A New Life for Public School 1… and Long Island City, Too

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

The 20th and 21st-centuries have flipped the definition of art over, and over, and over again. With changing subjects, purposes, materials, and sizes, contemporary art has pushed to the limits the conditions needed to house and display it. So for architects, creating the right spaces to exhibit art can be challenging.

Over the past 100 years, something else has changed, too. As art transforms, so do neighborhoods, and one-by-one a similar pattern in NYC communities has presented itself. We’ll talk more about that in a little bit.

In their quest to find meaningful places to present their creations to the public, instead of looking to the future, avant-garde artists have relied on the past. This was the mantra of the alternative spaces movement. Alanna Heiss, a major proponent of this movement, founded the Institute for Art and Urban Resources Inc. in the 1970s. The aim of this organization was to “[organize] exhibitions in underutilized and abandoned spaces across New York City.” Abandoned warehouses and factories were two of the most beneficial building types for the display of new art, with their wide and tall open spaces suitable for all kinds of provocative and site-specific installations.

An abandoned public school building turned out to be the final jump for Heiss and the artists she advocated for. In 1976, the Institute rebranded as the P.S.1 Contemporary Art Center, named in honor of the First Ward School that the building was originally made for. The organization merged with MoMA in 1999 to become MoMA PS1.

MoMA PS1 is interesting architecturally in a variety of ways. First and foremost, of course, is the building itself. The building is part of the Romanesque Revival lineage that was popularized in the mid-19th century, especially by Henry Hobson Richardson. Romanesque buildings were characterized by their use of heavy materials and strictly semi-circular arches (a continuation of the form used by the Romans). The school has a handsome and massive stone base, and expresses its horizontality, rather than its verticality, through the use of successive, low-arched windows. The terra cotta colored brick and the restrained (this isn’t a Gothic Revival building) yet rich ornamental detailing (in terra cotta) is inviting. What better place to display underground, stick-it-to-the-establishment art than a building staunch in its forgotten and, nowadays, often frowned upon design elements?

The museum’s new entrance building, completed in 2011 by Andrew Berman Architect, is a brutalist success story. The cast concrete wall creates a strong presence on Jackson Avenue but is also a beautiful juxtaposition to the gaudy, green-glass Citi Tower that its vantage point leads you towards. The entrance atrium is reminiscent of Tadao Ando with its interplay of light through holes in the concrete construction, and then leads to what one might call a grand approach to the museum through its entrance courtyard.

The inside is beneficial for display, too. Classrooms have tall, open ceilings and can either be used individually for an artist or linked together to create larger exhibition spaces. Beyond that, the building has a feel unlike any other museum I’ve been to. When I’m climbing the cramped, low ceiling staircases with their red hand-rails, when I look through windowed doors lining long hallways, and when I hear the creaking of old, wooden floorboard, I’m brought back to my days as an elementary school student (shoutout to PS64). At MoMA PS1, there’s a sense of provocative art, youthful nostalgia, and proud NYC building history all mixed together, and it makes viewing the art all the more exciting.

The museum includes other architectural delights like traces of a building perpetually unfinished (holes in the wall that show utilities operations, bare brick ceilings, and plans drawn on walls), a walkthrough of the old basement and its outdated machinery, and art and building as one in pieces such as the Pipilotti Rist video installation (a hole in the floor), the in-motion Bruce Nauman installation which scratches on the floor, graphic arts in all the staircases, and more. MoMA PS1 also co-runs the Young Architects Program, which transforms the main courtyard each year into a sort-of architectural dreamworld. The 2018 winner Dream the Combine presented Hide & Seek, which featured huge, movable mirrors.

For all of its success as a contemporary art center, MoMA PS1 also hints at a darker lesson to be learned. If you’re wondering who would have thought that a school, in Long Island City, could ever be a museum, people paying attention in the ’70s could tell you that it wasn’t that big of a surprise, if you were paying attention. With the downfall of manufacturing in NYC, foresighted developers could tell which neighborhoods were next in line to be “revitalized.” LIC was the poster child for development in the 1970s. A mix of abandoned industrial buildings and low-income residents, buying property from locals was cheap, and the neighborhood’s close proximity to Manhattan meant that it would become desirable with a facelift. To get that process started, you let the artists take their place. When the avant-garde becomes more popular, more attention and money is attracted to the epicenter, and the neighborhood begins to change. During that change, in the words of one developer, “…in any development there are certain innocent people who get hurt.”

I don’t claim to be an expert in the development of LIC, nor do I think that MoMA PS1 has been a negative thing for the neighborhood or NYC, but there are questions to be thought about here. A lot of LIC natives were likely displaced in the transformation of the community from an industrial center to an artistic once, a similar development that SoHo underwent earlier and that many other neighborhoods are undergoing now. How do we ‘improve’ a neighborhood without pushing out low-income residents? What type of effects does real-estate development have on the urban and social fabric of city neighborhoods? MoMA PS1 fit nicely into the aesthetic of LIC, but what kinds of obligations, if any, does the museum have to long-term LIC residents 30-years after its inception?

