There are two kinds of lines in New York: the line for the latest must-have item (cronuts, tickets to Book of Mormon, the latest iPhone) and dreaded transit lines (trains, airport security, elevators). In fact, an IBM study indicated that New York office workers spent a total of 22.5 years in 2010 waiting for–or stuck in–an elevator. If time is money–and it usually is–then elevator travel in large buildings can be expensive. “Smart” elevators, such as the Schindler Elevator Company’s Miconic 10, clusters passengers based on similar destinations to cut travel time by an average of 50 percent. The passengers first enter in their desired floor as they approach the elevators. The keypad sorts them into groups of similar destinations and assigns specific elevators to each passenger. So passengers going to floors 26, 28 and 32 would be assigned one elevator, while passengers who keyed in floors 50, 54 and 55 would take another. In cases when every second is necessary, the Schindler elevators can also detect employees via their ID badges.
On the way down, full elevators skip floors to minimize wasted stops. The Miconic monitors each car’s current weight, and ceases to make stops once the weight passes a certain limit. The system also tracks traffic patterns and remembers the most frequently called floors. The decrease in trips preserves equipment longer as well.
“It’s like taking a limousine rather than a bus,” Schindler president of North American Operations Scott Stadelman said in 2006.
While the smart elevator is designed to be intuitive, smart technology always takes some adjustment. In the Miconic 10, there’s no need for buttons, which may feel counterintuitive for first-time users.
As of 2006, the Miconic had been installed in over 200 New York buildings, including Hearst Tower and the New York Marriott Marquis Hotel. With the average elevator wait cut from three minutes to just under a minute, it looks like New Yorkers have freed a few years of their schedule–so they can wait on line for more worthwhile things, like Umami Burger.
ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES UNTAPPED NEW YORK JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
FROM OUR READERS:
I appreciated your Historical review of Elevators untill Myrita just called from Motorgate where she was with a heavy bag and two dead , inoperative elevators !! Have we come very far ? Where is Mr. Otis when you need him ?? Ross Wollen
As a kid growing up in New York City (and one who LOVED elevators!),
I was fascinated by the variety and opulence of our elevators. To begin with,
most elevators had operators. Whether at Lord and Taylor or my parent’s
friends apartment building on East 59th Street, an attendant — quite often in
uniform – was present to preside over the ride. And the equipment had endless
variety: At Masters – a department store in Flushing, Queens – the operator not
only made the car move with an elaborate brass handle, but he physically had
to open both an interior gate and an exterior door, by hand. At Bloomingdale’s
the bank of cars also had gates but the operator merely started the motion of
the car and it miraculously travelled to the next floor, glided to a
smooth stop and the doors opened by themselves, AUTOMATICALLY!
My father owned a fine watch and it required repair. The facility was in the brand-new Seagram’s building on Park Avenue on one of the top floors. I came along (in 1959?) and experienced my first self-service high speed ride. How fast? Dad said when the car slowed down and landed near the top of the building, his “body and soul separated”.
At Sak’s Fifth Avenue, the operators were provided with cards, which
went into a little slot above their control panel. Each said the person’s name:
“Operator: Miss Jones”. At Saks 34th Street, the line of elevators stood behind a three story wrought-iron facing,
and one could stand anywhere on the regal first floor and watch the cars sail upstairs silently and majestically.
At Macy’s. sometime during the sixties, the store began replacing the original elevators with self-service models — but, astonishingly, they TALKED. A
recorded voice – female -would pour from a loudspeaker in the new, modern interior and say “Arriving fifth floor. Going Down”. The express cars even had a little commercial, which played while you rode from floor one to seven: “This is Macy’s – the world’s largest store – Arriving Seventh Floor. Going Up”.
Elevators in New York were made by dozens of manufacturers, and the names were prominently displayed. Of course Otis and Westinghouse cars were everywhere but so were machines by Armour, Serge, A-B-See, Turnbull, Plunger … and Watson. Watson elevators were of particular interest to me because they would show up in little buildings – a two story medical office or small store or bank. They were small, with a three to four person capacity. I guess, being small myself, they were kind of like toys and I probably would have liked to take one home.
The Watsons were, of course, self-service. But as I mentioned earlier, most elevators in our city were in the hands of operators. It was sad, as the sixties progressed , to watch the operators disappear. Often, a “relationship” developed between operator and passenger, particularly in an office or residential building. My first Manhattan job was in Rockefeller Center and, even in the 70’s, many of the elevators still had uniformed men running them. “Good morning, Mr. Ludwig”, they would say. “How was the weekend?” One didn’t say a floor; they knew where you were going. Alas, that mechanical voice on the new Macy’s cars just wasn’t the same….
guy ludwig
warren, vermont
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Elevators were first created in 236 BC and have evolved over the years from hand-operated creations known as flying chairs to electronically powered stainless steel boxes. New York City alone contains 70,000 of the world’s elevators, according to the Department of Buildings. A look at the historic elevators in this city tells a fascinating story of technological advancements and urban development.
