Gaylordsville United Methodist Church

I don't consider myself a religious person by any measure. A 'cafeteria Catholic' (one who picks and chooses) is probably the most apt description of my beliefs. That said, I have a long-standing fascination with--and passion for--church and cathedral architecture. On these very pages I've written of my love affair with Henry Adams' Mont Saint Michel and Chartres. I've journeyed on my very own mini-tour of the architecturally stunning edifices at Chartres, Coutances, Amien, Rouen, and beyond. The parish church of my youth, St. Francis of Assisi, is itself a beautiful structure with a soaring, beamed ceiling and numerous stained glass windows.

In the Northeast, though, we have special churches and cathedrals of our own, beyond Fenway Park, of course. These white-steepled beauties--whose stately spires dot our rolling hillsides--are at the very heart of New England architecture.

Classic New England facade, ca 1854

Yesterday, while on a photographic quest for my weekly Flickr challenge, I was driving Route 7 here in Connecticut. It's a drive rich with picture taking opportunities, but nothing was really catching my eye. Crossing the Housatonic, I drove into the hamlet of Gaylordsville to get turned around so I could head back south. As I crossed the river again, though, I saw the sharp steeple of a church sticking out above the trees and decided to have a closer look.

The Gaylordsville United Methodist Church is perched on slight incline right on busy Route 7, but it doesn't feel in any way hurried. The simplicity, symmetry, and pedimented façade caught my eye immediately. As I left my car, I noticed a woman working outside--the lawn had been freshly mowed and trimmed--and I greeted her saying that I just wanted to take a few pictures. We exchanged pleasantries about how lovely the weather was and I made my way around the exterior, noting the deep green shutters, the decorative mouldings. Looking through a partially open window I could see the green and amber hued stained glass shedding warm afternoon light out across the pews.

Reflected clouds, green shutters

I'd taken quite a few different pictures of the church from the outside and was about to walk back to my car. As I rounded the corner, the woman whom I'd spoken to earlier asked if I'd like to go in. Really? I'm accustomed to churches generally being closed so I usually content myself with the exteriors. She said to me that something (someone?) just told her to invite me to go inside. I cheerfully accepted the offer.

As we walked through the door I was enveloped by 'old building' smell. It's right up there with 'old library' smell for me and when you add in beadboard wainscoting and push button lighting you have (in my estimation) the hallmarks of a great old building. My new friend--whose name I was too lunkheaded to ask!--told me about how special this place was for her. How it just kind of drew people in, brought people together. Clearly this church was and is an integral part of this small community.

I have what I consider to be an overdeveloped sense of place. By that I mean that I know almost immediately if a place is 'for me' or not. It's a visceral, gut reaction and some places--be they entire cities or single structures--just don't resonate at my particular (peculiar) wavelength. This place, though, this small church, exuded a stoic grace that I've come to identify with these old New England houses of worship. I liked it here.

Symmetry

I walked down the aisle, spent time gazing at the amber glow that shone through the stained glass window, and lingered at a quilt on the wall. I browsed the hymnals, admired the cushioned pews (none of those in most of the Catholic churches of my life) and sat calmly in the quiet amidst the serene blue walls.

Stained glass though the screen

Walking to my car, I stopped to thank the kind soul who had shared her church with me for part of the afternoon. Her love of the place was evident and I appreciated the gesture. Not only did I have more than enough pictures for my photo project (which can be viewed on Flickr here), but I also passed an unexpectedly enjoyable Saturday in late summer when my august August ennui is as its peak. My sincere thanks to my unnamed friend and the community that takes such loving care of this beautiful old church.

Very literal interpretation of the open door
welcome I received

Looking toward the altar

The amber light shining through the stained glass
window casts a warm hue on some of the pews

Detail of the memorial stained glass window

NaNo Something Or Other, Entry 1.

It's November 1st and that means it's National (fill in your favorite form of writing) Month. I'm generally wary of these kind of "marathons," but as I'm toiling away at getting a writing project ready for primetime, I thought that this challenge might be a good way to keep the creative thoughts flowing and keep the words streaming from brain to keyboard and/or notebook. So in addition to the new levels of productivity on my non-fiction project, I'm also committing (wow, even typing that word makes me shift a little in my chair...) to a new post here--of some kind--each and every day during the month of November. No doubt some will be short on words and long on photographic content, but I hope that it will help reinforce the general writing habit.

With that in mind then, I'm going to start November with a little photo study of The 1927 Plummer Building, part of the Mayo Clinic campus in downtown Rochester. Dr. Henry Plummer was the local genius, a physician who designed the structure with the architects from Ellerbe and Company. I would doubt that there is an ornament or motif in this building that he didn't have a direct hand in. His interest in (and respect for) art, history, literature, and medicine can be seen in every corner of this building. It's beautifully constructed and while it's not used for patients any longer, it's an architectural gem with some wonderfully ornate and detailed interiors. Wandering around the exterior on a quiet weekend is a real pleasure. The giant bronze doors (16 feet high, 5 inches thick) have rarely been closed over the history of the Mayo Clinic, so when they close it's a historic occasion. They were closed after the assassination of JFK, after the 9/11 attacks, and if I'm not mistaken for the deaths of the Mayo brothers in 1939.

