Category Archives: Art and Architecture

Art and Architecture, Community, Faith and Spirituality

Sharing the Light (Frequent Recalculation Required)

The post that follows is based on an art talk I gave in our church  in December.  My theme was Advent-inspired: welcoming the light of Christ into the world, and into our hearts.  I chose to focus on three paintings from the Italian Renaissance.  While the subjects depicted were particularly appropriate for the Christmas season, the message they convey is relevant all year long.  The loving God they evoke is drawn directly from the first four books of the Christian New Testament.  As I wrote  about these paintings, I found them speaking to me in a way I hadn’t expected.  I saw in them a timely challenge to Christians today, a warning that when we allow ourselves to become the voice of empire rather than defenders of the marginalized, we stray from our course.  History has shown the very real dangers of this all too clearly.  If we pause to shut out the world’s loud cacophany and listen for God’s guidance,  much as we turn to a GPS device when lost on an unfamiliar road, might we not hear a quiet urging to “recalculate”? 

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When Pastor Chan asked me to speak about images of Advent and Christmas, he provided a great starting point. On the first Sunday of Advent, he spoke about the meaning of that word.  He noted that it’s derived from the Latin word adventus, which means an arrival or a coming. Before the Christian era, the word applied specifically to the Roman emperor.  An adventus was the formal ceremony to glorify the emperor, often after a military victory.  Preceding him was a massive entourage that included mounted soldiers, chariots, and the Praetorian guard.  The ruler’s approach was heralded with great fanfare.

The emperor was considered an iron-willed god who inspired awe and fear. Great triumphal arches to commemorate such rulers are still found throughout the former Roman empire. 

The God whom we Christians worship, though, chose to come to earth not as a fierce conquering hero, but as a vulnerable infant.  As a child born not to royalty, but to a humble young woman living in a backwater village.   

Thus, the images that pertain to the advent of Christ couldn’t be more different from those showing the adventus of the Emperor. There are no war horses. No chariots and soldiers. No earthly ruler boasting of his power.

Fra Angelico, Annunciation, Convent of San Marco, Florence, 1440-45

We’ll start with an annunciation by the painter known as Fra Angelico, which means “Angelic Friar. ” Born Guido di Pietro, he was known for his kindness and humility.  We see the angel Gabriel bringing to the Virgin Mary the news that she will bear a child conceived by the Holy Spirit.   

This is a large fresco, over ten feet wide, in a series of frescoes the artist painted around 1440 for his own friary, San Marco, which had been newly built in the city of Florence.

It’s set atop a flight of stairs to the corridor that leads to the monks’ cells. Each small cell has its own fresco, as well.  The artist created a more or less believable sense of space.  The perspective is slightly off when we look at the painting straight on.  But for monks walking up the stairs, the effect is striking: it gives the illusion that they’re moving into the space of Mary and the angel.

Fra Angelico made no attempt to mimic the early first-century home of Mary. Instead, the architecture in the painting, classical and austere, is a continuation of that of the actual monastery, where we see the same round arches, columns with Corinthian capitals, and even the iron tie rods.    

The bareness of the open loggia is notable. It’s spartan and basic, just like the cells for the individual monks. The scene is remarkable in its stillness, its sense of silent reverence.

The angel, adorned with glowing, multi-colored wings that sparkle in the light (through the incorporation of a mica-like substance into the paint), bows before the young Mary, acknowledging her role as the Holy Mother of God.  Mary sits on a plain wooden bench.  Her simple robe is nearly the same shade as the plastered walls around her.  She’s not adorned with rich fabrics or jewels.  Her response is muted, her expression serious, suggesting quiet awe.  She understands the gravity of her situation.  Gabriel, as well, seems to realize that the news he brings is hard to receive. 

On the left side of the painting is an enclosed garden and lush trees behind, reminding us not only of Mary’s virginity, but also of the Garden of Eden.  Christ comes as the new Adam to bring us salvation. 

There’s a notable absence of extraneous objects.  No prayer book for Mary, no lily, which has become her symbol.  Perhaps the artist didn’t include these, because the monks knew the story so well. 

And, perhaps, Fra Angelico wanted to pare the scene down to its essentials. All that is needed is that still, charged, sacred interchange between Gabriel and Mary, the ordinary young woman chosen by God to bear his son, our savior.

Absent here, also, are any overt rays of golden light, as we see in some annunciations.  Fra Angelico knew that wasn’t necessary.  God’s light, rendered naturally, is alive in this space.  His light, and his presence suffuse the bareness of this colonnaded terrace, just as God was present in every monk’s cell.  Just as he is present today in our surrounding spaces, if we declutter our lives enough to let him in.  

Domenico Ghirlandaio, Adoration of the Shepherds, 1485, Uffizi Gallery, Florence

Now we turn to a painting of the Adoration of the Shepherds, by Domenico Ghirlandaio, the most popular painter in Florence at the time.  It dates from 1485 and was commissioned by a wealthy Florentine banker, Francesco Sassetti, for a chapel in the Church of Santa Trinita.

The holy family, an ox, donkey, and three shepherds are in the foreground.  The heart of the composition is a pyramid of the kneeling Mary, Joseph, and infant Jesus.  The young Mary looks down tenderly on her new baby.  Joseph turns back to look up in sky to see an angel proclaiming the news to the shepherds on a darkened hillside, on which the first rays of dawn, and of Christ’s new light, are breaking. 

In the left background, we also see a large procession of grandly dressed people passing through a triumphal arch.  These are the approaching Magi and their retinue, who must wait their turn behind the lowly shepherds.

The adventus of the Roman emperor is here turned on its head. Those arriving are not fearsome conquerors.  They include the rich and powerful, but they’re here to bow down before a new-born baby.  This is wealth, not for its own sake, but in service to the true King of Kings. 

The three shepherds are individualized, not idealized. The nearest shepherd is a portrait of the artist, and the other two may be local townspeople.  They gaze down on the baby with reverence.  The one on the right has removed his sheepskin hat, and he holds his hands in prayer. They’ve brought their humble gifts: a basket of bread and a lamb. 