Elevator in the E. V. Haughwout & Company Building, 488-492 Broadway in 1970. Courtesy of the Library of Congress. Photographer: Cervin Robinson
Elisha Graves Otis is the man credited with the creation of the modern elevator. Otis presented his safety passenger elevator inside the Crystal Palace at the Exhibition of Industry of All Nations, New York City’s very first World’s Fair, in 1853. Spectators were immediately impressed. It didn’t take long for the new technology to be adopted.Passenger elevators were thoroughly needed in the city. Before the introduction of Otis’ safety brake, there existed “hoisting elevators,” which were platforms elevated by manpower. These inventions were dangerous and susceptible to cord snapping. Otis perfected a new design, finding his first client, E.V Haughwout, after the Convention.
Haughwout hired Otis to install a passenger elevator in his luxury store, lifting clients to discover the various departments spread throughout the 5-floor building. The first elevator opened in New York City in 1857 at E. V. Haughwout’s department store on the corner of Broadway and Broome Street in SoHo.The steam-powered elevator cost $300 to install and traveled under 0.5mph. What seems ordinary to us now was revolutionary then. The grand opening of the store on March 23rd, 1857 drew thousands of curious New Yorkers, but the press made few mentions of the elevator. In From Ascending Rooms to Express Elevators: A History of the Passenger Elevator in the 19th Century, author Lee Edward Gray notes that there was only a brief mention in The New York Tribune.
The installation of a passenger elevator inside the Fifth Avenue Hotel, which opened in 1859, made a bigger splash. In 1870, the Equitable Life Assurance Building was the first office building to install passenger elevators- a revolutionary development in the world of urban business.
Before the creation of elevators graced New York, buildings in the city were limited to the height that people were willing to climb via stairs – about 6 stories. The upper floors were usually servant’s quarters due to the hassle of reaching them.
Once the elevator was implemented in New York, it was still rather difficult for building owners to convince their tenants to live on the upper floors. The previous stigma of high floors being for poorer residents prevailed for a long time. This stigma began to fade away in the 1920s when luxury apartment buildings with top-floor penthouses became desirable.
This new attitude towards living higher in the air was largely led by architect Emery Roth’s Ritz Tower on Park Avenue, completed in 1926. At 41 stories, it was the largest residential building at the time. The setback upper floors were lined with terraces. Roth followed this building with other tall apartment complexes including The San Remo and the Beresford, with upper floors boasting views of Central Park, another perk of being higher off the ground.
Penthouses at these luxury towers became signs of wealth as mansions of the Gilded Age were torn down. The elevator became a status symbol for wealthy city goers, the higher up and more private, the better.
Though the novelty of elevators has worn off and they have become a mundane, and necessary, part of everyday life, this invention was critical to NYC’s vertical growth. New York skyscrapers touch the sky, and thanks to this handy creation, we’re able to go farther than we ever imagined.
The Floating Hospital was founded by St. John’s Guild of Trinity Church. Before the guild had enough funds to purchase its own boat, ferry rides were chartered for patients thanks to the generosity of wealthy donors. The first boat rides set sail on July 3, 1872. More than 18,000 impoverished children and caretakers enjoyed the fresh sea air and countryside picnics in that first year.
When The Floating Hospital (TFH) was established in 1866, sea air was one of the few remedies available for the poor and sick children of New York City. Founded with a mission to offer aid “without regard to creed, color, or nationality,” TFH welcomed tens of thousands of thousands of patients and their mothers onto its boats each year to escape the polluted air of New York City’s streets. From 1872 through the early 2000s, five different ships were used as floating refuges. Learn more about each ship below, and join Untapped New York Insiders for a live virtual talk with TFH’s President and General Counsel, Sean Granahan, where we’ll dive into TFH’s bountiful historical photo archive!
This virtual talk on January 31st is free for Untapped New York Insiders! Not an Insider yet? Use code JOINUS and get your first month of membership for free.
The first boat owned by TFH was a steamboat named River Belle, often referred to as The Floating Hospital of St. John’s Guild. This boat went into service for the hospital in 1875. The idea of quarantining the sick on boats was not new, however, TFH’s holistic approach was. Aboard The Floating Hospital, patients didn’t just rest and take medicine, they were part of a “health excursion that combined medical care, healthy eating, and entertainment into one experience.” Patients aboard TFH ships “enjoyed puppet shows, dancing, sing-a-longs, art classes, games, celebrity appearances, and movies” as they admired the stunning views of New York City passing by.
Photo Courtesy of The Floating Hospital
River Belle was renamed The Emma Abbot in honor of a famous opera singer and benefactor of the hospital. The next two boats were also named for a patron of the arts, Helen C. Juilliard. The Helen C. Juilliard I was launched in 1899 and was later sold to the city for use as a tuberculosis camp for children. In 1916, Helen C. Juilliard II set sail from the shipyard of the American Car Foundry Company in Wilmington, Delaware. It featured four wards, an operating room, an irrigation room, and a plant for sterilizing water, instruments, and bandages.
The fourth ship, Lloyd I Seaman, hit the waters in 1935. All of The Floating Hospital ships were built without engines. This helped to reduce vibrations and make them safer for the children on board. As a result, each vessel needed to be pulled by tugboats. The tugboat pilots and crews were an essential part of the hospital’s operations.
Photo Courtesy of The Floating Hospital
In 1977, the fifth and final boat was christened at a celebration at the South Street Seaport with New York City Mayor Abe Beame, Sandy, an Airedale from the Broadway musical Annie, and 4-year-old David Lando, the hospital’s 5 millionth passenger, in attendance. As hundreds of balloons floated into the sky, crowds cheered for The Lila Wallace, once again named after a benefactor. Lila was a publisher and philanthropist who, with her husband, DeWitt Wallace, created and published Reader’s Digest.
