This property in the Recoleta neighborhood of Buenos Aires was once a residential apartment until a multi-generational family of lawyers bought and transformed it into a law office.

ÉTIENNE-LOUIS BOULLÉE was an architect whose great influence can chiefly be attributed more to his unexecuted designs than to those that were actually constructed. His most famous creation is the Cenotaph to Isaac Newton of 1784, conceived but never built. Many of his designs — especially his plan for a metropolitan basilica — exude a certain feeling as cold and soulless as can be expressed within the welcome restraints of classicism. One of his museum designs is almost proto-secessionist. But I am rather fond of his design for an opera house.

Český Krumlov Revisited

THE CASTLE OF Krummau in Bohemia stands majestically on its crag in a bend of the Moldau river, presiding confidently over the town below. Český Krumlov, as the town is known in the currently-reigning Czech language, began in the thirteenth century under the Rosenberg family and was purchased by the Emperor Rudolf II in 1602. Yet it was under the princely house of Schwarzenberg (proprietors of Krumau from 1719 to 1945) that the castle flourished. The name Český Krumlov means Bohemian Krummau, to differentiate it from a Moravian town of the same name. (It is also often rendered as Krumau or Krumau-an-der-Moldau).

While the advent of Communism deprived the Schwarzenbergs of this great castle and numerous other vast properties of theirs behind the Iron Curtain, the Schwarzenbergs have since regained their natural prominence in Bohemia. His Serene Highness Prince Karl VII of Schwarzenberg, Duke of Krummau, Count of Sulz, Princely Landgrave of Kelttgau currently serves his country as Minister of Foreign Affairs of the Czech Republic, as well as being a member of the Czech Senate which convenes in the Wallenstein Palace in Prague. For the sake of convenience, however, His Serene Highness goes by 'Karel Schwarzenberg'.

I THOUGHT THAT since we widened our window of opportunity, I ought to give you a wider view of this capture from the 1954 film 'It Should Happen to You!', previously displayed in our exposition on Columbus Circle and the Human Scale. The more recent rehabilitation of this grand public place was discussed in one of my diary entries.

Hartford, Connecticut

THE GREAT Russell Kirk once called the main chambers of the Old Connecticut State House "perhaps the most finely-proportioned rooms in all America". The Senate of Connecticut met in the stately Senate Chamber (above) around a long table, as was the general fashion of the legislative councils which formed the upper house of most colonial legislatures. It was in the House of Representatives Chamber (below) that the famed Hartford Convention of December 1814 and January 1815 met and discussed New England's possible secession from the Union. The State House was built in 1796 to the designs of Charles Bulfinch, on land which had been granted to Connecticut by King Charles II in 1662.

I HAVE ALREADY written about the old Houses of Parliament in Dublin, one of my favourite buildings in the entire world, but occasionally one feels the need to revisit previous haunts on this little corner of the web. It is supposedly the first purpose-built parliament building in the world, and stands on the site of Chichester House, a stately home adapted for use by the Irish Parliament from the 1600s onwards.

The Parliament of Ireland first formed in the thirteenth century and existed until its abolition by the Act of Union in 1801. The first recorded meeting was in 1264, making it ostensibly older than the English Parliament if one counts de Montfort's Parliament of 1265. (More reasonably, we might count the Oxford Parliament of 1258 as England's "first"). Admittedly, the Parliament was born out of the extended Anglo-Norman domination of Ireland, and Poynings' Law of 1494 meant that all acts had to receive approval from England before becoming law. Alongside the Protestant Revolution in England, Protestantism was made the state religion in Ireland. Nonetheless, Irish Catholics were actually allowed to vote for the Irish House of Commons (though not stand for election) and take seats in the Irish House of Lords until they were explicitly banished in 1728.

As the eighteenth century proceeded, the Anglo-Irish aristocracy who dominated the Irish Parliament began to seek greater freedom from the British Parliament in Westminster. Through the efforts of the great reformer Henry Grattan, the Parliament of Great Britain was persuaded to allow the repeal of Poynings' Law in order to appease the growing Irish discontent. With the "Constitution of 1782", as it was known, Ireland's legislative independence was restored.

"I found Ireland on her knees," Grattan proclaimed. "I watched over her with a paternal solicitude; I have traced her progress from injuries to arms, and from arms to liberty. Spirit of Swift, spirit of Molyneux, your genius has prevailed! Ireland is now a nation!"

The Irish House of Lords

Ireland's aristocracy in the Commons and the Lords used their newfound freedom from Britain to adopt a program of moderate, evolutionary reform with the aim of stabilizing the divided nation. Most importantly, by the actions of this Protestant elite the freedom of the Catholic Church was gradually extended. Catholics were once again allowed to vote for the Commons from 1793. In 1795, George III, King of Ireland, exhibited his munificence towards his loyal Roman Catholic subjects by establishing St. Patrick's College at Maynooth as a Catholic seminary. The land for the college donated by the (Anglican) Duke of Leinster. The seminary continued to be funded by the officially Protestant government until 1869, when the (Anglican) Church of Ireland was disestablished, removing Protestantism as the official state religion.

The Irish House of Commons

With the Parliament's freedom, Dublin once again became a city of great importance instead of a mere administrative backwater. Merchants and the aristocracy built grand houses in and around the city to participate in the social season. Between January and St. Patrick's Day in March, the Viceroy of Ireland presided over state balls in the Viceregal Apartments of Dublin Castle, coinciding (for the most part) with the parliamentary session.

Ireland's golden age, however, was not to last long. Alongside Ireland's peaceful liberation, the horrors of the Revolution were regnant across the sea in France, and the revolutionary regime there attempted to export its evil ideology. In 1798, the Society of the United Irishmen, a radicalized band of angry reformers, launched a violent republican revolution inspired by the French. The rebellion was eventually suppressed but its widespread nature spread alarm at the state of affairs in Ireland. In the backlash, the British government was convinced that the only solution was the union of Great Britain and Ireland, along similar lines as the Union of Scotland and England in 1707. The initial attempt to get the Irish parliament to abolish itself and agree to union with Great Britain failed, but after a mass campaign of bribery and inducements, the Act of Union was passed in 1800. On January 1, 1801, the Kingdom of Great Britain and the Kingdom of Ireland joined, and the United Kingdom was born.

The last session of the Irish Parliament, 1800.

Previously: The Old Irish Parliament House | Hail Glorious Saint Patrick | Parliament House

CLARENDON COURT IS one of the more comely of the Newport "cottages". Built a little later than most, it avoids the Mediterranean gallimaufry of the Breakers and the French frilliness of many of the other Newport mansions (The Elms, Marble House, etc.). Its chief fame, however, comes not from its architectural excellence but rather as the family home where Sunny von Bülow fell into a permanent vegetative state, leading to the arrest and conviction for attempted murder of her husband Claus von Bülow. Von Bülow's conviction was overturned on appeal, when he was represented by the famous Alan Dershowitz.

Previously: Salve Regina University

THE CATHOLIC COLONY of Maryland was first planted in 1634 at St. Mary's, which became the first capital city of the Calvert family's palatinate. The attempt to run Terra Mariae as a Catholic feudal state was continually frustrated by a number of fiery Protestant settlers, who eventually broke out into open rebellion in the 1650s while the Civil Wars raged back in England. Happily, Cecil Calvert, 2nd Baron Baltimore, sent out an army under Gov. William Stone to restore order to the colony, but was defeated by the Puritan force in March, 1655 at the Battle of the Severn. During the Puritans' persecution of the Church, all the Catholic churches in Maryland were destroyed, and in 1667 a new ecclesiastical edifice was raised in St. Mary's: the Brick Chapel.

