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National Register of Historic Places listings in Seneca County, New York

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Location of Seneca County in New York
Location of Seneca County in New York
Map all coordinates using: OpenStreetMap 
Download coordinates as: KML · GPX

List of Registered Historic Places in Seneca County, New York

This is intended to be a complete list of properties and districts listed on the National Register of Historic Places in Seneca County, New York. The locations of National Register properties and districts (at least for all showing latitude and longitude coordinates below) may be seen in a map by clicking on "Map of all coordinates".[1] Three properties are further designated U.S. National Historic Landmarks, and one is a U.S. National Historical Park.

This National Park Service list is complete through NPS recent listings posted August 10, 2018.[2]


Contents: Counties in New York
Albany (Albany)AlleganyBronxBroomeCattaraugusCayugaChautauquaChemungChenangoClintonColumbiaCortlandDelawareDutchess (Poughkeepsie, Rhinebeck)Erie (Buffalo)EssexFranklinFultonGeneseeGreeneHamiltonHerkimerJeffersonKingsLewisLivingstonMadisonMonroe (Rochester)MontgomeryNassauNew York (Below 14th Street, 14th to 59th Streets, 59th to 110th Streets, Above 110th Street, Islands)NiagaraOneidaOnondagaOntarioOrangeOrleansOswegoOtsegoPutnamQueensRensselaerRichmondRocklandSt. LawrenceSaratogaSchenectadySchoharieSchuylerSenecaSteubenSuffolkSullivanTiogaTompkinsUlsterWarrenWashingtonWayneWestchester (Northern, Southern, New Rochelle, Peekskill, Yonkers)WyomingYates

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  • “On Monuments: Place, Time, and Memory”
  • National Capital Planning Commission (USA), July 2013

Transcription

Good evening. Welcome. It's really wonderful to see so many people here. Thank you. Thank you, for being here. Tonight's event is organized under the rubric of the Harvard University Committee on the Arts-- HUCA, for short-- and of course, the faculty of Arts and Sciences and the GSD. HUCA, as a committee, was initiated by President Faust to address a range of issues related to the arts here on campus. Under his auspices, there have been numerous initiatives, including the establishing of an undergraduate track in architecture, the theater, dance, and media concentration, a creative writing program, our own Art Design and Public Domain Master of Design Studies program, to name a few of those initiatives. In addition, HUCA ca has resulted in many more practicing artists becoming part of the faculty, including Claire Chase, Vijay [? lyer, ?] Jill Johnson, Diane Paulus, Esperanza Spalding, Yosvany Terry, and Krzysztof Wodiczko. As part of its work and with the support of President Faust, HUCA has undertaken a major series of public art interventions with the work of "John Harvard Projection", by Professor Wodiczko, "Ah Humanity", by Lucien Castaing Taylor. And we're currently working together with Teresita Fernandez on "Autumn (...Nothing Personal" that will be installed on campus in the fall of 2018. In addition to these events, there's, of course, the ongoing public art projects organized by Dean Liz Cohen at Radcliffe and many other things that are going on. Originally chaired by Professor Stephen Greenblatt, HUCA has subsequently been chaired or co-chaired by a number of faculty, including Professor Robin Kelsey, Diana Sorensen, and myself. HUCA includes an array of talent from across the university. And I'm happy to see that there's so many members of the committee here in the audience tonight. In addition to the work of the committee and its chairs, Lori Gross, Associate Provost for Arts and Culture, and Leah Rosovsky, Vice President for Strategy and Programs, and their teams, have been vital in the success of HUCA, as well as the realization of many other arts initiatives here on campus. Tonight's event, On Monuments, Place, Time, and Memory, is organized with the aim of celebrating and thanking President Faust for her commitment to the arts, as well as for inspiring leadership. We're all delighted that President Faust is joining us tonight and has agreed to say a few words. Would you please welcome President Drew Gilpin Faust? [applause] Thank you. Thank you, Moshen. And a special thanks to Dean Mostafavi, the GSD, FAS, and HUCA, for creating this symposium. I hardly need say that it is an extraordinarily timely topic. I also think it's especially fitting as a contribution from HUCA. It underscores the critical role of the arts in the "cognitive life of the university," to quote from the Task Force on the Arts in 2008, but also the cognitive life of our world, more generally. Gives us an opportunity to think about monuments as embodiments of memory and meaning. I like to consider it as a approach to the work of monuments, what they do in creating and perpetuating cultural narratives, how we explain our past, how we fashion our future, and also underscored in recent years, especially, how we confront and grapple with the ethical issues of our world-- whether we explicitly recognize them and articulate them, or whether we simply live among them until interpretation is brought to bear. We need to understand the work of monuments within the larger framework of memory. And this has a particularly resonant meaning for me because so much of the interrogation of monuments in recent years has occurred in my own field of Southern and Civil War history. There is an individual from Vietnam focused on the Vietnam War who has said that all wars are fought twice, first on the field, and then in memory. That is from Viet Thanh Nguyen, who is the author of The Sympathizer, that won the Pulitzer Prize a couple of years ago. I find that insight very telling for the Civil War. It seems a particularly clear example of wars that are fought more than once. The North won the war on the battlefield, but it ceded the victory to the South in important ways in the decades that followed by abandoning the emancipation, its legacy and commitment to racial justice, in order to achieve sectional reconciliation through the reestablishment of white supremacy-- Jim Crow, the voiding of the reconstruction amendments, the terror and lynching that gripped the South in the years after the war. And so in the half century after the war ended, there was a rewriting of the Civil War into a lost and noble cause based in a reconciliation of the sections around their shared grief and loss. Much of this work was done in texts, and laws, and written materials. But much of it was done through monuments-- monuments to the dead who were the foundation for the sense of a commonality of suffering, and monuments explicitly to the Confederacy as a lost and noble cause. There was a speech given at Magnolia Cemetery in Charleston, as the dead from Gettysburg, the Confederate dead from Gettysburg, were re-interred there. And the speech invoked, Confederate principles-- defeated, but not necessarily lost. And that is what those graves came to symbolize and represent. That's what the monuments in that cemetery were meant to convey-- an opposition to the centralized power of the federal government and opposition to any kind of equalization of the races. So 150 years later, we have begun, I think at last, to come to terms with these monuments, with their messages and purposes. Toni Morrison has said that nothing ever dies. And in a sense, we see that in the dotting of our landscape with the monuments to a past that it has long since been time to reject. One of the most powerful renditions of this challenge came a year ago, not quite a year ago, from Mitch Landrieu, the mayor of New Orleans, who issued a statement as he removed Robert E. Lee and three other monuments from the streets of New Orleans. He made such a powerful case, I think an equaled in its eloquece case, for their removal. He said, to have these monuments is to literally put the Confederacy on a pedestal, to put what he called a fictionalized and sanitized Confederacy on a pedestal, to tell the wrong story about the past through these monuments. And he underscored not just the impact of the monuments that were there, he talked about the monuments that weren't there-- the lies of omission and what we have not remembered through a physical presence. He said there were no slave ship monuments. This brings to mind the effort underway right now to be realized in an important opening in April of Brian Stevenson, the head of the Equal Justice Initiative, who has been collecting soil from lynching sites all over the South and will open a museum that reminds us of that part of our past with a very different kind of monument. Mitch Landrieu went on to say, this is not about erasing history, this is about building a better and truer history. We think often of narratives as taking place in words and film. But today, we are going to address the opportunity and responsibility of art, doing the work to go back to Viet Nguyen's words, the work of just memory, because that is something that must be communicated through the arts, as well as through our public policies, as well as through the stories we tell in other forums and in other ways. So I look forward tonight to hearing about the work of memory, the work of monuments, and the work of making them just. Thank you, very much. [applause] Thank you Drew. So tonight's event grew out of a number of conversations with the members of HUCA and with Dean Kelsey. And I'm really grateful to all the participants, as well as to all of you, to be able to explore this type of format for cross-departmental and cross-school conversations on critical issues. Since our event tonight primarily focuses on the topic of monuments through artistic practice, and since we're here at the GSD, I thought it would be useful to at least make a tangential reference to how this topic, the topic of monuments, has also been of crucial importance to the world of design and the build environment. The two images on the screen-- one of a tomb, 1921, and the other a competition entry for the Chicago Tribune Tower of 1922-- are both by the Viennese architect Adolf Loos. In reference to these topics, Loos says, "Only a very small part of architecture belongs to art-- the tomb and the monument." modern architecture and modernism has had a very ambivalent relationship to the topic of monuments since many of its early works was focused on fulfilling functional necessities, such as housing. And this, of course, was not always the case. It is for this reason that there was also such a strong interest in exploring the topic of monumentality during the reassessment of modernism. One of the important consequences of this discussion has been the contribution of the Italian architect [inaudible] [? rossi ?] who understood the inseparability of the project of architecture from that of the city and made a distinction between what he called propelling and pathological monuments. According to Rossi, a monument is propelling when it has the capacity to change, to be part of a historical moment, and yet be adaptive to change, to be open to the possibility of being, in a sense, part of the present, as well as the past. The example that Rossi uses for this is the Palazzo della Ragione, in Padua, in Italy. Whereas, pathological monuments are those monuments that don't have the capacity to change. They're essentially representational. Regardless of these distinctions, what is significant about a monument is its capacity to act as a symbol and, with it, as a reminder of events of conditions that we must not forget. Equally, at times, even recent ones, the willful destruction or removal of monuments is also part of an attempt to forget, to erase, and to obliterate the memory of a particular historical moment. I'm delighted that four of our Harvard faculty have agreed to present their thoughts on the topic of monuments-- Robin Kelsey, Sarah Lewis, Jennifer Roberts, and Krzysztof Wodiczko. After their presentations, they will be joined in discussion by Professor Erika Naginski, Professor of Architectural History and director of the doctoral programs here at the GSD. This conversation and the subsequent Q&A will be moderated by Homi Bhabha and F. Rothenberg, Professor of the Humanities in the Department of English and the Director of the Mahindra Humanities Center at Harvard University. Our speakers tonight in order of appearance are Sarah Lewis, Assistant Professor at Harvard University in the Department of History of Art and Architecture and the Department of African and African-American Studies. Before joining the faculty at Harvard, professor Lewis held curatorial positions at the Museum of Modern Art and the Tate Modern. She currently serves on the board of Creative Time and the Andy Warhol Foundation of the Visual Arts. Sarah's articles on race, contemporary art and culture have been published in numerous journals. Sarah is also the author of The Rise, Creativity, the Gift of Failure, and the Search of Mastery. Our second speaker, Krzysztof Wodiczko, is Professor in Residence of Art Design and the Public Domain at the Graduate School of Design. Krzysztof is an international artist renowned for his large scale video projections. He has realized more than 90 such installations across the world. In 2016, Black Dog published a comprehensive collection of his writings entitled, "Transformative Avant-Garde and Other Writings." among other awards, he received the Hiroshima Art Prize for his contribution to world peace. In 