Kaisik Wong’s spacey, glam 1970s fashions look like costumes from a very trippy sci-fi film. The opposite of most of the counterculture fashion on display, and yet they fit in somehow, too.
New York City is lucky to boast not one but two extremely fine design museums — the Museum of Arts and Design and the Cooper Hewitt Smithsonian Design Museum. Augmented by the estimable design collections at MoMA and The Met.
Does it really need two design museums, though? I think it does. The Cooper Hewitt and the Museum of Arts and Design (“MAD”) feel extremely different. MAD’s collection starts at midcentury, shaping its outlook and sensibilities. Cooper goes deeper and can do more with historical context. I don’t think it’s entirely fair to say that the one is like MoMA and the other is like The Met. But it’s not necessarily unfair to make that comparison, either.
The publisher Harper Brothers proposed to seal Mark Twain’s memoirs until 2000. Then they would be published by subscription (quoting the exhibit’s text) “in whatever mode should then be prevalent, that is by printing as at present, or by use of phonographic cylinders, or by electrical methods or by any other method which may then be in use.” The show has Twain’s 1900 letter agreeing to these terms. No doubt he didn’t want his meeting with the crew of the Starship Enterprise to mess with the timeline too much.
I’m not sure I should review the exhibition space at the Columbia Rare Book Library. It isn’t readily accessible to the public — you can’t just drop by. But I have an alumni library pass, and I was in the vicinity recently, and it is in my database. So I figured, why not?
Columbia’s Rare Book & Manuscript Library resides in a surprisingly airy, skylit, and pastel space at the top of the university’s Butler Library. It features two exhibit spaces: a wall’s length of cases for general purposes, and an octagonal space that typically features items from Columbia’s own history.
Although a small space, the show I saw there indicates they use it well. That show celebrated the bicentennial of HarperCollins publishers, which started out as Harper & Brothers in 1817.
The Harper brothers started out as printers, but with their 1817 publication of an edition of Seneca’s Morals, they launched one of the most famous publishing concerns in American history.
The exhibit has some of their early ledger books, handwritten lists of works for which they held the copyright.
It features old books galore, including a first American edition of Moby-Dick.
Thar She Blows!
It also covers multivolume editions Harper did especially for schools and libraries, edifying or stultifying generations. It spends time on their periodicals, which naturally helped promote the books. And it turns out Harper published some of the most beloved books from my (and everyone’s) childhood.
In addition to many neat, nostalgic books, the show covers the history of the business. News Corp eventually bought it, merging Harper with Collins in 1989. I liked a $500 Harper & Brothers bond certificate, and the curators called out the use of the picture of the dog at the bottom as highly unusual. However, I saw that same dog at the Grolier Club‘s currency engraving show not that long ago. Small world.
The octagonal gallery had an exhibit documenting the history of gay student life at Columbia, from the time when homosexuality violated the law, through the AIDS crisis, to today. I’m proud to say Columbia was home to the first gay student group on a college campus — the Student Homophile League — dating to 1967. Second most interesting thing I learned there.
Any bibliophile would find a visit the Columbia Rare Book Library worthwhile. And maybe others would too. If the Harper exhibit is any indication, they can make even seemingly dry topics interesting and fun. That said, it’s a small space in a college library, devoted to abstruse and obscure bookish topics. So probably not a place to which everyone must rush immediately.
For Reference:
Address
Butler Library, 6th Floor, Columbia University Campus. 535 W. 114th Street, Manhattan
Maxine Henryson’s beautiful, long, accordion-folded photobooks. Stretched out on a table, they reward much slow, close viewing.
Self Portrait, With A.I.R.
A.I.R. Gallery is more of an art gallery than a museum. There are several organizations on my list that fall into this fuzzy zone. Non-profit or not-for-profit, they nonetheless primarily exist to sell art to buyers, rather than display art for improvement and/or entertainment of the masses. I wrestled with this a bit at the outset of this project, and still don’t have a firm sense of the right call.
But for now I’m including them.
A.I.R. has longevity on it side: according to its website it was founded in 1972 as the first cooperative art gallery featuring all female artists.
