Living in History

When I was in middle school, my family moved to a farm in rural Virginia. The house had been unusually divided into apartments for the extended family that lived there before us, the water well needed upgrades, and the massive tin roof was in disrepair.

I hate using that word, because disrepair doesn't mean what it implies. We repaired the roof, we restored the oak floors and cherry doors, and we modernized the home's water supply. 

It wasn't cheap, but it wasn't unheard of. 

Insignificant, but why not?

Throughout the South, older homes are readily renovated or simply restored. It may seem surprising, but some of the most conservative parts of the country abide by the creed, "the greenest house is the one already built."

Many of my childhood friends lived in homes without central air, and they weren't all poor farmers. Preserving the legacy of the past, some lived in tediously restored plantation homes which, with the exception of modern plumbing and electricity, existed exactly as they did prior to the Civil War.

I'm not simply regaling a lost era. I'm not that old. When I was in high school in 1993, a Mennonite family I knew purchased a farmhouse near my own family's farm. But they didn't purchase the land. Instead, they had the house lifted and moved to a new location. It may not seem unheard of when you consider the offer made to move the Main Line's palatial La Ronda all the way to Florida. But the Berry residence was a simple, late 19th Century farmhouse, one that can be found in abundance throughout Virginia's Shenandoah Valley.

So why bother? The house bore no family connection. It was a simple respect for history, and a nod to the fact that the greenest house is the one already built.

Another childhood friend of mine was the heiress to a massive poultry corporation. I remember practicing for my role in West Side Story at the Wampler house when my love for architecture kicked into gear. The simple farmhouse didn't just look original, it was original. When the Wampler's purchased the house - clearly with the means to raze the humble home for a mansion and swimming pool - they opted to restore the beleaguered and historically insignificant residence, going as far as replacing the rotten wood paneling with lumber farmed from the same region in which it originated.

So now ten years into residing at the pinnacle of American history, Philadelphia, I'm obviously perplexed by the region's willingness to discard its history at the mere mention of disrepair. Disrepair that simply cites broken gutters and detached stucco. I didn't just know people who lived in such homes, I lived in one myself. 

Sadly in Philadelphia, the apex of American history, a lack of central air can mean disrepair.

A century old home in Chestnut Hill is learning this the hard way. At 415 West Moreland Avenue, a handsome Colonial Revival mansion, well within the neighborhood's National Historic District, is slated to be demolished by Blake Development Corporation simply because the aesthetic challenges of renovating the property have deemed it to be in a state of disrepair.

415 West Moreland

Of course the fact that Blake wants to raze the property for two new houses exposes the transparent agenda. Obviously two Chestnut Hill homes are worth more than one, especially if they're new.

Still, like the fate of the historic La Ronda, the likely end to 415 West Moreland calls into question not just the irrelevance of any historic designation, but our own regional interpretation of what's worth preserving. 

In Asheville, NC, Biltmore Estate is a beacon of historic preservation and a source of regional pride, even though its namesake is derived from a region that might as well be its own country. In the North, its Gilded Age sister, Lynnewood Hall, is blighted abandonment just waiting to become another cul de sac community. 

That's not to say the South is without its architectural losses. Low County plantations have made way for golf courses and their own planned communities and cities like Atlanta and Charlotte continue to chip away at what little history that remains. But for every Atlanta mansion razed for condominiums, numerous mansions have been preserved throughout Georgia, Florida, and the Carolinas. 

Perhaps we Yankees don't have the same respect for our history because we won the war, perhaps these locations aren't deemed culturally significant, just big buildings built for another time and place. We look at Lynnewood Hall and 415 West Moreland the way we looked at Pennsylvania Station when it was demolished in the 1960s: irrelevant and useless.

Lynnewood Hall: How is this abandoned in anyone's America?

But Penn Station should be proof that we shouldn't let progress run away from ourselves. There isn't a soul on this planet that wouldn't want to have New York's grand Pennsylvania Station in lieu of what replaced it.

