Tag: modernism

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

Washington Square Village’s Hidden Treasure

Daniel J BorreroLeave a comment

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