Sources:

  1. Roberta Smith’s Art Review of the museum after its renovation in the 1990s: “More Spacious and Gracious, Yet Still Funky at Heart.”
  2. For more about the Romanesque Revival style, see this field guide.
  3. A short synopsis of the building’s history and style can be found here.
  4. For more about Alanna Heiss and the history of the organization, see MoMA PS1’s website.
  5. For a look at the entrance building, see the architect’s website.
  6. For an insightful and thought provoking reading about the future of Long Island City as “The Next Hot Neighborhood” near the end of the century and PS1’s role in this process, see pages 20-25 of New York Magazine’s August 11th, 1980 issue.

The Met: Architecture for What?

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

Ever since 1959, when Frank Lloyd Wright’s attention grabbing design for The Guggenheim opened its doors, architects, directors, critics, and historians have been searching for the right way to build a museum. The main question to answer, it seems, is: What is the purpose of a museum? There are, theoretically, innumerable answers to that question. I think that most, however, fall under a few big umbrellas:

  1. The museum is a repository for art and artifacts.
  2. The museum is a work of art in-and-of itself, and it stands as reflection of the spirit of a city and its people.
  3. The museum is a consolidation of breathtaking design on its own merit, and for the display and understanding of arts and artifacts. It is a satisfying synthesis.
  4. The museum is a place of wonder where one can learn from and meet works of art, but also other people. The museum is a stage in which people grow from both viewing and socializing.

The first three are ideas I’ve gathered from reading other literature. Under the first view, museums are merely backdrops for the works of art they display. Architects should, to quote James Johnson Sweeney, director of the Guggenheim from 1952-1960, “underdesign.”

Under the second view, architects take a museum commission as a way to flex their design muscles. The buildings are to become statements of architectural prowess as the architects attempt to make innovative structures suitable for importance places. This can come at the cost of acceptable exhibition spaces.

The third is a mixture of the first two, arguably what museum design has trended towards. A museum should attest to the greatness of a city and its citizens and the might of a commendable architect, but it should also provide for lively spaces that present art well. This is especially important concerning contemporary art, which may require spaces beyond the typical exhibition room for proper display.

For Huxtable, The Guggenheim Bilbao represented the culmination of this view; it is “art and architecture as one.” It and other contemporary museums have pushed the boundaries of architectural design while providing unique environments for the display of new art.

But where does this leave museums of the past? What of places like The Metropolitan Museum of Art that were built before this museum design-defining frenzy?

I don’t think that anyone would argue that The Met doesn’t serve its purpose as a repository. With over 2,000,000 square feet of floor space, it can display not just some but a considerable amount of art from innumerable disparate places and times.

Some will argue that The Met is not an architectural masterpiece. Some shortcomings? It can seem a bit long at first, and does a glass facade really go with an Egyptian Temple? Yet it is precisely these images that define The Met as a New York City icon. New Yorkers can handle big, Beaux-Arts dreams (the 5th Avenue facade) and bold, modern redesigns (the Sackler Wing) mashed into one. Not to mention the fact that the museum pays homage to its lengthy architectural history by using past facades as inside walls. Specifically, polychrome Gothic Revival masonry from the museum’s first building on the 5th Ave. site can be seen in all its splendor by looking over your shoulder when you enter the Robert Lehman Collection.

Already, we’ve check marked view three; The Met is an architectural delectation with a brilliant display of art. But just to add some might to my argument, let’s look at the experience a little bit more. On the outside, look up for four caryatids that represent the four branches of art (painting, sculpture, architecture, and music) while you stroll through a carefully articulated plaza. You walk down a row of trees as you approach from the north or south, and the lights from below add a sense of importance to your entry. As you pass the fountains and climb the grand staircase, it’s as if you are rising to the occasion of sophisticated yet public art as colossal columns proclaim your presence.

There’s something special about the stairs of The Met. Your status in society, as Blair Waldorf from the Gossip Girl series might tell you, rises as you ascend. The Met is Blair Waldorf architectonified: it is a New York heiress, grand despite her shortcomings, the “Queen Bee” and jewel of 5th Avenue, and secure in her position as keeper of knowledge and style. You cannot help but already feel exhilarated as you reach the entrance.

Inside this spirit continues. Beaux-Arts columns, arches, and vaults greet you at first, tall and grandiose as ever. As you move through the building, the designs of different wings reflect the changing moods that art from different societies affects.

It’s these experiences that lend The Met its success under view four. The architecture is designed to enhance the meeting of art and person. You are enveloped in different scenes that make paintings, statues, artifacts, and so on all the more powerful. Just as important though, the paths that you take through the plazas, rooms, corridors, and staircases you peruse allow you, if you take advantage of it, to interact with others at every point. From the approach to the museum (the plaza is always filled with independent artists and the stairs inside and out are quite literally meeting places), to the framed views through rooms, and the emphasis on education (the ground floor) and social gathering (The Great Hall Balcony), The Met is a place of gossip, laughter, show-off, ideas, analysis, reflection, and conversations about art and life. An old museum is always new as a place of human interplay.

