced me to [psychologist] Milton Wexler, whom I consulted for years. That was a significant moment for me, and I remain grateful to Frank for it.
Although early on I was the more established architect, our relationship was always one of equals—looking each other in the eye, never up or down. I remember how disappointed he was not to get the Getty job. Later, when he began working on the Walt Disney Concert Hall—the first round, before Bilbao—we talked a great deal about that scheme, even down to whether he could do it in stone. By the time Bilbao opened, it was clear he had become a superstar.
We did occasionally disagree. When I wrote my 1980 article “Private Jokes in Public Places” for The Atlantic, he was very unhappy. He also warned me—accurately!—that I had alienated many colleagues by naming names. The piece was a critique of postmodernism, particularly of Charles Moore and the Venturi school. But even then, I invited Robert A.M. Stern to speak at the Aspen Design Conference I chaired, because I felt the debate should be open. Still, people were upset, and Frank made sure I understood that.
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Frank was deeply engaged with the world. To me he seemed to know everyone. He enjoyed life, and we often shared wonderful meals—usually Italian—and occasionally went sailing on a beautiful sailboat he designed for a client (who then let him keep it).
He often gave me excellent advice. When I was having a crisis with a collaborator on the Kauffman Center—specifically around the acoustics and engineering challenges of creating a truly in-the-round concert hall—he said to me, “You’re working with the wrong person. You need to work with [acoustician Yasuhisa] Toyota.” He was right. That advice opened doors and ultimately made it possible for me to realize the scheme I’d envisioned.
His legacy as a builder cannot be overstated. He was proud—rightly—that he was not simply a form-maker. He cared deeply about how a building works and performs, and about how it gets built. He went so far as to invent the methodology that enabled his structures to be constructed. The software he developed allowed him to translate a sketch into something that contractors could fabricate—a direct line from concept to computer to manufacturer. My own office later adopted CATIA, an adaptation of that software, and it was invaluable on projects such as the Kauffman Center.
Of course, I visited his Santa Monica house many times over the years. To me, I must admit, it was a very strange house. I like comfort and elegance and particular materials. But of course the house became a cult object—so widely appreciated in a way I couldn’t quite grasp. It had impact, undeniably.
One of my favorite memories is from the Venice Biennale in the mid-1980s. We both had mustaches then, as you can see in the old photographs. Someone came up to me and said, “Mr. Gehry?” We were often confused for each other—two Canadians with mustaches, I suppose.
The last time I saw him was about six months ago. I was in LA for a meeting and had arranged to visit him, but he wasn’t feeling well that day. [Gehry Partners chief of staff] Meaghan Lloyd called to say he couldn’t manage it. I didn’t know then that it would be the last chance.
I think he would want to be remembered not just for his forms but for his profound commitment to the craft of building—his insistence that architecture is as much about its making as its appearance. He was inventive, rigorous, and extraordinarily generous with his support and friendship. And he never stopped exploring.
That is how I will remember him.
