Category: Architecture
Posted by Michael Hodges on Thu, May 15, 2008 at 6:20 PMStampede in Ann Arbor
Alright, so this is more art -- or public art -- than architecture. But ArchBlogger couldn't help throwing it in, since it's so... grabby and unexpected.
This cute little yellow cottage on Ann Arbor's Old West Side has suddenly sprouted a herd of, well, linear steers -- or something.
The herd prepares to cross the street.
There wasn't anybody to ask when A.B. barreled by in his car, before slamming on the brakes in astonishment. But it's certainly a punchy visual addition to an otherwise sedate residential neighborhood.
Mooooooooo.
Category: Architecture
Posted by Michael Hodges on Thu, May 8, 2008 at 4:40 PMOn Detroit's vast avenues -- a reader weighs in
ArchBlogger loves his loyal readers.
The following interesting observation comes from Roger Gienapp, in response to A.B.'s blog on the old Trumbull Avenue Presbyterian Church on Grand River. Gienapp, by the way, is an architect with Detroit's Hamilton Anderson Associates.
Dear ArchBlogger:
I enjoyed today's blog about the beautiful old Trumbull Avenue Presbyterian Church on Grand River, and your comparison to the Jefferson Market Library in New York.
Inadvertently perhaps, you may have hit upon a key point when you stated that "...the avenue's breadth swamps the low-rise buildings on either side."
The asphalt desert at Grand River and Trumbull in Detroit.
The design, or lack thereof, of the streets themselves in our city has done more to destroy the architectural character of the adjacent structures than any other force at work.
Major arterials, like Grand River, were designed for street cars in the median and curbside parking. As traffic increased throughout the 1950's, due in part to the removal of the streetcars, what had been local roads became highways leading to the suburbs.
Streetcars disappeared to make room for left-turn lanes and parking was removed for another traffic lane. Businesses and retail stores along the route gradually disappeared as speeds increased and the very purpose of the street changed.
Then came the interstate highways which removed the very traffic the road was redesigned to accommodate. The result is an environment totally hostile to pedestrians -- as well as a road with no parking and, consequently, no "street life" to support businesses.
Contrast the environment you highlighted with what is beginning to happen on Gratiot, which suddenly has a new landscaped median near downtown.
The result is a reduction in the perceived open space between buildings on either side as well as the reduction of the amount of asphalt in favor of green landscape -- an entirely different look and feel! Traffic apparently has not been hurt, and with the introduction of curbside parking, a few of the local retail establishments have begun to reappear.
Many of our architectural treasures are lost to all but the most perceptive observer.
If more of our major streets, such as Grand River and Michigan Avenue, were given similar treatment, our beautiful old buildings would be given a greater chance to survive.
Medians with landscaping, which reduces pedestrian-crossing distances, and curbside parking could create the kind of environment people want to be while accommodating current and future traffic needs.
Category: Architecture
Posted by Michael Hodges on Fri, May 2, 2008 at 5:23 PMHigh-Victorian glory at Grand River and Trumbull
A couple weeks ago when the traffic backed up, ArchBlogger veered off 94 onto Grand River. He was scooting through the intersection at Trumbull when the full morning sun broke upon this orange-brick church -- and its forest of delicate little towers and turrets.
His mission clear, he slammed on the brakes, and bolted out, camera in hand. Forget about getting to work (almost) on time. A.B. had some high-Victorian woohoo to document.
The old Trumbull Avenue Presbyterian Church.
The church boasts a riot of towers and turrets.
Tipsy spires and crumbling masonry.
Built by Julius Hess in 1887, the Trumbull Avenue Presbyterian Church is a great example of high-Victorian Gothic, as the superb "AIA Detroit" guide notes.
(A sign now says it's The Pilgrim Church, but it was unclear whether it's still open or not.)
Indeed, even allowing for the building's gentle dilapidation, you can almost feel the heavenly exuberance in the remarkable corner turret, and all those soaring little towers and points, with their decorative spires leaning this way and that.
