Grand Central: progress vs. preservation. (TravelJapanBlog)

When the plan to rezone Midtown East was revealed last year, there was much excitement and much grumbling, but the outlines of the battle to come lacked definition. In retrospect, it seems so inevitable: how could the conflict over the heart and soul of the city's central business district take any shape but that of progress versus preservation?

It is a conflict that haunts, if not defines, every land use debate in the city, and a particularly fitting one for Midtown. The district developed around, and largely because of, Grand Central station—a building that not only epitomizes the conflict, but helped to define it.

Grand Central Terminal lauded for setting the legal precedent that went on to save landmarks across the city, was actually built over the demolished ruins of another landmark—Grand Central Depot. The Depot, despite its relatively recent vintage (it was completed in 1871) and its popularity (it was second as a tourist attraction only to the Capitol in Washington, according to Sam Roberts's book on the terminal) was destroyed without sentiment in the early 1900s, making way for the Gilded Age beauty that now stands on 42nd Street.

The old Grand Central, demolished to make way for change.

But what of the fact that the mansard-roofed station boasted a "magical" 652-foot-long arch-ribbed-vault train shed, had the largest interior space on the North American continent and provided the backdrop wherein we first set eyes on Lily Bart in the House of Mirth? Pretty details all, but progress called. The electrification of the rails was the way of the future and the depot had to go.

To finance its construction, Grand Central Station pioneered the sale of air rights, a practice that transformed the surrounding neighborhood, which was something of a backwater when Grand Central Station was constructed. Its resultant character—which preservationists are so eager to see maintained—was formed by the forces of development, forces that could care less about the past, or the semi-pastoral quality of the land they so eagerly converted into a business district. Nor did its developers seem to have any illusions that the architects' vision of the final station would be sealed in amber. Engineering provisions were made for the construction of a (never-built) tower over the terminal.

The sale of air rights went on to spur development in neighborhoods around the city. So much so that 100 years later, air rights are the centerpiece of the Midtown East rezoning proposal—the powerhouse that is to drive the neighborhood's next transformation.

It is, of course, no surprise that a new and somewhat radical station would be bedfellows with other new and radical things. Nor is it particularly surprising that some years down the road, when Grand Central was no longer so new or so radical, it would nearly fall victim to those same pro-development forces, who saw it as an impediment to change (and profits).

And so, the symbol of brave progress and growth became a beleaguered old beauty that needed to be protected from greed-induced destruction. For most people, it is this, more recent vision, that springs to mind most readily when one thinks of Grand Central. Jackie O. front and center, that arbiter of taste, defending New York's grand monument. It was, moreover, a historic battle: Penn Central Transportation Co. v. New York City went all the way to the Supreme Court (the first historic preservation case to do so) and established that the city could use its landmarks law to protect a property from being torn down (that the act was not an unjust taking, but within the land-use regulatory power of government).

In the decades since, landmarking has been used to preserve not only buildings, but an increasing number of pockets within the city. And, after three terms of Mayor Bloomberg's strongly pro-development policies, it has increasingly come to seem like the only real tool that community groups and neighborhoods have to stop (rather than simply modify) unwanted changes. As such, the dialogue between the pro-preservation and pro-development forces has become ever shriller, the two camps now diametrically opposed, in our rapidly changing city.

There are many issues with the Midtown East rezoning besides the preservation of unlandmarked buildings. It is, as a growing chorus of critics have complained, hurtling along very (quite possibly too) quickly. The speed leaves little time to examine its impact or whether the city is selling air rights for too little—giving a generous gift to developers that it can ill afford, particularly considering the costs of transportation and pedestrian upgrades that greater density will require.

But the battle lines have been drawn and now we're all stuck squabbling over the historic significance of buildings in Midtown East. Perhaps this is the only way to hash out a plan that's agreeable to both parties, but if the opposing camps' recent publications are any indication, they seem to be moving farther apart rather than closer together.