The upper floors and carillon

Astrology beside mythology on the building's facade

St George, mid-slay

The Canada Geese that (over) populate Rochester

Minnesota's state mascot...the humble gopher

There are little gophers hiding in many spots, here on the large, solid bronze doors

Interior door detail

The newer (1960s) Mayo Building reflected in Plummer's windows

Griffins on the entry doors

The beautiful lighting fixtures in the main lobby

What appears to be a caparisoned horse, used as a door handle

The 1927 Plummer Building reflected in the sleek glass
of the very recently built Gonda Building

Elementary, My Dear Watson...

IBM's Eero Saarinen designed Watson Research Center

I had a truly lovely outing today in Yorktown Heights, NY. It's a beautiful part of New York and a pretty drive...plus it's in Don and Betty Draper's Ossining neighborhood, so it's all good, right? (I'd have stopped in if it had been cocktail time...)

I literally and legally cannot tell you anything about what I did today other than that I was playing Jeopardy! sparring matches against IBM's Watson project. I had SO much fun and really enjoyed the other contestants, and folks from IBM--they couldn't have been nicer or made us feel more welcome.

One of the nicest surprises, though, was the building itself. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not always too thrilled with modern architecture, but Eero Saarinen has grown on me in the past few years. The fluidity of line and Saarinen's ability to place the building perfectly within it's surroundings is nothing short of genius. Set amidst the rolling hills that surround Yorktown, the building is crescent shaped and has walls of windows that look out over the campus. I can only imagine what it looks like during in autumn, with the leaves at their peak or in the winter during a snow storm. Even today, snowless and dreary as it was for most of the day, the view from the hallway was stunning. I could've sat and read or written all day looking out those windows. Equestrian that I am, it did also occur to me, of course, that it would be an absolutely brilliant place for a good hack!

And what's most wonderful about this structure are the native materials that were used in construction. It's filled with local stone--inside and out--and it couldn't look more like it belongs among the hills and dales of Yorktown. Inside some of the walls use the same local stone and there are the most beautiful, highly polished stone floors that look like an inky river flowing throughout the floors. (They'd make an amazing kitchen floor!) One of the engineers was saying that employees over the years have actually tried rock-climbing on the wall faces--who could blame them?

At any rate, a good time was had by all and if you're at all curious about the Watson project or the Saarinen building here are a couple of useful links for you to explore:

IBM's Watson project

Watson Research Center in Yorktown Heights, NY.

In Defense of Architecture

(Sacre Coeur)

I can already hear you questioning the need to defend architecture. But the seeds of this blog post were sown a few weeks ago during Mad Men (of course) when the team at Sterling Cooper was debating the tearing down of old Penn Station to make room for the soon to be (then) latest incarnation of Madison Square Garden. Lovable "hippie" Paul Kinsey attempts to defend it while the proponents of the razing invoke New York's very own doyenne of architecture, the amazing Ada Louise Huxtable, whom they bemoan as cranky and against the project. And let's face it, architecture and design can be showcases for the best and sometimes the worst of human aspirations.

That started the wheels turning. I had the honor of working with and meeting Ms. Huxtable while working on her book, On Architecture, which was published by Walker & Co last fall. One of the great pleasures of sifting through her volumes of critiques, columns, and books was the broadening of my appreciation for different eras and styles. Because her critic's eye is so well honed, she's able to persuade even the staunchest anti-modernism preservationist (me) about the values of modern architecture. When I expressed my surprise to her that I was really drawn to some of these buildings that I'd always pooh-poohed, she replied that it was what good critics did. They made you think, consider and reconsider. (As an aside, her post-9/11 pieces--from the WSJ--on the WTC and what to do with the space are striking when coupled with her writings on the construction of the Twin Towers in the early 70s.)

E.G: They wanted a photograph of Richard Meier's Hartford Seminary (photo below) for the book. I offered to go to take it myself since it was just up the road and I love taking pictures. I had seen some images of the building in other books and it looked like an oddly shaped igloo formed of ice bricks, so I wasn't expecting much. It was a beautiful spring day and when I got out of the car to wander the grounds for different angles, I found myself recounting some of the comments Ms. Huxtable had made about the design and about Meier's work. No one was more surprised than I was to find that I really liked and appreciated the building. It didn't move me the way Sacre Coeur did, or the Opera Garnier, but I found something in it to like and began to see why it was so highly acclaimed.

