Time to see if R.W. Johnson has the natural benefit his prodigious name implies (well, it worked for Don and LBJ).

They’ve got balls. Sticking it to Robert Wood Johnson. A fight to the death between the big swinging dicks of New York. Making Gargano their bitch. Pick your favorite homoerotic symbolism and lube yourself up with it (K-Y would be an appropriate aid), ‘cause we finally have ourselves a fight. We all know the ladies in skimpy outfits are simply distraction and sublimation: the main event will be a bunch of unattractive, ultra-rich New Yorkers getting good and sweaty in the quest to control a hole in the ground, the end result of which will be one massive screw job to Joe Q. Public. But in the latest chapter of the real estate soap opera (As the West Side Turns? Mike’s Hope? Subsidies of our Lives?) on the West Side, it looks like we might at least get the benefit of a reach-around.

Late last week, the Dolans, in the form of their minor media fiefdom, Cablevision, offered six times what Robert Wood Johnson is willing to pony up (and a third of what the MTA is asking) for the rights to build over the Hudson Yards site (Johnson apparently wants to build a stadium or something). It’s rumored (in my head at least) that the offer sheet had a little sketch of a Rockette planting her heel in Bloomie’s bloomies. The city was blindsided by this development, perhaps because the Dolans offered to focus on housing, which, even as it is a craven ploy to exploit the superheated Manhattan real estate market, still would provide the nominal benefit of increasing housing stock, which means that somewhere down the line, even though at considerable personal cost, a human being would benefit from the actions of a Dolan, which is probably the most disturbing and unreal aspect of the absurd theater that has developed since the MTA finally showed a little spine when presenting their internal assessment.

The mayor sputtered a response, but given the thematic organization of this post, the best imagery we can conjure would be Bloomberg taking a bat to some unfortunate, random Dolan’s car, screaming, “This is what you get when you fuck a stranger in the ass!”

Even the most cynical critic of the Dolans’ ineptitude in managing their various monopolies has to admire the timing of this move. It will take several weeks to sort out how binding their offer is; it will forestall the arbitration the city was about to push for; and it will continue to cast doubt on the city’s Olympic bid (already being spoken of in some quarters as hopeless, particularly since the recent speculation that London was more or less being written off). With the decision only four months off, the Dolans need only keep up their charade for another two months, and after that can count on any number of public figures who are in a position to trade their influence for pet projects to make noises about waiting another month or two — after all, why act in haste, when a specific answer is only a few weeks hence? They can then let due diligence take its course: when the city realizes the Dolans haven’t done a thing in this city without a handout, the future of this proposal will look understandably dim. Or they can simply withdraw the offer, chortling, and go back to basking in their massive tax deferral subsidy.

But, in the meantime, we can look forward to a good twelve rounds of old-school, hard-knocks New York one-upmanship. If it lasts long enough, people might even be fooled into thinking the ensconced power brokers in this town actually pay for the privilege, and that a real estate development will move forward with an actual risk component. Hopefully the MTA will be able to cash out before they all come to their senses, and reach into our pockets for the funding.

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There’s only room for one Moss in this town.

No one else seemed to have picked this up (trans: an eight-second Google search turned up nothing), but last week, the Architect’s Newspaper reported that Eric Owen Moss had been dismissed as designer of the Queens Museum expansion. Moss was pretty vituperative in his response, saying, in part, that Tom Finkelpearl, the executive director of the QMA, was a hypocrite. When a high profile architect is dismissed, the tendency to close ranks (particularly in professional journals) is strong, and this is the case in the write-up, though perhaps this is because of the rather tepid statement from Finkelpearl that “things weren’t working out.” Dude, just tell him you’re dating someone else.

The lack of detail makes it difficult to conclude if it was a high-handed rising star being too difficult, or a bitter leader from the poor relations of the museum scene in New York trying to rule with an iron fist. As glib as that might be, it would be instructive to find out exactly why everything soured, since client relations are the real grease upon which any successful design turns. Big-name designers use intimidation and reputation, and those on the rise strive to be conciliatory, albeit tactically. But knowing how to do both with grace makes all the difference, and no one ever teaches that.

