The Queen Anne Holdout at No. 406 West 52nd Street

In 1861 nine-year old Adam Huston came to New York from County Derry, Ireland, with his parents.  At the time the Hell’s Kitchen neighborhood had filled with poor Irish immigrants who had fled the Irish Potato Famine and were attracted by work on the docks and Hudson River railroad.  Another Irishman, John Cassidy lived there in a two-story wooden house and store at No. 406 West 52^nd Street.  Cassidy, a native of Slane, County Meath, died in the house on Thursday, November 4, 1869 of typhoid fever.

In the meantime, Adam Huston attended public schools.  He then went immediately into the plumbing business and, according to A Standard History of Freemasonry years later, applied “himself with determination to learn all its details, and succeeded so well that it was not long before he was recognized as being ‘as good as a journeyman.’”

Adam Huston -- The Plumbers' Trade Journal, 1907 (copyright expired

In fact, he was so successful that in 1882 he partnered with another Irish-born plumber, James R. Corbitt, to form Huston & Corbitt Co.  Within five years the men had established their firm as one of the leading plumbing contractors in the city, and laid plans to construct their own business building.

On December 28, 1887 they took title to the old frame house and store once home to John Cassidy.  Despite the gritty neighborhood, the property cost the plumbers $5,000—about $130,000 in 2016.  They commissioned architect C. Abbott French to design a multi-purpose building on the site; one both commercial and residential.

C. Abbott French & Co. was responsible for scores of rowhouses and other buildings in Manhattan.  Earlier that year French had designed a remarkable row of 12 Queen Anne style residences on East 95^th Street.  For Huston and Corbitt the architect turned to the same style on a less grand scale.

C. Abbott French filed plans on January 27, 1888 calling for a brick “dwelling and store” at a cost of $12,000.  The delightful structure was completed within the year—five stories of brick, iron and terra cotta like nothing else in the neighborhood.   Huston & Corbitt Co. would operate from the ground floor “store” space; while the upper floors were residential, including one two-story apartment. 

French’s design had striking similarities to architect C. P. H. Gilbert’s four-story apartment house at No. 348 West 23^rd Street completed about a year earlier.  A three-story angled bay of pressed metal included rope-twist colonnettes, a panel of honeycomb design and one of scattered nubs, leaded transoms, and a foliate cornice influenced by the Aesthetic Movement.   Atop the bay a delicate, lacy cast iron cresting sat like a diadem.  French saved Huston & Corbitt money by executing much of the decorative detail in brick.   At the top floor, for instance, he repeated the honeycomb motif, created a corbel table and a layered cornice all in brick.  A whimsical false gable in cast metal at this level provided a cottage-like feel.

A slathering of paint disguises details like the stone keystone and bands, now barely discernible.

Before long the relationship between Huston and Corbitt moved from professional to familial.  On April 30, 1889 Adam Huston married Annie Corbitt and the newlyweds moved into the two-story apartment at No. 406 West 52^nd Street.  Rather surprisingly, C. Abbott French also lived in the building until around 1904; and William Truitt Godfrey, a notary public, was here at least from 1896 through 1900.

The firm's advertisement in the 1893 Catalogue of Exhibition for the Architectural League of New York was exceptionally understated.  (copyright expired)

Huston & Corbitt Co. continued to thrive.  In 1901 the company was awarded the contract to install the plumbing in the huge Ardsley Hall apartment building on Central Park West and 92^nd Street.  Interestingly, an inspection by the State of New York that year showed only three full time employees—the third most likely was a bookkeeper or other office worker.  The army of plumbers it would take to fulfill a project like the Ardsley Hall commission were apparently hired as contract workers.

By 1906 Adam and Annie Huston had four children—Mabel, Walter, Ethel and Amy.  One of the upstairs apartments was now being rented by Dr. Alan G. Terrell and his wife, Estelle.  But things in the Terrell household were not going as well as within the Huston family.

