Westbeth, like the former Village Nursing
Home, is one of several old buildings that loom up in the West Village, massive
and squat, buildings that don’t soar but have a history to tell. A nonprofit housing complex offering
affordable living and working space to artists and arts organizations, Westbeth
occupies a whole city block bounded by West, Bethune, Washington, and Bank
Streets near the Hudson River, and derives its name from the first two. I have often visited there, for a sculptor
friend of mine named Marion had a spacious apartment and studio on the second
floor.
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| Westbeth, as seen from West Street. |
Like
so many residents, Marion, the daughter of a kosher butcher in Rockaway, was a
dedicated artist who couldn’t make a living from her work, and was grateful to
be living in Westbeth when Village rents kept going up, and to have finally
obtained Medicaid, and maybe a reduced rent from the city, without which she
couldn’t have survived financially. I
loved visiting her apartment/studio and seeing her sculpture on display, much
of it semiabstract with motifs suggesting vegetation; two of her pieces, small
columns about a foot high showing stylized buds opening, stand on the mantel in
my bedroom/desk area. A friend of mine
once glanced at them and dismissed them as vaguely vaginal and
distasteful. Vaguely vaginal, perhaps,
but not distasteful; all her work suggests organic life and growth, the
irrepressible Big Mama that I have celebrated elsewhere and hope to celebrate
again. (See post #59: “Earth Goddesses:
Big Mama.”)
Life in Westbeth, despite the reasonable
rents, was not idyllic. Marion
complained of having to fight for access to a kiln in the basement; about
scaffolding for construction work that the city erected outside her window and
left there for months on end, blocking her light; and about her trouble getting
a social worker to visit her as she aged.
She was full of stories about friendly and unfriendly neighbors, about
residents who had somehow snuck in and continued to reside there, even though
they were clearly not artists and
therefore not entitled to a Westbeth apartment.
But there were amenities too: free movies once a week, and an exhibition
in another part of Westbeth where she displayed her work and actually made some
sales. The cash from those sales, a rare
boost to her meager income, she then stashed away in her apartment, fearful of
losing Medicaid money and a reduced rent if she put it in a bank. Alas, she then forgot where she had stashed
it and fretted endlessly until, as I recall, it finally turned up.
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| Bell Labs in 1936, with the West Side Line running right through it, above Washington Street. |
Such was the Westbeth that I came to know,
but Westbeth hadn’t always been Westbeth.
It had originally been built in the years following 1880 as a complex of
thirteen buildings ranging from 3 to 13 stories that served from 1898 to 1966
as the headquarters of what in 1925 became Bell Telephone Laboratories, an
affiliate of AT&T and the largest industrial research center in the United
States, a self-styled “idea factory” where some 4,000 scientists and engineers
collaborated to explore areas of science likely to shape the future of the
communications industry. It was
AT&T’s monopoly on the telephone industry, giving it immense power and
wealth, that made possible this commitment to long-term research and
development. Freed from concerns about
funding, teams of researchers – physicists interacting with mathematicians and chemists
and engineers – worked on projects that took years to complete; what counted
was the final result, and failure was not penalized. From this hotbed of creativity came such
wonders as these:
· The vacuum tube, a basic component in early
twentieth-century electronics
· The first experimental talking movies
· The condenser microphone
· The first digital scrambled speech transmission
system, used by the Allies in World War II
· Radar, employed by the Allies in World War II to detect
enemy ships and planes at great distances
· An early version of television
· The transistor, a device essential to modern
electronics systems
· The first electrical and digital computer
If some of these creations baffle you, as
they do me, don’t worry about it, just rest assured that, technologically, they
make our life today possible. And if a
layman had peeked into the complex back then, what was there to see? Engineers bent over tiny devices or
contemplating massive machines.
Blackboards with formulas in chalk.
Men in shirtsleeves clustered around mysterious devices. Everywhere, tubes, cables, dials, tangles of
wires. It would all have been complex,
weird, baffling. But these workers were
inventing the future. All in all, a
tough act to follow.
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| Bell Labs technicians with the first zone refining equipment, 1954. |
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| Inventors of the transistor, 1948. |
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| Replica of the first transistor, invented in December 1947. So now we all know what a transistor is and what it does. Revol Web |
Running right through the complex’s east (Washington
Street) side was the New York Central Railroad’s West Side Line, an elevated rail
line that moved freight, including that of Bell Laboratories, to and from
factories and warehouses without disturbing the West Side’s ground-level
traffic. With the growth of interstate
trucking in the 1950s, rail traffic declined throughout the nation, rendering
the West Side Line obsolete. The
southern section, including the part running through Bell Labs, was demolished
by 1960, though the abandoned tracks remained.
