Philadelphia's Preservation Crisis

Like many publicly operated organizations, the city's preservation task force has already proven itself useless. That's a chore in itself given it isn't even a year old. From HUD to the EPA, sometimes I wonder why we invest so much in publicly operated groups. Given their political nature, they shift in purpose through administrations and are often defunct byproducts of campaign promises that never fully emerge. 

There's simply no money in altruism, and like for-profit corporations that serve only Wall Street, publicly funded advocacy only subsists as political stock. 

Simply put, the investment in public preservation advocacy would be better spent on the organizations that have no vested interest in demolition and redevelopment. The very fact that private developers, publicly traded firms, and a City Council that banks political capital from redevelopment is in any way involved with the city's Historical Commission, Licenses and Inspections office, or Design Advocacy Group is a huge conflict of interest. Preservation and its impact on our urban fabric should be left exclusively to the experts trained in historic preservation with no interest in anything else, and its autonomy should be heeded. 

In nearly all realms of public life, officials defer to privately funded experts. Allowing the Historical Commission, a tag tag gang of bureaucratic flunkies, to decide what goes, often at the behest of millionaire property developers claiming economic hardship, is no different than Betsy DeVos running slipshod through our public education system. Why are we outraged by one and not the other? Both are charged with one responsibility, enacting the opposite. 

Of course granting private groups like the Preservation Alliance absolute power over historic preservation is a tough sell. There's the knee-jerk assumption that private advocacy with too much authority can run rampant over the financial realities of any municipality. But time and again, advocates - from preservationists to gun reformists - have proven themselves nothing if not compromising. Barring the most storied of historical sites, only facades command preservation in Philadelphia (though the loss of the Boyd Theater's auditorium may, hopefully, challenge this caveat). 

The preservation crisis in Philadelphia can't be understated. Arguably as historic as Boston but considerably poorer, a recent influx of residents, mostly young or empty nested, has overtaken the priorities of our schools and our beleaguered history. In the decades since the New Deal era, Philadelphia's history survived in a preserved decay, uncataloged and untouched by the happenstance of neglect and a lack of development. Enticed by unfamiliar growth for the first time in nearly a century, City Hall and the campaigns of all those within have been fixated on the city's transformation, more often than not to the detriment of our history.

Charged with the task of organizing that history, private groups are so bogged down with the need for proposed landmarks threatened by development that only the most notable find a home on their lists. And even then, it's meaningless when the Historical Commission is so liberal with granting hardships to developers who simply don't want to salvage a portion of a facade. Meanwhile, incidental row homes built to last forever are routinely swapped out, blocks clear-cut, for new construction chock full of amenities, aimed at transplants with no concern for history, constructed to last maybe a few decades. 

When America's economy finally began to rebound from the Great Depression in the 1980s, it was through a culture of disposability. Everything from phones to cars to homes are designed to be temporary, and it's become our biggest enemy. Preservationists haven't been able to recon with the profitable nature of development itself, acting on the blind assumption that most people would like to save old buildings, and sacrifice luxury and convenience to do so. The only way they can move past this, and possibly be expected to professionally interact with and influence the very nature of our disposable culture is by granting them the autonomy and authority to do what they are academically prepared for: protecting our history in spite of developers equally vested in profitably maximizing every square inch.

City Hall can't be expected to do this, and maybe we shouldn't want it to. American culture, as much as our fickle desire for fast fashion housing, is driven by individualistic civic engagement. Maybe it's time we hand the reigns of preservation power over to those who actually care about it. 

The Next Divine Lorraine

EB Realty Management has released renderings for North Broad's Metropolitan Opera House and, well, it looks like the Met we know with purple lights and a "Box Office" sign.

Without it's pediment and crown restored, it gives of an Eastern State Penitentiary vibe, a preserved state of decay. In some ways, like Eastern State, that's quite beautiful. And on an Avenue that hasn't quite figured out what it wants to be, it could be incredibly unique. 

Considering developers Eric Blumenfeld and Billy Procida have been teasing us with the notion that the Met will host one of the "nation's biggest concert promoters," it seems they'd have the prospective funds to completely restore the Met to it's original grandeur. But Blumenfeld and Procida have proven themselves unconventional developers with an admiration for beleaguered brick and mortar. 

We know the Met won't be showing operas, at least not conventional ones. Those venturing up North Broad for a concert won't be looking for a classical venue, but something unique. The Met's current facade offers just that, and perhaps that's why Blumenfeld and Procida chose to leave it as-found. 

Not that anyone cares, but I'd offer only two changes: track down it's rooftop and sidewalk signage. 

There's a scene in the movie Twelve Monkeys where a homeless preacher (from the future) is prophesying outside of the abandoned opera house, and it's deteriorating sign hangs in the background. 

Find it, and reinstall it. In the 1990s, the Met sign was every bit a part of North Broad's cultural legacy as the Divine Lorraine's, and you know someone has it stored in a barn somewhere. 

