






References
- White, Norval; Willensky, Elliott; Leadon, Fran. AIA Guide to New York City, Fifth Edition. New York: Oxford University Press (2010), p. 138. ↩︎








I’d been spending a quiet afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge Park when the place was suddenly mobbed with people, all of them with phones and cameras in hand to snap a sunset shot over Manhattan.
I could see none of them had a clue what they were doing: they just needed content to post on their socials.
It was a super cloudy day, and I could’ve told those two-bit photographers they were wasting their time, but people have to learn these things for themselves—and I don’t talk anyway.
As a line of solitary clout-chasers fixed their lenses on the Financial District for likes and engagement, soon to be disappointed, I watched this pair quietly engrossed in actual conversation.
What a novel concept, I thought.

Most of McKim, Mead & White’s projects are well documented, but one that is never mentioned in history books and usually omitted from project lists is the charming parish house of First Presbyterian Church in the City of New York.
Built in 1893,1 the three-story structure with a full basement is located at the corner of 5th Avenue and West 11th Street in Greenwich Village.
I don’t know which employees from the firm are responsible for this design, but they did a fine job—surely none of the named partners would have bothered to lift a finger for such a small project.
By the early 1890s, McKim, Mead & White drew almost exclusively on Renaissance inspiration for their designs, and this is a rare example of the firm employing the Gothic style.

Plans for the structure were reportedly drawn by January 1893,2 and when ground was broken in April 1893, the New-York Daily Tribune reported that it would appear as “part of the original church building and will not have the semblance of an addition.”3
They weren’t lying.

Faced with Kibbe brownstone, the addition cost a modest $50,000,5 and was seamlessly attached to the church’s sanctuary, designed in 1846 by Joseph C. Wells (no relation to Joseph M. Wells of McKim, Mead & White).

The centerpiece of the parish house’s original design was the large Sunday School room, occupying a 60×30-foot space on the second and third floors, and topped with a skylight.6
Described as “unusually commodious and well arranged,” the building’s interiors featured ash and oak woodwork and oak ceilings, with a mosaic floor in the vestibule, although it was said that the furnishings would be “of a simple and unostentatious character.”7

A cornerstone ceremony for the parish house was held on May 16, 1893,8 and the building was presumably completed by late 1893.
While its original interiors have long since been altered, the parish house, now known as the South Wing,9 is a hidden gem in Greenwich Village, gracefully obscured by a beautiful walled garden and gnarled old street trees.



























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 like a public building, but it was initially designed as six attached townhomes.

Henry Villard (pictured here1) 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.2
With the firm’s star designer, Stanford White, otherwise engaged, the project’s design fell to Joseph Wells (pictured here3), an assistant who discarded White’s original sketches and opted for an exquisite Renaissance-inspired scheme.4

Wells’ work on this project was magnificent. Judging from this, 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,5 and Villa Farnesina.6
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, creating a tasteful, cohesive design that’s 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.7
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.8 Typical Gilded Age bullshit. The firm ultimately finished the interiors of four of the homes.9

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.10
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.”11 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 later output 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 went into 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 still serves as a post office, but most 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, converting 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.





