Construction for the new campus of ‘The Cornish School for Drama, Music, Dance’ began on the first day of 1921. The work was rushed forward so that the school could open early in September, on time for the still young institution’s eighth season. Perhaps predictably, in late summer agents with homes to sell or apartments to rent in the neighborhood enhanced with this new landmark, began running classifieds for their properties with the message “near Cornish School” in both The Times and The Post-Intelligencer. That enticing landmark is under construction in this week’s “then,” although its bricks are not yet adorned with the ornamental tiles and stucco skin that still define its Spanish Colonial lines.
Cornish was founded in 1914 on Capitol Hill in the Booth Building at the SE corner of E. Pine and Broadway, less than a mile south of its new campus. (see below) After a year, in the summer of 1915, it featured two studios, five teachers and eighty pupils. The growth was impressive. Five years later when the enlarged and relocated academy was being planned and the cash to build it first pursued, the school held twenty-seven studios serving 1,154 pupils, led by twenty-six teachers. These halls of ivy then sometimes surely resonated with the reflecting sounds of rehearsing students. (I remember well that joyful, on the whole, noise in the early 1970s when I taught filmmaking to Cornish students, most of whom, like myself, could not afford to make films.)
This school of “allied arts” was founded by its namesake, the confident pedagogue-pianist Nellie Cornish. As late as the 1970s the often-convivial tone of her directions were still remembered by some as sometimes comedic. For instance, at one of the Sunset Club’s Masquerades Nellie proved her sense of humor when she won the “funniest costume” award. Cornish also frequently gave lectures, many of them before the city’s applauded Ladies Musical Club. (Would that there then had been smart phones with digital recorders.)
For the featured photographs at the top both photographers aimed northwest from the fortunately irregular Capitol Hill intersection of E. Roy Street and Harvard Avenue. Following the Cornish example, this part of the Capitol Hill neighborhood became sophisticatedly snug when joined by the Woman’s Century Club and the Rainier Chapter of the D.A.R. (both built in 1925), and architect Arthur Loveless’s charming Studio Building. Historylink’s principal founder, Walter Crowley, describes the last in his National Trust Guide to Seattle (1998), as a “delightful mimic” of England’s Cotswold villages. Crowley notes that to the north and west of this prospect are the admired homes that make this Seattle’s only residential preserve, the Harvard-Belmont Landmark District.
Anything to add, boys? For sure Jean, and Ron will start again with some recent* features and I’ll follow with some scans from older clippings. (*Since we started the blog about ten years ago. Jean will know, but he sleeps.)
My first record was offered for Christmas , it was a Johnny Hallyday’s 45 rpm with the famous song “Teenage idol” (“l’idole des jeunes “). In the sixties, he brought in the french musical landscape a sacred wind of youth, Rock and Roll and America .
For 60 years of career , his songs have been always in the mood of the time, he became a monumental and popular singer.
We have been all singing so loud on our moped “Que je t’aime ” “Nous avons tous quelque chose du Tennessee”…
Mon premier disque était celui de Johnny, c’était la célèbre chanson l’idole des jeunes. Dans les années 60 , il apporta dans le paysage musical français un sacré vent de jeunesse, de Rock and Roll et d’Amérique.
Nous avons tous chanté a tue-tête “Que je t’aime” ” Nous avons tous quelque chose du Tennessee”
Johnny I photographed in 1987 during a rehearsal
Johnny, que j’ai photographié en 1987 pendant une répétition
Greetings. We discovered that this weekend’s contribution to The Times PacificNW mag has been dropped, or rather postponed, for this January One, 2017 the annual “Pictures of the Year” (last year) takes every page, except, of course, those with the ads. In its place we will assemble a miscellany: a pile of oddities.
The INTERLAKEN BIKE TRAIL – Perhaps An Early Pause to Tweet
WORLD WAR ONE SURGERY BASE HOSPITAL NO. 50 ( IN FRANCE) SUPPLIED WITH DOCTORS AND NURSES FROM WASHINGTON STATE
CAPITOL HILL BUS STOP at the Southwest Corner of BROADWAY and REPUBLICAN –
In 1976-77 during my residency above Peters on Broadway I snapped two thousand or more photographs – both bw and color – of those waiting for a bus and/or boarding it. It was part of an art in public places program, which, I think or bet, Anne Folke at the And/Or Gallery (and performance space, also on Capitol Hill) was behind. Some of the photographs wound up on the busses – beside the interior ads. (Or they might have had busses that were dedicated to the public arts project sans commerce.)
