6 Worth Dying For? Richard Nickel and Historic Preservation in Chicago
The photography and salvaging of ornament is a final preservation measure for the benefit of historians and is in no way a substitute for the whole building. Architecture is evaluated by form, proportion, placement of parts and special qualities. The aesthetic experiencing of a whole building is not possible with photographs or pieces. They are symbols.
—Richard Cahan, They All Fall Down (1994)1
Historical preservation is—among other things—the effort to save buildings, groups of buildings, districts, neighborhoods, or even entire towns. Efforts may focus on the built environment alone, on the natural environment, or both. Preserving buildings dates back to the earliest human settlements in China, Pakistan, and Mesopotamia where the structures were built from such materials as mud brick that required constant repair and rebuilding. In that sense, according to John H. Stubbs,
preservation-minded actions across the millennia can be considered the genesis of today’s architectural conservation ethos for two reasons: 1. The continuous use of old buildings forced the concept of extended use, adaptive use, and maintenance, thus making preservation for many structures inevitable. 2. Such maintenance and preservation supported the survival of an increasing number of historic buildings and sites.2
An early example of restoration can be seen in the back of the seated figure of Ramses II at the entrance of the Luxor Temple in Egypt.3 In Rome toward the end of the Western Roman Empire, Emperor Majorian issued an edict, Novella Maioriani 4, De aedificiis pubblicis, in C.E. 459 or 460 to end the destruction of the empire’s monuments. The edict was aimed at builders who plundered monuments rather than travel to distant quarries for their materials. Builders were not the only plunderers, however: by that time Rome was under constant attack and its architectural treasures were being repeatedly looted or destroyed by invaders.4
This chapter explores the efforts of Richard Nickel (1928–1972) to preserve buildings that were designed by the architectural firm of Adler & Sullivan (its principals Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan) and other leading architects of the so-called Chicago School, such as Henry Hobson (H. H.) Richardson, William Le Baron Jenney, Daniel Burnham, John Wellborn Root, John Holabird, and Martin Roche.5 While Nickel was not able to prevent the tearing down of some of Sullivan’s buildings in Chicago, he brought publicity to their plight and documented them before and during their demolition. Sullivan refined the use of steel girders in the skyscrapers that he designed. He advocated for a form-follows-function approach to designing buildings and the design elements of his buildings were beautiful. (And, as we shall see, Nickel salvaged many of his cornices and other decorative elements.) For these reasons he is now considered, along with H. H. Richardson and Frank Lloyd Wright (whom he mentored), to be one of the fathers of American architecture. Yet when Nickel was a student, Sullivan’s work was largely ignored. The documentation of Sullivan’s buildings in particular became Nickel’s life’s work.
Nickel made three significant contributions to historic preservation: he systematically photo-documented buildings; he salvaged ornamentation and other features of a building whenever it was possible; and he gathered and preserved as many records as he could that related to an endangered building. These aspects of his work will be considered in this chapter.
Today, Nickel’s talent as a photographer, and the fruits of his meticulous attention to archiving his work, can be seen in the Richard Nickel Archive at the Ryerson and Burnham Libraries of the Art Institute of Chicago—the central focus of which is the architecture of Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan.6 This archive can be considered Nickel’s fourth contribution to historic preservation: it contains more than fifteen thousand photographs, contact sheets, architectural drawings and reproductions, pieces of correspondence, and other items relevant to architectural history.7 The archive documents a key chapter in Chicago architecture and is a rich resource for scholars. Nickel’s efforts to salvage portions of the Chicago Stock Exchange—built in 1893–1894 and demolished in 1972—resulted in a partial reconstruction of the Trading Room, also at the Art Institute.8 Nickel gave his life to that project: toward the end of the demolition of the Stock Exchange building he fell to his death when the partially demolished structure beneath him gave way. His corpse was not found until nearly a month later, “two floors directly beneath the Trading Room in the building’s sub-basement.”9 What was to have been Nickel’s last salvage effort for one building instead tragically became the final salvage effort of a brilliant career (see figures 6.1 and 6.3).