There was no particular theme to the work on view on my visit; rather the gallery showed works by three artists: a photographer, a sculpter, and a conceptualist.
Maxine Henryson photograph from “Contrapuntal”
I really quite liked the photography on show. The artist, Maxine Henryson, is from the school of “Focus?! Who needs focus?” Which I’m always skeptical of, and yet sometimes the craft and deliberation is so evident that you can’t help but admire and appreciate the result.
The sculptural and conceptual bits weren’t bad, but equally weren’t my thing and in this case I won’t impose my taste on my sense of the place as an institution.
“Invisible Float,” Sculpture by MaryKate Maher
Should you go? It wouldn’t be top of my list–it’s pretty small, and depending on what’s on exhibition your edification and entertainment mileage will vary. Still, it is historically distinguished, and it makes for a quick art break. Can’t hurt to drop by if you have spare time in the neighborhood. Finally, A.I.R. Gallery makes a convenient double bill with the similarly nonprofit Art in General, just down the street.
UPDATE: APRIL 2021: Art in General has permanently closed due to the pandemic. It is the only NYC museum that cited COVID as the specific reason it is closing down.
I’m not sure Art in General belongs on a list of museums. It’s really an art gallery (in the sense of a place to buy art), albeit a nonprofit one. I’ve been giving nonprofits a pass so far, so there I went.
Art in General Darkness
I didn’t get a great sense of Art in General’s space or capabilities during my visit. The current exhibition, Coyotaje, by Postcommodity, is mainly about sound and darkness. A single photograph of bones and dogs hangs at the end of a dark, cloth-draped hallway. On the way there, speakers play whispery or urgent Spanish voices ostensibly of people trying to get across the US-Mexico border. But they might also be US border agents seeking to steer those people onto the wrong track.
Chupacabra (?) With Video Projection
The chupacabra or monster/dinosaur/whatever it is represents another anti-migrant tactic. It reflects or invokes the decoys that the border patrol puts out in the desert to scare or confuse would-be migrants.
I don’t think this installation succeeded. It was meant to evoke anxiety, but to me it was just a sort of weak carnival haunted house. Both the Alien Nations show at Lehman College and the really moving Parson’s show demonstrated how eloquently and effectively art can address the trials faced by migrants. Coyotaje didn’t do that for me. It required a detailed explanation and a translated transcription to make sense of it. I don’t mind hermetic and inaccessible art now and then, but this overdid it.
Still, a giant inflatable chupacabra is not something you see every day. At least, I hope you don’t. And even a lame haunted house is still sort of fun.
If you’re doing a DUMBO art excursion, Art in General should be on your list, along with A.I.R. Gallery — both are in the same large, formerly-industrial building. But I’m only lukewarm on whether I’d recommend a DUMBO art excursion in the first place.
When they laid the cornerstone for the Music Hall, Andrew Carnegie himself said that “here all good causes may find a platform.” Remarkably, that statement evolved into a policy of openness to anyone who wanted to take the stage (and could afford to rent it). So even in times when many venues were closed to, say, African American performers, Carnegie was open.
Two Carnegie-related places in a row. First the Cooper Hewitt in Andrew Carnegie’s former home, now the museum of the history of the eponymous Hall. I feel I should open with a joke:
Q. How do you get to the museum at Carnegie Hall?
A. Just head toward the First Tier restrooms at intermission.
The Rose Museum is a small space telling the story of Carnegie Hall, twice actually: once from a building/Carnegie perspective, the other more from an artistic perspective. But they run together and get a little redundant. It is indeed between the auditorium and the First Tier restrooms, as well as the patrons’ lounge.
Ella Fitzgerald’s Glasses, Live at Carnegie Hall
It’s got some artifacts: various conductors’ batons, Henny Youngman’s clarinet, Ella Fitzgerald’s glasses. And a great display of LP sleeves from some of the myriad records produced “live at Carnegie Hall.” And a number of original or facsimile documents relevant to the place. I found it pretty engaging. But for all that music can help bring museum exhibits to life (e.g., at the Museum at F.I.T.), it’s a tough task making music the subject for a museum.
