181983-85 Sullivan StreetArchitect: UnknownLocation: 83-85 Sullivan Street Just a doorway. A reasonably intact Federal-style entrance is a rarity within a rarity. When the neighborhoods changed and the buildings went from residential to commercial uses, ground floors that once communicated hospitality towards one’s peers (and one’s peers alone) were accordingly altered to maximize foot-traffic and window-shopping for the greater public. Charles Lockwood’s Bricks and Brownstone says: “The usual Federal style doorway had a delicately leaded rectangular toplight and, often, leaded sidelights. The single wooden door had six or eight deeply set planels, often edged with a delicate egg-and-dart pattern or beading, and brass or silver doorknob and knocker.” 83 has no sidelights (these would be thin panes of glass to the side of the door), edge detailing, or a knocker, but still, pretty typical for the time. We’ll compare this to the more ornate Late Federal and Greek Revival doorways in later entries. Anyway, it’s good to know they finally removed the wreath.
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1819
83-85 Sullivan Street

Architect: Unknown
Location: 83-85 Sullivan Street

Just a doorway. A reasonably intact Federal-style entrance is a rarity within a rarity. When the neighborhoods changed and the buildings went from residential to commercial uses, ground floors that once communicated hospitality towards one’s peers (and one’s peers alone) were accordingly altered to maximize foot-traffic and window-shopping for the greater public.

Charles Lockwood’s Bricks and Brownstone says: “The usual Federal style doorway had a delicately leaded rectangular toplight and, often, leaded sidelights. The single wooden door had six or eight deeply set planels, often edged with a delicate egg-and-dart pattern or beading, and brass or silver doorknob and knocker.” 83 has no sidelights (these would be thin panes of glass to the side of the door), edge detailing, or a knocker, but still, pretty typical for the time. We’ll compare this to the more ornate Late Federal and Greek Revival doorways in later entries.

Anyway, it’s good to know they finally removed the wreath.

1817James Brown HouseArchitect: UnknownLocation: 326 Spring Street First it was a fashionable townhouse in a nice, suburban neighborhood, built for a tobacconist who may or may not have been a black man. The nice suburban neighborhood declined as Manhattan neighborhoods often did, and the haute townhouse was transformed into a brewery, restaurant, speakeasy, and plain-old dive bar, serving the sailors and longshoreman who worked nearby. After accruing nearly a hundred years of rundown aura, it was purchased by a guy who took the time to restore it when he wasn’t tending bar or bringing in avant-entertainment to the place. There are, perhaps, Federal-style townhouses in the city whose restorations were perhaps more sweated-over than this one’s. There are Federal-style townhouses that are used and used-up: those on Canal Street (which we’ll cover later) come to mind. But this is the only one that seems lived in to me: as a neighborhood bar, it achieves an understanding with the people who frequent it that a trophy house or a discount electronics store can never really enjoy. (Not overtly, anyway.) It is loved.
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1817
James Brown House

Architect: Unknown
Location: 326 Spring Street

First it was a fashionable townhouse in a nice, suburban neighborhood, built for a tobacconist who may or may not have been a black man. The nice suburban neighborhood declined as Manhattan neighborhoods often did, and the haute townhouse was transformed into a brewery, restaurant, speakeasy, and plain-old dive bar, serving the sailors and longshoreman who worked nearby. After accruing nearly a hundred years of rundown aura, it was purchased by a guy who took the time to restore it when he wasn’t tending bar or bringing in avant-entertainment to the place.

There are, perhaps, Federal-style townhouses in the city whose restorations were perhaps more sweated-over than this one’s. There are Federal-style townhouses that are used and used-up: those on Canal Street (which we’ll cover later) come to mind. But this is the only one that seems lived in to me: as a neighborhood bar, it achieves an understanding with the people who frequent it that a trophy house or a discount electronics store can never really enjoy. (Not overtly, anyway.) It is loved.

