When public spaces reflect modern life--by not reflecting anything at all.

Just over a month ago, the City of Indianapolis eagerly heralded the opening of a new Marsh grocery store downtown—the second within the Mile Square, which has in recent years exploded in apartment construction.  The other, older store still loosely refers to itself under the name of O’Malia’s, a smaller Indianapolis shain bought out long ago by Marsh, though a handful of stores survive today under the O’Malia name.  It’s only about six blocks away, on the edge of the Lockerbie Square neighborhood, in a converted old Sears and Roebuck Department Store building.  The new Marsh occupies two floors and 43,000 square feet, as part of the five-story Axis mixed-use development near the Canal Walk.  Although the Lockerbie Square O’Malia’s has long tried to satisfy the downtown grocery demand, it was much more in keeping with a neighborhood corner grocery store and never had the feel of a regional supermarket.  It was satisfactory but hardly poised keep pace with the rapidly growing downtown population, as well as the increasingly spendy denizens of surrounding gentrifying neighborhoods.  In short, central Indianapolis apparently had far greater income density that the spread of grocery stores would suggest, and it was underrepresented.

Thus, enter the new Marsh.

At the time of these photos, the facility had been open about six weeks, even though the apartments within the Axis building are not yet complete.  I didn’t spend enough time roaming the aisles to get a sense of the quality of its offerings.  But aesthetically, it almost definitely fills a demand niche.

The Marsh’s interior is like slicing open an avocado, and maybe a tomato right next to it. It’s not a bad idea, and those shades of green (and the occasional bright red) certainly seem au courant enough.   Shiny and new is critical, because the Marsh Supermarkets brand has lagged considerably in recent years, though it was once the defining grocery store of the Indianapolis metro.  Former CEO Don Marsh’s opulent life, rumors of mistresses and financial mismanagement escalated from the late 1990s until around 2006; the company inevitably dominated news headlines for all the wrong reasons, and its share of the local grocery market plunged below Kroger, Meijer and Walmart.  Its nadir may have been the late 2006 purchase by Sun Capital, a private equity firm out of Florida.  Whether the new owners successfully re-branded it or its image was strong enough to prevail on its own, Marsh has endured, though still at a shadow of its former self.  It shuttered all of its Illinois locations, reigned in the majority of Ohio stores, discontinued its spin-off brands like LoBills (and most O’Malia’s) and announced another wave of closures at the beginning of this year.  Nonetheless, through the Marsh/O’Malia’s at Lockerbie and this new location, the declining chain dominates Indianapolis’ downtown grocery market, at least for the time being.  And this latest is definitely trying to splash a new coat of paint on the company’s overall image.

The aesthetics of grocery stores is something that I suspect resonates in our unconsciousness, far more than the blogosphere suggests.  After all, supermarkets seem more resilient to the encroaching dominion of online shopping than a lot of other retail.  Sure, some people feel confident ordering groceries online.  (Indianapolis is home to a successful cybergrocer; Green B.E.A.N. Delivery has grown into a multi-state enterprise.) But most people still prefer choosing their own groceries, particularly when it comes to selecting the produce, meats, and baked goods firsthand.  Thus, how a store looks can influence heavily how much people are willing to patronize a store.  And this Marsh looks contemporary—a stark comparison to the surviving Marsh locations in less chic parts of town, most of which have interiors that evoke the 1970s when they were built.  My suspicion is that renovating a grocery store is particularly capital intensive.  And since they sell such a large quantity of non-durable goods, with new shipments arriving daily, it is nearly impossible to upgrade a supermarket and keep it operational for its customers.  And when a location completely closes, even if just for a couple months, most of its clientele will find somewhere else…and they may never return.  Thus, grocery store interiors across the country are particularly likely to remain frozen in time.  Far more likely than, say, apparel stores, which also have to stay fresh to fight off that online competition.

From murals of the soon-to-change Indianapolis skyline to its subtle mezzanine that may go mostly unused, the new downtown Marsh in the Axis is as effective at conveying trendy urban living today is it is likely to look dated in fifteen years.  What seems particularly telling—and most reflective of the importance of novelty in design—are those public restrooms.

The swimming-pool-mosaic look has taken over in recent years, as popular a tactic in domestic kitchens as it is in gym locker rooms.  It will seriously date itself by the year 2020, but doggone it, it looks good right now.  These small, antiseptic restrooms in the new Marsh also reveal a certain feature that may not go out of style quite as soon.