Concerns that this might sully the introduction of the city’s Design Excellence program (of which this was the first major project) are likely overstated. After all, the prequalified firms in the program include Arquitectonica, a firm that hasn’t had an original idea since Miami Vice went off the air (and even then, they were questionable ideas), a creative bankruptcy that has saddled the city with the Times Square Westin and Avalon Chrystie Place.

The QMA is cagey about the future of the approved Moss concept. Well, not really — Finkelpearl thinks keeping the schematic plan of an atrium would be respecting Moss’s contribution. If one was prone to unfounded speculation, and I’m very much about that, I’d say the unveiling of MoMA, as well as the plans being floated for both MAD and the Whitney, make the lil’ QMA a bit jealous of all that hard-edged Late Modernism. And even though Moss presented a veritable zoo of undulating glazing, it would never produce the frisson of Tanaguchi’s braggadocio in demanding even more money so that he could make the architecture disappear (too bad he couldn’t make the drywall contractor disappear, but that’s a story for another day).

I’m perhaps a little bit of a sucker for that too, so I don’t feel so bad they sent Moss packing. Let’s hope that Gluckman Mayner, the town bike for the Whitney board, gets a crack at this.

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Because we saw our shadow.

Because reviving one’s blog is the new black. Because someone has to remind everyone that Kevin Rampe is a mendacious control freak, we are back. Sort of. Whatever that means.

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For which we are truly not thankful.

This will be poorly written, in one of those juvenile, petulant and self-aggrandizing rationalizations about theoretical consistency. You know how it goes: why should I strive for pellucid and trenchant prose when I do nothing but chronicle the filth that runs like a river from developer greed to homeowner indifference (or grasping desperation, should you wish to be more charitable)? I’m just trying to be in touch with the impossibly low standards with which we prop up our real estate bubble.

It’s an ugly, ugly town, walking from the Mediocre Mile that is lower Sixth Avenue, to the tripe lining the Bowery. And I don’t even get to the Kips Bay or the Upper East Side that often. Whereas I used to lament the dearth of places where it even seemed possible to insert a well made structure, now I am horrified at the apparently limitless opportunity for the very opposite.

I didn’t think that the regular notice of design atrocities (and wrong-headed planning) would change anything, nor I was looking for some personal edification that doing so was exceptional. In part, it was an exercise in writing (and a poor one at times), and the press of time — committed to the banal trade of labor for capital — and a decision to refocus the residual space in my head to other things means it’s time for an indefinite hiatus. So thanks for reading, there are no promises of a return here.

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Robber Barons give back to the community — at $20 per.

So I get to talk about museums and apartments, musuems and apartments. MAD and MoMA, Meier and, well, someone else. Everyone loves to quote the numbers, dizzying in their largness. This many millions, that many square feet, or floors, or doo dads. Big sales for a Rothko and a Jasper Johns drawing this week, another record per square foot loft, a discussion that centers almost exclusively on the three quarters of a billion dollars raised for MoMA capital campaign, with absolutely no discussion on the impact on the collection (and very little recap on the dust up over the attempt to jettison some of the more ‘frustrating’ elements of the museum due to — get this — a lack of space in the new facility). Oh, and it will get more expesive for us to see.

And of course, you are going to have to pay for the privilege, since all this beauty has yet to be captured and released by Timothy Hursley or Paul Warchol (hell, they won’t even print a plan — or is that rights-managed too?). The New Yorker runs two reviews this week, by Updike and what-his-name but only one photo (none online). Over in the Times, Ouroussoff gives us some details on the Whitney with a sketch and real rough form model.