This past week, both the Municipal Art Society and Midtown 21C, a pro-development group backed by REBNY, released reports each purporting to be the best visions for the future of Midtown East. MAS's report, entitled "A Bold Vision for the Future" lists 17 buildings that it claims would be prime candidates for landmarking. Midtown 21C's report, entitled "Icons, Placeholders and Leftovers" argues that every building worth landmarking has already been landmarked (hence the focus on placeholders and leftovers).

MAS claims that the vibrancy of the central business district owes much to its current character. Midtown 21C argues that the central business district will cease to have any vibrancy if we stand in the way of its "continuous transformation." MAS sees a district with lots of architecturally and historically significant buildings. Midtown 21C sees a district with lots of dowdy and dated office buildings.

Both groups are right; successful cities are successful precisely because they are a blend of the old and the new, tradition and change, historic buildings and fresh development. We should save truly noteworthy buildings and allow developers to tear down the unexceptional and the outmoded. In the months to come, the city must decide what to keep and what to discard, how to preserve the elements that make Midtown what it is, while clearing away the detritus that's stopping it from becoming what it needs to be. We would do well to consider Grand Central, a model of how development can create beloved buildings and how preservation can save them.

kvelsey@observer.com

The old Gage & Tollner (NYT)

Landmarking might preserve a piece of history, but unfortunately it cannot stop time. And at Gage & Tollner, one of the few places in the city that is landmarked both inside and out, The Wall Street Journal has discovered a good example of a place that has kept its shell but lost its soul.

The esteemed old Southern restaurant, after having died, been revived and then remade into an Italian restaurant, a TGI Fridays and an Arby's is now a costume jewelry shop with bare bulbs and sparkling cheap things hung on pink panels that cover the spot's famed cherrywood and mirrors.The limitations of landmarking, while no great surprise, are an interesting subject given the very recent landmarking of the Rainbow Room. You can save the physical structure of a place but as the city changes around it, but you can't preserve the thing that made the physical structure worth saving in the first place.

In the case of Gage & Tollner, a place where the gaslights once flickered to life at six o'clock every night, and, as The Journal writes, the "oysters came Baltimore broiled, Chicago broiled, milk broiled, cream broiled, celery-cream broiled and broiled on toast," the neighborhood changed around it. Cars could no longer roll up to the door after a pedestrian plaza was added and a downturn in fortunes for the neighborhood meant the well-heeled no longer wanted to walk through it. The fashionable crowd moved on and the restaurant could no longer make the rent.

The building's recent makeover has gotten the jewelry store proprietor is in trouble with the Landmarks Preservation Commission—he making changes without permission and has not explained those changes satisfactorily to the Commission, but it's unclear if any of those changes actually violate the rules. And furthermore, there are no rules that can protect a building from an ugly renovation, so long as that renovation doesn't damage the underlying physical features.

"No restaurant guy was interested in a high rent," the store's clerk told The Journal. "So the owner got a jewelry guy to take over. You got the rent money, you do what you want."

kvelsey@observer.com

Beware the Park Avenue pillagers!

Who is out of place here?

The residents of Carnegie Hill are not particularly experienced in protest techniques—they are more likely to walk through throngs of the demonstrators than to walk among them. But a new Toll Brothers development on Park Avenue has inspired angry Upper East Siders to take up the picket.

In a vertical city like New York, simple signs on sticks do not do much good, so neighbors have resorted to a more high-flying technique for their "visual protest" this morning, unfurling homemade banners from one of their buildings that read "Save Our History."

"We're all rookies at this, not professional protesters," said Lucinda Ballard, who lives in 1112 Park Avenue, right next to the two pre-Civil War townhouses that the Philadelphia-based Toll Brothers is almost certainly planning to replace with a tower, but has thus far refused to confirm.

Plans for something are certainly moving forward, however, and applications for building permits to remove cornices, replace windows and do "partial demolition," have been filed with the city.

Park Avenue Neighbors claim that the work is "clearly a first step toward razing these two historic buildings. The clock is ticking and the wrecking ball looms."