The restroom is more significant for what it lacks: a mirror above the sink.  More and more businesses are opting to exclude mirrors from their restrooms altogether, much to the chagrin of the narcissists out there.  Why?  It could be because of a growing concern for privacy and the use of restrooms for unlawful voyeurism; after all, stories routinely hit the local news about cameras installed in public restrooms to spy on people.  Mirrors only expand the potential lines of sight that peeping toms can exploit.

But the bigger problem with mirrors in public restrooms is, unfortunately, the vandals out there.  This observation is probably axiomatic to anyone who has ever had to use a public restroom in a busy urban setting—which covers the vast majority of the adult population.  Mirrors harbor graffiti and its companion, the scratchitti, in equal measure.  In most restrooms, they’re right behind the interior stalls for suffering from various markings and tags.  Most Marsh locations are much more suburban, whereas this one, occupying the street level of a building with zero setback, is far more likely to receive walk-in pedestrian traffic that exclusively uses the restroom.  Thus, these restrooms will get more users, they’ll be harder to monitor, and the vandals will soon come out of the woodwork.

Or at least they would.  Removing the mirror deprives them of a popular canvas—a small omission that inconveniences a few people while allowing one more safeguard against any chances of diminishing the store’s aesthetic integrity.  Six weeks after its opening, the Indianapolis Marsh remains free of nail polish tags on its mosaic tiles or messages on the men’s room stalls.  And the ambiance of a fresh bowl of guacamole pervades.  Bon appétit.

When the best preservation efforts go up in smoke.

My latest is up at Urban Indy.  It focuses on a charming Victorian double in the historic neighborhood of St. Joseph, immediately north of downtown Indianapolis, perfectly visible in this Google Streetview image.

At least, that's how it looked in the summer of 2009.  This is what it looks like now:

It's gone.  Demolished.  One could argue that protections for "contributing buildings" in Historic Districts don't give enough teeth to enforce demolition, but that wasn't the problem here.  In the spring of 2010, the building burned to the ground--a fire of undetermined origin.

My research, revealed in full at Urban Indy, determined that it was not a suspicious fire by a landowner who wanted to rid himself of the structural albatross in order to offer the adjacent apartment buildings some quick-and-easy off-street parking.  I actually spoke with the owner of this tragically destroyed home, who made every attempt to save it.  The actual narrative, and the parcel's uncertain future, get full exploration, in an attempt to reconcile the need to preserve the "character" of a historic district (always a fuzzy word) with the understandable aspiration to maximize the marketability of a small, constrained piece of land.  Comments and further observations are strongly encouraged--residents of the St. Joseph neighborhood would certainly appreciate what outsiders might have to say!

Meditations on the Marott Center.

While I continue to iron out the kinks for my own domain version of American Dirt, I want my readership to know when I'm actively contributing to other blogs.  My latest post is up at Urban Indy as of last night.

It focuses on the Marott Center, a hundred-year-old building on Massachusetts Avenue, one of Indianapolis' most desirable urban retail/entertainment corridors.  It just got bought by a new owner, along with its adjacent parking lot.

The building sits on the right of the photo above.  By most assessments, a change in hands is unremarkable.  But the Marott Center has belonged to the law firm of Rubin and Levin since the partners faithfully restored the structure in 1984--a time when Massachusetts Avenue was little more than a derelict skid row.

Rubin and Levin deserve praise for saving the handsome building; if it weren't for their efforts, it could have turned into a parking lot like the one visible to the side of the building in the above photograph.  But a new owner (Gershman Partners) opens a wealth of new opportunities for redevelopment and maximizing the utility of the Marott Center---something it is unclear if Rubin and Lavin did in the latter years of the firm's ownership.

My post at Urban Indy scrutinizes multiple opportunities for building upon the site's intrinsic strengths, so that it can maximize its contributions to the lively commercial corridor upon which it sits.  Only time will tell what the new owners decide to do with the Marott Center, but we can always provide our own input through the blogosphere.  Comments as always are welcomed.

Plugging the passed-over pocket park with programming.

My latest post is up at Urban Indy.  It scrutinizes a small park on the near northside of Indianapolis--a park so unremarkable that most of the city's residents have probably never heard of it.  Wedged between the Fall Creek Place neighborhood and its namesake Fall Creek, Kessler Park is hardly an unattractive park.  Clean, easily accessible, generously landscaped, and boasting part of a creekside greenway trail, the park has everything an urban park needs...except people.

