Cummins Irwin Conference Center (Columbus, Indiana)

 conference hall, NRHP - National Register of Historic Places, 1973_construction, 1954_construction, Modern (architecture), U.S. National Historic Landmark

The Irwin Union Bank building in Columbus Indiana, was built in 1954. It was designated a National Historic Landmark by the National Park Service in 2001 because of its architecture.

The building consists of a one-story bank structure adjacent to a three-story office annex. A portion of the office annex was built along with the banking hall in 1954. The remaining, much larger portion, designed by Kevin Roche, John Dinkeloo and Associates, was built in 1973.

Eero Saarinen designed the bank building with its glazed hall to be set off against the blank background of its three-story brick annex. Two steel and glass vestibule connectors lead from the north side of this structure to the annex.

The building was designed to distance the Irwin Union Bank from traditional banking architecture, which mostly echoed imposing, neoclassical style buildings of brick or stone. Tellers were behind iron bars and removed from their customers. Saarinen worked to develop a building that would welcome customers rather than intimidate them.


Irwin History:
The history of Irwin Union Bank can be traced to a safe in a Columbus, Indiana, dry goods store in the 1860s. The store's owner, Joseph I. Irwin, was well respected in the community and other merchants in town trusted his integrity enough to keep their cash in the store's safe, which became known as the "safest safe" in town. When a worker tried to cash a "check" from his employer (which, legend has it, was written on sycamore bark), Irwin realized he was in the banking business. Irwin opened a banking department in his store. In 1871, when another bank in town failed, he officially established Irwin's Bank as a separate entity.

J.Irwin Miller
HUGE PLAYER, HUMBLE BENEFACTOR

INDIANAPOLIS STAR - OCTOBER 12, 1997 - COLUMBUS, Ind. – A former mayor of this architecturally splendid city of 35,000 summed it up perfectly. "The two greatest living Hoosiers are J. Irwin Miller and Herman B. Wells," said Bob Stewart, who knows both men well. Wells, of course, is the legendary 96-year-old chancellor of Indiana University. Miller, 88, is the retired chairman of the board of Cummins Engine Co., the family business he built from 60 employees in 1934 into a Fortune 500 empire with 25,000 workers in 100 countries and $6 billion in annual sales. He has known Eisenhower, JFK, LBJ, Nixon, Carter, Reagan, Clinton, King, Mandela and many more. More than 50 public and private buildings in Columbus were designed by the world's great architects and paid for with Miller money. Not one building bears the family name. Putting his name on a building would be unthinkable. Boastful. The sin of pride. In Indianapolis, the family fortune built Christian Theological Seminary near Butler University. He helped organize the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr.'s 1963 civil rights march on Washington and poured millions into black voter registration campaigns in the segregated South. In October 1967 he was pictured on the cover of Esquire magazine beneath a headline that declared, "This man ought to be the next President of the United States." His fierce devotion to civil rights and his passionate opposition to the Vietnam War earned him a coveted spot on President Richard Nixon's fabled "Enemies List." "I don't know what I did to make Nixon mad," he said with a smile. Miller's small, spartan office is on the third floor of an 1881 bank building built by his grandfather. It's across from the Bartholomew County Courthouse and two blocks from the house in which he was born in 1909. There is no sign in front of the building, just the address on the door. His personal stationary doesn't even bear his name, only the address. He declined to be photographed outside the building. "Not my style," he mumbled apologetically. His office walls contain no pictures of presidents, foreign dignitaries, religious leaders, silly celebrities or university presidents. No honorary degrees, awards, plaques of certificates of any kind, though he's received enough to fill a room. The only thing on the wall is a small, framed certificate naming him a life member of the Diesel Workers labor union. His company, Cummins, makes diesel engines. "It's one of my proudest honors," he said, beaming. "We need labor unions. They keep us honest." He's looking forward to the doughnuts at the union Christmas party. Remember, Miller is a powerful businessman. Such individuals usually loathe unions, rather than embrace them. He's also a Republican, sort of. In his small outer office is a priceless pastel portrait of Abraham Lincoln in its original frame. Miller's great-grandfather, Joseph Ireland Irwin, was a friend of Lincoln's. That's the extent of the stuff in his office: a labor union membership and a portrait of America's greatest president, two symbols that best illustrate his extraordinary, paradoxical life. Which, of course, he would rather not talk about.

Renaissance Hoosier

"I won't be disappointed if you don't write about me," he said three different times.

