The Paul Rudolph House - 23 Beekman Place

 

The two-block long Beekman Place was opened in 1860.  Running from 49th to 51st Street, it sat on land that had formerly been the Beekman family's country estate.  On December 18, 1865, former Methodist minister Samuel W. Dunscomb purchased the land from James W. Beekman for $127,500, or just over $2.5 million in 2026 terms.  (Beekman retained possession of the narrow strip of land along the river.)  Dunscombe erected a stone retaining wall and began erecting 20-foot-wide rowhouses on both sides of Beekman Place.  The high-stooped residences were four-stories tall and shared a continuous cornice.

Dr. John Jay Higgins and his wife, the former Maria Briggs, moved into 23 Beekman Place.  The second house north of East 50th Street, its rear garden sloped to the riverfront.  Moving in with the couple, who were married on April 24, 1850, were Maria's parents, William D. and Mary Major Briggs.

Born in 1827, Higgins graduated from the College of Physicians and Surgeons in 1850.  When he first moved into 23 Beekman Place, he operated a pharmacy.  His advertisement on November 22, 1870 in the New York Herald offered, "A drug store, the largest, most extensive and finest on First avenue, for sale, to a cash customer; an unexampled opportunity."

Mary Major Briggs died at the age of 81 on May 7, 1870.  Her funeral was held in the parlor two days later.  

Despite the breezes and views that had first prompted wealthy New Yorkers to build lavish country estates above the river, Beekman Place residents in the last quarter of the 19th century dealt with the abattoirs across the river.  On February 24, 1881, The New York Times reported on complaints "against the bone-boiling and other nuisances of Hunter's Point and vicinity."  The article mentioned, "Dr. J. J. Higgins, of No. 23 Beekman-place, reported that the stenches were most powerful in the Summer, but were by no means limited to that season."  And on the same day, the New York Herald quoted him saying, "Frequently I have had to leave my house and drive to another portion of the city."

In the meantime, Higgins regularly contributed articles and papers to medical journals.  By the last decade of the 19th century, he and Maria maintained a summer estate in Connecticut where he practiced his avocation of photography.  In its May 1892 issue, Scientific American, Architects and Builders Edition remarked, "In addition to his rare accomplishments as a physician and surgeon, the doctor is an amateur photographer of rare skill."

23 Beekman Place, the second house from the right, originally resembled the high-stooped brownstones at the north of the block, seen here on September 20, 1927.  from the collection of the New York Public Library.

John Jay Higgins died at the age of 79 on August 28, 1906.  His funeral was held in the house two days later.  Maria L. Higgins almost immediately left the residence.  One month to the day after Higgins's funeral, she sold the house to Charles Philip Schmid.  (Schmid's middle name was sometimes reported as "Pin.")

Born in Ulm, Germany around 1855, Schmid came to America at the age of 13.  He married Marie Louis Weisendanger in April 1877.  The couple had six surviving children when they moved in: Charles Philip, Ernest Emmel, Robert Major, Agnes Henrietta, Emeline Elise and Walter Arnsdale.

Schmid was secretary of the Schaefer Brewing Company, having joined the firm in 1884.  He would not enjoy his new home for especially long.  On December 30, 1911, the New York Herald reported that he had died in the residence after a short illness.

Still living in the house with Maria were Robert, Walter, and Emeline.  Walter became a hero in the spring of 1915.  On May 24, The New York Herald reported, "The cry of 'Man overboard!' was heard by Walter A. Schmid in his home, at No. 23 Beekman place, yesterday."  He ran down the slope to the pier at East 49th Street and leaped into the East River to rescue William Grist.  The man had fallen asleep on the pier and rolled off.

Schmid reached him as he "was sinking."  He kept Grist's head above water and treaded until a boat from the Life Savings Corps reached him.  Although Grist's lungs were filled with water, he was revived at Blackwell's Island.  The article said, "In a similar circumstance, Schmid saved another man in the same place last August."

Emeline Elise was married to William Claxton Dooris in March 1920.  It is unclear how the two met, since Dooris worked for the British Government in India.  The Sun said, "After an extended honeymoon, which will include a trip through Egypt, Mr. Dooris and his bride will live in Nasik and Bombay."

It was likely the Schmids who removed the stoop of their house.  By the time of Emeline's wedding, 23 Beekman Place was a two-family home--what today we would call a duplex and a triplex apartment.

Maria Louise Schmid advertised the house for sale in 1921.  Her advertisement in the New York Herald on April 10 read:

Four story and basement brownstone front two family house, 14 rooms, 2 baths; electric light, steam heat; quiet neighborhood in restricted section.  Rear overlooks East River, with unobstructed view; $32,000.  Schmid, 23 Beekman place (East 50th st.).