The shelter for the holy family has been built on the ruins of a Roman temple: Christ ushers in a new era as the old pagan times come to a close.

Jesus is a roly-poly baby, unclothed and vulnerable, his thumb by his lips.  He rests on the hem of Mary’s robe, with a sheaf of wheat as a pillow.  It’s significant that a Roman sarcophagus appears as a trough for the animals.  The trough serves double duty as Christ’s crib.  It’s another indication of the end of the pagan era, but more importantly, it tells us that Christ will conquer death to bring everlasting life.  He comes to nourish us with the Bread of Life. 

A bright light shines on Mary’s face and on the body of Christ.  The wheat beneath him glows like divine, golden rays.  And at the top of the painting, behind the shadowed thatched roof of the shelter, a brilliant burst of light shines out of a dramatically dark cloud.  The distant, sun-lit landscape is ordered and serene.  God’s light is here among us now. 

Who first receives the angels’ glorious news?  Not royalty and world leaders. No. Shepherds who were out in the fields with their flocks. Shepherds, who, according to Jewish purity laws, would have been considered unclean during their working lives.  We might remember that Jesus’s ancestor David was a young shepherd boy when he killed the giant Goliath.  Jesus is here to shake up the old order of rich and poor, strong and weak, and also, to be our Good Shepherd. And we, as his disciples, are to remember his call to shepherd and care for one another, especially those whom polite society prefers to ignore.  

Gentile da Fabriano, Adoration of the Magi, 1423, Uffizi Gallery, Florence

For our last painting, we turn to a work by another Florentine artist, Gentile da Fabriano.  This, the Adoration of the Magi, is the earliest of the paintings we’re seeing today.  Dating from 1423, it’s on the cusp between Gothic and Renaissance.  It was commissioned by the wealthiest man in Florence at the time, Palla Strozzi, another banker, for his family chapel, also in the Church of Santa Trinita. 

With its elaborate triple arched gilded frame, the painting is a study in opulence.  It’s a show of great wealth, but it’s wealth (and power) that yields to the infant Christ. The three Magi remove their crowns and lay them before the feet of Jesus to show that he is King of Kings.

Mary, in her robe of midnight blue, holds her baby gently, and Joseph looks on lovingly.  The ox behind him pays careful attention. The first of the Magi kneels low on the ground, about to kiss the feet of the baby Jesus, a robust little guy, who reaches out playfully to pat the elderly man’s bald head. The Magi are dressed in fabulous, ornately gilded, bejeweled and brocaded attire.  The costumes are meant to give a sense of the exotic: they come from far, far away, in the East.  They travel with an extensive group of attendants, as well as unexpected animals: monkeys and leopards, several falcons.  The horses’ bridles are gilded and highly ornamental.  Even the big white hunting dog in the foreground has a gold buckle on his collar.

Within this elaborate frame, a comprehensive narrative unfolds: the story of these rich wise men who made a long journey to seek out a child born to parents living in a small shelter adjoining a cave for animals. 

Within the frame itself at the top, in the central roundel, we see Christ, making a blessing gesture, flanked by two prophets.  In the left and right roundels, we see an annunciation.  The angel appears in the left circle, and Mary in the right.

Directly under the three arches of the central panel, we see the Magi’s back story.  At the left, the three men, all in gold, stand atop a rocky hill looking for the star.  Under the central arch, they and their retinue approach Jerusalem.  On the right, they enter Bethlehem, where the scene in the foreground takes place.

The Magi’s appearance before the infant Christ reminds us that Jesus brings salvation not only to the Jews, but to all the nations of the world, to every single person who believes. 

Scenes from the early life of Christ appear in the predella panels below: a nativity, the flight into Egypt, and the presentation of Jesus in the temple. 

I’ll end with the rare night nativity in the lower left panel. It contains none of the opulence of the main panel.  A blue sky is dotted with stars, but the hilly, barren landscape is mostly in darkness.  Divine light though, is dramatically present.  At the top right, an angel in a glowing cloud announces the news to two shepherds.

In the central foreground, the infant Christ lies on the bare ground, and rays of light emanate from his little body.  The light from the baby illuminates the face of Mary, the donkey and ox, the entrance to the cave, the façade of the shelter, and the exhausted and sleeping Joseph, who rests his head against a little tree.  

The message is clear: the light of Christ breaks decisively into the darkness of our world.  His transforming light institutes a new covenant that emphasizes grace over judgment.  We’re freed from the exacting letter of Mosaic law, but called toward a greater goal; to love our neighbors, even our enemies. 

Our duty as disciples, during every season of the year, is to let that light work in our hearts, so we may carry it out into the world, offering mercy, kindness and grace to all our brothers and sisters.  Jesus, through his actions and words, urges us toward humility, patience and generosity, rather than the self-serving grandeur of a Roman emperor.  Christ conquers through love, not force.  He calls us to share God’s light  so His Kingdom will come, on earth, as it is in heaven.  We’re human, and easily led astray.  The right path forward requires near-constant recalculating.  

We can find assurance and comfort in this:  the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not, and will not, overcome it.  

Art and Architecture, Family, Travel

To New York City in a Nor’easter? What Could Go Wrong? (Follow-up to Vagabond Shoes)

View of the Courtyard of the Palace from the Villard rooms, October 2015

The New York hotel that I zeroed in on,  three decades ago, when we were poor grad students, was the Helmsley Palace.  It’s attached to the historic Villard Houses, which I’d read about in Paul Goldberger’s book on New York architecture.  Dating from 1884, the houses were modeled on a Renaissance palazzo in Rome.  Six adjoining brownstone townhouses surround a central courtyard, giving the effect of one large, grand mansion.  The first project of the architectural firm McKim, Mead & White, the compound was built for Henry Villard, a former journalist and president of the Northern Pacific Railway.  The location is Madison Avenue, directly across from St. Patrick’s Cathedral.   