2009, he represented Poland at the Venice biennial. Jennifer Roberts is the Elizabeth Cary Agassiz Professor of the Humanities Harvard College professor and chair of the program in American studies. Jennifer teaches American art from the colonial period to the present, with particular focus on issues of landscape, expedition, material cultural theory, and the history of science. Jennifer's book, Transporting Visions, The Movement of Images in Early America, was published in 2014, following her earlier publication, Mirror-travels, Robert Smithson and History, which was published in 2004. Almost there. [laughter] Robin Kelsey is the Shirley Carter Burdon Professor of Photography and Dean of Arts and Humanities at Harvard University. I am delighted to have the chance to be co-chairing HUCA together with Robin Robin's book, Photography and the Art of Chance, was published by Harvard University Press in 2015. Another publication, Archive Style, Photographs and Illustrations for U.S. Surveys, 1850-1890, was published by the University of California Press in 2007. Now, please join me in welcoming Professor Sarah Lewis. [applause] All right. OK. Good evening. It's such an honor to be asked to speak here today. I want to thank Deans Kelsey and Mostafavi for inviting me to think through a topic that I don't get to address nearly as much as I'd like to, and to celebrate the work of HUCA, and to celebrate this scholarship too, as I focus here on the Civil War a bit, that's been produced by our extraordinary president, Drew Gilpin Faust. My research is largely framed around a simple question. Can art measure life? How has culture let us reframe our notions of citizenship and justice? But today, I'd like to think about this in the context of the materiality of monuments as they relate to racial justice. I'd like to consider the work of the monument as it relates to our ability and inability to reconstruct narratives that will allow for the full flourishing of citizenship that we would like to see in the United States. So to begin-- to stand next to the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial, facing the Jefferson Memorial in Washington D.C. is a span of meters-- let me just dwell on that Jefferson Memorial again for a second, if it will take my cue. OK, maybe-- there we go-- is a span of meters that forces the mind to consider time. The past at first-- but the span between the memorials that you're seeing here, the near improbability of their co-residents on the banks of the Potomac trains the mind on something else. I would say it is the conditional tense, specifically the future real conditional tense. The mind starts to consider, what must have had to happen here on this soil, in this country, for these two monuments to be set in relationship to each other? Together, the memorials, I would argue, function as a monument in that they do what monuments do best, often without our acknowledging it. They shift us to this conditional tense. They shift us to consider this idea. My colleague, Tina [? kant, ?] considers the requisite grammar of futurity in the context of race in the photographic archive. I am taken by her interest in what you might call the orality of these interior speech acts that emerge when we are moved by a work of art. In the context of race, possibility comes from an examination not just of the future tense, what will be, or the future perfect tense, that which will have happened, but the future real conditional, or that which will have had to happen. It is, as she puts it, an orientation towards, quote, "what should be true." It involves living the future now, as an imperative, rather than subjective, a striving for the future you want to see, the right now, in the present. It's tense that arises, I believe, when we say or generations from us pass by the Harvard Law School plaza and say to themselves, as they see the Monument to Slavery, here being unveiled by President Faust and Professor Annette Gordon-Reed, what must have had to happen here? This is a tense we don't use often in conversation, or at least I don't. Yet, we do use it conceptually when we think about race and possibility in the context of monuments in the United States. Now, you can imagine by this question-- let us focus on the monument-- that I might be here about to address other monuments that focus our mind's eye on historical stratification, the material foundations that made monuments possible. The New Yorker that I am, you might imagine I would be about to talk about, say, Central Park and Seneca Village that was raised to make way for it, or the African burial ground, and Wall Street. But Cambridge is now fast becoming my home, and those are not my examples. And that orientation is not precisely what I'm after. Instead, I'm interested in looking at a moment in time in the United States which, as we know from President Faust's scholarship and that of Kirk Savage, in particular inaugurated an industry of monument making that was born out of the Civil War and the inability to wrestle with the new associations of freedom, and race, and the composition and very materiality of monuments themselves. I want to think through the possibilities that arise when we begin to excavate these often hidden social, racial, and systemic conditions as strata that, in fact, do delimit that figurative entrance and possibility into this new category of monument that we are inaugurating, I think, in many ways today. As a case study, I'd like to first begin with the building that made me begin to consider this question of tense. This is the South Carolina State House in Columbia. It might be familiar to you from 2015 when it became the backdrop emblazoned on many images of Brittany "Bree" Newsome scaling the 30-foot flag pole to take down the Confederate flag in the pre-dawn hours. At this time, I confess I was struck by something seemingly unremarkable in the image-- the blank pediment. Like many of us, I was also focused on the surrounding politics and the tragedy. The day before, President Barack Obama had to eulogized South Carolina State Senator, Reverend Clementa Pinckney, one of the nine churchgoers at Emanuel Baptist Church massacred during evening Bible study in Charleston. During that funeral, the American flag was flying at half mast in South Carolina, as was the state flag. Yet, the Confederate flag, raised in 1961 as a counter-statement to the civil rights movement, was still flying high. Obama called for its removal. The NAACP had been calling for its removal for 15 years. I was still focused on that blank pediment and the nearly impossibly perfect diptych that her body created with it. She seemed poised to fit precisely in the apex of that tympanum. Bree Newsome herself, the daughter of Howard University's Divinity School Dean Clarence Newsome, had worked in concert with 10 other activists, including a Greenpeace activist who knew what it meant to scale trees, and quite deliberately, a white man James N. Tyson, who helped her scale the protective fence surrounding the flag. Yet, the team decided that it needed to be a black figurative form that would take it down, that would be shown at that height. "The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear?, she as she released herself to the authorities and was arrested. There, her body seemed to stand in for the figurative elements I imagined, I wondered about ever being emblazoned upon there. What I knew is that the pediment was never meant to be left bare. The Civil War interrupted the project then underway, which would have been the grandest outside of the Capitol, requiring half the budget of the South Carolina State over several years-- a significant capital investment. The model was done by Henry Kirk Brown, the Northern abolitionist sculptor who wanted to create a new form of national sculpture. He proposed pediments before, and had them rejected-- one in 1855 for the US Capitol in Washington, which included enslaved figures. When he presented it to the official in charge of capital construction, the man put his finger on the figure of a slave and said, I think no Southerner would consent to it. Brown said, but this is an institution of the country. How else can it be represented? He was rejected. In 1859, this model was accepted as the pediment frieze. He was creating here the work for that 90-foot long pediment. And what we know about it comes to us from the abolitionist, William Morris Davis of Philadelphia, who recalls that Brown wanted to live out his aim to place the, quote, "Negro slave in marble or bronze on Southern soil." And he made this the major subject of the Columbia composition surrounded by a white figure at the center of the tympanum there. His aim was to show slavery as a productive force of industry. His friends nearly disowned him for accepting the commission. In the end, the Civil War intervened. The project was halted, and Brown moved back North. The pediment is still blank today. One could say that this long unrealised project emblematizes our work, what brings us here today, the need to acknowledge the constantly forestalled futurity of the project and to affect a new futurity of race and monuments. Now, part of the reason for this forestalled futurity is the sculpture has been marshaled to delimit racial categories. Frederick Douglass knew about this. He came to Boston to lecture about the importance of pictures during the Civil War in 1861. But given our focus on this intervention in his own scholarship, we've often overlooked that he lectured on the function of aesthetics and sculpture in particular years earlier. In 1854, he was-- I'm thinking I'm just going to give you an image of what I imagine is Douglas at work on his speech. Here he is in his study. And I should just say he's sitting in a chair designed by Thomas Walter, in 1858, for the House of Representatives. What must have had to have happened for that to occur? In 1854, he understood that aesthetics were becoming marshaled for the racial project begun by the American School of Ethnology. In that library that you see here, he had a book that was circulating throughout the United States, Types of Mankind, by George Gliddon and J. C. Nott. This is a book that would inaugurate the use of the Apollo Belvedere, a highly celebrated work from classical antiquity and championed as the Greek aesthetic ideal as a cognate for whiteness. And here, you see the Apollo Belvedere and the way in which Kirk Savage has described its use by racial taxonomists. So parenthetically, I should just say that works such as these that we celebrate as sculptures often neutralized from their contextual usage could, in fact, be considered as racial monuments, so large they loom in the civic realm in the 19th century as a way to solidify and shore up a definitive conclusion in this long-contested battle about racial superiority. This is perhaps a case in point. But my point here is that monuments are predetermined by a notion of belonging that is inscribed into aesthetic conventions. Is this a drawing class, or something else? And this prescription has led to what I would call narrative refusals-- moments when a proposed monument could not be realized because of this tension between race, and form, and futurity. As my final example, I'd like to consider the work of the pupil of Henry Kirk Brown, John Quincy Adams Ward. What you're seeing here is the first bronze statuette of an African-American in the United States. It's small, just two feet tall. It appeared in New York at the National Academy of Design's Spring Exhibition, months after the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation. But this work is most known for its narrative impossibility. Some critics began to suggest that it should become a public monument, even one that would be placed in the Capitol. Ward then had a plaster cast produced in bronze, as you see it here, and sold to subscribers. It would have been the first monument to an African-American man in the United States. The work surprised many critics in the audience. His sculpture embodied uncertainties about the post-emancipation future of the nation. We see the way in which the nudity in the eyes of critics was a sign not of heroism, as it might have been with Greek statuary, but of vulnerability. One critic felt that it suggested, quote, "a faint conception of manhood." The figure does still bear the marks of subjugation-- his broken shackle on his left wrist, for example. Public monuments were meant to historicize, but emancipation asks citizens to consider futurity. This enterprise challenged sculptors, which we see translated through the indeterminate action of The Freedman. One is not sure if he is kneeling, or about to rise. The monument never happened. It meant that emancipation as a subject had to enter through alternate means, largely the body of Abraham Lincoln. Ward never again sculpted a black male form. There's a grammar to the materiality of monuments set in a racial landscape. There is a particular tense to it, that is to say the Ward Friedman object could exist, as a monument even it could exist. But for that to be the case, something would have had to have happened first. The project was never realized not because of financial constraint, but because of conceptual limits. A monument to The Freedman represented a kind of futurity that was not yet possible. The idea of the conditional tense, I believe, is what has allowed us to reframe our notion of what even constitutes a monument today and certainly what creates some of the anticipation