The price would translate to about $561,000 in 2026.  It reflected the transformation within the neighborhood that started when millionaires began remodeling nearby similar houses into mansions, creating exclusive Sutton Place.

On April 1, 1922, the New-York Tribune reported that Maria had sold the house to Guthrie McClintic.  Interestingly, a stipulation in the transaction apparently allowed Maria Louise Schmid to remain here.  She would die in the house at the age of 68 on November 27, 1927.

A theatrical producer and stage director, McClintic and his wife, actress Katharine Cornell, were both born in 1893.  He would produce every play in which Cornell starred beginning in 1925.  A leading lady, Katharine Cornell would later earn the title, "First Lady of the Theatre."  

Four months before purchasing 23 Beekman Place, The Dover Road opened at the Bijou Theatre.  It was McClintic's directorial debut and would become a smash hit.  An article about Guthrie McClintic in the November 1922 issue of National Magazine commented, "The atmosphere of his home at 23 Beekman Place is electrifying with everything that makes life worth while."

Following Maria Schmid's death, the couple returned 23 Beekman Place to a single-family home.  In 1929, they hired architect Franklin Abbott to renovate the interiors and exterior.  He remodeled the ground floor with rusticated stonework and arched openings.  Cast iron Juliette balconies were applied to the second floor and a metal mansard installed.  The ground floor was extended at the rear and the garden girded by walls.

The couple descended a few steps into the former English basement level to enter the home.  via the NYC Dept of Records & Information Services.

On December 17, 1939, The New York Times reported that The Dover Road was still playing.  "The curfew will be muted at 23 Beekman Place next Saturday night, magnums will boil, dulcimers will be whanged and the welkin shivered, for Guthrie McClintic will be celebrating the eighteenth anniversary of the opening of 'The Dover Road,' first play carrying his managerial and directorial stamp to enchant this bus-strewn island."  The article noted, "One of the fruits of 'The Dover Road' is 23 Beekman Place, his handsome five-story home."

McClintic and Cornell in their Beekman Place library.  from the collection of the New York Public Library.

On May 27, 1955, The New York Times reported that 23 Beekman Place had been sold.  "It formerly was owned by Katharine Cornell, the actress," said the article.  Five years later, on January 13, 1960, the newspaper reported that the house had been resold, saying the buyer "will convert it into apartments, including a duplex suite for his own occupancy."

The owner was Antoinette Trombetta Marsicano who moved in with her daughter, Dr. Philomena R. Marsicano.  The widow of concert harpist Vincent Marsicano, Antoinette was founder and president of Antoinette of the Plaza, a hairdressing salon, and the Antoinette Beauty Salon, Inc. on West 38th Street.  Philomena was an attorney and she established the Marsicano Foundation.

Among the Marsicano's tenants was architect Paul Rudolph, who moved in in 1961.  He originally used the apartment as his New York pied-à-terre while he chaired the Department of Architecture at Yale University.  The apartment became his primary residence in 1965.

Paul Rudolph purchased 23 Beekman Place in 1976 for $300,000, according to Timothy M. Rohan's The Architecture of Paul Rudolph.  The price would equal $1.65 million today.  Rohan writes, "Work began in 1977, when Rudolph demolished his fourth-floor apartment (it was too idiosyncratic for a rental unit) and began building the rooftop addition."  The sculptural penthouse level was completed in 1982.  At the rear, he installed a series of what one critic called a "jungle gym" of metal, geometric balconies.

The complex of rear balconies can be glimpsed from East 50th Street.

Rudolph completely redesigned the interior spaces.  Writing in House & Garden in January 1988, architect and critic Michael Sorkin called the penthouse "one of the most amazing pieces of modern urban domestic architecture produced in this country."

Paul Rudolph died on August 8, 1997, having gained the esteem of architectural critics world-wide.  Nevertheless, his interior sense of design over function was sometimes problematic, at least for one person.  

On December 3, 1998, The New York Times reported, "Modernism can be dangerous.  Just ask Cremilda Conceicao, whose forehead and sweat pants bear the battle scars of 14 years of cleaning the see-through elevator, transparent sinks and 17 levels of Plexiglas walkways and mirrored I-beams that snake bewilderingly through the late architect Paul Rudolph's Beekman Place triplex, perhaps the city's most stunning apartment."

Cremilda recounted how earlier that week, she almost fell off a balcony while trying to clean a Plexiglas platform "that serves as the head-grazing ceiling for one level and the floor of the level above," said the article.  At the time of the article, the house was on the market for $5.65 million.  