“Chicago Stock Exchange Building, Chicago, IL. Exterior Detail.” Richard Nickel, photographer. File # 201006_110816–028. Richard Nickel Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
“Chicago Stock Exchange Building, Chicago, IL. Removal of Terra-Cotta Cornice Ornament.” File # 201006_110816–009. Richard Nickel Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
“Detail, the Trading Room as Reconstructed in the Art Institute of Chicago, 1976–77, Chicago, IL.” File # 201006_120808–017. Richard Nickel Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of Bob Thaw, photographer
Historic preservation in Chicago is another theme of this chapter. The Chicago Architecture Foundation describes the city this way: “Chicago has long been a laboratory for architectural innovation and experimentation.”10 But historic preservation in the city has been more complex than that claim implies. Many of its landmark buildings—by revered architects like Sullivan and H. H. Richardson—were torn down, including, ironically, the Home Insurance Building (1884–1885), the nation’s first steel-frame skyscraper, designed by William LeBaron Jenney. It is the type of structure for which the city is best known. Thus Chicago’s architectural legacy contains countless episodes of demolition as well as preservation. Just as a collection development plan in a library must include plans for weeding and deaccession, so must a survey of the preservation of a city’s architecture explain the loss of any of its architectural sites. Indeed, the whole notion of preservation must be considered in the context of that loss. We would not need a notion of preservation if there were no forces in the world that make preservation desirable—forces of decay and destruction and loss, whatever the sources of these forces are—whether natural or human-made.
There are as many rationalizations for the destruction of buildings as there are for preservation: buildings may no longer serve their purpose; they are in disrepair and would cost too much money to repair and restore; they are taking up valuable land that could serve better ends (read “be more profitable”); or they are eyesores (usually a justification based on “economic aesthetics” in which the buildings are not so much ugly as they are impediments to a “better” use of the land). Often the decision to tear down a building is made without public input. Thus, over the past century means have been established for preserving buildings for the public and in national or local “trust.” But also, other means have been used to get rid of what we in hindsight see as important buildings.
The complexities and contradictions of historic preservation in Chicago make it a rich city to study. Chicago prides itself on its architecture and yet, as is true in many other cities, significant buildings and neighborhoods continue to be torn down. Indeed, Chicago exemplifies the many issues of historic preservation that have played out everywhere.
I have selected Nickel as a lens through which to consider historic preservation and its role in “monumental preservation.” According to Max Page and Randall Mason, the history of American historic preservation has been dominated by examples of influential people who saved buildings (e.g., Ann Pamela Cunningham and Mount Vernon, Henry Ford and Greenfield Village, William Sumner Appleton and the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities), or the preservation of “important” buildings such as Grand Central Station in New York City. Page and Mason have characterized these efforts as “the great ‘saves.’”11 Their 2004 book Giving Preservation a History has broadened that history by including scholarship about the social history of preservation. Their approach has placed historic preservation into a wider social and cultural context by exploring the motivations for preservation, the marketing of it, the role of the public, economic development, class issues, grassroots approaches (e.g., who gets displaced as a result of the demolition of buildings), and so on. Page and Mason have also considered the often limited vision of historic preservation that until recently did little to document African-American, Native American, and immigrant experiences. Put another way, Robert E. Stipe has described the movement in historic preservation since around 1980 away from being focused on saving “stuff” to considering the impact of preservation on people.12
The aim of this chapter is not to build on their important work. Rather, it is to put historic preservation into the context of preservation more generally. Page and Mason see historic preservation as associated “with other history industries.”13 But historic preservation is also part of a larger undertaking to preserve all heritage: documents, art, the built and natural environments, customs, languages, and nature. Preservationists in all heritage fields can learn from historic preservation with its dependence on diverse relationships: the tensions between individual property rights, developers, and the public good; between business and the national trust; and the often divergent perspectives about the past and interpretations of it. Historic preservation advocates must engage with builders and real estate developers, financial investors, lobbyists, politicians and community leaders, and often the general public. Economic development, tourism, tax credits, building codes, and laws are all components of historic preservation. While preservation in general involves a variety of constituencies, no other preservation specialization is so dependent on complex relationships. Thus the preservation of documents in an archive, books in a library, or objects in a museum is far less dependent on external relationships. In short, historic preservation is at the heart of community building and development.