While the South continues to learn from its mistakes, New York and Philadelphia continue to blindly eradicate our past on the assumption that we're too good to preserve our history, and in particular, to live in it because it isn't climate controlled.

La Ronda was a treasure. Lynnewood Hall, even 415 West Moreland, still are. If you want new construction or an indoor hockey rink, there is plenty of land within the tristate area to erect a grand estate. 

But there is no legacy to be made in eradicating history, only superficial gratification. Learning to love history, the history of our built environment, and being a part of that, that is what makes a great Philadelphian, and a great American.

A Philadelphia Horror Story

Although construction is almost complete on La Ronda's 16,000+ square foot replacement, Halloween is a fitting season to discuss this monstrosity. Joseph D. Kestenbaum's spiteful demolition of one of Bryn Mawr's most beloved works of art aroused a regional hatred for our new neighbor.

The architecture community's relationship with McMansions can be a bit hypocritical considering they are, after all, designed by architects. The true dispassion for McMansions lies with historians, restorationists, and art lovers, which in a region as old as Philadelphia's, is a large slice of the population.

La Ronda estate before demolition

Bryn Mawr is no stranger to architectural loss. It's portfolio consists of Gilded Age masterpieces and modern infill that tries to recapture its past with cost cutting interpretations of its history. New or old, they often impress. Kestenbaum's new mansion fits the bill, and once the trees grow in it will blend.

But Philadelphian's don't quickly forget, and rich people with lots of art never do. What Kestenbaum did to a community is why his neighbors are throwing stones from their own McMansions. He didn't just buy a Picasso for the frame. He turned down an offer for the naked Picasso so he could strip it for the oil, then shredded the canvas on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

It's almost impossible to believe Kestenbaum wasn't driven by spite. It's likely no one will ever know his motivation for denying the offer to move the house, which would have saved him more money than he could have possibly made by scrapping the mansion. No one really knows Kestenbaum. His silence is understandable considering the region's reaction to his act, but the only stance he has made on the subject is one of befuddlement over that reaction.

He's left himself open to attacks, and in an absence of dialogue we have to assume he deserves them. Could it be true that he was so enraged at his neighbors for trying to dictate what he did with his own property that he razed La Ronda during a costly temper tantrum? The only details offered during the media circus that preceded the demolition came from Benjamin Wohl, a wealthy fan of La Ronda's architect, Addison Mizner, who attempted to have the house moved to an adjacent lot at his own cost.

Of the limited reasons Kestenbaum offered of his decision, one was that he had chosen the site for his new home because of the grounds. The obvious flaw in his argument is that the grounds wouldn't have moved with the house to the adjacent lot. The second flaw can be found on Google maps, which show a lot devoid of landscaping, save five or six trees left to perhaps block the glares from his angry neighbors.

Kestenbaum's Bryn Mawr mansion under construction in Bryn Mawr, haunted before it was built

Another argument made during the debacle in 2009 was that an historic 18th Century farmhouse had been razed to build La Ronda in the 1920s, an act that enraged the community at the time. That is an apt analysis, but if you want to debate the merits of the paleohistoric interpretation of La Ronda's existence, you need to replace it with something even more architecturally astounding. 

Let's face it. This man was bitter and wanted to piss people off.

Well he did a fine job, and he certainly created enough space to mise away in solitude, including an indoor hockey rink. He'll have to import friends if he wants to enjoy it.

While the only company he receives from his neighbors in this cushy Main Line enclave will be the passing glares of his neighbors, something tells me he won't be alone. Addison Mizner was an eccentric who died in poverty, and Kestenbaum has branded himself a Dickensian Scrooge. The stage is set for a real life Shamalan horror. The only question remains: How long will it be before the ghost of Mizner and his pet monkey are haunting this McMonster's new residents?

