
Our strength is in the inner tension
The glory is in the contradiction.
Our strength is in the inner tension
The glory is in the contradiction.
The W.W. Goodrich House, located at 177 Elizabeth Street NE in Atlanta’s Inman Park neighborhood, is the city’s only known extant work designed by William Wordsworth Goodrich (1841-1907), professionally known as W.W. Goodrich, an architect who practiced in Atlanta between 1889 and 1893.
Firm biographical details for Goodrich are difficult to find, as he was, by all indications, a pathological liar who fabricated much of his backstory. He was born in New York1 and began practicing in Kingston, New York, circa 1875,2 before moving to Denver, Colorado, circa 1879,3 leaving in 1881 after he was arrested for check fraud and larceny.4
In the 1880s, Goodrich spent short stints in Boise, Idaho;5 Seattle;6 San Francisco,7 and Oakland, California.8 In 1883, he was arrested in both Los Angeles and Boston for check fraud. 9 10
Goodrich’s career in Atlanta was unremarkable, and based on his feeble attempt at the Eastlake style with his own home, he had equally mediocre design skills. Only 2 other works from Goodrich’s Atlanta years are known to survive: the Leslie Dallis House (1891)11 12 in LaGrange, Georgia, and Yonah Hall (1893)13 14 15 at Brenau University in Gainesville, Georgia, both uninspired designs.
The Goodrich family didn’t stay long in this home, which was built in early 1890.16 17 18 In November 1891, the city marshal auctioned off the property for Goodrich’s failure to pay taxes,19 and the home was purchased by W.C. Hale.
In 1893, Goodrich moved to Norfolk, Virginia,20 apparently relocated his practice to Baltimore around 1895,21 and finally ended up in Oregon by 1904,22 where he died in 1907. As one newspaper obituary said, in part: “…he had his faults, as all mortals have…”23
A better storyteller than an architect — although he wasn’t good at either — Goodrich managed to get many of his outlandish tales published in newspapers, some of which will appear here in due time.
I search the streets in darkness for my friend
The one who met me in a dream
We gave our names in a handshake of agreement
A promising future ensured
When I broke from the group I saw my friend in shadows
Silent and cloaked
A soul apart
We began to share freely
The warmth of light glowed between us
The cloak fell away
My friend’s countenance changed
We saw each other clearly
Our hopes and fears laid bare
Now in the thick of night I wander the streets
Observing signs and patterns
Looking for my friend
But signs and patterns, I have learned, are often illusion
Dreams, I must admit, are so very much too
What nook of this vast city harbors my friend?
Our paths did not cross at the evening play,
Nor the midnight show with a dozen dozing spectators
A card on the ground shows seven diamonds
A sign of success?
A reminder for patience?
The meaning for my soul is unclear
Yet meaning does not exist, my mind tells me
As a drunk girl crouches and pisses on the path ahead
Are we not all animals wallowing in chaos?
Two young men dash up the street as if in a play
Acting out a fight for my amusement
“Help!” one cries in my direction, the other throwing mock punches
They laugh and whisper as I shuffle past, ignoring the spectacle
Now a man in a thong bikini dances wildly in the street
I walk past silently, too bemused for judgment
My presence startles him
“You scared me,” the man tells me
“How is that?” I ask
“I didn’t know I had an audience.”
My coffee high wanes
I wander to the river
The sun rises early but light is obscured by haze
Clarity eludes
I sit beneath a tree and watch old men cast poles into the water
The night, I reflect, has been a short, strange dream
But my friend has yet to find me
I close my eyes and wonder
Must I wander the streets alone again?
So many years I stumbled in nights of silence
Through empty towns and hostile country
Terrain far more menacing than here
Here in darkness a play unfolds around me
A character at every corner
A story on each block
Here, I realize, the night is my friend.
Every day is a subtle shift —
Each morning, I am a different person.
What man will I be today?
The background: Long an artful dodger when it came to details of his personal life, here, G.L. Norrman wrote his own autobiographical sketch while essentially saying nothing at all.
The sketch appeared in the 1895 publication The Cotton States and International Exposition and South, Illustrated.
