Charles McKim of McKim, Mead & White.Low Memorial Library at Columbia University (1897). New York.1
The Background
Stanford White was the lead designer for McKim, Mead & White, a New York firm that dominated American architectural design in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
White was both an outstanding architect and a notorious public figure, already well-known for his wild philandering, excessive partying, and conspicuous overspending when he was murdered by the husband of one of his ex-lovers, Evelyn Nesbit, a former model and actress who was 16 when White allegedly drugged and raped her.
Nesbit’s husband, Harry Thaw, had long been obsessed with White, and considered him a “menace,” although the architect was apparently oblivious to the threat.
White died on the evening of June 25, 1906, when Thaw shot him three times in a crowd of hundreds at New York’s Madison Square Garden—which White incidentally designed.
For nearly two years after the shooting, the front pages of American newspapers were covered in the lurid details of White’s seedy escapades on a near-daily basis, and the ensuing “Trial of the Century” ended when Thaw was declared not guilty by reason of insanity.
The day after White’s murder, The Atlanta Georgian newspaper published remarks by G.L. Norrman, who reportedly met Stanford White when they both “were on the committee of awards at the Chicago Exposition in 1893.”
I can’t confirm the committee’s existence, but the article explained that “Five other architects of the country were on the special committee that judged architectural drawings.”
Norrman was obviously an admirer of McKim, Mead & White’s work, and many of his projects drew heavily on their designs.
Additionally, Norrman claimed that he and White frequently met at the annual conventions of the American Institute of Architects, and he touted White highly as a designer.
It should be noted, though, that the two projects for which Norrman praises White—the Low Memorial Library (pictured above) at Columbia University, and the Boston Public Library—are well-documented to be the work of White’s partner, Charles McKim.
Norrman was likely thinking of the Gould Memorial Library in the Bronx, which was designed by White.
Norrman’s remarks:
“I knew White well. His work placed him before the country as a great designer. The library at the Columbia library in New York was designed by his firm, but the magnificent front of the building was the work of Mr. White himself. His work on the Boston library was also of great note. I have known him quite a while and the news of his tragic death is a great shock to me.”2
Henri Jova of Abreu & Robinson. Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office (1962). Atlanta.12Windows on the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaAwning on the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaWall light on the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaAwning and windows on the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaFormer drive-through of the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaBrick screen wall on the former drive-through of the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, AtlantaRoad sign for the Trust Company of Georgia Northeast Freeway Office, Atlanta
References
“Bank Board OK’s New Branch Unit”. The Atlanta Journal and The Atlanta Constitution, February 19, 1961, p. 46. ↩︎
Eldredge, Richard L. “Back to the future”. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, July 27, 2005, p. 1E. ↩︎
G.L. Norrman. Cornice on the Lawrence McNeill Residence (1904). Savannah, Georgia.12
The Background
This fascinating diatribe by G.L. Norrman was published in an April 1903 edition of The Sunny South, a supplementary publication distributed by The Atlanta Constitution.
A reporter asked three leading Atlanta architects for advice to young men considering an architectural career—the emphasis on men is notable, as women were then entering the field in increasing numbers, including Atlanta’s own Henrietta C. Dozier.
The article began as you might expect, with W.T. Downing and Willis F. Denny providing honest but measured remarks about the profession.
Count on Norrman to speak his mind, though: his blunt and weary assessment of the architect’s plight included more than a hint of bitterness, and his criticism of open design competitions was especially timely.
The following month, the plans Norrman entered in competition for the city hall in Savannah, Georgia, were deemed “the best of the fourteen submitted.”3 However, all the submitted plans were ultimately rejected, and the project was instead awarded to a local designer, H.W. Witcover.4
A later newspaper report revealed: “The plans the City liked best, were those of Mr. G.L. Norrman of Atlanta, but he had no pull with the machine.”5
The report alleged that Norrman’s plans were handed to Witcover—”a friend of the administration”—who was paid over $10,000 to design nearly identical ones.6 Savannah’s city hall was completed in 1906 and is indeed very similar to Norrman’s design.