A study of Richard Nickel fits into new scholarship on historic preservation. That is, by studying Nickel we can learn about the process of historic preservation. Unlike the mostly wealthy or well-connected preservationists who came before him, Nickel was from a working-class, not an elite, background. He was largely unsuccessful at saving buildings yet he greatly advanced our knowledge about Louis Sullivan through his tireless, even obsessive devotion to documenting that architect’s work. With this kind of documentation, Nickel laid the groundwork for others. If, as Page and Mason suggest, historic “preservation [is] a process rather than … a set of results,”14 Nickel’s work can perhaps be seen as a prelude to this approach. While Nickel focused on results—saving the buildings of Adler and Sullivan and others—his legacy is also tied to his processes. (Among his many jobs, he photographed buildings for the Historic American Buildings Survey, a federal program started in 1933.)15
Historic preservation is also about the long—or short—reach of history and memory. Richard Nickel sought to preserve particular Chicago buildings, and his story is part of a larger narrative of the often-conflicting approaches to historic preservation in Chicago. As Daniel Bluestone has described it in a piece aptly titled “Preservation and Destruction in Chicago,” “The idea that some history was no longer historic or worthy of chronicling or saving was common in Chicago.”16 A wonderful example of Bluestone’s observation can be seen on a plaque on the outside of the main building of the Newberry Library, which was designed by Henry Ives Cobb in 1893 (see figure 6.4).
Plaque at the Newberry Library. Permission of Linda M. Chan, photographer
Today, the house would probably be preserved. But a hundred years ago the text on a plaque documenting that demolition could be written without irony. (In fact, the act of memorializing the house with a plaque might have been seen as a preservation act.) Yet even before the “Great Fire,” Chicagoans had established the Chicago Historical Society in 1856, when the city was only twenty-five years old. A century later, the Chicago City Council established the Commission on Chicago Landmarks during the peak of an urban renewal movement that resulted in the leveling of thousands of buildings—a number of which were historically significant. Historic preservation in Chicago reflects the city’s identity politics, for better or for worse. Sadly, residents of poor neighborhoods did not have the political clout to preserve their buildings. But even buildings in higher-end neighborhoods were sometimes razed in the name of progress (read “fiscal gain”).
Daniel Bluestone has written about the destruction of the “Mecca,” which was a hotel during the Columbian Exposition of 1893 (see figure 6.5). Designed in 1891 by Willoughby J. Edbrooke and Franklin Pierce Burnham, the building was known for its use of natural light and interior atrium design. And while the elegant physical properties of the building have been noted, just as significant—but often overlooked—is that the building stood in an African-American neighborhood. As I have just noted in my previous paragraph, those living in the neighborhood did not have the power to save their building the way that wealthy people might have. Bluestone says,
The Mecca Hotel. Photo courtesy of the City of Chicago Department of Cultural Affairs and Special Events, from the Mecca Flat Blues exhibition at the Chicago Cultural Center, February 15–May 25, 2014.
Over time, race intersected with urban space to alter the history and fragment public perceptions of the Mecca. These changing perceptions stood at the center of a decade-long preservation struggle. Although the early preservation movement generally adopted prevailing notions of Chicago School aesthetics as its point of departure, the Mecca campaign emphasized housing and neighborhood. In place of an aesthetic model for preservation efforts, the Mecca’s story recovers a series of alternative priorities.17
The Mecca was torn down in 1952 as part of the expansion of the Illinois Institute of Technology (now also known as Illinois Tech and IIT). The building did not fit into the new aesthetic of IIT, so campus planning did not include a proposal for restoring the Mecca. In its place, Ludwig Mies van der Rohe’s S. R. Crown Hall was built. The building is considered one of van der Rohe’s masterpieces, and today it is on the U.S. National Register of Historic Places and is a listed U.S. National Historic Landmark and Chicago Landmark. But of course, its future as a landmark could not have been anticipated then, nor does a strictly aesthetic appreciation of Crown Hall in itself justify the tearing down of the Mecca. Had the Mecca been preserved and restored, it would most likely have been used as a campus building. The bottom line, however, is that an African-American community was displaced to make way for an expanding university.
