More MISCELLANY

Once again, a few interesting bits of trivia.

From last Sunday's Post comes a story about the vicissitudes of New York's real estate market, entitled Prices Growing, Growing, Gone! The study of the market over the last ten years, it was a uplifting tale ‒ particularly if 0ne is a real estate agent ‒ except for a couple of straggling neighborhoods.

The main straggler, according to the Post, is "Tudor City, an apartment complex that consumes the area between East 40th and East 43rd streets and First and Second avenues. It took the greatest hit, with prices falling 17% from $402,000 in 2014 to $335,000 last year." 

Thanks to Vanessa Groce for the tip.

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Photograph around 1929, showcasing the two Tudor City signs. Then there was another sign on The Woodstock's western wall. . .

WOODSTOCK TOWER is all we can make out, however.

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The oil painting, Festival of St. Roch by E. Debat-Ponsan, hung in the lounge of Hotel Tudor in the 1950s; this postcard celebrated it.

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Finally, John McKean calls for an emergency meeting in his newsletter of January 25, 1981. "We still can win, but we must fight!"

Anatomy of No. 5

Today's Anatomy session concerns a Percy Loomis Sperr photograph of No. 5, evidenced by his embossed name at the bottom, and no doubt commissioned by his boss, the New York Public Library, in 1929. More on Sperr here.   

In the center of the photograph is the four-story house, 8 Prospect Place, that was preventing the development on the west side of the street. We see its rear side, and on the bottom two floors, there is some sort of circular design repeated. There is no indication of what this could be. Could it be an early start on a beer garden?       

Showing the lumber piled up near the main entrance of No. 5.

Tracking upward, there is still much to do. The windows all appear to be in, but otherwise it's rather dark and foreboding.

On East 40th Street, the construction shed at the corner of 1st Avenue suggests they are nowhere near to finishing. 

Beyond the area that French controls, the landscape dramatically drops twenty feet. 

Lastly, a look at the roof. What appears to be No. 5's weathervane is sheathed in protective scaffolding before permanent placement. More about it here. 

The NEW YORKER in 1929

A look at some editorial content that ran in The New Yorker in 1929.

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The first piece is by Marcia Davenport, who wrote a column for the New Yorker called New Apartments for several years. It was the style for the author to use a pseudonym, and she chose the name 'Penthouse.'    

The progress of Tudor City has so outstripped this plodding department that an adequate review of the midtown Eldorado would be impossible. Eight completed units make up the bustling village, and more are not only promised but are poking up their gaunt red arms already. Now, whatever I may say about small rooms, no fireplaces, and the Spirit of Get Together and Walk to Work, you should remember that Tudor City successfully fills a great need. Its army of tenants, pouring down Prospect Hill at eight-forty-five each morning, bears me out; clerks, stenographers, and other workers have never lived better for so little. It would be hard to find a more suitable town pied-a-terre for the suburban-dwelling businessman of moderate means. I hate disappearing beds, dining-alcoves, and cheery neighbors, but I take off my beret to Tudor City.

Most of the buildings ‒ coming under the hotel, instead of the tenement, law ‒ have one and two-room apartments, with serving pantries where you serve, remember, not cook. At least three houses, however, have standard kitchens and apartments of up to five rooms.

The average rent of the one-room apartment is $1,200 a year, but you can pay much more, or get a single room for as little as $750, in the Cloister. Woodstock Tower, the newest house (with a Gothic village church concealing the water-tower  above the thirty-first floor), has some pretty gorgeous views for modest-salaried girls and boys. The management does everything with a smile, from making your beds to supervising the play of your children and their pets. Prospective workers in the new Chanin and nearby buildings are among those invited to consult the renting office, right on the crest of the Tudor City wave, in Prospect Tower.

‒Penthouse          

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The next piece ran in the Talk of the Town, and was unsigned, written by an unknown author. Titled "Chelsea and Tudor," it told the story of how the sites for London Terrace and Tudor City were purchased, one house at a time.