1816Stephen Van Rensselaer HouseArchitect: UnknownLocation: 149 Mulberry Street Built Manhattan has covered quite a lot of Federal-style buildings, and there’ll be more. I’m afraid you may think all these spartan three-bay wide, two-and-a-half/three-story buildings make for visually monotonous tumblring. They stay within a relatively narrow range of appearance and ambition, regardless of whether they’re seaport warehouses or a home for someone like Stephen van Renssaeler III—who, by one metric, was the tenth-richest American of all time. But the monotony is telling. This is the architecture of a people whose identity is tied to the young country, is suspicious of ostentation, and not yet accepting of great extremes of wealth and poverty. As Burrows and Wallace point out in Gotham “…[F]rom the street it wasn’t usually so easy to gauge who occupied a residence or how it was being used. Indeed, the unpretentiousness of [Federal style] dwellings was a matter of some pride to an elite that took republicanism seriously…” Well, to a point, anyway: Van Renssaeler was also the owner of a 1,200-square-mile manor upstate where 3,000 tenants lived in neo-feudalist fashion. The severity of Manhattan’s architecture changes irrevocably as its economy starts to cook, especially once the Erie Canal gets built (construction starts next year) and goods pour in and out of the city to degrees that cities unconnected to this route through the Midwest—such as Philadelphia and Baltimore—cannot match. We’ll track all this in upcoming entries, as Federalist style gives way to Late Federalist, Greek Revival, Gothic, and Italianate, and everything gets bigger, bigger, bigger.
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1816
Stephen Van Rensselaer House

Architect: Unknown
Location: 149 Mulberry Street

Built Manhattan has covered quite a lot of Federal-style buildings, and there’ll be more. I’m afraid you may think all these spartan three-bay wide, two-and-a-half/three-story buildings make for visually monotonous tumblring. They stay within a relatively narrow range of appearance and ambition, regardless of whether they’re seaport warehouses or a home for someone like Stephen van Renssaeler III—who, by one metric, was the tenth-richest American of all time.

But the monotony is telling. This is the architecture of a people whose identity is tied to the young country, is suspicious of ostentation, and not yet accepting of great extremes of wealth and poverty. As Burrows and Wallace point out in Gotham “…[F]rom the street it wasn’t usually so easy to gauge who occupied a residence or how it was being used. Indeed, the unpretentiousness of [Federal style] dwellings was a matter of some pride to an elite that took republicanism seriously…” Well, to a point, anyway: Van Renssaeler was also the owner of a 1,200-square-mile manor upstate where 3,000 tenants lived in neo-feudalist fashion.

The severity of Manhattan’s architecture changes irrevocably as its economy starts to cook, especially once the Erie Canal gets built (construction starts next year) and goods pour in and out of the city to degrees that cities unconnected to this route through the Midwest—such as Philadelphia and Baltimore—cannot match. We’ll track all this in upcoming entries, as Federalist style gives way to Late Federalist, Greek Revival, Gothic, and Italianate, and everything gets bigger, bigger, bigger.

1815Old St. Patrick’s CathedralArchitect: Joseph François ManginLocation: 263 Mulberry Street New York Catholicism, ascendant and defiant. The Glorious Revolution of 1688 had virtually eliminated Roman Catholicism from public life in Great Britain, and, by extension, its colonies. After the Revolutionary War, New York City had maybe only a thousand adherents to the faith in the city. (That’s the number I see in Gotham; other sources put it as low as 200 and 100.) Immigration, largely from Ireland and Germany, quickly upped the numbers to 10,000 in 1806; by 1808, New York could sustain a diocese of its own. Construction on Old St. Patrick’s — the St. Patrick’s before THE St. Patrick’s began a year later, although it wouldn’t be complete until 1815. There’d be more Catholics in the city, lots more, and we’re not even talking about the aftermath of Ireland’s Great Famine. But anti-Catholic antipathy that characterized life in much of Colonial America persisted well into the life of the new country. In the 1830s and 1840s, the likes of Samuel Morse (again, the telegraph guy) and Lyman Beecher (Harriet Beecher Stowe’s dad) would thunder that Roman Catholicism was inimical to American values, that millions of Catholics were marching lockstep to the orders of the Pope, even that the Vatican has masterminded the explosion in immigration as a way to undermine the republic. There were riots. Churches were burned and Catholics were killed. But in the midst of all this, St. Patrick’s Bishop John J. Hughes opted against reconciliation, boasting that the Church’s aim was, yes, to convert the whole world, right on down to “the Legislatures, the Senate, the Cabinet, the President, and all.” And he told the Nativist mayor of New York City that “if a single Catholic church is burned in New York, the city will become a second Moscow.” And Old St. Patrick’s website implies that Hughes was behind the construction of the wall to protect his congregation. You could, of course, draw parallels to certain recent events. But somebody already did that for us.
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1815
Old St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Architect: Joseph François Mangin
Location: 263 Mulberry Street