That said, as Philadelphia's historic theater's go, we've had some losses. But the preservation of the Met exponentially outweighs the loss of places like the Boyd. The Boyd was a cinematic, Art Deco beauty. Not the best, but the best - and only - we had left. But the Met was and is something else. Something iconic from it's inception. It's salvation, even in it's current state, is a win for preservation in this city. 

The Boyd's Next Chapter

If you thought the Boyd Theater, or at least its remains, was about to fade into dull obscurity, guess again. This is, after all, Philadelphia. Locals fight tooth and nail over vacant lots atop unused piers, scream "shadows!" at prominent intersections prepping for high-rises. Few projects pass the first round, even the second or third, without facing a litany of lawyers, design reviews, and community concerns. And that's just in the nether regions. 

Rittenhouse Square, on the other hand, well you better hope for an Act of Congress - or God - if you want to break ground. For years, Live Nation and Pearl Properties have been putting their chess pieces in place to redevelop the Boyd Theater, first as a modern theater with an Art Deco apartment building, and now with some dull retail and less than desirable residences. 

All too often, neighborhood organizations - NIMBYs - are an unwarranted thorn in the process of progress. But the redevelopment of the Boyd site is not progress. Our neglectful Historical Commission allowed the historic auditorium to be demolished amid false implications that it would be replaced with something befitting the site's history. When the wrecking ball hit, the plans changed, and the city was presented with a design that looks more like creatively sheathed student housing than anything befitting one of the nation's greatest city's greatest address.

But something unique has happened and Inga Saffron, ever vigilantly crusading against the "it's better than nothing" philosophy, has the scoop. As Saffron points out, and as we've seen dozens of times in the past, neighborhood organizations typically lawyer up in the face of mediocrity. While a bevy of lawyers can stall projects for years, or even indefinitely, all to often we ultimately wind up with the status quo. Our selective memories have a short half-life, and when buildings like the Boyd fall, developers only have to wait for the vast majority of us to forget what we were ever fighting for. 

Perhaps neighbors of the Boyd have recognized the ineffectuality of the courtroom, or perhaps they're just so pissed off at what happened to the historic Boyd Theater, that they've finally designed to turn the game on its side. 

Neighbor Richard Gross decided to use the neighborhood's cash fueled passion to enter the design game, offering architects at Cecil Baker a number in the "low five figures" to either consult with Pearl Properties and Eimer Architecture, or come up with a better design altogether. What will happen with this unprecedented course of action remains to be seen. Pearl Properties reluctantly agreed to enter an agreement with Gross and his neighbors.

I don't know what construction-ready plans cost for a high-rise apartment with a retail component attached to a one hundred year old theater lobby, but I would imagine that $10-$14K would get you very little. If Gross manages to woo Cecil Baker - a deal that has yet to be made - it's possible that the firm will act as a consultant to Pearl and Eimer. But in an industry with no shortage of ego, it has to be quite a blow to find that neighbors are willing to pay out-of-pocket to fix your subpar design. 

Perhaps if Eimer walks, or is fired, the neighborhood's contribution will simply supplement Cecil Baker's total bill. It's uncharted territory and anyone's guess.

What is just as interesting as the concept - and maybe even as uneasy - is the precedent it sets. It doesn't necessarily tell other neighborhood organizations to pony up the cash for better design, but it does tell a less-than-stellar Historical Commission that some residents are willing to resolve the mistakes made by the city.

In a perfect world that would be a strong message, one where the Commission realizes that they failed to do their job, the job of representing the best interest of the city and its history. But in Philadelphia, city operated agencies are better versed in excuses than resolutions and the chip on the city's collective shoulder can take unsolicited criticism as a personal attack. 

It will be interesting to see how this new chapter in the Boyd drama unfolds. On one hand, a neighborhood organization has finally decided to step outside the box, proactively instead of reactively. That doesn't mean we won't wind up with dull infill at 19th and Chestnut, but it does show moxy. What is perhaps most important will be what the Historical Commission decides to do with this new coarse of action. I guess we'll find out sometime next week when they receive the telegram.

TargetExpress

Are you tired of renting a ZipCar every time you want to go to Target? Ever since Kmart closed on Market East, Center City's been devoid of any large discounter. That isn't necessarily a bad thing. If you know where to look, Philadelphia is still chock full of local markets selling cheap paper towels and kitty litter. But given Philadelphia's popularity explosion, it's surprising that a name like Target has yet to grace Center City, even University City. 

Well, fret no more. TargetExpress will be opening at the former Boyd next summer, Pearl Property's once-ugly, now-too-boring-to-be-ugly, proposed redevelopment of the historic theater's site. Personally I'm not a fan of Target. Not because they don't have cool stuff. They have very cool stuff, and they're great at making me buy it. That's why I'm not a fan. I go in looking for nails and come out with a lamp, some bath soaps, a few superhero t-shirts...and oops, I forgot the nails, so I go back in to take a look at those hip barstools I saw.

Jest aside, the scaled presence of this TargetExpress sounds like a hybrid between Walgreens and a full-size Target, so it will likely not include home furnishings and clothing. Strategically between West Market's office workers, densely packed Rittenhouse Square, and convenient to University City, 19th and Chestnut is a smart location. 