The Lila Wallace was decommissioned in the early 2000s and the hospital opened up a land-based facility in Long Island City. Today, The Floating Hospital continues to provide care, education, and essential supplies to New Yorkers in need. Patients of TFH can seek primary medical, dental, and behavioral healthcare services, in addition to select specialties such as optometry, podiatry, and cardiology. You can support the hospital’s mission by donating here.
Learn more about the history of the hospital and its current services in a talk with the President and General Counsel of TFH, Sean Granahan, where we’ll explore amazing photographs from the TFH photo archive!
Through the ups and downs of nearly 100 years, Coney Island’s boardwalk has been the beachfront spot for untold millions to stroll, catch some sun, meet friends, munch hot dogs, or just look out at the water. And, like all big new projects in New York City, bringing the boardwalk to life hit snags and was kicked around as a political football while its cost went up and work moved more slowly than expected.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view looking east from Municipal Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The first serious talk of building a public boardwalk came in the 1890s, when Coney Island was transitioning from a private playground for the rich – with giant fences preventing public access to the beach – to a place of fun, leisure and a little weirdness for all.
The Municipal Archives holds some 200 pictures of what was originally known as the Coney Island Boardwalk, including dozens of the construction in 1922 and 1923. Newspapers of the day, especially the old Brooklyn Daily Eagle, tell the story.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Martino’s Bath, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
While the idea of a public boardwalk was debated for years, planning didn’t begin in earnest until August of 1912. The West End Improvement League, consisting of merchants and developers, launched a campaign to build the promenade, starting a local newspaper and mailing 12,000 postcards to politicians, business owners and influencers. Although there was strong public support locally, landowners along beachfront area fought the proposal bitterly and tried to find friendly lawmakers to stop it.
On October 24, 1912, the Eagle reported on the first legal salvo in the war to build a boardwalk: “State Sues to Win Back Coney Island Beach for the People,” the headline screamed. “Demands Removal of Obstructions Preventing Free Passage for Purposes of Bathing, Boating and Fishing.” The story reported that State Attorney General Thomas Carmody had filed suit against the owners of the Steeplechase Company and other landowners, claiming the beach belongs to the public and branding the fencing and barriers “a public nuisance.”
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view showing pouring of a reinforced concrete girder, July 7, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
A lawyer for the owners, claimed they had a legal right to the beachfront land and said, “…we certainly intend to fight the state’s claim to the finish.” The “finish” came rather quickly: A judge upheld the state’s claim in 1913 and the Court of Appeals affirmed it in 1916.
Political wrangling in the State Legislature delayed progress for several years, but on August 22, 1920, The Brooklyn Eagle optimistically reported: “Coney Island Boardwalk to be Completed by 1921.” Brooklyn Borough President Edward Riegelmann, an “energetic booster” of the plan had laid out details earlier that month.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, general view, looking west from Municipal Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
Riegelmann, who some dubbed the “Father of the Boardwalk,” said it would be 80 feet wide and two miles long running from Ocean Parkway to Sea Gate. He estimated the boardwalk would be built at a cost of $4 million (more than $50 million today). It would use 1.7 million cubic yards of sand, 110,000 tons of stone, and 7,700 cubic yards of reinforced concrete. Workers would build 16 rock jetties spaced 600 feet apart to protect the boardwalk from violent waves, while others drove 28-foot-long piles 19 feet deep into the sand. But the political wrangling continued even before the first shovel hit the ground. On Jan 6, 1921, the Eagle reported that the plan had hit “a $7 million snag,” the amount the owners claimed they would lose in property values – perhaps the first sign that the boardwalk would not be completed in 1921.
Boardwalk, Coney Island general view, looking east from Martino’s Bath, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives
Five months later, a fight erupted over whether to use timber or concrete for boardwalk supports. Advocates for the use of concrete argued that wood would not be “permanent” and would have to be replaced or shored up from time-to-time. Wood supporters argued that concrete was much more expensive than creosoted timber and noted that wooden trestles under the LIRR’s Jamaica route were still in good condition after many years and that the first concrete-supported Santa Monica Pier had “gone to pieces” in just a few years. Concrete won the day.
Undeterred by the delays, a long story in the July 3, 1921 edition of the Brooklyn Eagle breathlessly – though erroneously – reported: “Coney Island is to Replace Atlantic City as Society’s Playground, is Prediction.” The story began: “If the prediction of the Coney Island Boardwalk enthusiasts should be verified in the not distant future, the sad waves will murmur ‘Good night’ to Atlantic City and gently rock that out-of-date seaside resort to sleep … Good-bye hot dog; Good-bye chamber of horrors; Good-bye museums of monstrosities …”
Boardwalk, Coney Island hauling floor beams to the top of the walk by tractor, August 4, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
Boardwalk construction finally began in 1922, with wooden planks in a chevron pattern atop the concrete and steel bearings. The first section, from Ocean Parkway to West 5th Street, opened to the public in October 1922. The second section, from West 5th Street to West 17th Street, opened with pomp and a ribbon-cutting on Christmas Eve of 1922 attended by Borough President Reigelmann and thousands of celebrants.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, Borough President Riegelmann opening the Boardwalk between West 5th and West, December 24, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The city held a formal opening of the entire boardwalk – which was re-named the Riegelmann Boardwalk – in May 1923. Some mildly amusing controversy continued: In June 1923, the Eagle reported that 25 people plead guilty and were fined $25 each for violating a public ordinance by strolling along “only in their bathing suits.” And that August, there were complaints that mothers were bringing their children to benches on the boardwalk to eat, leaving food scraps and refuse on the boardwalk – and that amorous couples were “spooning” on the benches.
