[MARKER TO THE 'MADDEST OF GOOD MEN']

For Nick Bucci rationality has its limits. Far from a sleight, this is an adequate description of his epistomological way. “Are you interested in the magic?” he asked me last week at the Tercentennial of the settlement of the 17th century mystic and Pietist botanist, astronomer, poet, agriculturalist, and sometime composer, Johannes Kelpius. Bucci, a polymath himself, approaches the human, natural and supernatural occurrences in these steep shady declivities of the Wissahickon with the kind of holistic, analytical mode that would would have endeared him to Kelpius’s band. A woodworker and stonemason who restores old homes, Bucci sees no artificial division between the watershed’s past inhabitants and the seekers of today. The magic, or holiness, preceded Kelpius — but evidence of its presence is still plainly visible — or sensible.

In his rambles through the Park, Bucci has witnessed the magic. He has noted the appearance of large well-built cairns of rock at various locations. “This isn’t a bunch of kids drinking root beer and looking at nudy mags,” he says. Asked if he’s looked into locating the alchemy stone Kelpius reputedly threw into the confluence of the Schuylkill and the Wissahickon, Bucci told us he knew a guy with underwater detection gear. And that was only half of it. While some know that when the box containing the stone slipped beneath and lightning rent the sky and thunder pealed for hours — very few know that Kelpius was also given the staff of the band’s first founder. This, too, remains to be found.

[NICK BUCCI]

Other members of the Kelpius Society of Philadelphia, a fiesty band of Kelpius enthusiasts dedicated to the investigation of the man and his short-lived commune, want to solidify the sacred link between the place and the memory of the Community. For architect and vice president of the society’s site reclamation committee, Alvin Holm, their very choice to situate the community in a glen some five miles outside the New World city of Philadelphia was freighted with symbolism. Reading scripture with immense trust and deference, Kelpius and his followers were captivated by the Biblical Philadelphia: that blameless city spared by God in the Book of Revelation.

As a Pietist band, they wanted to escape the supposed decadence of Lutheranism and create a community dedicated to the improvement of the individual Christian. But despite their presumption of human perfectibility, Kelpius and his band were pessimistic about the continued existence of a savage world. Kelpius, an academic from Transylvania who received a doctorate in philosophy at the age of 16, became obsessed with preparing for the eschaton. Learned in astronomy, botany, mathematics, and the rites of Rosicrucianism, Kelpius believed the natural world revealed and reinforced the essential truths of scripture. Thus, he had constructed a forty foot ark along the fortieth parallel to bring scripture and natural truth into better correspondence. While most of Europe began detaching the mechanics of the natural world from the received truths of religion and tradition, Kelpius and the German mystics like Jakob Bohme and Johann Jacob Zimmerman, (first leader of Kelpius’s band) used modern science to confirm their devotion and better understand God’s disposition toward mankind.

[MYSTIC PRACTICING SORCERY]

For Kelpius and his band, operating within a heady matrix of signs, symbols, spirit, and scripture, the world was constantly revealing the way of Christian rectitude. By positioning yourself properly within nature, one could find God’s favor. Far from strict Lutheranism which branded them heretical, Kelpius and his band could adopt a more liberal approach to truth in the wilds of Pennsylvania. According to Holm, with their knowledge of astronomy and their toleration of pagan worship, Kelpius and his community immediately paid honor to the summer solstice on the “fire hill” at Faire mount upon arriving in 1694. Though the dour Quakers probably shunned the roguish spectacle, Holm argues that the Swedes — with their rich rural tradition — probably performed a syncretic solstice festival, borrowing heavily from the Lenape. It was not unknown to Kelpius and his followers that approximately six months from the summer solstice, Jesus was reported to have been born.

Architect Alvin Holm wants physically represent Kelpius’s preoccupation with seeing typologies of scripture in nature. As head of the site reclamation committee, Holm looks to restore the communal complex, at the center of which will be the True North plinth. Every summer, the faithful will gather around the plinth and by marking the sun’s shadow 20 minutes before and after the summer solstice, they will know true north.