Still, a TargetExpress is a far cry from what the Boyd Theater once was, and what we were all-but promised its redevelopment would become. A discount department store, even a miniaturized incarnation of one, is about as far as we can get from a luxury movie theater and a towering Art Deco apartment building. 

And still no word on the Boyd's Art Deco lobby.

Boyd Site Redesign Offers Less of the Same

Last month the Philadelphia Historical Commission sent Pearl Properties back to the drawing board for its mixed use complex at 19th and Chestnut. Pearl must have misunderstood the reason their original design wasn't approved, because their redesign - if you can call it that - appears to be the same building with its bland-filter turned up.

What was proposed last month wasn't great, especially compared to the Art Deco rendering of an apartment tower we were led to believe would be flanking this prominent corner. Instead, its tower was pushed back to Sansom Street while a dull retail component sidled up to the Boyd Theater's head-house. Interestingly, in both renderings, Pearl ignores what is its most interesting component: the corpse of the Boyd Theater. 

Almost as if Pearl doesn't want anyone to ask what will happen of the theater's grand lobby, it pixelates into the background with something that looks like a store called Vivace. Perhaps hoping to grab some street-cred with a Versace implication, it really just implies that the Boyd's lobby will not serve as the lobby to its residential component, or as a lobby at all. Instead, we might assume, the lobby will be chopped up into another small-box retailer like the drugstore across the street or so many other once-theater-lobbies in Philadelphia. 

And what about the new elements? If this were a design competition and Pearl given a second chance, we'd see a wildly different and more dynamic design. It's easy, although shortsighted, to assume that the Historical Commission rejected Pearl's initial design because the complex is replacing something astounding, an astounding demolition that the Commission did approve. In its place, at best, should be a concession, something that at least tries to replace what was lost.

But this isn't a competition, it's bureaucracy and Pearl is dancing with the city. What seems to have happened leading up to the Boyd's demolition appears to be continuing right under the idealistic noses of the city's preservationists. As the Boyd traded hands, or appeared to trade hands, owners and speculators seemed to be laying down groundwork that would insure that the ultimate outcome would be extraordinarily profitable at the expense of preservation, or the architectural best interest of the site. 

Live Nation got a hardship exemption to demolish the Boyd's auditorium, then Neil Rodin all-but promised it would be replaced with an even more lavish cinema experience. Meanwhile, Pearl pitched a glorious high-rise for the corner of 19th and Chestnut. The triad had satisfied everyone, albeit with much public reluctance. But right before the Boyd's roof was ripped off, Rodin backed out, Pearl quietly exited the movie theater business, and the chaos exposed itself as a perfectly orchestrated project plan.

A plan that has left us with no hope that Pearl's mixed use plan for 19th and Chestnut will ever be anything more than the lowest common denominator. Despite its unimpressive facades and configurations, the layout makes absolute, commercial sense. The low rise retail component will face 19th and Chestnut, its most heavily trafficked intersection, while its mid rise apartment tower will sit on Sansom, likely above a parking podium, where nothing notable will be seen from the street. 

It's ugly, but this isn't a building designed to impress or win awards. It was always a heavily commercial endeavor. We'll never know for sure if this was Pearl's plan all along, but it's clear that preservationists and the more clueless Historical Commission were duped by Live Nation, Neil Rodin, and Pearl Properties. The only piece that seems to be still up for debate, the piece we should be primarily focused on, is ironically the only piece left that matters: the Boyd Theater's grand lobby. 

An Ugly New Boyd Tower May Cometh

With the tragic loss of Philadelphia's last movie palace, the Boyd Theater on Chestnut Street, many were looking to Pearl Property's graceful rendering of an Art Deco tower flanking the corner as a concession. 

Though only one rendering ever existed, the tower's handsome potential echoes an L.A. Noir embodiment that would have complement both the Boyd's lobby and its eastern neighbor. 

So what happened?

That question can't be asked enough when it comes to the Boyd's fight, loss, and demolition. And unfortunately, that uncertainty continues even after the Boyd's auditorium is nearly gone.

Eimer Architecture, a firm that has never produced a building, let alone a high-rise for an address like Rittenhouse Square, has released a rendering that will be reviewed by the Historical Commission next week. 

Inga Saffron had some choice words to say about it and, ever the critic, she couldn't be more correct. Like so many other high-rises, even townhouses, throughout Center City and University City, the tower's metal panels are the go-to decision for budget builders. They're a cheap way to make a simple building stand out. 

But this is Rittenhouse-****ing-Square. Budget builders have no business here. It's bad enough when an architect puts a pig in a prom dress in New Kensington, but at 19th and Chestnut, it's not even economically necessary. Behind the revered Boyd, it's downright unethical. 

Unfortunately there is a growing part of me that simply wants to move on. We lost the war for the Boyd, and there are worthy battles elsewhere. Eimer Architecture's building is uninteresting and flat, but it's now in the hands of the Historical Commission. 