POLITICALLY CORRECT GRAFFITI – CA. 1975 on Eastlake
MERIDIAN PLAYFIELD – From WALLINGFORD WALKS, 2006-2010 [click to enlarge]
REST IN PEACE
PROVERBS FROM 1889 AND A PROHIBITION-SYMPATHETIC CARTOON FROM A SEATTLE TIMES CLIP FOR MARCH 18, 1913. [CLICK TWICE to Read]
[No video this week as Jean is off visiting Juneau. He will, however, return with visual treasures for a future blog post!]
(click to enlarge photos)
Most likely the name for this classical structure, the Prince Rupert Hotel, was chosen as an allusion either to then proposed British Columbia port city, about six-hundred miles north of Seattle, or to that city’s namesake Prince Rupert of the Rhine (1619-1682), the first Governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company. A contest, for a prize of $250, was held to name the town. The naming match was held by
the Grand Trunk Pacific, the Canadian railway that built its West Coast terminus at Prince Rupert, and, constructed the Grand Trunk Pacific Wharf on Elliott Bay as a link to Seattle’s booming commerce. When completed in 1910 on our waterfront between Madison and Marion Streets, it was the largest wooden pier on the Pacific Coast. Prince Rupert was increasingly in the news.
When the hotel was first noticed in this newspaper it was named the Hotel Prince Rupert. Sometimes it took new hotel builders or managers time to decide between introducing their newest gift to local hostelries with the generic ‘hotel’ at the front or the rear of their chosen name. The Prince Rupert was built during the winter of
1906-07 and opened at 1515 Boren Avenue in May of 1907. Listed in classifieds, the attractions of this five-story fireproof hotel with 115 rooms included “strictly modern, outside windows in every room, short walking distance of business center, within a half-block of four car lines, first-class dining room in connection.” In an August 4, 1907, short report on the hotel, the Seattle Times noted that it “at once became extremely popular, and although it was opened less than three months ago, it is impossible to accommodate all who apply.”
While exploring the former location of the Prince Rupert Hotel’s front door and its four classical columns that faced Boren Street, one will be careful not to fall into the I-5 ditch that took with its cutting this hotel and many others along the western slope of the First Hill/Capitol Hill ridge in the early 1960s. The ever-alert Jean
Sherrard has widened the frame for this week’s ‘repeat,’ second from the top, to include the most western corner of Plymouth Pillars Park. There, although still off-frame to the left, the rescued columns of Plymouth Congregational Church, which formerly faced Sixth Avenue between Seneca and University Streets, are nicely blended within a copse of deciduous trees in their own triangular park at the northwest corner of Pike Street and Boren Avenue.
It is a satisfying coincidence that both the four surviving Plymouth Pillars and those that supported the top floor portico of the Prince Rupert were of the Ionic order, although in their 1966 removal from the demolished church, the Plymouth pillars lost their scrolled capitals. Still we permit ourselves to fashion an Ionic irony that the church’s pillars were saved and moved to Boren Street to replace those of the razed hotel.
Anything to add, lads? Not at this moment. It is early Saturday morning. Soon Jean and Karen will be flying to Juneau for two days with friends there, their first Alaska visit. Also sometime later today Ron will put up about fifteen links to this week’s feature about a hotel and-or apartment, and a swath of its neighborhood lost to the I-5. Late today, in the evening and on into Sunday, I’ll add a few things more that are relevant either to the subject or the neighborhood. For the lead-off video we thought or had hoped to interview Dianna James, author of “Shared Walls,” and local apartment house historian whom we have often featured here. We could not squeeze it in, but will the next time we feature some shared walls, and that’s inevitable. Bon Voyage to Jean and Karen.
