The US Mortage & Trust Bldg -- No. 940 Madison Avenue

photo by Alice Lum

In the spring of 1921 the United States Mortgage and Trust Company was doing a brisk business at its Madison Avenue Branch.  The five-story building included rental apartments on the upper floors.  Business was so brisk, as a matter of fact, that the old building was proving inadequate.  A new structure “was decided upon in order to meet the requirements of the rapidly increasing clientele of this office,” reported The New York Times in May that year.

Prior to the announcement the firm had purchased the properties at Nos. 27 and 29 East 74^th Street which abutted the existing branch building.  Now, in May, it sold that structure and announced plans to erect a new branch, predicted by The Times to be “a handsome individual bank building.”  Architect Henry O. Chapman, of Barney & Chapman, was given the commission and on May 21, 1921 newspaper reported on his designs. 

“The building will be in the style of the late English Renaissance, the exterior of limestone, with Knoxville marble entrance and base.  The plans are designed to give the maximum of light and air and in every way to conform to modern standards of bank architecture.  The expected cost of the building was placed at $600,000—about $6 million in today’s dollars.

Chapman’s resultant building, completed in 1922, was a critical success.  The dazzling white neo-Classical façade oozed respectability and tradition—traits the financial institution sought to portray to its potential customers.  Ornamentation was reserved to carved panels; shallow, stylized capitals above the two-story pilasters; and a weighty, balustrade parapet above the cornice.

Every year since 1907 the Fifth Avenue Association had awarded prizes for the best designs for newly constructed buildings and for the most skillful work in altering existing structures.  On November 14, 1922 the Association gathered at the Waldorf-Astoria for its awards dinner, presided over by Will H. Hays.  Although Hays had just stepped down as Chairman of the Republican National Committee and was currently the United States Postmaster General, he would become best known as the president of the Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America.

Among the 500 guests waiting to hear the results that year were State Senator James J. Walker, Rear Admiral J. H. Glennon, Chief Magistrate William McAdoo and real estate bigwig Douglas L. Elliman.  Interestingly enough, when the first prize was awarded to the new United States Mortgage and Trust Company’s building, newspapers ignored the architect’s name in print.  

The glistening white building as it appeared just after completion -- photograph by Wurts Bros., from the collection of the Museum of the City of New York http://collections.mcny.org/C.aspx?VP3=SearchResult_VPage&VBID=24UAYWRDW9Q2&SMLS=1&RW=1280&RH=915

Telegrams of congratulations for the award were received from President Harding, Governor Miller, Governor-elect Smith and Mayor Hylan.

By mid-century the award-winning building was home to a Chemical Bank branch which would remain for over four decades.  In 1963, as the neighborhood filled with upscale art galleries and pricey retail stores, the Whitney Museum of Art’s newest building opened across the street.  In 1974 the two buildings would be unexpectedly connected.

Artist Charles Simonds had been busy with a project chronicling the Little People—an extinct race of diminutive nomads who built settlements of unfired clay, sand, fabric and twigs; then abandoned them.   The artist constructed approximately 300 such structures, placed outdoors first on window sills along Greene Street, then in the crumbling walls of derelict buildings on the Lower East Side. 

The little ruins with towers, turrets and battlements mythologized his imagined people.  The works caught the eye of the Whitney, and for its Biennial in 1974 commissioned diminutive ruins to be installed on a second story window sill of 940 Madison.  Five years later the museum added to the multi-piece work, called Dwellings,when Simonds installed a miniature set of ruins inside the Whitney above a window in the main stairwell.  From that vantage point the piece on the former United States Mortgage and Trust is visible. 

Only the most astute passerby notices the small artwork huddling in the corner of the second floor window -- photo by Alice Lum

Barely noticeable from the street, the artwork nearly requires binoculars to fully appreciate.  Thousands of pedestrians pass by the building daily without ever noticing the arcane work of art.

As the 21^st century neared the building was owned by Chase Manhattan Bank which operated a branch here.  But by now the bank utilized only a small portion of the structure for its branch.  Internationally-known English antiques dealer Stair & Company occupied most of the building.

