Genius of Place (58 page)

Olmsted wrote Rick a series of letters, inquiring about his studies and his social life. In one letter, he instructed Rick to draw up a memorandum, “stating on honor” the times at which he went to bed each night.
He also furnished Rick with an account of the firm's current success: “I have, with an amount of forethought, providence, and sacrifice and hardship of which you can hardly have an idea, been making a public reputation and celebrity of a certain kind, which at last has a large money value. We have, as a consequence, more business than we can manage. The business increases faster than we can enlarge our organization and adjust our methods to meet it. And it is plain that this depends as yet almost entirely on me.”

And then, a few paragraphs later, Olmsted delivered the kicker: “I want you to be prepared to be the leader of the van.” He added: “I have all my life been considering distant effects and always sacrificing immediate success and applause to that of the future. In laying out Central Park we determined to think of no results to be realized in less than forty years. Now in nearly all our work I am thinking of the credit that will indirectly come to you. How will it as a mature work of the Olmsted school affect Rick? I ask, and then, with reference to your education, How is Rick to be best prepared to take advantage of what in reputation I have been earning? Reputation coming as the result of what I shall have done, but not coming in my time.”

This was a lot for the young man to process. In response, Rick wrote a letter almost entirely devoted to a football game between Harvard and Yale. Football was a new sport, not generally embraced by those in his father's generation. In his description, Rick concentrated on the incidentals—the spirited crowd that he estimated at around 18,000, the fact that Harvard won, the postgame celebratory bonfire. “It would be no use for me to try to tell you about the game itself as you could not understand it,” wrote Rick.

CHAPTER 30

WHILE OLMSTED BEGAN WORK on the Biltmore Estate, and as he clattered southward and westward collecting new jobs, the city of Chicago was battling to land a World's Fair. This was a time when World's Fairs were transformative cultural events. Cities that hosted one could claim serious bragging rights, not to mention reap considerable economic benefits. But unlike the modern Olympics, say, these fairs weren't held on any regular schedule. There was no agreed-upon World's Fair designation among the international community. Fairs were more like parties: some good, some dreadful, all dependent on the host's magnetism and the list of guests who showed up.

Starting with London in 1851, there had been about a dozen events sufficiently large and well organized to merit the title “World's Fair,” along with countless pretenders. Philadelphia had hosted a bona fide fair in 1876, and most recently, in 1889, Paris had held its Exposition Universelle.

The Paris Expo was widely considered a smashing success. Unfortunately, U.S. participation in Paris met with a mixed verdict. Visitors and judges alike were wowed by American exhibits related to agriculture and industry, and the country collected numerous medals. But America made a very poor showing in areas such as the decorative and fine arts. To deliver such artistic mediocrity in Paris—moreover, to be an aesthetic featherweight at a fair distinguished by the debut of the majestic Eiffel Tower—well, it all served to reinforce those good old American cultural insecurities. Afterward, there was a groundswell movement to host a U.S. fair that would set matters right.

To put on a proper fair, however, a host country needed to commemorate a suitable anniversary. The '76 Philadelphia fair coincided with the centennial of American independence, and Paris fell on the centennial of the storming of the Bastille. Boosters lit on 1892, the four hundredth anniversary of Columbus's voyage. That was a momentous historical date, no question. What's more, the date could work as a subtle jab at France and the rest of Europe, since the case could be made that 1492 marks the beginning of a power shift from the Old World to the New.

Once a date was settled, Chicago entered into a bruising competition, pitted against such rival candidates as New York, St. Louis, and Cincinnati. The battle first played out in the press. Chicago papers called Cincinnati a “toothless, witless old dotard” and referred to St. Louis as “our impotent neighbor.” A New York City paper suggested that if Chicago won, there was danger the event would be a “cattle show.” During these preliminary skirmishes, Olmsted's only involvement was making an emphatic public pronouncement: If New York hosted the fair, he sincerely hoped Central Park wouldn't be the site. He and Vaux's creation, lined with exhibition halls, tourists stomping about—it was beyond his worst nightmare.