It's empty nearly 100% of the time.  What seems to be the problem?  The surrounding neighborhood is, at least by Indianapolis standards, relatively high density and pedestrian friendly.  But, at the same time, the neighborhood is not so crowded that the houses lack private yards.  Meanwhile the nearby Ivy Tech Community College campus brings students to the area, but it's overwhelmingly a commuter school, so the numerous daily visitors don't translate to much pedestrian traffic.  And this park--named after George Kessler, the designer of the city's park system--remains ignored.

What could the park's designers--or Indianapolis Parks and Recreation, for that matter--have done to make Kessler Park succeed?  Obviously it hasn't yet found the competitive edge that could make it at least something better than an oversight.  The designers seem to have thought that the park could become desirable on its own terms, so they didn't integrate any sort of programming or specific use into the site plan.  We see the results.

A counterpart in every sense of the word is Campus Martius Park in Detroit.  It might seem like an odd analogy, since this park sits in the heart of the Motor City's downtown, compared with Kessler's tucked-away spot along a residential street.   But Campus Martius does enjoy some obvious advantages; for starters, it's among the most lively civic spaces in this beleaguered city.
 
The park, re-established several years ago on what had previous been a sterile and unnecessary traffic circle, has a little bit of everything: a fountain centerpiece, a war memorial, the Fountain Bistro restaurant, a lawn with chairs for viewing concerts, the stage to host those concerts, and even a beach and a cabana bar.  Even when downtown Detroit is devoid of a good crowd (which can happen on any given weekday after 6 pm, unless a Tigers Game is taking place) Campus Martius park is still generally humming.  But could all that programming be a little overkill?

The goal of the article is to scrutinize the idea of programming our urban open spaces with destination-type venues, in order to lure the public.  Although this technique seems to be working at Campus Martius, such intensive cramming of activities into little more than an acre robs the space of its spontaneity.  People aren't enjoying the space on its own terms; they're responding to the many sales pitches it has to offer.

Ultimately, the programmed park reaches unprecedented extremes in they city of Yerevan.  This Armenian capitol took its circular beltway--designed as part of the master planned downtown during the early Soviet era--and has sold off the majority of the land to cafes and restaurants.
 
Most of Yerevan's parkland is completely commercialized, to the point of compromising its accessibility.   Bicyclists, for example, must find another outlet, since the extensive Circular Park is overwhelmed by vendors and small businesses that crowd the pathway.  It almost looks like an amusement mark. 

Where does this leave Kessler Park in Indy?  Obviously the current, unprogrammed condition isn't working, but it should avoid the opposite extreme from Detroit and Yerevan as well.  Truly visionary landscape architects recognize that a great urban park doesn't simply offer restaurants, pseudobeaches and other novelties--they should reveal sensitivity both to the landscape and the green space demands of the surrounding community.  In short, exactly the sort of park designed by George Kessler and his contemporaries.

The full article at Urban Indy provides far greater description and numerous photos of all three city parks.  As always, comments are welcome, both here and on the Urban Indy site.

An apartment's reversal of fortune.

This summer has obviously been a pretty dry spell in terms of blog posts, but now that I just arrived back in the country a few days ago, I hope for the pace to pick back up before too long.  August may end up a tad scattered, since I will begin the month with a move to Detroit and a new immersion program.  But I also expect this change in locale to elicit some exciting new topics for contemplation, reinvigorating the continual learning process.

Keeping up the theme of continuous learning, I offer a groundbreaking post today.  While it isn’t my first revisit of an old blog topic, this is the first time I’m gone back to view an old site precisely with the purpose of showing how my assumptions and conclusions were apparently originally wrong.  Late last fall, I covered familiar ground by delving into the Westminster Apartments,

Upon first glance, Westminster was a pretty run-of-the-mill place: an auto-oriented, low-rise complex dating from around 1970 that manifested the telltale signs of decline: visibly worn common space, wooden decks and siding that were sufficiently rotted to compromise the overall stability, meager landscaping, obvious vandalism of the buildings through graffiti. 

Like many apartment complexes in Indianapolis and across the nation that date from this time period, what began as middle-class rental housing had devolved over the years, as newer, more modern buildings opened in the vicinity, featuring newer appliances and other amenities.  The property management team for Westminster could have maintained the buildings, but, because federal Section 8 benefits will guarantee them secure tenancy no matter how poor the condition of the buildings, the owners had no real incentive to improve the structures.  After all, even though Section 8 caters to a clientele with incomes far below middle class standards, the institution writing the majority of the rent checks—i.e., the government—always pays in time, meaning that landlords actually get an incentive for letting their property deteriorate to the point that it only can attract Section 8 tenancy.  It appeared last November that this phenomenon was exactly what had afflicted the Westminster apartments.  It’s happened to dozens of buildings in the suburban reaches of Indianapolis over the past 20 years, where suburban units that previously attracted young professional families are now overwhelmingly lower-income.  The result is that suburban districts of Indianapolis that were virtually crime free in the 1980s are now hosting concentrated poverty and all the concomitant social woes.