I know, because they were visible right outside Marion’s second-floor
windows. In another marvelous
transformation, in recent years those weedy tracks have been turned into the
much-visited High Line park.
When Bell Labs, needing more space and
more modern facilities, relocated to New
Jersey in 1966, the complex remained empty for two years until the philanthropic
J.W. Kaplan Fund and the National Endowment for the Arts conceived a novel
idea: not to demolish this huge pile of brick and granite and then build
something strikingly new, as most developers would have done, but to convert
the existing structures into a low- to moderate-income rental housing project, the
biggest of its kind in the world, to provide living and work space to people
involved in the arts.
Since the project was without precedent,
it had to be explained to numerous agencies in order to enlist their
support. Complicated negotiations
followed with AT&T, the owner, which had no intention of selling the
complex for a song; with the city to get a tax abatement and create a special
zoning district for living and work space in an industrial zone; and with the
FHA (Federal Housing Administration) in Washington to obtain a subsidized
mortgage. Slowly over a two-year period,
under the supervision of Richard Meier, then relatively unknown but in time an
acclaimed award-winning architect, the novel idea became reality. It was hoped that the project would serve as
a model for the conversion of other urban industrial buildings into housing for
artists.
Westbeth opened in 1970. To be admitted,
applicants had to undergo rigorous review by a selection committee determined
to eliminate students and weekend dabblers, and to accept only professionals of
proven full-time commitment. At the same
time, the greatest possible diversity was desired: artists, dancers, composers,
musicians, choreographers, actors, writers, photographers, and filmmakers. What awaited the lucky chosen ones were 383 loftlike
units that were unpartitioned, so the occupants could decide how to divide
their unit between living space and studio.
Because of the undesirable neighborhood, commercial tenants were harder
to find, but right from the start the Merce Cunningham Dance Company rented a
top-floor space for its studio and has been there ever since.
The Far West Village at that time was
desolate and deserted, and some found it even scary, with plenty of drugs and promiscuous
gay sex on the abandoned old piers of the nearby riverfront at night. Many of those moving in found the building
itself, with its long, labyrinthine corridors, also a bit scary, and depressing
and seedy as well, with the appearance of a penitentiary, but since when had
struggling artists known anything better?
The novel idea of rehabilitating old
industrial buildings, instead of tearing them down and putting up new ones, was
generally greeted with approval. Ada
Louise Huxtable, the New York Times architecture
critic, was especially positive, hailing Westbeth’s open apartment plans as “a
first step out of the steel trap of FHA rules.”
And the pioneering example of Westbeth facilitated the subsequent mass conversion of lofts and
cast-iron buildings in Soho and elsewhere into artists’ studios and galleries.
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| A Westbeth inner courtyard, 2012. A part of Westbeth I have never seen. Muncharelli |
Westbeth is owned and operated by the
Westbeth Corporation Housing Development Fund, Inc., a not-for-profit
corporation governed by an unpaid board
of twelve directors, three of whom are tenants.
New applicants for admission are now accepted only after review by a
committee of residential tenants in their field, and must meet certain income
requirements as well. (Though some
others slip in, as Marion’s stories attest.)
It was originally thought that creative people would reside there at the
beginning of their career; then, as they became better known and prospered, they
would move out. But as the Village
underwent gentrification and rents continued to rise, few residents wanted to
leave. Over the years the population
aged, waiting lists grew longer, and finally, in 2007, the lists were closed;
those already on them face a 10- to 15-year wait. Westbeth is now a retirement community where
residents exit only feet first. It was
added to the National Register of Historic Places in 2009, and in 2011 was
designated a landmark by the New York City Landmarks Preservation Commission.
Landmark or not, Westbeth has experienced
vicissitudes, some of them distinctly unpleasant. In 1971 a woman was raped there, and another
woman who was not a resident walked in, went up to the roof, and jumped off,
landing with a smash in the courtyard, her mangled remains lying there under a
sheet for hours, until the authorities finally removed them. Then a Westbeth resident likewise went up to
the roof and jumped. “Deathbeth” and
“Westdeath” some of the residents began to call it, and several with children
who had just moved in moved right back out.
Finally, on the heels of these events, photographer Diane Arbus was
found by a friend in her bathtub, wrists slit, her body already
decomposing. Definitely not a good year
for a bastion of creativity. But did the
old residents move out? Are you
kidding? In New York City a reasonable
rent trumps all.