In 1906 Estelle sued Alan for divorce through lawyer George W. Case.  Case was a personal friend of both parties.  The doctor felt divorce was unnecessary and that things could be worked out.  He went to Case’s office at No. 35 Nassau Street, and asked him to arrange for a meeting with his wife.

Estelle never showed up at the arranged appointment.  Later, Case told Dr. Terrell that “his conduct had been such that he could not advise any reconciliation.”

Confused, Alan Terrell became suspicious and had Estelle followed.  He discovered that she and George Case were spending “most of their time together.”   On August 21, 1906 Dr. Alan Terrell filed a counter suit for divorce, as well as a $50,000 suit against George W. Case for alienating his wife’s affections.  The hefty amount for damages would be equal to about $1.4 million today.

The rusticated cast iron piers are all that survive of the original shop space.

On Wednesday, October 2, 1907, Adam Huston began feeling ill.  Within an hour and a half the 55-year old was dead from pneumonia.  His funeral was held at No. 406 West 52^nd Street three days later.  In reporting his death, The Plumbers Trade Journal called him “one of the old-time master plumbers.”

Annie and the children remained in the building for at least a few years.  Mable received her training license as a school teacher in 1909.  And James R. Corbitt continued to operate Huston & Corbitt Co. from here under the old name, at least through 1918.

But by 1923 both the Huston family and the plumbing business were gone.  That year the Prescott Realty Company sold the building to an investor.  It was described at the time as a “five-story tenement.”

In 1929 architects Van Wart & Wein were hired to connect the building internally with No. 771 Ninth Avenue.  Simultaneously the second floor was converted to an office for the ground level store, and the third and fourth floors to a single “housekeeping apartment” (meaning there was a kitchen included).  The top floor became furnished rooms.

The apartments were divided in 1959 to two per floor, including the fifth floor.   It was most likely around this time that S. Wolf opened his paint and wallpaper store in the old Huston & Corbitt Co. space.

The paint store continues to operate at No. 771 Ninth Avenue.  But in 2011 the Department of Buildings closed No. 406 West 52^nd Street for building violations.  Now vised between unexciting modern brick buildings, its survival was a fluke, resulting from the mid-century connection to the Ninth Avenue building.  Today C. Abott French’s Queen Anne relic is painted barn red; yet its delightful design is mostly intact.

photographs by the author

The Moses Baumgarten House -- 136 East 95th Street

On January 29, 1887, the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide reported, “William J. and John P. C. Walsh intend to erect twelve homes on the south side of Ninety-fifth street, 100 feet east of Fourth avenue, from plans by C. Abbot French.”  The newspaper added that they would be “Queen Anne private residences.”

Since the opening of the Second and Third Avenue elevated trains a decade earlier, development in the area had burgeoned.  The Walsh brothers would get into the act with their dozen upscale homes which stretched from 116 to 138 East 95^th Street.  The men may have slightly overextended themselves, for while the homes were under construction in October 1887, they took out a six-month $10,000 mortgage with M. C. Henry & Co. intended to “secure building materials.”

The houses were completed in 1888.  C. Abbott French’s picturesque row was a visual delight of Queen Anne oriels, quirky openings and terra cotta ornaments.  No two homes were exactly alike, yet they worked together to form a pleasing whole.

Buyers began to take interest, but not quickly enough for the Walsh brothers.  There was the issue of that $10,000 loan.  On November 30, 1889, the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide noted that two of the homes, Nos. 136 and 138, were taken in foreclosure by Matthew C. Henry and his partners, Joseph A. Weeks, Jr. and John Gaynor.  It was a fortuitious turn of events for them—the two vacant houses were valued at $14,000 each.

Nevertheless, it would be a year and a half before M. C. Henry & Co. found a buyer for No. 136.  On June 30, 1891, Moses Baumgarten purchased the house for $17,500—about $470,000 in 2015 dollars.

The 18-foot-wide house was faced in yellow brick.  A stone, dog-legged stoop rose to the parlor floor.  The second floor was dominated by a massive arched opening, its keystone sprouting the base of a Juliette balcony.  On either side somber faces stared down from large terra cotta medallions.  Above it all was a Flemish stepped gable, supported by a brick corbels.