. . . We recall that there was a somewhat similar situation when they were getting ready to build Tudor City. The French people tiptoed around, buying land. They approached one astute man we know and he set what he thought was a pretty fancy price on a house he had been holding for speculation. It was instantly accepted. He chortled over a thirty-five-thousand-dollar profit until another property owner began to do a lot better. An identical house next door was owned by an aged lady who took boarders. She was hard of hearing, said she was too old to move, and didn't want to be bothered anyway. She sold finally at one hundred thousand dollars more than our acquaintance got. Now he mutters mostly.

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The last piece ran in The Sky Line, an architectural column written by George S. Chappell under the pseudonym 'T-Square.'

In the midtown zone we note that Tudor City keeps on growing and that, with the added park areas upon which the various units face, it becomes more and more attractive. The latest addition, on the south side, is a replica of the building just north of it, but unfortunately the view from the lower floors on the river side suffers somewhat from the interposition of one of the New York Edison plants.

Prospect Place, as the enclosed park is called, is a gratifying oasis.

―T-Square 

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Finally, we're re-publishing a Gluyas Williams cartoon that appeared in the New Yorker's April 27th issue. Titled Industrial Crises - A Resident of Tudor City is Discovered not Walking to Work, it ran for a full page.

Tudor City had arrived.

More on the New Yorker here and here.

More NEW YORKER Ads

Once again, we turn to the pages of the New Yorker for our content. These ads all ran in 1928, and apparently were written with the New Yorker's audience in mind. 

Gambling on the Green

Even money that there won't be another for ten minutes. Two to one that it will be full when it gets here. . . He falls up the steps, is lurched to his seat, and is still gambling on the green as they grind to a stop for traffic lights. Even if this were fun I wouldn't like it, he muses. . . because it's so unnecessary.

So now he walks to work. . . and gambols on the green in spare hours. Yes, Tudor City even has a small 18-hole golf course and two parks.

Tudor City offers more with less trouble. High on the East River Front, just four minutes' walk to the Grand Central and convenient to everything. Its own shops, garage, restaurants, children's playground and every conceivable service. Renting office in Tudor Tower at east end of 42nd Street. (Vanderbilt 8860.) 

Latitude ‒ Not Much

This way, ladies and gents, pick your own ice floe. Settle down to a nice cozy winter in Hartsdale, White Plains, Armonk, Albany, Buffalo, Canada and points north. Trains leaving on track 40 at 5:17.

But then again ‒ wouldn't you rather not? Is commuting worth it after October? Perhaps you care for igloos in the best Spanish Renaissance manner. Or find it fun to tend to a furnace.

Don't do it! Why not live where winter is a Season with a capital S ‒ musical, theatrical, artistic, social  ‒  each with its bright particular star. Your home at Tudor City will start you from the meridian. Just four minutes' walk from Grand Central. Close to theaters, clubs, shops, concerts ‒ not to mention the Public Library. And pleasant all year long. 

Mush On!

Huskies ‒ the crack of a whip like a pistol shot in the frosty air ‒ crunch of snow beneath fast flat runners ‒  Mr. Stilson is on his way to business!

Two hundred and tenth. . . ninth. . . eighth ‒ ah, the loyal dogs. . . straining at the thongs till their sturdy hearts are bursting. At this pace, he muses, I'll be there before the market closes tomorrow. Meantime, of course, Marston Oil will slough off six points. . . but Mr. Stilson doesn't know that ‒ won't know till too late. All because nobody would tell him.

What? About Tudor City, of course. There . . . well, he might have to put on his overshoes, but four minutes' jog down the hill on 42nd street, and there he is, ready for action, before his favorite ticker.

That's what Tudor City is for. . . a direct answer to prayer for anyone who wants to live pleasantly and yet can't waste time junketing around trying to get places.   

"A VIGOROUS LIFE," Part Three

We conclude our exploration into the life of Fred French with a final series of photographs. 

Cordelia, Fred, and Leonard Thomas in Central Park, 1919. Thomas was a roommate of Fred's during his brief stay at Princeton. 