Decades of “Live at Carnegie Hall” LPs
Carnegie Hall is an absolute treasure. The city would be immeasurably poorer without it. But for a long time its survival was extremely doubtful. The thing I liked least at the Rose Museum was a reproduction of a 1959 article from Life Magazine about what would replace Carnegie Hall. The Life story makes it sound like demolishing it (in favor of a hideous fire-engine-red skyscraper) was a done deal. Happily for the city, the developer couldn’t raise the money, and Carnegie Hall survived. But it got me thinking.
In an Alternate Universe…
The loss of Carnegie Hall would have been a disaster, but nothing happens in a vacuum. The original, glorious Penn Station was torn down in 1964. What if they had succeeded in demolishing Carnegie Hall 5 years earlier? It’s fair to speculate that that event would have galvanized the historic preservation movement. Which might then have raised sufficient hue and cry that maybe, arguably, plausibly, the effort to save Penn Station would have succeeded.
So that raises a fascinating thought experiment. Which New York would you prefer?
One with Carnegie Hall and the terrible ordeal that is Penn Station today.
Or one with no Carnegie Hall, but the McKim Mead and White Penn Station.
For all that I love the music hall, I might make that trade.
If haven’t yet, you really should attend a concert at Carnegie Hall! They program a diverse set of performers, something there is bound to attract you. Architecturally and acoustically it’s a treasure.
But treat the museum as someplace to kill time during an intermission, not a destination for a special trip.
If you love performing arts and can’t attend a concert there, go take the tour–actually stand on the famous stage! And if you can’t do THAT, then, as a third-best option, do take a spin through the museum.
I wanted to own many of the things in the Jazz Age show, but none more than this 1927 Cubic Coffee Service designed by Erik Magnussen for Gorham. A Picasso-esque vision of reality brought astonishingly to life. It makes me wonder, if a Cubist painted a still life of this coffee set, would it come out looking normal?
The Cooper Hewitt Museum is the Smithsonian Institution’s branch devoted to design. It started out under the guardianship of Cooper Union, which closed it in the 1960s. The Smithsonian then adopted it and it opened in its current location in the 1970s. (There’s a second Smithsonian branch in New York: the Museum of the American Indian, in Lower Manhattan.)
Two features deeply distinguish the Cooper-Hewitt from all other museums in the city. First, the building, and second, the electronic pen.
The Cooper-Hewitt is another in the series of great New York museums occupying mansions of the Gilded Age robber barons. However, its mansion might just be the best of all of them. The Cooper-Hewitt’s Fifth Avenue abode started out as the 1902, 64-room abode of Andrew Carnegie. While the interior is much changed from Carnegie’s time, it retains a good deal of period detail, including yet another beautiful staircase (I should add it to my list), a glassed-in conservatory, and much ornate plaster and woodwork.
Crazy wisteria climb the rear of the Carnegie mansion
The jewel-like garden recently opened to the public for free — you can just walk in. If you tried that back in Mr. Carnegie’s day, it probably wouldn’t have gone so well for you. The day I went the wisteria were blooming like mad, the sun was shining, and it was almost a shame to go indoors to look at art.
Before I get to the art, though, a word on the second distinguishing thing: the electronic pen. The Cooper Hewitt underwent a major refit a few years back. When it reopened in 2014, along with a whole new floor of exhibition space and the public garden, the museum rolled out digital pens. Every visitor gets one of these gizmos, enabling them to interact with the digital tabletops throughout the museum. More importantly, visitors can also capture any object that they see with a tap of the pen.
You return the pen at the end of your visit, but you take away a unique URL that provides details and images of all the objects you tagged. It’s like a Crate & Barrel wedding registry, for things none of your friends could possibly afford.
