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Opened in December 19332 as the United States Post Office, the project appears to have been primarily designed by Brown’s associate architects, Alfredo Barili, Jr., and J. Wharton Humphreys, who established their own firm a few years later.3
Compare the later works credited to Brown with those of his early years, and it’s clear that his own skills were inadequate for the more sophisticated designs that emerged from his firm in the 1920s onwards—this project is no exception.

Designed in the Classical Moderne style, the building sits atop a base of Stone Mountain granite and is sleekly clad in Georgia marble.4
The structure’s otherwise smooth facades on the east and west are punctuated by a trio of slightly recessed bays that recall Brown’s earlier design for the Fulton County Courthouse, but the effect is much more successful here.
Indeed, the courthouse design is a joyless mess: the building’s facade is cluttered with windows of varying sizes, and the deeply recessed center bay, supported by six multi-story columns, resembles a giant jail grating.
In this design, the variation in the bays is much subtler, and the windows are given space to breathe, providing enough contrast and visual balance for a pleasing, cohesive composition.
This building also shines in its incorporation of fine textural detail, trimmed with pilasters, friezes, and stringcourses in stark geometric patterns, many of which are of pre-Columbian inspiration. Emphasizing the structure’s bold ziggurat form, the design evokes the image of some ancient American temple dropped into a modern metropolis.

The project was completed for the princely sum of $3 million,5 and the volume of materials used in its construction is staggering: the structure is composed of 12,222 marble pieces totaling 4,798,404 pounds, with the largest block weighing 8,400 pounds.6
Atlanta, of course, never pays for quality architecture, and this bulwark of a building exists only because it was bankrolled by the United States government.
At the time, federal building projects were supervised by the U.S. Treasury, and Brown was a natural choice to pick as the lead architect, since he began his career in the office of the supervising architect of the Treasury.7 8
Brown was approaching the end of his life and career in the 1930s and was well-respected in Atlanta and the Southeast. Known as “Tony” to his friends,9 he became one of the city’s wealthiest architects in the early 20th century, with his firm designing dozens of large-scale public buildings across multiple states, though his fortunes appear to have been greatly reduced during the Depression.
Preston Stevens of Stevens & Wilkinson described him as “debonair and attractive,” and recalled a claim by another architect, Francis P. Smith, who said that ‘”Tony” could almost hypnotize his clients by sitting across the table from them and sketching designs upside down.’10

I can’t criticize Brown too much for claiming primary credit on this project, as most architects of the era did the same. The myth of the lone designer had long become untenable, and by the turn of the 20th century, every Atlanta architect managed a team of design assistants.
As building projects grew increasingly large, costly, and complex to manage, most prominent architects effectively became figureheads, promoting their businesses and securing commissions while delegating the actual design work to their employees.
It’s well documented that numerous projects credited to Atlanta architects of the time, like W.T. Downing, Morgan & Dillon, W.A. Edwards, and Hentz, Reid & Adler—to name a few—were designed by assistants, many of whom went on to establish their own firms.
Brown at least had the decency to share credit with the actual designers of his projects—often listing them as associate architects or supervising architects—a practice he began in 1922, when he was appointed the supervising architect for more than twenty public school buildings in Atlanta,11 12 nearly all of which were designed by other architects.13 14
Contrast his approach with, say, G. Lloyd Preacher, who claimed credit for every work produced by his firm, even though it was abundantly clear which projects weren’t his own. The most striking example is Atlanta’s fine neo-Gothic city hall, credited to Preacher but designed by one of his employees, George H. Bond,15 who was infinitely more talented.

Questions of credit aside, the former United States Post Office (later renamed the Martin Luther King, Jr. Federal Building) is one of the few structures in the city with any actual design caliber, and its quality of craftsmanship and attention to detail are unknown to modern architecture, in Atlanta or elsewhere.




















The following article was published in The Atlanta Constitution in December 1889 and discusses the proposed design for the Carrie Steele Orphans’ Home, prepared by Bruce & Morgan of Atlanta.