Limited liability corporation 89 Park Avenue LLC purchased both 1110 Park Avenue and 1108 Park Avenue in March, paying a total of $29.5 million ($16.5 million for 1110 and $13 million for 1108). Between the two properties, air rights allow for a 40,000-square-foot potential project (the Toll Brothers tower is rumored to be 15 stories).

Residents, particularly those of 1112 Park Avenue—who stand to lose not only the historic buildings but also their views—have launched a campaign to landmark the buildings, gathering hundreds of signatures on a petition to save the buildings and requesting an emergency meeting with Landmarks Preservation Commission chair Robert Tierney.

Wedged between two much-larger buildings and located outside the Carnegie Hill Historic District, the townhouses seem like obvious marks for development, but Ms. Ballard said that in the past, the owner of 1108 had assured them that he would never sell the property to a developer.

"This is not about disgruntled people losing their views. That is really not the issue," Ms. Ballard said. "These houses were built in 1856, when everything around them was cornfields, they are the oldest residential homes on Park Avenue north of 63rd Street. It is wrong to tear them down without a debate."

Although a request for Landmarks Preservation to extend the Carnegie Hill historic district from 86th to 96th Streets was filed two years ago, the request has not been calendared and residents are looking toward landmarking just the two townhouses to stop the construction work from damaging the buildings and weakening the case for preservation. They hold up the preservation of a historic horse stable in Greenwich Village as an example of what they hope to achieve.

"They're not architectural masterpieces, they were the houses of working class people and they tell a different story about Park Avenue," Ms. Ballard said.

For its part, Landmarks has not been particularly encouraging. "While it may be eligible for historic district status, the proposed district is not a priority at this time," spokeswoman Elizabeth de Bourbon wrote to The Observer. And views were not among the factors that the Commission considered, she told the The Wall Street Journal. "It is our job to protect the historic character and integrity of a neighborhood."

But if such traditional techniques fail, the group is not against adopting some very unPark Avenue-like tactics.

"This is the first time I've really been involved with anything like this," said resident William Simmons, sounding both surprised and excited to find himself in the role of protester. He admitted that he was a little disheartened by how small the banners appeared from the street, but not dissuaded from trying new and unorthodox methods.

"We're trying to figure out how to get our concerns in the public eye," Mr. Simmons said. "Do we take placards and go out and march? Maybe."

kvelsey@observer.com

Westbeth, at 463 West Street, is a five-building complex that was the historic telecommunications laboratory of Bell Telephone Company, part of AT&T. The complex was built in various stages, beginning with a wood mill in 1861. Factories for Western Electric Company, the manufacturing branch of AT&T, were built at the turn of the 20th century and the laboratories were designed in the 1920s, according to the LPC.

From 1899 to 1966, AT&T occupied the complex, and researchers invented the transistor; a device that brought sound to movies; radar; and television.

From 1978 to 1970, the entire complex was converted to artists' residences, with architect Richard Meier designing 383 studio units. Roger Stevens, the first chairman of the National Endowment for the Arts, conceived the complex as the largest government-subsidized artists' colony in the world, the first low-cost housing of this kind in the United States.

Last month, the federeal government sold the mortgage on Westbeth to the city's Housing Development Corporation, but the 384 current residents were not affected.

Preservationists have been calling for the landmarking of Westbeth for years.

The Union League Club, at 38 East 37th Street, was completed in 1931 and designed by architect Benhamin Wistar Morris, who also designed the Bank of New York. It is the fourth home of the organization, which was founded in 1863 to support President Lincoln's efforts to preserve the union. Its members helped to establish the Metropolitan Museum of Art in 1870 and the American Red Cross, according to its Web site.

The building includes a dining and gathering space, fitness center, lodging and library. The site was purchased from J.P. Morgan, whose landmark library is nearby.