The intersection of Grand River and Trumbull is a tad bleak, in part because the avenue's breadth tends to swamp the low-rise buildings on either side.
Grand River at Trumbull, with the Motor City Casino Hotel looming second building from left.
Part of what's always charmed A.B. about this particular church is the striking resemblance it bears to another High-Victorian Gothic monstrosity of great charm -- the old Jefferson Market Library in New York's Greenwich Village, a looming landmark that even the architecturally-blind can't help but notice.
The Jefferson Market Library in NYC's Greenwich Village -- another high-Victorian, whoop-ti-do fantasy.
Of the two, ArchBlogger would take Detroit's Trumbull Avenue church, largely because its smaller scale gives it a charm and delicacy that's hard to beat. (He still loves Jefferson Market, though. Don't get him wrong.)
Despite its present down-at-the-heels appearance, the area around the Trumbull Avenue church still shows some vestiges of former elegance, including a handsome entry gate right across Brainard Street, and a garden pavilion along Trumbull on the edge of the tiny Scripps Park.
A gate to nowhere at Trumbull and Brainard Streets.
A genteel remnant in Scripps Park.
Category: Architecture
Posted by Michael Hodges on Fri, Apr 18, 2008 at 4:06 PMCreeping urbanism in Midtown
Urbanism is about more than just the intersection of building, sidewalk, public space and street. An abandoned city could be gorgeous, in its way, but without pedestrians it's hard to claim it's got much urbanism.
If one measure of a successful city is the energetic circulation of people in a pleasing environment, retail activity is inevitably a key part -- and, of course, one of the parts most absent in Detroit.
So it was with considerable cheer that ArchBlogger read this intriguing piece by his distinguished colleague and business writer Louis Aguilar, announcing the opening of an upscale grocery on Woodward Avenue just north of Comerica Park.
It turns out that Zaccaro's -- launched by the same northern Michigan outfit that opened an identical grocery in Charlevoix last summer -- is the main commercial tenant in the gorgeous old Crystal Ballroom at Woodward and Erskine, which dutiful readers of this blog will know underwent an ambitious renovation over the past year.
Truth be told, A.B. thought they'd never rent their first floor in today's climate -- much less to something as hip and overdue as Zaccaro's.
But back to Midtown. First there were the Ellington Lofts, and a teensy little Starbucks at Mack. Then came renovation of innumerable buildings on John R in Brush Park.
Now it looks like there are new rowhouses popping up on John R, and plans for the renovation of some handsome old houses on Erskine, the street on the north side of Zaccaro's.
In this economy?
And just a short walk to Zaccaro's!
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Hopes for more renovations to come.
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Luxury lofts, any day now -- we hope.
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Well, ArchBlogger can only pray that forward momentum continues. What would be really cool is if the Renaissance-revival building just north of the Crystal Ballroom, which also underwent an expensive renovation in the past year -- it's right next door to Wayne State's Bonstelle Theatre -- were to get a good client for its ground floor.
Gorgeously renovated, but still empty.
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There are no promises in urban revival, particularly in hard-hit cities in hard-hit times. But A.B.'s got his fingers crossed.
And more to the point, he's going to frequent Zaccaro's. From the looks of the store and its urban-loving attitude, it deserves to succeed.
The airline terminal that started it all
We're talking, of course, about Helmut Jahn's 1988 United Terminal at Chicago's O'Hare Airport -- a design to which Detroit's handsome new McNamara Terminal, like most airports built in the past 20 years, owes more than a little debt. (All photos, by the way, by ArchBlogger.)
ArchBlogger is sure there are exceptions, but generally speaking, airports before Jahn got ahold of the genre tended to be functional -- sometimes rather sleek, but not grand. Want a great example? Think Atlanta's airport, with its low ceilings, and overall sense of (stifling) compression.
Jahn's genius was to reconfigure the airport -- turning it from an efficient box into a grand gateway to the city, very much the way that the greatest railway terminals did. Think New York's Grand Central, or for those with good memories, Pennsylvania Station. For that matter, think Detroit's once-exceptional Michigan Central Terminal. (A moment of silence for that august structure, and its Egyptian Revival interior. Click here for great photos of the hulking ruin.)