Carrie Steele Logan (pictured here1)was “well known and highly respected”2 in both the White and Black communities of Atlanta in the late 19th century. Born into slavery in 1829,3 she worked for many years as an attendant in Atlanta’s passenger depot,4 5 where she reportedly became distressed by the “little army of street vagrants who ran around the depot entrance.”
Steele ultimately quit her job, “impressed with the responsibility of rescuing the little tots that struggled for existence,” and according to the Constitution, “as she left the depot she led several homeless waifs to her home on Wheat street.”
In 1887, Steele began raising money to build an orphanage for Black children, which the Constitution described as a “praiseworthy work,” opining that:
“The home will do a vast amount of good in recovering from lives of vice and crime the little negroes who run around our streets ragged, friendless and homeless…”
Note that in this article, Albert Howell, one of the orphanage’s early supporters, claimed that the home would “take the little negro waifs and make good servants of them.”
Steele was a tenacious advocate for the project, pursuing every possible fundraising method. In 1888, she even published a book of anecdotes about her time working in Atlanta’s depot, titled Life and Adventures of Mrs. Carrie Steele, Stewardess Atlanta Depot, with proceeds funding the orphanage.6
Lacking land for the project, in 1889, Steele petitioned the City of Atlanta,7 8 which granted her a 99-year lease9 on a four- to five-acre parcel10 11 near the intersection of Fair Street and Flat Shoals Road (now the southeast corner of Memorial Drive SE and Holtzclaw Street SE).
Steele reportedly “made many friends among the white people”,12 and it’s a testament to her reputation that the orphanage’s construction was funded by several of Atlanta’s wealthiest citizens, including Jonathan Norcross,13 who was, by all accounts, a miserly old asshole.
In March 1890, The Atlanta Journal said of Steele’s fundraising efforts:
“Almost all the prominent white people in the city have contributed something to the good cause, and to those who have not we desire to say that you could not contribute to a more laudable undertaking.”14
Construction on the orphanage began in July 1890,15 but because it had to be built in stages as funding permitted, the project was completed in May 1892.16 However, the final structure wasn’t the one designed by Bruce & Morgan.
The original design had apparently been dropped by May 1890, when Steele bought 30,000 bricks for the project17 18—note that the plan described and illustrated here was for a wood-frame building.

The plain brick structure that was ultimately built for the orphanage appears to have had no designer—or at least, not a good one.
Containing 13 rooms,20 the orphanage housed 36 children at its dedication,21 and by 1896, it sheltered 75 children between the ages of one and fifteen years old.22
In 1894, Steele told a reporter from the Constitution:
“If these were my own children I could not love them more than I do. They all look up to me as if I were their mother, and come to me with all their little troubles as if I always had a remedy for them. I have had a great many discouragements and trials, but when I look back over these years and see how the Lord has taken care of me and my children, I feel that I ought to be thankful.”23
Steele died in November 1900 at the age of 61, two months after a debilitating stroke.24 Her funeral was reportedly attended by 3,000 people,25 with the Constitution reporting that “the church was filled to overflowing and about half of the audience was composed of whites.” She was buried in Oakland Cemetery, the final resting place of Atlanta’s most distinguished citizens.
Steele’s husband managed the orphanage until he died in 1904,26 which continued operating under a succession of directors, notably Clara M. Pitts, who managed the home from 1919 to 1950.27
In 1928, the orphanage left its original property on Fair Street and moved to the Pittsburgh neighborhood in southwest Atlanta.28 Later renamed the Carrie Steele-Pitts Home, the orphanage moved to Fairburn Road in west Atlanta in 1964,29 where it remains in operation as the oldest black orphanage in the United States.30

The Good Work Which Carrie Steele Has Done.
The Home As It Will Appear When Finished
— What a City Officer Has To Say About It — Other Notes of Interest.
“That’s the best investment Atlanta has ever made.”
Colonel Albert Howell was the speaker. As he made the remark he pointed to an architect’s drawing of the Carrie Steele Orphan home.
“Yes,” said Colonel Howell, “that is one of the most sensible charities ever inaugurated, and to one woman belongs the credit for its inception and the good work that has already been done. Carrie Steele is a good woman, and I know she deserves every success in this life work of hers. For it is a life-work. It is two years now since the project was conceived by Carrie, or rather since she gave up her position at the carshed that she might devote her whole time to this home. She has labored honestly and earnestly for its success, and she expects to devote the rest of her life to it.”
Colonel Howell has shown his faith by his works. It was through his influence as alderman that the lease on the four acres of city land, upon which the home will stand was extended from ten to ninety-nine years. And in all her efforts to secure city aid, Colonel Howell has been one of Carrie Steele’s most staunch supporters.
“It is a good thing for Atlanta as well as the state at large–this orphans’ home,” he said yesterday. “For it is the intention of the people interested in the home to take the little negro waifs and make good servants of them. The education they receive will all be in the direction of practical usefulness.”
The home will be located on the Flat Shoals road where Fair street will intersect it. This is about two and a half miles from the center of the city and is delightfully located.
The building, which, when completed, will look like the accompanying cut, will be a frame structure built in the most substantial manner. The building when finished which will contain, on the first floor an office and room for matron, with two school rooms, chapel and large dining room, with kitchen and laundry rooms, for teaching kitchen work. The second floor will contain dormitories, bath rooms, and all modern conveniences, and in every way adapted to the purposes for which it is intended. The plans were prepared by Messrs. Bruce & Morgan, and preparations are being made for commencing the work at once.
It is the intention of the projector to start with one wing, and use that for the purposes of the home. Then as the years go by and the home gets well started, the building will be completed.31