Boardwalk, Coney Island, looking northeast from Boardwalk, near West 12th Street, showing present character of buildings, September 6, 1922. Photographer: Edward E. Rutter. Borough President Brooklyn Collection. NYC Municipal Archives.
The boardwalk would be repaired many times over the years and, in 1938, under City Parks Commissioner Robert Moses, parts of it were expanded, straightened, and relocated 300 feet inland. He tried to expand it again into Manhattan Beach, but that plan was defeated.
The city declared the Riegelmann Boardwalk a landmark in 2018.
I received a call this afternoon from a NYPD Detective that the Goldwater lamps had been recovered. Apparently the scrap dealer who acquired them from the perpretrator who sold them to an antique collector/dealer who immediately recognized their value and history.
They are now secured with the dealer and insurance, a permanent home and use for them will have to be determined. This will probably take a long while.
I am thrilled that all of this came together and there will be future, though not what had ever been thought.
The condition they are in is shocking and we must imagine what can be done with them to bring them back to a useful purpose.
Thanks to NYPD, Coler Hospital Police, the un-named scrapyard dealer and Evan Blum for recovering the lamps.
Judith Berdy
FROM 1939 TO 2013 THIS WAS THE VIEW OF ONE OF THE LAMPS
AFTER RECOVERY All the glass lenses were broken out of the lamps Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts
This base is intact Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts
The lamps were just thrown in a truck, junk to some, artifacts to us. Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts
The dealer who has the lamps tells me that they can be restored.. Part of the finial is visible on the floor. Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts
The base plate from one lamp.
Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts
THE GOLDWATER LAMPS
FROM 1939 TO 2013 SIX BRONZE LAMPS GRACED THE ENTRANCE TO GOLDWATER.
THE FULLY FUNCTIONED UNTIL THE DAY THEY WERE DISCONNECTED,
ON A GRACEFUL PLYMTH THE LAMPS WERE IMPRESSIVE
TYPICAL OF PUBLIC ARCHITECTURE, GOLDWATER WAS THE BENEFIT OF WPA ARCHITECTURE AND DESIGN
THE MOVE NORTH
AFTER THE CLOSING OF GOLDWATER THE SIX LAMPS WERE STORED IN THE BACK YARD OF COLER. FROM WHEN I STARTED WORKING AS A VOLUNTEER AT COLER, I TRIED TO HAVE ADMINISTRATION, CLEAN UP AREA, FIND A NEW HOME AND PROTECT THE LAMPS. ONE LAMP WAS ALREADY BROKEN AND THE OTHERS JUST SAT IN SEMI-OPEN VIEW.
ON DECEMBER 26TH, FOUR WERE HAULED OFF. A TRUCK ARRIVED AND IN 20 MINUTES THE LAMPS WERE GONE. A POLICE REPORT HAS BEEN FILED, BUT SURELY THESE VALUABLE LAMPS WERE AT A SCRAP DEALER THE NEXT DAY. ONE LAMP AND ONE BROKEN ONE REMAIN.
MAYBE WE WILL RESCUE THE BROKEN LAMP AND PLACE IT NEXT TO OUR OTHER ARTIFACTS BY THE KIOSK.
This is probably one of the most heartbreaking episodes in my years on the island. To see valuable historic artifacts being stolen, destroyed, ignored by so many is tragic.
What of our history be gone next? What landmark will be ignored? What building or site will not be maintained? Look around and see how our treasures are being ignored (start at the Chapel bell). Maybe 2024 will wake up RIOC and others to our fragile history.
Judith Berdy
Life Jacket Theatre Company | THE GORGEOUS
NOTHINGS
MON.FEBRUARY 12 AT 7PM
Venue: The Theater at New York Live Arts
LAST YEAR I ATTENDED A READING OF THIS DRAMA ABOUT THE GAY PRISONERS WHO WERE INCARCERATED AT THE PENITENTIARY ON WELFARE ISLAND. THIS PRODUCTION IS BASED ON TRUE STORIES, FIRST HAND ACCOUNTS, ARCHIVAL RESEARCH AND TELLS STORIES OF THOSE WHO WERE ON OUR ISLAND IN THE 1930’S.
WEDNESDAY PHOTO OF THE DAY
VIEW OF THE WORKHOUSE, LOCATED WHERE 2-4 RIVER ROAD NOW STANDS
CREDITS
ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES Demolition Depot and Irreplaceable Artifacts EVAN BLUM JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
For the Record readers may have observed articles are frequently illustrated with images copied from Valentine’s Manuals. Published annually between 1841 and 1870 (except 1867), and formally titled, Manuals of the Corporation of the City of New York, these volumes are a familiar source for information about municipal government, and particularly, graphic depictions of “old New York.”