It’s no wonder Norrman was so disparaging of his profession.
H.W. Witcover. City Hall (1906). Savannah, Georgia.
Norrman’s remarks:
“The gift of gab is the essential thing for the architect. Knowledge, sense of proportion, and beauty, regard for it as an art, no longer count in architecture. One must be pleasant and agreeable, one must get business and make money.
“This is success counted in dollars and cents. It is success as the public understands it. It is the succcess that is appreciated. Thorough knowledge is dangerous; a ‘pleasing address’ is more to be desired than great wisdom.
“As I say, this is the popular conception of architecture. But architecture itself is an art; one must, in a large degree, be born for it. The training must be long and thorough—four years at some university, for the basic culture which leads to an understanding of the classic terms and figures used in architecture, and (in this country) four years in the polytechnic schools. In the École des Beaux-Arts in Paris the course is six years. After that, practical work in an architect’s office—making in all ten or twelve years of preparation.
“Is the apprenticeship long and arduous? I should say so—that is, to become an architect. This, however, is not necessary to make money in the profession of architecture. One then needs only to learn the superficial tricks; and so long as he has the aforementioned gift of gab it is only necessary that his building be safe, and the bricks stay in place. The public will never be any wiser.
“This is the most discouraging part of the profession. Let a man labor for years, and produce a masterpiece, the public will never notice it. It is the spirit of the age; it is as much so in Europe as in America. Nowadays, no one asks, Is he a good architect? but rather, Does he make money out of architecture?
“This is true of all artistic professions, but the worst part of it as applied to architecture is that plans must often be submitted in competition, where the judges are men in other lines of work. They would laugh at you if you claimed to understand dry goods, and they would be offended if you intimated that they didn’t understand architecture, and yet they pass on your design. It may be the result of years of study and experience, and the best of the lot; but it is not an accident if it is accepted. Not knowing anything about it, they say, ‘Give it to So-and-so; he’s a good fellow.’
“But to return to the beginner. His apprenticeship must be thorough, and in addition to his school training he must do office work. I think that artistic feeling is necessary to a large degree, though a sense of proportion and the finer distinctions between styles and ornament are largely things of habit and training. One may cultivate them much as a man cultivates command of language.
“What does architecture offer? At a recent civil service examination 150 trained draughtsmen applied for a government position which paid $1,500 a year. The winner of the new depot competition will get $1,000, and this for years of hard and unappreciated work. A farmer could make more on one year’s hay crop, and with one-tenth the nervous strain and exertion. No, I can’t say that the young man may expect a bonanza.”7
G.L. Norrman. Palladian window and stucco finish on the Arthur B.M. Gibbes Residence (1900). Savannah, Georgia.1
The Background
As was so often the case in his career, in September 1901, G.L. Norrman was compelled to justify his design choices to the dimwitted good ol’ boys of a local building committee.
Norrman had submitted plans in competition with 13 other architects for the Duval County Courthouse in Jacksonville, Florida, after the previous structure burned in the Great Fire of 1901.
Although Norman’s plan was publicly endorsed by five top officials, some members of the county commission reportedly objected to his proposal to finish the courthouse with stucco.
The objection now seems absurd given the ubiquitous Spanish-Mediterranean influence that would come to define the “Florida style”—by the 1920s, you’d be hard-pressed to find a single building in the state that wasn’t slathered in cheap stucco.
Norman used stucco extensively in his works from the late 1890s to the early 1900s, and, in response to the commission’s objections, he wrote a letter in which he deferentially offered to withhold the stucco finish from the structure, while also defending his preference for the material.
In the letter, Norrman charted stucco’s origins to ancient Rome, although he erroneously referred to the Pantheon as the Parthenon. Norrman also noted that the General Post Office and the U.S. Patent Office Building in Washington, D.C.—both designed by Robert Mills—were finished in stucco.