Atlanta is typically willy-nilly when it comes to the persistent destruction of its own history, but occasionally, some brave preservationists can snatch a few scraps from the rubble for posterity.
Such was the case in 1977, when the city’s Carnegie Library, built in 1902, was demolished for the Central Library.
However, a local architect, A. Burnham Cooper, convinced the city to save the building’s marble facade, carefully dismantling and numbering the pieces before they were dumped at the Old Atlanta Prison Farm.2

In the lead-up to the 1996 Olympics, when Atlanta was desperately trying to sell itself as a city with a legitimate cultural legacy—failing quite spectacularly, I might add—the idea was hatched to dust off the old library columns to form a centerpiece for Downtown’s new Hardy Ivy Park.6

Tapped for the project was Henri Jova, one of Atlanta’s better 20th-century architects, who designed this fine Postmodern structure from the eight bays of the historic building’s Beaux-Arts facade.
The project wasn’t completed in time for the Olympics,7 but instead debuted the following spring,8 and today it stands as one of the few distinctive public monuments in the city.


























“The most exciting hotel on earth is open now in Atlanta,” proclaimed ads for the Regency Hyatt House (later Hyatt Regency Atlanta) in May 1967. 3
That wasn’t an exaggeration—when it first debuted, the fantastic Space-Age design of the Hyatt’s 22-story atrium was considered groundbreaking, and brought more press attention to Atlanta than the city had received in decades.
Seemingly overnight, the status of the hotel’s designer, John Portman (1924-2017), was elevated from that of a run-of-the-mill Atlanta architect to an internationally recognized architect, developer, and urban planner—whether that reputation was deserved is another matter.

As a product of Atlanta, Portman was, more than anything, a shameless self-promoter, and for years, he was widely credited as the inventor of the atrium hotel concept, which couldn’t be further from the truth.
Atlanta’s own Kimball House Hotel, designed by L.B. Wheeler and completed in 1885, centered on a seven-story central atrium,4 a concept borrowed from the previous Kimball House Hotel, built in 1870 and designed by Griffith Thomas of New York.5
In 1888 and 1892, G.L. Norrman replicated the Kimball House’s atrium lobby at a smaller scale in both the Printup Hotel in Gadsden, Alabama, and the Windsor Hotel in Americus, Georgia.

The Windsor, incidentally, is the oldest surviving atrium hotel in the United States, having opened two months before Denver’s Brown Palace Hotel,6 7 also built around an atrium.
Portman first used the atrium concept for the Antoine Graves Homes project in Atlanta’s Sweet Auburn neighborhood, which opened a year before the Hyatt.
However, he wasn’t even the first Atlanta architect of the 1960s to employ such a design—that was Wilfred Gregson of Gregson & Associates,8 whose Yarbrough Building at the Central State Hospital in Milledgeville opened in 19639 10 and centered around a five-story indoor courtyard.
I’ll give Portman this much: the Hyatt was the first modern atrium hotel when it debuted, but that was 60 years ago. It’s not so modern anymore.

When I visited Atlanta for the first time at the age of nine, I saw the Hyatt atrium with most of its original 1960s elements still intact.
As a child, it was a revelatory experience: I was instantly obsessed with Portman’s designs and determined to someday move to Atlanta to become an architect.
Then I grew up.
My assessment of Portman’s work has drastically changed with age and experience: his narcissistic, inward-facing designs that shunned the urban environment have permanently maimed Downtown Atlanta, and his prioritization of spectacle and bullshit over substance and service is all too typical of the city’s hollow nature.
Portman’s reputation in the United States diminished from the 1980s onward, and like many of the 20th-century American architects who were much hailed in their time, his work is being rapidly—and justly—forgotten.

Atlanta gave lip service to Portman’s legacy in his later years, even as many of his works in the city were either demolished or gutted of their original character—the Hyatt among them.
The hotel’s atrium is now a bland, sterile shell of its former self, and the uninformed visitor would never guess it was once considered revolutionary.
Ironically, other cities have done a better job of preserving Portman’s work than his own hometown. San Francisco’s Embarcadero Center and Hyatt Regency, for instance, still retain their original flavor.
But in Atlanta’s relentless drive to be the newest and best—and it never succeeds at either—the city’s developers compulsively destroy every shred of fabric that even hints of being old.
Portman was among the worst offenders, so it’s only fitting that his work, too, is now being dismantled. No loss, really.

