But there’s a catch: Westminster is not in the Indianapolis city limits.  This building sits just south of County Line Road, squarely within the Indianapolis suburb of Greenwood.  And Greenwood remains a fast-growing, desirable, middle- to upper-middle class suburb, with well regarded schools, a flourishing mall, an expanding greenway network, and a growing logistics/trucking industry that capitalizes on the suburb’s strong access to Interstate 65.  By all metrics, the Westminster should not need to downgrade; it could remain attractive to middle-class people if only the property managers had bothered to maintain it.  But since they hadn’t, it had suffered the same malaise as numerous complexes in Indianapolis city limits, where school districts are often much spottier and crime a persistent concern.  What went wrong with Westminster?

Nothing, apparently—I was wrong all this time.  It fell under new ownership last November and promptly underwent a significant renovation.  They’ve already rebranded the place with a new logo.

And it looks like those renovations are substantial—much more than just a slick new sign at the entrance.  Gone is the spraypainted graffiti, the sagging gutters, the termite-infested wood. Here’s what some of the new ones look like:

Notice the newly planted shrubs, and the sapling in the second photo.  Obviously the buildings received a facelift, but were the changes more than superficial?  A glimpse at some of the buildings still under renovation would suggest that the process has been comprehensive.

The new owners, Van Rooy Properties, closed off a number of the buildings, vacating them completely during the renovation process.  Notice that the doorways are completely boarded shut.  The renovation team also hasn’t forgotten about the rights-of-way.

The asphalt appears to be newly resurfaced and striped.  But the best evidence that the Westminster Apartments are enjoying a thorough renovation are the buildings in which the process has not yet begun—some “before” photos.

Unlandscaped, sagging gutters, peeling paint...they look just awful—worse than anything else I’ve seen on the south side of Indianapolis.  And yes, the unrenovated units still reveal those half-hearted attempts to hide the graffiti tags.

The juxtaposition of the pre- and post-renovation Westminster units should provide enough evidence that the buildings were in a sorry state, but, last November, I had my doubts that they would ever undergo a complete renovation.  The fact that Van Rooy has taken such an initiative clearly speaks well for the survivability of Westminster (though, frankly, I’m surprised the owners didn’t alter the name of the units, as frequently happens when apartment buildings change hands).  However, this initiative does not speak well for the future of equivalent rental properties in Indianapolis city limits.  While I am certain that at least some of the 1970s-era units in Indianapolis proper have undergone a renovation, I’m not aware of any in particular on this side of town.  But, just south of County Line Road, these Greenwood apartment units might benefit from enough of a shot in the arm that they once again attract middle-income tenants.  While Westminster may seem like a modest indicator, the fact remains that the property’s owners determined that its location was sufficiently desirable to invest in comprehensive uprgrades—an action I don’t anticipate seeing among Indianapolis apartments on this side of town any time soon.  In fact, the dominant demographic of the suburban-style apartments in Indy’s Perry Township (just a mile or two away from the Westminster) are Burmese immigrants, who depend on rock-bottom leasing rates.

All in all, the Westminster case study suggests that I was wrong: aging apartments in fast-growing suburbs genuinely are more likely to benefit from a renovation, while the counterparts in the primary city continue to languish.  Maybe I can explore this dichotomy again a few years from now, when another apartment complex on each side of the boundary will inevitably deteriorate to a similar condition as the Westminster pre-renovation.  But at this point, it appears that the affordable housing policies that ostensibly discourage apartment owners from renovating buildings in the old central city of a metro—the portion of the metro typically with the weakest school districts—don’t have the same impact on their suburban counterparts.  But, in another 20 years, the Westminster Apartments of Greenwood will inevitably need another renovation in order to remain viable; at that point in the not-so-distant future, shifting suburban fortunes will determine whether or not the buildings get another face-lift. 

Nudging the ‘urbs in the right direction.