There are still curiosities, though. Namely, why did Pearl abandon its Art Deco tower, and why did it move the tower to Sansom Street? The answer to the latter is likely financial. For the project to have a low-rise retail component, Chestnut Street gets much more foot traffic. Still, it's irresponsible to the neighborhood and to the streets, and will likely leave quaint Sansom with a garage door and a blank wall. 

An Ethical Case for Preservation

When academics, preservationists, historians, and neighborhood advocacy groups rush to save sites as revered as the Divine Lorraine or as humble as the Race Street Firehouse, the discussions become endless. 

The Boyd Theatre drove the community to establish The Friends of the Boyd, a Facebook group, and managed to stall the wrecking ball for years. As the conversation charged on, blogs and articles piled up, and talk began to question the effectiveness of the Philadelphia Historical Commission, the ethics of developers and property owners, and the profound cultural impact of our most storied landmarks. 

The topic of the Boyd Theatre frequently strayed into the place of historic movie houses and their role in our modern, multiplex mentality. Or even more so, the silver screen's wavering foothold as the prime mover of Hollywood blockbusters. 

The Boyd was Center City's last "movie palace," a moniker reserved for movie theaters erected when Tinseltown was America's Silicon Valley. Where software companies sprawl and telecom towers rise today, the social revolution of the early 20th Century was proudly projected inside these Art Nouveau and Deco masterpieces. 

But the frustration raised by the demise of the Boyd wasn't rooted in cinema's history, and it quickly became evident that a lost art wasn't responsible for its demolition, it wasn't even brought on by a dispassionate Historical Commission or shameless developers. As the conversation quickly strayed to the Metropolitan Opera House, the fate of the Divine Lorraine, and the crumbling Church of the Assumption, a broader question emerged begging for an answer.

What are we missing?

Despite the abundance of press surrounding the Boyd, the Church of the Assumption, and the Divine Lorraine, the ire of preservationists tends to get shrouded in its' own rhetoric. "This is the last historic movie theater in town," "once the church is gone, it's gone for good," and "they don't build them like this anymore" are chanted from megaphones and printed on t-shirts. Advocacy groups throw legal maneuvers at City Hall, and City Hall does what it can. 

There is clearly a lot of soul and passion devoted to saving a landmark, but by the eleventh hour it's muddled by confusion, the public looses interest, and before we know it, that grand hotel, theater, or mansion is a parking lot.

So what is missing? There is one very powerful reason to preserve the landmarks that rose in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and it's a reason that's impossible to debate. 

Yes, the Boyd, the Divine Lorraine, and the Church of the Assumption are showpieces that share invaluable architectural and social importance, and the same can be said for later sites like Falling Waters and the Society Hill Towers. But unlike buildings designed by Frank Lloyd Wright and I.M. Pei, buildings designed by Horace Trumbauer and Richard Morris Hunt, buildings built throughout America's Gilded Age and Roaring Twenties, were done so with a ferocious and cash fueled disregard. 

Sites like Lynnewood Hall and Biltmore Estate are America's Pyramids, and understanding how they were built can be just as quizzical. Preserving Victorian masterpieces like the Hale Building or infrastructure like the robust stone arches of the Reading Viaduct isn't the cultural legacy of the barons that bankrolled them or the political backdoor deals that got them done. No, preserving them is a cultural obligation to the slave labor and indentured craftsmen that did the heavy lifting.

They don't build them like they used to because they can't...and shouldn't. If there's any reason to preserve every masterpiece built between the Industrial Revolution and the Great Depression, that's the one.

It's easy to look at the Middle East and China and know exactly why we no longer compete for height and architectural prowess, but it's just as easy to ignore that we were once Dubai or Beijing, locking our least fortunate into servitude to build taller, wider, and ever astounding. 

Some day Eastern Nations may find themselves with the same ethical dilemma, staring up at the Burj Khalifa or across the Sheikh Zayed Bridge, wonder what's so marvelous about them. Until someone reminds them of the hundreds of immigrants that died building their cities. 

As we continue to embrace later architectural legacies of the 20th Century - International Style, Arts and Crafts, Brutalism - let's not forget that each era comes with its own, unique narrative. The Divine Lorraine, the Church of the Assumption, the Reading Viaduct, these aren't just architects and cultural movements, they're the bloodied knuckles of the Africans, Irish, and Native Americans who built them.

The Legendary Blue Horizon

What's historically significant about a building? Is it the grand ballroom, a theater's auditorium, the marble friezes adorning a train station's head house? Or is it the box it all came in?

In most cases, at least in Philadelphia, only the latter is recognized. Friends of the Boyd spent years struggling to convince its various owners and the Historical Commission that the most valuable piece of the puzzle was behind its humble Chestnut Street facade. They managed to convince the public, but not the powers behind the decision, and demolition seems to have begun. 

It might be counterintuitive, but historically designated landmarks are not very marketable. Most prospective buyers, whether they're purchasing a hotel or a house, don't want to be burdened with costly restorations within their own property. In fact, there are very few cities where the interiors of private property are dictated with such rigid requirements. Colonial Williamsburg may be one of the most notable exceptions. 