Less well known is the related volume titled A General Index to The Manuals of the Corporation of the City of New York 1841-1870. First published in 1900 and 1906, and reprinted in 1981, the Index not only lists (and indexes) all of the plates, maps, plans, and facsimile letters and documents, and their locations, in the Manuals, but also includes an introduction with biographical information about the Manual compiler, David T. Valentine. The Municipal Library holds both the Index and copies of the Manuals.
Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1864, NYC Municipal Library.
Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1859, NYC Municipal Library.
David Thomas Valentine, “our city’s chronicler,” as he was described in the Index introduction, was born in Eastchester (present-day North Bronx/Westchester County) on September 15, 1801. He became the Marine Court clerk in 1826. In 1830, the Common Council appointed him as Deputy Clerk. In 1845, he became Chief Clerk of the Council.
Broad Way from the Bowling Green, 1828, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1854, NYC Municipal Library
What immediately stands out in reading the introduction and biographical information about Valentine, is his role in preserving the city’s historical records. The Index quotes from a letter Valentine wrote in 1867 concerning the original Dutch records of the City: “They were not very attentively cared for, having been without readers for probably a century and more. No attempt had been made to translate them; and of the history of New Amsterdam . . . was not supposed to lie hidden in these dusty, unbound and forbidding volumes.”
Fulton Ferry, New York, 1853, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1864, NYC Municipal Library.
The impetus for publication of the Manuals is stated in the preface of the first (1841/42) volume: “It having been thought expedient to enlarge the substance of the City Hall Directory, as heretofore annually published, by the introduction of additional matter interesting and useful to members of the Corporation and others connected with them, the contents and form of this volume have been selected as most useful and convenient for reference.”
Thanks to Valentine, described as “a man of antiquarian tastes and imbued with civic love and pride,” and “who possessed the patience and perseverance to dig and delve among these dingy records of the past” the Manuals are much, much more than simple directories.
Nursery Establishment, Randall’s Island, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1849, NYC Municipal Library.
The first two volumes, 1841-42, and 1842-43, contain predictable information, e.g. the names of all officials, standing committees of the Board of Aldermen and Assistant Aldermen, the Board of Supervisors, Board of Health, courts, etc. There is also helpful information about ferry schedules, hackney coach rates, the value of real and personal property in the city, and other data.
Central Park, The Terrace, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1864, NYC Municipal Library.
Beginning with the third volume, 1844-45, however, Valentine began inserting historical data, extracts from old newspapers, transcripts of early records, as well as lithographed illustrations. In the preface to the 1845/46 Manual, Valentine wrote“…in the selection of materials the Compiler flatters himself that he has bestowed unusual care, and has diligently explored the civic records and annals of our Municipal Government from the earliest period, he fully believes that he has rescued many facts and interesting documents from oblivion, to which they were hastening down the stream of time.”
Brooks Clothing Store, Catharine St., NY, 1845, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1864, NYC Municipal Library.
As described in the Index, Valentine “appears to have unearthed nearly every painting, print, drawing and map of important that bears any relation to our city, from the earliest settlement of the Island of Manhattan” and inserted good quality lithographed copies in the Manuals.
View of the Quarantine Grounds and Buildings, Staten Island, May 1858, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1859, NYC Municipal Library.
The preface to the Manual of 1856 further explains Valentine’s intention to “present an epitome of our early history.” Valentine wrote that “the present rapid progress of the City which promises soon to obliterate all the natural landmarks of the island,” led him to support the “preservation of views of such localities as now present noticeable features in the natural formation of the island, of old dwellings, farmhouses, country-seats, etc. as well as of the more prominent buildings, private and public, which denote the present fashions of architecture.”
Map of the City of New York, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1852, NYC Municipal Library.
The 1866 volume was the last prepared by Valentine; no manual was issued in 1867. Valentine’s successor to the clerkship, Joseph Shannon, prepared the volumes for 1868 and 1869. The last volume, 1870, was produced by Shannon’s successor John Hardy.
Old Jail, City Hall Park, Lithograph, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1849, NYC Municipal Library.
David Valentine retired as Clerk in January 1868. He died in Manhattan on February 25, 1869. The Index introduction notes that in 1851 the Common Council appropriated five hundred dollars to purchase a portrait of Mr. Valentine “in recognition of his long and faithful services.” It was painted by C. W. Jarvis, “an artist of some ability,” according to the Index.
David T. Valentine, Portrait, Manual of the Corporation of the City of New York, 1859, NYC Municipal Library.
When the City began publishing the Official Directory of the City of New York (a.k.a. the Green Book), in 1918, the introduction stated “The need of a comprehensive directory of City Departments has long been recognized, but it has remained for the present administration to issue the first edition.” Further research might explain the more than forty-year interruption. However, basic information about New York City municipal government did appear in privately-published directories of City residents (Longworth’s Trow’s, etc.) through the 1930s and subsequently in telephone directories.
Long recognized for their historical and graphic value, Valentine’s Manuals of the Corporation of the City of New York “are indeed a mine of wealth to every one interested in the history of this great city.”
Among the rock-star personas of the Roaring Twenties were a number of aviators who captured the public’s imagination. Some were as popular and beloved as movie stars and famous athletes, and America followed their every move.
It was a time of “firsts” in the world of aviation, led by names like Charles Lindbergh, Richard Byrd, and Wiley Post. Among their number was an unusually humble man, Floyd Bennett. He may have been the best of the lot.
A Northern New York native and legendary pilot, Bennett has been claimed at times by three different villages as their own.