As it turned out, the matter would be decided by Congress, not cities, anyhow. It made sense, given that so many communities were vying for the honor. To be host would require congressional approval this time around. The battle soon moved to Washington, with Chicago and other rivals hiring lobbyists to plead their cases. The spring of 1890 found Congress debating this highly divisive issue. New York came on strong. Even tiny Cumberland Gap managed to get a single vote during a House roll call. In the end, Chicago took the prize.

Congress set the fair's date for the summer of 1893. Although 1892 would be the anniversary of Columbus's landing, it didn't leave enough time to plan such a massive undertaking. The event could still be called the World's Columbian Exposition even if it happened the following year. Why quibble over the details?

Winning the fair was confirmation that Chicago had fully recovered from the Great Fire. Back then, Joseph Medill's
Tribune
had famously
declared: “Chicago Shall Rise Again!” It had, coming back even stronger than before. Chicago was an economic center and transport hub, famed for its stockyards and featuring some of the nation's tallest buildings. As of 1890, Chicago's population had just crossed the 1 million mark. It moved ahead of Philadelphia to become America's second-largest city.

But there was one problem. It's nicely summed up by a nineteenth-century visitor to Chicago: “In all the world, there is perhaps no site better suited for a prosperous city, no site less adapted for a beautiful one.” Chicago was modern, thriving, and—to some observers—homely. Even three months after congressional approval, the forty-five men who sat on the fair's board of directors remained paralyzed. They had yet to settle on a place in their city that was right for hosting such an event, an event seen as a crucial world-stage test of Chicago and America.

 

James Ellsworth was president of a Chicago-based coal-mining firm and a member of the fair's board. While on a business trip to Maine, without first consulting any of his fellow forty-four directors, Ellsworth dropped by Brookline to meet with Olmsted. He asked Olmsted to help select a fitting site in Chicago and to landscape the fairgrounds. Olmsted said no. He was far too busy. Furthermore, the grounds of a fair would be temporary, making this a highly unappealing proposition. Ellsworth begged Olmsted to reconsider, adding that he would drop by again on his return trip from Maine. Ellsworth was insistent, even going so far as to play on Olmsted's sense of patriotic duty. The fair would exist only temporarily, that was true enough, conceded Ellsworth. But during the fair's brief life, thousands of people could be expected to visit. The grounds would help form a lasting impression of Chicago, not to mention America.

On his return trip, Ellsworth stopped again in Brookline. Apparently, while Ellsworth had been in Maine, Olmsted had been thinking the matter over. Olmsted was far more receptive this time around and agreed to take the job. Back in Chicago, Ellsworth secured permission from the rest of the board to hire Olmsted. On August 6, 1890, a telegraph arrived at Fairsted: “When can you be here?”

Three days later, Olmsted was in Chicago. He brought along Codman, figuring his partner would be an invaluable resource. Codman had
devoted much of 1889 to a wander year in Europe, visiting various parks to gather ideas for his work with Olmsted. He'd spent three months in Paris on the grounds of the fair. Young Codman, age twenty-six, could provide an edge on this particular project. He and Olmsted visited seven different potential sites in Chicago. At each successive one, they grew more convinced of the city's manifold scenic disadvantages. Chicago was so unrelievedly flat. There was a paucity of natural scenery, to Olmsted's eyes. But there was one feature that he thought suitably grand. Chicago sits on the shores of Lake Michigan. As discussed earlier, Olmsted and Vaux had designed a park system for Chicago back in the early 1870s. Their design had played off the lake. But then the Great Fire had raged through the city, disrupting everything.

Although the city had rebuilt, taller than before, progress on their park system had been slow. The inland part, known as Washington Park, had actually been completed, though it had taken many years. But the waterfront portion, known as Jackson Park, was in an arrested state. A little work had been done, such as building some piers, but it was only about 10 percent finished. As for the Midway Plaisance, the mile-long connector between the two parks, it was nothing but a vacant strip of grass.

