Marathoners, police chases, bats. . . and the Croton Aqueduct

I can’t believe it’s been exactly a year since I uploaded this audio! Last spring, my second semester preservation studio developed an interpretive plan for the Croton Waterworks, a complex system of historic infrastructure that winds from rural towns north of New York City down into the heart of Manhattan. Our team of twelve researched and documented hundreds of structures, studied existing legal protections and threats, and worked with the many stakeholders along the aqueduct’s path to design signage and collaborate on a comprehensive plan for conveying the often-ignored system’s history and significance to varied audiences.

The Croton Waterworks’ century-and-a-half and forty-one miles have left a trail of not only structures but also stories. Of the many pleasures I experienced in working on the project, my favorite was the privilege to hear and record longtime Westchester residents as they reminisced and discussed their personal views of the aqueduct’s significance. Remnants of the system’s conclusion in Manhattan are quiet: fragments of the Murray Hill Reservoir lie generally unvisited in the New York Public Library, and it is easy to walk past a Croton gatehouse and, without knowing its significance, perceive it as simply one more handsome structure fading into the crowded city’s built landscape. For residents of Westchester County, where the system originates, the aqueduct has a louder presence. We knew that our interpretation would be incomplete without consulting residents, so I took the train up to Westchester to conduct mini-oral histories in Croton and Ossining, two towns where the Waterworks are integrated into everyday life.

One of my gracious subjects was Captain Scott Craven of the Ossining Police Force, who shared his memories of growing up alongside the aqueduct and explained how the police make use of the Croton structures in unexpected ways. My afternoon ended with a tour of the police station, a chat with the Chief of Police and other officers about their own memories of the Aqueduct, and even an escort back to the train station (which I’m pleased to say has been my only experience in a police car). I left Westchester assured that preservation is not only about buildings; it is also very much about people.

I’ll post more Croton oral history clips in the coming weeks; for now, enjoy the tales of Captain Scott!

Learn more about the Aqueduct and our project, and check out the finished product.

“I would not be a biographer for all the tea in China.”

In progress (with chianti)

Bound (and determined)

Tomorrow, I don my preservationist armor and go to the defense of my master’s thesis, that tome which has kept me constant company — and often, kept me from this blog — over the past seven months. Currently titled “Concealed Certainty and Undeniable Conjecture: Placing Marginalized Heritage,” it explores the challenges of interpreting sites related to under-documented community heritage. I suppose I could publish it here as a series of thirty 1000-word posts…but instead, I’ll settle for sharing my epigraph, which in fact isn’t settling at all. This paragraph opens Mary Oliver’s essay “Steepletop,” featured in her collection Blue Pastures. As a young aspiring poet in 1953, Mary wrote to Norma Millay to ask if she could visit Steepletop, the home of the late poet Edna St. Vincent Millay, Norma’s sister and Mary’s literary idol. Norma’s consent resulted in a friendship between the two women. Mary lived at Steepletop off and on for seven years—including the period of her schooling at Vassar, Vincent’s alma mater—and helped Norma to organize her sister’s papers. In this essay, Mary directly addresses her experience sorting through the stored papers and stories Norma shared with her: stories that I long to hear, because Steepletop happens to be one of the five case study sites in my thesis. I’ll admit, I grew a bit teary when I came across these lines; as many day-long coffee dates as my thesis and I had shared, I knew that I had reached the heart of it when I read Mary Oliver’s words.

“Biographers, of all writers, have need of prayers, and answered prayers. The graceful angles and sinuations of clean prose may finally be chiseled from the language, but what of the material itself? How can the biographer know when enough is known, and known with sufficient certainty? What about secrets, what about errors, what about the small black holes where there is nothing at all? What about the wranglings among minor characters, the withholding of facts for thoughtful and not-so-thoughtful reasons—or their mishandling—and this not even in the present but in the past, hidden in letters, in remembered conversations, in reams of papers? And what about the waywardness of life itself—the proclivity toward randomness—the sudden meaningless uplift of wind that tosses out one sheet of paper and keeps another? What about the moment that speaks worlds, as the saying goes, but in the middle of the night, and into deaf ears, and so is never heard, or heard of? I would not be a biographer for all the tea in China.”