“I was born in Sweden in about the same manner as all other Swedes. Nothing of any note happened at the event. Everything went along in much the same manner as the day before.
The only sensation that my coming into this world created was a little stir among some old aunts and other lady friends of the family, who found it difficult to decide whom I looked like, but they finally came to the conclusion that I resembled my great-grandmother. I suppose that they came to this decision on account of my being bald-headed, wrinkled in the face, and of a very unsettled disposition.
A very charming young lady solicited my picture for this volume, and assured me that it would be a most excellent means for securing business, and she told me that the public was not only interested in my appearance, but was greatly interested in knowing all about me, and the publishers were interested fifteen dollars’ worth. So, in giving an account of myself, I thought I would be very explicit, and would begin with the beginning.
Nothing of any moment has occurred since. I have been engaged in my profession for many years. I hope that the public will pardon me for not stating how long, as I am still a bachelor, and hope that if my picture does not bring me any business it will call the young ladies’ attention to the opportunity of securing a most exemplary husband, and if they knew how long I had been in business they might not be so greatly interested.
At any rate, I have been in business long enough to have had considerable experience, and if anyone is interested in one way or another, let me know, and I’ll give a more detailed account of myself.”
The only thing better than a trip to New York is planning a trip to New York. Currently, I’m plotting out a day trip to the city on my next visit to Philadelphia.
I’m a creature of habit, and a day in New York always begins with a bagel, followed by a large coffee and donuts, a couple slices for lunch, and something from a street cart for dinner.
Evenings are for shows, of course — Sondheim gets top priority, so Gypsy it shall be.
The fun is in the spontaneity that happens in between. If the weather’s nice, I’ll be wandering the streets and taking pictures. If not, well, there’s always art museums and indie theaters.
One day, I will live in Philly, and New York will be an 80-minute train ride away. As it is, I’m still stuck in the South, grateful for my 2 or 3 trips north each year.
Hiding in plain sight in Atlanta’s Inman Park neighborhood, the C. D. Hurt House isn’t conspicuous, nor does it appear especially significant.
Located at 36 Delta Place NE, this rambling 2-story, eclectic-style home is primarily Colonial Revival in influence, with its wood shingles, steep gables, overhanging second floor, and assortment of oddly-shaped windows recalling the vernacular designs of coastal New England architecture.
It’s good to have a little doubt when attributing buildings to architects, but in this case, there’s no need: the home can be indisputably credited to G.L. Norrman.
Often erroneously dated to 1891 or 1892, the home was built in 1893, based on an April 1893 report from The Atlanta Constitution1 and another from The Atlanta Journal in May 18932 — both stated that the home was then in the course of construction.
Dr. Charles D. Hurt was the brother of Joel Hurt, president of the East Atlanta Land Company, which owned and developed the Inman Park suburb. Norrman appears to have been Joel Hurt’s preferred architect at the time, completing as many as 8 projects for his companies and family in the late 1880s and early 1890s, so he would have been an obvious choice to design the home.
Beyond circumstantial evidence, the Hurt house can be handily attributed to Norrman based on specific elements that it shares with 2 residences designed by his firm in the same period: the R.O. Barksdale House (1893) in Washington, Georgia, which still exists, and the Paul Romare House in Atlanta (1892, demolished).
Although fairly unremarkable in appearance, the Hurt house represents a major shift in Norrman’s residential designs.
In the 1880s and early 1890s, many of Norrman’s larger home plans included a rear service wing that contained the kitchen and servants’ quarters — a prime example can be seen in the W.W. Duncan House in Spartanburg, South Carolina (1886, pictured below).
The service wing was visually distinct from the main house and was typically capped with a low-slung hip roof, denoting its modest, utilitarian status.
For the Hurt house, the hip-roofed wing was moved from the back to the front, the first time this appears to have been implemented in one of Norrman’s plans. It was a bold and avant-garde choice, signalling a shift in taste toward less fussy and unpretentious styles that took hold in the 1890s.
Norrman produced refined versions of the design into the 20th century, including the W.L. Reynolds House (1897, pictured below) and the Leon D. Lewman House (1901, demolished, pictured below) in Atlanta.