The text of both reviews hold far more detail, the usual amount of insidery superiority (‘I am now telling you about something you cannot see, peon’), with no real documentation. The Updike piece is accompanied by one extravagant shot of the atrium, which was provided to finally to validate what every breathless art work suck-ass has been panting about for months. Big, big, BIG!! Well, yes, looks pretty big, that lobby. Bigger than the Tate Modern? Maybe not, so let’s stop talking about size as the only marker of value in design. Unless of course, its continued presence in reviews is akin to what you go through when a bad photographer shows you work, and you stuggle to find something to praise, and you end up with ‘Well, the mattes look great’.

I can’t add anything about quality, since I’m not one of the art elite — and really, it’s great, I’m sure. Was that ever in doubt? Eventually, I’ll get around to seeing a really big room next time I’m good and stoned and in midtown. What did they hang in that commanding atrium? Water Lilies. And Barnett Newman. Yep.

Over at the Whitney, they really must have put the screws to Piano. Or he simply demonstrated that he is the artsy version of David Childs (sans stealing bad student work from crits). The form model we are presented is so mundane, it’s hard to determine what he actually did. And I’d be curious to see how his solution, in massing, differs from what Richard Gluckman (who is the go-to guy when you want really fussy, well-executed museum/gallery modernism that is threatening to absolutely no one — and he is a good architect to boot) proposed, before he was summarily canned.

What’s interesting is the form model presents what one might think to be a minor intervention, compared to the OMA model (or the Graves abomination from the 80’s), with the ‘Guggenheim solution’: make a blank tall tower with similar coloration and a slightly different material and stick it as far back on the site as you can. But it’s actually rather drastic, since a new entry is being proposed as well. Given how compact the Whitney is, relocating the entry to the south will have a dramatic impact on internal circulation, resulting in what looks to be a narrow hotel-like atrium with wings springing from each side clad in restrained, tasteful materials. But who can tell? The review is unclear, there aren’t photos, and it isn’t our business anyway, as long as the color of the cladding doesn’t upset the biddy preservationist crowd.

But get ready: MoMA is going to clean up next week. You’ll all be talking about it. Dust off your thesari for the cleverest synonym for big, and practice your best arch faux intellectualism. It must be good — it was really expensive. (Thanks to Curbed for the linkage)

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If you stand very still, you can hear the crickets.

Sometimes it seems that the urban experience in New York is not the physical manifestation of grand ideas, but the battles that preceded, and often defeated, them. Westway. Any number of Robert Moses’ highway projects. Hopefully the Jets stadium. It is an oft repeated canard that the intransigence of New Yorkers, usually couched in some vaguely negative socialist language, stops us from becoming even grander.

What is overlooked is that they aren’t striving for, say, London or Paris, since great, to many of them, implies something more like Houston (which has no zoning laws whatsoever) or Tysons Corner (which has no soul whatsoever). Basically, those who gripe most about our lack of vision is usually someone telling us to look up in the sky when they are reaching in our pockets.

But rarely do we sing praises to what such a difficult environment has protected us from, since, like water on a rock, eventually every part of the city succumbs. It’s not that an officious office tower usurps a museum, just that one bad idea gets done a little later than the developer hoped. There aren’t many stable models to measure the impact of development and jobs, but those that exist do point to the some correlation between expanding available space in advance of job creation. One problem with the models is that the lifespan of a building exceeds the cycles observed, so the buildings need to have some value beyond one economic cycle, as an adaptable office locale, or for other uses. But the bland requirements and scale of commercial office development is boxing us into an ugly corner (no pun intended). The fortuitous appeal of converting manufacturing facilities of the 19th century into the most expensive residential real estate in the world cannot be applied to blindly to outmoded office blocks. Or, if it is inevitable, perhaps we should exert more control when the necessity for new office space arises.

If this sounds like another screed against the plans for the WTC site, it is. Last week, Crain’s did one of their commercial real estate round ups (I hesitate to say yearly or quarterly, because sometime it seems weekly over there), detailing two significant trends: the clear superiority of the Times Square/42nd corridor as hottest rental market for financial services firms, and the reappearance of flat out spec office space for the first time in over a decade.

