PROFILES

PROFILES THE VISIONARY A digital pioneer questions what technology has wrought. BY JENNIFER KAHN ("N ne day in June, Jaron Lanier was V lounging barefoot in the living room of his house in the Berkeley hills. Stretch- ing back on a wom sofa, he began musing about the connection between Represen- tative Anthony Weiner's tweeting of lewd photos and Facebook's controversial de- ployment of facial-recognition software, which automatically scans uploaded pho- tos and identifies a user's friends. To Lanier, a computer scientist and author, the common thread is that the In- ternet in general—and social networking in particular—has become difficult for the ordinary person to use with any security. 'Tve really been struck that a lot of people have said, 'Why would powerful men risk so much for some sexual adventure?'" La- nier said. "But risk can be very sexual." He briefly considered the possibility oftwo al- ternate Internets: one in which everything was viewable by anybody, and one in which users had absolute control over their private information. In neither case, Lanier said, would Weiner have sent his illicit snapshots. "What makes it erotic is the risk," Lanier speculated. "If you had either perfect competence or no need for competence, because everything was a hundred per cent transparent, there would be no risk. So, in a way, the whole erotic risk factor of the Internet is being able to use it but not very well." He paused to interrogate a tortoise- shell kitten that was dozing in a corner of the sofa. "What's happening, Starlight?" he cooed. As the kitten peered up sleep- ily, he added, "We think she's female, but I haven't done the most thorough exami- nation." Ile paused and said dryly, "If only cats texted, we'd know by now." Lanier is often described as "vision- ary," a word that manages to convey both a capacity for mercurial insight and a lack of practical job skills. In the nineteen- eighties, he helped pioneer the field ofvir- tual reality, and he is often credited with having coined the term. He has also dab- bled in film. In 2001, he advised the writ- ers of "Minority Report," Steven Spiel- berg's film about a dystopian future. Since 2006, he has worked as a consultant at Microsoft Research. More recently, he has become the go-to pundit for people lamenting the so- cial changes wrought by modern technol- ogy. Last year, he published "You Are Not a Gadget: A Manifesto," a provoca- tive critique of digital technologies, in- cluding Wikipedia (which he called a tri- umph of "intellectual mob rule") and social-networking sites like Facebook and Twitter, which he has described as dehu- manizing and designed to encourage shal- low interactions. Teen-agers, he writes, may vigilantly maintain their online rep- utations, but they do so "driven more by fear than by love." In our conversation about Facebook's face-recognition soft- ware, he added, "It'll just create a more paranoid society with a fakey-fakey social life—much like what happened in Com- munist countries, where people had a fake social life that the Stasi could see, and then this underground life." Such objections have made Lanier an unusual figure: he is a technology expert who dislikes what technology has be- come. "I'm disappointed with the way the Internet has gone in the past ten years," he told me at one point. He added, "I've always felt that the human- centered approach to computer science leads to more interesting, more exotic, more wild, and more heroic adventures than the machine-supremacy approach, where information is the highest goat" These arguments have proved popu- lar. The book has received admiring it- views in the Times and (twice) in The New York Review Books. In the months after "Gadget" was published, Lanier lec- tured at Harvard's Shorenstein Center, travelled to Seoul to speak at a major conference about innovation, and made Time's list of the hundred "most in- fluential people in the world." At the South by Southwest Interactive confer- ence, in Austin, in March of 2010, La- nier gave a talk, before which he asked his audience not to blog, text, or tweet while he was speaking. He later wrote that his message to the crowd had been: "If you listen first, and write later, then whatever you write will have had time to filter through your brain, and you'll be in what you say. This is what makes you cussed on the long game, not the item of the week Because the issues I'm talking about will take a long time to address." F or the past eight years, Lanier has lived in Berkeley, the mecca of techno-utopianism, in a ridgetop house that he shares with his wife, Lena, who is a child psychologist, and their four-ycar- surrounded by a mossy undcrbcard and rootlike dreadlocks, Lanier has an impos- ing presence that nonetheless comes off as oddly fluttery. He tends to talk in breath- less bursts, and he often defuses his inflam- matory remarks by allowing his voice to rise into a register that is more often re- served for talking to pets or small children. This can give listeners the impression that Janm Lanier, at home with his daughter, believes that social-networkingsites