I don’t know what the museum of the future should look like, but I do know that they should always emulate what The Met has achieved. It is my favorite museum in New York because of the new experiences I have there every single time I visit, as I engage with art, architecture, and people. The Met, like the Guggenheim, is attention grabbing architecturally, it just takes a deeper look.

Sources:

  1. For a short read to get yourself thinking about the duality, or lack thereof, between art and architecture see this post.
  2. The Guardian article, “What should our museums look like in 2020?”
  3. Art Practical’s “Architecture and the Museum.”
  4. More about The MET on ‘New York Architecture’ here.
  5. For a short synopsis about the museum’s architectural history, see the blog post “The Museum, Constructed,” written by an intern.
  6. For a comprehensive overview of the museum’s architectural history, see Morrison H. Heckscher’s study, written for the museum’s 1995 bulletin.
  7. I owe many thanks to Alexandra Lange for her thoughts and ideas in the “What Should a Museum Be?” chapter in her book Writing About Architecture, and to Ada Louise Huxtable for her musings in the “Museums” section of her book On Architecture.

Bobst Library: A Mixture of Pleasure and Dread

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

As a freshman at NYU, I steered clear of Bobst Library as much as possible. Its red sandstone facade was not inviting, in fact I thought it was rather ugly, and though the atrium was an exciting area, the study spaces on the bottom two floors (the only places I was brave enough to explore my first year) felt cold and lonely. Bobst was claustrophobic and dark. It repulsed me.

Like many NYU students the place grew on me. I came to appreciate it more when my friend introduced me to the south-side study area on the 5th floor, and after I learned more about the building in my architecture classes.

The first idea that helped me really appreciate Bobst’s architectural significance was Philip Johnson’s and Richard Foster’s post-modern twist on a historical detail- columns. When you look at Bobst, you’ll notice that columns are seemingly absent, a perfectly normal characteristic of modern buildings. But if you look closer, you’ll realize that there are columns at play. You, the viewer, just need to fill them in. The niches that line the library’s facade aren’t just random voids, they are empty spaces that resemble the silhouettes of classical columns. A sort-of short base exists on the ground floor. They are then colossal from the 2nd floor up, ending in a capital-like void at the top. Stare at them for a moment and imagine the columns that fit into these spaces. Post-modern architects wanted people to actively engage with their constructions on a different level than just functional use. Boring buildings didn’t fit their bill.

The fact that the facade’s material, Longmeadow Redstone quarried in East Longmeadow, Massachusetts, is meant to blend with the redbrick low-rise buildings that surrounded Washington Square Park is, I think, a commendable nod to the importance of responding to locality. But that doesn’t mean that the material choice is perfectly suitable. While on the one hand the earthy tone provides a nice backdrop for Schwartz Plaza, on the other hand, Bobst (and its neighbor Tisch Hall) stick out like sore-thumbs on the south side of the park where red-brick isn’t as prevalent. I’m also not sold on the alternating light and dark portions of the sandstone, I can’t decide if it adds character or just looks blotchy.

I’m inclined to agree with Paul Goldberger that Bobst’s interior space is more important than it’s outside and “makes for one of New York’s most spectacular architectural experiences.” The central atrium is dazzling. I’ve only known the space from after the “digitally inspired veil” was put in place to keep more students from jumping from the buildings balconies (higher education has a serious student suicide problem that needs to be addressed). Despite the sorrow reason for the barrier’s introduction, it has transformed the space in a net positive way. Though the unobstructed view to the Venetian San Giorgio Maggiore Church-inspired floor below is now gone, the way that the ‘Pixel Matrix’ dematerializes from south to north in the building creates for interesting viewpoints that gradually morph as you move through the building.

Goldberger characterized the floor as splendid and witty but said that it was detached from the other aspects of the room and therefore added to a sense of fussiness. I see his point, but on a certain level, the disparate elements do blend. The ‘Pixel Matrix,’ from below, almost looks fluid; it flows from top to bottom, before condensing into a black and white pool at the ground; an exuberance of pop-art pleasure.

Bobst Library has been troubled in other ways, too: community organizers like Jane Jacobs and Ruth Wittenberg fought against its construction on the basis that its height and bulk would cast shadows on Washington Square Park, and both its namesake and its main architect were known anti-semites. Despite its fraught history, Bobst’ interior is grand in a way that can make one feel monumental. For that at least, it fits nicely into the lineage of New York’s best places.

Architecture begins to matter when it brings delight and sadness and perplexity and awe along with a roof over our heads. – Paul Goldberger

University Village: Brutalist Delights and a Fierce Debate

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

What is it about the towers-in-the park complexes in Greenwich Village that captivate me so much? How can a person trained in the nuances of urban design feel such affection for a type of design that has been proven to suffocate city life?