I’m not going to quote numbers and get all breathless about the details, which might excite anyone who thinks rent increases somehow benefit their immediate financial prospects or get all hott for bland, column-free contract interiors with lots of high-speed wiring, since neither does anything for me.

What I am going to point out, however, is that the midtown district is doing so well that firms are climbing over each other to take space that is drifting towards $100/sf in places like 1 Bryant Park (new BOA building — let’s hope it’s not as red as their branches), and prompting two spec buildings (one at the NE corner of Fifth and 42nd, and, technically, the new Times Tower, the non-Times portion of which — some 850,000sf — is still unrented). The other two major spec projects going on are 7WTC and the so-called Freedom Tower, together which are bringing over 3 million square feet of space on-line.

7WTC recently topped out, and it still lacks tenants — any. There were noises about the SEC — which ended up across the street in one of the WFC buildings — a while back, and now Silverstein’s people are trotting out some law firm. The key point is that, with the government programs and other incentives, the final going rate for space there may be likely less than half of what is being asked as some locations midtown. To put real numbers on it, that means a new tower in midtown commands a $200,000,000 premium over 7WTC (500,000sf over ten years).

One reason Silverstein isn’t holding a fire sale is that, unlike the other spec sites, 7WTC is paid for. So props to him for holding out for a good deal in a good market. Except he might be reaching for a deal that isn’t there, nor ever will be. The Hudson Yards proposal, which isn’t showing any signs of slowing, may bring the equivalent of 20 7WTC’s over the next two decades. And there is no evidence that downtown will ever be the commanding commercial zone it once was (a fact that was becoming evident before the attacks). Kevin Rampe gets apoplectic anytime someone questions his plan for 10 million square feet of spec space, even as no one, including him, can tell us who actually wants it. We deride the French for their putative profligacy when it comes to public building, but it looks like our memorial to the WTC attacks might be five empty office towers. That is perverse and sad, and demands a reconsideration of the site development. Something easy to do, since most of it still hasn’t begun construction. But instead we press ahead as if it were all engraved in the same granite as the cornerstone of the Freedom Tower — which itself hasn’t finished design.

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Get ready to lose every vote this week.

Well, Schumer won at least. Really, all our folks won, Glick, Nadler, a bunch of Supreme Court justices that are selling divorces in Brooklyn. All well and good here in Very Blue Land. Unfortunately, even here, where our godless liberalism is supposed to hold sway, that won’t protect us from the evangelicals. And you know who I mean: that firefighter on the pro-West Side Stadium commercial who is going to show up when your house is on fire, stride in, and kick your ass for not supporting the Jets, fucker!

What’s with that guy, really? And I thought paid public employees weren’t allowed to do advertising. Maybe those guys are retired and they’re, you know, lying (which would be consistent with much of their message), which is a hell of a thing to mortgage — trust of life-saving public servants — for a football stadium. Oh, and the Olympics. But Paris is turning out to be the clear favorite there, in part because they are crazy (and have the good sense to be so only temporarily), and because they don’t yell at people.

But you shouldn’t get worried — well, you should, but in principal, not practice — about  today’s vote, since this is the one that has always been least in doubt, coming as it is from the state development authority, also known as Charles A. Gargano’s Bitch, and consequently, Dan Doctoroff’s. The real fun begins after that, not that you can actually intervene and make your opinion known, but will have to rely on that well-funded proxy of public interest, the Dolan family. Look, we don’t like these creeps anymore than your average head case ‘real’ person paid by a New Jerseyite to slag them, but when the pissing contest is a roomful of billionaries all putting a hand in your pocket, you don’t get to be choosy.

In the meantime, RWJ III is playing to his base by announcing that much of ‘his’ funding will be coming from, yep, you guessed it, your pocket again. Well, ‘you’ being the small segment of folks who buy season tickets. Yesterday the Jets’ announced that some portion of their funding (the part not secured by tax exempt bonds) would come from  seat licenses, that clever idea developed in the 90’s, where you first have to buy the right to buy tickets before you actually get to buy the tickets. Maybe that’s why that firefighter is so pissed.