Jahn exploded the ceiling, shoving it up a couple stories, and exposed the building's structural supports -- punctuated with trim little circles -- in a most satisfying fashion.
The result was to bring grandeur and light back to the travel experience with a barrel vault ceiling studded with windows.
In no sense does A.B. want to suggest that Detroit's McNamara Terminal, designed by David R.H. King at Detroit's SmithGroup, is somehow inferior. McNamara represents an excellent extension of many of Jahn's ideas. And McNamara is a lovely piece of design. But unlike United, it is not art.
A brief digression, however, into what ArchBlogger particularly likes about McNamara: that exhilarating escalator ride down from Security to the wide, welcoming apron leading to the gates; the water sculpture at its center (though A.B. still feels it doesn't show up as well as it should); the light show in the tunnel to the C gates; and most especially, the luminous bronze Pewabic tilework that guides one into the bathrooms.
Oh -- he's also nuts about the perpendicular fashion in which planes park at the gates, little round noses pressed against the huge windows.
But Jahn started it all, and deserves to be remembered. The next time you've got a couple hour layover at Chicago, do yourself a favor and walk to Terminal 1, as it's called, and look up. Twenty years on, the terminal looks spectacular, and still generates a powerful rush.
A Brooklyn Bridge waterfall? Public art and its discontents
Public art, especially powerful or zany public art, can be a great way for a city to assert its distinctive personality, or simply the personality it would like to have.
New York City, of course, is nothing but personality, both positive and negative. So while it comes as a surprise in this piece from the Christian Science Monitor that they intend to "waterfall" the Brooklyn Bridge, it's not a total surprise.
(Photo illustration courtesy of the Christian Science Monitor and Amy C. Elliott/Public Art Fund.)
Just think what we could do with the Ambassador Bridge!
Of sunlit clapboards and lions in boots
Before winter passes completely away, ArchBlogger wanted to get these dawn-light Ann Arbor shots up before they look totally out of date.
If memory serves (it doesn't always), these honeys are across-the-street neighbors on First Street on the city's west side. Or maybe Third. But you get the idea.
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Meantime, let's turn our attention to architectural lions.
A.B. found this one -- and many of his fellows -- on Detroit's Buhl Building along Congress Street, one of the city's most-gracious old 1920s skyscrapers.
What caught A.B.'s eye on the purple guy, below, is that -- contrary to average lion behavior -- this well-equipped fellow is wearing boots.
And you'll notice, if you look closely, boots with little parallel treads on the bottom.
One wonders if this was slapdash oversight on a designer's part (sounds doubtful), an exercise in whimsy, or a pragmatic decision of the "I can't draw feet to save my life" sort.
Florence Knoll takes CCS
Last Friday night ArchBlogger hit the opening of the new show at the College for Creative Studies' Center Galleries, "Florence Knoll: Defining Modern," which will be up through April 26.
The show, small but fascinating, is a bit like a time trip back to the Eisenhower era, when a design revolution upended the fuddy-duddy look of the American office.
Florence Knoll and her first husband, furniture-maker Hans Knoll, circa 1946. [All photos by ArchBlogger.]
Saginaw-born and Cranbrook educated, architect Florence Knoll was one of the rebels who stormed the barricades, clearing out the clutter, introducing sleek chairs, tables and desks -- all crisp right angles or sensuous curves -- as well as color-packed textiles and prints.
Can't quite place the look? Picture Darren's Manhattan office in the old "Bewitched." Remember? We thought you would.
A Florence Knoll-designed office.
Of course, it may be that those who haven't reached A.B.'s hoary old age may not remember that iconic, slightly dippy, show.
Or perhaps they do. Michelle Perron, the engaging -- and far younger than A.B.-- curator at the Center Galleries, immediately laughs when he brings up the reference.