University Village, like Washington Square Village (WSV) directly to the north, is another modernist success. Is it the best example of city planning? Probably not. But the space works, and the three magnificent brutalist structures are well deserving of their landmark status.

The struggle to designate the buildings, the plaza, and the entire superblock as a city landmark began with an NYU plan, a proposal which would later become NYU2031. When NYU revealed its plans to develop the University Village site, the Greenwich Village Society for Historic Preservation (GVSHP) fought back, citing the sanctity of the supermarket and the architectural statement of the buildings, considered a turning point in the career of architectural firm I. M. Pei & Associates (with lead designer James Ingo Freed).

And what a turning point it was. I discovered University Village when I went on a walking tour around NYU’s campus for an environmental science course. I still hadn’t found my appreciation for the art of architecture just yet, but something already drew me back to this place. After that tour, I couldn’t help but gaze up at the towers in wonder every time I walked by. The repeating sequence of recessed windows, the 20-feet concrete shear walls, and the less grey, more brown representation of the bare concrete construction produced a feeling of dignity within me, as I can now recognize it. And isn’t that at least one of the purposes of good architecture, to conjure in people emotional responses to their surroundings in a way that moves them?

One of the main reasons why University Village works, like WSV, is because the site is not completely de-mapped. Wooster Street between Bleecker and West Houston still exists, paved in brick instead of asphalt to match the earthy tone of the buildings. Cars can still drive in and out, to pick or drop off people and materials, but it has mainly become a walking space for pedestrians looking for a detour from regular city-life.

One of the reasons why plazas like this can never be perfect, I think, is because even though they are open to the public, people can still feel a sense of, “Do I belong here?” when they’re exploring. I definitely felt it the first few times I came back without a group, a remnant of Jane Jacobs’ idea of “the institution of turf” [see The Death and Life of Great American Cities, p. 60.].

The reasons why University Village was landmarked, however, are the same reasons why that feeling of not belonging isn’t as present in this plaza as in others. The larger copy of Picasso’s “Bust of Sylvette” by Carl Nesjar sits slightly off-center in the grassed part of the plaza; its rough cement work mirrors that of the buildings, ties the design together, and morphs it into a more human scale. Freed and Pei’s ‘pin-wheel’ design ensures that all three of the buildings have clear sight-lines and work off of one another, creating a smooth interplay of structure and void. The plaza also thoughtfully includes a long concrete bench for leisure, curious designs for outdoor lighting, and a small forest of trees at the North East corner. Art, architecture, and planning work together here to welcome people into what otherwise may be a foreboding place.

For a look inside Silver Towers (the two University Village buildings dedicated to NYU faculty and grad students) and the amazing views they offer, as well as the vibrant stories of three families who have called the village home, Curbed author Rebecca Bengal wrote a touching article earlier this year, “Living on a NYU Superblock.” In this piece, she mentions a heated online forum that she found while researching, where commenters documented the turbulent views of the complex’s worth. I actually stumbled upon this forum myself, and it is quite illuminating to see both opinions from a decade ago, when decisions had not yet been made final, and how fired up citizens can become in the name of city history and beauty. It’s somewhat heartwarming, no matter the opinion.

Each commenter had their point. Some argued on the basis of beauty [“these towers… are a scourge on the city landscape” vs. “They are simply among the most attractive modernist apartment buildings in the city”], others on the basis of the complex’s history [“this is a Robert Moses housing project that surely replaced hundreds of beautiful old buildings” vs “The old stuff is gone. The Pei buildings are with us. They may or may not be better than what they replaced, but… they are very high quality architecture”]. This forum is a microcosm of the complex world of preservation: Which points do you consider? How do they work together? Are some more important in some cases than others? It is also fertile ground for debates over the merit of beauty and the merit of subjective tastes in deciding what the fabric of a city will look like.

In this author’s opinion, University Village offers New York City a lively aspect of healthy cities- variety, and a beautifully unique variety at that. May they stand, literally and figuratively, the test of time.

Architecture is the learned game, correct and magnificent, of forms assembled in the light. – Le Corbusier

Reimagining Rockaway: The Boardwalk

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The wooden Rockaway Beach Boardwalk was an icon. Begun in the early 20th-century, the boardwalk was completed in the 1930s and helped maintain Rockaway’s status as a grand summer resort on the Atlantic.

If you’ve never been to Rockaway before, I encourage you to take a visit there. When I was a sophomore in college, a classmate in one of my Environmental Science courses said that, “There’s no nature in NYC.” She wasn’t from New York, so I told her to get out of Manhattan sometime if she had the chance. I told her to take the A to Rockaway. Lay on the beach, visit Riis Park, wander Fort Tilden and Edgemere and Bayswater. Go kayaking in the bay and step foot onto one of the marshes. She’d even have a nice view along the way.