Corpus Christi Church, West 121st Street, New York: perhaps my favorite Catholic church interior in all New York, and one which simply cries out for a traditional Mass.

THE ASSAY OFFICE was built in 1822 as the New York branch of the Bank of the United States, located at 15½ Wall Street. The (Second) Bank of the United States was the second attempt at a central bank for this country. Eventually, the central bank grew too powerful, trying to manipulate politics and master the economy itself, and so it was abolished in 1836. The building later became the Assay Office, an adjunct to the Customs House and Sub-Treasury next door, which itself is now known as Federal Hall National Monument. When the Assay Office was torn down, the façade was preserved and donated to the Metropolitan Museum of Art by Robert W. de Forest in 1924. It is now presented in the glass-covered courtyard of the American Wing of the greatest museum of art in the New World.

THE JEWISH MUSEUM sits at the corner of 91st Street and Fifth Avenue in the old Warburg mansion. It was expanded in 1993, nearly doubling its frontage on the avenue. See the modern addition? No? That's the point.

In the photograph above, the section to the right of the red line is the original Warburg house, built in 1909 and designed by C.P.H. Gilbert. The section to the left of the red line is the 1993 addition. If only the directors of the Morgan Library and the Brooklyn Museum had been similarly inspired.

Am I old-fashioned, or aren't footmen not supposed to smile?

This usher knows precisely how much (which is to say, how little) emotion to show.

But now, everyone to their seats...

[The magnificent Teatro Colón is currently closed for refurbishment until 25 May 2008, when the most prominent opera house under the Southern Cross will reopen brighter and better than ever.]

Typical London, and yet the gable on Lion Lodge (the building which terminates the view), together with the general white-wash of the façades, gives it a hint of Cape Town. Lion Lodge is a recent structure by Liam O'Connor Architects and Planning Consultants.

JUST SO YOU are aware that not all the architects hate us, let us travel to the Westphalian town of Gladbeck where the city fathers, in their infinite sagacity and wisdom and ever open to changes in inclination, have seen fit to correct the errors of the not-too-distant past by tearing down two hideous concrete boxes and replacing them with a more appropriate annex to the handsome art-nouveau Rathaus (town hall). The man to thank, apparently, is Gladbeck's Stadtbaurat (town planning advisor) Herr Michael Stojan (a tweedy sort of fellow, it appears), who initiated the project. What a pity the directors of the Morgan Library could not exercise a similar wisdom.

Gladbeck's 'Willy Brandt Platz' before the offensive structures were removed.

The new building is modern but not modernist, and has no pretensions to being the original Rathaus's contemporary. It exhibits a certain simplicity, and while it lacks exterior ornamentation it does not suffer much from that absence. Internal courts provide natural light to the offices within, while arcades offer shelter to passers-by in the event of an impromptu opening of the heavens. With its saddleback gables, the annex complements but does not compete with the town hall it is intended to augment. Improvements such as this are deserving of our applause.

Elsewhere: Die Welt: Wie sich eine Stadt repariert (12 April 2007)

ONE OF THE great things about the Morgan Library on 36th and Madison was that it used to reflect (and indeed protect) the glories of European civilization. Since its recent renovation, however, it merely expresses the post-civilization status of the mother continent. One cannot help but feel bad for poor Mr. Morgan, who would surely frown upon the vulgarity which has been thrust upon his life's achievement: one of the finest collections of manuscripts, rare books, and drawings in the entire world.

BUILT IN 1745, the Old Archbishop's Palace in New Orleans is believed to be the oldest building in the entire Mississippi Valley. The building has gone through a number of ecclesiastical uses through the centuries, originally constructed to French plans for the Ursuline sisters who came to foster the Christian faith in la Louisiane. On the corner of Chartres Street and Ursulines Avenue in western corner of the Vieux Carré, the Convent survived the Great Fire of 1788, along with the neighboring barracks and Royal Hospital. The Ursuline nuns took orphans into their care here, and educated the daughters of the city's elite and of the local plantation owners (among them Baroness Pontalba), as well as organizing special handiworks classes for Indian and Negro girls. And it was in the Chapel of the Convent that the Ursuline nuns kept vigil during the Battle of New Orleans in 1815, praying ceaselessly for the salvation of New Orleans from destruction. This great event was attributed to the Blessed Virgin, and Notre Dame de Bon Secours (Our Lady of Prompt Succour) was adopted as the patron of the city and diocese of New Orleans and the state of Louisiana.

The original plan of the building, designed in France.

WHERE THE GRAN VÍA meets up with the Calle Alcalá in Madrid, there is a wonderful building which these days is known as the edificio Metrópolis. Designed by Jules and Raymond Février of France, it was built in 1911 for the Union and Fénix insurance company. The architects took advantage of the awkward but prominent site to create a landmark building for the company, one of the largest insurance firms in Spain. At the apex of its triangular site is a splendidly decorated round tower, originally topped by the Union and Fénix symbol of a phoenix with Ganymede.

ONE OF THE MORE unfortunate aspects of the twentieth century was the decline of the country house in the British Isles and North America during the post-war period. Innumerable homes of great history and beauty were lost to the wrecking ball and the developer's avarice. Newport, the former capital of the Colony of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, became a summer capital to many of America's well-to-do during the so-called "gilded era". (It was avowed then that the highest level of society was determined by those whom Mrs. Vanderbilt could fit in the great hall of her Newport house). While many of the great homes of Long Island fell to ruin after the war, and the legendary Meadowbrook Hunt dissolved, many of the best Newport homes found a welcome new role under the wings of Salve Regina University, the city's Catholic university. The decline of these great houses and the ascent of Salve Regina proved a quite fortunate coincidence, and has inspired the university to start one of the first academic programs in historical preservation and restoration. These great summer 'cottages' now house lecture halls, seminar rooms, academic offices, dormitory space, and a Catholic chapel. They are appropriate surroundings for Western civilization to be passed on to the next generations.

No. 15 East Ninety-Sixth Street, New York

THE UPPER EAST SIDE is crossed by a number of wider cross-streets, of which 96th Street has long been agreed as the northern boundary of the neighborhood. (Overeager real estate agents have recently taken to advertising properties above that boundary as being located in the "Upper Upper East Side"). At number 15 on East 96th Street sits a splendid townhouse of superb design and execution often known as the Dahlgren residence. (Seen above, before and after complete restoration).

Lucy Wharton Drexel was of the Philadelphia Drexels, from which also came Saint Katharine Drexel, the founder of the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament, as well as the initiators of Drexel University in that Pennsylvanian city. Young Miss Drexel married Mr. Eric B. Dahlgren, son of Admiral John A. Dahlgren, inventor of the Dahlgren Gun used during the Civil War at a ceremony in the Philadelphia cathedral officiated by Archbishop Corrigan of that see, and the couple soon moved to Manhattan where Mr. Dahlgren had a seat on the New York Stock Exchange. The Dahlgrens themselves were a prominent Catholic family, with Eric and his brothers attending Georgetown University, where to this day the main chapel bears the Dahlgren name. (Well-to-do Catholics must have been in short supply at the time, because after Lucy and Eric's marriage, Lucy's sister Elizabeth was married to Eric's brother John).

