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68 But there was still the ongoing question about who might design a building. Paul Winkler recalled that the de Menil children would write discreet letters to architects, asking for information, without divulging the project. Walter Hopps said that Dominique had accumulated so many books on architecture on the third floor of the townhouse in New York that some were afraid the floor was going to cave in. A nd then suddenly, in one forty-five-minute meeting in November 1980, with someone whose biggest project to date she disliked, she made her choice. How could that have happened? "I am trying to find a reason because I am not that charming," Renzo Piano said with a laugh. "And I was not very well-dressed, I am sure. We were not drunk." Pressed about what would have made Dominique so certain about her decision, Piano responded: "I think it was because I didn't talk about anything too intelligent. I didn't address grand theories about architecture. I only talked about construction—about the scale of the building — about how to have a structure that is not too heavy, how it can be like lace. Our conversation was not about the destiny of the philosophy of art. It was about me being a filter — a bâtisseur. In French, bâtisseur is more than only a builder, it is someone who sits down and puts things together—it is about the craft of building. She was not looking for an artist—she already had the artists. She was looking for somebody to build. And she saw me as a bâtisseur, someone who understood the craft of building." Piano made his first trip to Houston in January 1981, where he discovered the remarkable house that Dominique and John had built on San Felipe Road in River Oaks, with its clean, modernist architecture by Philip Johnson and voluptuous interior design by Charles James. Johnson's design for the de Menil house, completed in 1950, was arresting. It was a 5,500-square-foot, single-story, flat-roofed structure in dusty- rose brick, steel, and glass that was long and lean and low. John de Menil, however, was disappointed with Johnson's insistence on a purely modern interior and came upon an inspired solution: bringing in the New York fashion designer who had been dressing Dominique for several years, considered one of the best couturiers America had ever produced. As Dominique recalled, "John, who was always full of extraordinary, creative ideas — dangerous ideas — thought of inviting Charles James." The result was potent: good modernist architecture, exceptionally elegant interior design, and a dense, dizzying array of art and objects. Soaking up the atmosphere of the de Menil house was always a priority for Renzo Piano. Arriving on an evening flight from Europe, his first stop was San Felipe Road. "She was often with Ollie, the lady who worked in the kitchen," Piano said of Dominique. "But sometimes, I remember she cooked something, simply and then we had dinner on the kitchen table with a beautiful little sculpture in the garden and a fantastic painting on the wall. And the conversation was about art, light, intensity of emotion." Piano was struck by the extreme humility of his client. On Dominique's transatlantic flights, she insisted on flying coach, which meant, he said with amusement, that everyone else on Piano's team had to do the same. She made dinner in such a casual way, served it at a table in the kitchen and then stood at the sink doing dishes. There was a quality, so fundamental that it did not even need to be expressed, that was channeled from the house to the museum. As Piano explained: "This idea, simplicity, was never discussed but it was clearly what we had to do. I learned from her that modesty was something you never talk about. Simplicity is one of those words that disappear if you name them. Like if you talk about sunlight and the sun goes away. Talking about simplicity, modesty goes away. We talked for ages with Dominique—we talked so much, about everything. But simplicity and modesty was never part of the discussion. It was the essence of what happened but it was not part of the discussion. " From the day the Menil Collection opened, in June 1987, it has been one of the most universally-praised art museums in recent decades. Eighteen months after the inauguration, on February 10, 1989, Dominique toured the building with Frank Stella, an artist she and John had collected since the 1960s. "Medium size, wiry, swarthy complexion, grey and fluffy hair, dark eyes constantly moving, intense gaze, quick gestures," Dominique noted of Stella, meticulously recording his visit in her personal notebook. "You have Ulysses, don't you?" Stella asked Dominique, about the seminal Barnett Newman painting. Stella wanted to go directly to the twentieth-century galleries on the east end of the building. Dominique noted that Stella walked by the large gray Cy Twombly painting, Untitled 1968, without saying a word and then stopped in front of Jasper Johns's Voice (1964–1967), a striking gray canvas and assemblage measuring six feet by eight feet, "I WANT A BUILDING THAT IS SMALL ON THE OUTSIDE BUT BIG ON THE INSIDE." — Dominique de Menil to architect Renzo Piano Renzo Piano on a trip to Houston during the design of The Menil Collection, circa 1981-1983 The Menil Collection, 1987, with a wall sculpture by John Chamberlain and, in the distance, an Alexander Calder mobile The wedding of Dominique and Jean de Menil, May 9, 1931, in Paris FROM TOP: PHOTO DAVID CROSSLEY, COURTESY MENIL ARCHIVES, THE MENIL COLLECTION. PHOTO HICKEY-ROBERTSON, COURTESY MENIL ARCHIVES, THE MENIL COLLECTION. COURTESY DE MENIL FAMILY PAPERS, MENIL ARCHIVES, THE MENIL COLLECTION. (continued from page 67)