He was born in October 1890 at the southern end of Lake George in Caldwell (which today is Lake George village). Most of his youth was spent living on the farm of his aunt and uncle in nearby Warrensburg.
He also worked for three years in Ticonderoga, at the northern end of Lake George, where he made many friends. Throughout his life, Floyd maintained ties to all three villages.
In the early 1900s, cars and gasoline-powered engines represented the latest technology. Floyd’s strong interest led him to automobile school, after which he toiled as a mechanic in Ticonderoga for three years. When the United States entered the First World War, Bennett, then 27, enlisted in the U.S. Navy.
While becoming an aviation mechanic, Floyd discovered his aptitude for the pilot’s seat. He attended flight school in Pensacola, Florida, where one of his classmates was Richard E. Byrd, future legendary explorer. For several years, Bennett refined his flying skills, and in 1925, he was selected for duty in Greenland under then Lieutenant Byrd.
Fraught with danger and the unknown, the mission sought to learn more about the vast unexplored area of the Arctic Circle. Bennett’s knowledge and hard work were critical to the success of the mission, and, as Byrd would later confirm, the pair almost certainly would have died but for Bennett’s bravery in a moment of crisis.
While flying over extremely rough territory, the plane’s oil gauge suddenly climbed. Had the pressure risen unchecked, an explosion was almost certain. Byrd looked at Bennett, seeking a course of action, and both then turned their attention to the terrain below.
Within seconds, reality set in — there was no possibility of landing. With that, Bennett climbed out onto the plane’s wing in frigid conditions and loosened the oil cap, relieving the pressure. He suffered frostbite in the process, but left no doubt in Byrd’s mind that, in selecting Bennett, he had made the right choice.
The two men became fast friends, and when the intrepid Byrd planned a historic flight to the North Pole, Bennett was asked to serve as both pilot and mechanic on the Josephine Ford. (Edsel Ford provided financial backing for the effort, and the plane was named after his daughter.)
In 1926, Byrd and Bennett attained legendary status by completing the mission despite bad luck and perilous conditions. The flight rocketed them to superstardom.
Lauded as national heroes, they were suddenly in great demand, beginning with a ticker-tape parade in New York City. Byrd enjoyed the limelight, but also heaped praise on the unassuming Bennett, assuring all that the attempt would never have been made without his trusted partner.
When Bennett visited Lake George, more than two thousand supporters gathered in the tiny village to welcome him. As part of the ceremony, letters of praise from Governor Al Smith and President Calvin Coolidge were read to the crowd.
Both men were awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest award for any member of the armed services, and rarely bestowed for non-military accomplishments.
They were also honored with gold medals from the National Geographic Society. Despite all the attention and lavish praise, Bennett remained unchanged, to the surprise of no one.
Return to Home
The next challenge for the team of Bennett and Byrd was the first transatlantic flight from New York to Paris, a trip they prepared for eagerly. But in a training crash, both men were hurt.
Bennett’s injuries were serious, and before the pair could recover and continue the pursuit of their goal, Charles Lindbergh accomplished the historic feat. Once healed, the duo completed the flight to Europe six weeks later.
Seeking new horizons to conquer, aviation’s most famous team planned an expedition to the South Pole. Tremendous preparation was required, including testing of innovative equipment.
On March 13, 1928, a curious crowd gathered on the shores of Lake Champlain near Ticonderoga. Airplanes were still a novelty then, and two craft were seen circling overhead. Finally, one of them put down on the slushy, ice-covered lake surface, skiing to a halt.
Out came local hero Floyd Bennett, quickly engulfed by a crowd of friends and well-wishers. While in Staten Island preparing for the South Pole flight, he needed to test new skis for landing capabilities in the snow. What better place to do it than among friends?
After performing several test landings on Lake Champlain, Bennett stayed overnight in Ticonderoga. Whether at the Elks Club, a restaurant, or a local hotel, he and his companions were invariably treated like royalty. Bennett repeatedly expressed his thanks and appreciation for such a warm welcome.
A month later, while making further preparations for the next adventure, Floyd Bennett became ill with what was believed to be a cold. When word arrived that help was urgently needed on a rescue mission, the response was predictable.
Ignoring his own health, Bennett immediately went to the assistance of a German and Irish team that had crossed the Atlantic Ocean but crashed their craft, the Bremen, on Greenly Island north of Newfoundland, Canada.
During the mission, Floyd developed a high fever but still tried to continue the rescue effort. His condition worsened, requiring hospitalization in Quebec City, where doctors found he was gravely ill with pneumonia.
Richard Byrd and Floyd’s wife, Cora, who was also ill, flew north to be with him. Despite the best efforts of physicians, Bennett, just 38 years old, succumbed on April 25, 1928, barely a month after his uplifting visit to Ticonderoga.
Though Bennett died, the rescue mission he had begun proved successful. Across Canada, Germany, Ireland, and the United States, headlines mourned the loss of a hero who had given his life while trying to save others. Explorers, adventurers, and aviators praised Bennett as a man of grace, intelligence, bravery, and unfailing integrity.
Floyd Bennett was already considered a hero long before the rescue attempt. The selflessness he displayed further enhanced his image, and as the nation mourned, his greatness was honored with a heavily attended military funeral in Washington, followed by burial in Arlington National Cemetery. Among the pile of wreaths on his grave was one from President and Mrs. Coolidge.