You won’t be able to experience the wonder that was the original wooden boardwalk, however. That structure was destroyed by Hurricane Sandy in 2012. I was a senior in high school at the time, and I can remember my last time on the boardwalk- practicing volleyball with my friends while I forgot about college applications for a little bit.

Just a week later, our communities had been ravaged. Sections of the wooden boardwalk lay scattered in the street amongst overturned cars and other debris. Concrete pilings stretched for miles through the rubble, like soldiers readying for battle. I took a picture of my friend as we made our way through the destruction; it felt like the end of the world.

The new boardwalk is objectively safer, sturdier, and more resilient than the last one. But in the minds of long-time Rockaway residents, is it better? Can the modernists’ love affair with concrete ever emotionally compare with the dear memories of wooden planks?

When you drive in from Queens over the Cross Bay Veterans Memorial Bridge, head straight toward the beach. Once you’ve parked, continue to the boardwalk and you’ll be met by an entrance scene that spills out onto the sidewalk, embracing you with open arms and beckoning you to view the superb coastal scene on the other side.

The promise of a new Rockaway is symbolized in this entrance way. No longer forgotten by the city, no longer known for its dog attacks and deteriorating homes and infrastructure, Rockaway now welcomes visitors in troves as it strives to return to its fin-de-siècle glory.

All along the boardwalk graceful and playful vistas reign. In the Beach 30s the boardwalk is a faithful companion to the new Far Rockaway Park by WXY Studio, whose physical structures recall parasols, gull wings, and beach towels blowing in the wind. In the Beach 70s the boardwalk acts as an esplanade for the inhabitants of the sturdy new development of Arverne by the Sea. Through the Beach 80s and 90s smaller but no less marvelous entrance pathways that wind like serpents and are lined by native beach plants lead the way to revamped concessions. Passing through the Beach 100s the boardwalk provides the backdrop for historic, mural-ed bus stops that depict striking aquatic scenes, and it ends in the Beach 120s in a look-out station for kids and curious adults a like.

The new boardwalk was highly contested. For many, concrete represented an end to the beach-style life that Rockaway residents prided themselves on living.

But the City of New York no longer wanted Rockaway to be known as the city’s refuse. Residents were included in the design process so that the final structure would represent there hopes and ambitions for a united community; a community that will not lift up a white flag as it stares down the harrowing face of climate change and sea level rise.

Portions of the boardwalk were turned to concrete before 2012. These sections were a mess. Meant to reflect the look and texture of sand, the individual blocks seemed too chaotically different from each other: they weren’t all the same texture and never seemed to line up correctly. They did, however, hold up in the storm, a foreshadow of change to come.

The new boardwalk is an engaging light grey-blue color, inlaid with stone and glass, and it doesn’t shallowly try to imitate the environment it lives in. Instead it works with it, offering a contrast of color and sliding nicely into, and fortifying, the natural dune ecosystem. Undulating lines that look like waves separate the bike lanes from the walking paths, and thoughtfully designed lifeguard stations, water fountains, and wooden benches (made from the original boardwalk wood) abound.

I find the boardwalk a beacon of environmentally sound and beautifully designed infrastructure that sets up Rockaway Beach for its long awaited renaissance.

Emblazoned in light-blue is the community’s signature. Can you spot it as you take-off from or land at JFK? Or perhaps you can figure it out using a different perspective from right there on the ground.

You only have to cast your eyes on [architecture] to feel the presence of the past [and] the spirit of a place… – I.M. Pei

Good? Better? No, the Best of Beaux-Arts Architecture.

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

This week’s post is dedicated to a person who had an astounding impact on my life, Mrs. Annmarie Todes.

Mrs. Todes was my 6th grade humanities teacher. She was a person of the most devoted, humble, and loving nature. 6th grade was a huge transition for me: I started middle school relatively far from my home in a new school where I knew almost no one else and where the academic rigor challenged me. Mrs. Todes helped me through that.

Looking back, I think that she saw something in me that I did not and could not see in myself. My grades were poor in 6th grade and I did not feel as if I was living up to expectations. But Mrs. Todes treated me no differently than the other kids in my grade. Though she didn’t work one-on-one with me often, in the moments she could she did her best to help me understand what I was doing and why it mattered. She cultivated in me, though I did not sense it at the time, an affinity for writing, for history, and for art. Without her guidance, in 6th grade and beyond, I don’t think I would have found my passion, or many of the successes I’ve achieved. For that I am forever grateful.

Mrs. Todes passed away last week. Just a week earlier, when I found out she was in hospice, I sent her an email asking her what her favorite building and/or public place in New York City was. Her two answers surprised me at first: the Metropolitan Museum of Art and the New York Public Library (NYPL) Main Branch at 42nd St.

I expected her to tell me a little known place in NYC that she frequented, someplace she found solace in. Perhaps it was home to some obscure knowledge that she loved to enlighten other people with. But after sitting with her response for a few hours, I realized that it made perfect sense.