around the Memorial to Peace and Justice, the memorial to lynching, created for the Equal Justice Initiative at the behest of Brian Stevenson. Not addressing this conditional tensor has, I would argue, also led to our collective bewilderment at the politicization of monuments, as you see here in Charlottesville. And I don't need to recount the circumstances. I think we're all very well aware. And my time is nearly up. Taking the conditionality quite seriously is what has inspired initiatives, like the Black Monuments Project, done as a reaction to Charlottesville and flagged for me by one of my students from the Vision and Justice course that I see here in the room tonight. Hearing this conditional tense as we walk through Harvard Yard, I think, also allows us to reframe the Wadsworth plaque to honor the enslaved men and women who served two Harvard presidents as, in fact if not a monument, mark-making that is monumental. Here, you also see how it invites the kind of, what my colleague Jennifer Roberts might call, immersive concentration in Drew Gilpin Faust, certainly, and John Lewis, who knows he's not going to be in Cambridge much longer and wants one last look. Without this conditional tense, monuments can seem inert, as emblematized by this Elihu Vedder painting here in the MFA Boston's collection, The Questioner of the Sphinx. Created during the Civil War, that ominous sky an indicator of this fact. Do monuments historicize events, or do they signal a narrative futurity, a narrative that will define a path of civic life? Do they cement the collective imagination truly? Or do they do so for as events told by those then in power? Do they offer fixidity, or do they express a desire for it? Finally, I would just say that we were reminded of the need to grapple with the non-linearity of monument making through the very [? perspectival ?] construction and materiality of the Martin Luther King Memorial itself. Unlike, say, a photograph of Martin Luther King, no matter the vantage point you take on the memorial, his figure, his form, never fits in a linear sense back into the rough hewn rock. Unlike the sense of linear time unfurling, as you have with these photographs, this reminds us of the limitation of both perspective and the camera itself. But it is fitting. It's a tribute to the inability of a monument to be considered in a linear fashion. These are objects that force us to reconsider forever anew our notions of time, race, and history. Thank you. [applause] I'm very grateful to HUCA for giving me opportunity to be part of this great event and, of course, to Drew Faust for being here. This is exactly, thanks to her and to HUCA, that I could actually present my projection on [? john horvath ?] monument. So I'm obviously grateful. But I would like to say a few things before I share with you some slides and video. The way in which the past is honored as heritage is more disastrous than its simple disappearance could ever be. This remark by the philosopher of history, Walter Benjamin, is certainly valid when it comes to monuments, memorials, and public statues. The city is all inhabited by two distinct but interrelated populations-- the population of monuments, and the population of residents. Blank facades and blind eyes of lofty civic monuments and [? staunches ?] face speechless and strange city residents living in their shadows. But the historic city monuments are erected to commemorate us, Walter Benjamin also said, the victors that were selected to be remembered at the expense of the forgotten vanquished, the nameless residents of yesterday and of today. In this context, one must find very special tactical ways for the present day vanquished and nameless to insert, inscribe their own presence and voice into the environment of the celebrated heritage of the victors-- be perceived as those who are legitimate part of our history and also our future. Many among the nameless residents are so overwhelmed by the traumatic experiences they might wish to make public, even if exactly those experiences must be heard and are most important for democratic process that they keep silent. Visibility and voice, testimony, are closely linked to recovery from traumatic experiences. According to trauma theorists and clinicians, [inaudible] [? herrman, ?] and to many other who work with trauma, the struggle for recovery from trauma to finding narrative voice through testimony has a greater chance of success when performed as a public speech act. Even more so when directed as a social utterance to and on behalf of others. Thus, truth-telling and testimony has a restorative power. Psychologist Pierre [inaudible] termed this act, "presentification." Now, public projections, video-based participatory monument animations, attempt to create conditions for such acts of presentification. HUCA remind us of the need of public zones for truth-telling in reference to the [inaudible] fundamental democratic right of free-speaking [inaudible],, our First Amendment. So I attempt to employ monuments in creating such zone. Well, this monumental democratic clinic, as I could perhaps call it, began in my case in 1990s, when video projection in public space became possible. This is when I could introduce to my earlier monument projections motion and sound and, later, related computer-based technologies. I realized then that the memory and speech of the living could be inscribed into the bodies of historic monuments. In such projects, those monument animators, before projecting themselves upon the motionless faces and bodies of public statues, must decide for themselves what to say, learn how to speak of unspeakable, overwhelming experiences, and do so with articulate and emotionally charged voice and gestures. To animate the monument, one must then learn how to animate oneself. Animating monument also helps self-animation, which is needed towards the animation of public space and the democratic process itself. Let me focus now on one of the projects. [inaudible] This project took place two years ago, or was 2016. And it was truly interactive participatory animation of a monument, maybe the first time of this sort of work in my projectionist life. The original monument, Goethe-Schiller Monument, is in Weimar. And it's created by Ernst Rietschel in 1857. It's a double statue. And this monument is probably the most celebrated monument. It's one of the most famous, the most beloved monuments in all Germany. And it was the beginning, some people say, of the cult of the monument. So in this projection, work for more than a year with a group of refugees from Syria, Afghanistan, and other countries, in order to create possibility for them and actually to create conditions for them to learn how to animate this monument. Schiller himself, as a coincidence, good one, I think, he was a refugee himself. He had to cross many checkpoints and borders to get to Weimar, escaping from military service. He actually was a deserter from the Army, protected later by Goethe. So yes, here is a case for a refugee and a resident of Weimar actually working together, helping each other. It's a good coincidence. And I took full advantage of it. [laughter] This is a place, not innocent place, in history of Germany, Europe, and the world. Behind this monument, there is this theater in which Weimar Republic was formed in 1919-- the witness to events, great events, and most questionable events as well. So Goethe and Schiller were definitely witnessing those events, and they can probably say many things about present situation of so-called unity government in Germany that resembles who built, unfortunately, that 1990 event and also the danger that comes with it. So this projection is very different than anything I've done before because it could allow refugees to animate the monument both in real-time and pre-recorded mode. Standing in a special monument animation studio, they could see themselves as being projected from the projecter here on the left, so they could check how they look as Schiller and Goethe. At the same time, which is also very important, there is a special podium, special platform, for members of the public to speak to Schiller and Goethe or, in fact, to speak to the refugees who are in Monument Animation Studio. They could see interlocutor on the platform. So also, they could see themselves being Schiller and Goethe. They could even start, initiate the conversation with interlocutor. So the projection is just using one projector, but with lots of equipment involved in this very complex feedback system. So the platform, you could see here, there is somebody as it was here, presented before, and introducing this conference. There's a person trying to say something. And he's listening to what those two are saying, actually addressing the person on the right, Schiller, let me know how it happened that actually you arrived here to Weimar. So this kind of identification with historic figures was actually taken for granted. So this was also witnessed by lots of people during the festival and by Merkle Art Fest, a very important event in Weimar every year. And people were actually coming up, raising themselves to the level of a little bit closer to the attitude of those Schiller and Goethe. In the process of doing so, they had to really figure out what to say. This is not simply an open mike, one has to really figure out what to say. And also, Schiller and Goethe were quite also ready to ask themselves questions and speak. Some of those who were speaking were also refugees. And some of the Goethes were local residents, like German teachers, or [inaudible],, or social workers, or those who offered their apartments to the refugees. So this was quite a freeing way of [inaudible] the sculpture. This is the Monument Animation Studio, open for people to come in. And the studio itself was designed in such a way so people could initially fit the scale and the shape of the monument, roughly, in order to be later mapped by special animation mapping team who could, in very quick, short moment of time, to actually integrate bodies of thopse people with Schiller and Goethe. Why, of course, this is very primitive system. But in fact, there is another group working in different space trying to map those people into the monument. I'm using the term "mapping" because that's this kind of slang of projectionists people today. I would never use the term myself, initially, when I began this type of work. So you have here the mapping team. You can see interlucutor. You can see the monument [inaudible].. That's the mapping. [inaudible] it's a complicated block diagram, which shows various aspects of this projection, including the speaking platform, the projection tower, the mapping team, and also animation studio. [video playback] So I will not speak now. I will give a voice to those people. This is a short video which actually gives you a little sense how it worked. But we need sound. [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] [laughter] [speaking german] [speaking german] [speaking german] What was your journey to come here [inaudible]?? I came from Afghanistan this here. I passed 10 countries, police. Every time, police were after us. Did your family want to come here? Or couldn't they? Two month before, my father in a bomb explosion in Afghanistan, dead. And after that, my mother said that you must go from this country. Did you plan to come here really to Germany? I was working in Afghanistan as a coordinator in a media. And from three or four years, Taliban, the terrorists, say to all people that work in media or work in a screen of media that we kill those people. Do you still have, like, more family? Yeah. My mother and my two sister is in Afghanistan. My life was in danger. So you can see how complicated that [inaudible] [speaking german] So for the refugee, it is safer, more secure, and more legitimate to speak when wearing, or seemingly becoming, Goethe and Schiller. This is for them to speak frankly and bravely through such prestigious stature. But the last thing I wanted to say, the past they know very well cannot be changed. The past, in principle, cannot be changed. Monument is standing for exactly that. But the light and sound of projection, and once movement, gesture, and speech animating it, represent the possibility of healthier, non-melancholic life with such past, the potential for moving with one's own life, having a future despite the past, however overwhelming and traumatic. Thank you. [applause] Good evening, everyone. I want to add my thanks to HUCA, and the GSD, and to President Faust, and to all of you for coming this evening. All right. Traditional monuments, as we've come to know them, are permanent, massive, elevated, and usually figurative. They generate publics through didactic and hortatory modes of address. Over the past 40 years, the development of counter-monumental practices has seen each of these qualities challenged and often literally overturned. Sparked by designers of Holocaust memorials in Germany, who rejected the fascist associations of monumentality, a systematic critique of monuments has unfolded. That critique is as follows. First, that monuments foreclose internal memory by fixing it in external form. Second, that monuments generate publics by structurally excluding subaltern groups. Third, that monuments trivialize suffering by suggesting that an aesthetic form can redeem or compensate for it. Counter-monuments in response have replaced permanence with ephemerality, mass with space, elevation with