Dear Mike,
What does constitute an architectural abomination?
Love, Lars.
That’s a good question, Lars!
There are buildings in Boston, as in any city, that are bad, but when does bad become abominable? Well, size is definitely a factor. I mean, take the Abominable Snowman.
If it turned out he was four-foot-three he would probably be downgraded to “the Annoying Snowman.” (And his salary would, of course, be adjusted accordingly.) He might even turn out to be “the Cute, Goofy, Lovable, Harmless, and Simply Misunderstood Snowman.”
In which case, calling him “abominable” would not only seem slightly malicious, it would probably say a lot more about those who called him that than it would about him in the end. So, we need to be mindful.
But context is also a factor. Our four-foot-three “Lovable Bumble” might still behave abominably towards a tribe of arctic pygmies who stand, on average, three-foot-four. To them he might still be justifiably “abominable.”
It may be instructive to have a look at an example or two of architectural annoyances that, to the untrained eye, might seem abominable, and might well be abominable in another setting, but don’t quite make it here.
On a walk through the business district yesterday looking for abominations I came across this slightly menacing structure on the corner of Franklin and Congress, which gave me pause:
It has some of the markings of an abomination, to be sure. The crappy materials and cursory construction. The lame trope of the round columns that weakly protest: “I am not just temporary shelter. Would I need ROUND columns if I were?” But ultimately I had to conclude over and against its pathetic protestations, that, indeed, it is a temporary structure that had only been pretending (and pretending poorly) to be permanent just long enough to get itself built in the first place. And, unfortunately, abominations are forever. So, no dice.
And let’s be frank. It simply isn’t enough of anything to be truly offensive. It’s like someone shouting an insult from a passing car. And? It might sting for a moment, but then it’s over, and you get on with your life. A true abomination does not run from confrontation. It seeks it out. And strikes again and again and again. It does not toss out a random insult from a safe distance. Determined, relentless, it seeks to crush everyone and everything in its wake with the insult of its undeniable existence. It is so big it easily snuffs out any protestation. “I AM!” It roars. “what’s done is done and cannot be undone!” Like Evil itself, once conjured it is so big it must be endured, for, barring a bigger evil bringing it down, it simply cannot be destroyed.
Of course, architectural abominations are of their very nature hugely imposing. They are the bullies of the urban landscape. Their size alone renders them powerful, and amplifies their disregard into a sustained psychic assault. Regardless of their original intent, they do violence to being simply by being.
It might be heresy to say it these days, but the World Trade Center towers in New York City were abominations, and the fact that there were two of them, side by side, was so in-your-face, it left no room at all for doubt. One was the insult, the other the injury. That it took an act of pure evil to bring them down shows you how close to pure evil they, themselves, were.
Unfortunately, I fear that what will replace them will be even worse. Because these new structures will be so overloaded with supercynical symbolic significance–I mean, “Freedom Tower”?–they’ll be giant glitzy beacons of kitsch. They’ve redesigned one with some flashy-ass diamonds on top that’ll light up at night.
But New Yorkers will adapt and eventually embrace whatever obscenity ends up scrawled on their skyline, because, frankly, what else can they do? Sometimes there’s nothing for it but to turn the other cheek. What we saw with the WTC, once the structures were gone, could only be defined as an architectural version of the Stockholm Syndrome. The bullied found that they had actually learned to love these bullies. New York and the world belatedly embraced these abominations.
But, I digress.
Our little architectural annoyance on Franklin and Congress with its ridiculous round columns tries in vain to convince us that it really is a permanent structure–it aspires to be abominable!–but it’s painfully obvious, even to the untrained eye, that it is a heap of concrete and glass just waiting to collapse in on itself. This whole building is merely a prelude to rubble. And abominations, as I’ve said already, are for the ages.
But what can it do but pretend? If it didn’t at least make some gesture toward pretending it was an actual building no one would feel safe enough–and just enough–to actually go inside it. It is not a great pretender (we’ll see some of those later), but it doesn’t need to be. It’s like those party-filler people you have to have at a gala, who everybody knows are just bodies, and nothing more. They make a cursory effort to dress for the occasion, but they still come off as shabby. And you don’t have to look closely to see it. They just don’t have it, whatever it is. That somebody thing. That golden aura of somebodiness. Instead they have the dull, brownish patina of anybodiness, like so many old spoons in a forgotten drawer somewhere.
You feel sorry for them, in a detached sort of way, but you realize parties need bodies, and not every body is going to be somebody’s body. Likewise, cities need buildings. What if you threw a city and no buildings came? Well, you’d be Des Moines. This little building knows what it is, and knows that knowing entails making some kind of minimal effort, however transparent, to pretend it doesn’t know. That’ll get you in the door.
But it’s clearly not an abomination. An architectural annoyance is as bad as it gets.
Contextwise, it is also at a definite disadvantage, being right across from–actually under the rump of the Level 1 Abomination of 100 Federal Street, dubbed “the pregnant building,” which is actually as close to an architectural rendering of a teatless Venus of Willendorf as a 1.3 million-square-foot office tower can get.
Now, I want to be perfectly clear about this. I have nothing against the Venus. Some of my best friends are, er, Venuses. But again, it’s a matter of degrees. The original Venus of Willendorf is 4 3/8 inches tall. The version on display at 100 Federal Street is 36 stories. And frankly, I don’t want to be standing under her when she drops her load, whatever her load may be. Know what I’m saying? Plus, like I said, 100 Federal Street has been rendered teatless, and…I mean, come on. If you’re gonna do it, do it.
But that’s not why 100 Federal Street is an abomination. It’s an abomination, first of all, because it’s plopped itself down in the middle of things without any attempt at all to harmonize with its surroundings. Look at the picture. It looks like an elephant in a crowded elevator. All the other buildings are like, “damn, guess I’ll, er, get out of your way.” That’s not how to be a nice building. That’s not how to make friends in the city.
It’s an abomination, secondly, because its proportions are clumsily provocative, but to no end. It provokes you and offers you nothing for your trouble. Like a chunky old painted harlot in a seedy bar who at last call, when you’re finally drunk enough, you find still just wants to talk. And what she wants to talk about is her sciatica, or her lifelong battle with lupus.
It’s not a sexy building. And while there’s no crime in not being sexy, a smarter building, like the Fiduciary Trust Building down the way at 175 Federal Street–
–can work it. Fiduciary Trust is a lovely structure, in its modest way. It knows its limitations, which is certainly the most important thing to know. It knows that black is slimming, which is the next most important thing to know. It’s a tad mysterious, with a tale to tell, but it’s not going to ram it down your throat. You’re going to have to notice it first, and then buy it a few drinks, and then a few more drinks, and then tease it out. But it’ll make it worth your while. It’s a Dorothy Parker kind of building–clever, incisive, sardonic, like “A Certain Lady”:
Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head,
And drink your rushing words with eager lips,
And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red,
And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips.
When you rehearse your list of loves to me,
Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed.
And you laugh back, nor can you ever see
The thousand little deaths my heart has died.
And you believe, so well I know my part,
That I am gay as morning, light as snow,
And all the straining things within my heart
You’ll never know.
Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet,
And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, —
Of ladies delicately indiscreet,
Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things.
And you are pleased with me, and strive anew
To sing me sagas of your late delights.
Thus do you want me — marveling, gay, and true,
Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights.
And when, in search of novelty, you stray,
Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go ….
And what goes on, my love, while you’re away,
You’ll never know.
Have you forgotten 100 Federal Street yet? The most abominable thing about it is that it’s such a behemoth it will be there forever, simply because it’s too much trouble to tear it down. Abominations, I can’t stress enough, are built to last.