Cooper Hewitt Magic Pen (and my hand and iPad)
Part of me feels skeptical about the pen. What’s wrong with taking notes the old fashioned way (i.e., by snapping photos of objects and captions)? But part of me just loves it. It’s super gutsy of the Smithsonian to bridge the physical and digital worlds like this, and to zig when all other museums offer the zag of an audio guide. It works really well. It’s fun! And I imagine the pens generate a treasure trove of data for the museum. If I were them I’d map visitors’ paths through the place, identify popular items, and understand how people use the Cooper Hewitt. (I collected 47 items, 24 different types of item, associated with 9 colors and 119 tags…etc.)
The digital tables appeal, too, inviting visitors to “grab” random objects with their pens and trace their way through the museum’s collection by material, theme, function, or era. Visitors can also use the pen to take a stab at designing something of their own.
Finally, there’s also a space called the “Immersion Room,” which projects wallpapers lifesize on the walls, or lets you use the magical pen to design a wallpaper of your very own. Maybe more about Instagrammable moments than about learning about design, but that’s fine in moderation, and my wallpaper had crescent moons and bats.
So that’s the mansion and the tech. On top of all those, the Cooper Hewitt has a fantastic collection and the space to show it off well. The main show when I visited was “The Jazz Age,” design from the 1920s.
“Skyscraper Desk” from the Jazz Age show
A few weeks back I wished there was a historic house museum from the Art Deco era. This show amplifies that wish. How amazing would it be to see these objects in actual rooms that people lived in? Many beautiful, covetable things, and I also note that the exhibition deployed music well: it wouldn’t be a Jazz Age show without jazz.
Who should visit the Cooper Hewitt? I think almost everyone. You definitely don’t need to be a design geek to derive huge pleasure and edification from it. It combines a wonderful building from the past with interactive technology that feels like the future and a collection that spans all eras.
Canapé Gondole, 1925, by Marcel Coard
Finally, design museums have the best gift shops. So, if nothing else has enticed you yet (that pen, though!) go for the shopping.
In 1986, the first run of brass subway tokens with steel centers had a tiny “SJD” worked into the design. That stands for “Silvester J. Dubosz,” then Assistant Controller of the New York City Transit Authority. Mr. Dubosz ordered the tokens, and thought it would be cool to have his initials on every one. And he was fired for it. Great relic!
New York City boasts a host of institutions dedicated to preserving our history and heritage, led by the twin titans of the Museum of the City of New York and the New-York Historical Society. I described one of our history museums, the New York City Fire Museum, as the attic of the Fire Department, storing its heritage of historic treasures.
Stretching that metaphor, the quirky City Reliquary would be, not the attic of New York, but the dusty space between the attic floorboards and the downstairs ceiling, where who knows what bits and bobs find their way. Open it up and you may just find a lot of crap, but if you look from the right perspective, treasures abound.
Housed in a tiny storefront in Willamsburg, City Reliquary started as a hobby for its founder, who first created it as a display in a window in his apartment. It has grown from there as New Yorkers with collections of, well, whatever, occupied the space for exhibitions, and the Reliquary’s own collections multiplied.
The current temporary show features perhaps the most under-appreciated of the city’s street foods, the humble knish. I learned things I never thought to wonder about knishes. Where they come from (the Eastern European knish belt extends from Latvia through Moldova); who makes them (there are six “Heroes of the Knish” who are the main local manufacturers); and what it means in Yiddish slang (lady parts). Also, back in 2013 Joan Rivers tweeted that Kim an Kanye should name their baby Knish because “who doesn’t love one?” Who knew?
The restroom at City Reliquary
The rest of the space is crammed from floor to ceiling, and then some, with a dizzying assortment of this-and-that, bric-a-brac, and thingamabobs. Even the restroom threatens a case of sensory overload.
New York geology, including core samples of Manhattan bedrock.
Souvenirs and memorabilia from both the World’s Fairs.
Seltzer and other native soft drinks.
“Little Egypt,” a burlesque dancer.
Jackie Robinson.
A quilt commemorating the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire.
The Reliquary is dense. Every time you visit, you’ll discover something new. Should you go? Those seeking a solid chronological telling of New York’s tale won’t find it there. But those looking for the quirky bits will love this place. Alternately, if you’ve explored the A-list history museums and still feel like something’s…missing, have I got a place for you!