inversion or subterranaity, sculptural figures with live rememberers, and didacticism with participatory interpretation. And I've just put up a sample of counter-monuments here. On the upper right is Micha Ullman's memorial on the Bebelplatz in Berlin, a site of Nazi book burning. And it's a glass plate with a view down into an empty underground library. The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial, about which we will hear more in a moment. Esther Shalev-Gertz and [? yokin-gertz' ?] Monument Against Fascism on the lower left, which was gradually lowered into the ground, and what we might call a performative counter-monument, a destroyed Confederate statue in Durham last year. There is one way-- sorry about that, I wanted to go back-- there is one way, however, in which these counter-monuments share the language of their antithetical forebears, and that is that their critique of monumental form is generally pursued using the same monochromatic material palette of black, gray, and white. This evening, I want to focus on an exception, a monument made out of dazzling color, and explore the implications of inserting color at the center of the discourse of memory and community. When Newton demonstrated that color was a component of white light that could be broken into a prismatic spectrum, the principle of color is variable refrangibility, it seemed briefly possible that color might be brought under conceptual control and might be modeled, specified, predicted. But the innumerable colors, models, and systems that sprouted up over the next three centuries served only to highlight the fact that color remained fundamentally elusive at its core. As each new system strained after a codifiable and communicable model of color, it only emphasized its contingency, fugitivity, and inarticulability. Here, we have Goethe again. I'm sure he would have been very pleased to be in both of these presentations. Color cannot be explained by its objective status as a measurable wavelength of visible light. It is physiologically and psychologically inflected, as in the phenomenon of after-images, for example. It is formed subjectively in the beholder. As Goethe put it, it may be said to belong to the eye itself. Color is also contingent upon its relational context. Josef Albers, of course, demonstrated this most vividly, showing that the same color looks different when placed against different backgrounds, or that different colors could be made to look the same by adjusting their adjacencies. Other examples abound, of course. The same color will look different in different lighting conditions. The same color will look different in different materials. Color behaves differently as light than it does as pigment, which is, of course, the bugbear of graphic designers everywhere. Color's elusiveness is perhaps most marked in its unstable relationship to language. Since color perception is selective and the objective status of color cannot be measured, color cannot be reliably communicated. As Albers put it, quote, "No one can be sure whether each has the same perception." End quote. Color's unstable stable relationship to verbal language, and naming in particular, has long been a topic of theoretical hand-wringing. As [? alfred ?] Munsell wrote in the early 20th century, quote, "Popular color names are incongruous, irrational, and often ludicrous. They are purloined from other sensations, or caught from the fluctuating colors of natural objects." End quote. So to review, color is impossible to capture precisely in words. It is near impossible to reproduce faithfully. And one's experience of it can never be perfectly aligned with any one else's. For all of these reasons, color is a highly unreliable tool of visual and cultural memory. The artist, Spencer Finch, has spent his entire career wrestling with the implications of precisely this. This is a work he made in 1994, consisting of 100 head-sized pink circles on paper, drawn in oil pastel, each in its own frame, arrayed around the walls of a gallery in close linear formation. The title of the work is Trying To Remember the Color of Jackie Kennedy's Pillbox Hat. This refers, of course, to the suit that Jackie Kennedy was wearing on November 22, 1963, the day that John F. Kennedy was shot and killed. The idea is that each of these drawings represents a single attempt at stabilizing and articulating the memory of that hat. The work has many of the trappings of a scientific experiment-- the iterative attempts at the memory in the same format, under the same controlled conditions, the careful record keeping, preserving, labeling, and numbering of the results of each attempt. But none of the results are successful, and none of the results are the same. The work is forever trying to remember and never really able to do so. Still, we might ask, surely, he can do better than this. After all, this is a color that has been seared into the national consciousness, deeply and painfully entangled in history. Surely, he could just look the color up. But reaching for external sources of the memory lands us in the same uncertain place. The color in the photographs published in Life magazine has gone through multiple translations in the transfer to color film, the developing process, the printing process. Then of course, the color inks used to print the magazine, now 50 years old, have degraded. And same with the famous Zapruder film. If we asked witnesses about the color, we would get a jumble of dissimilar recollections based on angle, distance, and lighting conditions, adjacent objects. And these would be even further complicated by the inability of the witnesses to describe exactly the color they saw in words. One of Finches inspirations for this project was reading the Warren Commission report on the assassination and realizing how widely varied the witnesses' recollections were. What his installation does is evokes the uncertainty of traumatic witnessing and links it to the uncertainty of color perception. He links the problem of collective memory to the problem of collective color and shows how the fugitivity of color shares in so many other kinds of loss and historical uncertainty. In 2014, Finch was commissioned to design a memorial for the World Trade Center dead, the only work of art commissioned for the national September 11th Memorial Museum. The work is located 70 feet below street level in the Memorial Hall between the footprints of the north and south towers of the World Trade Center. It's a grid almost 40 feet high, made up of 2,983 individual squares of Fabiano Italian paper. And its title is, Trying to Remember the Color of the Sky On That September Morning. Each of the paper squares is hand-painted in watercolor in a different shade of blue. Each is made in the memory of one person killed at the towers, both in the 9/11 and in the 1993 World Trade Center attacks. And this is how they are installed. They're unframed and just hung on a very simple wire armature. Finch was in New York at the time of the attacks. And for him, as for so many others, the clear, sharp blue of the morning sky that day was unforgettable. That severe blue became a common refrain in the opening paragraphs of news stories and personal accounts throughout the event and its aftermath. The color of the day, before it was overtaken by flame and ash. The color of the sky was shared by survivors on the scene, as well as millions seeing it endlessly cycled through television coverage. This blue and the impossibility of its perfect recollection anchors the memorial stance on memory communication and community. Finch's watercolor memorial remembers these blues, or fails to remember them, in a particularly delicate way. Indeed, it would be difficult to find a less durable medium for the color. As any conservator can tell you, watercolor is among the most ephemeral of color media. It generates luminous color because light passes through its translucent washes and bounces off of the white paper. But the same light that enlivens it also destroys it, which is why museums keep watercolors in storage and only allow them to be exhibited for short periods in low light. Finch's squares bring the luminous sky-like blue down into the subterranean gloom of the museum. And oddly, because of that gloom, they are thereby preserved. The watercolor draws what permanence it has from the darkness of its underground environment, recalling Goethe's insight that color is not just light, but the interplay of light and darkness. The watercolor is protected by its entombment in the grave-like dim, preserved by the conditions of destruction that occasioned it. So although this is not at all a traditional stone monument, the delicate watercolor relies on its massive bedrock encasement. I like to think of it as a rock and paper monument. And speaking of paper, as has frequently been noted, Finch's array of paper recalls the reams of office paper that fluttered over the city after the attacks. And they recall the missing persons fliers that were posted all over the city, desperate attempts to connect with those who were lost. This too has to do with memory, for the flyers fraying on the walls and the paper pouring from the towers all enacted the disruption of a cultural technology of record-keeping, order, and communication-- a disorder of paper. Looking back now on 2001, I'm struck by the way that day hinted at the passing of paper itself, of Xeroxes, color copies, flyers, notes. From the digital future, I can now see that 2001 was also the beginning of an end of paper as a medium of communication and memory. It was just at the cusp of this shift. I remember reading newspaper accounts of people sending out last messages on their BlackBerrys. And I didn't know what a BlackBerry was. I did not yet have a cell phone, but this would all change, and rapidly. Finch's, it's not just a paper monument, but a monument to paper. If Holocaust memorials have often invoked libraries and remembered the culture of the book, this is a memorial to a culture of paper. So the crisis of memory embedded in color is linked with the crisis of memory embedded in paper. And this is because color relies on its particular support or medium. And so its fate is tied to that medium as well. Another thing about these papers, they're free of inscriptions. There is a text among the paper. It's a quote from Book 9 of The Illiad, forged from recovered steel from the buildings by New Mexico blacksmith, Tom Joyce. But it sits apart from the blue squares, which, although each stands for a person killed, do not offer names. The color itself does not speak. There are names above ground engraved in more permanent fashion in stone around the memorial pools that sit directly above Finch's piece. But spurred on by Finch's work below, I can't help thinking about how each of these names must point back to paper too. For in some distant future, these inscriptions could only be linked to some individual person by going back into the paper archives, the state archives, birth certificates, marriage certificates, et cetera. These too point to paper. At any rate, Finch's colors pointedly refuse inscription. And I think this is because Finch wants to preserve the instability of color in that realm of language, it's ultimate inability to be fixed by inscriptions. This is not only because language applied to color is imprecise, it is also because language applied to color can also be insidious. In the last century, the connection of color and names has been increasingly associated with commercialism. The emotional promiscuity of color is exploited through poetic names that instill a desire to buy color chips and fashion lines. Either that, or the names of colors serve standardization, especially with the rise of global brands which need uniformity, consistency, and communicability of color around the world. Colors plus names bespeak monopolies of taste and the strict uniformity of brands. Finch's colors remain silent, so as to preserve their challenge to such didactic uniformity. All monuments generate publics. Finch's produces a particular form of collective. It's collective because it draws upon a shared traumatic perception, looking up at the sky that morning. But it does not insist upon the unification of that experience. And in fact, it flatly refuses such adequation by embracing its status as an experience of color, at its core something shared, but known and felt differently. The hope for Finch is that these colors and their elemental ineffability will reject fixation, preclude didacticism, and prevent fascist identification. To conclude, I want to say that, for all their radical potential, these serene watercolors may seem very far removed from the violent contestations in the monumental landscape of the last year or so. But I think it's worth noting that the grip of racial hierarchy in American history of this color hierarchy has been repeatedly established through monochromatic monuments. White supremacist binaries require the suppression of real color, because real color in all its fugitivity undoes the very structure of the color line that these monuments inscribe. Finch's work developed alongside that of artists that have embraced color interaction as a critical race strategy. One of the sentimental works in this vein, which many of you may know, is Synecdoche by Byron Kim, with whom Finch has recently collaborated on other projects. Synecdoche is an ongoing collective portrait, each panel representing the skin color of a different sitter. The work provides