When negotiating the introduction of typically suburban corporate chains in an otherwise urban neighborhood, it typically takes an inordinate amount of fancy footwork.  Most American cities have a “Midtown”—either explicitly or implicitly named—that suffered colossal disinvestment from the 1950s onward, or perhaps even as early as the Depression.  Now, thanks to their proximity to revitalizing downtowns, these Midtowns are lurching back toward relevance, but they come wearing the battle scars of urban renewal.  The pockmarks of parking lots still vaguely remind the older generations of the long-gone architectural marvels that previous civic leaders presumed were obsolete.  Several months ago I explored the Midtown of Birmingham, Alabama, better known as Five Points South, an economically healthy old neighborhood which amidst the handsome century-old buildings, claims its fair share of space devoted to off-street parking.  In recent years, in recognition of the growing attractiveness of the area, newer development has arisen, such as a Chick-fil-A restaurant, taking advantage of the pedestrian traffic by with a structure thrust to the lot lines at one of the most prominent corners.  The parking for this otherwise archetypically suburban restaurant change is tucked on the interior portion of the lot, making it much less conspicuous to general public view.

In more recent month, I learned that my home city of Indianapolis had contended with its own developmental maneuverings a few years ago, when another national brand wanted to build a new structure in its Midtown.  The CVS at 16^th and Meridian Streets didn’t get a lot of coverage when the City approved the design and construction began.  My friends at Urban Indy decided not to cover it.  Recently, before I left town for an extended amount of time, I decided to give it another look.

From this angle, it seems like a solid piece of urban infill: massing is in keeping with what one might expect for a commercial building only 1.5 miles from the absolute center of the city.  The edges of the building are more or less flush with the lot lines.  The signage and awnings are nowhere near as ostentatious as one might expect if the majority of passers by were zooming along at over 40 mph in their vehicles.  For the most part, the lettering and iconography generally seem to cater to pedestrians.

But notice all those qualifying adverbs and phrases: “more or less”, “for the most part”, “generally”.  The entire process is riddled with compromises, as manifested by a view of the building from just about any other angle.

At this point, I’m standing along the west edge of the building, looking northward down Meridian Street.  From this vantage point, it still looks like a busy urban street with an entrance to the CVS right next to the bus stop.  But I’ve contrived the perspective to shroud or omit any of the compromises.  Here’s one of them:

The reflection makes it difficult to discern, but this door fronting the east side of the building is false.  In a truly pedestrian-scaled urban environment, this door should serve as the primary entrance, since it faces the sidewalk along a busy street.  But instead, customers to the CVS have to enter on the south side.

Directly abutting a big parking lot.  Fundamentally, this drug store caters first and foremost to the automobile.  It has no real entrances at the corner of Meridian and 16^th, visible in that first photo.  In fact, it offers a drive through pharmacy on the east side, just as one would expect in the suburbs.

In short, the CVS achieves just what it needs to assume a basic veneer of urbanity.  And apparently it took a bit of arm-twisting to get there.  A person with detailed knowledge of the development helped shed some light on the process.  The most influential agencies in shaping the design were the City of Indianapolis Department of Metropolitan Development, the Near North Development Corporation, and the CVS developer.  None of them wanted a conventional suburban design.  To their luck, the Walgreens across the street (at the southwest corner of this intersection) exemplified what not to do.

One of the most prominent intersections in Indy’s Midtown loses any sense of urbanism with a building dwarfed by its own parking lot.  If it weren’t for the some of the surrounding context, it would be hard to tell that this Walgreens was even in a city setting.

At the very least, all parties agreed that the new CVS should hug the parcel boundaries at the intersection, like the Chick-fil-A in Birmingham.  Ahead of the first design proposal, the NNDC rep suggested that the developers choose materials and design the structure in keeping with some of the historic apartments in the area; among the most prominent is to the right of the Walgreens in the photo above, just a stone’s throw from this CVS site.  The developer ultimately deployed the CVS “Main Street” standard design, typically used as infill for historic towns in the northeast.

Beyond that, the developer was unable or unwilling to budge on a lot of the other details.  The planners at DMD and NNDC both tried to push the front door to the structure so that it was facing Meridian, forcing pedestrian ingress directly from the sidewalk.  But the developer insisted that the CVS had rigid internal layout requirements, and inverting the conventional position so that a loading dock would abut the alley (the east side of the building) would preclude a functional drive-through pharmacy.  In addition, placing the entrance along the Meridian Street sidewalk would force a yawning distance between the handicapped parking and the front door.  The DMD encouraged a double entrance, so that pedestrians could still access directly from Meridian Street, but CVS shuns the prospect of controlling two doors; having a second access point also robs the interior of several valuable square feet for retail.  Consequently, the door fronting the sidewalk in the above photo is bogus.  The last major compromise, not surprisingly, dealt with parking: the required minimum was a generous 50 spaces, but CVS insisted that it must have more than 70, in order to compete with Walgreens.