In the end, New Yorkers will probably get more out of it than visitors. But for anyone afraid that this city has become sterile and homogenized and has lost its mojo, the Reliquary has it. It’s in one of their collection of Greek coffee cups, next to some gneiss and schist samples, on a shelf just below the collection of subway grab-holds.
Phillip Hamilton, son of Alexander, is buried in Trinity Churchyard. But there’s no longer a marker, and somehow no one quite knows where he is. How can that be? What kind of negligence does it take to lose a Hamilton for goodness’ sake? I mean, even before the musical to end all musicals made him a hero, A.Ham was always New York’s hometown Founding Father. And Phillip’s death was always an important part of the story. So, Trinity Church, how do you lose a Hamilton?
View of Trinity Church from Wall Street
Its steeple stretching toward heaven at the head of Wall Street, Trinity Church stands as a powerful rebuke to those greedy financial types who see money as the beginning and end of living. I’m not sure it’s an effective rebuke, but it’s the thought that counts.
It’s an impressive, location at the heart of 18th century New York, and Trinity boasts not only a storied history, but also serves as a key, perhaps even the key stop on the Hamilton pilgrimage route. He’s buried there. As are Eliza and Angelica Schuyler (Peggy, the third Schuyler sister, is in Albany). And Phillip Hamilton is at Trinity too, though as mentioned above, no one quite knows where.
People leave coins at the Hamilton monument. I guess because $10 bills would blow away?
The current church is Gothic Revival, in brownstone, which always seems to me a striking and unlikely choice. Until this visit I never wondered what the surrounding area was like when it was built — if it was all brownstone rowhouses, it would’ve fit in nicely I suppose. Now it stands out, even as the surrounding skyscrapers far overtop it.
Trinity’s history goes back to 1697, but this is the third church on this site. The first Trinity Church burned down in the Great Fire during the revolution in 1776. The second revealed structural problems following a severe snowstorm in 1838 that led to its replacement with the current building in 1846. So while it’s old, it’s not as old as it might want you to believe. St. Paul’s Chapel, a Trinity offshoot a short stroll north on Broadway, dates to 1766. I strongly recommend visiting both if you have time.
With Trinity itself, I’d say the cemetery is more important to visit than the church, which with one an exception doesn’t play much of an historical role. In addition to Hamilton and family, an assortment of other luminaries is there, including Robert Fulton (inventor of the steamboat), who probably wishes Lin-Manuel Miranda would get to work on a musical about him. And there’s a monument to firefighters, and assorted romantically crumbling old gravestones. The oldest legible marker in the cemetery dates to 1681.
The interior of Trinity is pretty, but not especially noteworthy. It’s on a par with most other gothic revival churches in the U.S. or U.K.
To my mind, Trinity’s most important historic role came in the days after September 11. Trinity and St. Paul’s Chapel served as incredibly important sources of physical and spiritual sustenance for all the people facing the unimaginable work at Ground Zero.
Anyone who likes old churches or cemeteries or Hamilton (or Robert Fulton) must visit Trinity. Moreover, the graveyard is an oasis of green in a part of the city that doesn’t have a lot of that. For those frantically visiting all of Lower Manhattan’s many historic sites, museums, and other landmarks, it represents a chance to catch one’s breath in the midst of a jam-packed day. Trinity also has a fine music program–definitely take a look at their website. Even for a casual visitor, Trinity is worth a special trip.
Finally, I was going to take Trinity to task for not playing up the Hamilton-Hamilton connection–missed marketing opportunity!–but as I was departing I spotted this sign on the fence:
The steampunky goodness of the “Damon’s Patent Lock Mechanism” guarding the Customs House vaults. Even the bolts are pretty.
Federal Hall is not what it seems. In fact, it’s not Federal Hall at all. From the outside a passer-by might easily believe that it was the first capitol of the U.S., and the building where George Washington took the oath as president. I thought that for years; only recently did I realize: right location, wrong building.
