Building the Nation: Americans Write About Their Architecture, Their Cities, and Their Landscape

CHAPTER 1

Introduction: American Architecture?

Architecture is the best expression of a society, where it is and where it hopes to go.

—Vincent Scully

Buildings spoke to Henry James. When James, a towering figure in the world of American letters, returned to the United States in 1904 after an absence of nearly twenty-five years, he toured his old haunts, the places of his growing-up, and the buildings whispered to him. It is not important here what they said. James’s record of his visit, published as The American Scene, serves as a reminder that buildings, cities, landscapes—the totality of our built environment—speak to all of us.

In this sense, architecture is the one fine art that cannot be escaped. Many Americans go their whole lives without ever reading James, or Edith Wharton or James Baldwin, without ever listening to a symphony orchestra or hearing live jazz. But no one lives a life outside and apart from architecture. Regardless of where we live or what our work might be, we live our lives and do our work within spaces shaped by human imagination and human hands. Architecture thus stands as the one indispensable cultural production.

No less than Egypt, Rome, or the Ottoman Empire, the United States has, since its founding, relied on its buildings and its landscapes to reflect, define, and contest a national identity. Debates over what constitutes an American architecture, and what architecture’s role in the nation’s life should be, have therefore stood at the center of public life. As Americans have wrestled with issues of architectural form and style, with the nature of their cities, and with their relationship to the natural environment, they have evaluated and reevaluated the state of their democratic experiment and the meaning of participation in it by critiquing the design of their homes, their institutions, their urban spaces, and the landscapes that have surrounded them.

We offer here a window onto some of these debates over America’s built environment. By that term we mean all the ways in which people shape their surroundings—from formal architecture, to informal, vernacular buildings, to town and city planning, to the design of parks and the manipulation of the natural landscape—and the reasons they have done so. Building the Nation is a critical anthology of American writings about the built environment from the founding of the nation until the close of the twentieth century.

Our approach is to heed the insight of the old Shaker proverb Every force evolves a form. Every force in American life—whether the Civil War, the rise of industrial capitalism, the Great Depression or, more locally, the desire of people to live in better homes or of a town to have a public library—has left its mark on the built environment. To the proverb we add, Every form evolves a force. American buildings and places, once built, become social and cultural actors in their own right, shaping how Americans understand themselves and their place in the world.

Our aims are several. We want to give readers a glimpse into the lively public conversations that have taken place over the course of the nation’s history about the built environment. More boldly, we want this anthology to help reimagine American architectural history by tying it to the broader themes in American social, cultural, and intellectual history. Perhaps most important of all, we hope that this collection gives readers the critical tools with which they can not only evaluate the state of their own built environments but also start to change it. Our premise, though it may sound straightforward, is that architecture should serve the needs of a larger society and should advance its ideals—in the words of Ralph Erskine, The job of buildings is to improve human relations: architecture must ease them, not make them worse. The selections we have made all wrestle in one way or another with that fundamental issue.

We begin late in the eighteenth century with the ratification of the Constitution and the founding of the nation in order to make clear this assertion: The quest to define a unique and distinctively American approach to the built environment has undergirded the designing of homes, the building of cities and towns, and the way nature and human activity have been merged. While the traditions of earlier architectures were not forgotten or abandoned, the political, military, and intellectual acts that culminated in 1789 did create a new context for the discussion of architecture and its meaning. We bring our consideration up to the end of the twentieth century both to chart the ways in which the discussion of architecture has shifted over the course of two centuries and to notice how many of the issues raised at the birth of the republic remain live today.

That there is not now nor has there ever been a final answer to the question What is an American architecture? goes almost without saying. What the voices collected here demonstrate, disparate as they are, is that the search for an American architecture has been the central idea animating what Americans have built.

To illuminate these questions, we have relied a great deal on newspaper clippings, articles from popular magazines, travelogues, and even the occasional novel. Absent, or nearly so, are pieces written by architects speaking to other architects. It merits remembering that while building is eternal, architecture as a profession is quite young. The vast majority—upwards of 90 percent according to some estimates—of buildings and designed landscapes in the United State have been built without professional assistance. They are the products of pattern books, local builders, and individual imaginations. Since our interest is in the relationship between the built environment and other social issues, we have looked to popular, mass venues of communication. The voices here, many of them, are ordinary, largely unknown, and in some cases anonymous. In this way, we hope we have recreated some of the popular conversations that have taken place around architecture and not merely recapitulated the concerns of professionals. In the course of our researches, we have been struck by just how much writing there has been, in all sorts of places, about the built environment; indeed, we collected far more material for this volume than could ultimately fit! We make no claim that this represents a comprehensive collection, but we do think it will give readers a representative sense of how Americans have discussed their built environment at different moments in our history.

Some readers may be stunned to find that Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater is not discussed here. Nor are most of the buildings we have come to regard as iconic: not Louis Sullivan’s Wainwright Building in Chicago or Mies van der Rohe’s Seagram Building in New York. Where we present a document about the U. S. Capitol, it is not to delineate the classical references in the friezes or to sort out which architect did what on the building. Rather it is to discuss how that building in that city proposed to embody the very ideals of the nation itself. In some senses, this book is a documentary history of the nation’s built environment that joins some of the more recent histories written by scholars like Vincent Scully, John Stilgoe, Dolores Hayden, Gwendolyn Wright, Daniel Bluestone, and others who have broadened our understanding of the built environment beyond a particular set of architects and a canonical set of buildings. Other areas of American history have benefited in recent years from volumes of primary documents, and while there a few fine volumes of documents on architecture—notably Don Gifford’s Literature and Architecture (1966), Leland Roth’s America Builds (1983), and Joan Ockman’s Architecture Culture (1993)—none takes the comprehensive and historically grounded approach to the built environment that we have provided here.