The Baumgarten family was well respected and well-to-do.  Moses owned a successful bakery and dabbled in real estate.  He and his wife, the former Louisa Schlossheimer, were married in 1872 and had three children, Benjamin, Rae and Carrie.  Their place in Jewish society was highlighted when Rae married Adolph Levy on November 9, 1897.

The New York Times reported, “A wedding that aroused considerable interest in Hebrew social circles was that of Miss Ray [sic] Baumgarten…and Adolph Levy of this city, which took place in the Madison Square Garden Concert Hall.”  A reception dinner for 250 guests followed.

The Baumgartens remained in the house at least through 1919, before selling to Gustave Dauer.  Incidentally, while Moses Baumgarten died in 1929, Louisa lived until 1958 having reached the age of 104.

Dauer resold No. 136 to Isaac Cohen in 1921, who made “alterations.”  It may have been at this time that the stoop was removed and the entrance lowered to the basement level. 

An iron railing most likely finished the tiny balcony at the third floor.

By the late 1920s, it was home to the family of trial lawyer Albert Stickney.  Daughter Elizabeth Weston Stickney was educated in the prestigious Chapin School and was a member of the Junior League. 

On March 12, 1929, the Stickneys announced Elizabeth’s engagement to investment broker William Ogden McCagg.  The McCagg family had homes in New York and Newport, and William (he would later be known as W. Ogden McCagg) had attended St. George’s School in Newport.

W. Ogden McCagg was initially employed by the brokerage firm of Winslow, Lanier & Co., then worked several employers through World War II.  The couple's son, William Jr. would become well known as a historian and educator, focusing on Central and Eastern Europe.  In June 1940, the McCaggs purchased the 95^th Street house “for cash” according to the New York Times.  The newspaper noted “The house has a dining room opening onto a private garden and will be altered.”

In 1946, the McCaggs moved to Providence, Rhode Island, selling the 95^th Street house to Francis Adams Truslow.  The 40-year-old had returned the year before from Brazil where he had headed the Rubber Reserve Company, a U.S. Government agency set up, according to The New York Times, “to exploit South American rubber production to make up for the severe losses to the Allies in this field when the Japanese overran Southeastern Asia.”

Truslow and his wife, the former Elizabeth A. Jennings, had four children.  They maintained a summer estate in Cold Springs Harbor, Long Island.  In December 1946, five months after moving into the house, he was elected President of the New York Curb Exchange. 

Francis Truslow was as well known for his athletic and outdoors activities, as in his diplomatic and professional skills.   The New York Times later said of him, “besides being a mountain climber, fisherman and skier, [he] was interested in carpentry, photography and book collecting.”

The family closed the 95^th Street house on July 1, 1951 as they boarded the liner Argentina headed for Rio de Janeiro.  Truslow had been appointed head of the United States-Brazil Joint Commission for Economic Development by President Truman. Francis Truslow would never make it to South America.  Eight days into the voyage Elizabeth found her husband dead in their cabin.  The athletic 45-year-old had died in his sleep.

No. 136 East 95^th Street continued to be a single family residence, becoming home to Robert Yost Hinshaw and his wife Lillias.  Hinshaw was a public relations executive and consultant.  The religious dynamic of the Hinshaw household was interesting.  Robert was a Quaker.  And Lilias (who, incidentally, was the daughter of John Foster Dulles, Secretary of State) was graduated from the Union Theological Seminary in 1958 as a Presbyterian minister.

The Hinshaws had four children—two sons and two daughters.  Daughter Janet met and married Hyon Yoo while she was studying at Columbia University.  Yoo, 22-years-old, landed a job as Professor of Economics at Seoul University in 1959.  He moved to Korea and Janet, pregnant with their first child, planned to join him later.

Janet moved into the East 95^th Street house with her parents and in January 1960 gave birth to David Hinshaw Yoo.  By December, little David was old enough to undertake the long trip to Korea to join the father who had never met him.