EARLY YESTERDAY EVENING I found myself on the West Side and with a bit of free time, so I sauntered down Broadway to Columbus Circle to finally investigate in the flesh this great public place after its complete rehabilitation some two years ago. I am happy to report that the Circle's refurbishment is quite a successful one. My only reservations were minor details, but as these were all done in an extremely simple and smooth modern style, they are much less objectional, and perhaps serve to focus attention on the sculptor Gaetano Russo's splendid monumental column from which Cristóbal Colón, Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of the New World presides over the grand plaza consecrated to his memory.

Colón's name is rendered on the monument as 'Cristoforo Colombo', which seems appropriate since the monument was paid for by public subscription raised by Italian-Americans, and it is commonly assumed that Columbus was Italian. He may have been Genoese, Catalan, Portuguese, or Corsican, but he described himself as being from lands under the rule of Genoa, which lends significant credence to the Genoese and Corsican theories. In Spain, however, he is apparently Spanish, or so one daughter of Iberia, the wife of a frequent reader of this little corner of the web, informs us. The happy couple were strolling through Columbus Circle recently and the good lady was shocked to discover the purported Italian origin of the man who brought Christianity to the New World. After all, Spain's national day — the Día de la Hispanidad — is October 12, the day in 1492 that Columbus first set foot in the New World. (In woebegone Venezuela, the vulgar socialist dictator has proclaimed October 12 as the Día de la Resistencia Indígena, or Day of Indigenous Resistance, and the Columbus Column in their capital city of Caracas was toppled on that day in 2004).

Anyhow, not only was the good lady was shocked at our monument's proclamation of the Discoverer's Italian-ness but the combination of that with the presence in Columbus Circle of the beautiful U.S.S. Maine Monument led the observer to conclude that the public plaza should be instead be named "Anti-Spain Square". It was the disastrous sinking of the Maine, after all, which led to the Spanish-American War, the result of which was America's most unfortunate and regretful act of taking Spain's empire off her hands. (Contrary to Mr. Kipling's idealistic urging of America to take up the imperial mantle in his poem 'White Man's Burden', this turned out to be a fairly good deal for the Spaniards, and a very poor deal for the peoples of the United States).

Politics aside, I enjoyed the few minutes during which I ruminated in the square (or circle, if ye be pedants). I recall many years ago the debate surrounding how to improve Columbus Circle that there was a near-universal desire for there to be more trees but that the very shallow depth between the street surface and the subway below presented difficulties in this regard. The redesigners have solved this problem by encircling the center of the circle with a raised ridge, on which are planted a number of trees which, we trust, will be even more appreciated as they mature. The raised ridge, which features jets of flowing water around the inner circle, also serves to innoculate the center from the noise of the traffic which, the Circle being situated at the confluence of Broadway, Central Park West, Central Park South, and Eigth Avenue, is considerable.

And so, I judge the new Columbus Circle a success, and I am happy to the report that the American Society of Landscape Architects concur, having awarded it their General Design Award of Honor. Another random fact which surprisingly few people know is that Columbus Circle is the spot from which distances to New York are numerated, akin to Moscow's Red Square and London's Trafalgar Square (if I recall correctly).

LEAVING COLUMBUS CIRCLE, I sauntered back up Broadway to another of Manhattan's engaging places, Lincoln Center. Critics accused the architects of the performing arts complex of cribbing off of Rome's E.U.R., but one wishes the three halls facing Lincoln Center's plaza had the same crispness of those modern Roman structures. The thirty years between the E.U.R. of 1930s Italy and the Lincoln Center of 1960s New York were years in which the quality of modernism declined just as greatly as its supremacy increased. Despite this, the plaza of Lincoln Center is one of the most successful public places in Manhattan. I have often lamented the absence from New York of the open piazza so common on the Continent. This plaza competes with Central Park's Bethesda Terrace as the best example of the type in Manhattan.

The plaza is raised above the neighboring Lincoln Square (one of the many triangular squares created by Broadway's healthy disregard for the grid) and is reached by a gentle rise of stairs. Viewed from the square it appropriately seems like a stage upon which all our great dramas are played. The dance of the New York City Ballet in the State Theatre on the left, the music of the New York Philharmonic in Avery Fisher Hall on the left, and in the center, the Metropolitan Opera in the Metropolitan Opera House; the greatest opera company in the Americas, not to mention one of the best in the entire world. And from the hour of seven or so on the evening of performances, the three arts mix and mingle in the plaza as attendées wait to meet their companions and enter whichever of the respective halls they are to spend the evening. Some jealously preserve a seat of honor on the rim of the central fountain, while others hide from the elements (the beating sun, the heaving rain) in the shelter of the arcades, while still more meander slowly to and fro around this piazza dell'arte.

It's unfortunate, then, that the elders of Lincoln Center insist on erecting temporary stage structures in the middle of the plaza, partially obstructing the fountain, during the warmer months when, above all other times, it should be open for all to enjoy. The creators of Lincoln Center conceived of the obvious desire for outdoor performances during the summer, and so they built the bandshell in Damrosch Park in between the Opera House and Avery Fisher Hall, just diagonally adjacent to the plaza. Surely the plaza is meant to be an open space where all the events can mix, blend, interact, influence, before finally separating into their appropriate places. If there are to be outdoor performances, hold them where they were meant to be, and if that place suffers from some malfunction of design, then redesign that place rather than rudely interjecting a particular event into what was meant to be the public square for all.

THIS PARTICULAR EVENING it was into Avery Fisher Hall for a performance of the New York Philharmonic, now in its 165th year. The program was Rossini's overture to Semiramide and Schubert's Symphony No. 3 in D major (D.500), with Dvořák's Symphony No. 5 in F major (Op. 76). Riccardo Muti wielded the conductor's baton and the result was definitely less than was expected. I had only heard Muti's conducting on the radio in passing and, while admittedly not devoting much thought to it, he seemed a fairly capable conductor. In person, however, he left much to be desired. Rossini's overture was merely lackluster but Schubert's symphony was actually surprisingly poor. Perhaps the worst thing was observing Muti in action, for the man looked like an utter fool. His conducting seemed unnatural, choreographed, even foppish. And those ridiculous jestures towards the first violins! I wanted to slap the man, and I shouldn't be surprised if the violins wanted to themselves. Towards the middle of the Schubert symphony, I began to think of the man as a proper ass, the tails of his evening jacket acting the part of hind legs. My only solution to the St. Vitus's dance on the conductor's dais was to shut my eyes and imagine that I was there in the Austrian capital in that autumn of 1815, after the chancellors and ministers of the crowned heads of Europe had departed the Congress of Vienna when peace and order were plotted, in the home of Otto Hatwig where (scholars posit) the work was premiered.

The friend I accompanied that evening actually knows about the inner workings of music (I am actually an ignoramus on the subject, and simply like what sounds good to me) and agreed completely with me on the subject during the intermission. Luckily, the Dvořák fared better, but one had the niggling suspicion that this was the Philharmonic working its magic in spite of Mr. Muti, rather than at the command of his baton. My knowledge and appreciation of Dvořák has slowly grown, from that first passing fondness we all have for his Symphony No. 9 "From the New World". My appreciation for the Philharmonic grows, when I see they have printed in the program that Mr. Dvořák was born in Mühlhausen, Bohemia, rather than the more modish style of "Nelahozeves, Czech Republic" that would find favor elsewhere.