By the late 1890s, Norrman fully embraced lower roof lines, but in the Hurt house, the main portion of the structure still included a fantastically high roof — undoubtedly topped with decorative finials — a holdover from his 1880s work.
The Hurt house’s 13-room floor plan evolved from the plan used in Norrman’s design for the John T. Taylor House (1892) in Americus, Georgia.
The Taylor house appears to have been planned on a simple four-square grid, with the entry room and stairway occupying the lower left quadrant. In the Hurt house, however, the introduction of the front wing meant the entry room and stairwell had to be pushed slightly back, opening up space for an additional room to the left of the front door.
Otherwise, the plans for the two houses are largely identical, right down to the separate exterior entrance in each master bedroom.
I suspect much of the Hurt house was designed by one or more of Norrman’s employees, possibly C. Walter Smith, Norrman’s longtime draughtsman and later chief assistant.
Smith began working for Norrman in 1887, remaining as a draughtsman for over 5 years, before he left to start his own practice in March 1893.4 Smith returned to Norrman’s employment within a year as his chief assistant,5 but left to start his business again in April 1896,6 working independently until 1907.
Based on his few surviving works, Smith was not an exceptional designer on his own — he clearly lacked whatever combination of ingredients made Norrman such an outstanding architect. However, it appears that Norrman likely delegated many of his residential projects to Walter Smith in the 1890s.
The Constitution all but said as much in 1896, when Smith embarked on his second solo attempt:
“The work that he did even before he branched out for himself had gained for him a distinction that few people have won in a lifetime,” the newspaper noted. “Mr. Smith has designed and superintended the construction of many of the most elegant residences in the city…”7
If you compare a typical Norrman residence from the 1880s to one from the 1890s, it’s clear that the latter projects didn’t receive nearly as much of his attention.
Norrman’s career reached its commercial and creative peak between 1890 and 1893, and he increasingly spent much of his time crossing the Southeastern United States by train, securing commissions and attending to building projects.
With a packed schedule and an office full of assistants, Norrman undoubtedly began focusing most of his attention on large-scale or prestige commissions — the Windsor Hotel (1892) in Americus, Georgia, for instance, or the J.C. Simonds House (1893) in Charleston, South Carolina.
Because Walter Smith left to form his practice when the Hurt house was under construction, it’s also possible that he started the project, and another assistant was tasked with completing it, which could explain the uneven design.
W.L. Stoddart, for instance, was also employed by Norrman in 1893, still fresh from his training at Columbia University. When Norrman hired him in March 1892, the Journal claimed Stoddart would be his chief assistant,8 although he was listed as a draughtsman in city directories.9
Every architect’s approach is different, but Norrman may have roughed out the preliminary plans for the project, leaving a draughtsman or assistant to fill in the details, while lending just enough of his finesse to claim the design as his own.
If Norrman didn’t give the Hurt design much scrutiny, that might explain its frankly sloppy configuration — the 3 bay windows of varying sizes on the north side, for example, and the hodge-podge of incongruent elements borrowed from other projects.
Part of the imbalance can be explained by the home’s vernacular inspiration, but that doesn’t excuse its incoherent composition. Stand on one side of the Hurt house, and it looks like a completely different home from the other. The design feels clunky, slapdash, and pure kitchen sink, as if everything but was thrown into it.
It should be noted that Norrman also disliked the then-fashionable Colonial style, stating in 1890 that it had “at best, a number of absurdities”, and that “there are few who carry the style out well”. As a designer who excelled in the Romanesque and preferred the classical, he may have been admitting to his own lack of proficiency in the style.
Despite the Hurt house’s shortcomings, it’s entirely characteristic of Norrman’s 1893 residential designs, which stand out in his oeuvre as especially freewheeling and audacious. He was the most celebrated and sought-after architect in the Southeast at that point, and clearly felt emboldened to take risks.
When the risk-taking worked, the results were spectacular — the Simonds House, for example. When it didn’t? Well, you can see the results here.
The Hurt House’s history is as messy as its design, chock-full of the sort of macabre and pathetic tales one expects from an Atlanta home.