In 1996 Stair & Co. subleased most of its space—6,000 square feet--to the Alexander Gallery.  The 10-year lease, valued at the time at $10 million, included part of the ground level, mezzanine, and the full second and third floors.  In its two decades of exhibitions and events, the Alexander Gallery had established itself as a major player in the New York art field.  In its new home at No. 940 Madison, it would stage landmark exhibits and its especially noteworthy parties called “The Barterer’s Ball.”

Tickets to the exclusive events were not for sale.  To gain admittance, patrons traded possessions worth over $10,000 during the course of the evening.  These included houses in the Hamptons, seats from the Titanic, and race horse breeding rights.

Chase Manhattan’s branch hung on for a few more years and on March 12, 1998 it was the scene of upheaval in the high-tone neighborhood.  Two armed men robbed the bank that afternoon, shooting one customer in the leg and “fleeing with an undetermined amount of cash and ruffling an upscale slice of the city dotted by hushed, thickly carpeted shops with buzzers and gates,” as reported by The Times.

The scene, described by the newspaper as “a bit discombobulating to some passers-by,” was not the sort of mayhem one imagined here.   The Times said “There was a steady stream of ‘What happened?’ from women in furs and men in elegant overcoats.”

The bank and the neighborhood would not have to worry about hold-ups for long.  In 2002 the building was taken over by V. Bruce Hoeksema, the designer and owner of VBH, the Rome-based firm known for its luxury jewelry and handbags.  VBH commissioned New York architects Peter Marino and Stephen Learner to renovate the 10,000 square foot interiors.  The former bank space was transformed to a more domestic setting for the showrooms where handbags—some priced at $14,000—were displayed.

VBH and its architects retained the gallery-like feeling of the former tenants, however.  Modern artwork was hung on the walls and “ethnic home accessories” and furniture, also for sale, decorated the space.  VBH took advantage of the high end gallery district and immediately staged an art program, spearheaded by dealer and consultant Mark Fletcher.

Exhibitions in the jewelry and accessory store continued and in 2006 it staged the exhibition of 160 photographs by May Ray, called “The Photographic Images.”

The once-brilliant facade is sadly grim-covered and stained.  -- photo by Alice Lum

Henry Chapman’s award-winning bank building is virtually unchanged since its doors opened in 1922.  It neo-Classical design has proved equally adept as a home to finance, art and high-end fashion accessories—not to mention tiny nomadic people.

The 1911 Chemists' Club -- No. 52 E. 41st Street

photo by Historic Districts Council

As the first decade of the 20^th century faded, the brownstone homes between Fifth and Madison Avenues had begun falling.  Tall commercial structure replaced the residences as homeowners escaped northward ahead of the tide of business.

In January 1910 architects York & Sawyer filed plans for a building that would be a bit different.  The New-York Tribune explained that the proposed “ten story clubhouse and office building” would be erected “for the Chemists’ Club, of which Dr. Morris Loeb is president, at Nos. 50 and 54 East 41^st street.” 

Private men's clubs had evolved from strictly social clubs to include more specific organizations.  There were athletic clubs like the New York Yacht and the Links; political clubs; clubs for alumni of various universities; erudite clubs like the Century or Grolier; and professional clubs for members with occupations ranging from acting to the legal and engineering trades.

The neighborhood was not totally unexpected for a professional club; the United Engineering Societies Building was completed in 1907 at No. 29 West 39^th Street three years earlier.  Within a month of the filing of the plans, The New York Times remarked on the rapid development of the 41^stStreet block. 

“In the centre of the block, on the south side of East Forty-first Street there has recently been finished a six-story office building.  Adjoining it to the west, at Nos. 40, 42, and 44, a twelve-story office building, exclusively for doctors and dentists, is about to be erected, while to the east, at 50 to 54, the new ten-story Chemists’ Club is in process of erection.  Both of these new buildings will cost about $200,000.”  The cost of the new clubhouse would translate to about $4.75 million today.

The Chemists’ Club was, in 1910, just 12 years old; having spun off from the American Chemical Society in 1898.  Its president, Professor of Chemistry Morris Loeb of New York University, was the major force behind the construction of a permanent home for the club.  Born into the wealthy New York banking family, he not only pushed hard for his vision, but financed much of it.