The New York Palace, October 2010
View of the east side of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, from the courtyard of the Palace, 2025.

During the 1970s, the developer Harry Helmsley acquired the air rights to the Villard Houses and made plans for a fifty-story hotel atop the compound. Preservationists raised the alarm after hearing that Helmsley intended to demolish large portions of the historic buildings. Plans were modified, and the developer agreed to preserve most of the townhouses, including their interiors.

Inside the Villard Houses, October 2015

I saw glimpses of these lavish interiors in commercials for the hotel during the 1980s.  The ads showed Harry’s second wife Leona Helmsley posed imperiously atop the central stairway, flanked by subservient staff.  The tagline was “The Helmsley Palace, Where the Queen Stands Guard.” Leona may have considered herself  the  Grande Dame of her husband’s hotel empire, but thanks to her bullying, demanding behavior, her employees dubbed her the Queen of Mean.  Having remarked that “only the little people pay taxes,” Leona later went to prison for tax evasion.  

My interest in the Palace Hotel had nothing to do with Leona Helmsley, and everything do with the beautifully preserved, gilded-age interiors of the Villard Houses.

One of the Villard Rooms, with chairs set up for a wedding, 2015.

I can’t recall the details that went into my booking what I thought was a night at the Helmsley Palace.  I must have caught wind of some pre-Christmas discount, because money was short in those days.  

The same room, from a different angle, 2015.

What I can’t forget, though, was that we arrived in New York from Princeton in the midst of a significant nor’easter.  I hadn’t  heard that weather term before, and I’d certainly not experienced it.  My husband and I quickly learned that a nor’easter, especially in December, is not a pleasant time for leisurely, big-city sight-seeing.  The winds howled without cease, exacerbated by the tunnels created by the tall buildings. A frigid mix of sleet, snow and rain swirled around us, pelting our faces. The streets of Manhattan appeared to be littered with hulking black birds in their death throes, as useless, abandoned umbrellas flapped in the breeze.  I can’t remember what we wore, but I know we were not appropriately dressed for such dire weather.  My husband didn’t have a hat.  I had a scarf, but it was quickly soaked, giving the effect of wearing an ice pack outdoors in winter.    

A hallway inside the Villard rooms, October 2025

Why did we not cancel?  Most such details, fortunately, are hazy. Probably because I’d already paid.  Probably because we thought, “Oh, how bad can it be?”  

It might have been worth braving the terrible weather if we had only been able to find shelter at last in that sought-after destination, the Helmsley Palace.

But no.  Somehow, I’d booked our stay not at the Helmsley Palace, but at the New York Helmsley.  I can’t remember when or how we discovered the mistake.  Did I realize the error before our departure?  Or did we go to the Palace at Madison and 51st, only to be turned away?  To be sent back out into the icy winds and make our sad way over to 3rd Avenue and 42nd?  

Another room in the Villard Houses, 2015. Now it’s used by the hotel as a breakfast space.

The New York Helmsley (now the Westin New York Grand Central) was, and is, no dive.  Its 40-story tower was constructed in 1981, a bland rectangular block similar to that at the Palace.  But its lobby was, to me, a dull, forgettable, contemporary space, and a huge disappointment when I was expecting the time-tested opulence of the Villard rooms at the Palace.  

Our room was perfectly fine, definitely the nicest I’d ever entered in New York at that point.  It was a vast improvement over the youth hostels and threadbare accommodations I’d been used to in my low-budget student travel in Europe.  There were two windows, and an actual view.  Not an especially good view, out onto a gloomy, windswept 42nd Street, but also not onto an air shaft.

My mother likes to tell the story of a Manhattan hotel room she and my father stayed in when they were young and newly married.  In the adjoining bathroom, the tub appeared to have been cut in half by a wall.  That was one surprise, at least, that we did not encounter during our trip.  

Clock in a Villard Room hallway, October 2025.

We stayed only one night, which was a blessing.  A two-night visit was beyond our means.  The next day, a Saturday, the bad weather persisted. I had hoped we’d enjoy cheery lights and shop windows adorned for Christmas, but I recall no such festive sights.  I assume we took refuge in a museum or two.  But we walked the icy streets long enough to be very uncomfortable.  We went into one of the hundreds of Sbarros in Manhattan to try to warm up.  The door, oddly, had been open, and we closed it when we entered.  One of the employees rushed out immediately from the kitchen to close it again.  Really?  I rarely cry, but that day I put my head down on the cheap laminate table and sobbed.   My husband, shocked at my unseemly display, appealed to the employees, who were overheated because of their work near the pizza oven.  H promised the young men that we wouldn’t be long.  We’d  eat our slices, thaw out a little, and be on our way.  They allowed him to close the door.

We probably headed back to Penn Station shortly after we emerged from the Sbarro.  After two days of enduring New York in a nor’easter, it felt like luxury, for once, to settle ourselves onto those ugly orange seats in a shabby New Jersey Transit train.  

In the courtyard of the Helmsley Palace, October 2010, during a nicer visit.

We finally managed a weekend stay act the actual Palace Hotel in 2010.  We’ve returned there a few times since.  This past October, we had planned a weekend get-away at what is now known as the Lotte New York Palace.  A nor’easter was predicted to coincide with our visit.  This time, with the wisdom that comes with age and experience, we postponed for a week.   

Art and Architecture, Travel

Vagabond Shoes, Longing to Stray

My husband and I celebrated a recent anniversary with a weekend trip to New York.  We share the same attitude toward that great city:  we like to go there, briefly.  And then, especially, we like to return home.

I was in my mid-twenties before I got a first-hand glimpse of New York.  A friend and I were on the way to Vermont for skiing.  We’d flown from Atlanta to Newark to see his family in New Jersey before we made our way north.  From the passenger-side window of the rental car, I gaped at the city’s immensity as we sped across the George Washington Bridge.  Overwhelmed by the vastness of those towering building-upon-building-upon-building streetscapes, stretching in opposite directions as far as I could see, I felt like a country bumpkin, through and through.  It was fine with me that we didn’t set foot on that intimidating pavement during the trip.  