C. D. Hurt and his family moved to the city from Columbus, Georgia, in October 1892.10 11 Until their own “elegant and roomy residence”12 was completed, the Hurts temporarily lived in the spec house at 56 Euclid Avenue13 (now 882 Euclid Avenue NE), which Norrman designed for the East Atlanta Land Company in 1890.
Curiously, while Hurt’s home was still being built in April 1893, it was also the site of a wedding for his niece, Lucy Hurt McTyere.15
Hurt had 5 children with his wife, Mary, although it appears only his daughters Louise and Maude still lived with them in 1893, when he was 50 and she was 46.
Hurt worked as a medical surgeon and opened an office in Atlanta’s Equitable Building,16 which his brother owned. He was also on the payroll of his brother’s street railway company as a “medical advisor” — with whatever legitimate duties that must have entailed — in addition to being a staff member at Grady Memorial Hospital and the Atlanta School of Medicine.17 18
There have been claims that Hurt operated his office from his home, but that appears to be inaccurate based on city directories and newspaper reports.
Hurt’s daughter Louise was married in January 1895, and the reception was held at the Hurt house.19 20 Assuming it was a happy occasion, the wedding was a singular bright spot preceding a long line of tragedies in the home:
After collecting on Hurt’s $15,000 life insurance policy,30 his accomplished and attractive young wife seemingly disappeared from Atlanta, and the home was presumably sold, ending the Hurts’ run of the house after 13 years.
Never the prestigious enclave Joel Hurt intended it to be, Inman Park had become quite passe by the early 1900s.
Most of Atlanta’s prominent citizens continued to build their mansions on Peachtree Street, migrating further north of the city each year. Ansley Park was quickly becoming the fashionable new residential section, mostly because of its proximity to Peachtree Street.
The Inman Park residences designed by Norrman and other architects in the previous decade were already quaint relics of another era. With the United States emerging from a years-long financial depression, even the wealthy preferred more subdued home designs, and the gaudy mansions of the Gilded Age were seen as oversized, ostentatious, and out of fashion.
Inman Park’s original homes had spent most of their lives vacant or on the market — scan newspaper classified ads from the 1890s and early 1900s, and you’ll consistently find listings for “good as new” Inman Park homes for sale or rent, often reduced in price.
The remaining lots in Inman Park were auctioned off en masse by the East Atlanta Land Company in 1904,31 and the neighborhood was filled out with mostly smaller, cheaper houses over the next decade.
As the Journal deftly noted in 1908: “The Inman Park of the present time…has almost forgotten the story of its origin–which now seems like ancient history…”32
The large, antiquated Inman Park houses were really only viable as rental properties, so it’s no surprise that in December 1907, newspaper classifieds began requesting boarders for the former Hurt house. Terse but descriptive, the first ads touted: “Beautiful views, splendid board, country air, not far out.”33
A January 1908 ad sought “Two or three young men for large front room; also couple for beautiful room”,34 while an October 1908 ad noted the home’s “Suite beautiful rooms, with private bath…”35
In November 1908, ads described “Four connecting rooms, unfurnished…private entrance”,36 which likely referred to the home’s original master bedroom. In 1909, the entire house was listed for rent by Edwin P. Ansley‘s real estate agency for $50 a month.37
On March 25, 1909, a 68 mph “hurricane” ripped across Atlanta, cutting a path from West End through Downtown to Inman Park. In a lengthy list of damaged buildings, the Journal reported that “In Inman Park at Edgewood avenue and Delta Place a chimney was blown down.”38
This may have been the tall chimney at the front of the house, which was removed at some point in the structure’s history. A photograph from the 1970s shows that a chunk of one chimneystack was also missing, possibly a result of the same storm.
In February 1910, the home was owned by C. Horace McCall when a “daring porch climber” broke the window of a second-floor bathroom.
“Mrs. Turner“, apparently a boarder in the house, screamed upon hearing the shattered window, scaring off the intruder. The Constitution noted ominously that “A dark shadow was seen in the distance…but no clews [sic] were obtained.”