OK, so who is this Jeffersonian Hoosier who can explain the stroke, bore and torque ratios of a diesel engine and quote Cicero, Plato or Socrates with equal ease, but is puzzled by the computer on his desk? He reads Greek and Latin, plays Bach on a Stradivarius, confers with South African President Nelson Mandela, recently started an engineering school for women in India, was the first lay president of the National Council of Churches, has lived in the same house and attended the same Disciples of Christ Christian church for 40 years, says he's never heard of the Circle Centre mall in Indianapolis and loves orchids, splendid architecture, chocolate chip cookies, great works of art and greasy cheeseburgers at The Brick Tavern in Jonesville. "You can't beat a good cookie," he said after lunch in his private dining room. "Have a couple." The private dining room down the hall from his office is used only for guest lunches, he notes, almost self-consciously. "I usually just drive home for lunch," he said. "It's only two miles."

Miller was born to a great wealth and privilege in the family home on Fifth Street, a house that was built before the Civil War. A fourth-generation Hoosier, he remembers teams of oxen walking through the muddy streets of Columbus. He and his older sister, Elizabeth Clementine, were taught by their parents that great wealth carried even greater social responsibility. "My parents always said, ‘You didn't make this money. Other generations laid the foundation, and you have an obligation that is not self-centered but in the interest of other people who have gone before you,' " he explained. The family ate three meals a day together. When guests were present, children were not excluded but encouraged to participate in discussions. A dictionary sat on the table in case a word needed to be checked.

Taught to do good
The mealtime discussions of politics, the arts, the classics and, above all, the need to do good works were led by Miller's dad, Hugh Th. Miller. Miller's father taught at Butler University and served one term as Indiana lieutenant governor before returning to Columbus to run the family empire, built on starch manufacturing, banking, grocery stores and electric cars. Former Lt. Gov. John Mutz's grandmother, Arie Massie, was the first woman to own a business in Columbus in the 1930's. Banks didn't loan money to women back then without a husband's signature. Miller's great-uncle William G. Irwin, president of the Irwin-Union Trust Co., loaned her $400 to buy an electric chicken incubator. He didn't ask for a husband's signature. "Grandma never forgot that, recalled Mutz. "The family's always been way ahead of its time on social issues." A century ago, when the all-black Second Baptist Church in Columbus needed a stained-glass window, Miller's father bought it. It's still there. A few years ago, Cummins was threatened by a hostile takeover. Fearing that a takeover eventually would destroy the company and collapse the Columbus economy, Miller and and his sister dipped into their personal savings and bought $65 million worth of stock to thwart the bid. "It's unimaginable the kind of money they've poured into this city," said former Mayor Stewart. Miller attended Taft, a private prep school in Connecticut, and then Yale University, majoring in Greek and Latin Classics. He received a master's degree in politics at Oxford University in England, which prepared him for his first job, sacking potatoes, stocking shelves and cutting cheese in the family's California grocery stores. In 1934, after a year of sacking and cutting, his dad asked him to come home and work in the diesel factory, which was drowning in red ink. "I was 24, and they threw the whole thing at me, making me vice president and general manager," he recalled.

Questions, not answers
Weren't you scared? "I don't remember being scared, but a lot of people were irritated at me because I spent the first year asking everyone what they did," he explained. He figured it out, building Cummins into the world's largest manufacturer of heavy-duty diesel engines. In 1943, he married Xenia Ruth Simons, a purchaser of iron castings at the plant. They have five children and 10 grandchildren. "In all the important ways, my marriage is better all the time," he says, fingering his thin gold wedding band. He spent 18 months in combat in the South Pacific during World War II, returned home and eliminated segregation in Cummins Engine Co. South of Indianapolis, I don't think there was a colored person who wasn't a janitor or a maid. I decided to begin hiring people on the basis of skill, not skin color," he said. "And I did." He proudly notes that there are 70 ethnic groups living in Columbus today. The president of Irwin Mgt. Co., which manages and gives away Miller's money, is Sarla Kalsi, who came to Columbus from Calcutta, India, with a master's degree from Columbia University. "I figured I'd stay a year," she recalled. "That was 30 years ago. The greatest thing in my life is being associated with the Miller family.

A pro-union capitalist
Miller's management style is truly stunning, given today's Donald Trump-like, conspicuous consumption, greed-driven, downsizing, union-busting corporate ethic.