"Are you kidding? 'Bewitched?' I never missed a day," she says. "And it does hearken back to that period. A lot of people who've come to the exhibition," she adds, "have said, 'Oh my God. We grew up with this stuff!'"
"This stuff," of course, is nothing less than high-modern American design of the tip-top sort.
Knoll, whom the Cranbrook masterbuilder Eliel Saarinen recognized early on as a talent (he and his wife virtually adopted the young girl when she was still at Cranbrook's old Kingswood School for Girls, before her graduate work at the Art Academy), not only had a sharp, revolutionary eye for design herself, but as Perron notes, she practically invented the concept of using world-class architects and designers to craft furniture after she married furniture-maker Hans Knoll.
It helped, of course, that she was on a first-name basis with some of the principal geniuses of mid-20th century design, among them Cranbrook's Eero Saarinen and Harry Bertoia. (She'd also worked in the architecture offices of Bauhaus biggie Walter Gropius and Marcel Breuer (who, by the way, designed the occasionally embattled Grosse Pointe Central Library). Not bad for a young woman in the 1940s.)
The CCS show features a number of Florence Knoll's own chairs, end tables, desks and sofas. There's also an engaging interview with an older Knoll -- now in her 90s -- that plays endlessly on one wall.
Hanging on the walls as well are photos of Knoll at work, and pictures of some of her greatest interior designs -- including the restaurant at New York's old Idlewild (now Kennedy) Airport, which looks precisely like the sort of spot Darren and his gruff-but-lovable boss Larry would frequent for those three-martini lunches.
Best known for the furniture she designed or commissioned (often from talent at Cranbrook), Perron points out that Knoll also upended the world of textiles and graphic design.
"She went around (in the 1940s) looking for textiles to cover her furniture," Perron says, "and all she could find was chintz and brocade. So she essentially invented materials that were original and fresh."
Indeed, as one of the explanatory panels in the show notes, Knoll -- perhaps more than any other single individual -- helped to make American modern design an international style.
Student chairs rock Cranbrook
One of the hippest places to be in Greater Detroit last Friday was at the Forum Gallery at the Cranbrook Academy of Art.
Cranbrook grad students sponsor Friday-evening shows -- open to the public -- most weeks starting at 6 in the gallery, a lower-level room in Rafael Moneo's elegant, profoundly understated New Studios addition to the art museum.
Reviving a tradition started by legendary Cranbrook designers Charles and Ray Eames, there are now annual chair-design competitions -- and the results Friday night were provocative, amusing and every once in a while, downright practical.
It's worth adding that several were also quite beautiful, notably Robert Wetherington's "Rachis Lounge Chair," below. (All photos, with one exception, by ArchBlogger.)
Made of steel, memory foam and that lush surface that covered much of the 1950s -- vinyl -- the chair practically shimmered. Perhaps because of its its oddly iridescent quality, it seemed to discourage sitting -- a bit like Grandma's best parlor chair. (No slam on the Wetherington design, though.)
Chairs that did invite sitting included Wil Natzel's "Wooden Chair," a blow-up affair -- with attached pump -- entirely made of PVC. Moreover, it seems to be comfortable. Note happy customer, second picture down.
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Michelle Lee's "C.H.A.I.R." also got a lot of seated attention. Lee, in the second picture, below, explained that she's been intrigued by braille, whose signature bumps -- or itsy-bitsy demi-spheres, if you like -- bloom in black foam on her radical little divan.
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Somewhat less comfortable, but conceptually exhilarating, is Jeannine Marchand's "Chair," which bears an uncanny resemblence to, well, reef coral mounted on steel legs.
The Puerto Rican-born Marchand got the idea from the snow, she says, and curiosity about what tons of warm plaster would do when dumped into it.
So Marchand rammed the steel chair frame into a snowbank, establishing a template, and then poured on 175 pounds of plaster.
"It was pretty time-consuming with lots of sweat equity," says Marchand. "All those pails of plaster."
The results, however, are oddly stunning. (Photo courtesy of Justin Richards, one of the show's three curators, since A.B.'s pic was an unfocussed mess.)