Mary Oliver walking in the graveyard at Steepletop. Photo by Helen Atwan, http://www.beaconbroadside.com/broadside/2008/05/on-the-road-wit.html

Mary Oliver, “Steepletop,” Blue Pastures, (Orlando: Harcourt Books, 1991): 73-74.

Sandstorms and birthdays

Soon after the fall that would eventually end her life, my grandma thought of sandstorms in Australia. She spoke of this phenomenon and this place that she had never seen in her ninety years with an urgency and fixation that we could not explain. During my days visiting a Texas hospital, though I did not know they would be my last with her, I scribbled down her words — because she so often recorded mine in her journal when we spoke on the phone, and because she had always spoken in truths, and I knew this riddle must be no different: “Are you familiar with the sandstorms in Australia? They come to take the land, infiltrate everything. I’ve been fighting them all my life. Now the sand has filled my house. Go check on it.”

I would see her house once more, staying there to attend her funeral two months later, and all was still. There was no sand. But now that house, with its grey-blue carpet and its ceiling glitter — like stars, I had always thought, or was it silver-coated sand — belongs to someone else, and I think I know what she meant. As I described when I began this blog in her honor, Grandma had archived her own history, and so mine, too, keeping daily records of her travels and phone calls and meals, of the thank-you notes she received after gift-giving, of the origin of every thimble and china dish in her collections. In our last days together, she was telling me why she lived this way, as if by means of that timeless metaphor, the sands of time: it was time that came to take the land, time she had been fighting, time she feared had finally filled her house. Her crewelwork and photos on the walls, the smell of caramel and cherry and buttermilk pies, the files and boxes of clippings, photos, letters, lists, all of it has been deconstructed now, deaccessioned among her family. We couldn’t save her house from the sandstorms, but they haven’t won.

My grandma, Vera B. Stallcup Taylor, and her beloved sister, Beth Stallcup Young. Grandma loved this photograph that hung in a convex oval frame on her bedroom wall.

Today, on what would have been Grandma’s ninety-second birthday, my sister and I will fool the hourglass, share memories of her, play her favorite card games, fight sandstorms. And eat pie; there will always be pie.

 

The T.S. Eliot model of adaptive reuse (Part II)

Continuing from yesterday’s post

T.S. Eliot, Poet-Preservationist? (Photo from fondazione-delbianco.org)

In much of T.S. Eliot’s work, replete with architectural imagery, he ruminates on ruins, both structural and cultural, and what should become of them. While the Four Quartets, from which Adele Chatfield-Taylor quotes, were written and published during the course of World War II (and at the end of Eliot’s poetic career, with a theme of transcending time and endings evident even in Chatfield-Taylor’s selected lines), Eliot wrote the bulk of his poetic works during the period directly after WWI in England. In such works as The Waste Land (1922) and Ash Wednesday (1930), he observes and questions postwar remnants, viewing Europe as a “Waste Land” scattered with remains of past civilizations and cultures. He alludes to the historical cultures of Greece, Italy, France, England, Israel, and India, and even incorporates passages from their literary canons into his own work, physically reusing lines to reflect his theme of fragmentation and the urge to reunify. In content as in poetic form, his is a voice for adaptive reuse—a reuse that does not de-emphasize meaningful connection to history but rather echoes the past—indeed, a reuse in content as in built form.

Faced with the war’s rubble, Eliot, near the opening of The Waste Land, presents humanity, represented by the reader, with a question to which he presumes a response and precludes an answer: “What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow/ Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,/ You cannot say, or guess, for you know only/ A heap of broken images…” The subject of his musing, then, is the presence of life amid the vestiges of history; he does not suggest that it does not exist but rather that it cannot be found through humankind’s tendency to look at destruction and see only brokenness. Throughout the poem — and elsewhere in his works — he presents these images of postwar Europe, showing them to be broken, yes, but not dead. In the remaining architecture from the past, he hears history resonating in the present: “And upside down in air were towers/ Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours/ And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.”