The
Westbeth community, like any community, has known gossip, factions, and
feuds. Still, it is a very special
community, unique. A man scavenging the
garbage cans in the courtyard may look like a homeless intruder, but he’s just
an artist collecting items for his art.
A neighbor mumbling to herself isn’t crazy, simply a writer engrossed in
her writing and working out a problematic paragraph. And where but in Westbeth should Barton Benes
live and work, filling his place with voodoo totems, a blackened human toe, and
a squirt gun with HIV-infected blood, making art out of death? (See post #33, November 11, 2012.)
Even so, the place harbors more than its
share of the unhinged. An opinionated
journalist got unsigned letters slipped under her door reacting to her
published articles, as for example: “Precancerous lump and mental illness, you
poor dear” – a complete misinterpretation of an article about getting a
mammogram. And after complaining about a
barking dog that kept her awake at night: “Dog hater!” But the biggest insult anyone can utter is
simply, “You aren’t really an artist.”
Yet for all that, tolerance reigns; the rare tenant evicted for
antisocial behavior was a drunk who urinated out his window and brought bedbugs
and prostitutes on crack into his apartment.
With the construction of the Hudson River
Park in the 1990s, displacing the crumbling piers and the seedy wildness they
invited, gentrification began creeping into the neighborhood, and now luxury
housing surrounds Westbeth, and the Meatpacking District abounds in pricey
coffee shops and trendy bars and restaurants. Some tenants hope that the influx of new money
will mean sales of their work at the complex’s monthly exhibits, while others
evince skepticism, certain that their new moneyed neighbors, if they have any
interest at all in art, will prefer costly items by big-name artists. But all agree that Westbeth is the only place
in today’s Village where artists can survive.
When I last saw my friend Marion a few
years ago, she was depressed; now in her early 80s, she had fallen once in her
apartment and feared she would fall again.
But when I and a mutual friend began looking at her sculpture, she pulled
herself out of her funk and explained in detail how each piece had come into
being; her accounts were fascinating, and she glowed.
Some time after that I learned that she
had left Westbeth, but not feet first.
Having fallen again, she realized she couldn’t live there alone any
more, and her godson got her into an assisted living facility upstate. When I phoned her there once, she was
depressed again, hating the food, feeling exiled and out of it (whatever “it”
might be). But when I phoned a second
time, she was cheerful, for her godson had come to visit her. Did she need anything? No, not really, except an occasional phone
call or a card. And her art – that
assemblage of sculpture that had so fascinated me in her studio at
Westbeth? Her godson has assured her
that it’s in safe keeping, though what this implies she didn’t seem to know or
want to know. Gone, I suspect, though I
don’t know where or how. But some
earlier pieces signed by her can be found on the Internet, selling for $6,000 an item. One thing is certain: Marion herself won’t
see any of the proceeds, if proceeds there should be.
As the longtime Westbeth residents age,
there will be more stories like Marion’s, few of them with happy endings. Yet my partner Bob’s doctor, who sees a
number of patients in Westbeth, most of them in their nineties, assures me that
they are a very special breed, more intellectual than most people their age,
and probably were so back when they moved in.
On Monday, October 29, 2012, Hurricane
Sandy sent a four-foot tidal wave rolling up Bethune Street from the river,
flooding the basement of Westbeth with nine feet of water and knocking out all
electrical equipment, boilers, and pumps, leaving the entire complex without
electricity, heat, or water. At the
same time the telephone lines went down, and even cell phones for a while
didn’t work. No one had expected
anything like this; advised by management, residents had filled their bathtubs
with water, but it wasn’t enough for a crisis that lasted for days. Plunged into darkness and with all the
elevators out, tenants had to climb up and down many flights of stairs to fetch
food and water. The whole building soon smelled
of unflushed toilets, rotting food and, rising from the basement, a stench of
flood water, paints, solvents, and detergents.
In their flooded basement studios some artists lost a lifetime of work,
and musicians, precious equipment and instruments; Martha Graham’s dance company
suffered a $4 million loss of sets and costumes.
As the outage continued, some tenants left
to find shelter with friends or relatives; others, unable to manage the stairs,
could only wait in a cold, darkened room,
hoping someone would come to their aid.
Crowning the disaster was the arrival of tourists who out of curiosity barged
in and wandered about, gawking, but never offering to assist in any way. But Westbeth is a caring community, and
residents did check in with their elderly or disabled neighbors. Those who waited in a darkened room did at
last get help, when a someone with a flashlight arrived with food, water, and
warm clothing.