After the loss of his partner and friend, Richard Byrd’s craft for the ultimately successful flight to the South Pole was a tri-motor Ford renamed the Floyd Bennett. Both the man and the plane of the same name are an important part of American aviation history.
It was eventually calculated that the earlier flight to the North Pole may not have reached its destination, but the news did nothing to diminish Byrd and Bennett’s achievements.
They received many honors for their spectacular adventures. On June 26, 1930, a dedication ceremony was held in Brooklyn for New York City’s first-ever municipal airport, Floyd Bennett Field. It was regarded at the time as America’s finest airfield.
Many historic flights originated or ended at Floyd Bennett Field, including trips by such notables as Howard Hughes, Jimmy Doolittle, Wiley Post, Douglas “Wrongway” Corrigan, and Amelia Earhart.
It was also the busiest airfield in the United States during World War Two, vital to the Allied victory.
Floyd Bennett Field is now protected by the National Park Service as part of the Gateway National Recreation Area.
The beloved Bennett has been honored several times since. In the 1940s, a Navy Destroyer, the USS Bennett, was named in honor of his legacy as a flight pioneer.
In the village of Warrensburg, New York, a memorial bandstand was erected in his honor and 16 miles southeast of Warrensburg, just north of Glens Falls, is Warren County’s Floyd Bennett Memorial Airport.
In a speech made after the North Pole flight, Richard Byrd said, “I would rather have had Floyd Bennett with me than any man I know of.”
Illustrations, from above: The Byrd Arctic Expedition Fokker F.VII-3m at Spitzbergen, Svalbard, May 9, 1927 (Ohio State University Archives); Secretary of the Navy Curtis Dwight Wilbur, Commander Richard Evelyn Byrd, Jr, President Calvin Coolidge, Warrant Officer Floyd Bennett (right, receiving award) and Admiral Edward Walter Eberle when Coolidge awarded the Medal of Honor to Byrd and Bennett on March 5, 1927; and Floyd Bennett Field, New York City’s first municipal airport.
NEW YORK ALMANACK LAWRENCE P. GOOLEY
JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
Dedicated in 1906, this fountain serves as a reminder of those who died aboard the excursion steamer General Slocum on June 15, 1904. Prior to September 11, 2001, the burning of the General Slocum had the highest death toll of any disaster in New York City history. The incident claimed an irreplaceable part of the Lower East Side community once known as Little Germany and remains the worst inland-waters, peacetime tragedy in the nation’s history.
Ed Litcher
CREDITS
ROOSEVELT ISLAND HISTORICAL SOCIETY ARCHIVES JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
IN THE EVER-CHANGING CITY OF New York, old buildings are constantly torn down to make room for newer projects. But thankfully, not all the beautiful features of these lost buildings are gone for good.
Some of the luckier statues, sculptures, and ornamental features wound up at the Steinberg Sculpture Garden at the Brooklyn Museum. Collected and curated by the great New York historian and former photography curator Barbara Head Millstein, all of these gorgeously carved works of art were salvaged from demolished buildings.
Standing among the sculptures is like looking at fragments of the city’s architectural past. More than 40 pieces, including urns, keystones, columns, and sculptures, fill the garden. Most of them were created during the late 1800s and early 1900s by anonymous stonemasons.
The pieces demonstrate a variety of styles, motifs, and materials including marble, brownstone, cast-iron, and terracotta. Some of the pieces were from buildings designed by famed architects like Louis Sullivan; McKim, Mead & White; Irwin S. Chanin; and Gutzon Borglum.
A particular highlight is a sculpture that once stood near one of the clocks outside the original Penn Station. The intricately carved work, which depicts the hooded figure of Night clutching poppies, was rescued from a landfill in New Jersey. You can also find majestic Pegasus statues that once guarded the entrance to a Coney Island fire station, an early 20th-century miniature replica of the Statue of Liberty, and stoic Atlas-inspired statues that previously stood outside a wealthy paper manufacturer’s home. Look down, and you’ll also notice moss-covered figures scattered about the ground.
Know Before You Go
The Sculpture Garden is located within the Brooklyn Museum and is free with museum admission. Closed Monday and Tuesday.
At the apex of the triangle defining the north end of Times Square, the massive statue of Father Francis Patrick Duffy (1871-1932) by Charles Keck (1875-1951) has stood sentinel since it was unveiled May 2, 1937.
The eight-foot high statue depicts Fr. Francis P. Duffy (1871-1932), the most highly decorated cleric in the history of the United States Army, standing on a pedestal, with a massive Celtic cross at his back. In fact, this triangular section of Times Square is more properly known as Father Duffy Square.
The Canadian-born priest served as a military chaplain during the Spanish American War, and later as pastor of Our Savior parish in the Bronx when he was called up to serve as chaplain of the 69th Infantry Regiment of the New York National Guard in 1914.
The “Fighting 69th,” which was made up of mostly Irish Americans, was called to duty in 1917 during World War I. Sent to the front in France, over the course of 180 days in combat, 900 of its men were killed. Their story was immortalized in the 1940 movie The Fighting 69th, starring James Cagney and Pat O’Brien as the chaplain.
Fr. Duffy is remembered for his bravery on the battlefield, administering last rites, tending to the wounded, and caring for the dead. Going far beyond the duties of a chaplain, Fr. Duffy served as a leader to his men, boosting their morale as they prepared to enter battle, and comforting the wounded. General Douglas MacArthur later said that Fr. Duffy was briefly considered for the post of regimental commander.