an infusion of color that does not resolve into a categorical pattern. Here are two more recent examples, both of which evoke Albers' seminal interaction of color. Throughout his work, Willie Cole, on the left, has used the motif of the iron scorch to evoke both the slave ship and the branding of slaves. The slave ship and the brand were both used to violate black bodies and fix them in a denigrated status. But Cole presents these irons in a vibrating array of complimentary colors, destabilizing the perception of these icons, as if to prevent their afterimage from holding in monumental form. Tomashi Jackson's work, on the right, explores the intersection of Albers' language with the language used by Thurgood Marshall and the NAACP around school desegregation in the 20th century. I just want to read a quote by Tomashi Jackson about this connection. Quote, "The language around segregation is similar to Albers' description of the wrong way to perceive color, as if color is static. Marshall and Albers concluded that color is relative, and what a viewer perceives a color to be is determined by the color nearest to it. Color is always changing. And contrary to popular belief, it is not absolute. The works on the screen are not, strictly speaking, monuments. They are works made for gallery presentation, but they offer a glimpse of what a new monumental language might be. They show us the potential power of monuments in color. Thank you. [applause] This is great. I want to thank President Faust for creating the Committee on the Arts, which has been such a pleasure to serve on over the years. An amazing group of people. And working with Moshen and working with the tremendous support of Lori Gross on the committee has been just a fabulous experience. Although it may seem that there is nothing more to be said about Maya Lin's 1982 Vietnam Veterans Memorial, I believe that its relationship to photography rewards deeper reflection. And for the sake of time, I will distill my case down to three hasty propositions. Hasty proposition number one-- photography overtook monumental sculpture. Historically speaking, photography overtook monumental sculpture soon after its emergence in 1839. Both photography and monumental sculpture have served to fix images, to consolidate and shape public memory out of that desire to fix, as Sarah Lewis said. By the 1850s, millions of photographs were being produced every year. And photography clearly had the upper hand, The mirror with a memory, or the pencil of nature, to use but two of the sobriquets by which photography was known, had become the model for what shared memory is. The shift was radical. Siegfried Kracauer argues in a 1927 essay that the photograph was the antithesis of the traditional memory image. Whereas, the traditional memory image was determined by significance, the photograph is determined by whatever arbitrary pattern of light strikes the photographic film. Over time, much monumental sculpture took on photographic qualities. Before photography, neoclassical sculpture routinely served to consolidate and shape public memory in the image of great white men. But when you have photography-- in the middle image here is a Civil War photograph and amber type of a soldier in a Massachusetts regiment. And on the right is a Civil War monument in Sleepy Hollow, New York, representing an ordinary soldier. The Civil War was the first war in which many soldiers conveyed photographs of themselves to relatives, friends and lovers before going off to battle. And the Civil War was the first American War to be memorialized through monuments representing ordinary soldiers. And I would argue that these two facts are related. Photography helped foster expectations that even ordinary soldiers warranted representation. The carte de visite the general was not so different in kind from the tintype of the enlisted man. According to the thinking of the day, the sun was equally willing to reproduce both. And as has been noted, these ordinary soldiers were not representative, they were almost always white. Do you notice also the casual naturalism of the Sleepy Hollow monument, which also betrays expectations shaped by photography? And now we're whizzing very quickly. With the rise of photographically illustrated mass media, photography became the dominant purveyor of public memory tokens. By 1945, when Joe Rosenthal took his photograph of the flag raising on Iwo Jima, the speed with which the photograph could become a token of shared memory was nearly instantaneous. No sooner had the photograph appeared in national newspapers, than officials in Washington D.C. were discussing how to convert the photograph into a monument. And that actually understates the case. When the photograph came over the wire to Washington D.C., the military started planning the monument before it even appeared in the papers the next day. The Rosenthal example demonstrates that the relationship between photography and monumental sculpture went both ways. Even as the photograph became a model for monumental sculpture, it became valued for its conformity to classical ideals. The press and the military seized on Rosenthal's photograph because, in it, the muscular soldiers are arrayed in triangular fashion, as if they were relief sculptures of a heroic classical pediment. Once again, Sarah Lewis' talk and mine converge. Even so, the subordination of monumental sculpture to photography was at this point complete. Felix de Weldon's Marine Corps War Memorial finished in 1954 constituted the final capitulation. The monument is essentially a three dimensional reproduction of a photograph. With capitulation was aesthetic failure. de Weldon's effort to produce a singular landmark by replicating the most reproduced of images yielded a memory token that the nation already had. Hasty proposition number two-- Maya Lin's memorial resisted the photograph as a memory image. The abstract geometry of its design, as well as its use of engraved names of the dead as the locus of representation and remembrance, refused the model of the photograph. And Maya Lin has said in her writings about the monument that she preferred the name to the photograph as a token of memory. And as many of you may know, the listing of the names was a requirement of the competition, but Lin chose to give the names the prominence of images. And their tactility made the monument a place of touch and contact. And this is essentially received wisdom, this resistance of the photograph as a memory image. And this is one of the things that makes it a counter-monument, to use the term that Professor Roberts used. Hasty proposition number three-- here's the rub. Hidden within the Lin's resistance to the photograph as a memory image was a re-invention of photography in memorial form. The key was Lin's use of polished black granite for the two walls of the monument. By installing these reflective surfaces, she carved a camera into the National Mall. Images of visitors and the surrounding landscape flicker and morph as bodies move and light shifts. Although we tend to associate photography with a fixed image, its origins were with the play of light. Simultaneously invented in France and England, photography emerged from a modern fascination with landscape and its dynamic atmospheric effects. That fascination emerging from romanticism led to the embrace of various optical devices, including the Claude glass, which you see here in the upper left, a dark tinted slightly convex mirror which people used to make a scene in the landscape appear more along the lines of the landscapes that they valued in painting and other arts, and the camera obscura. And you see an Abelardo Morell photograph of a camera obscura in the lower left. The camera obscura is a dark room with a tiny aperture through which the world outside the room is projected. It's technology that was known since ancient times, but it became of great interest in the late 18th and early 19th century and was essential to the invention of photography. And here on the right, you see the Vietnam Veterans Memorial with that theater of light that Maya Lin had created. By 1821, a Frenchman named Daguerre, who would become one of the inventors of photography, introduced with a colleague something called the diorama, which you see here diagrammed on the left. It consisted of two very large translucent screens upon which were painted, on one screen generally, an outdoor scene, a landscape, and on another, an architectural interior. And then various meteorological conditions, and volcanic eruptions, and other dynamic events were projected. And it was a kind of protocinema. And you had this stage that rotated so that you could see the two. And I'm just pointing out that even in its basic form, it resembles the Vietnam Veterans Memorial with its own play of atmospheric effects. The reflections on the granite surfaces of Maya Lin's memorial also called to mind the daguerreotype itself, the first photographic technology released to the world. The shiny daguerreotype-- it's a polished metal plate, silver coated plate-- mingles reflections of the viewer in the present with the photographic image of the past. And so here I show you, on the far left, this is a daguerreotype of Frederick Douglass, made around 1855. The middle image is actually just showing you the two different ways in which the image can appear, depending on the angle of viewing. You can either get a positive or negative. And that is part of the shimmering effect of a daguerreotype. And on the right, you just see an iPhone being reflected in the daguerreotype, just to give you a sense of the way in which the image of the viewer in the present mingles with the image in the daguerreotype from the past. Like the daguerreotype, Lin's memorial used reflections to bridge from the present to the past. And I think, here, we go from the pathological to the propelling, to use the terms that Dean Mostafavi used. In the memorial, the past remains steady, embalmed in the engraved names, while the image of the living remains animate. Like the daguerreotype, the memorial is a perspectival space of death, a receding underworld where the living visitor is only a ghostly transient. Whereas words in most reflective surfaces appear backwards, the names of Lin's memorial appear frontwards, indicating that the persons they designate no longer belong to our world, but also that their memory belongs to us. And Viet Nguyen, someone that President Faust quoted earlier, has written beautifully about the Vietnam Veterans Memorial and the fact that it structurally fosters a kind of double consciousness, an occasion for remembering oneself in a state of otherness, vis a vis dead, which he associates with Maya Lin's own sense of estrangement as an American who was often deemed not an American, particularly in the controversies surrounding the memorial. And in what is probably the greatest poem written about Lin's memorial, Yusef Komunyakaa writes, "My black face fades hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't, dammit. No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turned this way, the stone lets me go. I turn that way, I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial again, depending on the light to make a difference." It's a remarkable bit of poetry, in part because it brings out in such palpable terms that sense of inbetween-ness and oscillation, between being in the memorial and being outside it, which is very much the effect of looking at a daguerreotype. In fact, some of the language is very redolent of descriptions of looking at daguerreotypes. Also striking, of course, is the notion of the reflection of his black face in the memorial and the extent to which he brings in the racial character of his own experience of the memorial in the poem. And I just want to highlight-- as some of you may know, Frederick Douglass-- and again. Professor Lewis alluded to this-- was a remarkable theorist of photography, one of the greatest theorists of photography in the 19th century. And one of Douglass' great hopes for photography was that in the strange spectral character of the daguerreotype, there was an encounter with otherness that was going to give possibilities of tending the rift between black and white. So the doubling of film photography between negative and positive-- and I show you here early paper photographs by William Henry Fox Talbot, the inventor of photography in England-- also finds a correlate in the memorial where the world of the living has a dark counterpart in the image of the granite wall. And indeed, the black granite is a kind of reversal of the white monuments to Washington and Lincoln between which the memorial's suspended and to which its walls point. The understanding of photography as having a special relationship to death this made it a powerful medium of both private and public memory. On the polished walls of the memorial, the living have become shades, faint unreal images that mingle with the names of the dead. The aim of many visitors is to locate themselves by encountering a sign of the deceased relative or friend. And here too, I think, Lin has internalized within her memorial the early magic of photography, the desire to bring back the past, to have a moment of contact with the dead. Like photography, the memorial brought particularize tokens of memory in a standardized form to the multitude. Like a carte de visite or snapshot, so we egalitarian. Every dead soldier gets a name in the same font and size. Whereas the dream of photography