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Oh, no Mr. Robber, sir, I do not carry cash. My companion here, Peter, has the checkbook.

In New York, you get used to the whims of fashion. You get used to pronouncement of what is cool and exactly, precisely when it is toppled. The capriciousness of the process can be frustrating, particularly when, say, a restaurant doesn’t actually suffer a loss of quality, or a band doesn’t really change. Or maybe it’s good, since you don’t have to listen to the braying hordes of scenesters of various stripes hogging the floor, and talking during the show. Of course, I should have a clever bunch of hyperlinks detailing my bleeding edge understanding of this or that level of hip, but fuck all that. I’m unfashionable. But, some things never change. Like Katz’s or John Lurie, a consistent opinion pervades this town about the timelessness and truth of certain things. To that, we can add the belief that the West Side Stadium is about as healthy for this city as more cosmetic surgery would be for Jocelyn Wildenstein.

Yesterday, Comptroller — and putative mayoral candidate — William C. Thompson issued his report on the planned financing for the entire West Side redevelopment project. And he took his goddamn time about it, threatening since mid-summer to issue a position. I’m embellishing here for dramatic effect, since there’s no news in the conclusion (um, in case you live under a rock or in Mike Bloomberg’s basement, the gist is that the financing plan is unprecedented in its risk and out and out foolhardy — and this from a guy who isn’t even taking a position on the propriety of the stadium, other than noting that Bloomberg’s claim that the stadium needs to be underway before the Olympic vote happens is hooey), except for the v-bomb he drops at the end, where he states that you can expect a big ole Bronx cheer from him when it comes time to vote (yeah, believe or not, there are one or two people who might actually have a say beyond Robert Wood Johnson III).

That’s because the city needs some scratch to jumpstart development (subway line, parks and streets, infrastructure, etc.). The money will come from bonds, which are to be repaid by property tax revenue expected from the development area. But in order to obtain favorable rates for the bonds (some of which, yes, is a direct subsidy of the stadium, mostly in the form of site work, which includes building the platform over the LIRR rail yards), they need to be guaranteed by something other than the project, since those finanical markets that made Bloomberg rich don’t believe the project is credit worthy above the level of junk. So the proverbial full faith and credit of the good citizens of New York is needed. And, of course, it’s not really our goodness securing these rates — it’s our tax dollars. See, if the project doesn’t materialize at the expected pace (and, to revisit some recent development schemes, remember that a good 10-12 unscheduled years intervened between the announcement of the four towers at the south end of Times Square and the completion of the first), there is no tax revenue, and thus no money for bond repayment. There is, however, our trusty income tax revenue, which, normally, pays for such luxuries as police officers and teachers.

So, yes, this is like when you ne’er do well cousin calls and wants to “hook you up” with some crackpot scheme to buy lakefront property in Rochester with the idea that he can make all kinds of money because “real estate’s so hot right now”. Except the lake is polluted and he wants to pay the mortgage by selling houses that aren’t built yet. And you’re, like, “what happens if it takes a while to sell the first one”? And he, who hasn’t had a job since the head shop closed, says, all indignant, “Well, aren’t you making good money from your law job? You can smooth over the rough spots — dude, this is, like, a license to print money!”

So, yeah, it’s like that, except the property costs $3,000,000,000.

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Tisoped! Tisoped! Gnikcehc eerf-tseretni!

Boy, aren’t those new Bank of America branches really… red? I admire, if such a phrase is appropriate in this context, a financial services organization that is willing to forgo the traditional prohibition of red in any marketing involving money, and likewise the desire to make retail banking visually similar to a Pizza Hut, but if I was going to pick a retail avatar for remaking my bank, it seems like that Crate & Barrel would be far more effective.

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You are my Sunshine…

[NB: A reader alerted me to two inaccuracies, which have been corrected in the text and some comments have been appended below the text]

LIVING IN NEW YORK and being a fan of architecture always means having to say you’re sorry. More precisely, it means having to say, ‘Well, it could have been worse.’ Considering that we exist at the center of architectural practice, and, allowing a four-hour travel radius, at the academic center as well, we are still condemned to rationalize positive comments about much of which comprises architectural production that ranges from embarrassing to abhorrent.