Perhaps I am too hard on Mr. Muti. Perhaps he and the Philharmonic were simply not a good fit for eachother. At any rate, I shouldn't complain as one doesn't often get box seats to a sold-out performance with every seat in the hall occupied (though, to be honest, the sound is better down in the orchestra seats). But how I wish I could have seen von Karajan while he was alive!

After the baton had finally fallen for the night, my friend and I had the same stroke of genius at exactly the same moment and decided to head up to good old Café Lalo, but unfortunately everyone else had the same idea (Saturday night? Lalo's? What did we expect?) so we comforted ourselves with a pint or two at the Parlour instead.

THE CROSS OF Saint George snaps proudly from the flagpole above Westminster Cathedral, the Administrator of which, Msgr. Mark Langham, has given us a special St. George's Day treat by revealing the newly-commissioned designs for completing the mosaic work in that cathedral's chapel dedicated to the patron saint of England.

ONE OF MY FAVORITE handsome and dignified, and yet relatively small, buildings is the Felix Meritis on the Keizersgracht in Amsterdam. It has a long and interesting history to accompany the beauty of its design. The 'Felix Meritis' was a learned society founded by a number of prominent burghers of Amsterdam in 1777 for the promotion of the arts and sciences in their city. Its name is Latin for 'fortunate (or more literally, 'happy') by merit'. Ten years later, the Felix Meritis purchased four narrow homes on the Keizersgracht and constructed a building, designed by the architect Jacob Otten Husly, on the site.

The classical façade is composed of five bays, the central three of which comprise a portico topped by a triangular pediment. The entrance hall leads to the central staircase, with the oval-shaped concert hall, the largest room in the building, just beyond. Ascending the staircase, the Zuilenzaal (Hall of Columns) sits above the foyer and forms the principal storey of the façade. Rising another storey, the oval lecture hall rests atop the concert hall below. Here physical experiments were exhibited, and human dissections were practiced. Finally, up another flight of stairs and situated above the Zuilenzaal was the picture room were nudes were sketched or painted and where works of art were exhibited.

The quarters of the Felix Meritis was intended to be a 'Temple of Enlightenment', and for a century played host to musical concerts, literary events, and debates. Beethoven's Ninth and Berlioz's Symphonie fantastique had their Netherlandic premiers in this concert hall.

The Zuilenzaal of the Felix Meritis, in 1793 (above) and today (below).

The society met at the hall until 1888, when the publishing firm of Holdert and Co. purchased the building and moved in. Sadly, the alterations made by the printers destroyed or obstructed a great deal of the building's interior. In 1932, a devastating fire ravaged the façade and damaged the rooms toward the front of the building.

The picture rooms of the Felix Meritis.

After the Second World War, the Communist Party of the Netherlands took over the building, using it as their headquarters and the offices of their newspaper, De Waarheid. While their ideology was contemptible, one must commend these enemies of all that is good and holy on their taste in choosing such a comely structure as the base for spreading their godless ideology throughout the kingdom.

During the 1960s, the Communist HQ became the scene of numerous 'hippie' events, including performances by such prominent Dutch countercultural figures as Liesbeth List, Jenny Arean, Freek de Jonge, and Ramses Shaffy, who founded his eponymous theater group in the building. The Shaffy Theater was involved in all manner of experimental theater, music, dance, and even mime, and took the building off the Communist Party's hands when the Reds left the Felix Meritis in 1981.

When Shaffy's group lost its government grant in 1988, the building reverted to the local government. In 1992, the City of Amsterdam arranged a long-term lease to a specially created body, the Felix Meritis Management Foundation, to return the Felix Meritis to its original purpose as a center for learning and culture.

In 1998, the foundation began a restoration of the interior which is, at this point, still incomplete. The restoration which has taken place, however, has been suitably reserved. A respectable dilapidation exists in much of the detailing, showing the building's age rather than creating a false atmosphere of "looks just as new" which prevails in so many over-restorations.

A cartoon, in the style of Hergé, depicting the book festival at Felix Meritis. The event commemorates of the tenth anniversary of NRC Handelsblad's books section.

Today the Felix Meritis is home to a number of projects and institutions. There is Kunstkanaal, the arts television station of the Netherlands, the Amsterdam-Maastricht Summer University, and the Forum voor Europese Cultuur. Additionally, Felix Meritis organizes programs such as 'Gulliver', which brings writers, academics, filmmakers, composers, and architects together to debate the future of Europe, and the annual Nacht van de Filosofie which took place this past Saturday (and on into the early hours of Sunday, one should note). Meanwhile, it publishes the Felix Meritis Papers in English, and the Felix Meritis Theatre Journal in Dutch, English, French, and German. In addition to all these, numerous other cultural and social events are held in the two-hundred-year-old building. It is a tribute to the Dutch that they have resurrected the dead tradition of the Felix Meritis as it was first intended: a place where artists, scientists, and philosophers converge and where the healthy exchange of ideas can continue.

OR NOT, to be precise. I found the above view of San Francisco rather charming, a touch Neapolitan even, and decided to share it. The domed building is the Palace of Fine Arts, designed by Bernard Maybeck for the 1915 Panama-Pacific Exposition. It used to exhibit various works of art, but is now an "interactive" science museum. The Palace of Fine Arts was actually built to last only two years but the San Franciscans couldn't bring themselves to tear it down. Eventually, the elements took their toll and in the 1960's, it was torn down and completely rebuilt to the same external design but with a permanent structure.

This view, on the other hand, has a rather Latin American feel to it, only if it were in Latin America the rolling hills in the background would be covered in luxurious villas or shanty towns. The church in the foreground is dedicated to Saint Ignatius and the tower to the right is part of the University of San Francisco, a Jesuit institution.

Red telephone booths in the Recoleta neighborhood of Buenos Aires.

Category: Argentina

STEALING A GLANCE at the photo above, the viewer would easily be forgiven for mistaking the vista for that of a subway entrance in turn-of-the-century Siena, Italy. The proud medieval tower lurks over a comely metal-and-glass structure of continental flavor. However the city fathers of that ancient Italian municipality never deigned to erect an underground railway. The precise locus of the vista is far removed: it is the corner of Park Avenue and 33rd Street, and the building behind the subway entrance is not the town hall of Siena, but rather the armory of the 71st Regiment, New York National Guard.

When the earlier Romanesque Revival armory of the Seventy-First Regiment burnt down in 1902, it was decided to build the new armory on the same, though slightly enlarged, site. The 1905 construction was built to the design of the architectural firm of Clinton and Russell, and was clearly inspired by the Palazzo Pubblico (the town hall, photo at right) of Siena, on that city's Piazza de Campo. While the Seventh Regiment Armory contains the finest interiors of any military building in City, and probably the entire Empire State, the exterior of the Seventy-First's armory was far superior. Even though the interior was not to the same lofty standard as the Seventh, it was by no means lacking, for it had all the wood-panelled rooms filled with military regalia from times gone by which one expects of New York's armories from the period.

Clinton & Russell's design for the 71st Regiment Armory.

Soldiers enjoined in a game of cards in the E Company chambers of the Seventy-First Regiment Armory.