For the most part, owners prefer to make their property their own, even if that means gutting the columns and wainscoting from a Victorian twin and replacing it with the open floor plan and Pergo of a suburban McMansion. As unfortunate as that may seem to history and architecture nerds like myself, it's understandable. The Historical Commission has to maintain the balance between preserving our landmarks and retaining their salability. 

However, when you consider the fact that the White House was gutted and rebuilt from the inside out in 1952, it would seem that nothing is truly sacred.

Buildings like the Boyd are equally the sum of their parts. Its screen, seats, and lobby are as significant as its Art Deco face. However other buildings in Philadelphia meeting a similar fate aren't necessarily significant for any particular brick or transom, but for the events that took place within. In these instances, the interior is often far more important than the facade.

The Legendary Blue Horizon on North Broad Street is nationally synonymous with boxing. After closing five years ago, several plans have called for restoring it as a boxing venue, razing it for a hotel, and most recently, preserving the facade and building a hotel within. But the problem with this logic is even more pronounced here than it was at the Boyd. While the Blue Horizon is undoubtedly a beautiful building, it's essentially three brownstones that can be found throughout the city. The building's true significance lies behind its front doors, and its converted interior's role as a famous boxing arena. 

It's exterior's preservation is essentially pointless, especially as a hotel. Like Philadelphia International Records on South Broad Street, it's not the building that's historic, it's what took place here. Ten years from now this North Broad hotel will either look like several converted brownstones, or a tower awkwardly ascending from a false front. Few will remember what took place here or the famous names that fought inside. Allowing the Blue Horizon's interior to be demolished is like throwing out the LEGOs and saving the box. The building is just a vessel. And without its arena, it will just be a hotel.

When those in charge of protecting our historic landmarks fail to recognize the dynamic complexities of what truly makes a place historic, our efforts to preserve our history become exhausted and what we salvage becomes meaningless. 

Fate of the Boyd Uncertain, Again

Months ago, at the height of an effort to save Philadelphia's last surviving movie palace, the Historical Commission proved that it knows as little about history as it does preservation by approving the demolition of the Boyd's auditorium.

Neil Rodin promised he'd deliver us an iPic movie theater if Live Nation, its previous owner, cleared the way. Now that the auditorium, perhaps the building's most worthy attribute, is nearly gone, Rodin is out of the picture and the property has been purchased by Pearl.

Pearl Properties pitched a sky scraping apartment building for the now-vacant corner of 19th and Chestnut last summer, but its height and density upset neighbors. Now that it owns the Boyd, the art deco-ish apartment tower can be built without the headache of a zoning variance. 

So what about the Boyd? Well, Hamid Hashemi of iPic insists that it's still interested in leasing the Boyd from Pearl, but Inga Saffron pointed out Friday that iPic could only afford Rodin's cheap rent, and that Pearl has no interest in the movie business. 

Of all the theaters that graced Philadelphia with the birth of celluloid, it's a shame that the Boyd is the only to survive. While its auditorium is indeed beautiful, the only protected piece - its facade - is the building's least interesting attribute. 

As for the historic building, its classification only protects the facade, one that would complement Pearl's proposed tower. But at this point, does it matter? Unless Pearl intends to restore the Boyd's lobby and incorporate it into the tower as its entrance, the theater's face is its least interesting piece. Like ghost structures and shadow walls, salvaged facades can be bitter reminders of history we lost.

Even if Pearl is willing to entertain iPic's proposal and match Rodin's low rent offer, it seems like a poor business move. In fact, iPic's general business model seems like it's designed to fail, or at best, it's not sustainable. Blankets and recliners aren't innovative ways to draw fleeing viewers back to the silver screen. That's like putting a coffee shop in a Blockbuster then doubling the rental price in exchange for the experience. 

If I want to cozy up to a movie, I've got Netflix and a cat at home. I'm not going to spend twenty plus dollars to fall asleep in a room full of strangers. 

As a vintage movie theater, the Boyd's original auditorium would have offered something unique, and the vacant lot next door could have been annexed to provide another screen or two. iPic's bandaid approach to its dying industry never had a realistic future on Chestnut Street, and unless it begins to understand why Millennials would rather watch College Humor on their iPhones than sit in a movie theater for three hours, it doesn't have a future in the business.

Hollywood isn't going anywhere, but how we access it is changing. Offering amenities isn't the solution, it may just stave off the demise for another decade. Like print journalism, the movie theater we've known for a century is on its way out. What's next is anyone's guess, but iPic doesn't have it.

Why We're Losing the Boyd

As demolition appears to have begun at the Boyd Theater, activists are dealing with the twelve stages of grief, primarily fixating on anger and denial.

The hard truth is the Boyd was lost a long, long time ago when the Sam Eric closed. For all of the Historical Commission's ills, the organization seemed to be the only that recognized the Boyd's inevitable fate.

Meanwhile the public waited, biting their nails fed by the delusion that the Friends of the Boyd was on the case.

The age of the internet allows armchair activists to reach millions, but without a plan this approach gives the public false hope and can even hinder the strategic tactics by professional activist like those at the Preservation Alliance of Philadelphia.