Norrman had to know that hick politicians in the Deep South wouldn’t give a shit about architecture in Europe or the North, though, too smugly consumed with playing God in their trashy little backwoods fiefdoms.
So he pulled out an old trick that often works on dick-measuring politicians—in Atlanta, anyway—insinuating that Jacksonville just didn’t measure up to other Southern cities: “All the old buildings of Charleston, Savannah and New Orleans are finished in stucco”, he explained.
Norrman’s effort was futile—the commission selected a fairly terrible plan designed by Rutledge Holmes, an unremarkable architect from Charleston who moved his practice to Jacksonville after the fire and lived in Florida for the remainder of his career.
Holmes, incidentally, shot himself to death in 1929, twenty years after Norrman did the same. Southern architects are a tragic lot.
The September 24, 1901, issue of The Evening Metropolis published Norrman’s letter to the Duval County commission in full.
Norrman’s remarks:
County Commissioners:
“Dear Sir—I have been informed that there is some objection to the stucco finish which I specified as in my judgment being the most suitable finish for the new court house. If it be true that there there is any such objection to my design, I would respectfully suggest that the stucco be left off, and that the brick work be finished in the usual manner without any stucco. By such omission you will save 60 cents per yard or about $2,100. At the same time you will please allow me to call your attention to the fact that the oldest and most noted buildings in existence have been finished with stucco. Notably among these are the Parthenon [sic] and St. Peter’s, in Rome, which have been built for 2,000 years. Stucco is used in Europe, especially on the continent, nearly exclusively. All of the old buildings in Mexico, and, in fact, nearly all the buildings erected by the early Spaniards, both here and in South America, as well as in Spain, are finished with stucco. All of this is well known to every educated architect and can be corroborated by your expert.
“In this country nearly all the old State houses and court houses of importance that were erected before the war, and which are now in tact [sic], are finished in stucco.
“The United States postoffice [sic] and the patent office in Washington are finished in stucco.
“All the above, I think is known to every builder of any ordinary information.
“All the old buildings of Charleston, Savannah and New Orleans are finished in stucco, and Mr. Flagler is going to finish his Palm Beach palace with stucco, because it is actually the best finish to use on a brick or concrete building.
“In my own practice I had been using stucco on buildings for the past twenty-five years, with very satisfactory results.”
I just found a stash of old images that I had completely forgotten, including this one I took in 2017 of the W.L. Glessner Residence in Americus, Georgia.
Planned as a seven-room cottage,1 this lovely two-story Queen Anne-style home is one of seven surviving buildings in Americus designed by G.L. Norrman. There isn’t historic documentation to prove it, but everything about the design indicates it’s his.
The home was built between May and September 1890 for W.L. Glessner,2 editor of the Americus Recorder newspaper, who was the town’s most vocal booster while it was—briefly—one of the fastest-growing cities in the state.
Glessner lived in the home for less than two years,3 leaving Americus in 1892,4 shortly after the town fell into economic collapse.
I toured this house at least once when I was eight or nine years old, but I don’t remember much about the interior, except that it felt a little creepy and reeked of bat guano, which is true of most old buildings in Americus.
By the early 1990s, the home had been abandoned and stripped of its original woodwork, mantels, and other interior elements, though it later underwent a meticulous restoration that incorporated salvaged pieces from local historic homes.
The owners at the time reported discovering a “secret room,” apparently sealed off for years behind a wall—that certainly piqued my adolescent curiosity.
I’ll revisit the design and history of this home at a later date.
Following the 1900 Galveston hurricane, which remains the deadliest natural disaster in U.S. history, G.L. Norrman opined that the Texas port city should build a seawall.
His comments appeared in Wallace Putnam Reed‘s column for The Macon Telegraph in September 1900.
If it sounds like Norrman was familiar with Galveston, there may be a reason: when he emigrated to the United States in 1874, he likely did so through the Port of Galveston.
It’s also possible that Norrman worked in Galveston as a draftsman before starting his practice in South Carolina—one source claims his early career in the United States included “a few years spent in Texas.”1 I’ve never been able to confirm that, though.
