| Rescuing the relics of modern times But who wants to save a ranch burger? By Margaret Loftus Unlike Jell-O salad molds and bomb shelters–its 1950s cultural cohorts–the ranch house might not deserve its bad rap. True, the "little boxes" that Pete Seeger sang of might be the epitome of boom-time conformity. And yes, everything from 1960s civil unrest to suburban sprawl has been blamed on the modest postwar rambler. But a half century after the first ranchers were built as affordable housing for returning GIs, there is a groundswell among preservationists and modernist-architecture enthusiasts to preserve these and other relics of the recent past. It's time to save modernist architecture–a movement that, by its very definition, spurned history. But what's worth saving, and why? Of course, modern icons like Dulles Airport in Northern Virginia or New York's Seagram Building are already revered. And the craze for the clean-lined futurism of midcentury home-furnishing design has all but peaked. (This summer, it is the subject of several museum shows: the Art Institute of Chicago's oral history exhibit on 20th-century architecture starting June 3; New York's Museum of Modern Art's "Modern Living 2" featuring examples of postwar home design; and a traveling Charles and Ray Eames retrospective opening at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art June 25.) But it's the not-so-sexy buildings–anonymous office towers, tract housing, and even strip malls–that some preservationists fear may suffer the fate of many Victorian houses in the 1950s: Thought to be overly ornamental, junky, and dark, entire neighborhoods of them were destroyed or left to decay. Love it or leave it. "If we don't turn our attention to this stuff, it's going to bite the dust sooner or later," warns Richard Longstreth, president of the Society of Architectural Historians. An example: the former Huntington Hartford Gallery of Modern Art designed by Edward Durell Stone and now threatened with demolition. A grass-roots group is urging a public hearing to save the curved white marble edifice–called "one of the most ridiculed buildings in Manhattan" by The Architectural Guidebook to New York City but considered by some experts to be one of the most important modern buildings in New York. Then there's Richard Neutra's controversial Cyclorama Center at Gettysburg (Pa.) National Military Park. The National Park Service wants to build a new visitor center in its place, arguing that any historical significance of this building is outweighed by the needs of the battlegrounds. Residential buildings have, for the most part, fared better–especially the rancher's more sophisticated cousins. In 1998, Arapahoe Acres, a development of 124 houses in Englewood, Colo., designed by Frank Lloyd Wright-influenced builder Edward Hawkins, became the first postwar subdivision to be named to the National Register of Historic Places. And Hollin Hills, a 460-house Alexandria, Va., modernist neighborhood that turns 50 in June, most likely will be next. Experts say the more downscale suburban tract ranch housing will follow. Which has some folks grinding their teeth. Twenty years ago, Mary Oehrlein, a Washington, D.C., architect who has restored 17th- and 18th-century buildings, declared, "When we get to the point of restoring ranch burgers, I quit." Oehrlein's still working, though she's still not totally convinced that suburban tract houses are architecturally significant. But contempt for "ranch burgers" often runs deeper than minimalist facades and linoleum floors. While the ubiquitous rancher marked a retreat–from the city and the past–for the World War II generation, it came to symbolize a powerful disconnect with the real world for their children. The contrast of their subdivisions' canned optimism with television images of race riots and Vietnam may have inspired the great social unrest of the '60s, says Michael Phillips, an urban historian at the University of Texas. "The ranch-style home became a laboratory of dissent for baby boomers." Homely or homey? Paul Adamson, an architect writing a book on modernist developer Joseph Eichler, allows that modern architecture is "a rarely appreciated aesthetic." Minimalist design defies our traditional concept of home, he says. "It's not the symbol of a house that a child would draw." Still, such social history should be preserved, says Linda McClelland, a national-register historian who is developing guidelines to help entire neighborhoods nominate themselves for the honor. To be recognized on the national register, a place must meet one of four criteria: a high quality of design; archaeological potential; association with a famous person (like Graceland); or being part of an event or movement, such as ongoing suburbanization. It also needs to be at least 50 years old, a benchmark intended to give perspective to determine a place's historical significance without the distraction of current trends and tastes. That doesn't mean everything that's 50 years old needs to be preserved, says architectural historian Longstreth, just enough to interpret history. "Looking at the postwar era can tell us an awful lot about what our parents and grandparents did." Some homeowners fear that preserving ranchers will rob them of their property rights–or render their land less valuable. As land values continue to soar, so do the clashes between property-rights groups and preservationists, especially in overheated housing markets like Silicon Valley. Earlier this year, Palo Alto (Calif.) voters narrowly defeated a referendum that would have prevented demolition of some 700 properties built before 1948. (Local historic designation usually has more teeth than national-register recognition, which is largely an honor.) But neighborhood covenants can be limited. When a homeowner in Palo Alto's Greenmeadow subdivision, built in 1954 by Eichler, defied the neighborhood architectural board's recommendations by adding stucco and a picture window, the neighbors had little recourse apart from the cold shoulder. Longstreth argues that remodeling is a minor threat compared with the "stigma" of suburban tract housing. If residents don't take pride in their homes, neighborhoods will decay. "No neighborhood stays good by default," he says. And since the postwar building boom of middle-class housing is unlikely to ever happen again, "we are squandering a nonrenewable resource." The only hope is preservation, he says: "If we can do it with wetlands, we can certainly do it with our own habitat." |