Welcome to Amateur Hour.

Unfortunately in Philadelphia, the media often operates during amateur hour as well. Philly.com writers seem to take every Facebook page and Change.org petition seriously. Both Philly.com and Curbed.com posted stories about Caryn Kunkle's Change.org petition to seize the Divine Lorraine by imminent domain. Despite the unrealistic, and even illegal proposal, the government funded art studios that could never happen were taken seriously by thousands of readers because journalists were actually writing about a proposal they knew was impossible.

Of course the media can't be entirely to blame. Journalists, both mainstream and independent, understood exactly how unrealistic it was to save the Boyd as-is. They wrote about Friends of the Boyd and their efforts because there was no realistic involvement in the challenge to save the Boyd. If there was corporate backing or a public benefactor in the mix, Friends of the Boyd would be nothing but a Facebook page that occasionally appeared in the comments section. You can write about saving history until your fingers bleed, but if you can't bring a serious proposal to the table, there's no reason to be taken seriously.

In an absence of any real effort, journalists had nothing else to write about and Friends became the brand behind the cause. Anyone who didn't know the Boyd was coming down was blinded by hope or the misconception that Friends had a plan. 

Despite the ultimate outcome I'm still an idealist. I would have loved to see the Boyd restored. I would love for there to be a market in Center City to financially support a boutique theater. A new iPic Theater could have easily occupied one of the many surface lots anywhere on Market East or West Market Street. But it hasn't been a realistic outcome for the Boyd in the last decade and is unlikely a realistic outcome in the next, particularly without massive subsidies to maintain a very niche offering.

But that brings us to what the Boyd Theater actually is. Somewhere along Friends' campaign, the Boyd went from being the last historic movie theater in Center City to implying that it is the best that ever existed.

If the Fox or the Stanton was still standing, there'd be thousands of activists in front of the wrecking ball, backed by money and a plan. The Boyd just isn't that interesting. If it were, we'd see the corporate sponsorship and public support for its restoration. If the Boyd were worthy we'd see the kind of philanthropy that has stood up for the S.S. United States.

Unfortunately being the best of what's left doesn't make the Boyd significant, relegating it to truth that not every interesting building can be saved.

Salvaging the Boyd

After a valiant effort on behalf of preservation activists, Live Nation didn't waste time beginning demolition at the historic Boyd Theater after last week's decision by the Historical Commission.

As often is with historically designated buildings in Philadelphia, there was a public misconception about what was designated historic. The most astounding aspect of the theater is its massive Art Deco auditorium, but the only piece protected by the Historical Commission was the façade which will be restored by iPic Theaters.

Philadelphia's independent blogosphere will likely follow the Boyd's demolition while the mainstream press will follow iPic's redevelopment. Meanwhile it's important to use the momentum generated by the Friends of the Boyd and the Preservation Alliance to move on to the next threatened historic site.

For the moment, I'm curious what will be salvaged from the Boyd's auditorium and where it will end up. A few months ago I was at Ted's Bulletin, a new restaurant on 14th Street in Washington, DC, and was surprised to see the entire interior adorned in the salvaged remnants of West Philadelphia's Convention Hall.

Convention Hall met a familiar fate, its demolition the result of University Hospital's ambitious development and last minute efforts on the part of preservationists. Before that happens again, let's get out in front of the next great loss. We need a Friends of Robinson's, Friends of the Roundhouse, and Friends of the Divine Lorraine to make sure we don't lose another architectural legacy.

Last Minute Miracle...maybe?

In what may be a last minute miracle, Friends of the Boyd founder Howard B. Haas seems to have an anonymous buyer willing to match iPic's $4.5M offer for the beleaguered Boyd Theater. 

Still, the fact that the offer comes just a week before Live Nation's (current owner) hardship hearing with the Historical Commission and the anonymous nature of the donor, things seems fishy.

Who is the donor? Where has he or she been for the last two decades? Was Friends of the Boyd holding this card until it was absolutely needed? If that's the case, will the investment end at $4.5M ensuring that it continues to sit, or will the potential owner invest in its restoration, reopening it as the grand movie palace it once was?

These are all questions the Historical Commission will consider before it decides the fate of the historic building. Simply ponying up $4.5M so that it can be managed by an advocacy group could prove to be the iconic theater's worst case scenario, particularly if it requires just as much money or more to open the doors as a profitable venue.

Historical Commission: Time for a Performance Review

Philly.com

Philadelphia's sole surviving movie palace, The Boyd Theater, is charging headfirst at the wrecking ball. Our city's agents charged with protecting worthy landmarks treat historic status as a mere suggestion in favor of flashy, disposable design. Developers write their own hardship causes with no input from challenging independent audits.

So how is Spring Garden's Church of the Assumption still standing? It's baffling, a little bit sad, and its recently revoked demolition permit somewhat bittersweet.

The church's historic status is undeniable with or without a formal designation. The Roman Catholic Saint, Katherine Drexel was baptized there. In a state of disrepair, architect Patrick Charles Keely's unique temple shines on Spring Garden's otherwise boring streetscape.