Kestenbaum's Monster

Historic La Ronda before being demolished by Joseph D. Kestenbaum

Joseph D. Kestenbaum, the pariah who razed the Main Line's historic La Ronda despite offers from a Florida philanthropist to front the cost of moving the mansion to a new location, has begun construction on his 16,000+ square foot McMansion at 945 Roscommon Road. Named for La Ronda's original address, 1030 has been designed by Visich Architects, an architecture firm known locally for their suburban interpretations of classic, Main Line architecture common in wealthy, cul de sac communities in tri-state area suburbs.

A rendering of a Visich Architects McMansion

Kestenbaum and Visich prove once again that money demonstrates little about taste and sophistication. While the original, 21 room mansion was constructed of steel, brick, and concrete, 1030 will be hastily clad in a Tyvek stucco and artificial stone veneer, sacrificing quality and craftsmanship for an indoor hockey rink.

Joseph D. Kestenbaum's McMansion under construction

La Ronda Demolished

I hope Kestenbaum's salvage rights were worth the grief this souless little man will receive from not just his neighbors, but an entire metropolitan community that understands the importance of our historic and architectural heritage. It's going to be cold and lonely in that McMansion of his for a long, long time.

Joseph D. Kestenbaum

He kept his identity a secret for the the summer, hiding behind his non-responsive lawyer, Joseph C. Kuhls, to avoid the understandable public outcry over his decision to destroy the historic La Ronda. But it was inevitable that Joseph D. Kestenbaum, President, Chief Executive Officer, and co-founder of Marsh Hawk Capital Management, LLC, would have to reveal himself eventually. I have to commend the Philadelphia Inquirer for mentioning Joseph D. Kestenbaum's name more than enough times to let everyone know this little man's name is Joseph D. Kestenbaum. Did I say his name? It's Joseph D. Kestenbaum.

Joseph D. Kestenbaum actually had the nerve to act shocked by the public scrutiny over his decision to bulldoze La Ronda. He's spitefully tearing down an historic and beloved landmark in one of the most historic regions of the country. Really Joseph D. Kestenbaum? Are you serious? It's going to be lonely in that 10,000 square foot McMansion you plan to replace La Ronda with. Don't expect company from any of your neighbors.

I don't think Joseph D. Kestenbaum would be such a pariah had he not continued to deny any and all efforts by a third party to move the mansion to an ajacent lot. Yes, Joseph D. Kestenbaum would rather spend more money to raze La Ronda than let someone flip the bill to move it. Joseph D. Kestenbaum's excuse? Joseph D. Kestenbaum wants the salvage rights.

I don't know if there is anyone in the world I dislike more than Joseph D. Kestenbaum right now. I think I'd rather be on stage with Kanye West than be in a room with Joseph D. Kestenbaum. Joseph D. Kestenbaum is a bad, bad man.

The Spiteful Little Unnamed Man

I have to give credit to the Philadelphia Inquirer for keeping with this story. All too often the media headlines bury the plight of historians, but the Inquirer - and a number of other local media sources - have set aside a significant amount of space for saving La Ronda (or at the very least, letting everyone know how this happened, and who is to blame). I'm not a proponent of playing the blame game but when someone offers you the opportunity to save a substantial amount of money, save you a substantial amount of work, and you turn them down in favor of spending more money to destroy exactly what the other party is fighting to save, well, your name deserves to be dragged through the mud. Unfortunately the name is being withheld by his attorney, Joe Kuhls, who is also selectively returning calls even though the owner claims to be entertaining offers. Unfortunately the salvage process has already begun on the interior and La Ronda's fate look grim.

Benjamin Wohl is the Palm Beach, FL resident offering the owner the cost of dismantling and relocating the mansion. The owner has declined in favor of a costlier demolition on his own part. Spiteful man.

Can La Ronda be Saved?

Benjamin Wohl of Palm Beach, FL has pledged the $300,000 needed to relocate Addison Mizner's 1929 La Ronda, to an adjacent lot. Unfortunately the owner's lawyer, Joseph C. Kuhls, has stated that no offers will be entertained and the demolition will proceed as scheduled. Another Philadelphia masterpiece wiped clean from the canvas.

Email the owner and his lawyer here at pbaskowsky@saul.com and jkuhls@dbyd.com.