This book is organized into eight chapters, each dealing with a different theme. Documents within each chapter span both the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Each chapter begins with our brief introduction, sketching the issues to be considered and tracing their chronological trajectory. These introductions also glance at some larger cultural, social, and intellectual developments relevant to the topic. Readers will find that each document is introduced briefly as well.

We begin, then, in Chapter 1 with a series of writings very broad in their scope, which seek to address the nature of American architecture as a whole. Architecture, perhaps more than any of the fine arts, embodies the values, tastes, and ambitions of a culture: How might one create an architecture that would give physical form to the new nation’s aspirations? Sweeping statements, these writings consider American architecture and its relationship to the state of the nation at particular moments—the country’s founding, for example, or its crisis in the 1930s. As the nation developed in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, Americans who wrote about architecture believed that the new nation demanded a new architecture, one commensurate with the boldness of the American political experiment. They asked questions about what a democratic architecture should be and about how American cities could avoid the corruption of their European counterparts. Americans, especially in the nineteenth century, surveyed the history of architecture trying to figure out what, exactly, from architecture’s past could be appropriated to build an American future. Indeed, as architectural critic and historian Joseph Rykwert has pointed out, the most vigorous architectural debates of the nineteenth century revolved around the meanings and appropriateness of different styles. American architects and builders who tried to create buildings to reflect the new nation found themselves relying, perhaps inevitably, on the styles of the past. Later in the nineteenth century, facing a variety of crises—secession and war, chaotic urban growth, the social traumas associated with industrialization—writers continued to talk about architecture as a curative for an ailing nation. In the twentieth century, faced with both the challenges and opportunities of growing national diversity and an increasingly prominent international presence, writers reconsidered how American buildings would reflect the changing populace and democratic ideals.

Americans have always had a strained cultural relationship with Europe, and Chapter 2 provides a window through which to view that. Travel writings of Europeans who visited the United States and wrote, often disparagingly, about their findings have become familiar to readers. Less well known are the writings of Americans who went back across the Atlantic looking for sources of cultural inspiration, hoping to bring European design ideas back to the United States. The essays included in this chapter reveal how, through the nineteenth and much of the twentieth centuries, the cultural traffic went largely in one direction between Europe and the United States, as many Americans felt they lived in Europe’s shadow. By the latter half of the twentieth century, however, writers discuss how American ideas and forms began to proliferate around the globe and the rest of the world began to take on a decidedly American cast.

At some level, America exists more powerfully in the imagination as a landscape. Just as Americans debated the proper way to design individual buildings and how to build better cities, they wondered about how to shape the vast natural landscape they saw stretching before them, and Chapter 3 fleshes out these debates. On one hand, Americans viewed the natural world they saw as their birthright, as an almost limitless arena for the development of cities and commerce, as resources to be exploited. On the other hand, they looked to the landscape, almost reverentially, as the reservoir of moral power and as the source of democracy’s reinvigoration, and they worried about what would happen to America as the loss of landscape continued apace. By the end of the twentieth century, many lamented that, except in a few preserves, the American landscape had been reduced to a homogenized lowest common denominator, a landscape of banality and sameness.

Too often discussion of American architecture has focused on the buildings of the Northeast, as if this region spoke for the entire nation. Chapter 4 stands as a corrective to this regional bias. Through much of the nation’s history, the United States might better be viewed as three regions—North, South, and West—with numbers of smaller regions within these. By shifting the lens through which we examine questions of the built environment to different regions of the country, we hope to broaden and complicate our thinking about the diversity of American architecture and space. The writings included in this chapter also reveal that regional distinctiveness in architecture, like the American landscape itself, had eroded dramatically by the end of the twentieth century.

Chapter 5 focuses on the debates over visions of America as an urban nation. Central to this debate was both the repulsion and attraction Americans felt—and continue to feel—about their cities. Attempts to reconcile this simultaneous enthusiasm and suspicion included efforts to redesign cities with park and parkway plans, utopian settlements in rural areas, and temporary urban fantasies embodied most powerfully in the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition in Chicago and more recently by Disney’s theme park cities.

In Chapter 6, we give special attention to the suburbs, which have come to be the dominant type of housing settlement in the United States since the 1950s. In 1980, the federal census announced that the United States had become a suburban nation, with a majority of us living in these in between places rather than in cities or in rural areas. Chapter 6 considers the American suburb. Even as America was building its great cities in the nineteenth century, it was also developing the ideology and forms of a new type of settlement. Originally the suburb was conceived of in the nineteenth century as a place where one could have the benefits of both city and country, where carefully planned picturesque natural beauty might be only a brief train ride from the bustle of downtown. In the twentieth century, the automobile changed profoundly how the suburb was built and how it functioned; after the Second World War, suburban sprawl began in earnest, fueled in part by a perception that American cities were in crisis. Postwar suburbanization has transformed the American landscape—both the physical and the political landscape—more profoundly and more quickly than any other phenomenon in American history. We are only just beginning to tally the consequences.

Chapter 7 looks at the American impulse to reform both individuals and society through architecture. In the nineteenth century, environmental factors replaced essentialist and theological ones as explanations for human behavior, both good and bad. Bad people, once thought to be bad intrinsically, were now believed to be bad because of the circumstances that surrounded them. As a result of this intellectual shift, many Americans became what we might call architectural determinists. For them bad buildings produced bad people; good buildings would produce good ones. Schools, properly designed, would generate better students; proper houses led to proper families; prisons built according to the right principles would reform criminals. In the twentieth century, the religious roots of this reforming instinct became less overt, but the belief that physical design would create better citizens and foster healthier communities persisted.

