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Stretching across an entire block, the imposing Villard Houses complex looks every bit like a public building, but it was initially designed as six attached townhomes.
Henry Villard originally owned the property, and in the early 1880s, he hired McKim, Mead & White to design houses on it for himself and five other executives of his railroad company.1
With the firm’s star designer, Stanford White, otherwise engaged, the project’s design fell to Joseph Wells, an assistant who discarded White’s original sketches and opted for an exquisite Renaissance-inspired scheme.2

Wells’ work on this project was magnificent. Judging from this and his designs for the New York Life Buildings in Kansas City and Omaha, and the Russell & Erwin Building in New Britain, Connecticut, I’d venture to say he was more talented than White—certainly he was more disciplined.
Wells styled the Villard Houses as an Italian palazzo, reportedly inspired by the Palazzo della Cancelleria, Palazzo Farnese,3 and Villa Farnesina.4
The three-story homes included basements and attics and were built around a central courtyard, with brownstone facades and a tile roof. The ornamentation is sparse but striking, forming a tasteful, cohesive design that is far more subdued than many of White’s buildings, which were often quite garish.

The Villard Houses marked an important turning point for McKim, Mead & White, as Wells’ Renaissance-influenced design received widespread public acclaim, prompting the firm to look increasingly toward Italian architecture for inspiration.5
The project itself was a bust, however: Villard’s company failed during construction, and the homes were put up for sale before the interiors were completed.6 Typical Gilded Age bullshit. The firm ultimately finished the interiors of four of the homes.7

Stanford White and Joseph Wells reportedly had a complex and contentious relationship that grew increasingly strained through the 1880s as White’s hard-partying lifestyle began to eclipse his work output, and Wells handled major projects without credit or commensurate pay.8
Although he was virtually unknown to the public, Wells was highly esteemed in the architectural community, and when he abruptly died in 1890, his friend Cass Gilbert said he “had the temperament which makes artists unfit to cope with the world, and which, therefore, kept them always as assistant rather than principals.”9 Woof.
Granted, I tend to root for talented people who stay out of the spotlight, but I consider Wells an unsung genius, and the Villard Houses are undoubtedly his finest surviving work.



















































































This postcard depicts the Kingston Passenger Station in Kingston, New York, completed in 1883.
Between 1875 and 1880, Kingston was the home of W.W. Goodrich, a terrible architect and bullshitter extraordinaire who later practiced in Atlanta.
Goodrich had nothing to do with the design of this Queen Anne-style depot, but you’ll be seeing more about Northern train stations here at some point in the future—and Goodrich (blech).
BIF wrote on the front of the postcard: “Here is where I got off train.”
It’d be more fun if he’d omitted the last word.
The card was postmarked in Poughkeepsie, New York, date unreadable, and addressed to Miss E. Crosby of RFD #2, Chester, Vt.

Is it a relic sign or a fine example of Art Deco architecture? The answer is both.
I admired this swanky old Manhattan storefront for years on my walks to and from Moynihan Train Hall, but for some reason, I only recently thought to take a picture of it.
It was easy to find the opening-day newspaper advertisements for the A.S. Beck shoe store, but I’ve yet to determine the designer. Whoever it was, they did a swell job.

This swanky old sign is a true relic of South Philly, which is changing as rapidly as any other neighborhood these days.
Owned and operated by the Muzi family, Philip’s Restaurant was licensed for business at this location in 1940,1 although later advertisements claimed it opened in 1938.2
The blue portion of the sign likely dates to 1940, but I suspect the “Cocktail Lounge” segment was added later.
Originally built as a residence, the 3-story brownstone structure that housed the restaurant previously served as the Circolo Italiano clubhouse for at least 20 years.3 4
Philip’s touted itself as “Serving the finest in Italian cuisine”, and the interior photograph shown below is from a postcard published circa 1960, based on a note from the back that adds the restaurant had been in “The same location for 20 years.”

Philip’s closed in 2001, and the building has apparently been unoccupied since 2018.5 The sign remains untouched.















The imposing United States Post Office in New York City was a very late work of McKim, Mead & White—so late that two of the firm’s namesake founders, Charles McKim and Stanford White, had been dead for several years by the time it was completed in 1913.
At that point, McKim, Mead & White was a well-oiled machine that ran on an army of anonymous architects, but the project is now primarily credited to William M. Kendall.
The gleaming white five-story structure occupies two blocks of prime real estate in Midtown Manhattan and was built to complement its original neighbor, Pennsylvania Station,1 also designed by McKim, Mead & White, which was demolished in 1963.
The firm’s output in later years was often unremarkable and derivative, but there’s something special about this building, which is chock-full of exquisite materials and elegant details that reveal thoughtful attention to design despite the project’s massive scale.

Built for a hefty $6 million, the original structure included over 400,000 square feet of floor space and was composed of 165,000 cubic feet of Massachusetts granite, 18,000 tons of steel, 7 million bricks, and 200,000 square feet of glass.2
Most of that glass was used in the giant skylight over the building’s central workroom, which was reportedly the largest room in the United States when the facility opened.3

The building’s public-facing interior spaces were elaborately decorated with Tennessee marble on the floors and walls, topped by ornamental plaster ceilings featuring the seals of 10 nations recognized for doing “great things for the advancement of the universal mail service.”4
A Harvard professor reportedly suggested that the architects add the inscription spanning the building’s facade, quoting Herodotus: “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”5
The statement originally referred to mail service in ancient Greece, but its inclusion in the building’s design made it an unofficial motto of the U.S. Postal Service.

A portion of the building is still used as a post office, but the bulk of the structure now houses the Moynihan Train Hall, which opened in 2021.
The demolition of Penn Station is often cited as the event that launched the historic preservation movement in the United States, and the dark, dank, subterranean maze of low-slung corridors that replaced it is entirely unworthy of one of the world’s great cities.
Although that unnavigable mess still exists, the conversion of the former post office into a modern train hall has restored much-needed prestige to New York’s landscape, and it’s encouraging to see such a fine building put to a worthy new use.





