New York Catholicism, ascendant and defiant.

The Glorious Revolution of 1688 had virtually eliminated Roman Catholicism from public life in Great Britain, and, by extension, its colonies. After the Revolutionary War, New York City had maybe only a thousand adherents to the faith in the city. (That’s the number I see in Gotham; other sources put it as low as 200 and 100.) Immigration, largely from Ireland and Germany, quickly upped the numbers to 10,000 in 1806; by 1808, New York could sustain a diocese of its own. Construction on Old St. Patrick’s — the St. Patrick’s before THE St. Patrick’s began a year later, although it wouldn’t be complete until 1815.

There’d be more Catholics in the city, lots more, and we’re not even talking about the aftermath of Ireland’s Great Famine. But anti-Catholic antipathy that characterized life in much of Colonial America persisted well into the life of the new country. In the 1830s and 1840s, the likes of Samuel Morse (again, the telegraph guy) and Lyman Beecher (Harriet Beecher Stowe’s dad) would thunder that Roman Catholicism was inimical to American values, that millions of Catholics were marching lockstep to the orders of the Pope, even that the Vatican has masterminded the explosion in immigration as a way to undermine the republic. There were riots. Churches were burned and Catholics were killed. But in the midst of all this, St. Patrick’s Bishop John J. Hughes opted against reconciliation, boasting that the Church’s aim was, yes, to convert the whole world, right on down to “the Legislatures, the Senate, the Cabinet, the President, and all.” And he told the Nativist mayor of New York City that “if a single Catholic church is burned in New York, the city will become a second Moscow.” And Old St. Patrick’s website implies that Hughes was behind the construction of the wall to protect his congregation.

You could, of course, draw parallels to certain recent events. But somebody already did that for us.

181436-38 Dover StreetArchitect: UnknownLocation: 36-38 Dover Street And yet more seaport, this time at its furthest reaches by the Brooklyn Bridge where the tourists don’t (much) go—though I swear I saw Rich Sommer walk by after I took this picture, maybe going to the bar around the corner? Don’t remember. 36-38 Dover was owned by David Lydig who had a flour concern round these parts, and sold out when he realized the Erie Canal would bring in competition from the Midwest. The Seaport wasn’t all fish, you know.
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1814
36-38 Dover Street

Architect: Unknown
Location: 36-38 Dover Street

And yet more seaport, this time at its furthest reaches by the Brooklyn Bridge where the tourists don’t (much) go—though I swear I saw Rich Sommer walk by after I took this picture, maybe going to the bar around the corner? Don’t remember. 36-38 Dover was owned by David Lydig who had a flour concern round these parts, and sold out when he realized the Erie Canal would bring in competition from the Midwest. The Seaport wasn’t all fish, you know.

181338-40 Peck SlipArchitect: UnknownLocation: 38-40 Peck Slip More seaport (albeit less mall-like than before), more Peck Slip, more former warehouses housing distinctly unwarehouse-like businesses. (“The Salty Paw”?) Originally a set of three buildings, 36 Peck Slip (which would be on the right) was demolished at some unknown point after it was landmarked by the city, and replaced with a modern thing by Cook + Fox.
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1813
38-40 Peck Slip

Architect: Unknown
Location: 38-40 Peck Slip

More seaport (albeit less mall-like than before), more Peck Slip, more former warehouses housing distinctly unwarehouse-like businesses. (“The Salty Paw”?) Originally a set of three buildings, 36 Peck Slip (which would be on the right) was demolished at some unknown point after it was landmarked by the city, and replaced with a modern thing by Cook + Fox.