devalue friendship. Photograph by Martin Schoeller. exist. If you are only a reflector of infor- mation, are you really them?" Peter Haynes, a technology strategist and former U.S. business editor of The Economist, who is currently working with Lanier at Microsoft, says that he sees La- nier's book as an overdue corrective to the national obsession with social networking. "As I read it, I was thinking, Yes, god- dammit, this is exactly how I feel!" he said. Such enthusiastic reactions have been, for Lanier, both gratifying and disorient- ing. He relishes the attention, but it also unnerves him. When a major newspaper asked him to write an op-ed about the Weiner scandal, he declined. "I'm not sure I should be the person who's doing that," Lanier explained. "I'm trying to stay fo- old daughter, Lilibell, whom he credits with being his muse for "Gadget" When I visited in June, Lanier had just returned from NewYork City, where he celebrated his fifty-first birthday in the lounge of the Bowery Hotel. The event, which began modestly, gradually turned into a celebrity bash. The film director Jim Jarmusch stopped by uninvited, as did the actor Forest Whitaker. As Whitaker recalls it, he and Lanier got into a long conversation about individual empowerment and the Internet. "When I saw him, I was really excited," Whitaker remembers. "I le was sitting with a lot of other guys. I came over and said, 'Virtual reality!' I have a lot of respect for him. I-ie has an artist's soul." Mountainously built, with a broad face he is lecturing to a three-year-old while walking up a steep hill. His house is nearly submerged in But- ter, the living-room decor includes a four- foot hookah topped with a rubber Jar-Jar Binks mask, polka-dot curtains, a grand piano buried under papers and adorned with a pink feathered hat, and a home- made cave draped in scarves. The house also contains more than a thousand rare musical instruments, all of which Lanier plays. Ile will often begin his talks by per- forming on an esoteric instrument such as a Laotian khene, which sounds something like a harmonica. That afternoon, Lanier ascended the stairs to his studio, picking his way past an overflowing garbage can and a forest of microphone stands, and THE NEW YORKER, JULY I 618, 2O11 47 EFTA00304813 seated himself before a tall golden harp. He played a dark, plinky composition in what sounded like a minor key. "It's not really minor," Lanier said when I inquired. He played another dissonant progression. "It's not that simple." He gazed upward and added, "I'm really interested in scales that are harder to resolve." In the nineteen-eighties, Lanier came to believe that virtual reality—the creation of computer-simulated environments in which real people can interact—would precipitate an extraordinary revolution in art and com- munication. In an inter- "The thing about technology is that it's made the world of information ever more dominant," Lanier told me. "And there's so much loss in that. It really does feel as ifwe've sworn allegiance to a dwarfworld, rather than to a giant world." y parents were kind of like me in that they had tons and tons of weird, amazing stuff," Lanier explained. He recalled that, as a boy, he dug through a pile of his father's junk and found an antique telescope that had once belonged to Commodore Petty. `This thing was just, like, on the floor," he added. "So this environment ofdutter, and interesting objects, is ex- actly the one that I grew up in—just with differ- ent objects. But I came by it honestly." Lanier's mother and father belonged to a circle of artists in Greenwich Village, but they moved soon after Jaron was born— on May 3,1960—first to Colorado, and then to a spot near El Paso, Texas, on the border with Mexico. The area was deso- late and impoverished, and Lanier has speculated that the move was driven, at least in part, by fear. Lanier's mother, Lilly, a pianist, painter, and dancer, had emigrated from Vienna when she was fifteen, after surviving a concentration camp. His father, Ellery, the child of Ukrainian Jews who had fled the pogroms, worked as an architect, painter, writer, elementary-school teacher, and radio host. When Ellery was seven, a dose relative was murdered by a gang of anti-Semitic men wielding swords. A younger sister of the victim, who witnessed the assault but was warned by the attackers not to speak of it, was so traumatized that she spent the rest of her life as a mute. Not long after Jaron's birth, his parents abandoned their last name, Zepel, for the less Semitic-sounding Lanier, after Sid- ney Lanier, a nineteenth-century poet and flutist, whom Ellery admired. "I think they thought, We've got a child now, let's get far away, let's hide," Lanier said. In the desert, Lanier's mother helped support the family by trading stocks through a broker in El Paso. Educated and bohemian, she taught her son piano on a Steinway she had shipped from New York, and arranged for him to at- view with Omni in 1991, -1.