Mies Van Der Rohe Quotes

Less is more.

Less is more!

I don't want to be interesting. I want to be good.

The fair awakened America to beauty and as such was a necessary passage that laid the foundation for men like Frank Lloyd Wright and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe.

The devil is in the detail" is an idiom that refers to a catch or mysterious element hidden in the details. It derives from "God is in the detail" attributed to German-born architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (1886-1969). Earlier on Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) said "Le bon Dieu est dans le detail." Meaning that things seem simple at first but are more complex or require more time and effort than expected. The earlier idea is that details are important; whatever one does should be done thoroughly.

God is in the details.

A visionary company is like a great work of art. Think of Michelangelo’s scenes from Genesis on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel or his statue of David. Think of a great and enduring novel like Huckleberry Finn or Crime and Punishment. Think of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony or Shakespeare’s Henry V. Think of a beautifully designed building, like the masterpieces of Frank Lloyd Wright or Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. You can’t point to any one single item that makes the whole thing work; it’s the entire work—all the pieces working together to create an overall effect—that leads to enduring greatness.

Dios está en los detalles.

The Shakers also have one golden rule – back to William Morris: Do not make that which is not useful. And so it was their interpretation that all useful things should also be beautiful. God, as architect Mies van der Rohe said, was in the details and, you never know, an angel may come one day and sit on that chair – it had to be worthy of such an event.

Talent is only cream in your coffee. There is no reason to rest on your talent. If you don't present it, then it gets nowhere.

Less is more.

Architecture starts when you carefully put two bricks together. There it begins.” —Ludwig Mies van der Rohe

I don't want to be interesting, I want to be good.

Less is more

I am not a hero. I am not a special person. I don't want attention. I did what any decent person would have done

You are of all the dearest to me. But don't adopt your life to mine. Be strong enough that you no longer need me. Then we will belong to a shared freedom, then we will belong to each other

I stepped from the desert doorway with nothing except the clothes on my back and a shoulder bag filled with notebooks—blue-lined paper pads bound together with rubber bands and stained with my sweat, with camel shit, by smears of my own blood. The pages crazed with jottings about devastating heat. The bearings for remote wells. Inked maps of pilgrim roads. The divinations of Bedouin fire cures. Mile upon mile of sentences from an austere kingdom still largely closed to the world. I walked along the concrete highway and spotted the first alcoholic artifacts I had seen in seven months (bottles, cans), past a large potash mine, and up the wrinkled coast to a tourist town. I saw women in colorful sarongs. Some drove cars. Nobody watched me. I floated out of a desert wadi like windblown trash. I found an ATM. I asked directions to a posh hotel with knockoff Mies van der Rohe tubular furniture in the lobby. Men gave camel rides to tourists outside. “And where”—asked the clerk, without the least curiosity, as I signed the paperwork—”are you coming from, Mr. Salopek?

The fair awakened America to beauty and as such was a necessary passage that laid the foundation for men like Frank Lloyd Wright and Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. For Burnham personally the fair had been an unqualified triumph. It allowed him to fulfill his pledge to his parents to become the greatest architect in America, for certainly in his day he had become so. During the fair an event occurred whose significance to Burnham was missed by all but his closest friends: Both Harvard and Yale granted him honorary master’s degrees in recognition of his achievement in building the fair. The ceremonies occurred on the same day. He attended Harvard’s. For him the awards were a form of redemption. His past failure to gain admission to both universities—the denial of his “right beginning”—had haunted him throughout his life. Even years after receiving the awards, as he lobbied Harvard to grant provisional admission to his son Daniel, whose own performance on the entry exams was far from stellar, Burnham wrote, “He needs to know that he is a winner, and, as soon as he does, he will show his real quality, as I have been able to do. It is the keenest regret of my life that someone did not follow me up at Cambridge … and let the authorities know what I could do.” Burnham had shown them himself, in Chicago, through the hardest sort of work. He bristled at the persistent belief that John Root deserved most of the credit for the beauty of the fair. “What was done up to the time of his death was the faintest suggestion of a plan,” he said. “The impression concerning his part has been gradually built up by a few people, close friends of his and mostly women, who naturally after the Fair proved beautiful desired to more broadly identify his memory with it.

An admirer of architects Mies van der Rohe and Le Corbusier, Mr. Vignelli moved to New York from Italy in the mid-1960s hoping to propagate a design aesthetic inspired by their ideal of functional beauty. He preached clarity and coherence and practiced it with intense discipline in everything he turned out, whether kitchenware, public signage, books, or home interiors.

Loneliness was the price of the quest. I don't belong to the people who cannot live alone

architect Mies van der Rohe is credited with saying, “God is in the details.” Delivering

Microinteractions are an exercise in restraint, in doing as much as possible with as little as possible. Embrace the constraints and focus your attention on doing one thing well. Mies van der Rohe’s mantra of “less is more” should be the microinteraction designer’s mantra as well.

There is no greater work of minimalist art than the dry garden in the Zen Buddhist temple of Ryōan-ji, Kyoto. This comprises fifteen rocks of various sizes set in a sea of white, raked gravel; almost nothing, but you could look at it for hours. It was made about 500 years before the modernist architect Mies van der Rohe remarked that less is more.

Fortunately for investors, two substantial funds management organizations adhere to high fiduciary standards, adopted in the context of corporate cultures designed to serve investor interests. Vanguard and TIAA-CREF both operate on a not-for-profit basis, allowing the companies to make individual investor interests paramount in the funds management process. By emphasizing high-quality delivery of low-cost investment products, Vanguard and TIAA-CREF provide individual investors with valuable tools for the portfolio construction process. Ultimately, a passive index fund managed by a not-for-profit investment management organization represents the combination most likely to satisfy investor aspirations. Following Mies van der Rohe’s famous dictum—“less is more”—the rigid calculus of index-fund investing dominates the ornate complexity of active fund management. Pursuing investment with a firm devoted solely to satisfying investor interests unifies principal and agent, reducing the investment equation to its most basic form. Out of the enormous breadth and complexity of the mutual-fund world, the preferred solution for investors stands alone in stark simplicity.

Mies van der Rohe’s mantra of “less is more” should be the microinteraction designer’s mantra as well.

God is in the details, said the architect Ludwig mies van der Rohe.

Of course I was already familiar with that saying by Mies van der Rohe, Less is more, but I hadn’t appreciated before just how sensual less could be, how rich and voluptuous.

One afternoon he started to talk about his collection of books. Of 3000 books, he found only 30 worth keeping. We were all ready to take notes, expecting Mies to tell us the titles of those 30 books. Mies, instead, with a big smile on his face told us they were important only to him and we must find our own 30 by ourselves.

The Seagram Building still demonstrates this, exercising its authority and control over an immense part of Manhattan. It is not the highest, most eccentric, or the boldest skyscraper. Simply, it is the most perfect.

He had been thinking, in that moment, about success, and about the fact that the book he had written in the filthy and oppressive basement studio that used to be his workplace had through its worldwide sales transported him here, to this large and pleasant room in the pleasant home he now owned with a view of his beautiful gardens. He had also bought several new items of furniture with his money, including the Mies van der Rohe chair in which he had at that moment been sitting. He could feel the soft leather beneath his thighs; his nostrils were full of its rich, luxurious smell. These sensations were still quite alien to him, yet he was aware that they were causing a new part of him, a new self, to grow. He had no associations with them but those associations were being created right now, while he sat there: he was actively and by small degrees becoming distanced from the person he had been, while becoming by the same small degrees someone new.

An interesting plainness is the most difficult and precious thing to achieve.