French and his secretary, Dorothy Driscoll, in a rowboat at Pawling, New York. Miss Driscoll was an excellent secretary who had become close with the family through such visits. 

In front of the Pawling estate (which Fred had built as his family's second home) stand Fred Jr., Miss Driscoll, Cordelia and John.

This photograph was made the day Knickerbocker Village broke ground, October 11, 1933. Along with the banner, another sign identified its builder, the Fred F. French Company. This would prove to be French's last completed project before he died.

EXITING the THEATER

A return to an offshoot of Tudor City promotion, that which is aimed at the theatergoer ‒ particularly the theatergoer forced to leave early to catch the 10:52 to Westchester. These are from 1929.

There's another one leaving for Forest Hills whispers one chorine, surveying the audience. . . Do they talk like that about you, or do you live in Tudor City?  

There is no excuse for being late to the theater ‒ not even commuting ‒ when you can live at Tudor City and walk to any play in time to see the curtain rise. . .  

Suppose the first violin got up in the middle of the last act and with considerable commotion marched out of the theatre. You'd be annoyed. And it wouldn't help if it was explained to you that he was a commuter and had to catch a train. . .

Look 'round! He's sitting next to you. . . Mentally, he's a wreck. . . But he's reading this programme, too. Perhaps he is wise in his generation and this autumn you may meet him again ‒ in Tudor City. From there he will walk to the theatre and there he will enjoy all the conveniences of life. . .

More of the same here.

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Another matter altogether is the listing of Penthouse 4 in No. 5. It is among the most desirable of the penthouses since its terrace has views of the Chrysler building. In 2023, it was on the market and sold for $3,200,000. Now it's back again, for $3,750,000. We took a look at the virtually staged premises, both in 2023 and 2024.

2023

2024

We think 2024's virtual styling is far superior to 2023's, but is it worth $550,000 more? See the current listing via Douglas Elliman, and compare it to our original post. Then decide. Comments are encouraged. 

Anatomy of an AERIAL VIEW

 

Today we examine a photograph that's a souvenir of the Curtiss-Wright Flying Service's photo division, entitled Grand Central district. Although Grand Central itself is hidden from view, the picture is clearly that of Midtown Manhattan.

To begin with, here is the steam plant that ran for three blocks between the river and First Avenue. Its sign (center right) reads New York Edison Company. All eight smokestacks are hard at work.     

Moving to the center of the photo, there are two buildings under construction: the Chrysler building and just below it, the Daily News building. From the progress of the construction, the photo dates to 1929.

A look at No. 5.

The Woodstock, No. 25 and No. 45.

Finally, a look at what lay immediately north of Tudor City in 1929.

"A VIGOROUS LIFE," Part Two

Again, a return to A Vigorous Life, the joint effort of Fred and John French at an autobiographical biography. Today's focus is on pictures of Fred French at work.

Young Fred French

First, however, a picture of a very young Fred French, his taste in apparel quite similar to that of one of his heros, Theodore Roosevelt. This photo was a souvenir of a celebrated trip to Alaska, following the same trail that Roosevelt did. His rifle and hunting clothes were identical with Teddy's.

The Horace Mann football team in 1901. French standing, third from left.

The earliest picture of French in the book is this shot of his high school football team, which would prove to be exactly how French liked to be seen, in the company of a group. The only difference was, as the years went by, his seating shifted to the place of honor.  

A portrait of the company sales team. French is seated, center.

This is one of many such pictures that were made to commemorate the team.

 A celebratory dinner honoring the company's sales team, held in French's home. He's seated at the head of the table.

There is no respite from business, not even at home. Our earlier post on A Vigorous Life here.

Even More NEW YORKER Ads

 

Four New Yorker covers, 1928

Hello there, fans of The New Yorker and Tudor City. Time for another installment of the magazine's ads for the colony; these all ran in 1928, Tudor City's first year of operation. The artwork for this ad campaign had absolutely nothing to do with Tudor City, and as for the copy, it exists for New Yorker readers to enjoy it.  