After midnight on December 2, just two days before Janet and her son were to depart, she put the baby in his crib.  Because of a chill in the room, she placed an electric blanket over him.  At around 10:45 she checked him and, according to The New York Times, “she saw something was wrong and called for her father who telephoned for an ambulance.”

Tragically, little David Yoo was dead.  Chief Medical Examiner Milton Helpern performed an autopsy and said “that burns had been found.”

In 1968, the Hinshaws moved to Ithaca, New York.  The house remained little changed throughout the rest of the 20^th century.  In 2014 it was sold for $5.8 to “a couple that plans to renovate it for their own use,” according to NY Curbed on September 2, which added, “Hopefully they don’t go too modern with it, because if that façade is any indication there are some nice details lurking inside.”

photographs by the author

The May King Van Rensselaer House -- No. 134 E 95th Street

In the first decades following the Civil War, Manhattan’s wealthiest residents commissioned custom built mansions along or near Fifth Avenue.  Recognizing their prospective customers, even speculative developers were more likely to erect single lavish homes here than rows of identical structures.

But on the east side of Fourth Avenue (later renamed Park) things were different.  As was the case on the opposite side of Central Park, developers snatched up stretches of real estate and erected rows of homes—and while they were not always carbon copies; they were nonetheless harmonious.  Such was the case with John and William Walsh.

On January 29, 1887 the Real Estate Record & Builders’ Guide reported that “William J. and John P. C. Walsh intend to erect twelve homes on the south side of Ninety-fifth street, 100 feet east of Fourth avenue, from plans by C. Abbot French.”  The newspaper added that they would be “Queen Anne private residences.”

And indeed they were.  Stretching from No. 116 to 138 East 95^th Street, French’s fanciful homes included all the expected bells and whistles of the Queen Anne style—offset entrances, stained glass, carved decoration, creative brickwork and projecting bays.  Like so many of the architects working on the opposite side of the island, French created a unified set of structures related by visual similarities; yet no two identical.

Among the row was No. 134.  While it lacked some of the more exuberant decoration of its neighbors, it was nonetheless eye-catching, mostly because of the oval hallway window above the doorway.  Outlined in skinny brick, it featured the many panes of the Queen Anne style and rested comfortably in a carved brownstone stand. 

French’s use of brownstone and red brick resulted in a subtle two-tone scheme.  His playful treatment of the stoop resulted in the entrance stairs spilling down to a porch two steps above the sidewalk, then sweeping to the side in a gentle curve.

The row was completed in 1888 and real estate operator Martin Disken was quick to swoop in.  In July 1889 he purchased No. 132 for $14,400—about $365,000 today—and in October he bought up 134, 136 and 138, each for $14,000.

By the turn of the century No. 134 was home to Adell Hartman.  The enterprising woman ran a hotel and on Sunday, September 1, 1901 her troubles with the liquor authorities started.  Five plain-clothed special agents entered the barroom and ordered drinks.  According to court documents, “but, before reaching the bar, they were directed to leave the room, and to go out upon the veranda, where their orders would be taken.”

Excise laws in 1901 permitted patrons who ordered a meal to have a drink.  According to Adell’s waiter, one of the men ordered a porterhouse steak.  But when the steak was brought out to the veranda, the men had consumed their five whiskeys and left.  The agents, on the other hand, “all deny that they ordered anything to eat, or that anything to eat was delivered to them.”

The State Commissioner of Excise ordered the revoking of Adell Hartman’s liquor license.  After hearing the testimony, however, the judge highly suspected that the agents were being underhanded.  He dismissed the case against Adell Hartman saying there was not enough evidence.

Despite her legal victory, Adell Hartman would not be in business much longer.  On February 1, 1904 newspapers announced that she had filed for bankruptcy “as a poor person” with liabilities of $4,504 and no assets.

