Once upon a time, a Los Angeles landowner named Daniel Van Meter amassed hundreds of used Schlitz Beer pallets. Then, in 1978, the admittedly eccentric Van Meter decided to create a sculpture on his own land using those self-same skids. A do-good group of "art experts" viewed his work and they pronounced it a work of modern art. In a fit of artistic fervor, the Los Angeles Cultural Commission designated Van Meter's work an historic monument. This was tantamount to a Landmark Designation since it protected the artwork from anything or anyone who might want to tear it down or change it.
It was named "Movement '84" and it became part of LaLa Land's patrimony. No one has yet determined the exact nature of the "movement" they described, though there are a number of conflicting opinions on the subject. Its a cliché to say that "art is in the eye of the beholder." The beholders in LA have a rather peculiar perspective which may relate to their climate. Or it might be affected by the smog and traffic congestion. There are numerous explanations offered by refugees from Southern California.
But that very same climate affected Van Meter's "art." The beer skids began to deteriorate. Termites discovered them and the word went out within the termite community that Van Meter was offering up a feast to all six-legged arrivals. The Orkin Man found that the skids were good for use as a training ground for their extermination efforts, but that was about the only practical use for the entire structure.
After Van Meter died at age 87 in 2000, the area surrounding the artwork became overgrown with weeds. Simultaneously, another thing happened. The real estate on which the art had been installed became very valuable. Estimates put its worth at somewhere around $1.5 million. Van Meter's heirs went on record telling anyone who would listen that they would like to get rid of the landmarking status of the "art" and sell the land in order to settle back and enjoy their legacy.
But they aren't allowed to do the logical thing. Instead, because of the landmarking of the beer pallets, they are forced to go to court in an attempt to resolve a problem that could be cured through the controlled use of a book of matches. They are too honorable to do something like that so they're hiring lawyers to represent logic in court.
Now, you might think that this sort of madness is confined to areas west of the Rockies. In the 1920s, bootlegger central in Chicago revolved around the Metropole Hotel at the corner of 22nd and Michigan Avenue on Chicago's near South Side. Al Capone and his business associates hung out there. The building, in those years, was maintained in high style. Its lobby was opulent, redolent with heavy drapes, overstuffed furniture and marble. The rooms were luxuriously appointed. In fact, to use a term from its era, the Metropole was "the cat's meow."
But, Prohibition was repealed in 1933 at the outset of the Great Depression. The neighborhood changed. Yet the hotel was architecturally significant and it was declared a landmark building.
There was further deterioration in the area and there was no business at the hotel. It became a place that attracted prostitutes, drug dealers, policy runners and other forms of low life who used the property but didn't pay for its maintenance. The hotel owners could no longer maintain the building or pay taxes on it. It was allowed to deteriorate.
At one point, a group of female construction workers decided to try to upgrade the property to make it usable. Their efforts failed and, later, the hotel was vandalized. Anything of value was stripped out of the building — plumbing fixtures, pipes, radiators, metal trim — so it became a hollow shell.
But because of the Landmarking status, even though it had become a derelict and was a danger to the community, it could not be razed. Eventually, it attracted the attention of TV personality Geraldo Rivera. He created a myth that had Al Capone making use of a secret vault in the basement of the hotel and that the vault contained uncountable riches derived from the ill-gotten gains of the bootlegging trade.
Rivera organized a TV special around his myth and, with suspense mounting, made his way into the depths of the property to discover the vault and force it open. Nothing was found and, as millions watched, Rivera admitted his information was inaccurate.
The building began to represent a fire hazard to the area. Homeless used the building for shelter and built fires in the lobby to keep warm. Gangs used it to store illegal weapons and drugs. Building inspectors reported a serious health risk. But the building couldn't be demolished because of its landmark status.
As the eyesore began to impact on visitors attending events at nearby McCormick Place, the City began to bend all the rules and caused the building to be torn down. Its architectural significance was long past. Defenders of landmarking were persuaded to look the other way and the wrecking ball arrived.
Now, North Side residents are being urged by City officials to place large chunks of the city into landmark districts. There may be some property worth protecting on a case-by-case basis in the area, but those "important" properties are few and far between.
By landmarking whole sections of the city, proponents are putting a halt to real progress and stifling change. And Geraldo is waiting to schedule his next Chicago
TV special. |