Where else in NYC can you find such generous reserves detailing the history of humankind in all of its splendor? Where else in NYC might a person with the utmost curiosity in the human experience, its grandeur and its grief, and the passion for sharing it with others, spend her time learning? The Met I am saving for another post; here, I’d like to take a look at the NYPL Main Branch, one of the finest examples of Beaux-Arts architecture, through Mrs. Todes’ eyes.

—

Beaux-Arts architecture works because it inspires. Eclecticism reigns: the beaux arts combines the grandiosity of Ancient Greece and Rome with the humanism of the Renaissance and the theatricality of the Baroque. At the NYPL, Carrére and Hastings brought Dr. John Shaw Billings’ scrap paper vision into breathtaking reality.

Austere and commanding, the lions Patience and Fortitude sit outside. They welcome researchers, tourists, students, families, explorers… anyone really, the library is proud to be a public institution, into the over 100 miles of written knowledge found inside.

As Vincent Scully might have felt, you enter the building like royalty. Astor Hall fills you with a belief that anything is possible by sheer virtue of its bright, beautiful Vermont marble. You have two options, continue forward through the majestic archways, or give in to the gravity of the grand staircases on either side- like I always am.

Ascending these stairs, and those beyond, is an act of wonder and anticipation. The intricate bronze-work of the chandeliers, the delicate stone moulding, and the stature of the strong marble blocks finds no match in almost any other building in the country.

Waiting for you at the end of it all is the McGraw Rotunda and the Rose Main Reading Room. These burst alive with panels and corinthian pilasters of dark, walnut wood. Stunning paintings depict the virtuous history of the written word and the pure revelation of a blue sky infused with dazzling light and wispy clouds. How could one not feel the urge to learn as much as they could about the world?

The Main Branch, and other successful Beaux-Arts buildings, embody a striking duality: they are filled and adorned with opulence, yet they are humble, and strong. Mrs. Todes did more than just peruse the building and garner intelligence from its books, she became the living embodiment of the Main Branch and its doctrines. Resilient and strong-willed, she also gave as much as herself to other people as she could. Mrs. Todes opened her heart to others like the library, with thrall, offers its liveliness and wisdom to the citizens of New York.

The 20th-Century International Style rejected the Beaux-Arts and its frivolity. But in the best examples of Beaux-Arts architecture, in which care and consideration for design and materials are upheld, frivolity vanishes. Grandeur takes its place, which lends itself to inspiration and transformative experiences. I think that Mrs. Todes recognized this. I can imagine her walking through the halls and stairways of the Main Branch in exhilaration, forever leaving her touch on the building- and then on all that she encountered.

For that, I and so many others are forever grateful.

Gaudeamus igitur
Iuvenes dum sumus.
Post iucundam iuventutem
Post molestam senectutem
Nos habebit humus.

Washington Square Village’s Hidden Treasure

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Towers in the park are not, today, a highly recommended building type. The drab, lonely open spaces they create are dehumanizing and both these and the buildings themselves, not to mention the people who live in them, have been the victims of unwarranted disregard. Towers in the park destroy street-life, too, de-mapping some roads and leaving no interesting frontage for passersby to enjoy.

Sometimes, though, these projects vilify the modernist architects and planners that so fervently espoused the towers’ ability to cure ailing cities. Striking a balance between site design, visual interest, and outdoor ambiance, a towers in the park development can offer refuge from boisterous city life, but remain humanizing and interesting to the eye.

I found a tower in the park triumph when I did a bit of exploring around NYU my sophomore year. I don’t remember exactly my path there, but a grand approach begins on the corner of Washington Square South and Washington Square East.

Walk south, through Schwartz Plaza. NYU envelopes you in all directions. Behind you lay an array of academic buildings, pouring and absorbing flurries of students throughout the day. The Kaufman Building and NYU Bobst define the edges of the plaza on your left and right, respectively. Bobst, designed by Philip Johnson, provides an earthy backdrop for the school’s native woodland garden and a Gothic-esque monument.

Across West 3rd street is a glimpse of the first building of Washington Square Village, made up of two wide stretched apartment buildings that frame more than they probably should, but most importantly, a lovely public park. As you approach the complex through the plaza, the vertical panel of blue-glazed bricks seems to float above the ground, almost as if the sky has dove downward, cutting the building into smaller and more manageable pieces. Nature’s decree.

Cross West 3rd and walk through the underpass S.J. Kessler and Sons has so thankfully provided for you. (De-mapped? Not completely. Green and Wooster Streets act as driveways here for the underground parking lot, on which the park is built.) Now slow down. The entrance to the park is easy to miss. Find the gate to your left, and walk up the small staircase to emerge into an oasis hidden between the two lumbering giants.