-1 he described the allure of programs that would let you feel as ifyou were wan- dering at will inside a Moorish temple or through the chambers of a beating heart. In an early paper, Lanier wrote of the ability of some octo- puses to express fear or anger by chang- ing color. In a virtual world, he hypothe- sized, people would be able to commu- nicate in similar ways. Tom Zimmerman, Lanier's business partner at the time, re- calls that Lanier was taken by the idea of hosting virtual-reality parties, where guests would arrive in strange and exotic forms. "I had this feeling of people living in isolated spheres of incredible cognitive and stylistic wealth," Lanier explained. Constructing such spheres of wonder, however, proved technologically difficult, and by the mid-nineteen-nineties the field of virtual reality had largely col- lapsed. Despite this, Lanier has continued to argue that the purpose ofdigital technol- ogy should be to enrich human interaction. One of his most recent ventures has been to help Microsoft construct a new, joystick- free gaming system, called the Kinect, which uses a computerized camera to match the movements of a player's body to the avatar in the game—allowing someone to kick a virtual ninja using her actual foot. In an op-ed piece for the Wall Street Journal, Lanier cited the Kinect, which this spring became the fastest-selling electronic device ofall time, as an example oftechnol- ogy that could "expand what it means to think" Unlike more Luddite critics, Lanier complains not that technology has taken over our lives but that it has not given us enough back in return. in place of a ban- quet, we've been given a vending machine. tend a private elementary school across the border, in Ciudad Juarez. Lanier—a self-described "hyper-romantic" child— spent his free hours poring over art books in the school's library. He recalls being enamored of a folio of paintings by Hi- eronymus Bosch, which he would some- times leaf through while listening to Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. "The trifecta for me was eating choco- late, listening to Bach, and staring at Bosch," Lanier said. The combination produced what he remembers as an "al- most sexual" rapture. Lanier was technologically precocious, as well as artistically minded, a mixture of traits that his father tried to nurture bygiv- ing him books about Buckminster Fuller. One Halloween when he was in gradc school, Lanier modified a television to generate Lissajous waves: shadowy black- and-white interference patterns that, pro- jected onto the walls of a makeshift haunted house, would jump in response to a person's movements. Lanier found the effect magical—"like being surrounded by ethereal writhing spirits"—and imagined that other children would line up to visit. None did. "I didn't have any friends at the time, and I really thought this would be my little honeypot—that somebody would love this thing, and want to know me," Lanier recalls. When Lanier was around ten, his mother was killed and his father severely injured in a horrific car crash. Immedi- ately afterward, he fell ill with a succrvion of infections, including scarlet fever and pneumonia, which kept him hospitalized for almost a year. "I just wasn't ready to go on without her," he said. Talking later about the crash, Lanier noted that it had taken place on a freeway overpass, and that no other cars had been involved. On the morning of the accident, he recalled, local bullies had jumped him as he left for school. His mother, who hadn't finished dressing, had watched from behind the screen door, "screaming and freaking out." Though Lanier man- aged to defend himself—fighting back with a baritone horn—he worried that the fight had distracted his mother and caused the crash. "I performed the calculus that children do, and blamed myself," Lather said. 'Then, later, when I was a rebellious teen, I wondered if she and my father had been fighting at the time of the accident. And then still later I started looking into it, and I discovered that there was a mechanical flaw in that particular model of car—so it became feasible that it was actually the car manufacturer's fault." Lather's mother had recently bought the family a new house, in El Paso. But it burned down before Lanier and his fa- ther could move in. Lanier suspects, without any specific evidence, that the fire was set by vandals. Broke and unem- ployed, Lanier's father moved the family to an empty parcel of desert in Mesilla, New Mexico. In Mesilla, Lanier's father allowed him to design their new home. Lanier, who was eleven, chose a geodesic dome, and with his father's assistance he drew up blueprints calculating the angles of the frame, plus plans for a squat, cantilevered spire that he envisaged as the entrance. ("Clearly a subconscious phallic expres- sion of some kind," he told me.) But the project proceeded slowly. "We'd get enough money to pour the foundation for one part of the house, and then, after a few weeks, we'd get enough to do another part," he recalls. During the first two years that the dome was under construction, Lanier and his father lived in an unheated canvas Army tent that was stiflingly hot in sum- mer and frigid in winter. Lanier remem- bers shivering uncontrollably at