
















References
- “Alterations.” Real Estate Record And Builders Guide, Volume 60, No. 1669, March 10, 1900, p. 428. ↩︎


















Six of New York’s surviving Gilded Age mansions hide in plain sight on Madison Avenue, and most people would never suspect they were once residences.
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.






































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.

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.























I had to wake up insanely early for this shot a couple of years ago—in July, the sun rises at 5:30 a.m. over New York.
I couldn’t believe how clear and haze-free the sky was that morning: just like a cold winter day.
I found a quiet bench where someone had left a pair of sunglasses, and popped them on to watch the show.
It wasn’t an innocent time, but the world felt less constricting then, and for a moment at least it was a little easier to catch my breath and find some optimism.
There will be more golden days ahead, but I’m steeling myself for the long, hard slog to reach them.
This is, after all, what I was built for.

There’s something to be said for a little restraint, as demonstrated by this tasteful 5-story townhouse in the Lenox Hill neighborhood of New York’s Upper East Side.
The home is officially credited to Charles McKim of McKim, Mead & White, but was primarily the work of his assistant, William M. Kendall, who began assuming design duties as McKim’s health deteriorated.1
Although the plan was first conceived in 1906,2 McKim died in 1909, three years before the project was completed in 1912.

Neo-Federal in style, the Pyne residence balances a simple composition with refined touches, including a richly ornamented cornice, finely detailed corbels, an entrance portico with an elaborate frieze, and a series of blind arch windows on the second floor, one of them filled with marble and topped by a sculpted garland in its lunette.
Yeah, I’m pulling out all the pretentious architectural terms.

My favorite part of the home’s design is the set of three dormers across the front roof — one of these things is not like the others.
It’s New York, so a Sesame Street reference felt appropriate.

The stately Pyne Residence looks more like something you’d find in Washington, D.C., and easily blends into the background if you’re rushing down Park Avenue (and who isn’t?). Only on close inspection does the home’s subtle elegance reveal itself.
When McKim, Mead & White’s successors planned the Oliver D. Filley Residence next door in 1926, they wisely continued the same scale and design.







The Cable Building is one of my favorite New York structures, mostly because I have fond memories associated with it, including the quiet Thanksgiving morning when I took the picture shown above.
Completed around late 1893, this 8-story steel-framed building1 includes a full basement and fronts on Broadway, Houston, and Mercer Streets on the border of Greenwich Village and NoHo.
The Cable Building was designed for the Broadway & Seventh Avenue Railway Company by Stanford White of McKim, Mead & White,2 and is a very early example of the Beaux-Arts style.
The building’s exterior was originally faced with Indiana limestone on the first and second floors, and the upper floors are covered in yellow brick and striking ornamental terracotta,3 topped by an elaborate copper cornice.

Each floor encompasses nearly 20,000 square feet4 and encircles a central light court of more than 3,000 square feet.5 6 At its opening, the building’s first floor was designated for retail use, with the top three floors designed for offices and the middle floors reserved for warehouse space.7
My favorite part of the exterior is the classically-inspired sculpture of two robed women guarding the portico on the east facade, designed by J. Massey Rhind.8

With that being said, the building’s overall design isn’t White’s best: the chamfered corners temper the appearance of bulkiness and provide interesting focal points, but the many large windows on every side of the structure clutter the composition, making it look messy and overwrought.
What makes the Cable Building impressive, however, is that it was designed to conceal a power plant for the street railway company, effectively creating “a building within a building”.9
Reaching 46 feet below the street surface,10 the building’s basement originally housed 550 tons of machinery that powered the company’s cable cars, including wheels measuring 32 feet in diameter and weighing 50 tons each.11

The machinery has long since been removed, and today the Cable Building’s deep bowels house the Angelika Film Center, where there’s a chance you may find me some late evening, watching an indie flick as nearby subway trains rumble past.














You’d be forgiven for thinking these two homes overlooking Central Park are actually one. Stanford White (or his assistants, more like it) designed the residences simultaneously, cladding the exteriors in elegant white Vermont granite and matching them with the same stacked Classical orders.1
They aren’t my favorite projects by McKim, Mead & White: the firm’s work had become quite derivative by 1907, and the designs here feel overprocessed, as if sketched and refined by too many different hands. It doesn’t help that White was murdered before the homes were completed.
What makes this pair of structures important, though, is that they are among the handful of old mansions that survive in New York. Built too late for the Gilded Age, they were nonetheless conceived in its shadow—remnants of an era that will never return.