January 1, 1917: A soldier of the 71st bids farewell to his sweetheart as he prepares to leave for Camp Wadsworth, S.C. and then on to Europe, and war.

The subway beneath Park Avenue had a station adjacent to the armory on 33rd Street, which was architecturally signified by the faience eagles, made by Heins & Lafarge, which bedecked the station walls. Whenever you see a subway station's street number held on a shield by an eagle, it means that a National Guard armory was once located above, or nearby. The eagles and shields from a closed platform of the Union Square-14th Street station have been reassembled elsewhere in the large station.

Despite the grandeur of the armory, the building was still somewhat unloved. Only thirty years after it was erected, Time magazine rather unfairly called it "Manhattan's ugly old brownstone 71st Regiment Armory". It was, of course, a place of history. True to its original purpose, it was not only the home of one of the more prominent regiments of New York's National Guard, but also served as the headquarters of the state's reknowed 27th Division — "O'Ryan's Roughnecks" — which included the 71st, the 7th, and other New York regiments. The massive drill hall was not only a functional site for military training but also a prominent civic meeting place. Exhibitions, expositions, labor rallies, fairs, and meetings were held in the hall, which had a capacity of 11,000 people. For example, it was here, in 1964, that the carpetbagging son of a bootlegger named Robert Kennedy won the nomination to the U.S. Senate from the state Democratic caucus. A year later, during the Great Northeastern Blackout, the armory took in 2,500 stranded souls until the lights came back on.

With it's efficacious design, high standard of construction, and architectural beauty, the 71st Regiment Armory was singled out for destruction by the 'monotony monitors' (as my old Latin teacher used to call them). During the 1960s, they demolished this little corner of Siena on Park Avenue. The site lay fallow for a decade before it was redeveloped with a skyscraper, containing a public high school as part of the developer's deal with the City. To add insult to injury, the Board of Education named the school after the pacifist and socialist Norman Thomas; salt in the wounds of New York's fading military heritage. So if ever you're strolling down Park Avenue in Murray Hill and you come upon an ominous modern skyscraper where socialism and capitalism combine, try to think of better days, and pray they soon return.

Category: New York Militaria

My favorite statue in Central Park is that of King Władysław II Jagiełło of Poland, by the Turtle Pond.

Credit for last photo: Bridge & Tunnel Club

LUTYENS' SCHEME FOR the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King, Liverpool is oft hailed as the greatest building to never have been built. Strictly speaking, this is not accurate, as the building was structurally finished, although not completely decorated, up to the crypt level. Nonetheless, had it been finished, the cathedral almost certainly would have been considered Sir Edwin Lutyens' greatest work; though his hand (with Herbert Baker) in building the Indian capital of New Delhi, including the monumental Viceregal Palace, would certainly vie for the title.

The Great Model of Liverpool Metropolitan Cathedral by Sir Edwin Lutyens as presented at the Royal Academy in London.

The cathedral, seat of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Liverpool, would have been a massive 530 ft long, larger than any other cathedral in England. The ceiling of the nave would reach 138 ft from the floor, while a great dome, 168 ft in diameter and 300 ft high would crown the church. Aside from the high altar, which would be twelve feet above the floor of the nave, fifty-three side altars would be located down the nave, along the aisles, and in the transepts and apse. The cathedral's dome would have been larger than St. Peter's. The entrance arch on the west portal would have been able to contain the tower of Liverpool University. At 520 ft, the cathedral's height would overpower the nearby Anglican cathedral, itself 330 ft tall. Somewhat ironically, the design of Liverpool's Catholic cathedral was by Lutyens, an Anglican, while the modern gothic of the city's contemporary Anglican cathedral, was designed by Gilbert Scott, a Catholic.

A visualization (not-to-scale) of Lutyens's Catholic cathedral on the right foreground, with Gilbert Scott's Anglican cathedral in the left background.

The construction of the cathedral was paid for mostly by the contributions of the multitude of working-class Catholics of the burgeoning industrial port. The foundation stones were lain on Whit Monday, June 5, 1933, amidst the great worldwide depression. Contrary to popular belief, work did not cease for want of money; the contributions of the faithful, both rich and poor, continued to flow towards the building of the great cathedral which, on the suggestion of Pope Pius IX, was to be dedicated to Christ the King. Work continued, even after the start of the Second World War, until 1941 when the growing restrictions of wartime finally meant that construction had to cease.

The crypt, seen here, is the only part of the cathedral completed to Lutyens's design.

While 1945 brought victory over Germany, it also heralded the advent of socialism in Britain, as wartime restrictions continued into the peace, and the power of the state over society increased. With a sullen economy and what seemed like perpetual austerity, the cost of beginning again work towards Lutyens's grandiose design was evaluated to cost £27,000,000. Upon ascending to the archiepiscopal throne of Liverpool in 1953, Dr. William Godfrey decided that in order for the cathedral to be completed, it would have to be scaled down. Archbishop Godrey chose Adrian Gilbert Scott, of the Catholic family of architects, to reduce Lutyens' proportions to a more suitable plan. Nonetheless, work never restarted, though in 1960 it was decided to hold an architectural competition to choose a new design for the cathedral atop Lutyens' crypt. The ugly, concrete modernist design of an upturned funnel by Sir Frederick Gibberd was the winner. Commemorating the many Irish laborers among the swarms of Liverpool Catholics, it was genially nicknamed "Paddy's Wigwam".

While the plan was discarded, the Great Model of the Lutyens design, seen in the previous photograph on exhibition at the Royal Academy, survived, though in an increasingly poor condition. A recent government grant went towards restoring the Great Model to its former glory, and it will be shown at the Walker Art Gallery, Liverpool as the centerpiece of an exhibit entitled 'The Cathedral That Never Was: Lutyens' Design for Liverpool' from January 27 to April 22 of 2007. Above, and onwards, are a number of photographs of the restored model.

JUST NORTH OF Buenos Aires lies the city of Tigre. The city sits on the southern edge of the series of rivers, rivulets, islands, and eyots collectively known as the Parana Delta, after the Rio Parana which breaks up as it reachs the Rio de la Plata. The town's riparian geography combined with its closeness to Buenos Aires—a mere twenty miles from the Obelisco—make Tigre a popular weekend and summertime getaway. Since the 1870s, however, it has also been the birthplace and focal point of rowing in the country—Argentina's Henley.

EVERY ONE OF the myriad plans put forth for the 'redevelopment' of the venerable old Governors Island in New York Harbor has so far either stalled, been neglected, or otherwise poo-pooed. In this, we have something to rejoice. As I have often said, realistically speaking there is little that can be done to it which will not neglect or disgrace the island's long military heritage. The officially-approved ideas put forth so far have been horrific: an amusement park, a casino, a 'technology park', as well as a number of other vapid proposals.

Naturally, we'd be enthused if it returned to its former role as swankiest post in the entire Army and the home of Army polo, but don't hold your breath. West Point being the single exception, if it has even a touch of history, tradition, or class, Congress and the Department of Defense will do their best to get rid of it. After all, the National Guard has been pulled out of the Seventh Regiment Armory, the Navy has withdrawn all but a few institutions from Newport, and the Army has left the ancient Presidio of San Francisco; how long will it be until Fort Leavenworth's foxhounds are brought out back and shot by the Monotony Monitors?

Gen. James H. McRae greets polo players on the island, 1927.

The Veteran Corps of Artillery on the Parade Ground, Governors Island.