We conclude with a chapter dealing with how Americans have preserved the past in the built environment. It was during the nineteenth century that Americans developed a distinctive historical consciousness. This presented something of a paradox because the United States was both celebrated and derided as a nation without history. The nascent movement for historic preservation was driven by an urgency that the physical remains of America’s history were disappearing, victim in many cases to the very economic progress Americans lauded. This movement grew in the late nineteenth century and exploded into a national phenomenon by the mid-twentieth century. The writings in Chapter 8 illustrate how Americans attempted to embody a sense of the past in the built environment, and how Americans debated which pasts were worthy of saving in the first place.

The issues around which we have organized this volume themselves represent certain choices we have made and issues we want to emphasize. Like any categorization, these chapters focusing on these issues are to some extent artificial; they certainly do not mirror perfectly the writings we have included. As a consequence many of these pieces speak to two or even more of the chapters—an essay we have included in the chapter on landscape, for example, might have much to say about regionalism; issues of urbanism and suburbanization are necessarily intertwined. Drawing connections between chapters and issues is part of what we hope will be fun for readers.

Over the course of many centuries, and perhaps more so than any other cultural production, architecture has prompted some angry, vitriolic polemics, couched often in the language of ethics and morality. And although not all the voices that populate this volume ring out with that kind of invective, this collection does have a point of view. Or several. Ostensibly anthologies are merely collections of other people’s work. But in fact every anthology bears the strong imprint of its editors. The selection of documents and the way they are arranged, edited, and introduced all shape an underlying argument the editors want to make. This is as it should and must be. We would like to make the implicit explicit, however, and lay out for readers now some of the motivations that lie behind this book and that prompted us to put it together.

To begin, we are skeptical of the architectural determinism mentioned above if it means that difficult, complicated problems of social justice and inequalities generate only design solutions. We don’t believe that architecture can solve social problems without serious attention to the other causes of those problems. At the same time, however, we share a strong belief in the power of architecture to shape people’s lives, to destroy or invigorate communities. Good buildings will not cure all of what ails this society, but they are surely part of the solution.

We believe that the varieties of America’s natural landscape have been one of the main sources of what is and has been powerful and unique about American life, whether for Henry David Thoreau at the unassuming Walden Pond or John Muir staring at the spectacular Yosemite Valley. The American landscape is closely tied to what it means to be an American, different meanings, needless to say, for different people interacting with different landscapes. We also lament that Americans have been erratic caretakers of that landscape, saving some of the most spectacular places, letting much of the more ordinary but no less important landscapes disappear. We are convinced that when people live within a built environment that inspires us, when we become part of the process of protecting and cherishing the landscapes around us, we understand better what it means not simply to be American, but to be human. Symptomatic of the way we have failed to be good caretakers of the landscape is the wiping away of many of the regional differences that used to make traveling around this great country such an extraordinary cultural revelation. We believe that the forces of architectural homogenization that have left Phoenix and Boston, Atlanta and Seattle virtually indistinguishable have also left us a poorer nation.

Many of the nation’s landscapes have been trashed—we can think of no better word—in the past half century as private citizens, private developers, banks, and pliant politicians have pushed headlong into the crabgrass frontier to create the suburban nation we live in today. We see no abatement of this on the horizon. We are relentless critics of the suburbs as an architectural form and as a ubiquitous landscape and are deeply suspicious of the faux populism of those who would defend strip malls and racially and economically segregated housing developments as a democratic response to market demand. Even if that were true, which it is surely not, a disembodied market demand is no excuse for the social and environmental damage done to this country by suburban development. The escape from public life and public responsibilities into the insular isolated spaces of private suburban life would be terrible in any society. In a democratic one, it is downright irresponsible and dangerous.

The term urban sprawl is a misnomer and ought to be replaced with the more accurate phrase suburban sprawl. Most cities, after all, have remained fixed spots on the map, while it is suburbia that continues to metastasize cancerously into the landscape. In making this small, but critical semantic distinction we underscore our great love of cities. We find in American cities endless possibilities—diversity, argument, friction, inspiration. A true public life. American cities have become the warehouses of most of this nation’s social problems—if we have any hope of solving them, we will do so in the cities. We agree with the great writer Walter Lippmann when he said years ago: A great society is simply a big, complicated urban society.

Our training as historians leads us to believe that a nuanced and deep understanding of how Americans have understood their pasts is crucial to building better places in a better future. We believe that the presence of the past in the landscape—not a mummified, Disney-fied past, but a living link to it—is crucial to the health of our society.

We believe that architects and all who shape the built environment practice the most public of the fine arts. Therefore they have a public responsibility greater than novelists, dancers, or musicians. We have been frustrated that too few members of the architectural profession in the twentieth century have made this simple acknowledgment, and we are deeply disappointed by the cataclysmic results of some public architectural acts, such as highways and public buildings of the urban renewal era. More, we are deeply distressed that almost none of the builders, contractors, and developers who do most of the shaping of our built environment talk about their work in these terms. We believe that discussions of architecture need to take place in the public realm.

Perhaps because discussions of architecture have become professionalized and therefore more and more obscure to more and more people, too many Americans ignore the built environment altogether. We also too often ignore our own personal role in creating or destroying spaces, including places of personal, community, or national value. Just as architects and developers have an obligation to talk with the public, we have an obligation to listen and to talk back.