Ed Litcher Joyce Gold also got it right
PHOTO CREDIT: WIKIPEDIA
CREDITS
ATLAS OBSCURA BROOKLYN MUSEUM
JUDITH BERDY
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
OF THE 50 FOOT FEMALE STATUE THAT ONCE TOWERED OVER TIMES SQUARE
EPHEMERAL NEW YORK
ISSUE# 1157
The mystery of the 50-foot plaster female statue that once towered over Times Square
It was September 1909 when New Yorkers in Times Square began noticing the colossal white figure, shrouded in scaffolding between 45th and 46th Street across from Cafe Madrid and the Hotel Astor.
By October, the white figure gained a female face and form. A statue was emerging in the city’s bustling new entertainment district—where glittery theaters, late-night lobster palaces, and enormous illuminated billboards had edged out the carriage-making trade that once called the former Longacre Square home.
A new monument wasn’t necessarily unwelcome; the city was filling up with them on Fifth Avenue, Riverside Drive, and public parks like Union Square. The problem, however, was that no one knew who the Times Square statue would honor or what it was supposed to mean.
“Shopkeepers on both sides of the square, restauranteurs and hotel men, theatrical men, and box office and ticket sellers questioned each other and everyone they met, but no one knew why or what the strange figure was to represent,” reported the New York Times on October 5.
The Times did a little digging, and an explanation appeared. The 50-foot plaster statue was the work of a young Italian-born sculptor, Leo Lentelli. It was commissioned by a recently formed civic group called the Association for New York.
The group’s purpose was to “challenge indiscriminate abuse and criticism of New York City,” according to the president, William Harmon Black.
What kind of criticism, specifically? That the city had poor credit and the “aspersions constantly cast upon the integrity and honesty of the municipal authorities,” said Black, who was also the president of the city’s Board of Aldermen (and would go on to hold numerous offices and appointments).
Erecting a statue in the middle of Times Square simply as “an artistic, silent exhortation to civic pride and confidence,” wrote the Times, raised many eyebrows. So when “Purity,” as the statue was named, had its official unveiling on October 8, newspapers had fun covering it
“The new plaster Virtue got a real glimpse of Broadway, the Tenderloin, and the Rialto last night, when for the first time they knocked off the wooden shackles which bound her plastic form at the upper end of Times Square, threw half a dozen spotlights on her, and otherwise held her up to the public gaze,” the newspaper wrote, calling the statue by a different name.
“If she blushed she did not show it, and if those who saw her appreciated her kalsomined presence, it was only noticeable in their amused smiles.”
Puzzled Times Square visitors had their own thoughts about Purity. “‘Is she a suffragette?’ inquired a newcomer, according to one newspaper. ‘She’s got a look in her eye that means business.’”
While newspaper writers and savvy New Yorkers mocked the statue, its real purpose came to light: Tammany Hall, the corrupt Democratic political machine that dominated Gotham’s politics through the 19th and early 20th centuries, built it specifically for this election season. (Tammany’s corruption and influence is illustrated in the below cartoon from Puck in 1899.)
Purity “was commissioned by the notorious political gang of Tammany Hall, who figured it to be the best way to announce their ‘pure and noble’ intentions to the public after an opponent accused them of crooked practices,” states a 2016 article by New York Nimby.
Knowing for sure that Tammany Hall was behind the statue didn’t stop the mocking. One civic group announced it was putting up its own statue as a rival.
“The Committee of One Hundred announced yesterday that a plaster creation would be unveiled to-morrow in its exhibit on 16th Street as an answer to the ‘Miss Purity’ statue erected in Times Square,” wrote the Times on October 20. The statue “would represent Miss Purity prostrate, with the Tammany Tiger clutching at her throat.”
Purity was supposed to remain in place until December. But its plaster began deteriorating in the rain and wind not long after the unveiling. Once Election Day was over—and it proved to not be favorable to Tammany Hall—the statue was slated to meet the wrecking ball.
“Tammany’s defeat—for she was a Tammany daughter—must have made her sorrowful, and maybe she didn’t care whether she lived her full span out or not, concluded The Timeson November 20.
Workmen took sledgehammers to Purity’s face and arms. A crowd formed to watch, and bill stickers began plastering her pedestal with advertisements, as they had a few days before the pedestal would be carried away. “Back to the dust pile for her, election being over,” the Times headline read.
The spot where Purity stood for all of two months became the site of a very different statue in 1937—that of Father Francis P. Duffy, chaplain for the city’s “Fighting 69th” infantry regiment. This end of Times Square has since been known as Father Duffy Square, with Purity long forgotten and Tammany Hall also in history’s dustbi
[Top image: New-York Historical Society/Robert L. Bracklow Photograph Collection; second photo: Bain Collection/Library of Congress; third image: New York Times 1909; fourth image: New-York Historical Society/Robert L. Bracklow Photograph Collection; fifth image: Puck, 1899; sixth image: The Sun 1909; seventh image: New-York Historical Society/Robert L. Bracklow Photograph Collection]
MAYA LEVANON-PHOTOS TIK TOK & INSTAGRAM
All image are copyrighted (c) Roosevelt Island Historical Society unless otherwise indicated