[TRUE NORTH]

[THE HOLM PLAN FOR THE KELPIUS COMMUNITY'S COMPLEX]

As the ceremony on the fire hill waned, Kelpius and his some 40 followers probably made their way up the Ridge Road or by the Schuylkill and Wissahickon to an area between two toes of land on the west side of the Wissahickon, now just south of the Henry Ave. Bridge. The commune’s dwellings were spatially segregated according to function — communal and utilitarian buildings were placed on the ridge of the hill while individual caves for personal reflection spread all along the small horseshoe-shaped depression. While the community attempted to establish crops, orchards, and gardens in the schisty soil on the ridge, followers met in the main church or meetinghouse to share in song or, perhaps, hear Kelpius speak on his soul’s transcendence after death, or the immanent destruction of the sinful world. While little remains of the original site, Kelpius’s passionate and moving songs do remain. Some like I Love My Jesus Quite Alone reveal the mystic’s reliance on the symbolism of astronomy — “The magnet needle erring goes / When from, when from the pole distracted,” while others personify the soul’s seeking of God as a lusty, romantic pursuit.

After showing us tables filled with herb jars, “potions,” Catholic religious figures, 18th century woodworking implements and replicas of weapons used in the battle of Germantown, Nick, Alvin, some Society members descended the steep hill off Hermit Lane. Nick had thoughtfully brought rope, though none of our party needed it. Nick is down near the cave often, cleaning the marker of its near-perpetual patina of graffiti. Arriving at the marker, one is overwhelmed with the sheer implausibility that this is it. It looks like a 20th century structure, maybe a springhouse converted into the shrine. Incredulous, I ask Holm if this is the real cave. Coming into the blackness, Holm looks distractedly, almost annoyedly, up the hill to our right. “This is where The Cave is. It’s probably up the hill.” In this world where Kelpius practiced “Weird as a wizard, over arts forbid” where seen and unseen so happily coexist, Holm’s answer seemed appropriate.

Posters on this site have left comments about idyllic days spent in pre-redevelopment Eastwick. These are some concrete remains of this anomalously interracial community: a church known recently as the St. Paul AME and a two story single-family home on the opposite sides of now-defunct 86th St. and Bartram Ave. Much of the grid system of pre-1950s Eastwick has been obliterated, the untended roads end abruptly or continue into abandoned lowland fields as rutted paths.

Both are located here:

View Larger Map

[St. Paul AME Church -- in 1942 known as the Eastwick Church, built in 1928 by S.J. Jones]

[Builder's stone, St. Paul's AME]

[8608 Bartram Ave.]

More to come.

PGW_From_Passyunk_Ave_Bridge

Taken with a Nikon L35 AF and developed via GIMP.

See this earlier post for more on the Philadelphia Gas Works at Point Breeze.

Follow the jump to see more pictures.

(more…)

[H.P.F.S. PUMPING STATION -- DELAWARE AVE. AND RACE ST.]

On March 17, 1900 Philadelphia’s center city business elites balked at the news that two New York fire insurance companies, the Home Insurance Company of New York and the Williamsburg City Insurance Company were instructing their underwriters to stop issuing fire insurance policies to Philadelphia businesses situated in an ominously named “conflagration district”: the area from Broad to the Delaware, Arch to Chestnut Sts. It was usual for late nineteenth century fire insurance companies trying to limit unnecessary exposure and most firms acted collaboratively and shared information about known risk while setting rigid rates which were seldom undersold. Thus, the Home Insurance and Williamsburg City Insurance companies were emboldened by the Weed and Kennedy Company’s attempt to discontinue policies in the “conflagration district.” But its Philadelphia agents mutinied, refused to cut off its clients, and severed ties to the New York office.

(more…)

[excerpted from "A New Look at Public Housing": A Summary of the Report of the Committee on Public Housing Policy, Basic Policies for Public Housing for Low Income Families in Philadelphia, 1957, p. 2]

“New projects should be primarily of row houses rather than elevator buildings in order to provide children with yard space, prepare families for eventual home ownership, and provide more of the four and five bedroom units needed by Philadelphia’s families.  While accepting elevator apartments for single persons and families with no children, the Committee notes that ‘experience in Philadelphia has been that elevator apartments have been used to achieve high densities without undue land coverage but with resulting project and neighborhood congestion’ and goes on to say that ‘it would be preferable to build no public housing projects at all rather than to construct project that increase the density of an already congested area.’ The Committee advocates more flexibility in federal regulations regarding the ratio of land cost to total project to make low density, row house developments possible in cleared areas.” (emphasis added)

[excerpted from Twenty Years of Service: The Story of Public Housing in Philadelphia, 1937-1957, p. 26]

“The large developments made possible a new kind of neighborhood planning, better adapted to the automobile age than the gridiron street system–that is, better for the person living or walking in the neighborhood.  Among the most attractive blocks in Philadelphia are those with almost no through traffic. Large block planning also attempts to have convenient service roads going into the neighborhood.  Through traffic, however, is encouraged to pass by on the outside.  The resulting increase in livability is obvious.  Automobiles are often described as one of the chief villains of blight. As traffic increases, there is a sharp increase in problems of danger, noise and irritation and lack of parking space.  The planning of large blocks, such as at Schuylkill Falls, Wilson Park and Mill Creek all show what can be done to return neighborhoods to their residents.