“Galveston should have a sea wall. Holland is below the ocean, and yet it is efficiently protected by dykes. Galveston is six feet above the sea, and a wall is feasible.
“Then the buildings should be of a substantial, storm-proof character. People should prepare proper safeguards and not charge every disaster to Providence.”2
A consistent theme in G.L. Norrman‘s life was his vocal opposition to prohibition, as the temperance movement was in full force in the United States in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with many cities and states banning the sale and production of alcohol.
Atlanta enacted prohibition in July 1886,1 reportedly prompting Norrman’s return for a brief time to Greenville, South Carolina,2 which hadn’t yet passed its own prohibition law, although nearby Spartanburg had in 1884—by just four votes.34
Prohibition was immediately unpopular in Atlanta, and the city’s business leaders loudly complained about the resulting loss of revenue.
In November 1887, as Atlantans prepared to vote for a repeal of the law, The Atlanta Constitution asked the city’s architects if they had designed any commercial buildings since prohibition began—none had. Norrman reported:
“In response to your inquiry, I can say that I have no store building on hand to be erected in Atlanta, nor have I had for two years. I had some drawings made for five stores, two years ago, but they were not built, as the owner did not think it would pay to build them after prohibition started here.”5
Three days after Norrman’s remarks, an estimated 15,000 Atlantans took to the streets in protest of prohibition,6 and the next day, voters overwhelmingly approved a measure ending the ban.7
The threat of prohibition loomed again in 1899, when the Georgia House of Representatives approved a measure proposing a statewide ban,8 prompting Norman to write the following letter to The Atlanta Journal, published on December 2, 1899.
The attempt at statewide prohibition in Georgia failed a few days later,910 but ultimately succeeded in 1907, 13 years before prohibition was enacted nationwide.
Norrman’s remarks:
“In answer to some requests for my opinion about the prohibition bill, I will say that I think it is too much ado about nothing.
“It is morally wrong to confiscate property, or to debar people from using the comforts and luxuries of life in moderation on account of a few drunkards.
“If school boys, church members, prohibitionists, club men and legislators, or anybody else if they should get drunk, were taken to the station house and well whipped, there would rarely, or ever, be and drunkenness.
“‘The punishment should always fit the crime.’ So disgraceful behavior deserves disgraceful punishment.
“Prohibition practically confiscates a great deal of capital which is now used in a legal and proper manner, while whipping drunkards instead of petting them would only queer the business of the professional revivalist. The only business that would be seriously affected by such a law is that of the temperance lecturer. He would necessarily have to go out of business less than six months after such a law went into effect, for the lack of stock in trade. After that time, if there should be any drunkards left, they would keep so quiet that he could hardly pick out enough to arouse any emotion, even in the most sentimental of sentimentalists.”
G.L. Norrman. Sixteenth Street School (1893). Columbus, Georgia. Illustration drawn by W.L. Stoddart.1
The Background
In June 1899, The Atlanta Constitution launched “The Constitution‘s Home Study Circle”, consisting of long-form printed lectures on a variety of subjects, with the promise of “instruction and general culture for those who make the most of its benefits.”
Following the program’s announcement, G.L. Norrman wrote the Constitution to express his tentative approval.
Norrman’s remarks:
‘The “Home Study Circle” is on the right line. I am not familiar with the details of your plan, but a glance at your course of free lessons for your readers convinces me that they will be of great value to those who will give them proper attention. Education and culture cannot be purchased in job lots, nor picked up in the road, but some systems and methods are easier and more attractive than others, and I think that your scheme of popular instruction is a good one, and will be appreciate by hosts of old and new readers.’
Marcel Breuer and Hamilton Smith with Stevens & Wilkinson. Atlanta Central Library (1980). Atlanta.
I was introduced to the work of Marcel Breuer with the Atlanta Central Library (1980), which was designed as a conscious rehash of Breuer’s Whitney Museum in New York and is perhaps the most emblematic example of Atlanta’s consistent impulse to copy the architecture of better cities (badly).
