Some designers have an unfair advantage.

There's a very old joke in the industry.

"The quickest way to make a small fortune in architecture is to start with a large fortune!"

From my perspective, the joke fits Philip Johnson's life perfectly—though with a twist. Instead of losing his fortune to the profession, his massive inheritance is exactly what allowed him to jump-start his legendary career.

While the punchline of the joke implies that architecture is a bad investment that drains your bank account, Johnson turned it on its head. He used his massive wealth to buy his way into architectural history, treating the entire profession as his personal, highly sophisticated canvas.

How many times have you had a great idea (at least in your head), only to have it rejected by the homeowner or developer? How many times have you thought, If only I could build this myself, everyone will love it!

Maybe I'm the only one. But I have to believe some of you are out there.

Philip Johnson was essentially a philanthropist of the self, funding some lasting examples of modernist architecture, beginning with his very first house.

More on that house a little later, but first, let's meander into Johnson's colorful career, political views, and his relationship with Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.

Philip Cortelyou Johnson (July 8, 1906 – January 25, 2005) was an American architect who designed in the modern and postmodern styles. Among his best-known designs are his modernist Glass House in New Canaan, Connecticut.

While most architects spend their lives hunting for clients with deep pockets, Johnson solved the problem by simply being his own billionaire benefactor.

From what I can tell, he didn't just design architectural history; he subsidized it.

The Glass House may have been derived from the glass Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois, by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, which was completed in 1951, two years after the Glass House. Johnson curated an exhibit of Mies's work at the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in 1947, featuring a model of the Farnsworth House.

If this were a copyright infringement case, I would say that doesn't look good for Johnson, to say the least.

15 years earlier, Johnson became the first director of the MoMA architecture department after he underwrote the department and its landmark exhibition (The International Style) out-of-pocket using his inherited fortune.

But I digress.

Mies had been openly working on the concepts for his own glass masterpiece, the Farnsworth House. Johnson saw the models, loved the concept, and immediately went out, bought land, and built his own version first.

Johnson essentially "scooped" his own mentor. He never denied the heavy influence, but the theft irritated Mies. When Mies famously visited the completed Glass House, he reportedly hated it—complaining about the structural details, the proportions, and even refusing to stay overnight because he found the lighting terrible.

Before becoming an architect, Johnson was a wealthy curator. He met Mies in Europe in 1928 while Mies was designing the famous Barcelona Pavilion. Johnson was completely spellbound by his work.

When Johnson co-curated the landmark exhibition at the MoMA, he heavily featured Mies, effectively introducing his sleek, minimalist genius to the American public.

During the 1930s, Johnson became an ardent admirer of Adolf Hitler, openly praised the Nazi Party, and espoused antisemitic views. He wrote for Social Justice and Examiner, where he published an admiring review of Hitler's Mein Kampf.

Later, as the Nazi regime made it impossible for modernists to work in Germany, Johnson used his elite social connections and influence to help arrange for Mies to safely emigrate to the United States.

Reportedly, years later, he referred to these activities as "the stupidest thing I ever did [which] I never can atone for."

He was referring to his support of the Nazi Party, not Mies's immigration.

Despite the tension, the Mies/Johnson professional pinnacle came when they partnered to design Manhattan's legendary Seagram Building (finished in 1958).

Because Mies lacked a New York architectural license at the time, Johnson stepped in as the architect of record. While Mies masterminded the brilliant bronze-and-glass exterior shell, Johnson took charge of the ultra-luxurious interiors.

For the first half of his career, Johnson was widely viewed as a "Miesian" copycat.

Eventually, Johnson grew bored with the rigid rules of Modernism. In the 1960s and 70s, he began breaking away toward Postmodernism—embracing historical shapes, arches, and playful designs (such as the Chippendale top at 550 Madison Avenue). He famously remarked that he got tired of "the straight line," a direct rejection of the very gospel Mies had spent his life preaching.

Where did the large fortune come from? I'm glad you asked.

Johnson was born in Cleveland, Ohio, the son of a lawyer, Homer Hosea Johnson (1862–1960). Johnson didn't just have a comfortable background; he was independently wealthy on a massive scale. His father, a successful lawyer, gave him stock in the Aluminum Company of America (Alcoa) when Philip was young. That stock boomed, making Johnson an incredibly rich young man long before he ever drew a single floor plan.

Which brings me, finally, to his first house.

When he went to the Harvard Graduate School of Design in his 30s, he didn't just build a cardboard model for his graduate thesis. He bought a lot at 9 Ash Street in Cambridge and built a full-scale house to live and entertain in.

Several months after Johnson moved into the house, he petitioned Walter Gropius to accept it as his thesis requirement, hence the house’s nickname, “Thesis House.”

Today, the house is owned by Harvard, which primarily treats 9 Ash Street as a historic, architectural asset and study piece.

While royalty-free photos of the Thesis House are hard to come by, Mary Kay Judy put together an incredible short piece on its history, complete with a fantastic gallery of the property: https://www.marykayjudy.com/9-ash-street​

Most of us don't have an Alcoa stock fortune to fund a full-scale thesis house. But the core strategy still applies: Don't wait for a client to give you permission to design your masterpiece.

Small residential firms can "self-fund" their own tastemaking on a realistic scale. Design the ideal speculative concept for a local vacant lot. Create the hyper-detailed 3D renderings of the sustainable accessory dwelling unit (ADU) you’ve been dying to build. Put it out into the world as if it's already happening.

Johnson taught us that if you act as your own client first, the real clients will eventually follow. Or to borrow a more famous philosophy, "If you build it, they will come."