"If you give corporations the power of the market, you must have someone watch them, and that's got to be the government. Profit is a byproduct," says Miller. "It's not something you seek directly. I feel we are a trustee for the client, the worker and the company. They don't have to work for you. The main motivation has got to be to serve people. If you do it well, you'll make money." In over a half century on the Cummins payroll, Miller gave away 30 percent of his pre-tax salary, the maximum allowed by the IRS. Cummins Engine Co. still donates 5 percent of it's pre-tax profit to charity. "The highest priority should be the legitimate claims of those left behind in society. In this country, that's largely African-Americans," he said. It's the duty of a Christian to fight for the disadvantaged. After studying and analyzing the world's great religions, Miller settled on Christianity because of the love-your-neighbor part. Because his neighbors half a world away were being mistreated, he shut down the Cummins factory in South Africa to protest apartheid. Indiana's U.S. Sen. Richard Lugar credits Miller with helping him write legislation in 1986 that led to economic sanctions against South Africa, ultimately toppling white rule and leading to Mandela's release from prison. "The influence of J. Irwin was profoundly important in ending apartheid in South Africa," said Lugar, who returned a phone call in 10 minutes when an aide told him the topic was Miller.

Loving all of his neighbors
Miller shrugs. It wasn't that big a deal, he says, just helping a neighbor. It's the Hoosierly, Christian thing to do. He believes that Mandela is one of the world's great men. "After 27 years, he walked out of prison smiling," he said. "The greatest Christian value is that you must love your neighbor as yourself, especially the guy you don't want to love. You must love them equally, even those who disgust or enrage you." In the 1960's, when Miller's black neighbors in the South were being beaten and lynched, President John F. Kennedy and his brother Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy sought Miller's help and counsel. In addition to pouring his money into black voter-registration drives, he asked Southern CEO's to work to end segregation. The executives responded by running advertisements calling for a boycott of Cummins Engine. He continued his civil rights involvement into the Johnson administration and found himself liking Lyndon B. Johnson so much that he voted for him, despite the war in Vietnam. Miller says nothing about Nixon, admires Jimmy Carter's human rights record and believes President Clinton should be applauded for reducing a dangerously high deficit. He won't say whether he voted for Ronald Reagan, but it's doubtful. "We got corruption and vice and a huge deficit in the Reagan administration. We were in a patch of selfishness and still are. Most CEO's salaries are OK, but there are flaming exceptions. The difference in the CEO and the shop worker's salary has more than doubled, and that's not good. I didn't agree with Reagan on much, but I guess he was sincere," he said. "The current disparity between the rich and the poor is a prescription for disaster. OK, are you a Republican or a democrat? "I'm a registered, disgruntled Republican. Right now, the Democrats outrage me less than Republicans." Miller speaks in careful, measured sentences, not funny anecdotes or windy stories. He thinks before speaking. Ask him why he doesn't name buildings after himself, like, oh, say, the Hilbert Circle Theatre in Downtown Indianapolis, and he pauses, thinking. "Um, while not criticizing others who do, it's a matter of taste. We're more interested in the project than our name on the building," he says. "Another cookie?" he says, changing the subject.

A complicated simple man
He doesn't understand why his life would be of interest to others. It isn't that complicated, he thinks. Building Cummins wasn't that hard: Produce a good engine. Hire talented people and treat them well. Donating millions to build schools, hospitals, museums and churches for his neighbors in the world is simply the right thing to do. How much does one person need? How many cars can you drive? He has one. Closing a factory in South Africa was not a difficult decision. You don't do business with the devil. A man's soul is not for sale. A neighbor needed help. What's the big deal? How about another cookie. Let's talk about something else. Is it fun being rich? "I don't get joy out of money as such. It's harder to give away money than it is to make it. We've had a happy life, and the biggest part is our children," he said. These days, he is learning to speak Italian and re-reading the history of the Roman Empire in preparation for a trip to Venice with his wife and four of their kids. A mild case of polio 40 years ago numbed some nerves in his right leg, and he hobbles a bit, but his health is great. Getting old is not great. He's working his way through a 12-inch stack of papers to close the substantial estate of his late sister, Clementine. "When my parents died, the papers were only an inch thick," he moaned. "Being 88 sometimes gets scary. It was the scariest around 60, when I started asking myself what I could have done differently. I always thought I'd run for office one day like my father, but that slipped past me," he explained. Most people of Miller's stature would write a book. Herman Wells did, although he resisted the entire process, fiddled with it 10 years, put none of the good stuff in it and then wished he hadn't been talked into it in the first place. A couple of years ago, former Mayor Bob Sewart somehow talked Miller and his sister into a two-hour videotaped interview to preserve a bit of oral history. Clementine, then 92, told wonderful, colorful family stories. Miller sat bolt upright in a chair, said little and wore the blank look of a man about to be strapped down and electrocuted. The exact same look that appeared when it was suggested he write a book. He dropped his cookie. "You gotta have a little more ego than I have to write a book," he said slowly, emphasizing each word. "I cannot imagine doing that. Who cares about me?"