Breuer’s firm was hired to design the building in 1970,1but in typical Atlanta fashion, no one wanted to pay for the new facility, even though the city’s 1902 Carnegie Library (pictured below) was in disrepair, overcrowded, and “hopelessly outmoded.”2
In lieu of actual decision-making, local leaders spent years quibbling over where the library should be built,345678while simultaneously denying funds for its construction.
In his 1973 mayoral campaign, Maynard Jackson even promised that only private donations, not tax dollars, would be used for the project,910 which had an original estimated cost of $13 million but, with runaway inflation, had jumped to nearly $20 million by 1974.11
Meanwhile, the old library remained in abysmal condition, and an unusually pointed news commentary from that year said: “The dingy granite building on Carnegie Way, with its creaking floors and bulging stacks, stands as a pathetic reminder of the place of culture in this modern commercial capital.”12
The library’s director, Carlton Rochell, was equally dismissive of the aging Beaux-Arts building, stating that “…even at its best, it was just one of about 4,500 things cut out with Carnegie’s cookie-cutter.”13 He wasn’t wrong.
Ackerman & Ross with J.H. Dinwiddie and Bleckley & Tyler.141516Carnegie Library (1902, demolished 1977). Atlanta. Illustration from an undated postcard published by the Albertype Co.
Rochell was the driving force behind the new library’s development, and his explanation for why he chose Breuer as the designer was the embodiment of Atlanta smugness:
“We narrowed it down to three or four architects with enviable reputations. We settled on Marcel Breuer because we regard him as being at the pinnacle of his profession. Besides, I felt that Atlanta should have the distinction of a Breuer-designed building. There’s one other thing. Marcel Breuer is notable for living with a budget.”17
The final two contenders were Breuer and Paul Rudolph, but it appears Rochell intended to hire Breuer all along, as he was said to be “highly enamored of the Whitney Museum.”18
When Breuer’s conceptual design19 for the new library was approved in March 1971,20The Atlanta Journal claimed it “borrows somewhat from the Whitney Museum of Art…”,21 which was quite the understatement.
By the early 1970s, it appears Breuer had all but given up actual design work, primarily handing those duties over to his associates while he secured commissions and cashed in on his reputation.
With his firm increasingly cranking out retreads of past glories, Breuer showed no qualms about the derivative design of the Central Library and of its severe Brutalist style; he said it conveyed “an expression which you may call monumental.”23
That made more sense than the firm’s official design statement for the project. If you can decipher this first-class wankery, mazel tov:
“Admist this heterogeneous downtown texture, the library building must, somehow, be given an architectural significant appropriate to one of the chief cultural resources of a major city. The achievement of this distinctness and clarity is considered a key design challenge by the architects.
The design response aimed at this goal is based on concepts which seek to take maximum advantage of the important circumstances that the library site is a complete block; and that the building that occupies it may thus be separated by an envelope of space from adjacent structures.”24
Two-story window on the facade of the Atlanta Central Library
Despite constant lobbying by Rochell, heavy support from the city’s newspapers, and a special commission’s recommendation to issue a bond to fund the library’s construction,25 the city council and Maynard Jackson—who was elected mayor in 1974—continued to dither on the matter.
In April 1975, the Friends of the Library released a damning statement that cut through the heart of Atlanta’s ludicrous self-aggrandizement:
“It is unthinkable that such a valuable asset as the public library sits like a forgotten dowager on the corner of Carnegie Way while Atlanta touts itself as the world’s next great city.”26
Bowing to mounting pressure, the city council finally scheduled a bond referendum for December 1975,27 although its prospects for passage appeared bleak: a citywide survey released in October 1975 showed that 56% of Atlantans opposed a bond issue to finance a new library.28
The same survey, however, found that 60% of citizens “thought Atlanta’s image is ‘very important,’”29 quantifiably proving that Atlantans are as ignorant as they are narcissistic.