Although a Commonwealth Court judge declared the demolition permit provided by the Historical Commission invalid, the judgment does little to save the church.

Developer John Wei will need to apply for a hardship waiver and prove restoring the landmark is cost prohibitive to obtain a demolition permit.

But he did that once before. Siloam, its previous owner, did it as well. Nothing in the court's judgment stops the Historical Commission from granting another permit, it only suggests that the previous permit was poorly written.

If iPic's Hamid Hashemi can prove that redeveloping the fully functional Boyd Theater as a theater is cost prohibitive, there's nothing standing in the Commission's way of declaring a crumbling church in an iffy part of town a lost cause.

Of course it's too easy to paint developers as Monopoly champions dragging around large bags stamped with dollar signs because that's exactly what they are. They build us theaters and apartment buildings and are largely responsible for our amazing skyline. Developers are the reason we have landmarks like The Boyd to fight over.

The problem is much larger than individual examples of developers paving over historic sites for parking lots. At the source is a broader scope responsible for every loss, our city's reluctance to save sites the city itself once deemed historic.

But can we? It's hard to watch Philadelphia auctioning off its schools and then ask the city to help save a theater or a church. But the city does it all the time.

We funnel money into private projects because they stand to profit the city and create jobs. Unfortunately the city doesn't hold its historic sites in the same regard, or perhaps our politicians just haven't though about it.

This city has spared no pork when it comes to political photo ops. We've spent millions on design studies for the Delaware Waterfront, Parkway improvements, and Dilworth Plaza. When it comes to intervening in history, the Historical Commission leaves crumbling sites exclusively to their own devices and at the mercy of their owners.

Philadelphia is a global tourist attraction, an attraction rooted in history. If any politicos should understand the significance behind landmarks like The Boyd or the Church of the Assumption it would be ours'. But they don't get it, routinely siding with developers at the eleventh hour.

The reason sites are declared historic is multifaceted. Most visibly, the declaration helps dictate a level of restoration, but only if its owner chooses to or can afford to preserve the site.

Beyond that, and where the city falls short, historic designation indicates that preservation may pose a challenge. Old buildings are old, they're hard to work with, and like the Church of the Assumption, many have outlived their architectural purpose.

This is exactly why historic status is important. It's ironic that the Historical Commission grants economic hardship exemptions with such regularity when the historic status in itself means that redevelopment will almost always be economically difficult.

Philebrity.com

This is where the city's involvement, and yes, even tax dollars, is most crucial. But it's also where the city's involvement is most absent.

If the city can grant developers tax breaks and subsidies to develop hotels and apartments, where are the incentives that protect our landmarks?

The Historical Commission is lip service. Worse than an ineffectual government agency, it hinders the sites it was designed to protect. Countless private historical organizations like the Greater Preservation Alliance of Philadelphia, often confused with the Commission itself, are forced to challenge the Commission's decisions.

That should never happen.

The Commission needs to aid every site it declares historic. While that certainly means it needs to be more thorough when it comes to granting historic status, some sites will be lost. But if the Commission is going to continue to grant hardship exemptions at every site it deems historically significant, historic status and the Commission mean absolutely nothing. 

How many of the Commission's historic sites have actually been saved? How many stand vacant? How many are awaiting a hardship waiver? How many have been demolished? And demolished for what?

The Commission exists to preserve Philadelphia's history. Maybe it's time to review their work.

Bye Bye, Boyd

iPic Entertainment's President, Hamid Hashemi has claimed that an eight screen mega complex is the only way to save the historic Boyd Theater.

While Hashemi promised to restore the theater's Art Deco façade and lobby, the auditorium would be demolished. Ben Leech of the Preservation Alliance of Greater Philadelphia has echoed the reaction of the region's historic community and the alliance plans to challenge Hashemi's hardship claim.

Arguing that a theater built  from scratch on vacant land would be cost prohibitive, Hashemi stated, "There is no way to take a piece of real estate and build a theater on it and justify the rents or acquisition costs. That’s why you don’t have any new theaters."

I guess the Pearl and the Bridge are figments of my imagination.

What's more, Hashemi's Boyd development is all but a complete rebuild. How is it cost prohibitive to build a new theater from scratch on cleared land, but somehow cheaper to demolish an existing building and stack a Texas style megaplex on the carcass?

iPic's claims read like an itemized list of bull shit.

In addition to suggesting that Philadelphia has no new theaters, Hashemi claimed that iPic's original plan was to restore the Boyd. That's fishy considering iPic Entertainment is a national chain solely specializing in luxury multiplexes.

If iPic intended to restore the Boyd, they're muddling their position. Restoring the Boyd obviously wouldn't turn the kind of profit a multiplex would and it may take longer for iPic to recoup their investment. However iPic's assertion that restoration would be cost prohibitive is based entirely on estimates by EConsult, a consulting firm that iPic themselves commissioned.

What's even more curious is that iPic's eight screens will only hold 744 people while the massive Boyd auditorium holds 2300. Although Hashemi's multiplex will be showing eight movies at once, it's hard to imagine he could charge that much more to make up for 1500 less customers.