The past two years have seen notable efforts to bring nameplate architects into the otherwise banal practice of making multiple dwelling facilities in Manhattan. Whereas the loft renovation was typically the cutting-one’s-teeth opportunity for young designers, they are finding themselves outflanked by the massive egos of the architectural ruling class, who, in some cases, are doing buildings from top to bottom. The list of recent projects, some real, some announced, some abandoned, include offerings from Graves, Meier, Calatrava, Gwathmey, Foster and Johnson. No longer content to watching the acronym posse (SOM, HOK, KPF) torture itself to try and develop a newer, cheaper way to wrap what is basically a light industrial manufacturing facility turned on its end with a ‘curb appeal’ in the form of a slighter different glass skin than the neighbor, we are now able to witness four decades of intellectually and formally bankrupt design theory fail miserably in the face of New York residential real estate market.

Trying to condense this argument into a comestible critique is difficult, since I don’t want to write a thesis here, but, rather, talk about a single building that seems to be emblematic of the unfortunate confluence of all these forces: developers and their middling stable of firms reaching up to where the demigods languish, the exalted slumming long enough to find out that it really is as bad as it seems down here.

Some of this process is explicable though the more considered words of others, but the runs the risk of seeming fussy and pedantic, an odd charge oft leveled at architects (and their critics), given they must, in the end, present visceral and near permanent arguments for these ideals. And so we have here Frederic Jameson:

It will no doubt be observed that the symbolic act of high modernism, which seeks to resolve contradiction by stylistic fiat (even though its resolution may remain a merely symbolic one), is of a very different order and quality from that of a postmodernism which simply ratifies the contradictions and fragmented chaos all around it by way of an intensified perception, or a mesmerized and well-nigh hallucinogenic fascination with, those very contradictions themselves (contenting itself with eliminating the affective charge of pathos, of the tragic, or of anxiety, which characterized the modern movement) [Architecture Criticism Ideology, PAP, 1985]

The reading presented above is acceptable mostly if one divests themselves of the belief that postmodernism is a design approach best characterized (and limited to) the candy-colored pastiche of the 1980’s and exemplified by Michael Graves, and instead opens it to include what is often lumped in as ‘traditional architecture’: the recent efforts to create, or recreate, structures that ape almost invisibly types — more often than not ones that prove to be lucrative real estate opportunities instead of significant by any aesthetic measure — in the extant stock.

This approach is consistent with the ‘playful’ belief that postmodernism existed almost post ideology — though some of its practitioners would have it that this free-form and arbitrary appropriation was a valid ideological approach to social conditions which enabled it. The strict traditionalist actions are cut from the same cloth, albeit with a more fitted approach. However, the guileless appropriation of history is same. Context is stripped down so that only formal terms remain, regardless of its history. Therefore, a design is admissible only when it succinctly apes its immediate environs, at all costs, and ‘authenticity’ collapses into an indiscernible mass of comfort through familiarity. To be inflammatory, but perhaps accurate, it’s the architectural equivalent of keeping the neighborhood as white as can be (which always protects real estate values).

But Jameson is an academic, not an architect. He hasn’t built a building (not so far as I know), and that’s fine for me, but when presenting such a relentless critique, you often get a little, ‘fine, but what are we supposed to do the meantime’? Folks like Manfredo Tafuri would have you respond ‘not much’, meaning that the collusion between an architect and prevailing hegemony is so inextricable that a critical practice is nigh impossible (or so reads Jameson).