The report added: “This section of the city has been infested with burglars recently, and several citizens have made complaint of inadequate police protection.”39
In July 1918, McCall and his wife still lived in the home when thieves robbed their backyard hen house, swiping their entire collection, including 20 “frying-size chickens”. The stolen property totalled $30.40
Mrs. McCall died in the house on February 28, 1923,41 and it appears the property was sold shortly thereafter. In July 1924, another infant died in the home — the son of two boarders, Mr. and Mrs. J.B. McMillam.
By the 1920s, Atlanta had rapidly grown past Inman Park’s borders, and the former suburb was fully absorbed into the city. One mile northeast of the neighborhood, Druid Hills opened in 1908 (Norrman designed its first home), and many of Inman Park’s prominent residents — notably members of the Candler family — migrated to the outlying development for the next several years.
As Inman Park fell into decades-long decline, the old Hurt home passed through a succession of owners, always operating as a boarding house, and apparently attracting the caliber of people one associates with such establishments. A few incidents from those years are intriguing:
In 1945, W.A. and Gertrude Croft bought the home from Harry Beerman.50 Real estate ads described the home as an “excellent rooming house” and “convenient to stores and cars”, concluding rather cynically that “This is a money-maker”.51
This may have been when the home received its most significant alterations. In August 1946, classified ads from the address listed a “Monarch coal cook stove, gas cook stove…2 practically new glass paneled doors, 2 used windows” for sale.52 Sounds like they were tearing the place up, doesn’t it?
An image from the 1970s (pictured below) shows that at some point, the home’s front porch had been partially filled in and screened, rooms had been clumsily added to the porch roof, and original windows were moved and replaced. I suspect those alterations could be attributed to the Crofts.
Inman Park was in the nascent stages of a rebirth in the 1970s, when affluent young professionals began restoring its old homes and joined forces to quash a proposed interstate highway that would have cut through the heart of the neighborhood.
Rundown and crime-ridden, “most people avoided the area”, the Constitution said in 1975, and not everyone was convinced the neighborhood was worth saving.54
A skeptical article from 1971 described Inman Park as “a festering little carbuncle on the hide of big old Atlanta”, with residents detailing the precarious condition of the area. One homeowner stated:
“If you’ve got a sense of humor, it’s a great place to live. Over here, when people shoot guns they usually aim into the ceiling. There’s a lot of drug traffic in the neighborhood with the kids. They are very wise, like New York street children. I took one little girl to Grady while she was on a bad LSD trip. She was in the middle of the street screaming and everybody else was afraid to do anything. Hard drugs are apparently very available.”55
Little wonder that the old Hurt house remained a target for crime — in January 1975, the home was burglarized again, with the thief swiping a tape recorder, clock, liquor, and 8 cartons of cigarettes.56
Despondency seems to have been the way of life in the home, and in August 1976, a 47-year-old boarder at the address died in the most Atlanta way possible: jumping from the top of the Hyatt Regency atrium.57
In 1981, the home was once again listed for sale, remaining on the market for nearly 2 years under two different agencies.
A succession of real estate advertisements sounded increasingly desperate, first promoting the house as “Single family OR townhouse. Partially restored. Clean & livable” with “POOL & wine cellar”. 58 Later ads proclaimed the home had “suburban amenities”.59
An ad for an open house breathlessly hyped: “13 Fireplaces, antique brass & beveled glass, arches, millwork & pocket doors!”60 Norrman always did love pocket doors.
A May 1982 ad claimed that “Practical people will love the close-in convenient location and the fact that it can be used for rental units.”61 That was oddly out of step with the changing character of the neighborhood, however — it wasn’t practical people who were buying in Inman Park at that point, but those invested in its resurgent vision.
By the 1990s, Inman Park had completed its dramatic revitalization, drawing national acclaim, and the Hurt house finally returned to its intended use as a private dwelling.
The home has been fully renovated, with the mid-20th-century accretions on the front removed, and the porch and facade returned to a reasonable facsimile of its original appearance.
Inman Park is now one of the most exclusive and desirable neighborhoods in intown Atlanta, with homes like the Hurt house valued in the millions. More than a century after its conception, Joel Hurt’s development is finally a success.
And as for his brother’s house — well, it’s more significant than it appears.