At the time Simon Kayton was living at No. 125 East 80^th Street.  He sold that house in November 1908 and leased No. 134 East 95^th Street from the current owner, William M. Leslie.  Listed as a “liveryman” Kayton operated a high-end stable far downtown on Chambers Street, where vehicles were leased and private carriages were garaged.  Simon’s income was enough to afford the rent for the upscale home.  His wife, Bella, busied herself with benevolent causes such as the Emanuel Sisterhood of Personal Services.

One of Kayton’s wealthy clients was Mrs. Jeannette P. Goin of No. 4 West 55^th Street.  Years earlier, in April 1902, she took her carriage to Kayton’s stable for storage.  Hers was an unusual style for New York, called a vis-à-vis in which the passengers sit facing one another, and was therefore easily identified.

Now, on May 24, 1909 she was riding in Central Park in an electric cab with her daughter, Ellen, and Mrs. Thomas H. Baskerville.  According to Mrs. Goin, she was shocked when the cab was passed by her own carriage with three occupants.

She had the driver follow the carriage for a short distance, then ordered him to drive to Kayton’s stable where she demanded to see her carriage.  The New York Times later reported “Kayton first said that the elevator was out of order.  The woman said they would walk to where the vehicle was.  According to Mrs. Goin, Kayton then told her that a lamp had been broken and he had sent the carriage to be repaired.”

Not believing that an entire carriage would have to be sent away to repair a lamp, the three women went back to Central Park “to see if they could get another look at the vehicle.   A little later it passed.”  The amateur detectives tried to tail the carriage.  “The women attempted to follow, but the power in their automobile gave out.  Miss Goin and Mrs. Baskerville returned home and Mrs. Goin went back to the stable to see Kayton, but did not find him.”

A week later Mrs. Goin’s attorney, Ernest G. Stevens, appeared at the Kayton livery stable.  It was all too much for Simon Kayton and he sent a letter to James D. Goin, Jeannette’s husband saying that the carriage was taking up too much space and requesting him to remove it.  The Goins responded by suing Kayton for $1,400, saying the carriage “had been used and badly worn, instead of being kept in careful storage.”

On January 25, 1909, seven years after the vehicle had been dropped off, jurors heard testimony from the involved parties.   Ellen corroborated the story of her mother, and James Goin swore that the carriage had been repaired “and was as good as new in 1902 when taken to the livery stable.”  Kayton testified that on the day Mrs. Goin had demanded to see her carriage, it was out for repair.  “It had not been outside the stable up to that time.”  He said the damage to the lamp was through a collision with another vehicle while in the stable.

The judge gathered up the court and they went to the Chambers Street stable to inspect the Goin carriage.  An “expert” witness, carriage dealer Donald Dyer looked over the vehicle.  On January 26 The Sun reported on his testimony, which was devastating to the Goin case.  He said “the Goin coach to-day, in view of the rapid inroads automobiles had made, was worthless.  He said that the signs of wear the vehicle showed were due to its being stored.  He said that the damage had come from the ammonia fumes in the livery stable.  Vehicles which get washed regularly, the witness testified, don’t suffer that sort of damage.”

 

The jury was convinced that the carriage had been used for a “joy ride” but felt that the $1,400 value the Goins placed on it was excessive.  They delivered a verdict of $275 against Kayton.

French capped the upper stair hall window with a hefty terra cotta eyebrow.

As Donald Dyer had pointed out in court, the automobile was rapidly overtaking the horse as the preferred means of transportation.  By 1911 Simon Kayton had established the Kayton Taxicab and Garage Company.  His 40 smart taxis were black “with a maroon running gear and a “K” on the right side of the radiator,” according to The Sun.  Kayton set up stands at the Metropolitan Club, the Savoy Hotel, and other hotels and restaurants.  But even with his cabs transporting wealthy riders, Kayton and other taxi companies were in trouble.

The cost of running motorized cabs was high, they quickly depreciated, and companies paid for “dead mileage”—traveling to pick up passengers and returning empty.  Kayton’s payment to the Savoy alone was $3,000 a year for the privilege of parking there.  The overhead was reflected in high fares.  Customers paid 80 cents for the first mile—over $20 today.  Kayton told reporters on December 22, 1911 “The taxicab condition in New York is abominable.  Out of the twenty hours we keep cabs on the street we get pay for an average of only four hours actual work.” 