Cleveland Tower at the Princeton Graduate College

The next year I began graduate study in art history at Princeton.   The University is situated in what I consider an ideal environment.  Its lovely campus, with historic collegiate Gothic buildings, forms the heart of a bucolic, graciously landscaped small town.  And it’s about an hour south of New York by train.  At the University Book Store, I bought Paul Goldberger’s “The City Observed” to begin to familiarize myself with New York’s iconic architectural monuments.  In those pre-internet days, it was a treasure.  

During my first semester at Princeton, I relished the opportunity to be in New York every week.  My “Art of Ancient Rome” class was held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  It was taught by Maxwell Anderson, early in his career, when he was the Met’s Curator of Roman Art.  He’d later be named director of the Michael Carlos Museum at Emory University, and then of New York’s Whitney Museum of American Art.   A couple of classmates and I would take New Jersey Transit from Princeton Junction to Penn Station.  We’d briskly walk the fifty blocks up Fifth Avenue to the Met.  The class extended past the time of the Museum’s closing, and it was a thrill to linger in that hallowed space after the guards had ushered out the crowds.  We also had the privilege of access to areas that were off limits to the general public.  To prepare for my term paper on the Boscoreale room of preserved Pompeiian frescoes, I was able to step across the velvet rope and take my time to closely examine the ancient paintings.   

Just as I loved being immersed in such unique surroundings at the Met, I was energized by the bustling atmosphere of the vibrant city.  But I was always relieved to arrive back in quiet Princeton.  That relief was particularly pronounced one evening when a fellow classmate and I fell sound asleep on the train, missed our stop, ended up in Trenton and had to backtrack.  

Throughout my years as a grad student, I was in New York on a fairly regular basis, but for day trips only.  I dreamed of spending the night in a beautiful hotel after a leisurely dinner, instead of rushing with a crowd of strangers to pack onto a grimy, harshly lighted New Jersey Transit train.   One December, I seized on a chance to do just that.  I planned what I hoped would be a very special trip to the city, complete with Christmas lights and a grand hotel, for my husband and me.

It turned out to be a memorable visit, but not in a good way.

Princeton Grad College

In an upcoming post:  the story of that ill-fated trip.

Art and Architecture, Community, Faith and Spirituality

Nativity Makeover

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The group, after re-painting, in my mother’s living room.

At the end of September, a friend asked if I could give our church’s well-worn nativity figures “a coat of paint.” These fiberglass forms are set up every Advent in front of the church under the shelter of a wooden creche. They likely date to the early 1960s. The human figures vary from about three to four feet in height. Hollow, they’re filled with sand to weigh them down. I hadn’t given them a very close viewing, ever. I only remember thinking that they could look better.

Mary, before.

My friend had noticed that many of the forms were chipped, with patches of peeling paint.  When he asked me to repaint them, I think he was envisioning a quick coating to cover the bare spots and reseal the fiberglass. 

Joseph, before.

But I couldn’t do only that.  The colorless faces called out for definition, for enlivening touches.  The eyes, in particular,  were empty and blank.  The clothing could benefit from gradations in hue and shadow.  The faces and bodies needed nuance.  

As I mentioned in an October post, the task of improving the animals struck me as less daunting, so I started with them. I’m generally not a painter of people, and the human forms, I knew, would be challenging. I began with Mary. It was an easy decision to replace her golden hair with dark brown, but her smooth, oval face proved especially troublesome. I kept returning to her as I worked on the others. Gradually, she gained a bit of character. Once I darkened Joseph’s eyes and eyebrows, he was revealed to be quite handsome.

I brightened up the angel’s ghostly pallor in her face and wings. She’s one of the few figures to have ears. I tried to reduce somewhat the size of her right ear, which was particularly prominent. She still has a rather elfin look, which I find charming.

The shepherd’s expression, before, was a grumpy, curmudgeonly squint.  I tried to give him a more benign, dignified demeanor.  I also changed his purple cloak to one of brown.  Purple dye, during ancient times, was exorbitantly expensive, since it was painstakingly produced from the glands of huge numbers of small sea snails.  It was a color for kings, not for humble shepherds.  

One of the Magi, before
Another wise man, before
And another wise man, before

The sole Biblical source for the three Magi is the Gospel of Matthew (2:1 – 12) which refers to “wise men from the East,” likely not kings at all, but astrologers, as they were led by a star to Bethlehem and the home of the holy family. Their gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh attest to their substantial wealth. Because of their Eastern origins, they were probably not Jews. Some sources suggest that they could have been priests of the Zoroastrian religion, widely practiced throughout Persia. Their inclusion in the nativity story serves to demonstrate a crucial point:  the baby Jesus was sent by God to be a savior not only for the Hebrew people, but for all nations. It was in early medieval times that the wise men began to be identified as kings, each hailing from  one of the three known continents of Europe, Asia and Africa.  The message in this identification is clear: the baby in the manger offers salvation to everyone, the world over.  

The faces of the three kings were already nicely differentiated from each other. Because of their distinctive features, they required the least of my efforts. A more subtle application of paint brought out their personalities and enlivened them.

Of all the forms, the camel was probably the least in need of a makeover.   I lightened his coat and touched up his face.  His regally fringed saddle and harness needed only some shading and glints of deep red.

Finally, when the last coat of polyurethane had been applied (some eighty hours of work having passed since I dipped a brush into primer to start on the little lamb) it was time for the group to leave my mother’s house.  Mama and I were sort of sad to see them go, as they’d appeared very much at home in her living room.   I couldn’t squeeze the entire group into my little car at once, so I made two trips.  They were pleasant passengers. 

