New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009 by Teresa Carpenter
Archive for the ‘Blog’ Category
Under the Dome
I received this recently as a re-tweet from the NYPL. What a beauty! It’s a rare daguerreotype of the interior of New York’s long-since-destroyed Crystal Palace. The “Palace” was a fabulously surreal structure erected as part of New York’s 1853 Exhibition of the Industry of All Nations. London had thrown its own Great Exhibition three years earlier. The hall of wonders was an enormous “Crystal Palace” gracing Hyde Park. The British fair’s impressive display of art and manufactured goods was so successful that the capitals of Europe and New York City followed suit. The city fathers of New York apparently wanted to erect their own palace, smaller and less expensive than the English model, but one that was nonetheless gasp-worthy. So on the site of what is now Bryant Park they installed a delicate confection of cast iron and glass. The palace dome, over sixty feet high, was supported by twenty-four iron columns set with over thirty enameled and finely-etched panes. The finished structure contained roughly 10,000 of these translucent panels.
When the building opened July 30, 1853, reviews were enthusiastic. Some commentators found the edifice mystical, a modern Xanadu. Walt Whitman hailed it in poetry as “a place loftier, fairer, ampler than any yet.” Even Mark Twain rhapsodized, “’Tis a perfect fairy palace – beautiful beyond description.”
Others were skeptical. George Templeton Strong recorded in his diary entry of June 18, 1854 that he had attended a “Musical Congress” at the Palace and the circus-like extravaganza, produced by P. T. Barnum, was “one of the grandest humbugs on record.”
The crowd was enormous. It is estimated at fifteen thousand by some and forty thousand by others. I’ve no opinion at all as to the accuracy of either estimate. But for some time after taking our seats, I was seriously exercised about the possibility of falling galleries and panic-stricken multitudes and was tempted to evacuate the building at once…
The Palace was, indeed, too fragile to support human traffic. Although its architects boasted that it was fire-proof, that proposition was laid to waste in October of 1858 when a blaze that began in a lumber room raced through the flimsy structure, causing the dome to explode in just twelve minutes. The entire Palace fell in twenty-one. (You can read Strong’s account of the disaster in his entry on page 325 of New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009.)
Miraculously, all 2,000 visitors inside got out alive.
The daguerreotype, owned by the New-York Historical Society, is identified only as having been taken by an unknown photographer during the mid-1850’s. This was most certainly l854 or thereafter since the statuary shown here was introduced during a “renovation” that year. The central figure is called the “Genius of America” inspired by a figure on the pediment of the U.S. Capitol building. Beyond her, you can see a full-length statue of George Washington, flanked on either side by Eve After the Fall, and Adam and Eve after the Fall.
The lithograph below shows the original rotunda when the fair opened in l853. Occupying the central position at that time was the equestrian statue of George Washington.
Thank you New York Public Library, New-York Historical Society, Wikipedia and Tumblr.
Now, Chorister
High on my list of summer reads? Stacy Horn’s Imperfect Harmony: Finding Happiness Singing with Others.
The behind-the-scenes-experiences of a Greenwich Village chorister. Absolutely fascinating! (I didn’t know what to call that fragment of music that goes round and round in your head for days. It’s a “brain worm.”)
Imperfect Harmony is the memoir of a single woman, who, troubled in life and love, finds two precious hours of joy each week singing with one of the world’s most demanding amateur choirs,
The Choral Society of New York’s Grace Church. She describes how the experience creates a sense of the physical body falling away – possibly due to the release of endorphins, dopamine, prolactin and oxycotin — and a feeling of literally merging with other humans. For a chorus, a performance is magnificently more than the sum of its parts. The effect is transcendence.
Imperfect is never self-important and much of it is touching and out-and-out hilarious. After singing about death (apparently sad oeuvres release empathy hormones), Stacy is overwhelmed by the plight of a pigeon dying in a gutter. She scoops it up in a box and takes it home, and then Googles “pigeon rescue New York.” Bingo. She connects with a “pigeon first responder, who turned out to be B-movie actress and Fifties pin-up girl Meg Myles, star of Satan in High Heels.” (The pigeon recovers and is packed off to a sanctuary.)
One passage I found particularly wonderful as it evokes so vividly the Village neighborhood in which it is set.
To get to Grace Church, I walk east on Eleventh Street from Seventh Avenue to Broadway. It’s a lovely walk that I’ve taken more than a thousand times. Some city streets are gray or brown but this particular stretch is a magical mystery tour of color, even at twilight. Nature and humanity have had a couple hundred years to settle into a luscious coexistence on these four blocks, and it’s like walking through a friendly forest that has been peacefully settled by people. In the spring and summer, boxes of brilliant flowers and strange plants crowd almost every apartment window, some with leaves so large they look tropical. Clover, wood-sorrel, crab grass, and violets sprout from the sidewalk cracks that are off to the side, and there’s always a sweet perfume that comes from either wisteria, pine or honeysuckle. Steam rises from the manholes like water escaping from a pot. Branches from each side of the street reach across, forming awnings overhead whose leaves sound like hundreds of tiny drums whenever it rains. In the winter, holiday decorations pick up where nature leaves off and the color comes from tasteful wreathes hanging on the windows and doors, and gates, railings and balustrades.
Rehearsals are every Tuesday evening from 7:15 to 9:30, so this is a walk I take at night, when my view is lit by the moon, street lamps and whatever light filters out from the first-floor parlor windows. It’s a very wealthy part of town and it shows. Sometimes I feel like the Little Match Girl as I pass by, forever on the outside, catching glimpses through lace curtains of the enchanting lives in the small palaces of glimmering chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling bookcases, and grand pianos In one window is a small sad painting of a gerbil with lettering that reads: In memory of Mr. Pokey, 2001-2003. In another is Paddington Bear. For as long as I can remember that bear has stood in the window, looking out, his outfit regularly changing with the seasons. It’s the beginning of January now, and he’s dressed in a top hat and tails, as if he’s making the party rounds…
The last two blocks before I get to Grace Church are filled with antique shops. I never once stopped inside any of them and I probably never will. The splendid gilded tables and French country armoires are much too grand for me. The very last block is relatively barren, the vegetation tapers off, and a parking garage takes up almost a third of the south side of the street. And then I come to Broadway.
Note: Stacy had an indispensable role in the publication of New York Diaries: 1609 to 2009. You’ll find photos of her below under “Happy Anniversary.”