The New-York Tribune reported on what readers could expect.  “It is to be an artistic structure of white marble, in the style of the French Renaissance of the Louis XVI period, finished with Ionic pilasters and balconies at the second story and similar decorative balconies at the top story.” 

The Club would take up the lower five floors, leaving the upper floors for laboratories.  On the main floor was a large auditorium with balcony for lectures and meetings.  Social rooms and a dining room were on the second floor.  The New-York Tribune noted “The fourth and fifth floors will be devoted to living and sleeping rooms for the members, below which will be the library and museum.”

By the time the building opened on March 17, 1911 two stories had been added and the construction cost had risen to $500,000.  The three-day ceremonies began with Morris Loeb handing the key to Dr. Russell W. More, the new club president.  Unlike the ceremonial openings of other buildings and clubs, the remarks that day were less general.  “A special address was delivered by Prof. Jaques Loeb of the Rockefeller Institute on the ‘Physiological Developments and Recent Experiments in the Mechanism of Life,’ which he is now carrying on at the institute,” reported The New York Times.

The newspaper noted “One of the special features of the building is the board room, which has been fashioned to represent a laboratory in the days of alchemy.”  That reproduction space included a “vaulted roof, flag-stoned floor, iron-bound chest, high writing desk—even the fireplace with strange black pots and alembics upon it, and, overhead, just outside the door, a winding stone stairway just like those by which the wizards of the black arts used to steal away from prying eyes to juggle with fire and crucibles, transmute base metals to gold, conjure up devils, and otherwise qualify for execution at the hands of the public hangman.”

Over the conference table where the directors met hung a huge stuffed salamander, “held in high esteem by the alchemists of bygone times,” said The Times.  Actually, it was not a salamander.  One of the members explained to the paper “We couldn’t find a salamander anywhere, though we searched high and low, so we had to get the next best thing—an alligator.”

Morris Loeb received a private laboratory on an upper floor.  This was partly a response to his generous contributions to the building fund.  In 1907, when the clubhouse was first proposed, he donated $50,000.  He later added another $25,000 to the fund.

On Saturday, March 18, a dinner was held for the members and a classical concert on Sunday brought the opening ceremonies to a close.

The New York Times, on March 10, explained the need for the additional floors.  Calling the building “absolutely unique in the world,” the newspaper said additional laboratories had been included to be leased by outside chemists who could not afford their own space.  “There are no less than three laboratories, fitted out with all sorts of apparatus, and open to any chemist who presents proper credentials and satisfies those in charge of the place that he is what he represents himself to be.  As soon as he has done this, he may hire one of the laboratories by the week or month and set to work immediately to conduct any experiments he pleases, even a most secret nature, since nobody will disturb him once he has taken possession.”

The Club itself now engulfed six floors.  “Above are offices occupied by chemists of all descriptions—bacteriological chemists, analytical chemists, chemical engineers, and others with all sorts of impressive titles and letters after their names.”

The Chemical Museum “will rank ahead of anything of its kind in this country,” predicted The Times.  “It is the aim of those interested in it to have on file typical samples of every chemical that may be of interest.”   The club’s library was already nearly unsurpassed in the country, containing chemistry books and periodicals.  Chemists nation-wide shipped donations to the library.

The Chemists’ Club Building would see lectures and meetings on a vast range of scientific topics.  On April 6, 1912 the American Peat Society held a meeting here to discuss the problems of waste lands and peat swamps.  One of the topics of the meeting was the proposal to drain the New Jersey “Drowned Lands” and turning them into farmland.

Morris Loeb had been reelected President of the club that year.  On September 2, 1912 he and his wife hosted a reception in the clubhouse for hundreds of chemists attending the 8^th International Congress of Applied Chemistry.  Scientists from as far away as Japan, China and South Africa mingled with American and European chemists. 

That night Professor Loeb no doubt basked in the success of the building he had so long envisioned and worked for.  It would be the last grand function he would attend in the Chemists’ Club.