1812Schermerhorn RowArchitect: UnknownLocation: 2-18 Fulton Street My family’s main mall, Roosevelt Field, treated its pre-history with an appalling casualness. When it was the site of an airfield, Lindbergh began his famous trip across the Atlantic there. Apparently there was a plaque commemorating the flight somewhere, but even back when I went to the mall on a weekly basis, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you where it was. I grew up with the South Street Seaport, too. After the divorce, when Dad made a point of bonding with me and my brothers, he’d sometimes take us there. It was the big new thing at the time, 1983, 1984: festival marketplaces, malls with history acknowledged rather than steamrolled. And malls all the same. Excepting the ships—and that’s a huge exception, they were the most obviously interesting thing (to a kid, anyway)—Schermerhorn Row was the central thesis to the Seaport’s claim to Real Actual History. The Schermerhorns built this unbroken, undifferentiated series of Federal-style warehouses in 1811 and 1812 to support all the shipping activity nearby. Gradually they accrued distinctions and differences to fit the needs of their tenants: saloons, hotels, restaurants, craft shops, on and on. And then almost all of those distinctions were lost in the renovation that turned the seaport from a dying proposition to a tourist hangout. Still, if you go inside, up to the museum space on the top floor, the corroded brick walls of these buildings, scraped and sanded as they were, are still endlessly suggestive of the raw stuff of history. Could the pre-adolescent Michael Daddino have told you what was so important about South Street Seaport? I doubt it. It was all over my head. (The ships were cool, though.)
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1812
Schermerhorn Row

Architect: Unknown
Location: 2-18 Fulton Street

My family’s main mall, Roosevelt Field, treated its pre-history with an appalling casualness. When it was the site of an airfield, Lindbergh began his famous trip across the Atlantic there. Apparently there was a plaque commemorating the flight somewhere, but even back when I went to the mall on a weekly basis, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you where it was.

I grew up with the South Street Seaport, too. After the divorce, when Dad made a point of bonding with me and my brothers, he’d sometimes take us there. It was the big new thing at the time, 1983, 1984: festival marketplaces, malls with history acknowledged rather than steamrolled. And malls all the same.

Excepting the ships—and that’s a huge exception, they were the most obviously interesting thing (to a kid, anyway)—Schermerhorn Row was the central thesis to the Seaport’s claim to Real Actual History. The Schermerhorns built this unbroken, undifferentiated series of Federal-style warehouses in 1811 and 1812 to support all the shipping activity nearby. Gradually they accrued distinctions and differences to fit the needs of their tenants: saloons, hotels, restaurants, craft shops, on and on. And then almost all of those distinctions were lost in the renovation that turned the seaport from a dying proposition to a tourist hangout. Still, if you go inside, up to the museum space on the top floor, the corroded brick walls of these buildings, scraped and sanded as they were, are still endlessly suggestive of the raw stuff of history.

Could the pre-adolescent Michael Daddino have told you what was so important about South Street Seaport? I doubt it. It was all over my head. (The ships were cool, though.)