The demolition of deteriorating buildings that housed the poor would take place on a large scale under Mayor Richard J. Daley (mayor from 1955 to 1976) in his quest for urban renewal, a term that refers to the combination of federal, state, local, and private initiatives that were put in place to revitalize cities.18 In Chicago this led to slum clearance, made way for urban “revitalization,” and stemmed the tide of white flight to the suburbs—which would have diminished the city’s tax base. Land taken by the city through eminent domain was turned over to private developers who renewed Chicago’s downtown area, known as the Loop, as well as many other parts of the city.
While the impetus of such “renewal” is almost always economic, the negative impact this has on poor people’s lives is monumental. And such impact has no negative effect on those who stand to profit most from the demolition. Two issues dominate. First, in the name of improvement, the city must begin with destruction, regardless of the aesthetics or historicity of that which is being destroyed—and, again, regardless of the human impact. Second, to justify such cataclysmic actions (tearing down monumental buildings is cataclysmic on a physical level, and it is cataclysmic to those who are being displaced), city developers use the euphemism renewal with the implication that all will benefit from the demolition. Perhaps in the long run the city does benefit, but at what cost? Certainly, there is a cost to being displaced. But in the field of historic preservation, there are other costs to be evaluated, such as the loss of historic buildings, or the sociology of the neighborhoods. Change can often be justified with euphemisms and rhetoric, but is change always for the better? Is it always justified?
Also, city planners, completely disregarding the sociology of destroying old (and possibly historic) buildings, and thinking only of the fiscal implications for the city (and possibly also for themselves), can mask their depredations by using the euphemism revitalization. Where is the revitalization? At whose expense does it occur? This latter question, of course, does not figure into the discourse of those who stand to gain from the destruction of our cultural heritage. And the people who are the “victims” of revitalization (usually the displaced poor) have little or no say in the matter at all.
While social justice was not the focus of Richard Nickel’s work, urban renewal impacted it. Buildings by H. H. Richardson, Louis Sullivan, and others that were in “blighted” neighborhoods were torn down. Willoughby J. Edbrooke and Franklin Pierce Burnham’s Mecca was not the only building leveled by IIT as the campus expanded from 7 to 110 acres.19 Hirsch describes the expansion of IIT, and later other schools, as part of “a twenty-year burst of activity [that] nearly doubled downtown office space; the federal government, Cook County, and the city of Chicago [which] each added massive administrative centers.”20
While efforts were being made to save the Mecca, Richard Nickel was serving in the Korean War. Nickel had enrolled at IIT in 1948 and resumed his studies there after his return from Korea. His master’s thesis, “Louis Sullivan’s Architectural Ornamentation,” was written in 1954, not long after the demolition of the Mecca. However, Nickel’s focus was, with few exceptions, on Sullivan, whose work he systematically documented for the rest of his short life.
Nickel’s Contributions
Richard Stanley Nickel was born in Chicago, the son of first-generation Americans.21 His father, John, was a driver for the Polish Daily News; he Americanized his surname Nikiel to Nickel. Richard Nickel served in the army and then enrolled at the Institute of Design, now IIT. He married in 1950, served in the Korean War, divorced, and moved back in with his parents—where he remained for the rest of his life. He purchased a house in Logan Square but never lived there; however it was a base for his salvage work.