Both properties were expected to officially begin the landmarking process with a vote by the LPC's board Tuesday, an action known as calendaring. Almost every building that is calendared ultimately receives landmark designation, which restricts development of the buildings.

rli@observer.com

Early this week, a group of preservationists, calling themselves the Hudson River Powerhouse Group, plans to submit a request to the city’s Landmarks Preservation Commission to designate the powerhouse a historic landmark, a designation that would place new restrictions on the building and guard its exterior from alterations. Landmark status would also protect the powerhouse from demolition—either by Con Ed or by a future owner. As the group notes in its application, both the East River Powerhouse in Manhattan and the Kent Avenue Powerhouse in Williamsburg were demolished recently.

In anticipation of the request, an LPC spokesperson said Friday that the commission will hold a public hearing on the Hudson River Powerhouse later this year.

The Powerhouse Group was founded by friends James Finn and Paul Kelterborn, and though both were neophytes to preservation, they were inspired by the success of the two men, about their same age, who succeeded in protecting the High Line elevated railway. In 2007, Mr. Finn and Mr. Kelterborn met with Robert Hammond, one of the co-founders of Friends of the High Line, and Mr. Hammond has helped guide them through the preservation process. Since that meeting, the Powerhouse Group has assembled a long list of supporters, including the two community boards that border the building, State Senator Tom Duane, Assemblywoman Linda Rosenthal and City Councilwoman Gale Brewer, along with a litany of civic and arts groups.

But Con Ed, which acquired the building from the city in 1959, appears unlikely to support the request. As the company points out, the old powerhouse is, in fact, still a functioning facility. “If the building were landmarked, the permit approval process to maintain operations would be delayed and could impact the reliability of service to our steam customers,” a company spokesperson said in an email.

The building has been considered for landmark status twice before—in 1979 and 1991—and it remains calendared from the second set of hearings. Con Ed opposed the designation on both occasions, citing the potential need to make emergency modifications to the facility.

The calendar status, which has now outlasted many a calendar, appears to have been something of a compromise. Being calendared allows Con Ed more freedom to make changes to the building, but also requires that the changes be approved by the Landmarks Commission.

That status came under attack recently when residents noticed that Con Ed was removing stack five—believed to be the last original smokestack—from the powerhouse roof. “The stack has not been in use for 16 years. Its condition is deteriorating and that is a safety issue for the community,” said a Con Ed spokesperson. The company submitted the change to LPC, per the requirements of the building’s calendared status, and the commission approved the stack’s removal.

“[Con Ed] hasn’t done a bad job of maintaining it, but when they see something like that, their engineers just say, ‘Let’s make it safe,’” says Ed Kirkland, who chairs the landmarks committee of Community Board 4, and testified in favor of landmarking the powerhouse at each of its previous hearings. Mr. Kirkland has been passing by the powerhouse for 40 years, and remembers, in particular, the view coming south on the West Side Highway. “At evening rush hour, there was smoke coming from every smokestack.  It was beautiful,” Mr. Kirkland says.

Those who have been inside the building say its two towering halls are equally impressive. “It takes your breath away. It’s huge and it’s incredibly gorgeous,” said Ms. Brewer, the local council member.

The sheer size of the interior has proponents salivating at what the hall could become: a public market, an events center, a Tate Modern–esque museum, or some combination of public uses. Con Ed declined to discuss the building’s interior, but several people who previously toured the facility said one hall is nearly empty, and the other contains a mock-up of a suburban house, where the company trains meter-readers. Six Columbia grad students have spent the spring semester re-imagining the space, and the Hudson River Powerhouse Group hopes to host a design competition this summer.

“We don’t want to put the cart ahead of the horse,” said Mr. Finn, who admits all those plans depend on Con Ed decommissioning its steam production on the site, and the city somehow taking possession of the property after that—a process that could be decades in the future, if it happens at all. But he believes the long-term future should be with the city. “We’re trying to landmark it because we think, eventually, there’s no way that a modern-day power company is going to make use of a building like this for the next 100 years.”