In 1912 New York and the country at large suffered the terror of a typhoid epidemic.  On September 21 Loeb developed signs of typhoid fever.  After suffering only a little more than a week, complications of pneumonia set in and his condition rapidly declined.  Eighteen days after falling ill, Morris Loeb died on October 8 at his country home in Seabright, New Jersey.

In reporting on his many significant scientific and philanthropic contributions, The New York Times said “Among the monuments to his memory is the fine new home of the Chemists’ Club, at 50 East Forty-first Street, which was built and equipped primarily through his efforts and his generosity.”

In 1913 the Chemists’ Club opened its library—by now considered to be the largest chemical library in the country—to the public.  It was an unselfish and unusual move for a private club.  Although the library was reserved for members only on weekends and Mondays; on all other days non-members could make use of the vast collection.  “In addition a Department of Research has been established which will be open to the public on the payment of fees,” reported The Times on February 27.

The club would also see the presence of the world’s most esteemed scientists; as was the case on September 22, 1915 when Thomas A. Edison was guest of honor at a dinner here.  That year began, as well, discussions on various topics sparked by World War I which would last for years.  On October 8 I. F. Stone, President of the National Aniline and Chemical Company, predicted that at the end of the war benzol would be used instead of gasoline to power automobiles.  The war had necessitated the need for alternate fuels and Stone pointed out that “careful experiments for automobile purposes show that benzol has a motive power about 25 per cent greater than gasoline” and he predicted that the cost would be significantly lower.

A year later, on September 25, 1916, an afternoon session of the American Chemical Society announced that alcohol derived from sawdust—a common industrial waste product—made an efficient and inexpensive fuel for automobiles.  “There is no longer any question of commercial success in the manufacture of alcohol for automobiles,” said chemical engineer Arthur D. Little.  “Experiments have shown that alcohol can be manufactured for sale as low as 25 cents a gallon, and at that price it will undoubtedly be preferable to gasoline.

“Alcohol is cleaner than gasoline for use in internal combustion engines, and it will not explode or easily catch fire, and it will develop practically as much horse power as gasoline.”

It appears that the nation was paid more heed to John Rockefeller than to Arthur D. Little, however.

As the United States joined in what had been a purely European conflict, anti-German tensions at home developed.  On April 1, 1918 the New-York Tribuneannounced that “’The Journal of Industrial and Engineering Chemistry’ to-day will publish an article demanding that alien enemy German members be thrown out of the Chemists’ Club, 50 East Forty-fifth [sic] Street.”

The Club stood behind its members, disregarding what could have been negative public opinion.  A spokesman responded “To my knowledge no enemy aliens are members of the club, but if the writer of that article can prove that there are, the club would feel indebted for such information and would promptly expel any members whose Americanism was not 100 per cent.”

Under pressure--or in an effort to prevent problems--almost a month to the day afterward the club distributed a communication and questionnaire to its members.  The notice announced new rules:

That the German language shall not be used in conversation in the club.

That all disloyal criticism of the United States government of the Allies must be avoided in the club.

That any member, resident or non-resident, whether an American citizen or not, whose sympathies favor the enemies of this country, is requested to resign.

The Chemists’ Club continued to be unafraid of standing up against the mainstream.  On July 1, 1921 the President of the club, Dr. John B. Teeple, and American Chemical Society Director Charles H. Herty, spoke out against the Volstead Act.  Not only did they assert that “vast business enterprises, involving millions in revenue and certain necessaries of modern life, are threatened with disruption by Federal and state legislation restricting the production of alcohol;” but Teeple went so far as to say that the Anti-Saloon League “has been guilty of misrepresentation of facts in attempts to force prohibition legislation.”

The club’s and the society’s efforts, of course, were unsuccessful and Prohibition became law.  Nevertheless when a conference of industrial alcohol manufacturers was held, it convened in the Chemists’ Club auditorium.  The conference included Prohibition enforcers and manufacturers of legal alcohol (such as for medical purposes).  According to Brigadier General Lincoln C. Andrews, Assistant Secretary of the Treasury in charge of prohibition enforcement, who had called the meeting, he sought “to win the cooperation rather than to arouse the resentment of legitimate manufacturers of alcohol.” 