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Beware Traffic Cops

This speed was simply dizzying. It was bad enough, thought Mr. Bloomfield, when you didn't have to go downhill. Why, in any of these towns, he might get a summons. He feared that the traffic cops were learning to watch for him lately. Mike had been quite cold to him going through Flushing the other morning.

And then. . . disgrace. He could hear Patch, the general manager. . . "We regret, Mr. Bloomfield, that the circumstances. . . an old conservative firm such as ours. . . I am sure you will understand."

Bertha had been against this bicycling from the beginning. How right she was. He could still hear her plaintive words, "Oh Ned, if we only lived where you could walk."

And why not? From Tudor City you can walk wherever you want to go. High, quiet and airy on the East River Front, Tudor City is just four minutes from Grand Central. An independent community with its own shops, restaurant, garage, parks, even a miniature golf course. A variety of apartments at reasonable rentals.

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Clattering Caravans

Rocking along on stilts ‒ clinging desperately to his mount as the hard, slippery seat careens beneath him. . . swaying to the rough, uneasy motion. . . Mr. Buntling rides the "L."

Perhaps the novelty, the adventure that drew him to the outlandish means of travel has worn off. Perhaps the "L" wasn't so bad when he was younger. But whatever the cause, Mr. Buntling is not a happy man. Traffic below crawls, snail-like; mournfully he views the years ahead.

Still, it is not too late. There is a haven for the Mr. Buntlings, where they can march afoot to storm the citadels of finance. No overland journey, no storms at sea. Tudor City ‒ an independent community on the East River Front, just four minutes' walk from Grand Central. High, quiet and airy, with shops, restaurant, park, miniature golf course, everything ingenuity could devise to make life pleasanter. And assorted apartments at reasonable rentals.     

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Heavy Going. . .

The trail was in horrible condition. Stumbling, panting, his rickshaw boys ran on. Tooting to warn the local fauna, they swung at dizzying speed around the tangled roots of subway excavation. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. Down a long, clear stretch, rocking and creaking. And then. . . snagged on a traffic light, while the sahib blistered the already tropical air.

No way to treat nerves. . . specially those of a high powered executive. Taxi-ing to work might be quick, but it certainly was the equivalent of a full day's work in nervous strain. He would make the office in time to phone his broker, but Zounds! What good would it do him. . . in this condition. Poor Mr. Spitkin.

He's cured now. The doctor prescribed air and exercise. And quiet. He lives in Tudor City and walks to the office, sedately, with contemplative eyes. He sits in the park, or putts about the miniature golf course. A quiet, independent community on the East River Front, with its own parks, restaurants, shops and reasonable rentals.    

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Paul and Virginia Took the 5:17

It was the last time. Not the first, but the last. For it seems that Virginia liked her new clothes. While Paul had never liked the 5:17. They always seemed to reach Moorland-by-the-Fells just in time to meet Jupiter Phoenix. There were five taxis in Moorland-by-the-Fells. And 500 inhabitants who commuted.

The rest of the story is brief and simple. Virginia said no tree was worth it. Paul knew where there was a tree in New York. Several, in fact, with lawns, fountains, rustic seats, even a miniature golf course. So they live in Tudor City, forever free of the 5:17. Just four minutes from Grand Central, within walking distance of almost everything. An independent community with restaurants and coffee house, laundry, valet and maid service, garage, medical nursing bureau and a supervised playground for the children. A variety of apartments at reasonable rentals.

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For those interested, some earlier posts about The New Yorker, here and here and here.

Anatomy of a Photo: THE MIDDLE PARK

Once again it's time to examine a photograph in detail. Today's subject is a study of the Middle Park, that isthmus of a park sandwiched between two larger versions. This shot was made in 1929, before the addition of Hotel Tudor.  

A zoom-in on the South Park, which at that time had a trellis (like the North Park) along its back wall. There is also an awful lot of fencing going on. 

The water tower of Hatfield House

The entrance to The Woodstock, along with a Bishops Crook light pole for night time illumination.

This large edifice is the about-to-open Daily News building.

Finally, an atmospheric view of people waiting on the platform for the 2nd Avenue El to arrive. Ah, long ago!