Jean and Karen have arrived in Juneau and right-off visited the Mendenhall Glacier, which is practically in town. He sends this picture, which I have joined to a Google Earth detail of downtown Juneau (lower-right) and the Mendenhall (upper-middle). Jean explains his position as “South of the glacier and north of the visitor’s center. Taken on my cell phone. Sent from my iPhone.” Jean and Karen are both well-equipped and clothed for the elements. [Click to Enlarge]
Before this coming Sunday’s feature is published we want to insert an addition to last week’s feature about the Galbraith and Bacon Wall Street Wharf and the Bark Montcalm that was tied to her south side most likely in early November, 1910 and not “circa 1912” as we speculated last Sunday. Here’s the feature photo, again.
We received three letters responding to our uncertainties about which Montcalm this was and, as noted, the date it visited Seattle. Reader Kyle Stubbs was first to respond, and noted that “I am only aware of one Montcalm that was a barque-rigged sailing vessel. That is the Montcalm of 1902, 2,415 tons built at Nantes, France, which was used in around Cape Horn service by La Societe des Voiliers Nantais. The vessel was broken up in the Netherlands in 1924.”
The next letter came from Douglas Stewart, a seasoned cardiologist with the University Medical School and hospital, whom I first met last winter after I fell to the kitchen floor, tripped by my oxygen gasping heart’s tricks with consciousness, or loss of it. The good doctor is also an enthusiast for most things maritime, and even rows to work from his home, which like the hospital sits beside Portage Bay. He found that the original nitrate negative for this photograph is in the keep of the University Libraries Special Collections. In their terse cataloging of it a librarian concludes that this was the “decommissioned sailing ship Montcalm at dock, probably in Seattle ca. 1912.” The date is almost certainly wrong, and the “decommissioned” attribute is unclear or uncertain. Decommissioned when? The library’s data also describes this Montcalm as an “armored sailing corvette . . . originally built for the French Navy in 1865.” While a Google search for everything that is a Montcalm and floats will surface a French corvette with that heroic name dating from the 1860s, it is, again, almost certainly not this Montcalm. The first French corvettes of the 17th century were much smaller than this bark or barque and were built to carry cannons. They got bigger, surely, but not this big. and continued to be built for cannons not concrete and wheat like our Montcalm.
The third and last contributor to this quest for a proper caption is our old friend Stephen Lundgren, who for this sort of investigation into maritime history prefers the sobriquet Capt. Stefan Eddie. I confess to having used the Captain at times as a capable “World Authority on Everything,” resembling the Professor played by Sid Caesar on his TV show in the 50’s – the best part of that decade. Capt. Eddie also did what I should have done, which is consult the Seattle Public Libraries assess to the key-word search opening into The Seattle Times on-line archive between 1900 and 1984. Stephen found, for instance, the clipping above, which was almost certainly photographed by the same camera or camera person as the featured photo on top. From reading the Times reporting during the Montcalm’s few days stay in Seattle, the Captain concludes, “Took about an hour trolling the Times database and verifying the ship history facts. That it is rigged as a bark, with a steel hull, narrows the search. It’s at the Galbraith Dock probably between discharging the cement cargo in West Seattle and before loading outbound wheat at Smith Cove. The Galbraith Co. dealt in Cement. Question is what buildings were constructed with this Belgium-shipped concrete?” Capt. Stefan Eddie’s last question really goes too far. How could anyone be expected to follow the concrete from ship to foundations?
Finally, Captain Stephan Eddit added to his missive something more of his charming familiarity with the Montcalm subject. He explains, “Lars Myrlie Sr. tells me (in Norwegian) ‘I gots off that damm frenchie ship as soon as it gots to Seattle, it was a hell ship and I damm near gots my head stove in off the coast when the load shifted and knocked the other cargo loose cement in bulk, which meant our sure deaths if we gots a leak. Sure it was a steel ship but them damm rivets popped when a hard one hit, like a bullet they was and then came the squirt. My brother gots me off the Galbreath dock and over to Port Blakely and no more damn frenchies for me, Tusende Tak Gotts!”
It took the Montcalm 195 days to carry its 3,000 tons of concrete from Antwerp to Seattle. The ship was registered at 1,744 tons, so the concrete gave it lots of steadying ballast for the storms. However, there were no storms except the expected ones around Cape Stiff, the sailors’ name for Cape Horn at the southern tip of South America. Otherwise her crossing of the Atlantic was one of constant calms and so not of great speed.