The New York Times said “He admitted that the Government’s policy in liquor law enforcement in the past had at times embarrassed them and he desired to avoid this in [the] future.”

Meetings regarding warfare had, during the First World War, centered mostly on fuels and chemical components of ammunition.  When World War II erupted, the topics repeatedly focused on chemical warfare.  For years the devastating effects of the enemies’ use of agents like mustard gas, sneeze and nausea gas were discussed at the Chemists’ Club lectures and meetings.

In the 1970s the Chemists’ Club sold its neo-Classical home.  Renovated as a boutique hotel, it reopened as the Dylan Hotel.  York & Sawyer’s handsome and refined façade remains intact, carefully preserved and restored.

non-credited photos taken by the author

N.Y. County National Bank Building - 14th Street and 8th Avenue

On September 21, 1902 depositors in the New York County National Bank grew nervous.  The bank showed a deficit of $43,250 and its reserves were wiped out.

Bank president Francis L. Leland, however, refused to allow his bank to crash. Leland’s father, Francis Sr., had been president from 1857 until his death in 1885. The New York County National Bank was essentially a family business.

Extraordinary carved detail in the entranceway -- photo by Alice Lum

Within four years Leland’s bank had recovered so well that a new, imposing structure was planned for the southwest corner of 14th Street and 8th Avenue -- directly opposite of the classical white marble New York Savings Bank on the northwest corner.

The bank’s board selected the architectural firm of DeLemos & Cordes to design their new headquarters. The firm was responsible for the magnificent Siegel-Cooper Dry Goods Store and the Adams Dry Goods Store on 6th Avenue, and for the beautiful new Macy’s Department Store on 34th Street. Rudolph L. Daus, a graduate of the Paris Ecole des Beaux-Arts, was given the project.

photo NYPL Collection

Daus produced a limestone-clad neo-classical temple with Beaux-Arts touches. Enormous Corinthian columns support the majestic entranceway above a short flight of steps where a recessed arch rises the equivalent of three-stories. In the pediment above, a striking vigilant eagle in near full-relief cranes its neck beyond the cornice-line.

Four arched windows on the 14th Street side match the entrance.  Separated by Cornithian pilasters, each window arch incorporates classical pseudo-doorways where Daus included in the ornamentation caduceuses – so often associated with the medical profession – as a reference to Mercury, the god of commerce.

The two Roman temples, each commanding a corner of 14th Street and 8th Avenue, created an imposing composition; what the AIA Guide to New York City called “A rare occurrence for this city; a pair of classically inspired sentinels guarding the western corridor of 14th Street.”

Francis Leland died in 1916 and five years later the bank was taken over. The New York Times reported on November 8, 1921 “Louis G. Kaufman, President of the Chatham and Phoenix National Bank, announced yesterday that his institution has purchased control of the old New York County National Bank at Eighth Avenue and Fourteenth Street…” and that “the old New York County National Bank will not lose its identity wholly.”

photo Alice Lum

The bank did lose its identity wholly, however, in the 1930s when it was absorbed by Manufacturers Trust Co., later to be renamed Manufacturers Hanover Trust in the mid 1960s. The institution used the building until it merged with Chemical Bank in 1994. Afterwards the monumental building sat empty until it was briefly used as a theatre. Then, in 1999, Lee Harris of Hudson River Studios and John Reimnitz converted the space for Nickel, a men’s spa created by Philippe Dumont; and designed an addition for residential apartments.

Rudolph Daus’ impressive limestone bank was designed a New York City Landmark in 1988.

The 1924 Greenwich Savings Bank - 1352 Broadway

Broadway Facade -- photo by Haier

On July 31, 1893 business was not as usual for the Greenwich Savings Bank. The institution, which had started out as a small Greenwich Village bank, had grown substantially; and was now housed in an impressive Victorian building on 6th Avenue at 16th Street.