The turning point in his life came when he took a class in the 1950s with Aaron Siskind (1903–1991), who introduced him to architectural photography and the buildings of Dankmar Adler and Louis Sullivan. Nickel’s master’s thesis project was to photo-document Sullivan’s buildings. In his research, Nickel discovered many Sullivan buildings that were not known to be Sullivan’s work. He continued this work for the rest of his life, tracking down Sullivan’s many previously unascribed buildings. By the time he died, he had identified and recorded dozens of Sullivan edifices—many just ahead of the wrecking ball. He is buried in Chicago’s Graceland cemetery, not far from Louis Sullivan (figure 6.6).
“Nickel with Large Format Camera, Chicago, IL.” File # 201006_161213–001. Richard Nickel Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
Historic preservation gained momentum in Chicago in the 1960s—the peak period of Nickel’s preservation activities. The interest was in response to the massive demolition of nearly six thousand buildings from 1957 to 1960 alone,22 construction of expressways that destroyed middle-class and lower middle-class neighborhoods, and the demand for increased office space in Chicago’s Loop.23 Nickel’s efforts to keep up with the demolition of Sullivan buildings were hampered by the pace of the city’s development. In 1966, the Chicago Architecture Foundation was established as part of an effort to purchase and preserve Glessner House, the masterpiece residence designed by H. H. Richardson, and today one of Chicago’s treasured historic buildings. A short time later, the Commission on Chicago Landmarks (CCL) was founded. The commission “researches the background of properties or districts proposed for landmark status and recommends approval to the Chicago City Council, which then votes on granting such status.”24
Another significant development of the period was the passage by Congress of the National Historic Preservation Act (NHPA) of 1966 that created a national system built on federal, state, and local government partnerships. Urban renewal activities throughout the United States provided impetus for the NHPA. It expanded the reach of earlier programs such as the 1935 Historic Sites Act and the National Trust for Historic Preservation (1949). These earlier acts focused on nationally significant places and properties. The 1966 act was an attempt to preserve places of significance to local communities. New financial incentives could be put in place to assist preservation initiatives.
Yet even with the existence of preservation organizations and laws, the fate of individual buildings is also dependent on economic considerations. This is where Richard Nickel often met insurmountable challenges. Louis Sullivan designed many commercial buildings in Chicago. The owners of the land could tear them down and build larger and more modern buildings to replace them. Not only is historic preservation expensive, but restored buildings might result in less space than a new building could offer. Property owners wanted to maximize their profits, and there were plenty to be made in downtown Chicago real estate in the 1960s. In other cases, Sullivan buildings in poor neighborhoods had been neglected for so long that it was no longer practicable to save them (figure 6.7).
“Adler & Sullivan, Building for Richard Knisely, 1883.” Richard Nickel, photographer. File # 201006_110815–072. Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
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While preservation activities have occurred for a long time, the move toward a coordinated approach to what we now call “historic preservation” (also referred to as architectural conservation) has been gradual, with some significant developments along the way, particularly in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, such as the protection of parks and other open spaces, the city beautification movement, and so on, which are discussed in chapter 9, “Sustainable Preservation.”
In 1931, the Athens Charter created an international network for preservation, including the creation of the International Council of Museums (ICOM), and the International Centre for the Study of the Preservation and Restoration of Cultural Property. Thirty-three years later the International Charter for the Conservation and Restoration of Monuments and Sites of 1964, usually referred to as the Venice Charter, furthered the aims of the Athens Charter. Its aims are defined in the first three articles:
Article 1. The concept of a historic monument embraces not only the single architectural work but also the urban or rural setting in which is found the evidence of a particular civilization, a significant development or a historic event. This applies not only to great works of art but also to more modest works of the past which have acquired cultural significance with the passing of time.
Article 2. The conservation and restoration of monuments must have recourse to all the sciences and techniques which can contribute to the study and safeguarding of the architectural heritage.