By focusing not only on great works of architecture but also on more common and vernacular examples, we insist that each has important things to teach us. As the cultural historian Warren Susman put it some years ago, one does not have to believe that Superman comics and Shakespeare’s Hamlet are somehow equivalent cultural products to believe that the former might have a great deal to tell us about American culture. Likewise, a Baltimore row house does not represent the same kind of architectural achievement as, say, the Getty Museum, but they are each culturally important and worth our consideration. By treating the extraordinary along with the ordinary, we hope readers will take away a greater appreciation for both.

Finally, and perhaps most radically in this indeterminate age, we believe there is an America—a powerful set of cultural ideals manifest in and shaped by a powerful set of physical symbols. We are, in our way, American exceptionalists, and we have been drawn to the efforts of all those who have sought to find a uniquely American architecture.

Not only does it go without saying that there has never been, is not now, nor will ever be a definitive answer to the question What is an American architecture? it is precisely the point of this volume. What interests us are the attempts, the strivings, the debates more than the results. A city art museum, a shotgun shack, an adobe pueblo—each is a perfect answer to the question, and incompletely so. Like democracy itself, what matters most in evaluating the history of America’s built environment is the process of trying to answer that question. Part of what makes that history so extraordinarily rich is the many ways people have responded in their own way to the call to build the nation.

1.2. The Architect’s Dream. Original painting by Thomas Cole, © Toledo Museum of Art. Augmented by VSBA, © Venturi, Scott Brown and Associates, Inc. In this send-up of Thomas Cole’s painting, Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown have imagined their own dream of a truly American architecture: a landscape of McDonald’s arches, glittering casino signs, and hotdog stands shaped like, well, hotdogs. Venturi and Scott Brown, two of the most influential American architects of the last third of the twentieth century, rejected the cold universality of the International Style and celebrated the gaudy, messy, garish complexity of the contemporary American cityscape. Less is not more, Venturi wrote in 1966. Less is a bore.

1

ANONYMOUS, EXCERPT FROM ON THE ARCHITECTURE OF AMERICA, 1790

This anonymous author, writing just as the nation had been formed, agrees with Thomas Jefferson’s famous quip about American architecture, and then offers his own explanation. There are two problems, as this author sees it. First, architecture, more so than any other art, grows out of an accumulated history of building. The United States, of course, is too young to have such a tradition. Second, Americans build in wood, which is to say, impermanently. Because they build only to address immediate, short-term needs, and do so with shoddy materials, they do not reach to create more lasting architectural achievements. Echoing the hopefulness felt by so many in the early Republic, this author is convinced that American architecture can become great, once Americans understand its importance.

The genius of architecture has shed maledictions over our land, says mr. Jefferson. In a democracy, whoever of the citizens sees a public evil, and does not speak of it, is silently treacherous to the world: and whoever of them perceives, and yet does not endeavor to remove, a public inconvenience, is an accessory to it. Impressed with these opinions, on the score of the duty of all good citizens, and believing that we exceedingly suffer from the style in which we build our houses, and the materials of which they are erected, I have devoted one of these humble lubrications to a hasty survey of architecture.

There can be no doubt but our style of building has, within a few years, very considerably improved: but there yet is open to the taste and good sense of the citizens a very great space, indeed, for their inventions, taste and wealth, to be laudably exerted in. In this country, we are less confused in our ideas of propriety, in general than are the inhabitants of any other country on the globe. We recur to first principles with ease, because our customs, tastes and refinements, are less artificial than those of other countries; and because we act more from the impulse of an enlightened nature, than from the coercion of the fashions, imposed tyrannically by that immense opulence which in Europe trifles with nature, and draws its pleasures from the more inaccessible reservoirs of art. Such is our happiness. In architecture, of which no prototype exists in the vast variety of nature, and which is the most artificial of all the points to which civilized man proceeds we have it not in our power to profit by this happy freedom. Architecture comprehends in itself the collective discoveries in proportion, solidity, strength, harmony, and fitness of parts, economy of space, and subservience to domestic utility and comfort, which artists of different countries and ages have collected together into the art of building of houses. Different eras have been influenced by different tastes. A peculiar style of building was adapted to each climate. . . .

The Americans have a taste, not corrupted—but suspended in its progress. The moment they see what is truly beautiful, they acknowledge its ascendancy. Hitherto they have but little attended to this branch of the fine arts. In reaching perfection, they will not have to travel through the rubbish of Gothic whim and caprice: the Grecian school is open to them—and they ought to adopt its models in all their severe and elegant simplicity. Their present style is slovenly in the greatest degree: they may step from this situation to the highest attainments at a stride.

The evil in our architecture lies principally in this—that we build of wood. From this custom much immediate, as well as remote inconvenience, is to be expected: and certainly, however suddenly felt may be the comfort arising from celerity and dispatch, the numerous considerations of perishableness, and want of safety, and call for repairs, added to the reflection, that the public [ ] is for the time deprived of one great field of exertion, will very much weigh with an enlightened people, when once they become awakened to their advantages, and proud of the singular novelty of the physical and moral opportunities of the situation. . . .

Bachelors only ought to build of wood—men who have but a life estate in this world, and who care little for those who come after them. Those who have either children or a wife to leave behind them will build of brick, if they wish to leave monuments of kindness, rather than a rent-charge, behind them. . . .

We have this melancholy consolation, that posterity will find few of the deformities of our bad taste existing to mislead their own. But then, again, we ought to reflect, that those who come after us, and who will take up the arts where we left off, will be deprived of any permanent vestige of our refinement, on which we ought to hope they would improve. . . .