Now the nativity figures are outside our church, in their usual positions in the creche.  There is a notably empty space at the center, between Mary and Joseph.  That blank spot speaks to the essence of Christmas.  No amount of elaborate decorating, or frenzied holiday partying, or masses of material gifts, can satisfy that hollow place in our souls.  But if we let it, God’s love can fill us to overflowing, so that we may be bearers of kindness and compassion to those who need it most.  Our world is often dark.  But with the true gift of Christmas, we can bring the light. 

Let’s all bring a little light, this holiday season!

Art and Architecture, Community, Travel

Historic Scottsville, NY

About a twenty minute drive from Spencerport is the village of Scottsville, NY. On its outskirts is the ice arena where our nephews played their Memorial Day weekend hockey games. Each boy’s team played a game, with an hour in between. The rink was, as I’ve mentioned, quite frosty. Despite the blanket I shared with my sister-in-law, a couple of my fingers were going numb well before the halfway point. To warm up and take a break, and because my husband knew I’d appreciate a look at the old buildings, we went on a drive through the main streets of Scottsville.

The area in and around the town contains a number of houses that stand out for their unusual textured appearance.  What looks from afar like an odd sort of brick turns out to be small, rounded stones, neatly set in straight rows of mortar.  The rocks were tumbled smooth during the long process of glacial shifting and melting that occurred thousands of years ago at the end of the last ice age.  As the prehistoric glacial Lake Iroquois gradually gave way to Lake Ontario, the easternmost of the Great Lakes, many stones were deposited in what is now the greater Rochester area.   Early nineteenth-century settlers, clearing the land for farming, uncovered and collected the numerous small stones.  They were conveniently at hand, and they gave rise to the cobblestone houses of upper New York state. 

The first floor walls of the home above were made from cobblestones.  The house has a plaque bearing the date of 1838.  Many cobblestone dwellings date from around this time.  Only one such home remains in the city of Rochester itself (at 1090 Culver Street).  It’s been vacant for a while and has fallen into disrepair, but an effort toward its preservation is under way.  About seven hundred cobblestone buildings are thought to survive in the area around Rochester.  There’s a Cobblestone Society and Museum near the town of Albion, about thirty-five miles northwest of Scottsville. 

Scottsville’s Rochester Street Historic District encompasses forty-one homes, many, like the one above, dating from the 1830s – 50s. Most were built in the simplified Greek revival style popular throughout the U.S. during these decades.

Running through the center of Scottsville is tranquil Browns Avenue, where a couple of historic churches are set among the homes. Located at #1 on the street is Union Presbyterian Church. While the congregation was organized in 1822, the present white frame building dates from c. 1850. The spare, gabled facade is a simpler, flatter version of a Greek or Roman temple, the flat pilasters recalling Doric columns. The four arched, stained glass windows, single round rose window and two tall doors are placed with perfect symmetry. The central block is topped by a short bell tower, in which round-headed arches are supported by a sturdy Doric colonnade. The railing around the tower suggests its use as a lookout post for scenic views of the surrounding town.

The central portion of Grace Church dates from 1885. The projecting wing behind was added in 1956. A bell tower, barely visible at far right, was built in 1976.

Just a bit further down Browns Avenue, at #9, is Grace Episcopal Church, which dates from 1885. It was designed by Harvey Ellis, a local architect known for several buildings in the area, including Rochester City Hall. Ellis was influenced by the medieval revival style known as Richardsonian Romanesque, after the architect Henry Hobson Richardson. Richardson’s buildings are characterized by a sense of ground-hugging weightiness, even when topped by soaring towers. They typically feature an interplay of earth tones and heavy textures in their use of rough-hewn stone and contrasting colors, as in Boston’s Trinity Church* from the 1870s. The Richardsonian influence is evident in Scottsville’s Grace Church in its low-slung, Latin cross plan, wide, heavy porch, and its use of mixed materials. The rough lower level is composed of local fieldstone, arranged randomly, not in neat rows as in the cobblestone homes. It contrasts with the upper frame section, faced with wooden shingles and painted rusty red. The side walls contain windows of stained glass. I love the bold Trinitarian design of the scrollwork of interlocking circles within the central arched window above the porch. The cross-topped conical form at the peak of the gable rather resembles a floating, festive hat.

About a half mile away, at 99 Main Street, is the Roman Catholic Church of St. Mary of the Assumption. Dating from 1855, it owes its existence to Irish immigrants of the area. In its emphatic verticality, the church offers a striking contrast with the low, horizontal form of Grace Episcopal. With the tall, spire-topped central tower and elongated, arched windows, it reaches confidently for the sky. The brick corner piers atop the tower, each with its own mini-spire, further accentuate the sense of upward motion. The central block resembles an imposing Romanesque fortress. The heaviness of the dark brown brick is offset by touches of snowy white. The delicate arcade below the entablature and the gable reminds me of daintily applied royal icing on a chocolate cake.

The architectural gems of little Scottsville, like those of Spencerport, offer proof of the unexpected and often overlooked beauty of many an American small town. There’s no need to cross an ocean, or board a plane, to take in sights well worth seeing. Remarkable monuments that testify to the diversity and ingenuity of our predecessors may be right under our noses!

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*Another important example of Richardsonian Romanesque in the area is the central building of the Richardson Olmsted Campus in Buffalo. It was designed by Henry Hobson Richardson in the 1870s as the Buffalo State Asylum for the Insane. Now it’s being restored as the Richardson Hotel.

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Travel

Low Bridge! (On the Eerie Canal)

Just about every time we cross the New York state line on our way to my husband’s boyhood home in Rochester, he starts singing some mishmash of the chorus of the old Eerie Canal song.

Loooooowwww bridge, everybody down. . .Low bridge. . .15 miles on the Eerie Canal!

I guess every fourth grader in New York learns about the Eerie Canal as they study state history. As well they should. It was a truly big deal. I was introduced to its significance on my first trip to the Albany area. I went home with my friend Mike to Clifton Park during winter break in grad school. It was mid-January in 1987, and the northeast was still a bit stunned after a blizzard that had dumped three feet of snow. The two things I remember most vividly about that long-ago excursion were these: the snow (so much snow), and the Eerie Canal.