Article 3. The intention in conserving and restoring monuments is to safeguard them no less as works of art than as historical evidence.25
Historic preservation encompasses particular buildings, the settings in which buildings are created, and, though not explicitly stated in the Venice Charter, sites that are connected to social histories. The charter does not specifically address either the concept of site that applies to historic landscapes and gardens, or the social and financial issues that inhere in preservation. And while the Venice Charter gives an international framework to the protection of buildings, historic preservation is also necessarily tied to local governmental and private interests. Also, historic preservation takes into account the human element: who built the structures? Who owned them? Who is impacted by their destruction? Thus it is almost always a challenge to create a sustained, coordinated approach to historic preservation.
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Richard Nickel recognized that attempts to preserve Sullivan’s commercial gems would mostly be futile. Rather than give up the fight, he took every possible preservation action: appealing to the buildings’ owners or to Chicago’s Mayor Daley, attending public planning meetings, and organizing protests (for example, to preserve the Garrick Theater). When those strategies failed, he photo-documented the buildings thoroughly from the inside out. His detailed photographs captured much of the character of the buildings. He also salvaged as many of the decorative elements as he could. He sold such items to Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville, and the Art Institute of Chicago, as well as some other institutions.
Nickel’s other preservation strategy was to write a comprehensive work on Adler and Sullivan. He labored for years to write a book, which was completed only in 2010, by his colleagues and friends and the Richard Nickel Committee nearly forty years after his death.26 Here is an example of process over product. Richard Cahan amply documents Nickel’s struggles with the writing of his book (notably his perfectionism and insecurity) as well as the fact that in the late 1950s and throughout the 1960s, Adler and Sullivan buildings were constantly being torn down. Nickel could barely keep up with the demands of thoroughly documenting so many buildings—he took some fifteen thousand photographs27—and also salvaging pieces of them. Add his constant struggle to support himself, and the product of his labors, his book, nearly lost out to the process of documentation.
Nickel’s photographs are formalistic, sometimes elegiac, and beautiful. There is also an implied sadness: these majestic buildings cannot defend themselves against people. (In fact, an oft-repeated quote by Nickel is “Great architecture has only two natural enemies: water and stupid men.”28) Yet one can also glean something more from the photographs (see figure 6.7). This image of the Knisely Building is shot straight on, with a long depth of field, and it derives its power in part because of the inclusion of the wrecked cars in the foreground. The building, soon to be demolished, seems already to have “fallen victim” to the company it now keeps. Yet the integrity of the building is not compromised by its next-door neighbor, the wrecking yard. There is more than a little irony in the photo: in the late 1940s and 1950s, many slums in Chicago were bulldozed. Mayor Daley and others made it their goal to eliminate them, almost as if they were a contagious disease. Daley said, “We must have slum clearance. While we are clearing the slums, we must prevent the blight from spreading into the other neighborhoods.”29 With or without slums, the wrecked cars depict their own blight. Yet it is likely that this wrecking yard was around well after the Knisely Building was demolished. But the very presence of the wrecking yard in the photo shows the precariousness of the monumental building. Wrecked cars are not gathered in lots in up-scale neighborhoods.