There are both contemporaries and students of Tafuri who have both tried to live with the understanding of this strident stance whilst cleaving some path in the world that is hopefully adequately critical and still compelling. A strong example of this is Vittorio Gregotti, who presents this commentary about a decade later:

The spectacle is nothing but the pure form of separation: when the real world is transformed into an image and images become real, the practical power of humans is separated from itself and presented as a world unto itself… where everything can be called into question except the spectacle itself, which, as such, says nothing but, “What appears is good, what is good appears.”[Inside Architecture, MIT Press, 1996]

Unlike Jameson, he offers design that ostensibly opposes what his commentary derides. I can attest to an expression of affinity to the visceral before sanctioning his opinion. But it also occurs amidst its own historical moment, and I am merely a wide eyed naïf about that context, idealizing the Marxist posturing of an (Italian) culture that is nonetheless rabidly capitalist in many of its concerns, and in the end, may simply be another sucker for modern Italian design. Then again, maybe that’s not a bad thing.

THE HUBERT is a condominium building in TriBeCa nearing completion (photo), designed by BKSK Architects (with interiors by Alan Wanzenberg) and developed by Robert Siegel*. You’re probably familiar at least with a rendering of it if you have entered the city via the Holland Tunnel over the past two years. A large ad was situated in the lot at Beach and Varick streets (the intersection you encounter if you take the third exit from the Holland Tunnel rotary), and, at a glance, implied that the building was slated for that very lot. In fact, it is to the west, on Hubert Street, behind an existing former industrial building which is also undergoing redevelopment (by Joseph Pell Lombardi, who was involved in such notable conversions as the Atalanta building, the Ice House and the Julliard Building, as well as the upcoming Mohawk ‘Atelier’).

The building is unapologetically nostalgic. One might be tempted to say respectful, but that line is getting harder to distinguish each passing year of winking irony. My initial impression of the rendering was that someone decided to do the TriBeCa loft experience in an exceptionally thorough manner. I never studied the image well, and had a hard time situating it — the site is an ell, the bulk of which sits on Hubert Street, and the renderings obliterated all contextual elements. And though rendering technology has long passed the stage of photorea
lism, there are still enough tricks you can pull to make something to like more or less than it actually is. I simply assumed the rendering was a sales gimmick to generate interest in a building that was more or less a stock Costas Kondylis hack job.

But I have been removed from production long enough to discover that, no, the rigor with which the industrial loft building was fabricated whole cloth is, at times, terrifying. Or, as some preservation hack might say, appropriately respectful. Once the building was clad and topped out, you could see quickly how much it depends on the ‘Sky Lofts’ (photo) next door: the bay spacing of the windows (photo), the variegated brick pattern, color, and even the use of decorative stone caps mimics almost exactly the elder neighbor. The desire for double insulated glass, and marketability of expanses thereof has changed the proportions such that the panes run from column to column, and oddity and failure of which (photo) is not apparent in the rendering. Here again, Gregotti has a relevant observation (that is particularly acute if you wade through the Hubert sales site and see those renderings/movies):

Everything has at times been resolved, at the most superficial levels, by bestowing on the information media an importance great enough to allow construction of projects loaded primarily with the weight of their role as illustration. This gives the printed and transmitted photographic image a decisive role in judgment, and shifts the much more complex and structural notion of form, with all its reasons and resistances, in the direction of decoration, atmosphere, and syllogism.

I am tempted to detail the particular failings of this buildings, since it is a trap one gets into when one is the apologist. The ‘it could have been worse’ logic induces lassitude. And it calls to mind an argument that circulated amongst studio mates and friends (one that this continues with some to this day) — the gap between when might be called ‘good architecture’ and ‘good building’. Among the more talented of my friends, there wasn’t much of a gap, but for those philosophically inclined towards the latter, regardless of their skill, the argument was that we should know how to make a good building, since that failure would leave a structure bereft of its most elemental qualities, an ethical failure that no amount of theorizing could polish. Further, even the most critical reading of the work of someone like Gregotti will find that good building is in evidence to an almost pathological degree, even as sources diverse as Pasolini and Tom Wolfe will point out the formal and experiential failings of Italian housing developments. And so, even as the very being-ness of The Hubert must be questioned and (ultimately) condemned, its failures as a building are notable as well, since this is a town with a housing shortage that borders on criminal.