Federal Hall’s spot on Wall Street was the location of New York’s colonial-era City Hall, built around 1700. When the fledgling United States of America decided New York would be the capital, that building got remodeled by Pierre L’Enfant (later architect of the District of Columbia’s master plan) to make it fancier. Rebranded from City Hall to Federal Hall, it did indeed serve (briefly) as the nation’s first capitol building, before the government moved to Philly and eventually to Washington.
Model of the actual Federal Hall
Ever more practical than sentimental, New York tore Federal Hall down in 1812. According to the visitor guide, the city sold the scrap to a “grocer on South Street” for $425. The guide skips over what they built next, but eventually the government replaced it with a United States Customs House in 1842.
In some ways that’s okay. The current building is fantastic, the best example of Greek Revival architecture in New York City. As Customs House and later a Sub-Treasury, it has its own important history as a key locale in New York’s growth as the commercial and financial capital of the U.S.
But I couldn’t help get the sense that the National Park Service would trade today’s building if they could get the “real” Federal Hall back again.
As I’ve racked up historic sites for this project it occurred to me that New York’s relentless development leads to a fairly loose definition of “authentic” history. Sometimes authentically old buildings migrate from their original locations (like Hamilton Grange or Edgar Allan Poe’s Cottage). Sometimes historic locations remain, while the buildings themselves change (like Theodore Roosevelt’s Birthplace, Federal Hall, or Trinity Church). And sometimes “historic” sites feature inauthentic buildings in ersatz locations.
That last one is typically bad, but not always. Think of The Cloisters, which enthralled both me and Jorge Luis Borges.
Forced to choose, I’d prefer old building/new location. I’d rather see Hamilton’s house somewhere else (within reason) than an exact reproduction built on the site of Hamilton’s house. Your mileage may vary.
On view at what I will more accurately call “(Not Actually) Federal Hall National Memorial”:
Washington Stood Here
The cracked but actual marble slab Washington stood on when taking the oath of office.
Vaults where the Customs House kept tons of cash (literally)
A model of Washington’s Inaugural Parade
Memorabilia from the centennial celebrations of Washington’s Inauguration.
Models showing the old City Hall and Federal Hall buildings.
A National Park Service overview of historic sites and parks, in the New York region and beyond.
An exhibit on the Zenger trial of 1735, an early libel case that set a precedent for freedom of the press.
The Bible on which Washington swore the oath of office (borrowed at the last minute from a local Masonic Lodge).
Everyone should visit (Not Actually) Federal Hall National Memorial. The architecture alone justifies a special trip. Contemplating the vicissitudes of history and what we save versus what we tear down just ices the cake.
Mothersbaugh builds “orchestrions,” musical machines comprised of old pipe organ pipes, whistles, bellows and circuit boards that I found delightful. These ungainly contraptions seemed like goofy piles of junk to me until they started playing.
Grey Art Gallery is the public art museum of New York University. It consists of a small ground floor space and another subterranean gallery across the street from Washington Square Park.
The current show features the art of Mark Mothersbaugh, of the band DEVO. Probably the most random show I’ve seen at any of the school museums I have visited so far. Who even knew he made art?
DEVO Honda Ad
The exhibit consists of some of his art school work, a fair section about DEVO (are we not men???), and then various pieces that show off the kinds of art he makes, which include sketchy postcards, rugs made from the sketchy postcards, neat manipulations of found vintage photos, the musical contraptions I mentioned above, and, randomly, an ice cream swirl made of polished bronze and the world’s largest crystal ruby (at 30,090 carats).
Mark Motherbaugh, Beautiful Mutant series
That last alone would’ve made the visit, worthwhile, even if it struck me as rather Jeff Koons-y.
Mark Mothersbaugh, Ruby Kustard, 2009-2014
The Grey Gallery manages NYU’s art collection, but as with many such spaces, deciding whether to visit Grey depends largely on your interest in the current exhibit. That said, the location factor makes it more accessible, if not more appealing, than some other school-related art spaces. I loved the show I saw at Lehman College, but I’m far more likely to find myself with time on my hands in Greenwich Village than the far reaches of the Bronx. I’d recommend stopping in if you happen to be in the vicinity. It makes for a quick, free art snack.