Atlantans are also too apathetic to vote, so it was a shock when 28.6% of voters—much higher than anticipated—showed up to the polls and passed the $20 million bond for the library’s construction.
The vote was largely along racial lines: Black voters overwhelmingly voted for the library, while White voters soundly rejected it.30 That part isn’t surprising—most Southern Whites wouldn’t be caught dead in a public library.
Central stairwell of the Atlanta Central Library
Construction and Design
The library’s initial plans only consisted of a model and simple schematic drawings,31 and the final plans weren’t completed until early 1977.3233
In 1976, Breuer retired from design work entirely due to poor health,34 so primarycredit for the Central Library’s design should go to Breuer’s associate architect, Hamilton Smith.
The budget for the library’s construction was set at $18.9 million during the bond referendum, and to stay within those constraints while material and labor costs increased, Smith reduced the building’s footprint to 185,000 square feet.35
The library’s board of trustees pushed back on the reduction, however, demanding the project remain at the larger size,36 which apparently resulted in steep cuts to the interior design budget.
Looking up at the south elevation of the Atlanta Central Library
Groundbreaking for the library took place in September 1977,37 but the project faced numerous setbacks before and during construction. Among the low points:
City of Atlanta workers threatened a strike in early 1976, delaying the issuance of municipal bonds for the library’s construction and the negotiation of construction contracts.38
In May 1976, Rochell abruptly resigned as library director for a position in New York,3940 unceremoniously tossing responsibility for the project’s development to Ella Yates, who took over the position as the library’s first Black director.4142
In early 1977, a group called Save the Carnegie protested the old library’s demolition,434445 although the building was ultimately destroyed in September and October 1977.4647
The Breuer firm’s choice of Stevens & Wilkinson as the project’s local architects angered Maynard Jackson and city officials after a Stevens & Wilkinson employee publicly claimed that the firm was “blackmailed” by the city into working with a minority-owned firm on the construction of Hartsfield International Airport.48 The comment resulted in a federal grand jury investigation, but a resolution by the library’s board of trustees to break the contract with Stevens & Wilkinson ultimately failed.49
In September 1977, a tedious battle of egos erupted between city and library officials over who should manage the construction of the new building. The details are too boring to repeat, but the parks commissioner decided he should manage the project instead of the library’s board of trustees. Why? Who the hell knows? The city council backed the library board, and Maynard Jackson backed the commissioner. Finally, Jackson compromised by giving the board ultimate authority while allowing the parks commissioner to make recommendations to the mayor on library board decisions.505152535455 Politics is insufferable.
Construction on the library was briefly halted in June 1979 when a concrete slab fell from the building and killed a worker,56 the only fatality associated with the project.
North elevation of the Atlanta Central Library
Built on the corner of Forsyth Street and Carnegie Way in Downtown Atlanta, the completed Central Library encompassed 250,000 square feet57 across 10 levels, with eight floors above ground, and repeated the Whitney Museum’s triple-cantilevered design.
To accommodate Atlanta’s meager funding, the library’s exterior was covered in vertical board-formed concrete,58 a much cheaper material than the granite tiles used on the Whitney.
A defining feature of the building is the 25×25 ft. square window59 on the front facade that spans two floors, while a trademark trapezoidal window is tucked into the north side at street level.
Trapezoidal window on the north elevation of the Atlanta Central Library
Opening in May 1980, the library included such novel features as a gift shop, a cafe, a sunken garden (tres 70s), a rooftop terrace, a drive-through window, and a 340-seat auditorium.6061
The project’s original plan called for six above-ground floors, but Smith was able to add two unfinished “bonus” floors while staying within budget.62
That was probably because so little was spent on the interior, which has only a few of Breuer’s signature flourishes in the stairwells and the basement level, notably bush-hammered concrete, bluestone tiles, and coffered ceilings.
The remainder of the building’s interior spaces were finished out like a drab 1970s office building, with dropped fiberglass ceilings, fluorescent strip lighting, industrial-grade carpeting, and bog-standard furnishings.
