Edward J. Hergenroeder, who prospered in the years after the Second World War as a designer of Catholic schools and churches, was the architect of this handsome little modernist school for the German parish of St. Joseph.1 It is in use as coworking space now, so it will remain when St. Joseph’s Church is demolished.
Five houses on North Franklin Street epitomize the paradox of Manchester: three are gorgeously restored, and two are condemned. This one, one of the condemned, had a little corner store on the ground floor.
We’ll find these incised decorations on all but one the houses. They were very popular in the 1870s and 1880s.
This house and the one next to it are nearly identical, except for differences in decoration. They were probably put up at the same time.
This house has a plaque dating it to 1881.
This house is probably the most recent of the lot; from the style, we would date it to the 1890s.
This house has been up for sale for a couple of years now, so the owner is probably motivated to sell. A quarter-million dollars should be enough to get that blue sticker off the front.
This building has been slowly crumbling for many years now, and it has finally reached a stage where reasonable people agree nothing can be done to save it. According to neighborhood gossip, it was estimated that five million dollars would be needed just to stabilize the structure, and no one has five million to spend on a big church in Manchester.
It is part of the curious paradox of Manchester that this church stands on Liverpool Street right next to perhaps the finest and best-restored block of Victorian rowhouses in Pittsburgh. “A building like this anchors the community,” one neighbor told old Pa Pitt—“even in this condition.”
St. Joseph’s was built in 1897 for a German parish. The architect, as we might guess from the picturesque style and the buff brick, was Frederick Sauer.1
When the parish closed, the building was sold to a nondenominational congregation, but the same neighborhood gossip tells us that the congregation struggled even to pay utility bills. After it folded, the building stood vacant, and suffered the usual piecemeal destruction of a large vacant building.
A few days ago, Father Pitt passed by on Liverpool Street and saw the big red sticker on the door. It was pouring down rain at the time, but he went back the next morning to document the church before it disappears, which is why we have more than fifty pictures to show you.
A pair of rowhouses whose elaborate Italianate details have been meticulously restored. And since, as longtime readers know, old Pa Pitt collects breezeways…
A particularly fine house built in the 1880s and lovingly restored. It had the good luck to be just missed by the Ohio River Boulevard when it tore through the heart of Manchester.
Picturesquely wavy shingles still decorate the gable.
Not surprisingly, considering the fashion that Richardson’s courthouse set throughout the Pittsburgh area, this house has more than a touch of the Romanesque. Note the former address, 22, carved in stone.
A more modern architect might ask, “Why is there an oval window?” But in the Queen Anne style, which is devoted to the picturesque, the proper question to ask is, “Why should there not be an oval window?”
A few weeks ago old Pa Pitt took a wintry walk on North Avenue (which used to be Fayette Street back when it did not run all the way through to North Avenue on the rest of the North Side). He took piles of pictures, and although he published four articles so far from that walk (one, two, three, four), there’s still quite a collection backed up waiting to be published. Thus this very long article, which is a smorgasbord of Victorian domestic architecture with a few other eras thrown in. Above, a pair of Italianate houses. They both preserve the tall windows typical of the high Italianate style; the one on the right still has (or has restored) its two-over-two panes.
Isaac Wertheimer, who made his money in the distilling business, had this house built in 1892. The late Carol Peterson wrote a detailed history of the house (PDF), though she did not find the name of the architect. Whoever it was created a romantic composition in the up-to-date Queen Anne style, with the peculiarity that the house appears from the front to be a good bit smaller than it actually is. A view of the side reveals three and a half floors of picturesque angles and projections.
The Second Empire style is a good fit for high-class rowhouses, because it was created specifically to stuff the most usable volume into the least taxable building. Supposedly it came about because houses in France of Napoleon III’s time were taxed by the area of the rooms, but attics were not counted in the calculation. All the space above the roofline was dismissed as attic by the law; therefore, if the roof could bulge out to make an attic the same size as the other floors, you got an extra floor tax-free. Americans adopted the style because they liked the way it looked and the way it solved the practical problems of space.
This row of seven houses drops a few feet after the first three. Manchester is a flat neighborhood, but only by Pittsburgh standards. Old maps show that the row was built between 1872 and 1882.
Canon PowerShot SX150 IS; Nikon COOLPIX P100;
A very clever detective might deduce that these pictures were taken on two different visits.