                                 

And to say that I could appreciate the lines/design of buildings like the Hartford Seminary is no small matter. I'm an architectural traditionalist from way back. I love the history and aesthetic of Beaux Arts, Classical Revival, Federal, Victorian Craftsman, and Prairie School structures. I've been a part of as many losing battles (the old Soldier's Memorial Field bathhouse: a WPA built colonial revival structure that looked like a smaller version of Mount Vernon!) as I have winning ones (the old Chateau Theatre, now a Barnes & Noble) in my work with preserving the built past. It's hard and often thankless work because there are always people who want to tear down the old and put up the new, with no thought at all for the historic importance of the building or even the city/site. And not every building is worthy of saving, or even structurally sound enough to save. But there are so many occasions when short sighted city councils bow to the whims and desires of greedy developers with shallow promises.

Then the other day I read a really good piece in the UK Telegraph by Simon Heffer on "Letting Beauty into Our Towns." (read the full piece HERE, you won't be sorry, and read some of the comments on the piece as well, interesting takes on the British aesthetic.) He referenced John Ruskin and his Seven Lamps of Architecture, which made my heart beat a little faster, I must say. (Invoking Ruskin is like waving an Hermes scarf at me or shaking an ice-filled martini mixer in my presence--it gets my attention! Ruskin was complicated and difficult--consider his feud with James MacNeil Whistler--but he is also to my mind the father of the modern preservation movement. No less than Tolstoy called Ruskin "one of the rare men who thinks with his heart." The Seven Lamps was an extended essay that was expanded later into The Stones of Venice and both books are well worth searching out for anyone with architectural leanings.) Ruskin aside, though, Heffer makes some very interesting points about the unfortunate bleak structures that were built under the mantle of modernism. Heffer is specifically pointing to the loss of the Euston Arch as the time when the "floodgates of modernism" were opened wide, which made me wonder what that watershed moment was for the US.

Surely there are bad buildings that have been built in every style, in every era. And clearly art and architecture are very personal visions. What pleases my eye may not interest you. But I think a case could be made for the loss of old Pennsylvania Station in NYC as our Euston Arch moment. The building erected in Penn Station's place is the completely unattractive behemoth of Madison Square Garden. While MSG has brought sporting entertainment to the Big Apple, not many would call it interesting to look at. In the years after MSG was built, so many office buildings of the 60s and 70s were glass and steel skyscrapers with no interest or ornament and surely no soul. Minimalist modern gone bad. Obviously not all bad architecture started with MSG nor did the preservation fights end with Jacqueline Onassis' heroic battle to save Grand Central Terminal. It's an ongoing struggle to keep important structures part of our communities.

Next time you're in a city, any city...look up. See what there is to see, what pleases your eye and why. It's fascinating to see how buildings have evolved right along with our society and values. There's something to be said here about no longer young dogs and new tricks, too...it's surprising what we can begin to appreciate when given the opportunity to learn more about a place or thing.  I'm coming around to some of Modernism's masters (a few...baby steps, you know) and can only hope that they'll have people fighting for their preservation in the coming decades as those architects and styles are indicative of our society--for better or worse.

Here are a few of my favorite buildings (my photos, as well)...I'd love to know what buildings/spots you love--what place do you photograph or sketch from every angle because it fascinates you?

(Grand Central Terminal)

                                             

(Paris Opera--Charles Garnier)

(St. Paul, MN --Landmark Center, St. Paul Cathedral in background)

(Classic white-steepled NE church)

(the stables @ Mayowood, where I first took riding lessons!)

A Place For Us

There was a great Oprah episode where they were discussing what the beauty standards were in countries all over the world. A particularly out-going woman (I apologize that I don't recall which African nation she represented) was interviewed in her home country and reported that more zaftig women were considered to be the most beautiful. Oprah began singing "A place for us...Somewhere there's a place for us..."



I had a kind of similar feeling upon arriving in Saratoga Springs, NY, earlier today. (And it was Oprah's singing that echoed through my head!) Driving around town to find my way to the racetrack I was immediately struck by the architectural variety. Incredible. Amazing Victorians (Queen Anne, Shingle...); Classical and Greek Revivals; and brick everywhere. I knew I couldn't pass up the opportunity to wander around town and enjoy the views, so instead of heading straight to the racetrack, I took a little 'Tyger Tour' and spent the day feasting on the architectural sights and wonderful old downtown. Nothing like stepping back in time a century or so, but still having Starbucks and Dunkins to provide coffee!!



It's pretty clear why visitors have been flocking here for over 100 years. Not only is a beautiful area (just south of the Adirondacks) but it's just far enough away from NY, Boston, or Montreal to be a vacation without being too far afield. The complex of the old baths and spas on the southern end of town is gorgeous. So many wonderful brick buildings--Classical Revival--and long expanses of green lawn. A wedding was being held in one of the porticos at about sunset and it looked perfect.



A late lunch at a creperie called Ravenous--which I highly recommend, by the way--was the perfect culmination to my first trip to The Spa.



I'm all set for a long day at the races tomorrow and can't wait.



More in the morning, then, time for a little dinner and a pint at The Parting Glass Pub.



Signed, Saratoga's newest fan who already is looking forward to another trip up here!!

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