This is one of many installments of a biography of mentor and friend Dick Woods. See here for the entire series.
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The red sea, a.k.a. the sock drawer
[This post is a rant on how things were, not on how they currently are. Anyone familiar with the parish of St. John the Divine, Houston, will know that things are now much improved from the days (1990s) I am describing herein. But it’s where Dick Woods and I worked, and it warrants description]:
The original worship space for St. John the Divine, Houston, now still in regular use as its chapel, was completed in 1940. Other buildings, including the nave, were completed in 1954, designed by Karl Kamrath (1911-1988) a Houston-based devotee of Frank Lloyd Wright. The exterior of the church proper is striking, with its heavy limestone walls and high-pitched roof with low-hanging eaves. Faithful to its architectural style, it looks like it naturally, literally, organically ‘grew’ out of the earth. But this author never found the interior very beautiful nor very worshipful. Thanks to acoustical-paneled ceiling, cork flooring under the pews, and wood veneer everywhere, it looked less like a church and more like the attic of a high-end suburban house. The room seemed to call more attention to its severe architectural style than to God. Furthermore, there was thick, red carpet in all three aisles, in the side chapel, and throughout the chancel and sanctuary. I called the room ‘the red sea.’ Any reader familiar with the acoustic that results from all that carpet can also appreciate my bonus appellation ‘sock drawer.’
A renovation of sorts of the nave was slated to be rendered between Christmas 1992 and Easter 1993. During the renovation, Sunday services were moved into the gym. I played a most interesting digital organ that could say things like ‘Hey!’ and ‘Yeah!’ and make the sound of dentist drills. I never discovered a suitable use for such sounds during Rite II, but I would have enjoyed it, and the choir would have welcomed the diversion. Anyway, the nave renovation was not intended to make any major changes but rather to spruce up what was already there. The carpet was to be replaced, and so I threw a Hail Mary and spoke up about this chance to improve the acoustics. But not only were acoustics not on the table and we were wasting our time resisting it, Dick and I would also have been painfully incompetent bulls in that particular china shop, anyway. Neither he nor I had the vocabulary nor the finesse nor enough time to educate the parish with any degree of success in matters of acoustics and worship. Furthermore, he was very sick and in the final weeks of his work, and so I was sounding the carpet alarm alone and in vain.
The 1992-1993 renovation transformed the narthex and hallways outside the nave into much more useful spaces, but it left the nave proper unchanged in all ways except cosmetically. The red carpet (which had faded over time to near-orange) was replaced by new, lower-pile red carpet. [It can’t be ignored that a longtime Vestryman, who always had the ear of the rector, made his millions … selling carpet.] The ugly wood veneer throughout the room was replaced by new, equally ugly wood veneer. The trusses and ceiling were re-treated and achieved a modicum of aesthetic and acoustical improvement. A not-so-heavenly host of spotlights was added. The rector wanted those lights and got those lights and at the very first services held in the renovated space, Easter Vigil and Easter Sunday 1993, announced, “These are my lights.” That was kind of endearing: not only did it elicit some snickers as to how those new bright lights got there, but it also let everyone know to whom they could complain – and that he wouldn’t be listening. Nowadays, bright lights in church are normal, but that was everyone’s first experience with them in those days, and they were quite jarring to behold the first time. Some choir members wore sunglasses in protest during rehearsals held in the chancel.
Furthermore, I swear I saw hearing aids on the fellow selling and installing the new sound system. And since another old fellow who was going to be operating sound each week was also hearing impaired, I was not encouraged by that particular ‘renovation.’ [I was right. The sound and lights systems became nightmarish places of steep learning curves, usually during Sunday preludes (lights) and sermons (sound). Even the rector called out during more than one sermon and told the technician to just disable the wireless mic and switch to the pulpit mic to avoid the constant, shrieking feedback.] But oh, you should have heard that room while the old carpet was out. For one glorious week between the completion of work and the installation of the new carpet, it was heaven on earth during practice time. No one knew it at the time, but that carpet-free sound was a preview of another, future renovation finally done right. I’ll get the dear Reader there eventually.
Next time: Some writing on the wall