Unlike most of the warehouse stock in the area, the building makes liberal use of setbacks, reminiscent of Hugh Ferriss renderings, as well as a few larger buildings nearby (such as 60 Hudson, the Western Union building). One certain goal was to maximize the potential for terrace space. The renderings, and even the built form, to a lesser degree, benefit from the forced perspective this allows. But since the building does not soar beyond its neighbors, the column to column glass makes the building look more squat that it needs to. Additionally, the setbacks are necessary to bring some semblance of light into building. The siting, which is so carefully obscured in any promotional materials, is due west of one of the largest buildings in TriBeCa, and more or less hemmed in by its neighbors (photo), resulting in a largish building in what is basically a side street, mid-block lot. Most of the middle and lower level units will receive direct sunlight for an hour or two at best each day. The ‘maisonettes’ are two story units touted as having direct street access, part of a recent move on the part of developers to integrate ‘town home’ living with fully engaged units. Here, the entrances will be on Collister Street, which would be called an alley if it did not date to the early days of New York, when streets were far narrower, and the entrances open on to a sidewalk that will be positively suburban in scale – in this case, three feet, but without a yard or any intermediary grass.

Such are exigencies of developing in New York. Such are the failings of architects when faced with the demand of developers. One could simply dismiss these awkward conditions as inevitable, but that simply isn’t the case. Rather, it is the result of marketing driven decisions that are divorced from a prudent design program. Collister Street will never be Charles Lane, but that fact makes no difference to untrammeled greed and ignorance of real estate agents and developers (‘Your own private entrance – on a street with only three other addresses!’).

The interesting challenge would be if all of this insipid typicality hadn’t driven the decision-making. None of the recent attempts of bringing the star power to the process have mastered the nexus of all the attendant issues (regardless of where final culpability lies in the Perry Street building fiasco, there are enough missteps on the design side to characterize the project as more failure than not). Not that perfect execution should favor any approach, and there is more than a small measure of absurdity in trying to create a hierarchy of value in what are basically homesteads that are fundamentally pornographic by most socio-economic measures.

The units that you can see, both from the plans, and now, at street level before they are knitted up with very expensive treatments, are mean little spaces, jumbled together to resolve the expectations of the vulture-driven marketing: requisite master bathroom suite, ancillary spaces with esoteric terms such as ‘media room’ that are only wide spaces with too many circulation points, all of which are simply places to pile furniture and others toys that celebrate the absurd cost of the air itself. There is no way that furniture and finish can possibly enumerate just how dear this McMansion hell is, and so, why bother?

The failures of this building call to mind a fantasy I’ve always had. Whenever I’ve looked for an apartment, no matter what my budget, I was always told, in tones ranging from helpless to sarcastic that “there’s simply nothing in that range right now”. Someday, when architectural nitpicking makes me rich, I want to walk into a vulture’s office and deadpan that I have, say, $30,000 a month to spend, and watch them contort their face to prepare their standard line, and that if I was will to go to, say $32,000 they ‘might have something’. And so, of course, the money is never enough. Since the Hubert is close to sold out, if not completely at this point, and I know squat about how to research condo transactions, I can only assume that the about $100 million worth of real estate exchanged hands. And this leads me to ask, my attempts at trenchant commentary about modernism and its lack of effective legacy in Manhattan aside, is this not enough? Is this what $100 million gets you? Nasty little suburban apartment spaces with really expensive fixtures? It’s a fraud: tasteless and pointless. And almost entirely pre-sold. What incentive could there possibly be to prevent the next one?

* IN THE ORIGINAL TEXT, Tsao & McKown, who are designing interiors for a project two blocks to the west, were listed as the architects. The Sunshine Group was listed as developer. The Sunshine Group is only the marketing agent. This misattribution has little material impact on my overall thesis, but certainly is an unacceptably slipshod bit of fact checking on my part. Given the minor role of the Su
nshine Group, it would seem the title of this piece should also be amended, but for the sake of newsreaders and general archiving, I’m leaving it lie.

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