times, "like I was having a seizure." The family belongings, which induded his mother's grand piano and her antique furniture, were wrapped in plastic and heaped to- gether on the ground outside the tent. "We scaled the piano in a bag, kind of," Lanier said. "It must have sat out there for a year." In Mesilla, Lather remained deeply withdrawn. "After my mother's death, I had such difficulty relating to people," he recalls. "I don't think I was able to really have a normal conversation with some- body until sometime in my late teens. I remember feeling a sense of triumph if I could just go into a store and buy something and leave, because rd actually successfully negotiated these human relationships." Lanier enrolled in the local high school, which was racially divided and often vio- lent. He found the experience "terrifying," and left after a year. Mesilla was near the White Sands Missile Range, and was home to many scientists, induding Clyde EFTA00304814 Tombaugh, who had discovered Pluto, in 1930. As a teen-ager, Lanier took to stop- ping by Tombaugh's house, where he would sometimes look through his home- made telescopes. With Tombaugh and other scientists, Lanier found that it was possible to have long conversations about abstract subjects like mathematics "with- out even being there yourself"—that is, with little emotional connection. Not long afterward, Lanier began tak- ing classes in math and chemistry at New Mexico State University. At seventeen, he transferred to Bard College, in New York To cover the down payment on his tu- ition, he sold fresh milk and cheese from a herd of goats that he bred. But the tran- sition from goat herding to freshman civ- ilization proved harsh, and he soon hitch- hiked back to New Mexico. A t nineteen, Lanier fell in love with a girl named Cynthia Peck, a cellist visiting from Pasadena whose mother knew Lanier's father. Peck recalls that La- nier was both "intensely brilliant" and "ex- tremely needy." His room, when she first visited, was heaped with dirty clothes. For their first official date, Peck insisted that they visit a laundromat. They stayed for hours, washing load after load while La- nier serenaded her with a Japanese bam- boo flute. When Peck eventually returned to Pasadena, Lanier followed, only to be told that the romance had ended. From there, he caught a ride up to Santa Cruz, where he spent a few months engineering sounds for video games before developing an un- usual game known as Moondust—a cult hit that used the motions of the joystick to generate the soundtrack Moondust led to a job at Atari and then to Tom Zimmer- man, a coder in Palo Alto who had de- signed an electronic glove that would allow the wearer to "conduct" a virtual symphony. In 1985, Lanier, Zimmer- man, and a couple of partners founded a company called VPL, with the goal ofde- veloping other tools for virtual worlds. Not long afterward, the company helped the toymaker Mattel produce the Power Glove, which could be used in place of a joystick. (In one game, Bad Street Brawler, players made a fist to "punch out" attackers.) VPL also sold a small number of higher-end gloves to I.B.M. and NASA—in one case, to control a ro- botic arm that mimicked the motions of the wearer—and helped build the first surgical simulator, an abdominal-surgery training program featuring a virtual stom- ach, gallbladder, and intestines. Constructing larger worlds, however, turned out to be more complicated. The prototypes that Lanier built relied on ste- reoscopic goggles so heavy that sandbags were needed to counterbalance the weight. The software was similarly balky. Unable to match the rapid movements of the human cyc, the scene through the goggles tended to lag queasily behind any shift in the user's gaze. In 1992, Lanier was ousted, and the company collapsed soon afterward. Devastated by the failure of VPL, La- nier moved to New York, where he re- corded an album of Asian string and wind instruments, produced by Philip Glass and others, and embarked on what he de- scribes as "a really crazy, hysterical young marriage" that lasted only a few months. "I was just out of control for a bit," he said. Eventually, he was hired as chief sci- entific officer for Eyematic, a Los Ange- les company that was developing algo- rithms that would allow a computer camera to recognize and track human faces. When Google acquired the compa- ny's patents, in 2006, Lanier cashed out. Shortly thereafter, he took a post as a scholar-at-large for Microsoft Research, where he has gone back to developing tools for virtual reality. Lanier's return to his original passion isn't surprising to Peck Lanier, she notes, never saw virtual reality as simply a useful technology. "It had to do with being able to be in somebody else's mind with him," she said. "With creating a kind of ultimate connection and communication." C ince joining Microsoft Research, La- nier has been involved in more than a dozen projects, most ofwhich are futuris- tic and only loosely related to the compa- ny's products. One morning in early Feb- ruary, Lanier met with Janet Galore, a director who designs new devices, and