The last and highest consideration, that strikes me, is, that emigration would be less easy, and not so common, were a finer spirit of building to prevail. Were the Tartars to build houses instead of waggons and tents . . . they would not rove, and their country might become a land of tillage. The facility with which we may move, is a strong incentive to that love of change, which it particularly interests us to repress in our citizens.

Originally printed in The American Museum, or, Universal Magazine 8 (October 1790): 174–76.

2

ANONYMOUS, EXCERPT FROM ON THE ARTS, 1815

Coming just after the United States had for a second time defeated Great Britain and secured its independence, this essay examines the state of the arts in the nation.The article touches on all the fine arts, and we have excerpted the section on architecture. Characteristically, this author dispenses critique and encouragement, disappointment and hope in equal measure.The author complains both that the state of architecture is still very far behind and that Americans continue to import European architecture inappropriate for the American nation. He ends by reminding readers of the importance of grand public buildings for a republic as a way to facilitate a sense of democratic community.

In architecture, it must be confessed, we are still very far behind hand. Our domestic architecture is for the most part copied, and often badly copied too, from the common English books, with but little variety, and no adaptation to our own climate or habits of life.

Our better sort of country houses, have generally an air of too much pretension for the scale of size and expense on which they are built; while we despise or overlook the humble beauties and snug comforts of the cottage, we but seldom attain to the grandeur of the chateau or the villa. Our country churches and other rural public edifices, are for the most part mean and slight, and few of our builders have yet learnt the important secret, that good taste and proportion cost nothing. The defects of our rural architecture are the more to be regretted, because it is in the country that architecture appears to the greatest advantage. The contrast of art and nature, is so pleasing, that any tolerably well proportioned and spacious building, surrounded by rich natural scenery, has always a most pleasing effect. The colonnade, the portico, and the tower never appear with half so much grace and majesty, as when half hid from view by a grove, or bosomed high in tufted trees. But a rapid improvement is going on in this respect; and indeed what is there in the United States in which a rapid improvement is not going on? City architecture too, has taken a sudden start, and has gained much within these few years, both in comfort and in variety; this is especially observable in the city of Philadelphia. But I know not how it has happened, that so many of our finest and most costly public edifices have been vitiated by the predominance of that style of architecture which prevailed in the age of Louis XIV, I mean that corruption of the Grecian, or rather of the Palladian architecture, which delights in great profusion of ornament, in piling one order upon another, and frequently perching the top one upon a narrow cornice where the pillars, or more commonly, the pilasters, look as if they were dancing on the tight rope—in multitudes of small and useless columns and unmeaning pilasters, and in long rows of staring windows, each of them decorated with a heavy periwig of massy stone garlands. . . .

But in its very best estate, this style of architecture can rise to nothing nobler than ponderous stateliness, and cumbrous magnificence; and the effect which it produces with infinite labor, is always poor and contemptible when compared with the grandeur and beauty of Grecian simplicity.

The wings of the unfinished capitol at Washington, were examples of this taste, though it is probable that by the aid of a noble and lofty centre, or a fine portico, they might have been made to harmonise in one majestic mass. The City Hall of New York, is another instance of this manner—a fine building, no doubt, a most excellent piece of masonry, beautiful, in many of its parts, and as a whole, honorable to the city and creditable to the architect. But it wants unity and dignity, and is broken up into elaborate littleness. When the eye is near enough to embrace at once many of the minuter parts, the whole has an air of much richness and even of elegance. But if the spectator retires two or three hundred yards farther back, he must at once perceive the unsuitableness of this style to so fine a situation. With far less expense, how much nobler an effect could have been produced by a grand portico or some regular architectural front composed of few parts, and those large, simple, in unison with each other, and all subordinate to one general character of simple greatness.

There is scarcely any single circumstance which contributes more powerfully towards elevating the reputation of any people, than the grandeur of public edifices; nor is there any way in which a republican government can with so much propriety display its munificence. The tinsel trappings and pageantry of office, which have been affected by some free states, are not only discordant to the general simplicity of republican institutions, but like the show and pomp of private luxury, they are of a selfish nature; they communicate gratification only to the individual who enjoys them, and reflect little lustre xon the state by which they are bestowed. But a noble hall for the purposes of legislation or of justice is the immediate property of the people, and forms a portion of the patrimony of every citizen. Love of country should indeed rest upon a far broader ground, yet it is well to have local pride and attachments come in to the aid of patriotism. . . . Nor will a benevolent mind be inclined to overlook the effect which these displays of public magnificence may have in imparting an hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart, and enabling him for a time to forget the inferiority of his condition, and feel a community of interest with his wealthy neighbor.

Originally printed in Analectic Magazine, vol. VI, 1815.

3

R.C. LONG, ARCHITECTURE: ITS ALLEGED DEGENERACY, 1842

By the 1840s, as R. C. Long indicates, the charge that American architecture had degenerated was a commonplace. Taking this head on, Long begs to differ, not so much by defending American architecture but by asking why we think it is bad in the first place. Writing in the middle of an enthusiasm for various revival styles—Greek, Gothic, Palladian, even Egyptian—Long wonders why we should consider these as the height of architectural achievement and the yardstick against which to measure how much American buildings have fallen short. Does every great age and every great society not produce its own forms, he asks? Why do we continue to rely on the antique to give architectural expression to our modern age? The essay originally appeared in the Journal of the Franklin Institute but apparently hit enough of a nerve to be reprinted.

What do the critics mean by degeneracy of modern architecture? It is a stereotyped phrase used by both great and small writers, and, by the frequency of it, we cannot but believe that it means something. When we look, however, into the books, or consult the magazine-articles of said critics, we are puzzled to find out, exactly, what this something is.

