ABSTRACT
Spring in the Midwest, after the brown barrenness of winter, is only as a Midwest spring can be – primavera and promiscuous. The meadow around the Farnsworth House is awash with daffodils – more than even Wordsworth could have imagined – and the house hovers above its sea of bobbing yellow heads. Resonant as a tuning fork, this steel and glass pavilion almost hums in the sunshine, burning an image, as on some old collotype, into the memory.