Ironically Hashemi is pitching iPic's multiplex as an experience, "Everything we do today is what people used to do in the 1920s and 30s. They used to create experiences. Going to the movies wasn’t just about what was on the screen."

His statement is represented in everything that the Boyd already is, but the truth is between the lines. Hashemi's multiplexes are experiences that offer everything you have at home: blankets and 64 oz sodas. The experience he's regaling is the one he's killing, and that's where iPic's true motivations lie.

iPic is a brand. While it may be an experience, that branded experience has nothing to do with the historic silver screen, a stance that could be more respectable if Hashemi would just be honest about the company's intent because it's all too obvious.

The only real mystery is why Hashemi claims that building on vacant land is cheaper than bastardizing the historic Boyd. What kind of incentives will iPic receive with its economic hardship claim? What subsidies is it receiving for restoring a portion of the headhouse? Does "renovating" a property allow for tax breaks and parking exemptions that iPic wouldn't receive if they broke ground on clear land?

We'll find out soon enough, and much of it is in the hands of the Historic Commission that's taken iPic's every claim at face value. I don't know why Philadelphia's Historic Commission exists if not to protect this exact scenario from playing out.

Art Imitates Life Imitates Art

I just caught the Rocky Horror inspired episode of Cold Case, complete with Barry Bostwick. Aside from the question that slaps me in the face every time I see this show - "why was it cancelled? "- I was posed with another one as the episode came to a close, as a modern day audience sat in a vintage theater for a screening of the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Why don't we use our dwindling stock of old theaters?

With the historic community touring The Boyd and the Metropolitan's crumbling remains occasionally being used for art installations, why can't we surpass countless other small towns that have turned their vintage theaters into profitable homes that pay tribute to the silver screen?

Somehow we manage to throw more parades than our Nation's Capital, but we can't think of a seasonal movie to screen every weekend.

Come on, Philadelphia.

The Metropolitan's deteriorating interior may be in need of corporate intervention. But why does The Boyd, located in a prime entertainment area, refuse to open its doors to the public without dedicated funding from a major developer and a complete rehabilitation?

I understand the appeal in its possibilities, but in an absence of offers, do something with it. Show A Christmas Story on Christmas, The Wizard of Oz on Easter, Priscilla Queen of the Desert during Gay Pride, and of course, The Rocky Horror Picture Show on Halloween. I'm sure Philadelphia has no shortage of eccentrics in it's colorful art community to fill the aisles with a cast of characters for any theme we can think of, at least every weekend.

Instead of trying to be New York, maybe we should take a page from Phoenixville and say, if Charlottesville, VA can do it, why can't we?

Can We Get a Pulse?

A quick look at some great contributions to the Philadelphia skyline that may or may not make it.

Richard Meier's Mandeville Place at 2401 Walnut Street is dead in the water following the real estate crash. Out of all the residential developments proposed, this arguably would have been the most glowing addition to Philadelphia's architectural portfolio.

Agoos/Lovera Architects' Bridgeman's View would have added height adjacent to a neighborhood that a Northern Liberties NIMBY may not have wanted, but got stuck with it anyway in the form of five lesser towers with Waterfront Square. This could have been the catalyst to create a new city on the Delaware but died off with the real estate crash, leaving the north end of Penn's Landing with a cluster of five isolated high rises and the coming of Sugarhouse Casino.

H2L2's Stamper Square, a tasteful and scaled addition to Society Hill, replacing the hole in the ground formerly occupied by the NewCity shopping mall, was staved off by bitter residents long enough for it to be completely killed by the bubble burst, leaving residents with...a hole in the ground.

The Boyd Theater restoration and ARCWheeler's addition of a Kimpton Hotel isn't quite dead...yet...but hasn't seemed to evolve beyond this sketch.

The parking garage at Brandywine Realty Trust's Cira Center South is moving along. According to Penn, this project is going forward. Cira Centre South would significantly change our skyline shifting our eyes upward west of the Schuylkill and creating what I would like to name Crystal City had it not already been taken by an underwhelming suburb of Washington, DC.

A name like Intercontinental might be a slim possibility during this particular financial situation. One can still hope this Brennan Beer Gorman design someday rises above the Vine Street Expressway.

The same could be said for Cope Linder's Waldorf Astoria at 15th and Chestnut, rivaling the neighboring Residences at the Ritz in height, style, and opulance.

Winka Dubbeldam's obscurely fascinating Unknot Tower (GMH Hotels) at 12th and Chestnut would make a truley unique and risky addition to Philadelphia, unmatched since the days when our archiscape was Frank Furness's playground.

Of course, Philadelphia's attempt to play with the big boys, rising above anything currently standing in Manhattan and rivaling Chicago's biggest, Kohn Peterson Fox's American Commerce Center is still the dream of many. Battled by biddies in neighboring residences, the ACC has weathered much of its criticism by simply being tall. Like many of our tallest, it's not necessarily great architecture but from the ground, simetimes height is all a building needs to inspire awe.