Mike had been a fan of the canal since his elementary school days, and he wanted to make sure I grasped its importance. It was a marvel of engineering, he stressed, created under extremely demanding circumstances. Irish immigrants provided the bulk of the back-breakingly difficult, poorly paid labor. They toiled with little more than pick axes, shovels, plows and wheelbarrows, using the occasional ox or mule. A stump puller was designed to assist in tree clearing. The original Canal, forty feet wide and four feet deep, took eight years to build. It was completed in 1825, two years before the country’s first railroad was begun. The Canal links Lake Eerie with the Hudson River, and from there, in New York Harbor, meets the Atlantic Ocean. Flat-bottomed packet boats heavily laden with products like wheat, flour or lumber were pulled by mules along the towpath that bordered the waterway. (Their descendants are today’s gargantuan ocean-going container ships, like the one that recently destroyed the Key Bridge in Baltimore.) The Eerie Canal spurred the development of the Great Lakes region, as well as further westward expansion. It was an early driving force that turned New York into an economic superpower and helped earn it the nickname “Empire State.” It brought wealth to the towns it bordered, from Albany to Buffalo.

Railroads and highways gradually replaced the Canal as a trade route. These days it’s a busy recreational waterway. The mules are gone, but brightly painted packet boats, similar to the old canal boats, are often moored along the banks. These wide, low boats, which may be rented, are popular for touring. And on the Eerie Canalway Trail that runs along the water, it’s possible to cycle the entire three hundred sixty mile-length of the Canal.

The Canal still serves as a central focus of many villages in upstate New York. The colorful Union Street bridge in Spencerport, above, is just steps away from the center of town. A horn sounds when the bridge is about to be raised to allow a taller boat to pass under it. The Spencerport Depot and Canal Museum hosts displays about the Canal and its history, and serves as a welcome facility for boaters. Our nephews are often among those fishing from the banks of the Canal. It’s common to see kids bicycling along, carrying their lunches and fishing poles, as if they were emerging from a Norman Rockwell painting. Another unexpected sight to my citified eyes is that of vending machines selling live bait.

Old and new come together seamlessly and captivatingly in Eerie Canal towns.

The Canal and its towns are well worth a visit!

Art and Architecture, Community, Family, Nature, Travel

Spencerport, the Picturesque

Over the Memorial Day weekend, my husband and I drove up to New York state to visit his family in the Rochester area.

We watched our young nephews play hockey, of course, in a very cold, very old-school ice arena.

But there was time for me to indulge in a favorite activity, walking interesting historic neighborhoods. H’s sister and her family live in Spencerport, that picturesque Eerie Canal village bedecked with Hometown Heroes banners. A charming, pedestrian-friendly town, it’s filled with comfortable old homes and well-tended gardens. Spring had truly sprung, at last, in the Rochester area. Lawns were lush, trees were leafy, and flowers were flourishing in the bright sunshine. After a brisk morning walk with my sister-in-law, I retraced our footsteps so I could linger and take many photos.

Spencerport may win the prize for the greatest number of Little Free Libraries per square mile. Their repeated presence is one expression of the town’s gracious, welcoming attitude.

Another is the multitude of cute rock critters peeking out from their dwelling places, to be discovered if one pays attention.

We missed the lilacs, for which the area is famous, but rhododendron, irises and peonies were near their peak.

It’s a town of lovely old churches. Above, from top to bottom, are the First Congregational Church of the United Church of Christ, the United Methodist Church, and St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church.

Above, just a few of the village’s cheery old homes.

The stately edifice above, on South Union Street in the heart of town, next to the old Masonic Temple, now houses professional offices. Because of its Neo-Classical appearance, typical of bank buildings on the main streets of American small towns, I had assumed it was built as a bank. But its facade originally belonged to a grand home at 25 State Street, in what is now downtown Rochester. The house was demolished in 1923, and the bank, fronted by the saved facade, was erected two years later. Spencerport’s central district retains a variety of businesses that serve practical needs. In addition to a grocery store (with a handy parking lot), it has quite a few thriving restaurants, as well as a dog-friendly brewery which we’ve enjoyed, in the past, with our family and Kiko.

The town is dotted with verdant pockets of greenery, and two swift-running creeks wind through yards and between homes.

And then, further enhancing the town’s quaint aspect and running through its midst, there’s the Eerie Canal itself, to be discussed in an upcoming post.

For an earlier post on Spencerport, see here.

Art and Architecture, Crafts, Holiday

Skeletons in the Attic, 2023

When Slim desired an indoor spot to rest and ruminate, he sought out a window seat in our recently finished third level. He was surprised to see that our attic project had, in fact, been completed. This time last year, the initial demo and removal process had barely begun. He knows us. He’s aware of our inclination to put off and procrastinate. And he knew how much there was in the attic to be removed and/or re-situated: the enormous whole-house fan in the floor, bulky HVAC ducts, chimney supports, the cedar closet (the only semi-finished space), and loads and loads of old insulation. Not to mention the diverse accumulation of stuff the attic had housed.

“You astound me! I thought you’d still be waffling over first steps!,” Slim exclaimed. I noticed that he subtly directed these comments more to my husband than to me.

He and the pack quickly made their way to the front dormer. “The ideal look-out! From up here, we can keep watch on the property and the road. And how nice to have a floor that goes all the way to the window!”

Slim appreciated the exposed-beam aesthetic. “Looks like one of those medieval half-timbered manor house rooms you like so much. I didn’t realize this was what you had in mind!” This remark he directed squarely at me. As I said, he knows us.

I didn’t have that concept in mind. But fortuitously, and thanks to the patience, talent, and vision of our contractor, who happens to be a master craftsman, it turned out that way.