Nonetheless, while meandering through a book on the history of Governors Island from the 1637 to 1922, I came across a rather excellent depiction of one of the early plans for the improvement of the island, devised just after the First World War. Owing to landfill from subway and tunnel excavations, the island expanded during the period, and it was thought that something proper ought to be done with it rather than just fill it with utilitarian military huts and barracks.

Eventually, a whole complex of neo-Georgian brick buildings was constructed, including Liggett Hall, the longest building in the world at the time of its completion, and the only single building which could house an entire regiment. Before that plan was finalized, however, someone thought of surrounding old Fort Jay, a Revolutionary-era star fortification, with a similarly shaped castellar structure in that particular American military style of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The result was brilliant.

Click [here] for a larger image of the castle depiction. Just imagine what it would have been like to sail into New York Harbor and to be greeted by a castle and a little village on an island, right smack dab next to the towering skyscrapers of lower Manhattan. Genius.

My only qualm with the plan is that I would orient the main gate towards the rest of the island, rather than towards the sea. Then, a little main street could roll from the castle on its height to a parade ground at the other, lower, end of the island. It would give the units stationed there an excuse to march from their barracks in the castle down to the parade ground—and really, shouldn't life be organized so as to have more parades and military marches? I certainly believe so.

Regardless of how enjoyable that would have been, what actually did end up getting built on the island after the war was certainly commendable nonetheless, as you can see in my previous post giving an overview of Governors Island.

Previously: Governors Island | Old Guard on Governors Island | The Old Guard | New Globe Theater

The Nashville Symphony recently built an entirely new concert hall named the Schermerhorn Symphony Center. While we decry 'centers'—what's wrong with a 'hall'?—the name does hold some significance for us, because Schermerhorn is, of course, an old New York name. The Schermerhorns were one of the first families of New York and there are numerous places and things named after them throughout the city and state. This concert hall bears the name in honor of Kenneth Schermerhorn, born in the traditional Schermerhorn stomping ground of Schenectady, New York, and conductor of the Nashville Symphony from 1983 until his death in 2005. He had also previously conducted (during his military service in Germany) the symphony orchestra of the U.S. Seventhy Army and later the Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra, as well as serving as music director to the Hong Kong Symphony Orchestra and the American Ballet Theatre.

The new concert hall is built in an admirably traditional style, though if you look closely enough here and there you can see the craftsmanship still wasn't quite up to snuff. Still, a step in the right direction, needless to say, and we decided to show you some photos for your general edification.

San Fernando Cathedral in San Antonio, Texas, named after the holy King Ferdinand III of Castile, is one of the oldest cathedrals in the United States. Indeed, there is considerably debate as to precisely which church is the oldest cathedral in the United States. The Baltimore Basilica, recently restored, was the first cathedral to be located in the political entity known as the United States. The Cathedral Basilica of Saint Augustine in the Floridian city of that name was founded in 1594 (making it the oldest parish in the U.S.) but the current structure was not built until 1793, and the church did not become a cathedral until 1870. The core of San Fernando was built from 1738 to 1750, but the nave was replaced in 1868 with one of a neo-Gothic design. It became a cathedral when the See of San Antonio was erected in 1874. So the Baltimore Basilica (or the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, to give it its full name) was certainly the first cathedral in the United States, though not the oldest church serving as a cathedral. To add to the fray, the Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace claims that it is the oldest continuously operating cathedral in the United States, since the Baltimore Basilica is no longer the cathedral of Baltimore, but rather merely co-cathedral to the bizarre art-deco-gothic Cathedral of Mary Our Queen in that city. It's all quite mad really. Suffice to say, San Fernando is old and it is a cathedral; it's an old cathedral.

THE BRIDGE AND TUNNEL CLUB site often features photographs of myriad places, scenes, and things all around New York and beyond. Recently, the Bridge-and-Tunneller made a sojourn to various sites up the Hudson, and thankfully decided to share his photos. We bring you a selection of them, which you can find in their original form on the B&TC website.

The 22-yard-tall Peace Arch stands between the city of Blaine in Washington state, and the city of Surrey in the province of British Columbia, demarcating the boundary between the United States of America and the Dominion of Canada. The monument, built in 1921, commemorates the 1814 Treaty of Ghent re-establishing peace between the United States and the British Empire.

An old Dutch gable complete with old Dutch vrouw gazing miserably from the window. Albany County, New York, 1930's. The form of brick course on the gable is known as 'mouse-tooth' and is found primarily in Holland, East Anglia, and the Hudson Valley of New York, though also here and there in the American South.

AND SO, THE onward march of progress continues. Yale University's old Adee Boathouse on New Haven harbor is to face the wrecking ball to make way for traffic improvements to the Pearl Harbor Memorial Bridge which carries Interstate 95 across the Quinnipiac River. Despite some quite extraordinary plans to physically cut the building from the shore and float it across to the opposite side of the river, it now appears that the boathouse is to be demolished.

The Adee Memorial Boathouse was built in 1911 in a Tudor style at the confluence of the Quinnipiac River and New Haven Harbor. In later years when the Harbor grew both more crowded and more polluted, the Yale rowing teams moved to the more placid Housatonic where the Glider Boathouse now stands. The building then housed offices until the I-95 'improvement' involving the reconstruction of the bridge threatened its existence. It was named for George Augustus Adee, a keen oarsman from the class of 1867 who ended up as a banker and lawyer, dying in 1908. The boathouse opened in 1911 with room for fifty rowing shells. Designed by the firm of Peabody & Stearns, the building cost $100,000 in total.

Originally, the boathouse was surrounded by water on all sides, being built on a series of piles driven into the water. The only physical connection was a small bridge linking the shore to the boathouse entrance, but later landfills filled in the space on one side of the bridge.

The New York Times described the building's façade as "a rich tapestry of alternating plum-colored and blackened brick, with rust-colored terra cotta trim and multipaned windows". Bulldog gargoyles and the Yale coat of arms also grace the old boathouse's exterior.

Thankfully, the State of Connecticut has earmarked $30,000,000 to build a replica of the boathouse at Long Wharf, incorporating as many architectural elements of the building as can be feasibly salvaged. It is believed this will include the bulldog gargoyles, a carved wooden chimney breast from the second floor, and a great deal of the terra cotta decorative work.

Previously: An Old Boathouse in Spuyten Duyvil

The Manhattan Muncipal Building (topped by Civic Fame) with the Hall of Records to the left.

Previously: The Old Police Headquarters | The Dewey Arch II | The Governor's Suite, City Hall | New York in the Early Republic | The Great War Victory Arch | More Classical New York | The Dewey Arch | 'New Yorkism' | The Maine Monument | Brooklyn Borough Hall

ONE OF THE finest buildings in all New York is also one of the least-appreciated and most forgotten. The old Police Headquarters at No. 240 Centre Street was built in 1909 on a triangular lot in what was then solidly Little Italy. Arguably, it is today located in the ever-expanding Chinatown, but real estate brokers usually describe its location non-ethnically as Soho, just on the cusp of the area which is increasingly (and most irritatingly) known as NoLIta, 'North of Little Italy'.

From the basement shooting range to the rooftop observation deck, the building was designed in the monumental Beaux-Arts style by the firm of Hoppin & Koen, "to impress both the officer and the prisoner with the majesty of the law." The New York Times wrote that "its grandeur contrasted utterly with the little buildings and crooked streets around it."