To be frank, it is by and large understandable that the resulting edifice manifests some pretty significant compromises from the urban design ideal.  The developers of the CVS couldn’t alienate their car-dependent base, especially since Meridian Street is one of the main arterials leading to the northern suburbs.  It would have been particularly unwise for the developer to employ massing that obscures the parking; such a move would simply impel all those motorists to opt for the Walgreens across the street, where parking is patently obvious from both Meridian and 16^th Streets.  This CVS simply cannot expect to flourish if access is less convenient than its neighbor across the street.

Fortunately, in spite of these concessions, the teams at DMD and NNDC were able to wrestle some other smart features in the design.  These “nibbles” include the following: extra sidewalk connection from 16^th and Scioto (the alley on the east side of the property) wrapping around to the front south-facing door; more discreet dumpster enclosure locations; a real tree-lawn next to 16^th Street, and a bus shelter near the “door” along Meridian, where one previously had not existed.  And, though it really doesn’t count as a nibble, the “Main Street” CVS design (a standardized template) employs two floors; although the windows on the second floor are fake, the building really does have a mezzanine second story in the section of the building fronting 16^th Street.  It’s not just a block of Styrofoam.

Though the number of compromises to this CVS stunted the interest of Indy’s urban blogger community when the building opened a couple years ago, it did attract the attention of prominent St. Louis blog NextSTL, whose Alex Ihnen by and large saw it as a significant improvement to similar proposals in one of St. Louis’ more prominent Midtown neighborhoods.  If his description “doesn’t suck” seems like faint praise, this may be time to invoke a timeworn cliché: never let the perfect be the enemy of the good.  Obviously every individual will have a different standard for “good”, but in judging this drugstore development, it is prudent to leave a wide berth that encompasses anything between the worst possible outcome and the ideal.  The effort to achieve optimal urban design in Indy’s Midtown warrants a reflection upon this neighborhood’s struggles over the years.  Most locals apparently remember the structure that preceded this CVS: an International House of Pancakes with—as NextSTL recalls—a dodgy reputation.  And immediately to its south: a blighted, defunct old car-dealership.  For the majority of the last 50 years, the only saving grace to Midtown was its proximity to downtown and accessibility due to major arterials like Meridian Street. What had once hosted the mansions of some of Indianapolis’ elite families devolved into low-rise office complexes (many nonprofit or social services), faded apartment buildings, tawdry nightclubs, and—manifested by the intersection with 16^th—national chains with drive-thru options to cater to the suburban commuters.  Much of this segment of Meridian still looks this way.  As this essay has already demonstrated, the south sides of the intersection host a moderately urban CVS and a fully car-oriented Walgreens.  What about the other two corners?

The McDonald’s building is scarcely visible behind the trees, but the surrounding parking lot dwarfs it as well.  It’s indistinguishable from the typical McDonald’s in the suburbs.  And the last corner?

Again, the Chase Bank puts its parking front and center.  Thus, despite its drawbacks and compromises, the CVS reigns supreme at this intersection in terms of the urbanity of its design and configuration.  Looking south down Meridian Street towards downtown demonstrates its superiority, particularly when juxtaposed with the neighboring Walgreens.

The other three buildings at 16^th and Meridian owe much of their lack of inspiration to the economic conditions of the neighborhood at the time of their conception.  Neighborhoods to the east, such as the Old Northside and Herron-Morton Place, had not yet achieved a mature level of gentrification that would allow them to rally a strong degree of support—or opposition—to design standards at this intersection.  These days, both neighborhoods claim a quorum of committed citizens who moved to the area because of the attractiveness of the pedestrian-scaled architecture.  These newcomers have both the wherewithal and the psychological commitment to push institutions such as NNDC or DMD to raise the bar.  During the design review process for the CVS featured here, the City was also fleshing out its Urban Design standards and guidelines, which would either persuade or overtly enforce a stronger approach to design in Indianapolis’ region center, an area that includes 16^th and Meridian.  Though the approval of a CVS at this location preceded the implementation of these Guidelines, it is obvious that the spirit behind them exerted a fair share of influence on the conception of the CVS.  It’s not fantastic.  But it’s better than anything at the other three corners, and it’s also more in keeping with the urban scale of two neighborhoods immediately to the east, visible in the photo below:

16^th Street is the dividing line here, with Old Northside to the right and Herron-Morton Place to the left.  While 16^th is an important arterial as well, it doesn’t provide the sort of expansive suburban access that would have made it as attractive of a corridor as Meridian Street for commuter-oriented drive-thrus.  Though the century-old apartment buildings that frame this photo suffered serious decline in the second half of the 20^th century, more recent gentrification efforts have stimulated a renaissance at both.  This section of Midtown, particularly in the last few years, has emerged as a fashionable enclave for affluent professionals, with a growing array of locally owned retail to serve them.

