Louis Khan’s FDR Memorial: Somewhere to Visit
Caleb’s been pestering me for weeks to go see Louis Kahn’s Franklin D. Roosevelt memorial on Roosevelt Island, which opened in September. I was loathe to go, mostly because I’m lazy, but also because there’s almost nothing on earth that depresses me more than public art.
We first noticed it this summer, when we were driving up the FDR to my parents’ house. I always look for two landmarks on the drive—Bianca’s family’s penthouse on 86th street and East End, where I’ve spent many an evening watching Blara threatening to jump off a balcony, and the Smallpox hospital on Roosevelt Island.
Built in 1856, the 100 bed hospital fell into disrepair in the middle of the 20th century. Today, it is one of the few visible ruins remaining in the city. Even though Roosevelt Island is inhabited by all sorts of people in pre-fab condominium buildings, the hospital makes the entire strip of land look creepy, removed from time, unlivable.
Until the Louis Khan memorial was erected, it seemed like it was sinking into the East River. But then, this summer, a clean white wall appeared like a vanishing point on the tip of the island. It distilled the outline of the landmass, upon which the hospital rested safely inland.
“That looks like the Salk Institute,” I said to Caleb, of the new structure.
“Who was that built by again?” he said.
“I think Richard Meier?” I conjectured, incorrectly.
The Salk Institute, of course, was built by Louis Kahn, so I did make somewhat of an accurate connection. Located in California somewhere, it is both an achingly well-proportioned group of buildings, and a precursor to the infinity pool.
Kahn’s FDR memorial on Roosevelt island is similar in the sense that when you step inside of it, the ordinary world takes on characteristics of the infinite. What I mean to say by that is that it frames space in such a way that you feel as though you’re looking at disegno, or a Renaissance drawing of a space so perfectly proportioned that it makes you believe in God, or at the very least, perfect harmony.
The FDR memorial is actually not THAT good, but it is pretty beautiful. Caleb finally convinced me to make the trip with him yesterday afternoon, mostly because I wanted an excuse to ride the bike he made me, which is itself a marvel of engineering. It doesn’t feel like exercising, to ride it. It feels like floating on air.
In the age of the Barclays Center and the Freedom Tower, it’s rare to walk into a building or a space in New York, and be completely awed by the brilliance of the person who conceived it. The Louis Kahn memorial is one such place. It is just so clean. Every detail—the polished marble in the seams, which reflects the city; the linden trees, which in the winter reveal their crimson bark; the walkways, which descend and ascend simultaneously in perfectly straight lines; the light; the view towards infinity.
“Look,” Caleb said to me as we entered the memorial. “Le Corbusier is greeting us.”
To our right, was Corbusier’s UN building, one of the city’s other great structures, hovering over the island. Behind it, we could see the Chrysler building, and the Empire State building. In the faraway distance was the Freedom Tower, which is increasingly ubiquitous.
“Louis Kahn is saying to Corbusier, ‘Ha! I’ve got the whole East River,’” Caleb continued.
I laughed, and thought about how wonderful it was that the two great masters could meet together on the banks of the same river.
We walked along it for a while, climbing the slopes of granite, taking pictures. At the focal point of the memorial, the river dirtied the seams, and the structure lost some of its charm. Inside the clean lines, I noticed how uneven the skyline of the city seemed.
On our way out, I paused at the smallpox hospital, which seems tiny up close. The light was fading, and my hands were very cold. In the hush, I heard the chirping of birds, and felt transported like I have in the past, reading Victorian novels, or wandering around the un-tended ruins in India.
As perfect as the Louis Kahn was, the smallpox hospital, in complete disrepair, is the place where I would choose to daydream.