was always to make the ordinary person both a producer and consumer of these tokens of memory, so the memorial enables its visitors to take an active role in production. By making a rubbing of the name of the deceased, visitors carry away, as everyday photographers have done since the advent of the Kodak camera in the late 1880s, an indexical trace, a direct impression to signify remembrance. Although Lin has noted the strong kinship between her memorial and the book, I cannot help but see an analogy between the memorial and the hinged cases of old daguerreotypes which sometimes contain, as are also found at the memorial, tokens of affection, as well as the name of the beloved. Paradoxically, the monument's brilliant internalization of the magic of photography works because the monument resists the photograph as a model. The names operate as a set of captions for missing images, which the visitor supplies. Although here, the visitor has brought a photograph to the caption, ordinarily, the image is supplied from memory and willy-nilly from the face of the visitor reflected in the wall. In either case, the monument frees the caption from photography, giving it a new mobility in the spectral world of the monument. Maya Lin's Vietnam Veterans Memorial has been touted as the most influential memorial of the second half of the 20th century. It deserves the accolades it has received. But understanding why the memorial has been such a success is vital. Its simple abstract geometry, its refusal of heroic figuration and loftiness, its grave egalitarian beauty-- all of these qualities have been rightly lauded and understandably imitated. But unless one understands the way Lin inverted the relationship between the monument and the photograph, repudiating the photograph as the model for shared memory while reproducing the elemental magic of photography in memorial form, one cannot fully understand its historic character. Thank you. [applause] Well, thank you, for a really remarkable set of reflections on the monument from every which angle, in every different kind of medium. And I think that this has been quite a remarkable panel. And before we have a discussion amongst ourselves and then open out-- I think we don't have a great deal of time here-- I would like to ask you, Erika, to say a few words. Well, to begin with, I can only repeat what you just said. That was a remarkable display. And as I was listening to all of you and the dizzying connections one might draw between the papers, I came away with three broad questions and thoughts. The first has to do with the way each one of you put your finger on the rhetoric of the monument in all its complexity. You know, word image debates and art history have a long standing legacy, but this is something different. It has to do with the way in which politics, society, and the collective, are animated through different understandings of rhetorical stances, whether it's a tense, whether its figuration, whether it's allegory. And I'm an early modernist. I will say that immediately. I've worked a great deal on the French Revolution. And I couldn't help but think back to a project that I studied quite a bit, which was the transformation of a church into a pantheon. And the architect, actually, who was put in charge of transforming that church into a monument to revolutionary martyrs-- and it's a vexed monument-- had a remarkable thing to say about his task. It was along the lines of the fact that it becomes too risky, in fact, to entrust sculpture or monuments with the task of representing actual events, and that the monument, by necessity, cannot yet place history at enough of a distance. And therefore, the traits of history when they're copied at a close vantage become blank. And it's a fascinating statement because it speaks in a way to the need to project, what it means to project-- what it means to look at a pediment which is empty and to project that way, or to think about conditions of possibility. And this brings me to my second point, which has to do with the fact that all of you enlivened the monument. You gave us conditions of possibility, whether it's imagining, or needing, or requiring new narratives, whether it has to do with projecting oneself and making monuments speak. Jennifer, your discourse on color was magnificent. And what I love about it-- and by the way, Goethe has something to say in that theory of color about needing to remember the differences of hues, and I couldn't help but think of that-- but the fact that color is relational as another condition of possibility. And lastly, Robin, this brings me to the last medium, I guess, I'd like to speak a little bit about, that photography in some way would become the monument's avatar in a new sense, but also the way in which it actually brings back to the table what we are here for in this school, which has to do with the role of design. And this is my last point. All of you, in some way, brought architecture and urbanism back to the table. And I think we need to talk about this a little bit. For example, when you were talking about that pediment, Sarah, or when, [? shishtoff, ?] you are enlivening the theater of a public square, or when we talk about the ephemeral conditions of paper that actually create an urban condition underground, when we talk about the relational, this is a fundamental urban idea, Utopian urban idea, or Robin, when you bring us to the detritus of meaningful objects in a structure that, after all, carved a huge V that became literally an infrastructure, a structure almost beneath ground, but also because of that crease, maybe the fold of a daguerreotype, is also an interior in a public space. So I'm going to leave it at that. We don't have much time, but I do want to congratulate all of you. That was a tour de force. [applause] Let me just follow that up with a question. I think that's beautifully put. How important is the notion of human persona to the monument? It seemed to me that Jennifer dramatically departed from that. There was no name. There was no inscribed name. There was no face. There was no projection. There was this color relationality. It did have a mimetic response-- you know, a reference to the sky, but it provided me with a very different way of thinking, to move away from the anthropomorphic, to move away from the human, and use the paper, the color, the underground cavernous space in a very different way. And I did think, at that time, of Eisenman's Berlin in a different way. It was almost as if this was the underground version, and that was the overground version. And I just think of this problem in terms of also scale. If there's always the human figure, then how important is that? And how limiting is that? Well one thing I would say in response is that, although there are no names, I actually think that the squares, while they're made in memory of the dead, they speak primarily to the living because they refer to the memory of those who witnessed the event. And to the memory, they evoke the memory of each individual who visits the memorial. So in a sense, because they don't gather-- I mean, one of the concerns with traditional monuments is that they gather up every individual memory of an event, or every individual response to a trauma, and concentrate it in a single heroic figure, or form that memory into an exhortatory statement. And I think that the Finch piece leaves a kind of monadic scouter, almost, of individual remembrance that somehow is both shared, but also remains at the very individual-- the scale of a human memory as well. Well, I was trying to compliment you on not going in that direction. [laughter] Oh, really? But clearly, you-- because I think it's also about the sky breaking into pieces. Yes. So there's a kind of sense of the whole environment changing around it, you know? So to me, that's more powerful. Well, in a way, there-- I mean, let me hitch my wagon onto what you've just said. This is a word we haven't uttered, but it's "ruin". It's the necessary role that ruination plays in any negotiation with monumentality, whether it's literal iconoclasm, or the detritus that we are left with, or the detritus that we feel we have to create. You know, there's a lovely passage, actually, in Riegl's Modern Cult of Monumentality where he evokes the fact that monuments are actually anything we make them. They can be a piece of paper from an archive. Precisely. You know? And so I think that the spectacle of breaking into pieces, of shattering, is something that actually runs through every single one of these presentations. And the beauty of it is-- [interposing voices] That it's a mosaic, also. Indeed. And that takes you, to some extent, to the [inaudible] notion of translation and transition-- And transition. --as being a kind of mosaic. So I think this is-- Yeah. I think I agree with you. I mean, I didn't mean that each individual was a fully formed human subject, but rather that they experience their own memory as a kind of broken piece of a larger kind of uncollectible event. And of course, color is also broken light, literally. And color doesn't reflect-- those colors don't reflect you, don't reflect you back at yourself. Whereas, the Maya Lin wall does reflect. You know, there is a kind of reflection of person on person. There's [inaudible] to person. I imagine we have another 15 minutes or so. Can somebody guide us here? [laughter] Yes. Is that right? Do we have to stick to this? All right. So in that case, I think we should open up now to the audience. And let's see a spread of hands. Be relational. [laughter] If somebody just-- if there is a cluster of hands here, put them down. Choose a delegate, and then we will move to the other side of the room. Be relational. Yes? Hey, guys. [laughs] It's me, Vijay Iyer. Nice to see you all. It was wonderful. Thank you, for all those presentations and the inspirational way that they, whether by design or otherwise, speak to each other. Robin, you quoted Yusef Komanyakaa. And his poem has a special resonance not only because he is African-American and looking at his reflection, but because he is a Vietnam veteran. And so he's speaking from the place that's right between being memorialized and being forgotten, actually. And what's kind of being indexed in all of these pieces is a kind of anxiety about forgetting or being forgotten. And that's something that's an anxiety that sort of shrouds the veterans community or the sort of civilian relationship to it. Or maybe in the popular imagination, veterans kind of exist as a sort of anxious remembering, or an anxious token of something that the public would rather forget, perhaps. So I actually was wondering if any of you had any comments on the relationship of the living populations? Krzysztof, I think your work speaks to it most directly-- living populations in the presence of memorials that create a specific and perhaps very narrow remembrance. Does that make sense? I guess what I'm talking about is the populations that are present, but in a kind of perpetual relationship of being forgotten with respect to these memorials. Does that make sense? I'm kind of thinking out loud. Great sense. Let's take it on. Thank you for that, Vijay. In part of the poem I didn't read, he says that he half-expected to see his own name on the wall. And I think the relationship between the survivors of the Vietnam War and that memorial is one of the most remarkable aspects of it, and the way that their memories are activated, but also their anxieties and genuine concerns about being forgotten. And one of the things that's been interesting in recent writing about the memorial is, of course, that generation is aging. And people are starting-- having obsessed about the 1982 moment and all the controversies that ensued immediately after that, now people are thinking, well, what happens when people don't remember those names? You know, what will those names mean? What will that memorial mean? How will its use be different? You know, what kind of space will it become? And so this issue of remembering and forgetting is absolutely fascinating to track over the first 50 years, at least, I think, of a memorial of that kind. And it's complicated, ethically-- and maybe this is where you can pick this up, Sarah-- when we think about, when we re-narrative things, and we in fact need to speak perhaps to truths that have not been spoken, and there's a kind of collision and coalescence that can be very violent, vis a vis remembering and forgetting. And here-- I actually brought this in for Krzysztof, but it goes to your point-- there's a passage in Elective Affinities where Goethe is letting Charlotte speak. And she writes-- and I just wrote this down, it goes to what you said-- "Why do we hear nothing but good spoken of the dead, while of the living it is never without some exception? The question needs to be asked because, from the former, we ostensibly have nothing to fear-- but we do, right-- so unreal is our anxiety to preserve the memories of those who have gone." Well thank you both, for your comment, Vijay, for your question. I think what I would add with this limited time we have here, is one, I think the fear of forgetting and the concern that we will continue to forget is one of the ways in which we can reframe or understand the anticipation again of not just Brian Stevenson's memorial, but the soil collection project. They think there's a sense of potency, of being able to actually touch the soil of the 4,000-plus lynched men, largely African-American men, Latino