Washington Square Village Park may not be as famous as its sister to the north, but it deserves just as much as the spotlight. What it lacks in terms of monuments it makes up for in delicacies. You’ll notice first the clever 2-in-1 planter-benches; the square, conglomerate seating spots seem like mountains formed from sub-ducting tectonic plates, but instead of lava, pleasant trees sprout from the opening at top (even if they’re still not the perfect trees). These define the northern part of the park, arranged in a pleasing symmetrical formation- an homage to the French.

The southern portion is home to two rustic wooden terraces that are enveloped in vines and embellished with mood lighting. An homage to the English exists in their more uncontrolled nature and the winding, if short, paths that lead you to them. At the center of it all is the fountain that focuses the space. Numerous jets of water aligned in a straight line like Rockette dancers burst into the sky, rivaling the height of the buildings.

More serene than Washington Square Park, WS Village Park is not standalone from the towers. The buildings are defenders, not from people themselves but from the masses that may overtake this small safe-haven if allowed to flood in. And they’re not just boring protectors, either. Numerous vertical panels of color exist, alternating between the primary RBY. More than whimsical, these panels are an eruption of liveliness, an accentuation that saves the space from the deadening effects of plain and boring brick for stories and stories. Brazilian favelas have made their way north.

Washington Square Village Park provides a tranquil home to NYU faculty and graduate students, but the school has planned a desecration of the space in their effort to offer more square footage of academic space to every student over the next 25 years. The towers are safe, but the park between is to be replaced by showy landscaping and two kidney shaped buildings that will abut views and bring forth the deluge of students, professors, and visitors.

What should we put first? NYU2031 has, on the surface, formidable goals. And it is seemingly true that the park does not serve a large number of people. But our oases continue to vanish, and what is a city that has no hidden gems left to find?

[I took a visit to the park again today. To my surprise, there was new signage at the entrances denoting the space as “Sasaki Garden” after its designer, the landscape architect Hideo Sasaki. I have never seen or heard of that before, but I’m glad that I now know!]

Dull, inert cities, it is true, do contain the seeds of their own destruction and little else. But lively, diverse, intense cities contain the seeds of their own regeneration…   – Jane Jacobs

re: Sometimes We Do It Right

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

[This post is a response to Huxtable’s critique of the Marine Midland Building and its surroundings in her article “Sometimes We Do It Right.” I agree with her assessment of the space, but I think that the space has not been corrupted, as she predicts, and that it continues to be a remarkable planning ideal despite the changes in society’s predilections.]

Ada Louise Huxtable was not staring at the screen of her iPhone, like I was, as she made her way to the Marine Midland Building at 140 Broadway in 1968. Fast-forward 50 years and New York is still “very, very good,” but it is different, and so are its people. Five decades after the completion of Skidmore, Owings and Merrill’s (SOM) landmark building, there is still much to see, but a lot to miss as well.

Most New Yorkers today will reach downtown Manhattan by way of the subway. And every New Yorker is an expert at navigating this confusing and dirty system that delivers them to some of the best urban experiences in the world. But en route to your final destination, much of what New York has to offer goes by unnoticed when you’re sending a message or selecting a song from your playlist; especially when your phone has mapped out your whole route, and you just need to follow the blue line to get that Instagram-ready photo you’ve been waiting for.

I don’t claim to be above this. I didn’t realize that I’d be passing through Calatrava’s Oculus on my way to follow in Huxtable’s footsteps. It didn’t matter to me where I got off, just that it was the fastest way to reach where I was going.

But Calatrava is an attention grabber, and I couldn’t help but feel excited walking through his immaculate and pristine transportation hub another time. When I stepped out into the bright, warm day, I turned around to take a look at the winged structure- One World Trade rising gloriously in the background. This wasn’t what I came to see, but I was happy that Calatrava took me out of my digital euphoria.

That’s the thing, though: Calatrava demands your attention. His creations are hard to miss or ignore. The space I was interested in, and that Huxtable lauded as a “stunning success in urban design,” is more subtle. Although selfie sticks and tourists pretending to be professional photographers abound, the pictures they take aren’t meant to capture the graceful flow of the plaza and buildings at 140 Broadway.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Calatrava knocked sense back into me and made me pay attention to the urban fabric I was walking by. A city may be defined by the discrete places that conjure in people’s minds when its name is mentioned, but a city is only forged by the unnoticed structures and voids that knit these places together.

Directly across from the Oculus on Church Street stands the 55-story Millennium Hotel, stable after the structural problems it faced following the 9/11 attacks. On its left, across Dey Street, is a Century 21 Department Store clad in masonry, and southwest of that along Church is a city-mall with the likes of H&M, Eataly, and Banana Republic emboldened on its glass facade.

Expensive hotels, clothing stores, and ‘bougie’ food places abound but most people walk by all of these without batting an eye. They’ll stop and marvel at Calatrava, but the humdrum of everyday modernity doesn’t interest them. That’s okay, and the stores aren’t architectural wonders, but what’s interesting is that the world we live in didn’t have to be this one. The path to 140 Broadway, from all directions, is much different now than it was 50 years ago, and these paths are a not-so-subtle reminder of the consumerist society we’ve grown accustomed to. What could this place have looked like if the world went in a different direction? Today, you can almost feel the money being spent all around you, if you’re paying attention.

