Weltschmerz ran deep at the New York Society for Ethical Culture in Manhattan in January when Glenn Lowry, the director of the Museum of Modern Art, and Elizabeth Diller, of Diller, Scofidio and Renfro (DS+R), defended their recently announced plans for the museum’s expansion. These have sparked controversy because they include razing the neighboring, now-empty American Folk Art Museum building, designed by Tod Williams and Billie Tsien, and purchased by MoMA in 2011. The vitriol from the local critical and architectural community has been raucous, ad hominem. The crowd at Ethical Culture wanted blood, to see DS+R taken down a peg, shamed. Why? To be sure, the quirky little building—which opened in 2001, just after 9/11—is worthy of defense: it is a beautiful and unusual work with the remnant scale of a row-house street now being super-sized, and built with the kind of artful detail so absent from the bland glass behemoths of the day. But more generally, that some 600 people turned out on short notice to stand up for the structure speaks to the sense of disillusion with the architecture and development practices that flourished during the real estate–driven Bloomberg era. And being presented with a fait accompli—“We’ve made our decision,” announced Lowry—only aggravated the crowd’s sense of frustration with MoMA and DS+R.
Many of us feel especially proprietary about MoMA because it is a quintessential New York institution, and we closely identify with its joys and its betrayals. My own special memories are of college breaks during the 1960s, trying to pick up Bennington girls among the Matisses. (I was rebuffed.) Generations of visitors from the city and the world have been schooled in the cultures of modernity by its galleries, its cafes, its book shop, its screening rooms, its sculpture garden. The sense—especially since the misbegotten shopping-mall-style expansions of César Pelli and Yoshio Taniguchi in 1984 and 2004, respectively—is that the museum has sold out to a homogenizing commercialism, a feeling inflamed by this latest enlargement of its “campus,” a weird and preening misnomer for a row of buildings.
The Folk Art Museum is perceived as a barricade, a point of resistance, not simply to a rampaging goliath that has progressively made us feel less special as a public as we negotiate its airport-concourse crowds and Broadway prices, but to what is happening to the city more broadly. It’s worth recalling that the three floors of the museum’s primary expansion are to be housed in the base of a ridiculously tall midblock tower for the hyper-rich. Clearly, the little building is seen as a last barricade against not only the foregone outrage directly next door, but also its acromegalic kith rising throughout the neighborhood, homes to absentee oligarchs swooning over their Damien Hirsts and Jeff Koonses and other pieces of asset art. There’s plenty of disquiet in the culture about the role the museum plays in all this, as validator and co-conspirator, and now it’s spilling out.
In the mix, too, are feelings about the brutalization about to be visited on that dear old friend, the New York Public Library, which seeks to transform itself by eliminating from its Central Library on 42nd Street a crucial element of its architecture and function—its marvelous, structurally integral book stacks. Of course, without them, the books too will have to go, to make way for a more “democratic” concept of what it means to use a library. Although the Folk Art Museum is practically new, its demise is clearly associated with the specious imperatives of a faux-populist disrespect for revered traditions (the printed book, the quietude of scholarship, the rhythm of the variegated street wall, the art of craft) and with that more general anxiety about all that is solid melting into air—or glass.