










References
- “Design of Third Ravinia Tower Unveiled”. The Atlanta Constitution, October 11, 1989, p. B-2. ↩︎
- Three Ravinia Drive/MCI Center – Kendall/Heaton ↩︎













This 31-story International-style tower was arguably the first “modern” skyscraper in Atlanta, although it’s now pushing 70 years old and looks every day of it.
The tower opened in 1961 as the home of The Bank of Georgia and was purported to be the “tallest structure south of Baltimore,”4 but Atlanta’s First National Bank,5 6 built one block away, surpassed it a few years later.
It’s telling that the Bank of Georgia had to hire an out-of-town firm, Hedrick & Stanley of Dallas, to design the building—none of Atlanta’s architects at the time had the chops for such a large-scale project.

For the first 11 years, the 30th floor of The Bank of Georgia tower was occupied by the Top O’ Peachtree restaurant and “lookout lounge,” later described as ‘”the” place to go for dinner or drinks in its beginning.’7
Based on photographs, Top O’ Peachtree was no doubt an ideal rendezvous for married bank executives and their secretaries. Oh, come on, you know it happened.

When the Bank of Georgia tower was sold in 1979, it was described as one of “the two homeliest buildings in town,” along with the nearby Fulton National Bank building (1955),10 which was entirely accurate—then and now.
Designed by Wyatt C. Hedrick Company of Dallas,11 which later became Hedrick & Stanley, the Fulton National Bank building has been renamed 55 Marietta and remains in active use as a data center. The Bank of Georgia, however, hasn’t fared as well.

Later renamed 34 Peachtree, the former Bank of Georgia has passed through a succession of owners and is currently vacant, with upper-floor windows missing and its street-level retail spaces obscured by brown paper.
A peek through the doors and windows at night reveals the dead escalators in the lobby and dangling ceiling tiles in the office spaces.
In 2017, pieces of the building’s facade fell to Peachtree Street during a bout of high winds, prompting the closure of several streets.12

There have been empty promises to convert 34 Peachtree into residential units,13 but that’s typical Atlanta bullshitting and unlikely to transpire, as renovating such behemoths is overwhelmingly prohibitive.
Office buildings are rapidly becoming a relic of the past, and as more skyscrapers begin to deteriorate, it will be interesting to see what cities like Atlanta do with them, particularly as the United States plunges headfirst into inevitable social and economic decline.
I suspect that in decades to come, many American cities will be filled with vacant, crumbling towers that no one will have the money to demolish or renovate—unsightly monuments from an age of decadence and arrogance best left forgotten.










The Public Comfort Building in Oakland Cemetery is the only surviving work in Atlanta known to have been designed by C. Walter Smith (1865-1910), an architect who worked for at least seven years as a draughtsman and assistant for G.L. Norrman before embarking on a fairly unremarkable solo career.
Built on a small hill in the western portion of the 48-acre cemetery, this two-story structure includes a full basement and totals 2,800 square feet.1 The exterior is faced in stucco-covered brick2 and rusticated granite trim, and marble flooring3 is used on the front porch and in the basement.
Modeled after “the old Norman and English castellated churches,“4 the building’s design can be broadly defined as Romanesque, and its focal point is a 50-foot-high crenelated bell tower,5 heavily inspired by similar designs from G.L. Norrman.
Today, Oakland Cemetery refers to the entire structure as the “Bell Tower.”

An illustration from 1899 (pictured above) reveals the building’s original design: a one-story porch topped by battlements originally flanked the south facade, and a porte-cochère to accommodate wagons was attached to the east side.
Curiously, the final design was reversed, with the porte-cochère moved to the west side of the structure, likely one of “a few slight changes” announced before construction began.7
Roman arches on the porch and bell tower, and Gothic-style arched windows on the second floor completed the appearance of a small, storybook castle—again, Smith borrowed significantly from Norrman for the aesthetic.