Returning now after so many years, Olmsted felt certain that this was the spot. Never mind that Jackson Park was a wasteland, a mix of sand hills and swamps with a few unloved trees thrown in. Never mind, either, that Jackson Park was about seven miles from downtown Chicago. A striking setting was needed for the fair. To Olmsted, all other problems were mere details, easily surmounted. Moreover, rail lines traveled directly past the uncompleted park, making it possible to convey large crowds to the place.

Still, it was a hard sell. Jackson Park was in such a pitiful state that it was difficult for anyone else to grasp Olmsted's logic. He had to write two separate reports, but he managed to convince the directors. “We have carried our first point, that of tying the Fair to the Lake,” wrote Olmsted to John.

F. L. Olmsted and Company was given the official title of consulting landscape architects to the World's Columbian Expo. Olmsted and the
directors agreed to terms: $22,500. It was a hefty fee to accompany a huge job. Olmsted told John that it would be necessary to reapportion their workloads. Codman would need to devote 100 percent of his time to the fair; Olmsted planned to put in 50 percent, and John would need to allot 20 percent. Olmsted also intended to devote at least half his time to the Biltmore Estate. That left 0 percent for Rochester, Atlanta, and all his other current and future jobs. But Olmsted wasn't one to let a little thing like math get in the way of his big plans.

Olmsted began to work out a landscaping scheme for the fair grounds. Essentially, he revived his nearly twenty-year-old plan for a waterfront park, featuring a series of winding lagoons and waterways. To create these, it would be necessary to cut channels through roughly a square mile of soggy land. But earth removed when the channels were cut could be hauled to other spots, tamped down and shaped, thereby creating solid land. Lake Michigan would form a sensational backdrop and would literally flow, via the waterways, right onto the fairgrounds.

From the outset, Olmsted and Codman worked closely with Daniel Burnham and John Root. Burnham, age forty-four, was director of the fair. Root, age forty, was his longtime partner in an architectural firm that had designed some of Chicago's most notable buildings. In his younger days, Burnham had failed the entrance exams to both Harvard and Yale before setting off for Nevada mining territory, hoping to strike it rich. In other words, he was Olmsted's kind of guy. The two developed an instant rapport. Over time, like Olmsted, Burnham had discovered where his real talents lay and had learned to focus them. He was a brilliant businessman, and his organizational skills were unrivaled. Root, by contrast, was the artist: inspired, spontaneous, erratic. They made a dynamic team, and one observer likened their partnership to “some big strong tree with lightning playing around it.”

Olmsted and Codman opened a Chicago field office in the Rookery, a building where the firm Burnham and Root had its headquarters as well. One day late in the autumn of 1890, the four men were together, discussing their scheme for the fair. Root laid out a huge piece of heavy brown paper, forty feet square. Then he began to sketch on it furiously, capturing their ideas. He drew the waterways to Olmsted's specs, and he
indicated where various buildings would sit. Root also sketched out a Court of Honor, a formal space with exhibition halls arranged around a basin and presided over by a large statue. Root gripped his pencil so low and tight and sketched so rapidly that it “looked as if he were drawing with the tips of his fingers,” according to historian Donald Miller. When he finished, he had produced the fair's master plan.

Burnham and Root agreed not to design any buildings. Every ounce of Burnham's organizational skill was needed; it was agreed that partner Root wouldn't design any, either, as it would show favoritism. Instead, Burnham opted to assemble an all-star team of architects. In close consultation with Olmsted, Burnham began approaching various candidates. Hunt, Olmsted's Biltmore collaborator, was a natural choice. So was Charles McKim of the New York firm McKim, Mead, and White. McKim was the son of James McKim, leader of the friendly
Nation
faction, the one that had supported Olmsted's catholic approach during the publication's earliest days. Early in his career, the younger McKim had worked for H. H. Richardson. Other possibles included Boston's Robert Peabody as well as Chicago's own Louis Sullivan and William Le Baron Jenney. Jenney had worked with Olmsted on Riverside. Vaux wasn't even considered. Four decades earlier, at a time when American architects were in short supply, he'd been a groundbreaker. It was a testament to how far he had fallen.