What in the world did they do or sell at the Robotorium? In the early 1980s, it occupied a small storefront on Mott Street near Prince Street, back when this little crossroads was considered part of Little Italy and Nolita had yet to be dreamed up.
Robot paraphernalia—sounds like a cool little place. Now, 252 Mott Street houses a designer eyewear store.
This ad appeared in a 1982 edition of the East Village Eye.
Painter James W. Kerr’s 1931 depiction of an IRT subway car, with riders characteristically absorbed in their own worlds just the way riders are today (but without iPods to help them really zone out, of course).
Hard to believe that at the time Kerr painted this scene, the IRT was only 26 years old.
The painting belongs to the Museum of the City of New York, which has a terrific collection of city-themed works by New York artists.
That’s one type of criminal New Yorkers don’t worry about these days: river pirates. But from the city’s beginning through the 19th century, ships loaded with valuables were constantly coming in and out of New York Harbor—easy prey for river pirates.
Police were unable, or unwilling, to stop the piracy, reports an 1876 New York Times article.
A detective added: “River thieves are the men who have not the brains to be burglars, but who do not hesitate to murder in order to steal a coil of rope.”
Most notorious of the river pirates in the 1860s and 1870s was the Patsy Conroy gang. Conroy helmed a band of lowlifes who trolled the dockyards of the East River.
Another murderous group known for hijacking and robbing ships was the Hook Gang, named for Corlears’ Hook on the East River waterfront.
Finally law enforcement got serious about ridding the rivers of pirates. The NYPD formed the “Steamboat Squad” in the 1870s, which drove out most of the gangs by the 20th century.
A short account of an 1870s act of piracy, from The New York Times:
No one who tuned in to watch the Yankees on August 3, 1979 will ever forget the emotional pre-game ceremony honor of Thurman Munson. The team captain and catcher died two days earlier after the Cessna he was piloting lost altitude and crashed in his home city of Canton, Ohio.
Photo: Anthony Casale/Daily News
Only eight Yankees took the field, leaving the catcher’s box empty. Terence Cardinal Cooke, Archbishop of New York at the time, gave the invocation, and fans cheered for a full 10 minutes after Munson’s picture appeared on the scoreboard.
When you think of New York neighborhoods with lots of mews and alleys, the West Village and Brooklyn Heights probably come to mind.
But Harlem has its share of tiny lanes as well. Two small streets in the 160s feature old-style lampposts, Belgian block paving stones, and pre-20th century residences. They make the area feel more like a time-warped country village than an urban center.
Sylvan Terrace (above), up a flight of stairs from St. Nicholas Avenue, is a two-sided stretch of 20 wooden row houses flanking a once-private lane. The three-story houses were built in 1882 and restored in the 1980s.
At the end of Sylvan Terrace is Jumel Terrace. Spanning 160th-162nd Streets, this quiet, leafy road is the home of the Morris-Jumel Mansion (above), the oldest house in the borough. Built in 1765 on high ground with views of Manhattan, it served as George Washington’s headquarters during the Revolutionary War.
The city purchased the mansion in 1903 and restored it as a museum. Up until the late 1800s, this part of Harlem was still pretty rural.
In the 1920s and 1930s, the city began building neighborhood swimming pools for kids (and adults) to cool off in on steamy summer days.
But back in the 1870s, residents flocked to the pools’ precursors: “swimming baths.” One stood at Fifth Street and the East River; another at Bethune Street and the Hudson (then North) River.
This sketch, from the New York Public Library’s picture collection, depicts “women’s day” at the baths in 1876.
I couldn’t find an account of women’s day, but this June 2, 1884 New York Times article reveals what a boys’ day must have been like—and why women and girls wanted their own time to swim without the distraction of rowdy boys:
“Hundreds of young Neptunes, with grimy faces, stood in crowds at the gang-planks of the free swimming baths before five o’clock yesterday morning, when the various natatorial institutions were thrown open to remain for use until noon.
“[At the Fifth Street Baths] about 800 boys plunged into this bath yesterday morning perhaps a shade less grimy and sundry shades redder.”
The Flatiron Building is so striking and unusual, it’s easy to get caught up gazing at the overall shape and design and not notice that near the top of its 22 floors are some rather unfriendly faces.
These grotesques, like this one below, have been staring pedestrians down since 1902, when the Flatiron Building—originally called the Fuller Building—opened. It was New York’s first skyscraper and its tallest for years.
Though not an immediate architectural hit, its cultural impact was established fast. Artists photographed and painted the building, and writers referenced its beauty.
In 1906, H.G. Wells wrote: “I found myself agape, admiring a skyscraper—the prow of the Flatiron Building, to be particular, ploughing up through the traffic of Broadway and Fifth Avenue in the late-afternoon light.”
Fun fact: The term “flatiron” was used before the building was ever conceived; it’s what locals called the iron-shaped triangular plot at Broadway, Fifth Avenue, and 22nd, and 23rd Streets upon which the building was eventually constructed.
A lovely building graces the corner of Graham and Metropolitan Avenues in 1937. A barber shop occupies a ground-floor storefront, and a two-story ad for Kings Beer and Ale looms large on the facade.
At some point in the ensuring 62 years, the building was encased in siding, its cornices lopped off. (Hmm, why is that kind of siding so popular in Williamsburg? When did it become so fashionable?)
Today, the trolley tracks are gone, the phone wires buried underground, and the street light design has changed.
But a lot looks the same in 2009. The L train entrance remains, a huge ad takes up part of the building’s facade, and the corner has about the same amount of car and foot traffic as it did in 1937.
Lower Manhattan’s Five Points slum, populated mainly by Irish immigrants and African Americans, was the city’s poorest, filthiest, most crime-ridden neighborhood in the 1840s.
But out of Five Points came a performer who wowed crowds in the U.S. and England and was immortalized by Charles Dickens as “the greatest dancer known.”
Master Juba was his stage name. Born William Henry Lane in 1825 in Rhode Island, he came to Five Points in his teens and began competing against Irish-born dancers in saloons and dance halls, eventually moving on to minstrel shows and, later, touring Great Britain.
His style blended African steps with Irish jig moves. On his trip to New York in 1842, Charles Dickens saw Master Juba perform and was bowled over. Dickens had this to say in American Notes, his account of his trip:
“Single shuffle, double shuffle, cut and cross-cut; snapping his fingers, rolling his eyes, turning in his knees, presenting the backs of his legs in front, spinning about on his toes and heels like nothing but the man’s fingers on the tambourine; dancing with two left legs, two right legs, two wooden legs, two wire legs, two spring legs–all sorts of legs and no legs—what is this to him?”
Above, an engraving of Master Juba dancing, from Dickens’ American Notes.
Master Juba is considered the father of tap, jazz, and step dancing. His death in 1852 at age 27 has been attributed to malnutrition and his physically strenuous schedule and style.
These three white-on-red brick ads are especially tough to decipher because one, if not all, of the words have fallen victim to the elements.
This one is in East Harlem on a building at Second Avenue and 109th Street. Hartketcher? Hoffketcher’s? It’s a total mystery.
At least the “Tea Co.” part is legible in this Tribeca ad. But whose company was it? The small type on the right looks like it could say “in Holland.”
Tribeca (the name wasn’t coined until the 1970s) used to be the center of dry goods distribution in New York City.
Could the bank name in this ad be the Corn Exchange Bank Trust Company? Founded in New York City, it dates back to 1852. In 1954 it merged with Chemical Bank, and eventually the Corn part was jettisoned.