Medium sized developments have been built on one to several existing city blocks.  It is economical not to change existing street and utility patterns, at least in the short run. Such housing developments have added attractive open space, interior parking, safe small play yards within the existing blocks, and the usual accompaniments of improved housing, safety, adequate light and air, good room sizes and the prevention of overcrowding.  Harrison Plaza, Mill Creek and Hawthorne Square are good examples of fitting the medium sized development into existing street patterns.”

[From "Comparative Drawings of Skyscrapers and Vertical Object," Perspecta, Vol. 18 (1982), pp. 152-169]

This thing of disdain for the new, this “instinct of disparagement” that Philadelphian Owen Wister observed was the hallmark of the Quaker City has reared its head yet again in regard to our new endeavor to build with giantism. The impulse towards negativity, aside from the the boosters who see Philadelphia as a new Klang Valley, is itself disparaged without its fair shake. What is this comforting embrace of “it will never happen”; what is its social function in a city brimming with those not burdened by the yoke of “not” all ready to shake off the poor civic instinct of its inhabitants? And what of this deflection towards the negative causes us to engage in the exasperated pursuit of massivity for our skyline?

Since Philadelphia was birthed, the deference to a lowly anti-establishment Quaker tradition has been maligned as the signal cause of our backwardness–as if this impulse persists through time without corruption or dilution. True, we no longer wear the dour brown brims of our Quaker ancestors, but we’ve had their disdain for the world solidified by deindustrialization, crime, population loss and the Billy King-era Sixers. All this is to say is that there’s a tremendous weight of disappointment that blankets this city; whether it has its origins in the Welcome or in the catastrophes of the 20th is beyond my ability to tell. But by all accounts the “cloistered and oystered”, sometimes repressive and anti-intellectual City of Philadelphia was sui generis if frozen in amber: the city having no equal in the aspirational history of the country at large.

The city was especially deficient in its vertical aspirations. For most of the 20th c., this was partly accountably to the absolute lack of need for centralized commercial office space. The dispersion of Philadelphia’s industrial might over a wide area, [despite the textile industry which united at the Bourse] meant that business didn’t need to rely on a coordinated, technologically-connected white collar management sector. Outside of a few major firms, business could be conducted at the firm with the communication technology available. Structures like the Jayne Building at 238 Chestnut Street, which topped out at eight stories, sufficed for Philadelphia. Commercial firms like Wanamaker’s and Gimbels grew tall–but only so tall to draw patrons and supply their needs quickly. And of course there was City Hall, a building whose patron looked down beneficently on the most mismanaged city in the Union for most of its institutional life.

At the turn of the 20th century Philadelphia, with its wide industrial dispersion was a vertically challenged city, but not ashamed. As the chronicler of high Philadelphia Nathaniel Burt exclaimed upon viewing his home from a train on the connecting railroad bridge, “Thar she blows, a fresh water whale wedged up on the silt between two dirty rivers, America’s most inland (and second largest) seaport, at first glance forbidding, perhaps, but scarcely anything as romantic as a Forbidden City — still America’s fourth largest, a huge, sprawling dirty Industrial Fact that would seem to have nothing to do with shining princesses and magic towers.”

But Philadelphia would have something to do with magic towers in the teens and effervescent 20s: the Gothic Robert Morris Building in 1914-15; in 1928 The Drake poke its sun-drenched terra-cotta opulence above the heads of proper Philadelphia and in 1932 Howe and Lescaze implanted their experiment in the International Style at 12th and Market. Yet for 30 years, while other cities built in the depths of the Depression, Philadelphia chose, contentedly, to leave the PSFS as its signature.

This, of course, led to the sad skyline that Burt observed from a grimy rail car:

Certainly the first impact is not anything slim, tall or shining: rather the exact opposite, a wide flat dinginess, for above all Philadelphia is big and flat and drab.