Eliot focuses not on the past of these structures but on their interaction with his current reality, history’s presence within the present. As he says in Ash Wednesday (1930), “Because I know that time is always time/ And place is always and only place/ And what is actual is actual only for one time/ And only for one place/ I rejoice that things are as they are/…having to construct something/ Upon which to rejoice.” This construction is made up of his broken images and the continuity of life he sees in them; as Chatfield-Taylor suggests about the power of aged buildings, Eliot finds in ruins the potential to feel connected with a past “continuum” of “fellow-existence” through communal human experience. As he points out in “What the Thunder Said,” the fifth and final section of The Waste Land, “He who was living is now dead/ We who were living are now dying.” For Eliot, the potential of that union is harnessed by incorporating and reinterpreting the ruins in a way that refracts their meaning through a contemporary lens.

The last lines of The Waste Land that are written in his own primary voice, in a final stanza otherwise largely comprised of quotations alluding to Italian, English, and Indian literature, he offers his conclusion to the challenge he initially set, the search for “roots” and “branches”—continuity of life—amid the “stony rubble” the past has left behind: “London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down/…/These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”  Taking possession of these ruins, Eliot has gathered images of them—and bits of past cultures’ literature—and propped them up against the past to create a new present. He has thus, in both form and content, illustrated his own perspective of the principles of adaptive reuse.

Eliot, preserved (Photo from bloomsburybytes.wordpress.com)

Although Eliot was writing in England several decades before the emergence of the historic preservation movement in New York City and elsewhere in the United States, his work, as Chatfield-Taylor was right to suggest indirectly, speaks to the ideas that impelled the movement’s evolution. Addressing concerns of what light in which to regard remnants of the past, what place they should have in present-day society, and what should be done to secure that place to them, Eliot essentially arrives at the solution of adaptive reuse. The model of adaptive reuse that he seems to suggest, however, is one that would maintain elements of the meaning of a building’s interior life as well as exterior. Presumably for Eliot, the building should attempt to reflect (or refract) both the original form and original content, while adapting to a present-day community’s interpretation of that content’s meaning—“shor[ing]” the current “fragments” against the “ruins” of a community’s history in order to build a living present that truly registers the continuum of human existence.

The T.S. Eliot model of adaptive reuse (Part I)

The evolution of the historic preservation movement, itself deserving of historic preservation and exemplified by the local movement in New York City, has been marked by ongoing debate over the intentions and priorities that have driven it. Adele Chatfield-Taylor recounted the story of this debate, in a speech called “From Ruskin to Rouse,” at a symposium in 1989 celebrating the twentieth anniversary of my graduate program at Columbia, including ideas she had published under the same title in Canadian Heritage in 1985. In the transcript of this speech (see Historic Preservation: Forging a Discipline, NY: Preservation Alumni, Inc., 1989), Chatfield-Taylor contrasts the economic and artistic motives of the movement’s various supporters. The concerns of business and real estate have sometimes prevailed, she says, particularly after the passage of the Tax Reform Act of 1976 created economic incentives for the preservation of certain properties. This money-minded view of preservation is a necessary one, as preservation is a pricey activity with financial consequences on the value of property.

On the other hand, Chatfield-Taylor herself presents preservation as an art form, viewing historic buildings as “more than beautiful works of architecture. They are vehicles of culture, ‘lyric totals,’ and in their evolved states, whole works of art, in whose intangible elements the true value lies, because it is there that we find the signs of life.” These intangible elements include her appreciation of “buildings that have registered the imprint of the passage of time;” she sees preservation, then, as a way of concretizing the abstract concepts of time and progression of the human race, a means of “connection to a continuum, a fellow-existence.” For her, the drive to preserve buildings “as an aesthetic undertaking is as pressing and as valid as the need to write a poem.”