If we listen to some of them, we must needs conclude that there never was any architecture but the Gothic, and that there never will be any again until the Gothic is revived, thus admitting that Gothic architecture is now dead, in a stupor, or else has fainted away in very weakness.

From another set of essayists, we learn that Palladio first invented that thing called architecture; that, before his time, people built, every man according to what was right in his own eyes, until Palladio taught them better, and gave such unerring rules for the production of design in architecture, showing so indisputably what is beautiful and what is not, that thence forward the simplest tyro in art need never go astray. . . .

[T]here is one point on which they all agree, and this is, they all equally deplore the degeneracy of modern architecture, and cry loudly for the revival of some one favorite style, in order to regenerate the defunct art.

But let us inquire what do the critics mean by the degeneracy of modern architecture. Is it degenerate because it is not Gothic; because it is not Greek, not Palladian, not Elizabethan, not Egyptian? If so, then in truth we say, architecture will never be any thing else but degenerate, unless we either turn Greeks, or Romans, or Egyptians, &c., and assuredly no one believes that such is ever going to be the case.

Yet why are architects taking it for granted that nothing is architectural unless it be either Greek or Gothic, or some other style, and that, if drawing from these sources they did not try to throw into their designs a portico, a pediment, or fasten buttresses and pinnacles to the outside walls, or shape the door and window heads into some particular curve or arch, or indeed apply any other features which can be taken entirely out of books, that all traces of architectural art would vanish from the earth? These are civilized times, and men require houses to live in; they worship God and must build temples, if not for His glory, at least for their own comfort, and in ministering to these requirements, this practice of pinning to a building appropriated to either of the above uses, some of the embellishments of another building, held as classic precedents, producing excrescences which architects seem to think are the only things about the structure which have any right to the name of architecture, is, in fact, the great hindrance to the natural growth of architecture. It is this practice which is the degeneracy of modern architecture.

Is it to be supposed that Grecian architecture would ever have grown to what it is, if the architects of that land had not given free room for the genius of their country, and its institutions, to manifest itself architecturally? Imagine them believing that the Egyptian was the only correct architecture, and insisting on sloping the sides of their buildings, placing their columns within the walls, and hiding their sloping roofs, necessary for the climate, behind an immense horizontal entablature. What a monster would have frowned from the heights of the Acropolis, instead of the ever-living edifice that stood there glowing with the life, the youth, the poetry of Greece.

Why was it that the Romans never attained to an original style of architecture, although they had, to begin with, that emblem of strength and beauty, the arch, as an elemental national feature? Simply because they believed that the Greek was the only architecture in the world. They therefore modestly used the arch as a constructive element, and imprisoned it within an external Greek facade, binding the free curve of their own glorious arch under the dominion of column and entablature. . . .

Thus it was that the arch, with the Romans, never gave birth, as it should have done, to a national style, and yet we see how, in different hands, out of that same arch and its wonderful capabilities, the Norman style was formed, and thence by true artistic treatment, managing this same arch with the buttress, it became the most yielding thing in art-creation, the graceful, the flexible Gothic, coming out of it as sweetness out of strength, honey indeed out of the jaws of the lion.

And yet the degeneracy of architecture is now loudly talked of, and no one sees at the present day how anything new is ever to be done in that art, except by adherence to the rules, not according to which any greatness in architecture was ever achieved, but according to which you may copy any given production of the art.

According to these same critics, it would be easy to show that modern architecture is not by any means degenerate, if their own rules of perfection are at all good for anything. Is the Parthenon good architecture? What hinders us from building a Parthenon? The money being given we could reproduce that, or any other building that has been re-measured as the Parthenon has been. Is Yorkminister good architecture? Then the front of the new national Scotch church, in London, is assuredly good architecture enough to content one, for it is as near a fac similie of the west front of York cathedral as modern means will allow. Indeed do we not possess already a modern specimen of every conceivable style that has existed in any quarter of the globe? Surely then, according to such views, our architecture is not degenerate. But has this endless repetition of the architecture of the past, any title to be called the architecture of the present? Is this the way to produce any thing new, or good, or great, in architecture, any thing bearing on it the impress of the characteristics of this generation, any thing homogeneous with the advanced state of civilization?

Truly, indeed, modern architecture is degenerate, is utterly dead, we should say, in view of what we have just shown, (for if there is any modern architecture at all, what and where is it?) did we not possess a cheerful faith, which is ever telling us that architecture is too intimately connected with man to perish while there is a man upon the earth. Must man progress in goodness and in wisdom? then must architecture also! Is man so progressing? then is architecture also, though we may not know it nor see it. Architecture must manifest the changes that are taking place in society, the greater ones, we hope and believe, that are yet to come.

It is as much out of the rule of rationality to think it possible to reinvigorate architecture by forcing it into any antique mould, as to expect that, if disgusted with manhood, we can bring back simplicity and innocence by putting on again the garments of youth. Architecture must grow naturally, its own peculiar tendencies must be observed, and it must be trained accordingly. How is this to be done? let us try to find out, let us all try and see which of us will first produce something in the art peculiar—characteristic—suited to the age—national.

Originally printed in American Magazine and Repository of Useful Literature (1842): 43-44.

4

HORATIO GREENOUGH, EXCERPT FROM AMERICAN ARCHITECTURE, 1843

Horatio Greenough stands as the most accomplished American sculptor of the antebellum period, best known, perhaps, for the large seated statue of George Washington dressed in a toga installed in the Capitol. Here the sculptor has turned his attention to architecture, and he offers his complaint that Americans have been too quick to adopt—and badly at that—the styles of the European past. Architecture is rooted more deeply in the national experience and must spring more originally from it. Greenough’s complaints echoed those of many who saw in transplanting Greek, Gothic, and other styles to the United States a certain architectural slavishness.