That day, as with the other banks across the city, there was a run on the bank caused by a temporary shortage of cash. “Women largely predominate as depositors in the Greenwich Savings Bank,” reported The New York Times, “…and although the majority of the depositors there were well dressed and apparently in good circumstances they seemed to be just as much excited as did the less fortunate-looking people in the crowds at the east side banks.”

The Greenwich Savings Bank at 6th Avenue and 16th Street in 1898

The women tested the patience of Bank President James Harsen Rhoades. “There is absolutely no reason for a run on our savings bank,” he said. “People seem to have the idiotic idea that drawing money out of a bank is the best way to meet a panic. The fact is that it is the very way to increase it.”

Greenwich Savings Bank, as did the rest of the banks, survived the crisis and continued to grow. By the end of World War I the institution needed a new headquarters. On April 21, 1921 a plot of land was purchased from the Van Ingen estate for $1.5 million. The Times reported “The Greenwich Savings Bank, the third oldest institution of its kind in New York City, will build a monumental banking and commercial structure at the northeast corner of Broadway and Thirty-sixth Street.”

And monumental it would be.

On December 6, 1922 William Rhinelander Stewart laid the cornerstone, initiating the two-year construction of an imposing new bank building

Architects Edward Palmer York and Philip Sawyer, renowned for designing bank buildings, were given the commission. Both architects had formerly worked for McKim, Mead & White and the classical tradition of that firm left its mark. They were faced with a difficult plot of land, an irregular quadrilateral formed by the diagonal orientation of Broadway as well as the downward slope of 6th Avenue towards Broadway.

Drawing inspiration from Imperial Rome, they created an epic Roman structure. The three exposed facades feature colossal Corinthian columns supporting a heavy corniced attic. The ground floor forms a rusticated base, punctuated by bronze-grilled windows and heavy bronze doors. Behind the colonnade on the Broadway side are three immense arched windows, while the 6th Avenue exposure has a single, central window. Using visual slight-of-hand, the architects managed to obliterate the building’s peculiar dimensions.

6th Avenue Facade

Sawyer’s interior reflected stability and security to the depositor. The great oval banking room was surmounted by shallow-coffered ceiling with an enormous stained-glass dome. Bronze teller’s cages on marble counters, contrasting Indiana limestone and sandstone walls, and inlaid marble floors combined to inspire awe.

Photo GothamHallEvents.com

On May 17, 1924 “in armored-cars and under the protection of machine guns,” as reported  The New York Times, the bank moved its cash and securities to its new home.

The Greenwich Savings Bank remained in the building until 1980. Two decades later Chinese-based appliance and digital manufacturer, Haier America purchased the structure for its headquarters. The magnificent banking hall was stripped of its teller cages and bronze-and-marble transaction counters and renovated as Gotham Hall, an elegant and cavernous party venue.

Photo GothamHallEvents.com

The monumental Roman building is bathed nightly in what Haier calls “showers of blue light.” The building is a designated New York City Landmark.

Photo by Haier

The Lost 1910 Pennsylvania Station

Pennsylvania State Archives

As McKim, Mead and White began their designs for the newest Pennsylvania Station just after the turn of the century, they turned to Imperial Rome for inspiration. When they were done, they presented New York City with the most dramatic and impressive train station in the country.

ArchitectureWeek.com W.W. Norton

Completed in 1910 at a cost of $112 million, the immense structure ran the length of two city blocks along 7th Avenue. Eighty-four giant pink granite columns supported the cornice and porticoes. Two grand carriage entrances mimicked the Brandenburg Gate. Carved granite eagles, each weighing 5,700 pounds perched on the cornice. Covering over seven acres, it was as historian Jill Jonnes called it, a “great Doric temple to transportation.”

Brandenburg Gate-Inspired Carriage Entrance 1910 NYPL Collection

The interior, however, was the show-stopper.

In its 1939 “New York City Guide” written for the Works Progress Administration, Random House described the progression of spaces. “The interior is a sequence of tremendous spaces. From a long, barrel-vaulted arcade, lined with shops, a marble stairway and escalators lead to the floor of the main hall. In this vast Hall, which is a copy of the Tepidarium of a Roman bath, are ticket booths and the information desk. Six murals by Jules Guerin depict scenes of the area served by the Pennslyvania Railroad. Along the west side are twin waiting rooms. Beyond them a great glass-roofed concourse gives access to the track platforms.”