The urban form remains a palimpsest--just as it always has.  My prediction is that growing interest in the community will push more developers to adopt the CVS approach to urban design—or something better.  I’m not sure the property value in Indy’s Midtown is going to skyrocket enough that we’ll be seeing high-rise apartments replace the McDonald’s or Chase Bank any time soon.  But I certainly wouldn’t be surprised if it happens eventually.  And if—or when—someone eventually does decide to build at this prominent intersection, he or she will inevitably assume a mentality of “highest and best use”, not just because of city design regulations or the neighborhood arm-twisting, but because the lucrative nature of the real estate here would make it ridiculous to do otherwise.  Why build a single story fast food restaurant when you could comfortably fit eight floors of office and apartments above it, and the neighborhood wouldn’t raise a stink?

If we ever get to that point, mark my word the opposition won’t be a big new apartment building—the nabe will fight the Mickey Dees.

Nordstrom brainstorming.

My latest post is up at Urban Indy, focusing on what we can do with a huge vacant piece of real estate in the heart of Indianapolis' downtown: the Nordstrom space to CIrcle Centre Mall, which vacated in summer of 2011.

Still no plans for this space have materialized.  I recent post from the Indianapolis Busines Journal suggests that, in spite of one of the mall's two department stores remaining vacant, the sales per square foot have actually improved in recent years.  But the occupancy rate is lagging.

This blog post looks at both the positive and negative indicators for the long-term future of the mall, with lots of photos offering empirical indicators of its economic health, which in turn support or challenge the numbers.  Finally, I list a variety of the proposed options for filling the Nordstrom space, while encourage readers to come up with their own.  Even if you aren't from Indy or don't even know it, please feel free to contribute.

Contemporary infill gentrification.

My latest post is at Urban Indy.  It focuses on two small multi-family apartment developments in Fountain Square and Bates-Hendricks, neighborhoods on the near south side of Indianapolis' downtown that, while still very gritty, have become increasingly trendy in recent years.  Both neighborhoods still have their fair share of dilapidated housing and some vacant lots, but that is quickly changing, thanks in no small part to the initiatives of Southeast Neighborhood Development (SEND), the local CDC.

Here is Phase I of the Carburetor Lofts, in Fountain Square, fully leased:

And here is Phase I of the East Street Flats in Bates-Hendricks, nearing completion:


Most of these units are 120% of AMI, which, for an inexpensive city such as Indianapolis, is more or less a steal.  SEND's goal was to meet some untapped demand for sleek modern architecture in neighborhoods that would support them, but would still offer a much lower price point than northside neighborhoods like Herron-Morton (which is also welcoming its share of much, much pricier contemporary infill housing).  The article reviews each apartment building on its own terms, gauging the success of the urban design and likelihood that they will help sustain each neighborhood's growing viability within the demographic that actively seeks urban living.  Comments are welcome, either here or on the Urban Indy webpage; I will do my best to respond.

When the first one out the gate is also the last.

Several weeks ago I explored one of the most obvious consequences of the veritable implosion of the commercial airline industry.  After several years of declining enplanements and repeated consolidations of the major airlines, we will inevitably confront many manifestations of what I saw at Cleveland-Hopkins International Airport: virtually an entirely vacant concourse.  This blog article on CLE's emptiness generated a fair amount of discussion on social media, with others pointing out similar vacancies in airports such as Cincinnati, Milwaukee, and St. Louis.  CLE might not be the greatest example, since the metro has suffered quite a bit more than the average metro: both the city and suburbs lost population over the last few decade.  Even the most superficial application of the inverse of the multiplier effect would lead to the conclusion that demand for flights out of CLE is lower than it was in 2000; after all, metro Cleveland has fewer people than it did ten to fifteen years ago.  But even metros with vigorous job/population growth have experienced a similar predicament.

The photo above shows the first check-in/baggage claim station at Indianapolis International Airport (IND).  To the best of my memory, it was fully operative a year ago, hosting passenger services for Delta.  Now it appears almost completely empty, with the exception of “Airline Charter Services” (indicated by the perfunctory sign), but apparently that isn’t active enough to justify the self-service check-in computer kiosks that we would normally see.  The Indianapolis Airport Authority removed those when Delta left.  And this isn’t the only check-in station with vacant space:

Neither US Airways nor American Airlines are using all of the check-in computers available at their respective stations, as indicated by the fact that their logos do not stretch across the back wall.  Instead, Visit Indy (formerly the Indianapolis Convention and Visitors Association) fills the remaining space with skyline and streetscape photos.