men some, on US soil, finally, right? But I want to also put on the table what I did [inaudible] Frederick Douglass, thinking so much about his photographic practices as I do in this context, Douglass, you might say, inaugurated his own body as monumental through photography. He's the most photographed American man in the 19th century, right? Not African-American men, American men. So he's using the device, the means at his disposal, to affect this transformation. But there's another object that I might have discussed, if not for the ones that I chose. And it's this. And it lets us think of the anxiety of forgetting in a different sense. In his final home in Anacostia, it's on a hill where you could see where he's born and enslaved in Maryland and the dome of the Capitol where there was a bill laid forth in the Senate for his body to be lain in state upon his death. But in the back of that house, he had what he called a growlery built, which is a funny name he gave to the place where he would go to work out ideas. And it replicated the precise measurements of the slave cabin where he was born, right? As if he didn't want to forget this fact, as he was able to see Washington D.C. Where became this prominent man, right? What does it mean that he needed that reminder? This, I think, lets us think through the foundational memories that these-- what we have as personal monuments in our lives-- what they do for us. So Douglass is letting us think about this. And finally, at the end of his speech, I should just say he mentioned quite deliberately and didn't edit this out in the four drafts of the Pictures and Progress speech, that he thought it might take over 150 years for us to better understand his ideas about America's self-comprehension coming to the fore through the power of photography and aesthetics. So there again is a sense of wanting to make sure we don't forget. But you know, in a funny way, all of you talk about the anxiety of forgetting, which is not a negative thing, unless you forget what is memory. You know, memory depends upon forgetting and retrieving at the same time. And I think, unless that tension, that ambivalence, is actually part of the memorial, the memorial becomes inert, and becomes part of your everyday life. I mean, in Bombay, I'm continually driving around memorials of great figures. We don't even see them anymore. Of course, what they've done, what the anti-colonial or post-colonial state in Bombay has done, is to have taken all the British statuary, all of it, and put it in the zoo. [laughter] So if you go to the Bombay Zoo now, you see all-- Lord Willingdon, Lord Montague, Lady Montague. They're all there lined up in the zoo. And you know, people look at them, and then move on to the monkeys. [laughter] On that side, a question for you. Again, this is for Professor Lewis. This past summer at Martha's Vineyard, at the ferry at Oak Bluffs, there is a Union soldier. And there was a debate that kind of unfolded about whether it was a Confederate monument. Because the man who built it was a Confederate soldier. And he was a publisher of a newspaper. And he started there. And he had basically three plaques on the four-sided base. And the first three were to the Union soldier. And he said, upon its dedication, that it was his hope that the Union soldiers-- because he was trying to survive in this Northern clime-- would someday see fit to honor the Confederate soldier. As a black man, I took vigorous exception to this. I was blown away that I got such blow back from the black community in Oak Bluffs. I'm just curious, number one, were you familiar with this? Because it's a big debate about whether this is a Confederate monument or not. Never mind it doesn't even talk about black people, doesn't even talk about slavery, but I'm curious. You know, you're the egghead. I mean, you tell me. Were you aware of this? I wasn't aware of this. Yeah, I think we should take a few questions. [inaudible] Yeah. Please? And make it a question. To what extent do monuments call forth ongoing political action? I think the example of [inaudible] was one. But-- sorry. The example of [inaudible] was one, but what I love about the EJI memorial is that it makes an ask of so many communities to bring this back and create a conversation. And how many other examples of monuments do that? I think that it's just incredible. Thank you. And one more from this-- yes, please? So there was a lot of talk about self-negating monuments and monuments that bring up a dialog about traditional monuments and their almost fascist didactic nature mean and what monuments can do to subvert that. But what do monuments that successfully carry out that sort of idea of subversion-- what do those mean to people that perhaps don't share the memories, but would like to partake in it? For example, I am-- and this is probably going to surprise a bunch of people because it's not something people think about-- but I do not remember September 11th. I was too young. But it had-- We have to leave now. [laughter] It had a great effect on me and the people around me. And it's something that I want to see memorialized. So what do these monuments that self-negate have for people that don't share the experiences or can't relate to a color blue? So the question of transgressive memories and do these subversions which are down [inaudible] how do they actually function? How do they keep a collective memory alive, a collective narrative alive, with they're passed? And then we had the other question there, which is not that dissimilar, which is about, how do you keep the conversation going? And so, Krzysztof, what about what your taking that on? Well, see, myself, I don't mind permanent monuments, as long as they change. [laughter] So I think that one thing is to think of what kind of monuments we should create. Another thing is what we should do with them. How should we animate them and live with them in a dynamic way? I propose that, maybe in Graduate School of Design, we should consider more a possibility of supplemental structures, events, and projects that will establish the possibility of our dialogue, and reinterpretation, and discussion around monuments. In fact, Nietzsche, if I'm not mistaken, said that one should have a kind of past that one deserves. So I think we should just constantly think about what kind of past we should be deserving. And yes, I agree, memory should be understood also in a way as an agonistic process. Mm-hm. Yes. So we have a confrontation of memories. Yep. [inaudible] of monument we learn from Alois Riegl. He already told us that there is no such thing as stable meaning. He spoke of unintentional monuments. So we could make intentional monument unintentional [laughs] in a continuing process. In fact, he says that that's a necessary unfolding. That the intentional monument always becomes the unintentional monument, ready to be rescripted. Sorry, I was just going to-- [laughter] I was just going to say that Riegl, in fact, scripts precisely that point, that the intentional monument becomes, as the generations go by, the unintentional monument, which is potentially rescriptable. So it's a lovely argument because it argues for looking back, to then project forward. But in a way, Nietzsche also said that monumental history stopped that from happening. [interposing voices] Yeah. --critical history, as well. Yeah. Yes. Yes. So right. [laughter] Well, I do think this issue of both how you keep monuments alive or revivify them, but also this issue of reversal-- I love there were a lot of forms of reversal or inversion that were discussed here. And one of the things I love about Brian Stevenson's project is this notion of the double columns, or the column you take away. If you're going to own the lynching that took place in this particular county, is that relationship between sight and multiplicity, which is something we haven't talked too much about. That's a complete historic reversal. The old way that multiplicity works with the monuments is that the state would produce equestrian statues of a particular leader in all the provincial places in order to extend and consolidate state power. And the Stevenson project is exactly the reverse. It's distributing to make an ownership over a historical trauma. And you know, it's quite remarkable. So I think, in thinking through how to make monuments, I think thinking through how to unmake them is something that binds a lot of the talks we have. [? bit aside ?] quickly, regarding the Bryan Stevenson memorial-- I think one of the terms that maybe has been subterranean in all of our talks that we haven't stated explicitly is the role of labor in the production of monuments, but in this case the extension of the monument into something that can be part of one's lived reality. This, the interactivity of the monument, is not just a conceptual one. In this case, a county would have to undergo a great deal of labor to actually own this marker of a body having been lynched in that county. This makes also very public the degree of accountability and reckoning that has occurred within specific geographies and maybe not in others. So that's a new model for monument making. And also, this idea of labor in the present connecting to horror in the past or tragedy in the past also lets us again think through tense and temporality with these monuments anew. And that would be mainly, if I were to have talked about Confederate monuments being what-- one of the points I want to underscore, the timing of their erection often never coincides with the end of the Civil War itself. And as I was saying with my colleague prior to the talk, these are 20th century objects, monuments, really counter-resistance largely to-- later, the civil rights movement, as I mentioned in the talk, are often tethered with and meant to amplify and shore up an idea of white supremacy in the face of racial terror. There's a great graph that you can easily access on Google that the Southern Poverty Law Center has put out that shows the emergence of courthouse lawn monuments that were meant to commemorate the Confederacy and the incidents of racial terror in any given year. And you can see that they're rhyming there. So it makes us rethink the notion of conditionality and temporality, as we think about Confederate monuments. And I think one of the important issues about un-making monuments or creating fugitive monuments is not just to be subversive. It is because the nature of memory and affect-- memory is knowledge-- but also affect changes. When you put up a monument immediately, there is a kind of an affective charge that you answer. As you move away from it, as the monument ages, as things change around it in the urban environment, that too changes. But I would-- like you mentioned equestrian statues as having a certain kind of physical permanence, but I would recommend not to look so much at the person sitting on the horse. But if you look at the holes itself, there is a change in the way in which equine statues and what happens to the horse and how the notion of the horse changes. Please read Drew Gilpin Faust-- [laughter] Equine Relics of the Civil War. An inspired piece. And I think it talks about the horse, not about those who were on the horse. And this is part of my desire, not only to keep this bound to the human figure and human scale, but to actually talk about other forms of monumentalization and theirs problems. So this is a good piece which shows, actually, that horses of the Civil War, which was so sanctified at one point, eventually entered into a whole sculptural language of anonymity. And the last one-- sorry, I meant to-- I read this piece ages ago, and I got to it now. But the final section, really, is about the way in which the horse itself is removed from those power structures, is unnamed in a very moving way. Now, do we have more time? No. No, we don't have-- [laughter] Well, I hope you've enjoyed this remarkable evening. [applause] Because we've managed to go from Homo sapiens, to horses, to the color of the broken sky, to Goethe, who always wanted to be part of this kind of Oriental. He wanted the Orientalism. Finally, he got it when the Iraqis were projected on him. Because of course, his East-West [? divide, ?] everybody says he knows nothing about Persian poetry. Why does he do it? Now, he gets it in the face. Thank you all, for being with us today. Thank you. [applause]

Listings county-wide

[3] Name on the Register Image Date listed[4] Location City or town Description
1 Amelia Bloomer House August 29, 1980
(#80000359)
53 E. Bayard St.
42°54′35″N 76°47′27″W / 42.909722°N 76.790833°W / 42.909722; -76.790833 (Amelia Bloomer House)
Seneca Falls
2 Julius and Harriet Bull House August 30, 2007
(#07000869)
2534 Lower Lake Rd.
42°54′14″N 76°45′05″W / 42.903889°N 76.751389°W / 42.903889; -76.751389 (Julius and Harriet Bull House)
Seneca Falls
3 William H. Burton House June 14, 1996
(#96000675)
35 E. Main St.
42°54′16″N 76°51′41″W / 42.904444°N 76.861389°W / 42.904444; -76.861389 (William H. Burton House)
Waterloo
4 Christ Evangelical and Reformed Church Upload image December 8, 1989
(#89002092)
Main St.
42°48′52″N 76°47′51″W / 42.814444°N 76.7975°W / 42.814444; -76.7975 (Christ Evangelical and Reformed Church)
Fayette
5 Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1027 Stone Church Rd. September 28, 2007
(#07001017)
1027 Stone Church Rd.
42°58′34″N 76°53′05″W / 42.976111°N 76.884722°W / 42.976111; -76.884722 (Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1027 Stone Church Rd.)