Coffered ceiling in the original atrium of the Atlanta Central Library
The Atlanta hype machine would have you believe the Central Libraryis one of Breuer’s best works, but that’s complete bullshit. It is, at best, a mildly interesting mash-up of elements from some of Breuer’s earlier projects, none of which is executed well.
Partially buried in a slope, the library appears dreary, faceless, and foreboding, and the floating effect seen in the Whitney design is conspicuously absent.
The two bonus floors at the top add too much visual weight, and the building is more reminiscent of a sinking tombstone than a grand public monument.
Because Atlanta’s infantile leaders putzed around for a solid decade, by the time the library was completed, the Brutalist style was already rapidly falling out of fashion, an embarrassment for a city that so self-consciously tries to sell itself as a modern metropolis on the leading edge (it’s not).
The building initially enjoyed ample sunlight in its windows and skylights, but that quickly changed with the construction of the nearbyGeorgia-Pacific Center, which has cast a permanent shadow over the library since 1982.
Skylight in the original atrium of the Atlanta Central Library, with Georgia-Pacific Center in the background
Obsolescence and Renovation
In 1970, Carlton Rochell stated that the planned facility would be adequate for 20 years,63 and when the Central Library was still under construction, Ella Yates confirmed: “Our new edifice…moves us into the year 2000.”64
But 20 years in Atlanta might as well be 100, and in 2001, the library was described as “worn” and having suffered from “twenty years of decay and obsolescence.” The director at the time observed that it was “built for a different Atlanta, a different world. It was all pre-computer.”65
Circulation at the library had dropped steeply, and since Atlanta never properly maintains its buildings, the facility had predictably fallen into disrepair. The most significant issue was a leaking planter at ground level, which caused a portion of the auditorium’s ceiling to collapse, leading to its closure for five years.66
A paltry $3 million renovation began in 2001 and extended into 2002, consisting of little more than essential repairs, new paint and carpeting, and additional computers.6768
Looking out the window on the second floor of the Atlanta Central Library
In 2008, the Fulton County Commission held a referendum on a $275 million bond issue, with the stated intention to fund a new 300,000-square-foot library to replace the aging Breuer building.
Like every Atlanta development since the 1996 Olympics, the proposed library was obligatorily described as “world-class,”69 although you can be sure it wouldn’t have been.
The bond passed, but—no surprise—Atlanta’s leaders waffled about the library’s fate for nearly a decade.
With the threat of destruction pending, local, national, and even international protests by architects and preservationists mounted, and in 2010, the Central Library was placed on theWorld Monuments Watch list.
However, their decision was motivated more by money than any desire for preservation: the new library proposed eight years earlier was expected to be partially funded by private donations, but those failed to materialize during the Great Recession.70
Looking up at the facade of the Atlanta Central Library before renovation
The renovation was designed by Cooper Carry of Atlanta, likely chosen, in part, because of the firm’s recent work on the new campus for North Atlanta High School (2013),71 which required the conversion of a hulking suburban office building completed in 1977.72
There was a key difference between the two projects, however: the high school was housed in an unremarkable corporate structure designed by a hometown firm,73 while the library was a landmark civic building credited to an internationally renowned architect.
That the city’s leaders decided local designers were qualified to rework a Breuer building tells you everything you need to know about Atlanta.
Looking up at the two-story window on the facade of Atlanta Central Library before renovation
Preservationists were most concerned about Cooper Carry’s decision to add strips of windows to the front of the Central Library to increase sunlight, although that turned out to be one of their better decisions—I would argue it was an improvement.
On the exterior, the entrance plaza was obliterated: the sunken garden was filled in, and a large metal sculpture added in 1983 (Wisdom Bridge by Richard Hunt)74 was scrapped.
Neither removal was a huge loss.
Atlanta Central Library, after renovation and addition of new windows by Cooper Carry
The renovation went very wrong in the reworked interior, where no attempt was made to blend the new design with the original Breuer elements.