While advocating this more artistic side of preservation, Chatfield-Taylor recognizes the necessity of the economic side and says, “we must figure out how to have both simultaneously.” In his own history of the preservation movement featured in the oft-referred-to book Mickey Mouse History and Other Essays on American Memory, Mike Wallace recalls the introduction of the idea seen as a compromise between art and economy: adaptive reuse. He attributes to Ada Louise Huxtable the goal of “‘finding ways to keep those original buildings that provide the city’s character and continuity and of incorporating them into its living mainstream’ — not placing them in ‘sterile isolation.'” According to Wallace, for the advocates of a kind of adaptive reuse that used an old building’s exterior structure to contain an entirely new building, the old “building’s connection to specific people and events, was unimportant. They shifted their emphasis from meaning to ambience.”

But is that shift necessary to the principles of adaptive reuse? Is it not possible for adaptive reuse to be a means of respecting old life and reinterpreting it, neither forcing sterility upon it, as Huxtable fears, nor losing that sense of connection that Chatfield-Taylor values? For adaptive reuse to be a truly balanced approach, it should address both the structure of the building and the inner life the building contains. It should require not living in the past but honoring it as the basis of development—living in the present but realizing it as the product of history.

In explaining the significance of survey and designation in presenting preservation to outsiders, Chatfield-Taylor supports her comparison of preservation and poetry by quoting a poet, T. S. Eliot: “We shall not cease from exploration/and the end of our exploring will be to arrive where we started/and know the place for the first time.” Eliot is, in fact, a powerfully relevant poet to include in discussing preservation.

Tune in tomorrow to find out why I think so…

All signs point to a Happy Kansas Day!

I have emerged from my thesis cave to celebrate the first big holiday of the new year. That’s right, folks…Happy Kansas Day!

At my Texan middle school, my math teacher and now dear friend Myron taught me more than how to calculate the slope of a line; he showed me how to take active pride in history. A historian in his spare time who has written about the Texas postal system and his experience flying 0-2B airplanes in the Vietnam War, he is also a dedicated ambassador of his home state of Kansas…which entered the Union on today’s date in 1861. Every year, on January 29, signs would appear around campus—on doors and windows, in the elevator and the pages of library books—bearing wishes for a Happy Kansas Day. Some featured facts about the state of Kansas (the state amphibian of Kansas is the barred tiger salamander), others hand-colored sunflowers (the state flower); all generated a great deal more conversation about Kansas than would normally be heard in a Texas middle school hallway.

He tells me that he started the tradition in hopes of encouraging people to consider and even “advertise” the origins of their own home states. It didn’t quite take off that way; few people seem to have such loyalty for their state, respect for its roots, and initiative for raising awareness. Of all places, this must be especially true in NYC, where notoriously few people are native New Yorkers but many are quick to adopt the New Yorker identity. But that is all the more reason to spread the Kansas Day joy. Last year, I received an envelope full of Myron’s handmade signs from years past, passed along to me with a list of suggested spots to post them (e.g. “side of a bus—don’t get run over”). I relished seeing them pinned up in halls around Columbia and clinging to the glass of NYC bus stops (not the buses themselves—I’m a coward) until the snow took them down. This year, I made photocopies, preserving the remaining originals so that wherever I am on each January 29, I can share with strangers a bit of cheerful curiosity on behalf of the Sunflower State.

Love to Myron, Kansas, and statehood in general, and a very happy Kansas Day to all.

Click to zoom...Columbia and Kansas Day

Dear Barnes & Noble, please don't ban me as a litterer if you see this.

 

Open House NY: Another haven among headstoneless graves

After Sunday’s tour of “Sacred Havens of the East Village” for Open House New York, I hurried to the New York Marble Cemetery to spend an hour there before it closed. Open to the public only a few days per year, the burial ground sometimes known as the “Second Avenue Cemetery” is the “oldest public non-sectarian cemetery in New York City.” Interments took place in 156 underground, Tuckahoe marble vaults, marked above ground at their entrances by markers prone in the grass, and some by monuments. Without headstones, the cemetery has the initial sense of a private garden, its rows of flat markers resembling hopscotch squares. But after time spent there, the place reveals an air of sanctity that only an historic cemetery can evoke. The first three images below are of a poster, displayed for OHNY, with photos and drawings of the cemetery vaults in plan and section; click to zoom and find out how the site was designed. Scroll down for a slideshow of photos I took in this quiet corner of the city.