At the beginning of this chapter I identified Nickel’s three contributions to historic preservation: saving as many records as possible relating to an endangered building (e.g., blueprints, architectural renderings, historical photos, newspaper and magazine articles); photo-documenting the building before and during its demolition; and systematically salvaging ornamentation and other features of the building. Nickel’s painstaking work meant that buildings that might have been demolished almost without notice could be documented in minute detail. Nickel’s methods included meticulous photo-documentation, the rescuing of floor plans, interviews with tenants of the buildings, and salvaging—in the days before it was popular or lucrative. Nickel viewed himself as a documentarian. His ability to convince Southern Illinois University, Edwardsville, and other institutions and organizations that they should purchase remains and ornaments before it was common for museums to do so showed much foresight. (Until 1961, Nickel had stored salvaged pieces at Chicago’s Navy Pier because no single institution wanted everything that he had.30)
Nickel’s almost singular focus on Louis Sullivan resulted in exhaustive preservation efforts of the once-neglected architect, and his bearing witness to destruction impacted historic preservation—but ultimately killed him. As I noted earlier, he died while he was salvaging pieces in the partially demolished Stock Exchange building. The structure gave way and he plunged to its basement. Ironically, however, Nickel’s occupation might have killed him eventually: the autopsy revealed that although he had been crushed to death, he already had pulmonary emphysema and chronic bronchitis. Nickel was a nonsmoker, but his condition was probably caused by the dust and other materials that he inhaled during the many years he spent documenting buildings in the process of demolition.31
In “Richard Nickel’s Photography: Preserving Ornament in Architecture,” Sarah Rogers Morris holds that Nickel’s efforts to document the decorative schemas and salvage ornamental fragments of Louis Sullivan’s buildings provide a continuous link to modern design. Without Nickel’s efforts, Sullivan’s work might have been lost to a newer generation of architects who largely disregarded ornament. (In fact one of those architects, Mies van der Rohe, taught at IIT, Nickel’s alma mater.) Hugh Morrison32 and Nickel himself believed that Sullivan’s work anticipated modernist designers. After all, Adler and Sullivan pioneered skyscrapers and skeleton construction. When Nickel was trying to save Sullivan’s Garrick Theater, architect Le Corbusier wrote to Mayor Daley urging him to preserve the building, further emphasizing Sullivan’s links to modernism.33 Thus, Morris notes, Nickel “restored Sullivan’s conception of a fluid, continuous program of architecture and ornament.”34
Politics and money have often made it difficult—or even impossible—to save important buildings. In Chicago alone, without the valiant efforts of Nickel and others, Frank Lloyd Wright’s Robie House, H. H. Richardson’s John J. Glessner House (his last surviving building in Chicago), and perhaps all of Louis Sullivan’s buildings might have been torn down (figure 6.8).
“H. H. Richardson’s Glessner House, 1887.” Pastel by Jane Steele, 1983. Photo: Paul Gulla; image courtesy of Suzy Steele Born
A more recent Chicago tear-down shows that even in a city that today prides itself on its architecture, the push-pull of private and governmental interests may lead to the destruction of architectural gems. Bertrand Goldberg’s Prentice Women’s Hospital (1975) at Northwestern University was torn down in 2013–2014 to make room for a new building. Goldberg (1913–1997), a Chicago architect, is best known for his corncob-shaped Marina Towers (see figures 6.9 and 6.10). He studied with Mies Van der Rohe, and his buildings span six decades. Several preservation organizations tried to save the hospital building: Save Prentice Coalition, DOCOMOMO, the National Trust for Historic Preservation, and Preservation Chicago. However, the groups ultimately lost their battle with Northwestern University. Northwestern could justify tearing down Prentice because a new research facility would be “aimed at attacking heart disease, cancer, and children’s diseases,” which, apparently, it could not accomplish by building on its nearby empty lots. Northwestern demonstrated that rhetoric and an aggressive PR campaign can be important in making the case to destroy a building. Once again language was a tool for justifying the loss of historic monuments. The emotional tug of saving our children and attacking cancer and heart disease won out. In response to Northwestern’s demolition of Prentice Women’s Hospital, ArchDaily published this commentary:
“Marina City, Chicago, IL.” File # 200203.081229–310. Bertrand Goldberg Archive, Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
“Northwestern Memorial Hospital, Exterior View of Prentice Women’s Hospital and Maternity Center, Chicago, IL.” File # 200203.081229–421. Ryerson and Burnham Archives. Permission of the Art Institute of Chicago
Following the extensive preservation battle over Bertrand Goldberg’s iconic Prentice Women’s Hospital, the Chicago landmark was demolished a few months ago to pave the way for Perkins+Will’s new Biomedical Research Building for the Feinberg School of Medicine. The four year preservation struggle was marked by repeated appeals to the Commission on Chicago Landmarks and Mayor Rahm Emanuel with attempts to place the building on historic registers, proposals to adapt it for modern use, and design competitions to gain public opinion on the future of the building. Ultimately, the outpouring of global support by architects and preservationists to save Prentice fell short of the political agenda of progress, prioritizing future development over preserving the city’s past.