The mind of this country has never been seriously applied to the subject of building. Intently engaged in matters of more pressing importance, we have been content to receive our notions of architecture as we have received the fashion of our garments, and the form of our entertainments, from Europe. In our eagerness to appropriate we have neglected to adapt, to distinguish,—nay, to understand. We have built small Gothic temples of wood, and have omitted all ornament for economy, unmindful that size, material, and ornament are the elements of effect in that style of building. Captivated by the classic symmetry of the Athenian models, we have sought to bring the Parthenon into our streets, to make the temple of Theseus work in our towns. We have shorn them of their lateral colonnades, let them down from their dignified platform, pierced their walls for light, and, instead of the storied relief and the eloquent statue which enriched the frieze, and graced the pediment, we have made our chimney tops to peer over the broken profile, and tell by their rising smoke of the traffic and desecration of the interior. Still the model may be recognized, some of the architectural features are entire; like the captive king stripped alike of arms and purple, and drudging amid the Helots of a capital, the Greek temple as seen among us claims pity for its degraded majesty, and attests the barbarian force which has abused its nature, and been blind to its qualities. . . .

We say that the mind of this country has never been seriously applied to architecture. True it is, that the commonwealth, with that desire of public magnificence which has ever been a leading feature of democracy, has called from the vasty deep of the past the spirits of the Greek, the Roman, and the Gothic styles; but they would not come when she did call to them! The vast cathedral with its ever open portals, towering high above the courts of kings, inviting all men to its cool and fragrant twilight, where the voice of the organ stirs the blood, and the dim-seen visions of saints and martyrs bleed and die upon the canvass amid the echoes of hymning voices and the clouds of frankincense, this architectural embodying of the divine and blessed words come to me, ye who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest! demands a sacrifice of what we hold dearest. Its corner-stone must be laid upon the right to judge the claims of the church. The style of Greek architecture as seen in the Greek temple, demands the aid of sculpture, insists upon every feature of its original organization, loses its harmony if a note be dropped in the execution, and when so modified as to serve for a custom-house or a bank, departs from its original beauty and propriety as widely as the crippled gelding of a hackney coach differs from the bounding and neighing wild horse of the desert. Even where, in the fervor of our faith in shapes, we have sternly adhered to the dictum of another age, and have actually succeeded in securing the entire exterior which echoes the forms of Athens, the pile stands a stranger among us! and receives a respect akin to what we should feel for a fellow-citizen clothed in the garb of Greece. It is a make-believe! It is not the real thing! We see the marble capitals; we trace the acanthus leaves of a celebrated model—incredulous odi! It is not a temple.

The number and variety of our experiments in building show the dissatisfaction of the public taste with what has been hitherto achieved; the expense at which they have been made proves how strong is the yearning after excellence; the talents and acquirements of the artists whose services have been engaged in them are such as to convince us that the fault lies in the system, not in the men. Is it possible that out of this chaos order can arise? . . . In answering these questions let us remember with humility that all salutary changes are the work of many and of time; but let us encourage experiment at the risk of license, rather than submit to an iron rule that begins by sacrificing reason, dignity and comfort. Let us consult nature, and in the assurance that she will disclose a mine, richer than was ever dreamed of by the Greeks, in art as well as in philosophy. . . .

Let us now turn to a structure of our own, one which from its nature and uses commands us to reject authority, and we shall find the result of the manly use of plain good sense so like that of taste and genius too, as scarce to require a distinctive title. Observe a ship at sea! Mark the majestic form of her hull as she rushes through the water, observe the graceful bend of her body, the gentle transition from round to flat, the grasp of her keel, the leap of her bows, the symmetry and rich tracery of her spars and rigging, and those grand wind muscles, her sails! Behold an organization second only to that of an animal, obedient as the horse, swift as the stag, and bearing the burden of a thousand camels from pole to pole! What Academy of Design, what research of connoisseurship, what imitation of the Greeks produced this marvel of construction? Here is the result of the study of man upon the great deep, where Nature spake of the laws of building, not in the feather and in the flower, but in winds and waves, and he bent all his mind to hear and to obey. Could we carry into our civil architecture the responsibilities that weigh upon our ship-building, we should ere long have edifices as superior to the Parthenon for the purposes that we require, as the Constitution or the Pennsylvania is to the galley of the Argonauts. Could our blunders on terra-firma be put to the same dread test that those of ship-builders are, little would be now left to say on this subject.

Instead of forcing the functions of every sort of building into one general form, adopting an outward shape for the sake of the eye or of association, without reference to the inner distribution, let us begin from the heart as a nucleus and work outward. The most convenient size and arrangement of the rooms that are to constitute the building being fixed, the access of the light that may, of the air that must, be wanted, being provided for, we have the skeleton of our building. Nay, we have all excepting the dress. The connexion and order of parts, juxtaposed for convenience, cannot fail to speak of their relation and uses. As a group of idlers on the quay, if they grasp a rope to haul a vessel to the pier, are united in harmonious action by the cord they seize, as the slowly yielding mass forms a thorough-bass to their livelier movement, so the un-flinching adaptation of a building to its position and use gives, as a sure product of that adaptation, character and expression. . . .