Also intriguing was Robert Laskey's "Mach 28 at Rest," made of forged and fabricated black steel. Note in particular those elegant legs.
And ArchBlogger was much amused by Grace Lee's "Duality," a pair of what could perhaps be called acrylic "nesting chairs" where one appears to be the offspring of the other.
Indeed, Lee says she had a mother and baby in mind -- note the face-like profile of the littler half, where it slides into its "mother."
And it was hard not to be taken by Sang Lee's architectural suite of miniature red chairs -- they're each about three inches tall -- entitled "Pushpin Chair/Relation."
A.B.'s not quite sure what it means, nor why he found it such a mesmerizing little scene, but there you have it.
And finally, A.B. wants to salute Rod Klingelhofer's "Waiting Room," a pendant assemblage in the hallway outside the gallery, where seat covers from 2008 Dodge Rams hang like so much automotive cobwebbery.
Impractical? You bet.
Esoteric? Little doubt.
Inspired? There's just no two ways about it.
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Greektown Casino Hotel taking shape
Trailing MGM and the Motor City, the new hotel at the Greektown Casino -- by architects HGB/Rossetti Design Alliance of Birmingham -- has topped out and is starting to hang its cobalt-and-turquoise glass curtain walls.
And on the basis of very little evidence, ArchBlogger is inclined to say -- it doesn't look so bad. (Whew!)
Located on St. Antoine between Macomb and Monroe Streets (the latter is the one with all the Greek restaurants, above), this modernist little skyscraper stands right across the street from the handsome, orange-brick Old St. Mary's Catholic Church.
It's a little early to be laying down heavy aesthetic judgments -- only a bit of the exterior has yet been completed.
But ArchBlogger has to say he's inclined to like what he sees better than "The Toaster" MGM opened late this summer (a tip o' the hat to Ray Stanczak for that observation), or the sleak, horizontal steel-and-glass hotel wearing the lurid party hat that Motor City went with.
On Motor City, A.B. must digress to say that he finds the ever-changing neon that loops the building more irritating than amusing, and regrets that they didn't just go with one design.
Although a hyperkinetic facade doubtless sounded good in planning meetings, the upshot is to cheapen the whole affair -- and make it look a little like an electronic billboard.
Which is too bad since a few of the patterns are kind of cool. Had they picked just one and stuck with it, it might have become a signature touch people would remember. (A.B. regrets he doesn't have a picture to illustrate this critique.)
So what of Greektown's design? Well, ArchBlogger has a few preliminary reactions.
First off, he's inclined to think that the two shades of blue glass they've picked -- Shades of Miami! -- is a handsome, if somewhat glitzy, contrast to Greektown's little orange-brick rowbuildings.
And unlike Motor City and MGM, which built their hotels in grand isolation out on the Detroit prairie, Greektown's is tucked into a dense urban neighborhood that still feels more like a real city than any other part of downtown Detroit.
In addition, A.B.'s always thought that when mixing the old with the new, it often works best to go for very new -- that is, a sharp, modern contrast to older buildings that doesn't try to ape them with faux-historicism.
In any case, with Greektown, we'll see. And cross our fingers. It would be magnificent if Detroit could get one lousy good-looking hotel out of the three.
But at the least, with luck, it might be that the Greektown hotel -- flashing those turquoise and cobalt-blue panes against the lead-gray sky -- will provide a cool visual landmark to draw the eye directly to Greektown, and perhaps seduce more of the curious into its tiny warren of streets.
The following image, courtesy of Greektown Casino, is a rendering of what the whole shebang should look like some day. Granted, it looks a little overpowering. But A.B.'s hoping that instead of visually crushing the little buildings around it, the hotel will simply make the neighborhood feel more urban and happening. Fingers and toes crossed.
And once again, before he closes, A.B. apologizes for the dull light in the photographs. Again -- cooperation issues with Mr. Sun.
Never mind that in taking these, ArchBlogger risked third-degree frostbite. For you, his readers? No sacrifice is too great.