1811Commissioners’ Plan of 1811Architects: Gouverneur Morris, Simeon De Witt, and John RutherfurdLocation: All of Manhattan Castle Clinton and City Hall are finished this year, and yes, they are very fine and very important. Beloved, even. But no man-made feature of Manhattan defines it quite as fiercely as its street grid, established this year and laid out in fits and starts throughout the 19th century. Above is a pictorial representation. (You can view it larger here.) Each picture was taken from one of the hundred intersections between 14th through 23rd Streets and First through Tenth Avenues, discounting all the unnumeric outliers like Lexington and Broadway. I started at 14th and First (the bottom-right photo), worked my west to Tenth (bottom-left), then went up one, then east back to First, and so on and so on until I snaked my way to 23rd and First (top-right). It took seven hours to cover sixteen miles. It hurt like hell. People then and now have criticized the grid as overbearingly rational, graph-paper monotonous, “Cartesian” and “Euclidean.” It organizes the city not according to the accidents of the island’s topography, but the most efficient way to parcel property and construct buildings: it declares the primary purpose of the city to be real estate speculation. And it has none of the romance of European cities, those that grew in piecemeal fashion over the course of centuries. But this, I think, neglects America’s peculiar genius for variation within repetition, the changing same, which plays out in the urban landscape–our streets and rowhouses and skyscrapers–no less vividly than in our art and commerce.
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1811
Commissioners’ Plan of 1811

Architects: Gouverneur Morris, Simeon De Witt, and John Rutherfurd
Location: All of Manhattan

Castle Clinton and City Hall are finished this year, and yes, they are very fine and very important. Beloved, even. But no man-made feature of Manhattan defines it quite as fiercely as its street grid, established this year and laid out in fits and starts throughout the 19th century.

Above is a pictorial representation. (You can view it larger here.) Each picture was taken from one of the hundred intersections between 14th through 23rd Streets and First through Tenth Avenues, discounting all the unnumeric outliers like Lexington and Broadway. I started at 14th and First (the bottom-right photo), worked my west to Tenth (bottom-left), then went up one, then east back to First, and so on and so on until I snaked my way to 23rd and First (top-right). It took seven hours to cover sixteen miles. It hurt like hell.

People then and now have criticized the grid as overbearingly rational, graph-paper monotonous, “Cartesian” and “Euclidean.” It organizes the city not according to the accidents of the island’s topography, but the most efficient way to parcel property and construct buildings: it declares the primary purpose of the city to be real estate speculation. And it has none of the romance of European cities, those that grew in piecemeal fashion over the course of centuries.

But this, I think, neglects America’s peculiar genius for variation within repetition, the changing same, which plays out in the urban landscape–our streets and rowhouses and skyscrapers–no less vividly than in our art and commerce.

1810Robert and Anne Dickey HouseArchitect: UnknownLocation: 67 Greenwich Street It may not be much to look at now, but this was a big townhouse: most of them were just three bays wide and two-and-a-half stories tall, and this one is four bays wide and originally three-and-half stories wide. As you can tell from the rupture in brick patterns, the full fourth story was a later add-on: most of the building is in Flemish bond until you hit the top story, which goes short-short-short for a row, then long-long-long for five rows, then short-short-short for a row, and so on. This is pattern is called Common or American bond. By the time the building was so altered in 1872, the street had gone from a “Millionaire’s Row” of Schermerhorns and Clintons to one of pure honky-tonk, home to the immigrants coming into the nation from Castle Clinton nearby. Seemingly a hardware store today (I’ve never actually seen it open), the building has deftly avoided any serious restoration attempts—I mean, who’d want to live in a walkup near the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel?
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1810
Robert and Anne Dickey House

Architect: Unknown
Location: 67 Greenwich Street

It may not be much to look at now, but this was a big townhouse: most of them were just three bays wide and two-and-a-half stories tall, and this one is four bays wide and originally three-and-half stories wide. As you can tell from the rupture in brick patterns, the full fourth story was a later add-on: most of the building is in Flemish bond until you hit the top story, which goes short-short-short for a row, then long-long-long for five rows, then short-short-short for a row, and so on. This is pattern is called Common or American bond.

By the time the building was so altered in 1872, the street had gone from a “Millionaire’s Row” of Schermerhorns and Clintons to one of pure honky-tonk, home to the immigrants coming into the nation from Castle Clinton nearby. Seemingly a hardware store today (I’ve never actually seen it open), the building has deftly avoided any serious restoration attempts—I mean, who’d want to live in a walkup near the Brooklyn Battery Tunnel?