1823486 Greenwich StreetArchitect: UnknownLocation: 486 Greenwich Street WATER SPILLED FROM SOURCE TO USE. A belt of words around a building. At first I thought it housed a water supplier of the Culligan variety, only smaller. Or once housed. WATER. Sure, you could think that. It must’ve been from the days when the neighborhood was common-sense commercial. It had the punch of an industrial slogan. Its type was clear to read and spoke with authority. Its sentiment was underlined (or overlined) with three star-shaped anchor plates above it. SOURCE. USE. If the latter was a noun, then it was consonant with the former. FROM. TO. Even in its brevity, it had a sense of movement. SOURCE. You want to stress the source of water. You want to know where it comes from. But still, the whole thing seemed off, like somebody’s all-too private conception of the hard sell. SPILLED. Spilled implies accident, a loss of control. Or perhaps it was just a demotic way to say the water was freed from its source. Also, the company’s name was gone. You’d think name and slogan alike would disappear. I was wrong. It had nothing to do with any former industrial tenant, and there were no men in trucks with plastic jugs of water. It’s a sculpture by Lawrence Weiner, made for the owners and tenants of the building, John Hendricks and later his brother, Geoffrey Hendricks. I had to do more sleuthing to confirm the work wasn’t some appropriation of an earlier industrial artifact. The NYC Landmarks Preservation Commission’s designation report has two pictures: in one picture from 1981, it says JOHNSTON IRON WORKS 486, and in a picture from 1987, it says WATER SPILLED FROM SOURCE TO USE.
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1823
486 Greenwich Street

Architect: Unknown
Location: 486 Greenwich Street

WATER SPILLED FROM SOURCE TO USE. A belt of words around a building. At first I thought it housed a water supplier of the Culligan variety, only smaller. Or once housed. WATER. Sure, you could think that. It must’ve been from the days when the neighborhood was common-sense commercial. It had the punch of an industrial slogan. Its type was clear to read and spoke with authority. Its sentiment was underlined (or overlined) with three star-shaped anchor plates above it. SOURCE. USE. If the latter was a noun, then it was consonant with the former. FROM. TO. Even in its brevity, it had a sense of movement. SOURCE. You want to stress the source of water. You want to know where it comes from. But still, the whole thing seemed off, like somebody’s all-too private conception of the hard sell. SPILLED. Spilled implies accident, a loss of control. Or perhaps it was just a demotic way to say the water was freed from its source. Also, the company’s name was gone. You’d think name and slogan alike would disappear.

I was wrong. It had nothing to do with any former industrial tenant, and there were no men in trucks with plastic jugs of water. It’s a sculpture by Lawrence Weiner, made for the owners and tenants of the building, John Hendricks and later his brother, Geoffrey Hendricks.

I had to do more sleuthing to confirm the work wasn’t some appropriation of an earlier industrial artifact. The NYC Landmarks Preservation Commission’s designation report has two pictures: in one picture from 1981, it says JOHNSTON IRON WORKS 486, and in a picture from 1987, it says WATER SPILLED FROM SOURCE TO USE.

1820105 Mercer StreetArchitect: UnknownLocation: 105 Mercer Street The last time I photographed this building, it was coated in teal with brilliant white on the details. The color would stand out in any neighborhood, but practically bounced off its neighbors in SoHo; most buildings here are white or neutral if they’re cast-irons, or deep red if in brick. The owners stripped the paint last year. That’s the fashion for old townhouses like this: most of the brick we’ve seen so far has been nude. Maybe it’s the expense of upkeep, and maybe it’s the charm in exposing the raw facts of a building’s history—like here, the awkward arch over the replacement window, or the nonconforming brick patterns on the top floor. According to Bricks and Brownstone, though, this contemporary fashion for unpainted brick is anachronistic: “During the early-nineteenth hegemony of the Federal style, the brick fronts of New York row houses usually were painted red or occasionally gray or cream…” adding, unbelievably, “and then false mortar lines added between bricks in white.” Fake mortar lines? I cannot think of a single building in Manhattan painted like this. It’s a gross and fussy and sort of pointless idea, like picking out all the rind from a jar of marmalade. The last time I wrote about this building, I noted that it had a brothel at some point. So did the those in our 1773, 1789, 1794, and 1817 entries. It was a not-uncommon fate for buildings once the rich started to abandon a neighborhood, as they abandoned (what would later be known as) SoHo in the 1850s.
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1820
105 Mercer Street

Architect: Unknown
Location: 105 Mercer Street

The last time I photographed this building, it was coated in teal with brilliant white on the details. The color would stand out in any neighborhood, but practically bounced off its neighbors in SoHo; most buildings here are white or neutral if they’re cast-irons, or deep red if in brick.

The owners stripped the paint last year. That’s the fashion for old townhouses like this: most of the brick we’ve seen so far has been nude. Maybe it’s the expense of upkeep, and maybe it’s the charm in exposing the raw facts of a building’s history—like here, the awkward arch over the replacement window, or the nonconforming brick patterns on the top floor.

According to Bricks and Brownstone, though, this contemporary fashion for unpainted brick is anachronistic: “During the early-nineteenth hegemony of the Federal style, the brick fronts of New York row houses usually were painted red or occasionally gray or cream…” adding, unbelievably, “and then false mortar lines added between bricks in white.” Fake mortar lines? I cannot think of a single building in Manhattan painted like this. It’s a gross and fussy and sort of pointless idea, like picking out all the rind from a jar of marmalade.

The last time I wrote about this building, I noted that it had a brothel at some point. So did the those in our 1773, 1789, 1794, and 1817 entries. It was a not-uncommon fate for buildings once the rich started to abandon a neighborhood, as they abandoned (what would later be known as) SoHo in the 1850s.

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.