Peter Haynes, a senior director in the company's Advanced Strategies and Re- search Group. The trio discussed several of Lanier's proposals, including one that would make a smartphone screen seem much larger, so that oversized digital doc- uments, like a road map, could be viewed full scale. Although the exact nature of Lanier's contribution to the project was murky, EFTA00304815 it seemed to be a combination of free- wheeling speculation and niggling detail. Among other things, he complained re- peatedly about the team's use of NUI (pronounced "newen as shorthand for "natural user interface," arguing that the term was used only "inside the Microsoft bubble." "What I'd like to say is biorealistic; " Lanier said, adding, opaquely, "I think that's really addressing the human nervous system on its own terms." Haynes mentioned that another re- searcher had proposed the phrase "com- puters that arc more like us." Lanier squinchcd up his face. "You see, I don't like that." Haynes turned to Galore. "I is doesn't like that." "In fact," Lanier continued, laying his hands flat on the table, and then turning them over to stare at his palms, "I loathe that. And the reason why is that it implies this philosophical relationship between people and machines that gives machines a certain status." "That they could become like us," Ga- lore affirmed. "Yes," Lanier said. Then, as though suddenly sensing the abstruseness of his own oratory, he sat back "You know, it's fine," he said, waving a hand. "I mean, it's really good that there arc different points of view here." Unlike most polemicists, Lanier has a disarming tendency to conclude forceful assertions with a momcnt of cheerful self- deprecation. In part, this habit may be rooted in his desire to avoid confrontation even as he provokes it. But it also seems to reflect a worry about falling too deeply under his own spell. During his time as a pitchman for virtual reality, Lanier said at one point, he developed a "hypnotic voice" with which he could "entrance people." He told me, "I could have set myselfup as a guru figure. But I withdrew from it, because I realized it was the wrong thing to do." These days, though, a guru figure is something like what Lanier has become. He was among the first critics to argue that social-networking sites like Face- book, which get their revenue from adver- tisers who want to know as much as they can about every user, have little motiva- tion to protect people's privacy. That has now become a popular view, as has his ar- gument that companies like Google and Foursquare a social networking service in which users broadcast their location to friends—resemble "privatized spy agen- cies" that collect information without giv- ing users an easy way to opt out. Just as often, though, Lanier merely seems to be saying whatever comes to mind. Among other things, critics have questioned his claims that innovation in popular music has ceased, and that the creativity of Web-page design peaked in the mid-nineteen-nineties. He is also fond of ambitious analogies and, at times, can make simple arguments al- most willfully obscure. One chapter in "Gadget," subtitled "My Love Affair with Bachelardian Neoteny," indudes a lament about the Web version of"Gold- ingesque ncoteny," or the tendency of online forums to be dominated by bullies. Perversely, the opacity of Lanier's cri- "Please stop looking at me like now I'm gonna propose.* tique may account for some of its popular- ity. Because his pronouncements tend to be oracularly vague, readers can interpret them to reflect their own views—from the elnssicist who deplores pop music to the vaguely disaffected Web designer, or the concerned parent who finds his children consumed by social media. The fact that Lanier is a genuine technology pioneer only adds to his authority. Despite all this, Lanier can be almost pathologically sensitive when he feels misunderstood. When I confessed that parts of "Gadget" made me think he was anti-technology, he threw up his hands. "I mean, how loudly do I have to yell to get people to understand what rm say- ing?' he asked. What he actually wants, he says, is to revive the development of software that allows people to be creative and make a living while doing so. He cited two games as examples: Spore—in which players guide the evolution of simulated life forms—and Second Life, a shared on- line world in which players create ela- borate virtual homes, businesses, and re- lationships. In both cases, Lanier said, players invest creative effort in the imagi- nary world; in the case of Second Life, they have also created a commercial mar- ket for selling goods. Still, neither game has been a huge commercial success. Spore has sold around three million copies worldwide; its predecessor, The Sims, sold a hundred million copies. Second Life has fared bet- ter, but in ways that could hardly be de- scribed as representing a civic paradise. Among other things, the game became a hook-up spot for people dressed as ani- mals and trying to have cyber-sex with one another. And experienced players sometimes extorted money from new ar- rivals-for