To conclude. The fundamental laws of building found at the basis of every style of architecture, must be the basis of ours. The adaptation of the forms and magnitude of structures to the climate they are exposed to, and the offices for which they are intended, teaches us to study our own varied wants in these respects. The harmony of their ornaments with the nature that the embellished and the institutions from which they sprang, calls on us to do the like justice to our country, our government, and our faith. As a Christian preacher may give weight to truth, and add persuasion to proof, by studying the models of pagan writers, so the American builder, by a truly philosophic investigation of ancient art, will learn of the Greeks to be American. . . .

We are fully aware that many regard all matters of taste as matters of pure caprice and fashion. We are aware that many think our architecture already perfect; but we have chosen, during this sultry weather, to exercise a truly American right—the right of talking. . . .  . . . Each man is free to present his notions on any subject. We have also talked, firm in the belief that the development of a nation’s taste in art depends on a thousand deep-seated influences beyond the ken of the ignorant present; firm in the belief that freedom and knowledge will bear the fruit of refinement and beauty, we have yet dared to utter a few words of discontent, a few crude thoughts of what might be, and we feel the better for it.

Originally printed in United States Magazine and Democratic Review (1843): 206–10.

5

ANONYMOUS, EXCERPT FROM A PUBLIC BUILDING, 1869

President Abraham Lincoln insisted that the work on the Capitol dome continue even in the midst of the Civil War. For Lincoln this building project symbolized the enduring continuity of the Union the war was attempting to preserve.Though Lincoln did not live to see the dome completed, when it was, it refocused the nation’s attention on that building as the heart of the American political experiment, the symbol of the second American revolution. In this sense, the completion of the Capitol dome serves implicitly as a force for national reconciliation and a spur to ongoing reform. With memories of war and Lincoln’s assassination in the background, this author takes us on a tour of the Capitol. He begins with the dome, fittingly enough, and he ends with history—with the ghosts of the great figures who once roamed the hallways. The author can be quite sharp about more modern additions to the Capitol, and especially about the artwork recently installed.The past here seems a more comfortable refuge than the present, where the dust of war still settled.

Few of its owners are aware how stately a structure is the Capitol Building at Washington. Not that it is by any means a perfect thing: far from it—it is full of faults; and though it seems fitting that our central seat of power should represent our riches and resources, still there is a trace of something barbaric today in all its lavishly squandered splendor. Yet, with some genius of their own, with the models of all the ages before them, and with the unlimited treasure of the whole country at command to carry out their ideas, it would be strange if all the designers employed upon it since Washington laid its first corner-stone could fail to give it that portion of excellence with which one, who does not fret soul and body apart in search of abstract perfection, can rest well pleased, if not utterly satisfied.

Yet whoever may find much to blame in the body of the building, the architects have their full need of praise in the loveliness and grandeur of the dome. It is something unsurpassed; it springs into the sky as lightly as a bubble—as resplendently; it rests there as easily as a cloud: it seems, as it should, to be only a part of its airy surroundings. Art could do no more in its construction. . . .

[Y] et, though erected on comparatively low ground, go where you will, for miles on miles, that dome haunts and follows you; now as you see it from the heights of Arlington—while you stand in the midst of the acres of graves there and picture the terrible moment when some trumpet shall call all this army of ghosts from their trenches—rising like a guardian genius still overlooking these white head-stones that stretch away across the rolling land on every side; like the crests of mighty and melancholy waves; now as you cease treading down the purple hyacinths in the grass, and wandering under the magnolia-trees, and between the breast-high hedges of fragrant box at Mount Vernon, and, turning the bend of the river almost twenty miles away, meet its great shadow resting like a film upon the air, opening slowly on the gaze like a vision, with its phantom-like length of lustrous column and setting of wind-tossed greenery. When you behold it thus remote it seems like a dream of the past—too beautiful a thing for the common use of daily life; only men in sweeping Grecian raiment and phylactered purple should move slow and meditative through its halls—never these hurrying black beetles, these rough garments and rude gestures of the modern generations. . . .

1.3. Abraham Lincoln speaking in front of the Capitol, 1861. Library of Congress. No single building has symbolized the nation’s political ideals more than the U.S. Capitol, and at no time was that symbolism more potent than during the Civil War, when the nation itself seemed poised for dissolution. Abraham Lincoln, seen here delivering his first inaugural address in the shadow of the uncompleted Capitol dome, understood that power and insisted that work on the dome continue during the war.

The critical aspect which the outline of the edifice presents at a single glance leans, it must be admitted, toward a striking coincidence. Thus seen its proportions are more nearly those of a spread-eagle than any thing else. If the architect had really no design of glorifying the national bird, we must look upon the fact of his having done so as a special inspiration—he builded better than he knew—or else as an irrepressible outbreaking of the national character. This, however, will not be so palpable a mischance when an improvement still hoped for shall, in less burdensome days, be carried to completion, and, the old facade being done away with, the main front shall be brought forward into the prominence which is its right; by which means the central portion will not seem to be about to be crushed by the dome above; the present wings, instead of seeming separate parts of a block, will secure a normal connection with the building, and there will appear to be some original unity of design about the whole disjointed group of porticoes and pillars. . . .

The old Capitol, from which the new wings are extended, was constructed of a sandstone from Acquia Creek, which is painted white—one of those economical artifices which are ultimately an extravagance, as the rains affect the stone badly, and it is constantly requiring to be repainted. The extensions are of marble, from Massachusetts and Maryland, of shining quality and particularly choice veining. The columns were all brought from their place of debarkation, it is said, after an exceedingly primitive method of rolling them along the ground with ropes; this being complained of at the time, it was found upon experiment that it was altogether the safest way of transporting them, as only those broke in which