Slim loved the built-in art table that extends from a wall of vintage wood, both of which were conceived and created by that expert craftsman. I’d wanted an expansive work surface, suitable for painting and building my miniature houses. Because the large central duct would be difficult to relocate, our contractor suggested encasing it in wood and positioning the table above. He’d carefully saved the old planks that covered the attic’s limited floor space. He planed down each piece, preserving the original saw marks, and reassembled them, quilt-like, to make a support wall. Another of his clever ideas was a roomy pull-out storage compartment located at each end of the wall.

“I’m getting inspired, just sitting here!, ” Slim proclaimed, leafing through a book of paintings by John Constable. “In all my decades kicking around this big wide world, I haven’t tried my hand at art. Never too late, right?”

Slim’s thoughts continued. “Maybe I’ll do some painting. Or take up wood-working. I do love architecture, and I’ve sure seen most styles and epochs first-hand. ” Eyeing my dollhouses, he offered, “This room calls out for a miniature medieval manor house, doesn’t it?”

He’s right, of course. Looks like I’ve found a partner in craft.

“But first, a little reading,” pronounced Slim, as he headed toward the cane-backed sofa. “And perhaps just the slightest bit of restorative shut-eye. We creative types need our rest.”

May you, too, get some rest before a very happy Halloween!

Art and Architecture, Cape Cod, Community, Faith and Spirituality, Memorials, Travel

Walking Provincetown, Continued

In one of my longer Provincetown walks this summer, I got as far as the hilltop apex of Bradford Street, where the tall, narrow Gothic revival cottages above are located. With their sharply peaked roof lines, the structures could well be the home of friendly witches in a children’s book. The neat, enclosing hedge and abundant plantings further enhance the compound’s charming storybook aspect. Built by a sea captain in 1850, and home to several artists over the years, the cottages are now owned by a local art and antiques dealer.

The view toward the bay from the upper windows of the buildings above must be spectacular. I took this photo from just across Bradford Street, at the edge of a precipitous drop.

Flamboyant orange tiger lilies stand out against the weathered shingles of another hilltop Bradford Street home.

Back on Commercial Street, near the heart of town, is the elegant wedding cake building above. At the time of its construction in 1860 as the Center Methodist Episcopal Church, it was purported to be the largest Methodist church in the United States. Its original, emphatically tall steeple was removed after it was damaged in the severe winter storm of 1898. Since then, the arched belfry alone has topped the building. Once the congregation left for a newer, more easily manageable building in 1958, the church became home, for about a decade, to the Chrysler Museum, and later, to the Provincetown Heritage Museum. Following an extensive renovation, completed in 2011, the building now serves as the town’s Public Library.

The building’s light-filled interior is well worth a look. It’s high-ceilinged upper floor still contains a sixty-six foot long, half-scale model of the Provincetown schooner, the Rose Dorothea, winner of the 1907 Lipton Cup Fishermen’s Race. The model, completed in 1988, by a group of volunteers led by Francis “Flyer” Santos, is a tribute to the long tradition of New England shipbuilding and to the intrepid fishermen of Provincetown.

The library, with its large windows, is a lovely place from which to survey the surrounding town. Above, we look across Center Street to the home built around 1870 as the parsonage of the Methodist Church. The current owner is the proprietor of Provincetown’s Shop Therapy, which bills itself as a “world famous alternative lifestyle emporium.” The wild spirit of the sculpture garden that surrounds the house is similar to that expressed in the brightly colored murals that adorn the facade of Shop Therapy. The Pilgrim Monument rises in the background.

This view above shows Commercial Street shops, the harbor, pier and breakwater.

I like to walk the town’s short lanes that connect Commercial and Bradford streets. They offer unique perspectives on enclosed gardens and quiet enclaves mere steps away from the tourist crowd.

Town Hall, as seen from Commercial Street.

Provincetown’s government center is Town Hall, built in 1886 and situated at the very midpoint of the town. Every registered, resident voter is a member of the town’s legislative body. Town Meetings, as well as concerts and special events, take place here in the capacious auditorium. The Victorian building underwent a massive renovation, completed in 2010, after portions of it were deemed structurally unsound. The current green and white color scheme mimics the original palette.

A side view of Town Hall, from Ryder Street.

Following the sale of the Center Methodist Church, the congregation built their new home on Shank Painter Road, a bit removed from the town center. The spare Modernist building opened in 1960. The sanctuary, with steeply sloping redwood walls, resembles the upturned hull of a boat. Provincetown United Methodist Church is a vital hub of community life. In addition to Sunday worship, the congregation runs a Thrift Shop and Soup Kitchen. The church hosts a number of twelve-step groups and serves as a rehearsal space for some theater groups. Our family has been attending worship there once every summer for many years. It has become our church home away from home. We looked forward to being back in the company of the small, welcoming congregation, to an uplifting sermon by the Reverend Jim Cox and to a moving anthem by the delightful “Joyful Noise Choir.” When we arrived on our annual Sunday morning in August 2019, we were surprised, and somewhat alarmed, to see that Reverend Jim was not there. A guest minister presided. Toward the end of the service, she seemed to be stalling for time. Before long, Rev. Jim was proceeding slowly up the center aisle. Gravely ill, he’d come to say goodbye. He died just over a month later. We’re grateful that we could be among the flock that day, to thank him for being such a source of kindness, wisdom and good cheer, for walking the walk of faith and love of neighbor in all circumstances. Appropriately, his Celebration of Life included a New Orleans-style brass band “Second-Line Procession” from Town Hall to the Church.

The Delta surge of Covid prevented us from attending church this year in Provincetown. As of June, the pastor is Edgar Miranda. God willing, we’ll meet him next year.

This large Bradford Street residence, built in the 1870s, stands out for its dramatically peaked gable roof and Stick Style ornamentation. It was home to a succession of artists and merchants before opening its doors to paying guests. Currently operated as Stowaway Guesthouse, its pleasant rooms are brightly painted, and the spacious grounds are lushly landscaped. It’s one of Provincetown’s many inviting, privately run inns.