The main hall was a copy of the Baths of Caracalla on a larger, grander scale. The vast space was approximately equal to the nave of St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome – the largest interior space in the city, rising 15 stories upward. The concourse – a soaring conservatory of iron arches supporting a glass ceiling – was breathtaking. Writer Thomas Wolfe, overcome by its immensity, said that Penn Station was large enough to "hold the sound of time."

Glass and Iron Concourse 1935  NYPL Collection

Over 2000 railroad employees worked within the station and tens of thousands of passengers passed through it daily.  The station yard, part of which was below the concourse, covered 350,000 square feet requiring 650 steel foundation columns to support the floor.


Author Richard Guy Wilson in his 1983 “McKim, Mead & White Architects” said it “…was one of McKim's most monumental and moving designs, a giant of a building that still retained a human scale. In catching or meeting a train at Pennsylvania Station one became part of a pageant—actions and movements gained significance while processing through such grand spaces."

By the 1950s train travel was severely on the decline. The automobile and airplane took over as the preferred means of travel and the Pennsylvania Railroad felt the financial pinch. The cost of maintaining the colossal structure forced the railroad to attempt to divest itself from operating costs. Plans were announced to join forces with Madison Square Garden in 1961. The deal would provide the railroad with a new, air-conditioned station and a one-quarter stake in the new Madison Square Garden Complex.

Initially, nearly no one truly thought the monumental station would be demolished.

As plans progress, however, New York and the country in general, broke into two factions: those who felt that the razing of the old station and replacement with a new facility was progressive, and those who rallied against the loss of an architectural and historical treasure. There were no landmark preservation commissions nor legal means by which the destruction could be stopped, however.

On August 2, 1962 over 100 protesters wearing black armbands of mourning, almost all of them architects, picketed in front of Pennsylvania Station with placards that read “''Shame'' and ''Don't Amputate -- Renovate.''

Irving Felt, president of Madison Square Garden, found the preservationists to be a nuisance.  As the picketers marched he derided “Fifty years from now, when it’s time for [the new Madison Square Garden] to be torn down, there will be a new group of architects who will protest.”

But despite cries from the press, politicians and architects, the largest, grandest train station in America was pulled down.  Irving Felt offered no regrets. "It was not, architecturally, a monument," he said.

The world at large disagreed.



In its editorial “Farewell to Penn Station” on October 30, 1963 The New York Times wrote "Until the first blow fell, no one was convinced that Penn Station really would be demolished, or that New York would permit this monumental act of vandalism against one of the largest and finest landmarks of its age of Roman elegance. Any city gets what it admires, will pay for, and, ultimately, deserves. Even when we had Penn Station, we couldn’t afford to keep it clean. We want and deserve tin-can architecture in a tinhorn culture. And we will probably be judged not by the monuments we build but by those we have destroyed”

The American Institute of Architects lamented “New York seems bent on tearing down its finest buildings… No opinion based on the artistic worth of a building is worth two straws when huge sums and huge enterprises are at stake.”

And architectural critic Louise Huxtable chided “We are an impoverished society. It is a poor society indeed that can’t pay for these amenities; that has no money for anything except expressways to rush people out of our dull and deteriorating cities.”

Adding insult to injury, in place of the pink granite temple, New York received an eyesore. Costing $116 million, the new Madison Square Garden complex was, from the day it was dedicated, considered unattractive at best. Carl Condit called it a “prime candidate for the most poverty-stricken architecture in New York — indeed, it is questionable whether the structures and enclosures can be regarded as architecture at all.”

If anything positive was born from the destruction of Pennsylvania Station, it was the outrage felt throughout the city and the country. Within two years the Landmarks Preservation Commission was created and Penn Station was a rallying cry for preservationists nationwide.

The immense granite eagles survive, scattered around the city and in New Jersey. A few other architectural remnants were salvaged by art museums. But, otherwise, one of New York City’s monumental treasures is lost forever.