All of that melts away, though, as you turn left on Liberty Street and Isamu Noguchi’s “Red Cube” comes into view. Suddenly, there’s barely a store in view. One Liberty Plaza, another SOM building which can be easy to miss along Church, rises on your left, and Zuccotti Park, not yet completed in March 1968, opens up on your right.

At last, standing between Cedar and Liberty Streets and facing east, I took a moment to take it all in. This was where Huxtable wanted someone like me to experience, and I was happy to be there, but at first, it all just felt so normal. Noguchi, as Huxtable foresaw, was the main attention grabber. Group after group of giddy adventurers stopped to snap their pictures before hurrying on their way.

At first, I wanted to yell at them: “Yes, the cube is marvelous, but look at what else you’re missing!” But then I realized that their inclinations were okay. As long as Noguchi, and Calatrava a few blocks away, could grab attention, Marine Midland and 140 Broadway will be content to sit in the background, happy to provide refuge and beauty in a more understated way. That realization was, for me, when “this small segment of New York” went beyond normal.

I took the path that Huxtable had laid out for me, though admittedly, snapped over one-hundred pictures along the way (I just couldn’t help myself). I let her words flow through me as I walked the travertine plaza and identified the buildings she mentioned in her review. All of this was under appreciated by everyone else buzzing around, I thought, and what should that make me feel? The urge to yell was back, but I found respite in what I saw that Huxtable had left out.

Something about this plaza matters to people, even if they don’t realize it. Is it the elegant curtain wall of Marine Midland, the properly sized marble blocks, the varied style of the buildings, the accent of the cube, and the brilliant views that mattered to Huxtable? Or is it the warm copper glow of the windows, the benches shaded by birch trees, and the wafting, delicious smells of the various food-carts lined up along Broadway?

The correct answer, I think, is that it’s all of those things. The better answer, though, is that just like me, other people want to be here, too.

People bought their lunch from the food-carts and went across to Zuccotti to eat and chat. Some sat beside Marine Midland and took a glance at their reflection in the window as their children spun in circles with innocent glee. A business woman had a smoke at the corner of the plaza while a teenager jumped in a bragging attempt to touch a corner on the cube. Why were these people here?

For five decades this “carefully calculated channel of related space and buildings” has persisted and the destruction that Huxtable warned us of has not come to bear, for the time being, at least; but the city, and the world, has changed. The Twin Towers have come and gone, leaving behind waterfalls and bollards in their wake, David Childs’ ‘beautiful yet compelling’ creation has been topped off, Calatrava has had his fun, iPhones and Androids capture our lives even as we’re oblivious to the hotel-clothing-food jamboree that envelopes us. But New York’s spirit remains, neatly and thoughtfully expressed at 140 Broadway and its immediate environs.

Not everyone will stop to appreciate this spirit, or put it into words, or capture it on their phones save for its most provocative features. But “color, size, style, mass, space, light, dark, solids, voids, highs and lows” work together, from subway stop to plaza, so that they can sense it, and that keeps them coming back.

One cannot believe in cities if one does not believe in life. – Anonymous

Welcome to New York

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

Hey! Thanks for taking a look at my blog. My name is Daniel and I’m a born and raised New Yorker who has a love for this city that has evolved over time.

When I was kid growing up on the streets of Queens, there was something about my neighborhood that made me feel special. It wasn’t one of the suburban communities I saw on television shows; those places never seemed like a place I’d want to live in. And although it wasn’t Manhattan, my neighborhood felt like a city; at least, that’s what I realize that feeling was now I’m that older.

Not a city in the most traditional sense, with high-rises, a super bustling night-life, and tourists galore, but a city none-the-less, with multiple and organic interacting parts that made it feel alive and interesting and safe.

It wasn’t until I went to college that my love for New York translated into an interest in architecture and urban planning & design. As my ‘History of Architecture’ professor spoke so elegantly and beautifully about the ruins of Ancient Greece and Rome, the illuminated heights of Gothic cathedrals, the grandeur of the Baroque, and the spectacles of the modern age, I felt myself falling for the beautiful artistry of buildings and urban spaces.

I realized that I loved NYC because of it’s lineage, as a descendant of beautiful cities like Rome and Vienna. I loved it more, though, because of its unique urban experience: the feeling of camaraderie in some places, solitude in others, grandeur at focal points, and street life throughout. I could go on and on, but I’ll end by saying that New York is truly its own world, one that has dazzled and infatuated me since I could explore it as a kid.

That’s how I got here, following in the footsteps of the famed critic Ada Louise Huxtable, hoping that I could show people, New Yorkers and visitors alike, the places that make New York so transcendent in this messy world.

Read on, and let me know if you find anything inspirational.

City air makes free. – Medieval saying