The project’s designers were clearly more interested in leaving their mark than enhancing the building’s existing character, and the result is as awkward as it is arrogant.
The worst decision was that the building’s original service elevators were ripped out and replaced with a swirling skylit atrium that looks like it was extracted from a Class B office building circa 2010, ineptly styled with glass railings, a tacky hanging sculpture, and a dull gray-and-brown color scheme that was already dated upon completion.
The renovated interior has a confusing, schizophrenic design that clumsily shoehorns a sleek, sterile 21st-century atrium next to a 70s-era stone-and-concrete stairwell.
The second atrium also removed a significant amount of usable floor space on each level, making the interior feel small and cramped—more evocative of a branch location than a flagship library.
Atlanta architecture is third-rate as a rule, but even by the city’s own low standards, the Central Library’s renovation is particularly awful, turning an already flawed work into an incoherent mess that appears both amateurish and cheap, despite a reported $50 million price tag.
The building’s fundamental problems remain, and the library is as grim and lifeless as ever, having all the charm of a minimum-security prison—complete with hostile security guards manning the front door.
Original entrance plaza of the Atlanta Central Library (demolished)
At Breuer’s death, Carlton Rochelle claimed “…history will show, that Breuer was one of the three greatest architects of this era”, naming the other two as Eero Saarinen and Mies van der Rohe.75
That was a flawed assessment that hasn’t aged well. While Mies is still considered one of the most influential architects of the 20th century, Saarinen is now all but forgotten, with his gimmicky designs viewed as little more than Space Age novelties.
Breuer is arguably even less known than Saarinen, and when Atlanta inevitably demolishes the Central Library for some hideous new structure in the future, not even the most die-hard Breuer admirers—if there are any left—will consider it much of a loss.
Gallery
Looking at Atlanta Central Library from the southeastLooking up at the south elevation of the Atlanta Central LibrarySecond-floor window on the southeast corner of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking at the north elevation of Atlanta Central LibraryWindow on the rooftop terrace of Atlanta Central LibraryLooking up at the windows on the west elevation of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking up at cantilevered floors on the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking at the upper windows on the facade of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking at the northeast corner of the Atlanta Central LibraryA window on the facade of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking up at the south elevation of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking up at cantilevered floors on the facade of the Atlanta Central LibraryOriginal entrance of the Atlanta Central Library (demolished)Sunken plaza outside the Atlanta Central Library (demolished)Looking out the trapezoidal window on the north elevation of the Atlanta Central LibraryOriginal atrium of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking down at the entrance plaza (demolished) of the Atlanta Central LibraryBoard-formed concrete in the stairwell of the Atlanta Central LibrarySeating area outside the auditorium in the basement of the Atlanta Central LibraryBluestone tiles in the basement of the Atlanta Central LibraryStairs in the original atrium of the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking through the window of the rooftop terrace at the Atlanta Central LibraryLooking at the west elevation of the Atlanta Central Library from the southwest
References
Nations, Hugh. “N.Y. Firm Is Hired to Design Library”. The Atlanta Journal, May 21, 1970, p. 2. ↩︎
West, Paul. “Carnegie, Where Are You?” The Atlanta Journal and Constitution, June 16, 1974, p. 11-B. ↩︎
Bryans, Raleigh. “Architects Ask Library Study.” The Atlanta Journal, August 24, 1971, p. 2. ↩︎
“Park and Library Too”. The Atlanta Journal, December 15, 1971, p. 10. ↩︎
Murray, Alice. “No News on New Library”. The Atlanta Constitution, June 25, 1973, p. 6. ↩︎
Merriner, Jim. “Delays Beset Library Plans”. The Atlanta Constitution, March 29, 1976, p. 11-A. ↩︎
Bryans, Raleigh. “The New Library — Where Will It Go?” The Atlanta Journal, December 10, 1975, p. 1. ↩︎
West, Paul. “Carnegie, Where Are You?” The Atlanta Journal and Constitution, June 16, 1974, p. 11-B. ↩︎
