Stephen Gerard Dietemann Design

A controversy is emerging in my little village of North Chatham. The problem centers around a 300 square foot vacant building. At the moment this building is sitting on a makeshift foundation of concrete blocks and wide flange beams a few yards from the library. It is an old building – constructed over one hundred years ago -- which, until about thirty years ago was used continuously by the community, first as a post office and later as a library itself. While its construction and design are interesting, even somewhat unusual – corrugated metal siding and roofing over a wood frame – it is listed on no historical registry. That’s in part because until recently no one in this community founded by dairy farmers, leather workers, carriage makers, and millers had ever given much thought about doing so.

Today, of course, like so much of New England and surrounding areas, there are very few leather workers, carriage makers or millers to be found. While farming, particularly dairy farming is still a vital local industry, farms are increasingly falling prey to developers. A few of my neighbors still farm but the majority are either retired office workers or continue to work in New York or Albany. Nevertheless, the town still looks much like it has looked one hundred, even two hundred years ago. A visitor from the end of the nineteenth century miraculously transported into the middle of the village might be somewhat confused about where all the local industry went and what anyone did for a living around here anymore, but he would probably feel at home as he strolled passed the buildings on Main Street. One of the buildings he would certainly recognize would be the building in question and he would probably ask what we intend to use the building for now. That question goes directly to the heart of the controversy.

One school of thought – those I will call ‘practical historicists’-- holds that while the building is a part of the community’s historical legacy, it should be used by the village for a specific, practical purpose, such as an extension of the library, a youth center or even as a gallery to display such things as historical photographs or community artwork. The ‘practical historicists’ note that this building, like all other buildings in the community, has survived because residents have not hesitated to adapt the structure to the practical needs of the community at the time. They are also comfortable with the possibility that design compromises may need to be made to this end. In practical terms this means that the building may need to be attached to a host building such as the library to comply with current building code and ADA (accessibility) requirements – if properly designed, toilets, heat, electrical service, even a ramp could be ‘borrowed’ from the host building. While hoping that any modifications will be done with sensitivity for the building’s understated elegance, they are willing to accept design changes to the old building in exchange for ensuring its survival and continued use.

This view, however, is not shared by all in the community. The other school of thought -- those I will call ‘romantic historicists’ – would like the building to be restored, preferably to resemble as closely as possible the building as it appeared the day it was unveiled over a hundred years ago. They wince at the prospect of changes to the shell proposed by the ‘practical historicists’. The building, they argue, is a piece of local history, a reminder of our roots, our very identity. They believe that the building should be renovated as a memorial, an architectural time capsule. At the very least the integrity of the original design must not be undermined by expediency. They understand that this most likely means that the building will be seasonal and be less part of the day-to-day life of the community than would be the case if the ‘practical historicists’ got their way.

It is a fascinating dilemma and like all conflicts related to the built environment reflects the currents of thought flowing beneath the surface of our age. For me the dilemma of what to do with this small building in North Chatham is ultimately rooted in opposing views of history and it is being played out everywhere, especially in the Berkshires where we are surrounded by many vestiges of the past. Simply stated, the ‘practical historicists’ appear to be more comfortable in the tumultuous flow of the present while the ‘romantic historicists’ seem to want to find some refuge from this same onslaught. A memorial is enticing, especially when the present appears so unruly, so slippery. Memorials are critical reminders of who we are and where we came from but in the end the truth is that ‘history’ is synonymous with ‘change’. One must be wary of any age, such as our own which looks with too much longing toward the past. In North Chatham there is one building with two possible identities. It is at the moment a victim of our age’s tug-of-war with itself.