The Paul Rudolph Penthouse & Apartments was designated an individual New York City Landmark on November 16, 2010.

photographs by the author

Paul Rudolph's Masterful No. 246 East 58th Street

photo courtesy PRF

The Upper East Side was slowly developing during the Civil War years.  East 58^th Street, between Second and Third Avenues saw the construction of modest row houses clad in brick or brownstone that coexisted with earlier more rural-type houses.

During the war the Wallack family lived at No. 246 East 58^th Street, described by The New York Times as “a three-story brick” house, 20 feet wide.  Young Joseph was attending New York City College in 1866.

The house, expectedly, would see the comings and goings of several owners.  In 1905 Simon A Nies transferred the title to Babbette Brody.  She paid $3,750 for the building.   Shortly thereafter the it would become home to the Cohn family for decades.  Michael and Amelia Cohn had four children in the house, Nathan, Rose, Bella and Isaac.  Members of the family would occupy the house until the late 1930s.  In 1941 it was divided into 15 furnished rented rooms.

By the late 1950s the vintage house sat empty and neglected.  In September 1960 The New York Times (which once deemed the building brick) reported the “vacant brownstone house” was sold for $65,000 in cash.  “The buyers plan to convert [it] to store and commercial space.”

The building would survive for nearly three more decades.  It was variously home to Ellsworth& Goldie Galleries, dealers in modern paintings, sculpture and prints; Fabrications, an interior decorating store; and Mira-X International Furnishings.

In the meantime, architect Paul Marvin Rudolph had established himself on the cutting edge of Modernist design.   In 1989 he and close friend Ernst Wagner purchased No. 246.  Rudolph envisioned a transformation that would result in rental apartments—unlike any seen in New York City.  In recent years Rudolph’s major commissions had been outside of the United States, primarily in Asia, due to consistent derision of his works by other American architects. The residential-retail structure at No. 246 East 58^th Street would be his last New York work.

Paul Rudolph's original concept called for a taller structure.  Subsequent zoning changes resulted in the reduced size.  courtesy PRF

The old house was dismantled and a new steel structure began rising.  Brilliant in comprehending the play of light, shadow and shape, Rudolph reportedly worked on scores of studies for the façade of the little building.   Interior as well as exterior details were honed to the smallest detail; resulting in a 14-year construction process.  

Six years into the project, in December 1995 while in Mexico City, Rudolph first evidenced troubling symptoms. Within two months he was diagnosed with mesothelioma, a cancer resultant from exposure to asbestos.    On August 8, 1997 Rudolph died before seeing the building completed.

Finally finished in 2003, the structure houses a two-story retail space below two duplex apartments.  Today the residential areas are home to Ernst Wagner.  The headquarters of the Paul Rudolph Foundation are housed in on a separate office level.

photo courtesy PRF

As dazzling as the façade is—an artwork of geometric boxes, shadows and angles—the interiors are fascinating.  Sean Khorsandi, Co-Director of the Foundation, eagerly showed off the space pointing out the genius in Rudolph’s design.    There are no dead ends—the eye follows lines that disappear around corners or into walls and floors.   The open staircases seamlessly evolve from the lines of bookcases in soaring spaces that are seemingly carved from light itself.

A ceiling beam disappears into a void rather than disrupt the visual motion of the space's lines --  photo courtesy PRF

Somewhat amazingly, the architectural gem—Paul Rudolph’s last Manhattan work—is little known by most New Yorkers.  Hidden on a side street far from Midtown the mostly overlooked building deserve a detour.

The 1888 Jackson Square Library -- No. 251 W. 13th Street

Unlike some privileged boys George Washington Vanderbilt was intrigued by books.  When only 12 years old he began cataloguing each book he read.   A series of small notebooks, entitled Books I Have Read, recorded each title, numbered consecutively, along with the author.  His affection for reading and books got him in trouble with his mothing, Maria Louise Kissam Vanderbilt that same year.  On May 27, 1875 he wrote in his dairy

“I have been way down town today and have displeased Mother, she gave me two dollars to buy a sketch book with which I went to four stores but could not get one so I spent it on books, besides $2.65 of my own money which Mother did not like…I got two volumes of the Young American Abroad.  And the last volume of the Yacht Club.”

Vanderbilt kept his list current and when he died on March 6, 1914 at the age of 51 following an appendectomy, his last entry was No. 3159—Volume III of Henry Adams’ “History of the United States.”  George Vanderbilt was reading an average of 81 books a year at the time of his death.

