There is always a first point of contact with an architect. My own discovery of Wright took place on a rainy November evening in Marylebone Public Library some thirty years ago when I found a small paperback on his work. The text did not interest me at all, but there was a single drawing which cut into my mind for ever more: it was the delicate sketch of a house which Wright presented to Sullivan in order to get a job. There was something about the light, angular incisions of the roofs half hidden by foliage which touched some distant memory of my own. I would not say that it was a building I was seeing. Rather, it was a tiny hieroglyph of someone else’s imagination: a distillation of a poetic kind which achieved a resonance through the immediate pattern of lines in a certain relationship…[+]