9/11 at a Decade: built memories and a shattered plant

As the September 11 attacks were unfolding, I was in Houston and could not have imagined that I would find myself living in NYC on the tenth anniversary, much less studying historic preservation of buildings. To be honest, I didn’t even know at first that the World Trade Center buildings were located in NYC. When the substitute teacher in my English class received word that “someone had flown into the World Trade Center,” my immediate image was a parachutist in Chicago, all broken silk and glass, and I wondered why this strange news merited interrupting first period. Even as the true scope of what had happened began to reveal itself—first through whispered exchanges on the stairwell between classes, then when a teacher (world history, as I recall) finally succumbed to turning on the television—I was not thinking of a tenth anniversary. I was only four years into my own second decade, after all. Still, I had an awareness that I was witnessing an event that would not be forgotten—that even as we all were living it, was staking its claim of significance in the soon-to-be past. This idea persisted as I sat in my pink rocking chair watching the news with my parents and sister in our living room, after school and into the night, and as I wrote in one of my half-empty attempts at a diary an entry that consisted of only the date, which seemed sufficient. It was a sense that I had never before experienced, and have only since approached on rare occasions. Yesterday was one of them.

Yesterday morning, as I sat in the windowsill of my NYC apartment, the city clamor had a changed vibration, the cathedral bells ringing new times—8:46, 9:03—and the sirens layered with distant bagpipes and the chanting of names from my computer’s live feed of the ceremony downtown. Because my loved ones had asked that I avoid public gatherings, I planned to respect both their concerns for my safety and the gravity of the date by staying at home and willing myself back to Houston, trying to revive and relive my memories of September 11, 2001. I found myself distracted by the fragmentation of the story, the images bound by a shapeless space. The parachutist, the stairwell, the pink chair. The towers, the fires, the ash. Perhaps I had not done enough to preserve the day; I’d had the privilege of being alive for it, yet I had let it so much of it die. I shifted in the sill and knocked my jade plant to the ground, and only then did I begin to cry. Dirt and pebbles spilled across the carpet; juicy round leaves cracked, and a branch split from the stem. I gathered the green debris, set it back in the window, and stared at it until I could no longer bear to. Down the street, as I reached the florist’s block, I wove through dozens of firefighters drinking beers on the corner outside of a pub; the FDNY had held their official ceremony at the Firemen’s Memorial a few blocks away. I knew how absurd I must have looked, clutching a broken plant to my chest, given what was surely on their minds. In the flower shop, the owner declared my jade an emergency and called over one of her plant caretakers. He pulled out the plant, dangling strings of dirt, and replaced it in a refilled pot between green support sticks, then dipped my stem shard in white powder and planted it to grow roots of its own. When I returned my reconstructed little succulent once again to the window, it somehow seemed more whole, set and spread across the soil, than it had before the collapse.

I hadn’t intended to mark the day this way and worried, at first, that I would regret having been in NYC for the tenth anniversary and allowing the emotional climax to be crying over chlorophyll. But in hindsight, I don’t think that I will. I have realized that, while September 11 led to a lot of confusion, what it brought me closer to understanding was the nature of history. It seems to me that we are not the creators of history; history creates itself, and the best that any one of us can do is to cultivate our disparate experiences of it such that whatever memories we manage to keep help it to grow in the direction of light. Historic preservation is memory reconstruction, digging, rooting, salvaging pieces to create a new whole that in its fragmentation honors the truth. On the tenth anniversary of the tenth anniversary, I think this is what I will remember: a windowsill, a street corner, and a pieced-together plant. And somehow, that seems enough.