The older old Police Headquarters, where reformer Teddy Roosevelt held court as Police Commissioner, was located nearby on Mulberry Street and when the nerve center of the N.Y.P.D. shifted to Centre St. between Broome and Grand, the gun shops, cop saloons, and police reporters followed suit. One restaurant across the street was simply called 'Headquarters'. With its oak bar and ceiling of carved wood, the 'Headquarters' restaurant became a particular favourite among the higher brass of the N.Y.P.D. According to popular lore, a tunnel was actually constructed connecting the restaurant with the actualy Police HQ, in which a number of the Boys in Blue used to enjoy a drink during the trying days of Prohibition.

The view from Cleveland Place.

The design, from the north.

The execution, from the south.

In 1973, the New York Police Department decamped to the brand new 1 Police Plaza, a red-brick modernist box behind the Municipal Building and next to the Church of St. Andrew. The large building then sat empty for a number of years while a series of proposals were mulled over (hotel, cultural center, museum, et cetera). Finally in 1983 the City accepted the proposal of developer Arthur Emil to turn the building into luxury condominiums. The plan agreed to called for fifty-five apartments as well as office space for non-profit organizations. Emil paid the City of New York $4,200,000 for the old Police Headquarters and then proceeded on a $20,000,000 renovation of the building. The grandiose entrance hall was preserved and restored, but most of the interiors, as police offices unamenable to residential use, were scrapped and redone.

This famous photograph of the Old Police Headquarters was taken by Berenice Abbott.

The new apartments featured high ceilings and simple interiors respective of the building's form. One apartment featured a vaulted living room in what was once a basketball court. Especially privileged is the owner of the single apartment at the northern end of the building which has a garden, while another apartment features a terrace overlooking the garden. While none of the units are small, Edward R. Downe (of media group Downe Communications) took one of the larger apartments to house his large collection of twentieth-century American art.

Rather interestingly, during the planning phase of the 1980's renovation it was discovered that the building did not fit the land allotted to it in municipal plans. "We were going to closing and we asked for a survey," Arthur Emil told the Times. "In every single, solitary direction, the building exceeded the lot line, sometimes by several feet." This put the developers in an awkward position. The sale required the preservation of the exterior as is, but the Building Department of the City would not allow a permit for work to begin unless the proposals fit the plans the City had. This would require the developers to push back the façade as much as seven feet on one side, a change which would never get the approval of the Landmarks Preservation Commission. It took a few months for the Catch-22 situation to resolve itself as the City finally decided to grandfather in the building in its current form.

The Old Police Headquarters is unquestionably one of the hidden gems of New York, but I can't help but have mixed feelings towards its current use as luxury residences for movie stars, investment bankers, and fashion designers. My gut instinct tells me it ought to have been preserved as a single unit, and there are any number of uses it could have been put towards (university, library, high school, or perhaps even an archiepiscopal palace). But at the very least its conversion to condominiums preserved the august structure and it still stands there proudly on Centre Street for all Knickerbockers to enjoy, while so many (perhaps even most) of our other monuments of architecture and taste have fallen to the wrecking ball.

More photos after the jump…

A WEEK AGO after the 11 o'clock Sunday Mass at St. Agnes, Dino Marcantonio, Matt Alderman, and I stood in front of the church and fantasized about how we would fix the old place. Well, perhaps 'old' isn't the right word for the place. While the parish was founded in the 1840's, the current church building only dates from the late 1990's, built after the old Victorian edifice was consumed by fire. As for design, its heart is in the right place, but as they say the Devil is in the details. The interior is marred by quite obviously large joints between component parts of arches and cornices and the exterior just looks fake. Is craftsmanship dead? No, but it helps to search it out instead of accepting just any old thing.

At any rate, Matt Alderman has thrown together these esquisses of what his St Agnes would look like, and it's all rather Austrian. Upon seeing the sketches, I commented that it'd only work with a decent stone piazza out front and a Viennese café next door. A piazza would actually be quite desirable, as a hearty band of Tridentine aficionados and just plain die-hards (all our usual favourite characters) usually forms on the sidewalk after Sunday Mass has ended.

Anyhow, I thought I'd share these little sketches of Matt's with our dear readers (I'm sure he won't mind) to attract their attention, appreciations, and criticisms.

A section through the transept.

A section through the nave.

The plan of the church.

More Aldermania after the jump…

OUR GOOD FRIEND Tori Truett sends greetings from Buenos Aires where she is visting relatives and her salutation sparked a number of memories from my all-too-short time down there. One of these memories was being relieved upon by a bird whilst pottering about the market of San Telmo one afternoon (it remains the only time I have suffered the indignity of such an aerial bombardment). The good city, however, has more beautiful buildings than the Big Apple, both in quality and quantity. Their good buildings are better than ours, but then their ugly buildings are even uglier. (As terrible as the Whitney Museum is, I doubt it matches the Biblioteca Nacional for sheer vulgarity).

THE RECENT PURCHASE for the Neue Galerie of Gustav Klimt's 1907 'Adele Bloch-Bauer I' (above), alledgedly for a record-breaking price of $135,000,000, gives me the perfect opportunity to write a post on the eponymously recent addition to New York's coterie of art museums. Since its 2001 opening, the Neue Galerie has resided in the handsome 1914 beaux-arts mansion on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 86th Street, designed by Carrère and Hastings (of New York Public Library fame) for industrialist William Starr Miller and later inhabited by Mrs. Cornelius Vanderbilt III. In the time since the construction of No. 1048, the rest of Fifth Avenue has undergone a lamentable transformation from a boulevard of beautiful townhouses and mansions to an avenue predominantly consisting of apartment buildings. While one appreciates the inoffensive design of the pre-war buildings on Fifth, there remain a number of thoroughly opprobrious modern interlopers which offend the graceful avenue. One can't help but pine for Fifth Avenue before the mansions came down, but we can at least give thanks for holdouts like the Neue Galerie.

The Vanderbilts sold the home to the Astors in 1940, and in turn the Astors sold 1048 Fifth Avenue to the YIVO Institute for Jewish Research. Founded in 1925 as the Yidisher Visnshaftlekher Institut in Berlin, the YIVO was responsible for most early orthographic and lexicographic work on the Yiddish language. Though originally based in Vilnius after its foundation in Berlin, the combined Nazi-Soviet invasions of Eastern Europe forced the Institute to flee, centering their operations in New York and Buenos Aires. Much of the YIVO Institute's massive archives was carted to Berlin by the Nazis and managed to survive the war, moving to New York after the end of hostilities. A large portion, however, had lain dormant and forgotten in a Lithuanian records building (a converted Catholic Church, actually) until rediscovered in 1989 and eventually returned to the YIVO in New York.

A reading room in the YIVO Institute, contrast with today's Café Sabarsky.

The YIVO Institute, however, found itself somewhat cash-strapped faced with repatriating the rediscovered Vilnius trove to New York. In response, the Institute sold the air rights to 1048 Fifth to a company which was redeveloping the old Adams Hotel next door at 2 East 86th Street. The President of the Borough of Manhattan then granted the developers' request to redesignate 2 East 86th Street as 1049 Fifth Avenue, adding a chunk of value to the new apartments while infuriating address purists. After cashing in on the unused air rights, YIVO sold 1048 itself and moved to a more capacious abode. The building was bought by Ronald S. Lauder and Serge Sabarsky in 1994, who together conceived the Neue Galerie as a museum for German and Austrian art, almost entirely of the Expressionist school.