Much of the obsession with finding the origins of the “Gentleman’s Agreement” seeks to blame someone for this repression. There’s another story that says Edmund Bacon had much to do with it. All of this starts with the premise, however, that Philadelphia was bucking to show its worth, to compete with the world in the cosmetic contest and prove its importance as a deindustrializing city on the make and someone held us back until 1987. All of this ignores that without anything binding anyone, the city neither needed nor wanted the kind of generic grandiosity that has made the city’s skyline no different than the blandest facsimilies of any upstart city with something to prove. There’s a lot to be said for what tall buildings mean to business, and for what municipal governments think business prefers about a skyscraper-strewn skyline. Some of the best analysis in explaining the meaning and allure of tall corporate office buildings has yielded that these structures try to drape corporate culture in “a false history, an authenticity linked to notions of authorship and authority.”

For a city that has never needed skyscrapers nor a need to falsely historicize itself, the coming of the tall building in Philadelphia meant that auslander designers could imprint anything on the grid and hence the arrival of One Liberty Place: an attempt to class-up Philadelphia with a diluted postmodern copy of the Chrysler Building. A creation of the world-traveled Helmut Jahn, the New York Times architecture critic Paul Goldberger called it “less a new kind of skyscraper than it is a homage, in up-to-the-minute materials, to the most beloved tower of the most exuberant period of the American skyscraper.”

But our ersatz Chrysler Building was better than the myth of a unified skyline under Billy’s brim since a private building offering hope was preferable to a City Hall bankrupt of all its high-mindedness. For a city late to the skyscraper game, there is little but exuberance guiding our upward thrust. From a bland Comcast Center that offers nothing but a focal point for our homeward eye to the new American Commerce Center that seeks to compete with our unseen foes in Kuala Lumpur, Taiwan, Dubai, and New York, Philadelphia seems to be competing for the sake of competing. When brownfield sites choke the city like so many weeds and population evaporates across our borders and social chaos further whittles away our neighborhoods, building vertical office pods for a hesitant market seems ill-advised at best and at worst contributing to the growing stratification of the city.

But up until the day we break ground at 18th and Arch Sts., some will continue to fetishize the image of a skyline befitting an emirate or lust after a sense of status already ours. But if skylines do tell of making it, Philadelphia is not an arriviste city with anything to prove. There’s a sense of knowing this that goes beyond what a collection of inaccessible spaces can say. To malign those who disparage this enterprise as “Negadelphian” is to disparage what Philadelphians already know about their city. It’s the difference between depth and superficiality which this city can discern. It’s a discernment that enables us to see through the skyscraper developers’ perversion of Oscar Wilde’s witty observation that “it is only shallow people who do not judge by appearances.”

Aside from the Caleb Pusey House, the demolished Slate House, the recreated Pennsbury Manor, there are few artifacts of the built environment that have associations to William Penn. One of the most pedestrian relics bearing the imprint of the Proprietor is the Wood Street Steps, located between Front and Water Streets, on the border between Old City and the Northern Liberties.

Penn knew how his utopian religious experiment was inextricably linked to the commercial health of the City and in the late 17th century decreed that a set of steps be built on every east-west street fronting the wharfs on the Delaware. While the Wood Street Steps are not original [the Historical Commission believes they may date from the 1730s to 1780s] these are the last remaining steps of their kind in Philadelphia.

(more…)

Want to find out why the eastern abutment of the uninspiring Chestnut Street Bridge looks like a cathedral? Check out my post at Phillyhistory.org here. Above is a pretty shoddy overlay of a 1958 HAER photo onto a relatively picture of the bridge taken last April when Penndot was doing a structural investigation of the bridge. Interestingly enough, concrete from of the “new” 1956-59 bridge was failing with chunks falling on the Schuylkill Banks path. The 1866 abutment seemed to be holding up.

[DEMOLITION OF KNEASS'S 1866 BRIDGE, 1957-58 FROM HABS]

One of the issues that I wanted to clarify in the Phillyhistory.org piece was that the Expressway and increased traffic both conspired against Kneass’s bridge and led to its demise. According to a Streets Department publication, Paving the Way from 1956-59, that while most of the bridge rehab projects “were directly connected with expressway construction”… “considerable emphasis was given to the replacement of existing spans unable to handle today’s traffic volumes. Structures like those on Chestnut St…..”

Follow the jump for photos of the Penndot bridge inspection and the offending concrete.

(more…)