In its original conception, the building was one of Smith’s better designs. Despite years of training under “the South’s most prominent architect”8—his words—Smith’s skill never came close to Norman’s high level of artistry, although his work here was at least intriguing.
Unfortunately, the initial vision was compromised by the later addition of second-floor porches over the front porch and porte-cochère, topped with flat roofs and punctuated by incongruent half-round openings.
I suspect the porches were added circa 1908, when the cemetery spent $5,000 on a range of improvements9 following its first annual report to the city, which requested $1,000 for “needed changes and repairs in the main building.”10
The alterations are detrimental: the upper porches add unnecessary visual mass to the structure and pull focus away from the bell tower, robbing the entire composition of the uplifting, monumental effect Smith originally intended.

“Public comfort” was a polite 19th-century euphemism for restrooms, which were originally housed on the ground floor of the structure.
When the building was completed in October 1899, The Atlanta Journal delicately noted: “Here one now finds a convenience and comfort that was lacking for many years.”11 I guess early visitors just had to hold it—or maybe piss on a grave.
The building initially had six rooms, including a ladies’ parlor and an “apartment for gentlemen.” All six rooms had tiled mantels,12 which was apparently noteworthy. Two of the mantels remain intact.
The structure also included an office for the cemetery’s sexton,13 and Oakland Cemetery’s website claims the building contained a chapel, with the second floor used as the sexton’s residence. So many uses for such a small structure.

Despite its fanciful design, the building was, at heart, purely utilitarian, “suitable for the purposes for which it is intended,”14 as the Journal put it.
People need to pee, of course, but the building’s other raison d’être was concealed in the basement.15 The structure was built on the site of a converted two-story farmhouse16 known as the “dead house”17 —you can see where this is going.
As the Journal explained:
“There is a vault with eight catacombs and sixteen racks. This is as strong and substantial as could be made. For the retention of bodies for any length of time the catacombs will answer every purpose, as they are built to be air-tight for years to come. The racks, as a matter of course, are intended as a temporary place of keeping and are conveniently arranged. When the iron gate to the vault is locked entrance is practically impossible.”18

Since Oakland is a public cemetery operated by the city of Atlanta, the building was funded through a city council appropriation.19 The Atlanta Building Company secured the contract with the lowest bid, and the project’s total cost was $4,600,20 with $650 spent on the stone.21
Construction on the building was initially slated to begin on April 27, 1899,22 but was apparently delayed until June and completed in four months.23
Although early plans called for one or two additional public comfort buildings in the cemetery,24 those never materialized, and this structure remained the only significant public building on site, altered many times by piecemeal repairs and additions.
When the Historic Oakland Foundation was formed in 1976 to preserve and maintain the cemetery’s historic integrity, the building became office space for the organization, with the ground floor converted into a small visitors center,25 a function that it served for decades.

In 2022, as Oakland Cemetery prepared to build a much larger visitors’ center outside its main entrance, the former Public Comfort Building received a gut renovation designed by Smith Dalia Architects, Atlanta’s finest firm for the adaptive reuse of historic structures.
The project included tearing out the hodgepodge of rooms on each floor for larger, open spaces, removing god-awful windows added to the second-floor porches, and making necessary accessibility alterations, which altered a portion of the front porch.26 27
The building reopened later that year28 as an event space: the fallback choice when owners don’t know what to do with a historic structure.

Following its renovation, the building now appears a little too clean and gleaming—I actually preferred it when it was worn and shabby—but it still has an undeniable anachronistic charm that’s uncommon in Atlanta.
And as one of just six known extant works by Walter Smith, it’s also a matter of curiosity, if nothing else.























Don’t let Atlanta historians fool you: A. Ten Eyck Brown (1878-1940) likely had little to do with the design of this monumental structure, which ranks among the city’s most exquisite buildings.
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

Nothing makes a night better than pink.
This sign in Cherokee, North Carolina, debuted at the Pink Motel’s opening in 1957. And if you’re wondering about the origin of the name, a newspaper report from the time helpfully explained:
“If you are a motel operator, supplying your own linen, name-tagged and all, you will often get back from the laundry the linen of some other operator. So, if you have pink bed sheets and towels, how’s anyone but a colorblind person going to get your linens mixed-up with that of white-linen folks?
“So, that’s how the name “Pink Motel” started. It was only logical to carry the pink idea still further until it was “done up pink.” The outside of the Pink Motel is painted pink. The walls, furniture, vertical venetian blinds, the bathroom tile, the furnishings…even the soap…are all pink.”1