Few New Yorkers had the money or leisure time that enabled George Vanderbilt to pursue reading.  The few libraries that existed prior to 1880 were not open to the general public.  But that year the Free Circulating Library was incorporated.   The response was so great that the sidewalks around the first library—a single room in a building on 13^th Street near Fourth Avenue—were blocked.  At closing time on one occasion, of the 500 books only two were left on the shelves.

George W. Vanderbilt - from the collection of the Library of Congress.

It was the sort of worthy project that caught the attention of the bibliophile Vanderbilt and he decided to fund a branch of the Lending Library in Greenwich Village, opposite Jackson Square. 

In 1887 Vanderbilt was no stranger to Richard Morris Hunt.  Work was underway that year on George’s stable on Staten Island and on the Vanderbilt Family Mausoleum, both designed by Hunt.  Ten years earlier the esteemed architect had designed the massive William K. Vanderbilt chateau on Fifth Avenue and within a year he would begin work on the palatial Marble House in Newport, also for William.

George’s library would be less grandiose, but no less enchanting.  In 1887, two years before Andrew Carnegie donated his first library in the United States; the first bricks were laid for George Vanderbilt’s.  There was no fanfare associated with the opening of the library on July 5, 1888.  A small listing in the New-York Tribune that day with the heading “What Is Going On To-Day” simply noted “Opening new Vanderbilt Library, Jackson Square.”

New-York Tribune, March 24, 1901 (copyright expired)

The handsome new building was, nevertheless, an “ornament” to the neighborhood.   Unlike the frothy confections that characterized some of the other Vanderbilt projects; the library was a take on a Flemish guildhall.  It was a very early example of the architectural fad that would sweep the city in the next decade recalling Manhattan’s Dutch roots.  A red-tiled roof hid behind a curving Flemish Renaissance gable and wrought iron strapwork decorated the red brick façade.   Wrought iron numerals on the four piers, just above the first floor, gave the date of construction: 1887.  A touch of Gothic was introduced by the trefoil decorations in the blind arches of the window openings.

Wrought iron numbers spell out the date of construction.

Vanderbilt’s completed gift to the city cost him $40,000—about $900,000 in today’s dollars.  By 1892 the Free Circulating Library consisted of four buildings, including Vanderbilt’s.  “The Memorial History of the City of New-York” that year said “Wealthy citizens have contributed generously to this admirable free library, and its benefit to the community at large is evident from its circulation of nearly half a million of volumes in 1892.”

Old rowhouses still abut the library in this stereopticon view -- NYPL Collection

In 1899 the chief librarian, J. Norris Wing instituted a innovation nearly unheard of in public libraries:  the “Open Shelf” system.  Until now, the books were kept under the safeguard of librarians.   The concept of allowing the public to run free among the inventory of books was unheard of.  But Wing insisted that “The only proper way to manage a circulating library so as to avoid all unnecessary delay and friction in the bringing together of book and reader, is to run it upon the open-shelf system.”

The Children's Reading Room -- photo NYPL Collection

Until that year, readers looked over the library’s catalog of books, noted the number of the volume he wanted, filled out a call slip and waited until the librarian returned “after a weary search to inform him that the book is out,” said The Sun.  Under Wing’s system, the reader simply wandered the shelves, chose his book and checked it out.

The Sun was impressed.  “From 1880, when the first branch was opened, up to about eighteen months ago the public was excluded from the places where the books were kept, and when the proposition was made to give the readers free access to all books in the library many of the attendants shook their heads.”  The experiment was tried with one branch, then two, and by August 1899 all the libraries were on board.

Librarians were pleased--instead of running back and forth all day with stacks of books they were giving recommendations and advice.  “Now we are fresh when our day’s work is done,” said one.  “Moreover, we know that we can and do help the people who use the library to an extent not one of us thought possible under the old system.  Before we mostly only carried books; now we advise about books.”

The newspaper pointed out the two drawbacks:  wear and tear on the books and theft.  Nevertheless, the advantages outweighed the negatives.  “I do not know how many books were stolen elsewhere,” said one librarian, “but in my branch the thefts do not amount to anything worth speaking about, and even if they’d steal much more, I would still prefer the open shelf.”

There was one other problem that some associated with the open shelf system—the transfer of communicable disease.  On November 11, 1897 Dr. John S. Billings, the director of the New York Public Library spoke in the Jackson Square Library regarding “The Disinfection of Books.”   Among his comments he said “At an investigation made by the State Board in Iowa three years ago it was found that six cases of scarlet fever were undoubtedly communicated through circulating library books.  Other diseases may be communicated in the same way.  There is not much danger o this from the edges of cards, although they are foul and filthy, and undoubtedly filled with bacteria.”