Only after four days did management let
tenants back into the basement, where everything was contaminated by filthy
water, and it was a week before half the complex had its power restored, and
another week for the rest, and even then the elevators didn’t work. But through the worst of it a wonderful
camaraderie prevailed, and people who barely knew each other exchanged warm
greetings and shared tales of woe.
Is Westbeth also threatened financially? According to an article by Catherine Revland last
May in the West View News, a free
monthly newspaper covering the West Village, it could well be. “Will Westbeth be the Next St. Vincent’s?”
reads the caption, referring to the much lamented demise of the Village’s only
full-service hospital, now demolished to make way for more luxury housing. Ms. Revland’s article starts by quoting the
website of Ramscale Productions, which announces, “Quintessential New York
location! Spectacular sunset
views!” The website further entices
prospective clients with photos of a penthouse and adjoining terrace with
elegant guests being served drinks and goodies by waiters in immaculate white far
above the riverfront and the river – a site, Ramscale insists, that is ideal
for wedding parties, product launches, fashion shows, and film and TV
productions in the hottest neighborhood in town.
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| Ramscale revels, high above West Street and the river. Ramscale |
Is this Westbeth, the home of artists of
limited means? Yes, for Ramscale has a
long-term lease on the Westbeth penthouse and terrace and sublets the space to
clients. Meanwhile Westbeth’s artist
residents face staggering rent increases to pay more than $10 million in hurricane
damage repairs and a major façade restoration, while Ramscale rents out its penthouse
and terrace for as much as $10,000 a day, without having to pay a penny toward
repairs. What gives?
Residents applying for admission to
Westbeth must prove they have a low-to-modest income, but no such restrictions
apply to commercial tenants. Yes, there
are commercial tenants too, Ramscale prominent among them, and the revenue from
such tenants has always been much less than that from the artist residents. The Westbeth board of directors once
justified this by citing the undesirability of the neighborhood, but today,
thanks to gentrification, the neighborhood is eminently desirable. The Far West Village, now rid of the abandoned
riverfront piers and the sleazy S-and-M bars of the Meatpacking District, and wonderfully
enhanced by the High Line park, is, from a real-estate point of view,
“hot.” Indeed, it’s torrid.
In spite of this, the Westbeth board
refuses to reveal any information about the income from commercial rents,
insists that such information is confidential, and has taken steps to block any
legal action by residents to obtain it. As for the complex’s finances, in response to
Ms. Revland’s article Executive Director Steven A. Neil points out that
Westbeth’s complete tax returns are available from the IRS and from Westbeth
itself, as required by law.
The tenants are sure that that Ramscale’s
lease of the penthouse is remarkably undervalued – in effect, a “sweetheart”
deal. So Ms. Revland asks if Westbeth,
like St. Vincent’s before it, will face a sudden financial collapse, after
being assured for years by its board that everything is in order. Past boards took Westbeth to the brink of
bankruptcy twice; the current residents are determined to not let it happen
again. Again in response, Mr. Neil
states that in 2008 Westbeth took legal action to evict Ramscale, and that,
under the settlement finally reached in 2014, Ramscale has commercial leases
for two units on the 13th floor at “reasonable” rents, and that it
is not entitled to renew those leases when they expire.
Let’s hope that Mr. Neil’s explanations
are valid. If Westbeth should go the
way, not just of St. Vincent’s, but also the Archive Building and the Village
Nursing Home – not to mention the Palazzo Chupi (see post #187) – and end up
offering still more luxury housing in the West Village, it would be an
unspeakable atrocity. There’s no sign of
that as yet, but the situation bears scrutiny.
Westbeth is, and must remain, unique.
A note on AT&T: In 1974 the Department of Justice initiated
an antitrust suit against AT&T. When
the suit was settled in 1982, AT&T’s local operations were divided among
seven regional companies christened “Baby Bells.” The end of AT&T’s monopoly of the
telephone business also meant the end of the golden age of Bell Labs, for
AT&T, given its reduced revenues, felt it could no longer finance the
long-term research and development that had characterized its laboratories. Still, that was not the end of Bell
Labs. Recently, when I happened to
glance at the print on the glue traps I use to fight the bugs invading my
apartment, what did I find? “Bell
Laboratories, Inc. Madison, WI.” Not a product on the scale of radar or the transistor,
but useful nonetheless.
Coming soon: Networking: to find out what it is, I
invade the exclusive Princeton Club, play the ancient of days, commune with fellow
Sagehens, meet a woman whose work takes her to Riker’s Island regularly, and another who
isn’t put off by New York’s size, since she comes from a city of twenty
million. “But what is a Sagehen?” you
ask. All shall be revealed.
©
Clifford Browder 2015
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