Naturally, one could rebut, “What if US Airways really is using the entire check-in counter from end to end, and Visit Indy just wanted a little room for self-promotion?”  I grant that could be true, but it wouldn’t explain why Delta’s new location doesn’t have any Visit Indy placards:

Apparently, even in its new location, Delta is using its entire counter.  Compare each of the aforementioned airlines to Frontier’s dinky space:

Again, I apologize for the terrible photo quality, but Frontier only occupies the section with the green placards to the right side of the photo.  The remaining 75% of that station consists of more “Visit Indy” signage—i.e., completely vacant.  Granted, Frontier Airlines is much smaller than the others.  But further contraction is on the horizon: after all, US Airways has bought out the bankrupt American, and last month a US Bankruptcy Court approved their eventual merger. 

If the administrative space claimed by various airlines at IND recedes this visibly in the public sections of the airport, one can only imagine what’s taking place in the sections that are off limits to general passengers.  It is reasonable to assume that the merger between US Airways and American will significantly reduce the staffing needs by close to 50%, so the back-of-the-house sections of the airport are probably going to look much the same as the photo below.

Hardly a soul arriving at the airport at 9pm on a Friday night.  Although the FAA classifies it as a medium hub, IND’s annual average of approximately 3.7 enplanements (nearly a million fewer than CLE) would by most considerations rank it as a third-tier airport, at least in terms of passenger traffic.  By the time of night that I took the photos, the majority of the airport’s storefronts are typically closed.  It’s just never a terribly busy airport.

Like Cleveland’s Hopkins International Airport, it would appear that IND has a glut of unused space that is only likely to grow after the US Airways-American merger that will eventually form the world’s largest airline.  But two other factors that distinguish IND from CLE only amplify the mismatch between our airports’ sizes and our ability to fill them.  First of all, metro Indianapolis is generally growing at a robust clip: Urbanophile blogger Aaron Renn recently pointed out that BLS metrics placed Indy at number 10 in the nation for job growth (2.84% from 2011 to 2012) after some sluggish previous years.  Cleveland’s 1.54% over the same time period ranks it at the middle of the pack among large metros. However, since the interval years are mismatched (FAA stats for 2012 aren’t available until July), I must draw from a 2010-2011 BLS report on metro job growth to form some broad-brush conclusions.  Incidentally, a cross-referencing between BLS employment growth and FAA enplanements from 2010 to 2011 reveals little to no correlation between job growth and shifts in passenger traffic.  For example, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International Airport (MSY) enjoyed a solid growth in enplanements of 4.07% from 2010 to 2011, even though the metro’s job growth has been negative during that time frame.  Meanwhile, CLE declined in enplanements at about the same rate (-4.14%), yet metro Cleveland’s job growth, though modest, was positive.  Apparently, any change in metropolitan employment numbers offers no indication of the respective airport’s vitality.

The other factor distinguishing IND from CLE—and virtually all other major American airports for that matter—is that IND is operating out of a brand new terminal.  The Colonel H. Weir Cook Terminal finished construction in November 2008—the first designed and built in the US since the September 11, 2001 attacks.  While few major airports are taking such radical steps as IND did several years ago, the New York Times reported last year that many of the largest airports are undergoing significant renovations or expansions, particularly at the major international gateways, in order to keep up with the amenities and services offered at the most prominent overseas competitors.  

An article as facile as this could hardly justify a critique on airport renovations at LAX, ATL, or JFK—after all, none of the second- and third-tier airports scrutinized in this article are facing the sort of international passenger traffic as the big guys.  But the emptiness at the smaller airports doesn’t auger well for what might transpire at the big ones; after all, even though Atlanta and JFK boast an array of other airlines that will buffer the impact of the US Airways-American merger, this latest absorption of an airline is still likely to free up at least a few baggage claim terminals, gates, and office space.  The ongoing trends in airline mergers and diminished passenger travel may not have an impact on infrastructural improvements taking place at airports, but it should seriously call into question the need for any major expansions.  And what airport authority would sensibly build a brand new terminal in these times of dearth?!  Although airport construction does not depend on taxpayer money—the local authorities finance capital improvements through the revenue they generate in passenger fees—the leadership of these businesses must account for their decisions through as consistent profitability as possible.  And it’s hard to imagine airports like CLE, IND, or MSY being able to justify any further upgrades, when their terminals have devolved into echo chambers that host a floundering industry.