When one of the Kayton Taxicab Company’s directors took one of the cabs to Brooklyn for business, spending about three hours, his fare was $16.  “He sent for me and told me if that was the regular rate it was no wonder people did not use taxis more and why the companies were losing business,” said Kayton.

So the Kayton Taxicab Company embarked on a risky experiment.  Between the hours of 8 a.m. and 6:30 p.m. the fare was reduced to half price.  Other cab companies warned him “that it would end disastrously,” according to The Sun on December 22, 1909.  Kayton partially agreed.  “If it doesn’t work out all right we are in for an enormous loss.”

It did not work out all right.  On June 29, 1912 Kayton filed for bankruptcy.   He blamed the problem on the dead mileage and the hotel stand privileges; the latter costing him $22,000 a year.  Even with the night fares remaining at 80 cents a mile, the dead mileage was fatal to the firm.  “For instance,” he told a special committee of the Board of Aldermen, “at 10:30 at night there are about 1,000 calls for cabs at theatres and these all go to Harlem pretty nearly without return fares for 75 per cent of them.”

The Kayton family was able to stay on in the 95^th Street house for another year; then in March 1914 it was leased to Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer “of Philadelphia.”  Mrs. Van Rensselaer was born Maria Denning King, although she later changed her name to May.  The daughter of Archibald Gracie King, both her husband’s family and hers traced their American lineage back two centuries.   She disdained the flashy ostentation of the nouveau riche and was the author of what The Pittsburgh Press in 1915 called “that disturbing genealogical study, ‘New Yorkers of the Nineteenth Century,’ which caused a panic in the ranks of the Four Hundred.”  She wrote in her The Social Ladder “Society once connoted, first of all, family; its primary meaning at present is fortune.  Years ago, it stood for breeding; now it represents, instead, self-advertisement.”

With the arrival of Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer to New York, society was about to deal with a formidable force.  While she was deeply rooted in social tradition—in 1905 she had written Newport—Our Social Capital—she was at the same time concerned with the women’s movement and with the underprivileged.

A year after moving into the house, on Saturday, January 17, 1915 Mrs. Van Rensselaer hosted “an evening of Oriental Divination” in the house; exemplifying her up-to-date interests.  As the summer season approached that year, her health failed and she was unable to open her Newport cottage.  On November 7, 1915 The Pittsburgh Press noted “Mrs. Van Rensselaer was forced to stay in town this summer.  Illness kept her from the country and chained her to her home at No. 134 East Ninety-fifth Street.  It proved a bad hospital.”

The problem was children.  “All day long there was noise, shouting, cat-calling, roller-skating.”  Her nerves frayed, May Van Rensselaer “issued a courteous call for calm” and the street noise abated.  But as she thought about her new-found peace, she was disturbed.  Obviously the children had no playground other than the street and she had taken that from them.  From her window she could see the children busily playing on various stoops.  Then she had an idea.

The doyen of New York and Philadelphia society invited the children to her library.  She intended to teach them about American history.  “You have a picture of these youngsters entering that library, every book and ornament of which breathes association with the past…And there sits that erect and white-haired gentlewomen ready to mould them for her country,” said The Pittsburgh Press.

It was the beginning of a long series of classes in the house.  Mrs. Van Rensselaer's instructions were not stuffy or boring; including, for instance, historic tableaux in which the children dressed in period costumes and played out important American events.

Along with the weekly group of children in Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer’s library, the house was the scene of events both social and otherwise.  On a Sunday afternoon in November 1916 she hosted a reception “for Miss Sylvia Van Rensselaer;” and on April 9 the following year a meeting of the First National Scientific Registration Society was held here.  Brooklyn Life pointed out “This society was organized for the protection of the life and property of individuals by means of Sir Edward Henry’s system of finger printing.”