example, by forcing them to pay for the restoration of their character's "sour after it had supposedly been bitten by a "vampire." Though Lanier secs fail- ures like these as particular flaws of Sec- ond Life, they raise another question: whether anyone will want to inhabit the humanistic future that he is so eager to create. Likewise, part of what Lanier finds most regrettable about Facebook—the way it mediates social contact—is pre- cisely what makes it so appealing to most people. "We use technology this way all the time," Andy van Dam, a professor of EFTA00304816 computer science at Brown University, notes. "To create a layer of insulation. We send an e-mail so we don't have to call someone on the phone. Or we call someone so we don't have to go over to their house." Many of us also use tech- nology, he might have added, when we're too isolated: when someone wants to find a new friend just because he's feeling alone—or because he's living with his fa- ther in a freezing tent in the desert. T he day after I talked with Lanier at his home, we drove together to the Virtual Human Interaction Lab, a new virtual-reality lab on the Stanford cam- pus. As I settled into the car, a battered Toyota Solara, Lanier apologized for the condition of the front seat, the footwell of which was cluttered with old maga- zines, half-empty plastic water bottles, and a squashed box of tissues. As Lanier navigated carefully into heavy traffic, I asked why he hadn't bought a luxury car, since he could presumably now afford one. Lanier sighed. "The thing is, we'd just beat the hell out of it," he said. At the campus parking lot, we were met by the lab manager, Cody Kamm, a mellow, collegiate blond in jeans and flip- flops, who escorted us into the lab's "ex- perimental room": a squat chamber pan- elled in gray-and-tan fabric. A thin orange carpet covered a "haptic floor'' that can vi- brate and judder. (Later, when I sawed down a virtual fir tree in a simulated for- est, the ripping crash as the tree fell seemed to shake the ground.) In one corner of the room, a plastic headset and goggles hung droopily from a long black cable. Karutz damped them firmly to my head, tight enough to block out the light. When he launched the first simulation, I found myself standing in what appeared to be the same room as be- fore, but there was a deep rectangular pit in front of my feet. The pit simulation, Karutz explained, can be used to test the degree to which cognitive knowledge—in this case, the knowledge that the floor does not con- tain a pit—is capable of overriding gut instincts and fear. Because the simulation realistically mimics the visual experience of a fall, many people do topple over, and may even feel their gorge rising, as though they were falling through space. Karutz offered to spot me if I wanted to try stepping off the edge, but, to my bafflement and shame, I found that I was paralyzed. When I admitted this to La- nier, he confessed that he had had the same experience-1 build these things and I couldn't do it!" Few people, in fact, can. `The pit is a great example of how you can use virtual reality to really get at something deep in how people perceive the world," he said. "It's such a richly de- tailed window into what works and doesn't work in our own psyches." Heading back from the lab, Lanier for once seemed generally satisfied—tempo- rarily unambivalent about the future of technology and his role in it. "In the case ofvirtual reality, I think what we have has turned out to be even more interesting than what we'd have if we had actually managed to build the perfect fantasy- experience machine. Because this version isn't just a tautology, a replica of the real world, it teaches us so much more about ourselves." Like an innovative painter who alter- nately courts and scorns the establish- ment, Lanier often seems torn between embracing and repudiating his newly influential status. As we drove, he men- tioned, with some pride, that he had been "banned" from the TED conferences last year, after publishing an essay about the narcissistic nature of the event in a London magazine. (A spokesperson for TED said that Lanier is welcome at the conferences.) He purported to be simi- larly unimpressed by Davos, the eco- nomic conference, which he has attended "a billion times." "At one point, I was in an elevator with Newt Gingrich and Hamid Karzai," he said. "There are really only so many times you want to be in that situation." Laniei's desire to shun convention, even while he longs for acceptance, has deep roots. "My dad has sometimes felt that I grew up a little lacking in sufficient eccentricity—in the sense that rm willing to live as an adult in a house with walls that are parallel to each other, that sort of thing," Lanier told me. Then he spoke about his mother. "Had she lived, I think I would have been more conventionally successful," he said. think I would be, like, a Harvard Med School professor or something. My dad was more into Be the Buckminster Fuller or the Frank Lloyd Wright'—be the weird outsider who be- comes influentiaL Which is kind ofwhere I ended up." • EFTA00304817