Read Online Life at the Dakota by Stephen; Birmingham - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephen; Birmingham
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Lennonâs and Yoko Onoâs bedroom. It would cost at least $30,000 to dig up the bedroom floor, and besides, the Lennons donât really need the money.
The thick walls and floors were designed not only to insulate the Dakota in winter and to keep it cool in summers when air conditioning was unheard of, but also to block out the cityâs noises, dust and stench. Though the upper reaches of Eighth Avenue were still relatively quiet and soot-free, the Eighth Avenue streetcar rattled by, and it was assumed that the West Side would soon be as noisy and smelly as the rest of town. The Dakota was designed to protect its residents from all of that.
But one aspect of Henry Hardenberghâs designâin a building thatover the years has posed a number of riddlesâremains a mystery. Though he covered the Dakotaâs exterior with elaborate ornamentation on the north, east and south sides, he left the west face of the building absolutely blank and unadorned, as though when he got around to that side of the building, he had lost interest or run out of imagination. To be sure, the west side of the building could be regarded as the âbackâ of the Dakota. And yet this back side overlooked one of the buildingâs most gracious attractionsâthe private park with its clay tennis and grass croquet courts, an area of Dakota land roughly equal in size to the acre upon which the building stood. In the building of New York brownstones it had become something of a tradition to leave the backs of buildings blank, and these were called âpartyâ or alley walls because they usually faced an alley or an air shaft. But the Dakotaâs back did not face an alley; it faced a garden. Is it possible that Hardenbergh anticipated the day when the Dakotaâs back would indeed face an alley? That would not happen for eighty-five years, until, as we shall see, Louis Glickman entered the picture. Until then, the Dakotaâa west-facing façade wore an embarrassed and unfinished look. From its own pretty garden, the Dakota looked truncated, as though Mr. Hardenberghâs great château had been neatly and cleanly sawed in half.
Two events occurred in 1882, meanwhile, when the building was only half completed, which affected its history profoundly. The first was the official renaming of Eighth Avenue as Central Park West. This was an indication that the city, too, had faith in the expansion of the West Side, and it gave Mr. Clarkâs building a somewhat prettier address. The second was the sudden death, of a heart attack, of Edward Clark at the age of seventy-one. When he heard this news, Henry Hardenbergh was dumbstruck. What would become of the project now? For several anxious weeks Hardenbergh worriedly waited to hear whether or not Clarkâs heirs would call the costly effort off. He spent his time characteristicallyâdesigning Corinthian columns to embellish the old Third Avenue trolley-car barns. He was, however, eventually reassured that the building was to continue as planned.
When the Dakota was at last completed, on October 27, 1884, four years, almost to the day, from the date when ground had been broken, it was greeted with an article in the New York Daily Graphic headlined:
A DESCRIPTION OF ONE OF THE MOST
PERFECT APARTMENT HOUSES IN THE WORLD
The article led off almost breathlessly to say
Probably not one stranger out of fifty who ride over the elevated roads or on either of the rivers does not ask the name of the stately building which stands west of Central Park, between Seventy-second and Seventy-third streets. If there is such a person the chances are that he is blind or nearsighted. The name of the building is the Dakota Apartment House, and it is the largest, most substantial, and most conveniently arranged apartment house of the sort in this country â¦
A 2,500-word paean of praise to the building followed, and the article was reprinted in the New York Times. Throngs
The thick walls and floors were designed not only to insulate the Dakota in winter and to keep it cool in summers when air conditioning was unheard of, but also to block out the cityâs noises, dust and stench. Though the upper reaches of Eighth Avenue were still relatively quiet and soot-free, the Eighth Avenue streetcar rattled by, and it was assumed that the West Side would soon be as noisy and smelly as the rest of town. The Dakota was designed to protect its residents from all of that.
But one aspect of Henry Hardenberghâs designâin a building thatover the years has posed a number of riddlesâremains a mystery. Though he covered the Dakotaâs exterior with elaborate ornamentation on the north, east and south sides, he left the west face of the building absolutely blank and unadorned, as though when he got around to that side of the building, he had lost interest or run out of imagination. To be sure, the west side of the building could be regarded as the âbackâ of the Dakota. And yet this back side overlooked one of the buildingâs most gracious attractionsâthe private park with its clay tennis and grass croquet courts, an area of Dakota land roughly equal in size to the acre upon which the building stood. In the building of New York brownstones it had become something of a tradition to leave the backs of buildings blank, and these were called âpartyâ or alley walls because they usually faced an alley or an air shaft. But the Dakotaâs back did not face an alley; it faced a garden. Is it possible that Hardenbergh anticipated the day when the Dakotaâs back would indeed face an alley? That would not happen for eighty-five years, until, as we shall see, Louis Glickman entered the picture. Until then, the Dakotaâa west-facing façade wore an embarrassed and unfinished look. From its own pretty garden, the Dakota looked truncated, as though Mr. Hardenberghâs great château had been neatly and cleanly sawed in half.
Two events occurred in 1882, meanwhile, when the building was only half completed, which affected its history profoundly. The first was the official renaming of Eighth Avenue as Central Park West. This was an indication that the city, too, had faith in the expansion of the West Side, and it gave Mr. Clarkâs building a somewhat prettier address. The second was the sudden death, of a heart attack, of Edward Clark at the age of seventy-one. When he heard this news, Henry Hardenbergh was dumbstruck. What would become of the project now? For several anxious weeks Hardenbergh worriedly waited to hear whether or not Clarkâs heirs would call the costly effort off. He spent his time characteristicallyâdesigning Corinthian columns to embellish the old Third Avenue trolley-car barns. He was, however, eventually reassured that the building was to continue as planned.
When the Dakota was at last completed, on October 27, 1884, four years, almost to the day, from the date when ground had been broken, it was greeted with an article in the New York Daily Graphic headlined:
A DESCRIPTION OF ONE OF THE MOST
PERFECT APARTMENT HOUSES IN THE WORLD
The article led off almost breathlessly to say
Probably not one stranger out of fifty who ride over the elevated roads or on either of the rivers does not ask the name of the stately building which stands west of Central Park, between Seventy-second and Seventy-third streets. If there is such a person the chances are that he is blind or nearsighted. The name of the building is the Dakota Apartment House, and it is the largest, most substantial, and most conveniently arranged apartment house of the sort in this country â¦
A 2,500-word paean of praise to the building followed, and the article was reprinted in the New York Times. Throngs
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