With the death of Serge Sabarsky in 1996, Ronald S. Lauder took the helm as the driving force behind the newest addition to Fifth Avenue's Museum Mile. The Neue Galerie hired German-born architect and designer Annabelle Selldorf to redesign the interiors before the opening exhibition in 2001, a task which was accomplished with taste and modernity, while keeping an eye towards preservation. Austrian chef Kurt Gutenbrunner was brought in to run the Café Sabarsky in one of the main rooms on the museum's ground floor. (The less-crowded Café Fledermaus can be found in the basement, with the same menu as upstairs).

Two views of the much-vaunted Café Sabarsky.

The museum wisely admits only three-hundred and fifty viewers at a time, at the price of $15 for adults and $10 for students and the elderly. Normally closed to the general public on Tuesdays and Wednesdays, the management of the Neue Galerie had considered charging $50 per person for semi-private admittance on Wednesdays, but when a maelstrom erupted after the word got out, the plan was quietly placed to the side.

The ground floor of the Neue Galerie.

The first floor.

As with the purchase of Klimt's 'Adele Bloch-Bauer I', which Lauder has described as "Our Mona Lisa", the Neue Gallerie's collection continues to expand, and the institution has quite the prodigious benefactor in Mr. Lauder. We hope, however, that it remains a small museum, on the human scale which makes its home at the corner of Fifth and 86th so appropriate. The building which once housed the wealthy today is home to priceless works of art which, though of foreign origin, New York must be proud to call its own.

ONE OF THE splendid things about New York is that it's a land which continually manages to throw up a surprise or two, even to time-hardened devotées of all things knickerbocker such as yours truly. One of my most recent discoveries is the fabulously haunting and impressive Buffalo State Hospital out in the far west of the Empire State. The magnificent building was built to the design of Henry Hobson Richardson, the progenitor of the eponymous 'Richardsonian Romanesque' style, as one of a series of governmental asylums for the insane founded throughout the nineteenth century. Richardson also did a great deal of work on the Capitol in Albany, designing the south façade which, since the construction of Nelson Rockefeller's Little Brasilia, is now the main façade of the building and was inspired by the Hôtel de Ville in Paris.

Construction on the State Hospital began in 1870, and the central administration block with its two towers and a number of flanking pavilions housing patients were opened in 1880. Interestingly, the towers which so dominate the building are purely decorative and remain unfinished on the interior. The footprint of the building follows the V-shaped Kirkbride plan, conceived by Pennsylvania's Dr. Thomas Story Kirkbride in his 1854 opus, On the Construction, Organization and General Arrangements of Hospitals for the Insane which revolutionized care for the mentally unstable in the nineteenth century. The location was a 100-acre parcel of property near the city of Buffalo, and the grounds were landscaped by Frederick Law Olmsted, who designed Central Park with Calvert Vaux.

The grounds originally included farms which helped to feed the patients and staff, but in the 1920's this land was redeveloped as the Buffalo State College, now the University at Buffalo (State University of New York). The hospital, renamed Buffalo Psychiatric Center, moved out of the Richardsonian complex into a plain, ugly, modern building on the grounds in the 1960's, leaving the beautiful Victorian structure to rot and ruin. However recent efforts by Buffalo and New York state officials have led to the replacement of the roof and other work to ensure the continued integrity of the building. The latest plans would have the building serve an educational function under the auspices of the State University next door, an appropriate purpose for this majestic gem of New York architecture.

The La Prensa building, formerly home to the newspaper of that name, now the Casa de Cultura.

The subte entrance in front of the edificio La Prensa.

Looking down the Avenida toward the Palacio del Congreso.

Wandering around the merry old world wide web I stumbled upon these stamps, which I bring to you for your own enjoyment. Above we have the Great Metropolis itself, the island of Manhattan in its swankier days. Below we have a view of the Crown of the Hudson, West Point, with the beautiful Cadet Chapel designed by that American Master, Bertram Grosvenor Goodhue himself, presiding over the campus of the United States Military Academy.

The postage stamp was once a thing of beauty and composition, but it's heartening to see that some still design beautiful stamps. Just examine Elliott Banfield's stamp of General Washington, based upon the staute in Union Square. Mr. Banfield believes that the decline in the design of postage stamps is due to a "moral void" most readily shown when the Postal Service unveiled its famous 'Elvis Stamp' a few years back.

"Elvis was important in the popular culture, yes," writes Mr. Banfield. "But how important is the pop culture? Important only to those who can't see anything higher or better. It's scary to think that people like that are in charge of public policy. But they are, and the Elvis stamp proves it."

Hear! Hear!

An irrelevant stamp, after the jump.

Flipping through an old book called 'Magical City: Intimate Sketches of New York', I came upon this sketch of the Gould Boathouse of Columbia University on the Harlem River by Spuyten Duyvil. I had never come across this little building before and had significant doubts as to whether it was still there, but to my pleasant surprise it does. I'm afraid I don't know much about the boathouse nor its history, but here follows a number of photos and images of it, and of various Columbia boathouses of the past.

We on the Eastern Seabord often think that our cities are the last word in ecclesiastical architecture, but Mark Scott Abeln's splendid 'Rome of the West' site goes a long way towards reminding us of the great physical deposit of Western Civilization and Christian culture situated in the city of St. Louis on the Mississippi River, deep in the heart of America. To show my fellow provincial knickerbockers the richness of St. Louis's church architecture, I've chosen a few photos from Mr. Abeln's site for posting on this site. A wonderful exhibiton of America's (which is to say Europe's) rich cultural heritage.

The jewel in this crown of Catholic Middle America is most certainly the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis (above and below). The Cathedral was begun in 1907 and contains the largest collection of mosaic artwork in the world covering 83,000 square feet, the last tesserae of which was installed in 1988. The architecture of the basilica features a number of styles, from the Romanesque Revival exterior to the Byzantine plan and interior, and even contains a chapel designed in the Viennese Reconstructionist style.

A rather good article I was reading in the Oxford American (via V&V) reminded me of a building I stumbled upon in the Historic American Buildings Survey, digitized at the Library of Congress. No. 403 Royal Street in the French Quarter of New Orleans was designed by one of the first master architects in America, Benjamin Latrobe, who also designed the Baltimore Basilica, the Mother Church of the United States. Resting at the corner of Royal and Conti streets, the building was constructed by the Louisiana State Bank (later subsumed into la Banque de la Louisiane) and features a domed banking hall in the center. After having outlived its usefulness under its original purpose, it became a private residence, with the central banking hall turned into a living room, before being turned into an events venue as it remains today.

The photographs at the top and above were taken in 1934 and the building exudes a rather charming dilapidation. It's an honest building, and looks and feels its age. Fast forward to the present day (below) and the building has certainbly been over-restored. Not a lick of peeling paint, the whole building looks fresh and new and, in my mind, a tad artificial; all this despite being a fairly old structure.

What's worse is that the old courtyard to the rear has been covered over with an exceptionally awkward roof so that it can be used for events in all weather. The interloping roof is a completely insensitive addition to an otherwise comely and graceful building. Indeed, without it, one imagines the building might make a fine private residence.

Historic preservation is hugely important in America, which has lost the majori