Dr. Billings presented the problem of disinfecting books.  Heat could not be used, since sufficient heat would destroy the bindings and pages; and applying chemicals was equally counter-productive.  “We cannot apply a solution of corrosive sublimate or zinc chloride.  The fumes of burning sulphur are both inadequate and undesireable.”

Instead he suggested placing the contaminated book under a bell jar with a saucer of formaline.  Although apparently effective it was a labor- and time-consuming process.  Nevertheless, nearly a decade later the fears of Dr. Billings would manifest themselves at the Jackson Square Library.  The janitor and his family lived in the building and in January 1908 his son fell ill with scarlet fever.

The library was shut down indefinitely.  When asked how long the building would be closed, Dr. Billings told reporters “That depends on the physician in charge of the case.  As soon as he orders the patient removed the building will be fumigated and opened.”  The New-York Tribune sympathized with the neighborhood readers.  “In the mean time the book lovers who patronize that institution will have to walk a half-mile or more to the nearest branches of the New York Library, on Leroy and West 23^d streets.”

A few years earlier, in 1904, William Howe Tolman in his “The Better New York” praised the Jackson Square Library.  “It circulates about 126,00 volumes a year, and its cheerful reading room is filled day and evening with more than a hundred readers.  An interesting feature to be noticed upon entering the main library is the glass-covered cases against the wall, where are placed clippings from the illustrated papers of the day, depicting subjects which are interesting to people of New York at the time.  This is done weekly to create interest in current events, and after looking at the pictures anyone can consult the librarians as to proper reading in connection with each subject.  To help the musically inclined in the study of operas presented at the Metropolitan Opera House during the season, scores are lent for a period of three days each.”

The effectiveness of the library was in part enough to prompt a Department of Finance investigative committee to push for discontinuance of city support of a nearby recreation center.  That same year it reported “As to the library feature, there is no reason whatever for its existence in this centre, as the Jackson Square Branch of the New York Public Library…is in the same block and meets all the needs of the community in this respect.  This library is open in the evening until 9 o’clock and is well patronized by the young people.”

By the Great Depression the Library had lost its ornamental weathervane -- photograph NYPL Collection

The innovative programs, like the current events boards, continued throughout first half of the 20^th century.  Art displays were a regular event.  In 1951 there were an exhibition of drawings of pre-war Korea by a young Korean student and artist, Sam-Kih Min; and another of artwork by Turkish school children.  In the 1950s “story-hour” entranced children as story books were read aloud.

The library building gained a replacement weather vane in the renovations.

Then in 1961 in order to save the marvelous Jefferson Market Courthouse, plans were laid restore and convert that building to a library.  While the proposal would save the threatened landmark, it would mark the end of the line for the Jackson Square Library.   Richard Morris Hunt’s Dutch fantasy sat empty until artist Robert Delford Brown purchased it in 1967 for $125,000 as his residence and headquarters for his First National Church of the Exquisite Panic, Inc.   In 1970 an interior renovation by Paul Marvin Rudolph, among the world’s preeminent modernist architects, was completed.   “The AIA Guide to New York City” said of the completed project, “Brown and Rudolph’s conversion was a thoughtful, subtle endeavor, carving light-filled spaces from the dark masonry rooms within the old library.”

The New York Times was less appreciative.  Nancy Hass, thirty years later on March 2, 2000, said “The formal front doors and a chunk of the ground floor had been hacked away in a renovation of shocking proportions.  In their place was a rubble-strewn gated courtyard that dropped off sharply in the center, where a metal stairway led to an exposed basement.  The house seemed to cantilever precariously above the sidewalk.”

Brown affixed a plaque to the façade “The Great Building Crack-Up.”  Inside, Rudolph’s interiors reflected his genius at melding light and lines into spacial geometry and visual cohesion.  (Nancy Hass preferred the term “zany pad.”)

It would not last all that long, however.  Around 1995 television writer Tom Fontana discovered and purchased the now-available building.   Having paid about just under $2 million for the structure, he then nearly doubled the cost by having Paul Rudolph’s work obliterated.  New York Magazine, in 1997, called the process “de-geniusing it.”

The vaulted glass ceiling, seen above in the Adult Reading Room, was painting over during WWII.  Bentley painstakingly removed the paint and restored the ceiling.  photo NYPL Collection

Fontana, who told The Times “the place was ridiculous,” commissioned architect Ron Bentley to redesign the interiors.  In the annihilation of the Rudolph design, Bentley fashioned an upscale single family residence on the two upper floors.  Fontana’s offices were installed in the lower two stories where Rudolph’s single surviving feature, the entrance, remains.

non-historic photographs taken by the author