On every return walk to Truro, I pause again to look back toward Provincetown. The familiar elements are there: the white house, the bay, the curve of the town. When the distinctive features of the Provincetown skyline, such as the Pilgrim Monument, the towers of the Library, Town Hall and the Unitarian Universalist Meeting House, are visible, it calls to mind a decorative miniature village in a model train display. On cloudy days, the buildings blur together into a vague impression, a palette knife rendering in tones of gray and white. Sometimes, as in the view from our cottage in Truro, dense fog obscures the town altogether, and the white house could be perched at the very edge of the world. At low tide, the home looks out to a vast, low basin of sand. At high tide, the waters of the bay seem to lap at the base of the porch. The view is never the same, yet always the same. I find this somehow comforting. I know it will be there waiting for me next year. And it reminds me that even in the most mundane of life’s daily routines, there lies the potential for endless variety, for boundless possibility.

I didn’t make it to Provincetown’s far West End this summer. I’ll save that part of the tour for next year.

Art and Architecture, Cape Cod, Community, Nature, Travel

Entering Provincetown: The East End

Back in the Covid summer of 2020, it seemed reasonable to hope that in a year, a visit to the Cape would no longer involve considerable pandemic restrictions for the vaccinated. But that was well before the rise of the Delta variant and Provincetown’s post-July 4th surge in breakthrough infections. Therefore, many of our favorite activities–dining inside at restaurants, seeing musical and comedy shows, singing in a packed crowd of strangers around Bobby Wetherbee’s piano at the Crown & Anchor–remained off limits. There would be no festive Ptown nightlife for us this time, sadly. We didn’t, and still don’t, want to take risks that could bring the virus back to my mother. But walking through town in the early mornings, when the streets are nearly empty, seemed safe. I don’t always walk down Shore Road further into Truro. Sometimes I head in the opposite direction, and before long, I’m in Provincetown.

In terms of actual area, Provincetown is a small place. Its narrow, curving peninsula occupies about seventeen and half square miles. But surrounded on three sides by water, and with the vast, ever-changing sky above, it seems much larger. The year-round population is less than 3,500, but it swells to about 60,000 in the summer. The town’s spirit, too, like its capacity to receive guests, is generous, expansive, and welcoming.

Provincetown’s colorful present is matched by a colorful past; there’s a lot of history here. The original residents were the Nauset tribe, who interacted with the Pilgrims not long after they arrived on the Mayflower in 1620. The Nauset, and their neighbors the Wampanoag, like many of the Europeans who followed, valued the area and its deep, protected harbor, primarily for its excellent fishing. The Pilgrims moved on in two months to Plymouth, but the colony continued to rely heavily on fish from its waters. The town was a prominent whaling center for nearly two hundred years. Provincetown whaling ships sailed as far as the Azore Islands, where Portugese sailors often joined the crews. By the 1860s, Provincetown was home to a substantial, and growing, Portugese community. The railroad made the remote village more accessible in the 1870s, and the area’s great natural beauty began attracting tourists and artists. The first of many art schools opened in 1899. By the early twentieth century, Provincetown had become a destination for writers and theater people, as well as visual artists. In the summer of 1916, the Provincetown Players gave the first-ever performance of a play by the young Eugene O’Neil. When Tennessee Williams arrived in 1940, a gay community was already flourishing. In the 50s and early 60s, attempts were made to shutter gay-themed entertainment spots. These efforts failed. Today, Provincetown welcomes everyone. It’s a big-hearted, good-humored, judgment-free zone, a place where no one is a misfit, where no one is friendless for long.

And it’s a beautiful place. In the quiet early morning, it’s especially easy to appreciate the town’s charming architecture and gardens, and to catch near-hidden glimpses of the bay between buildings. On my walk from Truro, I usually pause at a wooden stairway leading to the beach, where I take in the view above. The big white house at far right, with the bay and the curve of the town behind it, is one of the most frequently painted and photographed scenes on the entire Cape. A Colonial Revival built in 1917, the house is situated near the division of Route 6A into the town’s two main streets, Commercial and Bradford. It’s at this point that Provincetown starts to look and feel like a real town, rather than a sparse collection of homes along the water’s edge. All the buildings in this post are situated along Commercial Street.

Provincetown has the typical resort town’s share of tee shirt and knick-knack shops. But even most of these are enclosed in architecturally charming exteriors, and clustered primarily in the busy central section. After passing the white Colonial house, I’m in the largely residential East End, a contrast to the touristy bustle of the town center. The front yard pocket gardens along this peaceful stretch of Commercial Street are often color-coordinated and carefully tended. They offer proof that small, thoughtfully planted spaces can pack an outsized visual punch. Many art galleries are mixed in among the East End homes.

Originally the Eastern School, the towered structure above, like many historic Provincetown buildings, has seen several uses. It’s currently the home of art galleries and WOMR-FM (Outermost Community Radio).

Teeny tiny Iota Cottage, above, got its name from a former owner, Jonathan “Jot” Small, who somehow managed to run a restaurant here in the 1930s.

A few homes, like this one on the land side of Commercial Street, stand out for their luxuriously expansive lawns, rare in beach communities.

I find it hard to imagine a more pleasant low-key approach to the water than this narrow, rose-bordered sandy lane.

Small blue plaques on many Provincetown buildings indicate points of historical importance and associations with well-known people. The house above was the home of Donald MacMillan (1874-1970), for whom MacMillan Wharf, in the town center, is named. The influential Arctic explorer, scientist, sailor and teacher lived here as an adult; he was born a few doors down on Commercial Street.

The current owners clearly delight in their unique and historic home. I often notice what appears to be a dog puppet perched, as though to welcome guests and greet passersby, in the upper, open half of the Dutch door. I see this happy puppet, accompanied by seasonal decorations, as a manifestation of Provincetown’s jovial, quirky hospitality. Look closely, and you’ll see similar expressions all over town. It’s just that kind of place.

Check back next week, as the Provincetown tour continues into the center of town and out onto Bradford Street.