It wasn’t planned. I was in Owatonna, Minnesota on vacation with my family, eating truffles inside a 100-year-old chocolate shop. The floor was a classic 1×1 white hex tile with delicate black flower inlays—the kind of flooring that knows its history. But it wasn’t the shop that stole my attention. It was the view out the window.
Across the street stood something extraordinary. A building with intricate terra cotta work, curved arches, and the kind of presence that stops time. I didn’t know it then, but I was staring at the National Farmers’ Bank, a masterpiece designed by Louis Sullivan in 1908.
Drawn In
I walked around the exterior for ten minutes before even stepping inside. The detailing, the proportions, the feel of the place—it reminded me of something familiar. Then I noticed the clock mounted on the side. Simple. Elegant. It had that Wright-like balance of utility and beauty. My mind clicked: Sullivan was Wright’s mentor.
Stepping Inside History
The bank’s interior took my breath away. Stained glass. Massive arches. Intricate ornamentation. Warm oak paneling. And then, in a framed photo, the president’s office – a perfectly preserved room filled with rich wood tones and art glass that looked straight out of Frank Lloyd Wright’s early career.
I didn’t bring my scanner. For the second time on vacation, I regretted that. But more than that, I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude. This wasn’t just a beautiful building—it was a message. A reminder.
Sullivan, Wright, and the Voice of American Architecture
Louis Sullivan believed that form followed function, but he also believed in poetry. Every line, every detail in this bank has meaning. He wasn’t just building for people to use. He was building something they would feel.
That spirit echoed in his most trusted draftsman, George Grant Elmslie. Elmslie’s organic, botanical motifs gave life to the detailing. He studied nature and let it shape his designs. The “flower germ”
symbol—repeated throughout the bank in glass and clay—symbolized growth, potential, and unfolding purpose. Elmslie didn’t just decorate buildings. He animated them.
And Wright? He took those ideas and ran with them. But standing in this bank, I could feel how it all began.
Why This Matters
As someone who uses LiDAR to document spaces, I live in a world of precision. Millimeters matter. But so do meaning, history, and craft. I scan to preserve, to provide clarity, and to support those trying to do the right thing during renovation, restoration, or reinvention.
This visit reminded me that some buildings don’t just need to be used or renovated. They need to be understood. Honored. Preserved not just in stone or file formats—but in story.
The Legacy of Richard Nickel
This brings me to Richard Nickel. A preservationist and photographer, he made it his life’s work to document Sullivan’s buildings as they were being demolished across Chicago. He didn’t just care—he fought for them. In 1972, while documenting the demolition of the Chicago Stock Exchange Building, he was killed when part of it collapsed.
Nickel died trying to preserve what others saw as disposable. His story is sobering—but also motivating.
What I Took Away
I may not have had my scanner, but I had my eyes open. And maybe that’s where documentation starts.
Preservation begins with awareness. Legacy begins with memory.
And sometimes, the best work we do isn’t planned. It starts with a window, a clock, and a decision to pay attention.
Interested in preserving history with precision?
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