The Secretary’s Standards
do address significance, however, as it relates to tangible things like
cornices and columns and they identify four strategies for effectively dealing
with historic buildings: preservation, rehabilitation, restoration, and reconstruction. The first approach, preservation, is the most
desirable and “places a high premium on the retention of all historic fabric
through conservation, maintenance and repair.” Further: “It reflects a
building's continuum over time,
through successive occupancies, and the respectful
changes and alterations that are made.”[2]
Changes to a building, such as a mansard roof added to an Italianate or so-called
Victorian details added to a brick building in the Federal style, are an accepted
part of its record and how it’s evolved over time.
However, exactly where and when old alterations or changes
to a building develop significance and become historic fabric is not clearly
defined for us by the Standards. And, if “respectful
changes and alterations” are to be preserved, why have we decided that the
continuum has stopped and we are resistant to additional changes and
alterations? Indeed, a great deal of attention has been focused on how to
create historically appropriate additions to existing buildings—make it like the original, but easily
distinguishable, and smaller in scale. But what about a 1920s rear ell on a
Greek Revival? If it looks “right” we want to save it but, if it doesn’t resonate
with our collective sense of taste and what we think it should look like—if it
doesn’t look “right”—then we’re receptive to wholesale alteration or even demolition.
In my experience as a contractor and consultant I have
appeared before numerous historic district commissions throughout New York and
New England. This has afforded me the opportunity to listen in as applicants
for certificates of appropriateness make their pitch for permission to replace
windows, change facades or roofing materials, and otherwise destroy historic
fabric. The part I’ve always found most fascinating is when the element or
system the applicant wants to demolish is part of the “respectful changes and
alterations” that have been made over time. If the alterations are respectful, as the Secretary’s
Guidelines indicate, the commission will fight hard to protect them. If not,
approval is often swift and paves the way for the demo crew. Does respectful mean it ‘looks right’?
Respectful is a relatively subjective term and, as it
applies to a discussion about the value, significance or integrity of an
architectural detail, more subjective still. Merriam-Webster defines respectful
as “marked by or showing respect or deference.” So, do respectful changes and
alterations show deference to the original building? Perhaps not in style
(reference the earlier examples of the Italianate and the Federal-style
buildings with juxtaposed styles as major alterations) but in the quality of
the craftsmanship and the materials used? The dictionary’s definition of
deference as “a way of behaving that shows respect for … something” is of little
help. Unhelpful, that is, unless we view the term esoterically and, in this
context, meaning that the newer work is of a quality and standard worthy of
standing beside the original.
That would be a convenient conclusion, if not for the fact
that the historic preservation world possesses a general aversion to the idea
of altering historic buildings, and this inference would seem to indicate that
new alterations and changes can be viewed as acceptable if the quality of work
is very high. Returning to the “building's continuum over time” issue, one
might think that worthwhile, respectful
alterations and changes ceased by the beginning of the twentieth century or
perhaps as late as the 1930s when sun porches were vogue additions atop single
story bump-outs at the rear of nineteenth century homes. Adding a Second Empire
mansard roof to an Italianate, or Victorian details to a brick Georgian, are a
clear mishmash of styles that, if proposed today, would be unacceptable.
Is that because the changes, dramatic as they were 150 years
ago, are now deemed respectful because they, too, are ancient and reverent?
This smacks of Ruskin: “When we build let us think we build forever ... that a
time is to come when these stones will be held sacred because our hands have
touched them, and that men will say, as they look upon the labor and wrought
substance of them, ‘See! This our fathers did for us.’”[3]
There is something special about a hand-planed molding, a carved stone capital,
or a centuries-old brick wall—and we treat them with reverence out of respect for
the quality of craftsmanship and materials that have endured the test of time.
The tangible item that is ancient is automatically awarded respect and shown
deference because it is old, and as Ruskin would indicate, becomes sacred.
Modifications and alterations to the building, no matter how dramatic they may
have been then, are acceptable now and protected.
Circle back to the earlier question: Exactly when do alterations
or changes to a building become historic fabric? Imagine if the owner of the
Italianate sought a certificate of appropriateness to remove the mansard roof
and restore the building to its original style. His application would
undoubtedly be rejected. But what if there was an addition on the side of the
building from 1900; would it be considered historic fabric? Why or why not?
Since we’re dealing with subjective terms, and varying views, perhaps it
depends less on the materials and craftsmanship than one might think. Some
historic district commissioners may be patently against demolition and, as
such, the “continuum over time … respect for changes” argument is well-suited.
Still, even staunch preservationists have a breaking point; some changes must
be unacceptable and worthy of the landfill.
Wherever that line lies, on the other side is the place
where building materials turn into historic fabric.
[1] McGraw-Hill.
Dictionary of Architecture and
Construction, (2003)
[2] Weeks, Kay D., and Grimmer, Anne E. Secretary of the Interior’s Standards for the Treatment of Historic Properties, (1995)
[3] Ruskin,
John. The Seven Lamps of Architecture,
(1849)
All photos courtesy Carole Osterink http://gossipsofrivertown.blogspot.com/