Junius
6 Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1111 Stone Church Road September 28, 2007
(#07001018)
1111 Stone Church Rd.
42°58′19″N 76°52′57″W / 42.972015°N 76.882401°W / 42.972015; -76.882401 (Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1111 Stone Church Road)
Junius
7 Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1229 Birdsey Road August 6, 2008
(#08000772)
1229 Birdsey Rd.
42°58′01″N 76°51′51″W / 42.967039°N 76.864172°W / 42.967039; -76.864172 (Cobblestone Farmhouse at 1229 Birdsey Road)
Junius
8 Covert Historic District November 21, 1980
(#80002766)
NY 96
42°34′22″N 76°41′01″W / 42.572778°N 76.683611°W / 42.572778; -76.683611 (Covert Historic District)
Covert
9 Fall Street-Trinity Lane Historic District February 11, 1974
(#74001306)
Address Restricted
Seneca Falls
10 First Baptist Church of Interlaken December 31, 2002
(#02001655)
8414 Main St.
42°36′59″N 76°43′32″W / 42.616389°N 76.725556°W / 42.616389; -76.725556 (First Baptist Church of Interlaken)
Interlaken
11 First Presbyterian Church November 29, 1996
(#96001386)
E. Main St., east of the junction with NY 96
42°54′14″N 76°51′39″W / 42.903889°N 76.860833°W / 42.903889; -76.860833 (First Presbyterian Church)
Waterloo
12 Edith B. Ford Memorial Library Upload image May 25, 2018
(#100002514)
7169 Main St.
42°40′38″N 76°49′20″W / 42.6772°N 76.8223°W / 42.6772; -76.8223 (Edith B. Ford Memorial Library)
Ovid 1961 modernist building typifies the New Formalist subgenre of the style
13 Fourth Ward School March 19, 1986
(#86000474)
8 Washington St.
42°54′38″N 76°47′21″W / 42.910556°N 76.789167°W / 42.910556; -76.789167 (Fourth Ward School)
Seneca Falls
14 John Graves Cobblestone Farmhouse February 28, 2008
(#08000107)
1370 NY 318
42°57′35″N 76°52′21″W / 42.959844°N 76.872634°W / 42.959844; -76.872634 (John Graves Cobblestone Farmhouse)
Junius
15 William Hoster House Upload image December 31, 2002
(#02001662)
3832 NY 414
42°50′17″N 76°48′41″W / 42.838056°N 76.811389°W / 42.838056; -76.811389 (William Hoster House)
Fayette
16 Hunt House August 29, 1980
(#80000358)
401 E. Main St.
42°54′22″N 76°50′40″W / 42.906111°N 76.844444°W / 42.906111; -76.844444 (Hunt House)
Waterloo
17 David and Mary Kinne Farmstead August 30, 2007
(#07000865)
6858 Kinne Rd.
42°41′34″N 76°50′34″W / 42.69268°N 76.842662°W / 42.69268; -76.842662 (David and Mary Kinne Farmstead)
Ovid
18 Hiram Lay Cobblestone Farmhouse September 20, 2009
(#09000724)
1145 Mays Point Rd.
42°58′08″N 76°46′30″W / 42.968883°N 76.775048°W / 42.968883; -76.775048 (Hiram Lay Cobblestone Farmhouse)
Tyre Another Cobblestone Architecture of New York State MPS listing
19 Lodi Methodist Church May 6, 1982
(#82003405)
S. Main and Grove Sts.
42°36′45″N 76°49′22″W / 42.6125°N 76.822778°W / 42.6125; -76.822778 (Lodi Methodist Church)
Lodi
20 M'Clintock House August 29, 1980
(#80000360)
14 E. Williams
42°54′19″N 76°51′42″W / 42.905278°N 76.861667°W / 42.905278; -76.861667 (M'Clintock House)
Waterloo
21 New York State Barge Canal October 15, 2014
(#14000860)
Linear across county
42°54′33″N 76°47′55″W / 42.909286°N 76.798512°W / 42.909286; -76.798512 (New York State Barge Canal)
Seneca Falls, Tyre, Waterloo Cayuga–Seneca Canal; Successor to Erie Canal approved by state voters in early 20th century to compete with railroads.
22 Queen's Castle Upload image June 1, 1999
(#99000564)
NY 414
42°33′03″N 76°52′54″W / 42.550833°N 76.881667°W / 42.550833; -76.881667 (Queen's Castle)
Lodi
23 Simon Ritter Cobblestone Farmhouse Upload image November 18, 2008
(#08001081)
5102 NY 89
42°46′39″N 76°46′11″W / 42.7775°N 76.769722°W / 42.7775; -76.769722 (Simon Ritter Cobblestone Farmhouse)
Varick
24 Rose Hill Mansion February 6, 1973
(#73001269)
West of Fayette on NY 96A
42°51′38″N 76°56′18″W / 42.860556°N 76.938333°W / 42.860556; -76.938333 (Rose Hill Mansion)
Fayette
25 Saint Paul's Church March 9, 1997
(#97000115)
101 E. Williams St.
42°54′20″N 76°51′35″W / 42.905556°N 76.859722°W / 42.905556; -76.859722 (Saint Paul's Church)
Waterloo
26 Seneca County Courthouse Complex at Ovid December 12, 1976
(#76001277)
NY 414
42°40′36″N 76°49′19″W / 42.676667°N 76.821944°W / 42.676667; -76.821944 (Seneca County Courthouse Complex at Ovid)
Ovid
27 Seneca Falls Village Historic District April 5, 1991
(#91000342)
Roughly, properties along State and Cayuga Sts. from Butler and Auburn to Canal St., including Van Cleef Lake
42°54′52″N 76°47′41″W / 42.914415°N 76.79463°W / 42.914415; -76.79463 (Seneca Falls Village Historic District)
Seneca Falls
28 Seneca River Crossing Canals Historic District December 9, 2005
(#05001397)
Off NY 90
43°00′32″N 76°42′45″W / 43.008889°N 76.7125°W / 43.008889; -76.7125 (Seneca River Crossing Canals Historic District)
Tyre Extends into Montezuma in Cayuga County
29 Elizabeth Cady Stanton House October 15, 1966
(#66000572)
32 Washington St.
42°54′45″N 76°47′18″W / 42.9125°N 76.788333°W / 42.9125; -76.788333 (Elizabeth Cady Stanton House)
Seneca Falls
30 United Methodist Church September 24, 2004
(#04001057)
21 E. Williams St.
42°54′28″N 76°51′40″W / 42.907778°N 76.861111°W / 42.907778; -76.861111 (United Methodist Church)
Waterloo
31 US Post Office-Seneca Falls May 11, 1989
(#88002431)
34-42 State St.
42°54′42″N 76°47′54″W / 42.911667°N 76.798333°W / 42.911667; -76.798333 (US Post Office-Seneca Falls)
Seneca Falls
32 US Post Office-Waterloo May 11, 1989
(#88002442)
2 E. Main St.
42°54′15″N 76°51′46″W / 42.904167°N 76.862778°W / 42.904167; -76.862778 (US Post Office-Waterloo)
Waterloo
33 Waterloo Downtown Historic District April 17, 2017
(#100000895)
1-42 E. Main, 1-40 W. Main & 16-41 Virginia Sts.
42°54′17″N 76°51′46″W / 42.90467°N 76.86285°W / 42.90467; -76.86285 (Waterloo Downtown Historic District)
Waterloo Early 19th- to mid-20th century buildings at intersection town grew around
34 Waterloo Library June 14, 1996
(#96000676)
31 Williams St.
42°54′20″N 76°51′40″W / 42.905556°N 76.861111°W / 42.905556; -76.861111 (Waterloo Library)
Waterloo
35 James Russell Webster House December 11, 2007
(#07001255)
115 E. Main St.
42°54′15″N 76°51′33″W / 42.9043°N 76.85927°W / 42.9043; -76.85927 (James Russell Webster House)
Waterloo
36 Wesleyan Methodist Church August 29, 1980
(#80000361)
126 Fall St.
42°57′45″N 76°50′46″W / 42.9625°N 76.846111°W / 42.9625; -76.846111 (Wesleyan Methodist Church)
Seneca Falls
37 Willard Asylum for the Chronic Insane March 7, 1975
(#75001229)
Willard State Psychiatric Center
42°40′45″N 76°52′46″W / 42.679167°N 76.879444°W / 42.679167; -76.879444 (Willard Asylum for the Chronic Insane)
Willard
38 Aaron Wilson House May 30, 2001
(#01000577)
2037 Wilson Rd.
42°38′48″N 76°49′55″W / 42.646667°N 76.831944°W / 42.646667; -76.831944 (Aaron Wilson House)
Ovid
39 Women's Rights National Historical Park December 28, 1980
(#80004397)
136 Fall St.
42°54′39″N 76°48′00″W / 42.910706°N 76.800122°W / 42.910706; -76.800122 (Women's Rights National Historical Park)
Seneca Falls

See also

References

  1. ^ The latitude and longitude information provided in this table was derived originally from the National Register Information System, which has been found to be fairly accurate for about 99% of listings. For about 1% of NRIS original coordinates, experience has shown that one or both coordinates are typos or otherwise extremely far off; some corrections may have been made. A more subtle problem causes many locations to be off by up to 150 yards, depending on location in the country: most NRIS coordinates were derived from tracing out latitude and longitudes from USGS topographical quadrant maps created under the North American Datum of 1927, which differs from the current, highly accurate WGS84 GPS system used by most on-line maps. Chicago is about right, but NRIS longitudes in Washington are higher by about 4.5 seconds, and are lower by about 2.0 seconds in Maine. Latitudes differ by about 1.0 second in Florida. Some locations in this table may have been corrected to current GPS standards.
  2. ^ "National Register of Historic Places: Weekly List Actions". National Park Service, United States Department of the Interior. Retrieved on August 10, 2018.
  3. ^ Numbers represent an ordering by significant words. Various colorings, defined here, differentiate National Historic Landmarks and historic districts from other NRHP buildings, structures, sites or objects.
  4. ^ The eight-digit number below each date is the number assigned to each location in the National Register Information System database, which can be viewed by clicking the number.
This page was last edited on 29 May 2018, at 05:31
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