In the wake of the loss of this icon, the National Trust for Historic Preservation has released a time-lapse video documenting the demolition process of Prentice from start to finish. This incredible footage memorializes the one-of-a-kind building so although the new Biomedical Research Building will soon take its place, a piece of its predecessor will always be remembered.35
The video mentioned in the preceding commentary is a twenty-first-century echo of Nickel’s still images. But unlike Nickel’s work, this video does not stand on its own as an artistic achievement; it merely records the demolition.
It is worth repeating one key point: the architectural (and cultural heritage) importance of the Prentice Women’s Hospital is beyond question. But developers played on the emotions of city officials (who allowed the destruction) and the public (who witnessed it) by conjuring up pictures of sick children and people with cancer and heart disease. As I have noted elsewhere in this book, preservation has an emotional component that, if properly manipulated, can have disastrous (or excellent) effects. The strategic use of language can affect how our cultural monuments live or die.
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Historic buildings are not the only structures that continue to be torn down. In 2000, Chicago’s Maxwell Street Market was pulled down (to make way for upscale condos and restaurants) and moved to Desplaines Street. It has been described as the “birthplace of the urban electric blues, a place where Muddy Waters, Robert Nighthawk, Little Walter, Hound Dog Taylor, and dozens of other musicians found ready audiences and turned an African-American musical form into a foundation of modern popular music.”36 The Market, dating back to the 1880s, served generations of Chicagoans. Can its gritty and colorful characteristics be preserved?
Chicago architectural photographer and blogger Lee Bey is the spiritual descendent of Richard Nickel. Lee Bey Associates is a research-based consulting practice that works with real estate developers, community agencies, and architecture and urban planning firms in governmental affairs and civic engagement. He produces and hosts the Architecture 360 podcast, which focuses on architecture, preservation, and urban planning in Chicago. In keeping with the changing focus of historic preservation described by Page, Mason, and Stipe, quoted earlier, Bey focuses not just on individual buildings but also on urban planning, education, affordable housing, and economic development in Chicago’s Loop.
Lee Bay Associates represents not a new effort at preservation, but the ongoing process of preservationists to save historic properties. Although architectural gems like the Prentice Women’s Hospital continue to be torn down, there has been an ongoing evolution in historic preservation. Rather than mostly focusing on individual buildings, preservationists today focus on communities as well. There is a greater public awareness of historic preservation than there was when Richard Nickel was working, and alliances now exist among many stakeholders. It will never be possible to save everything worthy of preservation; big business interests will continue to prevail using the tactics described here. Monumental, indeed, will be continued efforts at preservation.
Coda
Studs Terkel (1912–2008), Chicago’s plucky chronicler, exercised some poetic license when he described Nickel this way:
Anyway, when Richard Nickel heard they were tearing down the Stock Exchange [b]uilding, one of the jewels in Sullivan’s crown … he went down there to save whatever he could. A piece of this, a piece of that. He was a blessed scavenger.
I guess he was down there one day while the wreckers were still at work. He couldn’t wait. He was afraid they’d cart the stuff off.… And nobody would know that Louis Sullivan ever existed. Anyway, the wreckers didn’t see him and all kinds of stuff fell on him and buried him. And he died.
I had met with Richard Nickel, oh, maybe a month or so before it happened. The way he talked, oh God, about beauty and past and history and how we must hang on to some things and continuity and all that stuff, I guess you would have to say he was crazy.37
In Terkel’s anecdote, Nickel becomes a caricature. In his quest for a good story, Terkel neglects to describe the serious work Nickel did to assure that parts of the Stock Exchange Building would end up at the Art Institute. Nickel was also a tireless advocate—and archivist. He in fact made many visits to the Stock Exchange and knew exactly what he was doing, even on his last trip there. He was always aware of the risks that he was taking, as is documented in his letters to friends and colleagues. The Richard Nickel Archive is a testament to his monumental preservation efforts.
Notes