It was that sort of forward thinking that brought May Van Rensselaer to her feet at a meeting of the New York Historical Society on January 2, 1917 and caused many gasps among the exulted group.  The following day The New York Times reported that “Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer, member of one of the oldest Knickerbocker families, rose unexpectedly at the annual meeting of the New York Historical Society last night” and addressed “its staid, and afterward startled, representatives.”

She told the Society that in the past three years she had “not heard one new or advanced scientific thought, although many distinguished scholars have visited the city.”  She said that as a life member she should be proud of the organization, but was ashamed of it.

“Mrs. Van Rensselaer, who has snow-white hair and looks like a Duchess of the Victorian period, paused to scan the paper from which she was reading and to permit the full meaning of her words to sink in on her audience.”  Having accused the Society of no new ideas and of being “in the rear” of similar organizations in the United States, she dropped what The Times called “a verbal bomb.”

“And instead of an imposing edifice filled with treasure from old New York what do we find?  Only a deformed monstrosity filled with curiosities, ill arranged and badly assorted.”

Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer’s tirade was the first step in a reorganization of the displays and a rethinking of the operation of the New York Historical Society.

Two weeks later Admiral George Dewey died, triggering a wave of tribute nationwide.  On January 20 The New York Times reported on the activities in the Van Rensselaer house.  “Commemoration exercises for Admiral Dewey were held yesterday afternoon at the home of Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer, the author, 134 East Ninety-fifth Street.  She is the member of the New York Historical Society who…told the society it lacked animation.  The principal participants were a dozen boys and girls of 12 and 15 years of age, members of Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s city history classes.

“The idea of the exercises occurred to her when the children requested that they be permitted to drape with mourning and flags the photograph of the Admiral hung at the head of the stairway in Mrs. Van Rensselaer’s home.  They did this, after which Mrs. Van Rensselaer told several anecdotes in which the Admiral figured and which, she said, had escaped the biographers.”

The vibrant author and socialite left East 95^th Street in 1918 and the house was leased to Mrs. Morton Taylor.  Unlike many of the homes in the area, it managed to survive through as a single family home through even the Depression years.  In 1954 it was purchased by Harley Rogers, who sold it in 1958 to architect David Todd and his wife Suzanne.  In reporting on the sale The Times noted “He plans to alter and occupy the house.”

And alter the house he did.  While Todd later said there was not much woodwork left in the house, he removed walls to create a mid-century version of what designers today call “an open concept.”  Sleekly modern, it reflected the tastes of the 1950s and of an architect who thought forward rather than back.  One wonders, however, if May Denning King Van Rensselaer would have approved.

The former library, where May Van Rensselaer instructed neighborhood children (above) retains its fireplace, now painted.  photographs http://www.townhouseexperts.com/PropertyDetail2.asp?area=new&listing=356

Born in Middletown, Ohio in 1915, David Fenton Michie Todd would go on to design several university buildings and, beginning around 1965, became an advocate for improving conditions in public housing.  In 1967 his architectural firm became David Todd & Associates.  His most memorable creation was the Manhattan Plaza complex, constructed in the 1970s.  He served as chairman of the Landmarks Preservation Commission from 1989 to 1990.

Todd’s chairmanship was controversial and he admitted he was not an “ardent preservationist” by the common definition.  Focusing on what he termed “architectural quality,” he was less interested in the historical importance of a structure.  “The historical or cultural sides can be stretched, strained and rationalized.  To my mind, too many things can fit under those headings,” he told reporters in a 1989 interview.  That attitude was perhaps reflected in his interior renovations of his own home on East 95^th Street.

As Todd aged, he and his wife spent about half of each year in Venasque, a village in Southern France.  When in town, he loved puttering in his garden, described by The New York Times as “of his own design.”

The 93-year old architect died on March 31, 2008.  Nineteen years earlier, when he was named landmarks chairman, he had remarked “One thing that concerns me now is, who is going to keep up the house?”

Still a private home, the house was placed on the market in 2014 and reduced in price in 2015 to just under $6.4 million.  

non-credited photographs taken by the author