1845Mariners TempleArchitect: Attributed to Isaac LucasLocation: 12 Oliver Street I rush down Worth Street, expecting nothing. Every time I’ve come here it’s been quiet. I even assumed it was defunct. But cars out front are double-parked—a sign of real activity, a rarity. Of the Sunday services for downtown churches, only Trinity’s could be considered well-attended; turn-outs for the others were never commensurate with church prestige. And with those low numbers was a sense of…embarrassment? Futility? The front door is blocked by a lady with her back towards me. Dressed all in white, I think she’s a nurse. Did it already start? No. She turns around, forgetful, and opens the door. I come in apologetically.  I am an outsider here, but I am always an outsider at these things. I come to churches, any and all of them, feeling fraudulent, a mere spectator, a voyeur, not a participant. The church is Baptist, and I was raised with Roman Catholicism, and my sympathies towards it remain, old and unweedable, ready to horrify unsuspecting boyfriends. And yet..and yet…the rituals of Catholic mass escape me. I can never cross myself right. I mumble the words, refuse communion—not because I don’t want the Church but because I sense the Church doesn’t want me. Also salient: I AM SHY. Like, I-would-rather-claw-the-skin-off-my-bones-than-talk-to-you-shy. It is a vast expenditure of mental energy to make eye contact with complete strangers. I take a seat in a pew all the way in the back, next to a column, hoping I’m ignored. I’m not ignored. About midway through the three-hour-and-fifteen-minute service, the pastor (I think it was the pastor) asks if the church has any visitors today. I don’t say anything. And everybody turns their heads, as in a slow wave, towards me. A kid comes up to me with a microphone. Great. What is my church? I don’t have a church. Not something I want to admit in a church, much less in front of a score of believers, much less in a church in front of a score of believers. I have to repeat it again, louder, because mumbled it the first time.Maybe half the church comes up and welcomes me. That crappy apologetic feeling I wear like a tattoo isn’t mutual. And that kinda makes it hurt worse.
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1845
Mariners Temple

Architect: Attributed to Isaac Lucas
Location: 12 Oliver Street

I rush down Worth Street, expecting nothing. Every time I’ve come here it’s been quiet. I even assumed it was defunct. But cars out front are double-parked—a sign of real activity, a rarity. Of the Sunday services for downtown churches, only Trinity’s could be considered well-attended; turn-outs for the others were never commensurate with church prestige. And with those low numbers was a sense of…embarrassment? Futility?

The front door is blocked by a lady with her back towards me. Dressed all in white, I think she’s a nurse. Did it already start? No. She turns around, forgetful, and opens the door.

I come in apologetically.  I am an outsider here, but I am always an outsider at these things. I come to churches, any and all of them, feeling fraudulent, a mere spectator, a voyeur, not a participant. The church is Baptist, and I was raised with Roman Catholicism, and my sympathies towards it remain, old and unweedable, ready to horrify unsuspecting boyfriends. And yet..and yet…the rituals of Catholic mass escape me. I can never cross myself right. I mumble the words, refuse communion—not because I don’t want the Church but because I sense the Church doesn’t want me. Also salient: I AM SHY. Like, I-would-rather-claw-the-skin-off-my-bones-than-talk-to-you-shy. It is a vast expenditure of mental energy to make eye contact with complete strangers. I take a seat in a pew all the way in the back, next to a column, hoping I’m ignored.

I’m not ignored. About midway through the three-hour-and-fifteen-minute service, the pastor (I think it was the pastor) asks if the church has any visitors today. I don’t say anything. And everybody turns their heads, as in a slow wave, towards me. A kid comes up to me with a microphone. Great. What is my church? I don’t have a church. Not something I want to admit in a church, much less in front of a score of believers, much less in a church in front of a score of believers. I have to repeat it again, louder, because mumbled it the first time.

Maybe half the church comes up and welcomes me. That crappy apologetic feeling I wear like a tattoo isn’t mutual. And that kinda makes it hurt worse.

1837St. James Church Architect: attributed to Minard LefeverLocation: 32 St. James Street A Greek Revival church, quite possibly from one of the leading lights of the style. But Minard Lefever’s most lasting contribution to American architecture isn’t anything that stands, or ever did stand. Instead, it might be his pattern books. You’ve probably noticed most entries so far don’t list an architect. Well, in the days before the profession was rationalized by government and professional associations like the AIA, few buildings were made according to customized plans drawn up by an architect. Doing so wouldn’t merely be considered expensive, but unnecessary, overwrought — like bringing out a bazooka to a deer hunt. Instead, for all but the most complex buildings, it would be considered enough for a builder to consult a pattern book that detailed possible floorplans and elevations, plus treatments for doorways, windows, fireplaces and the like in a wide variety of styles. A builder would then use his experience to adapt such designs to the contingencies of a site and the whims of the owner. Lafever’s four books, three of which had already been published by 1837, did much to promote the Greek Revival: suddenly, everybody with a little scratch can have their temple to Apollo.
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1837
St. James Church

Architect: attributed to Minard Lefever
Location: 32 St. James Street

A Greek Revival church, quite possibly from one of the leading lights of the style. But Minard Lefever’s most lasting contribution to American architecture isn’t anything that stands, or ever did stand. Instead, it might be his pattern books.

You’ve probably noticed most entries so far don’t list an architect. Well, in the days before the profession was rationalized by government and professional associations like the AIA, few buildings were made according to customized plans drawn up by an architect. Doing so wouldn’t merely be considered expensive, but unnecessary, overwrought — like bringing out a bazooka to a deer hunt. Instead, for all but the most complex buildings, it would be considered enough for a builder to consult a pattern book that detailed possible floorplans and elevations, plus treatments for doorways, windows, fireplaces and the like in a wide variety of styles. A builder would then use his experience to adapt such designs to the contingencies of a site and the whims of the owner.

Lafever’s four books, three of which had already been published by 1837, did much to promote the Greek Revival: suddenly, everybody with a little scratch can have their temple to Apollo.

1825William and Rosamond Clark HouseArchitect: UnknownLocation: 51 Market Street Back to the architecture of the rich. This is the late Federal style. At 83-85 Sullivan Street, completed in 1819, the toplight is rectangular and modest; six years later, at 51 Market Street, we have a rainbow of egg-and-dart, rosette, glass and lead. (The evolution here is muddied by the fact our 1820 entry has similar detailing.) And not that you can see it in this photo, but the lintels (the things on top of windows) are not the featureless slabs we’ve witnessed but have a little detailing to them. So just a touch more ornate than we’ve seen before.
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1825
William and Rosamond Clark House

Architect: Unknown
Location: 51 Market Street

Back to the architecture of the rich. This is the late Federal style. At 83-85 Sullivan Street, completed in 1819, the toplight is rectangular and modest; six years later, at 51 Market Street, we have a rainbow of egg-and-dart, rosette, glass and lead. (The evolution here is muddied by the fact our 1820 entry has similar detailing.) And not that you can see it in this photo, but the lintels (the things on top of windows) are not the featureless slabs we’ve witnessed but have a little detailing to them. So just a touch more ornate than we’ve seen before.