The Forgetting By Bruce Adams Photo of the Buffalo State Hospital by Jim Bush. (The photo has been digitally manipulated.) June. 7:00 a.m. I’m driving north on Richmond Avenue to work as I’ve done each day for the past twenty-seven years. I jog left on Bird then right on Tremont to avoid the signal at Forest. Instinctively I glance over the treetops that line Forest Avenue and I’m jolted by a sudden sense of malaise. There’s a blank spot in the sky where something belongs. It takes less than a pulse-beat to recall what’s wrong with this picture, and a nagging sense of regret settles in the pit of my stomach. Funny, how I still expect to see it. Especially those imposing sandstone towers with their majestic blue-green copper crowns that once dominated Buffalo’s West Side, a dazzling display of grandeur, a virtual castle to the neighborhood’s humble serfdom. I never got tired of looking at them. Never, and I glimpsed them almost daily for the better part of thirty-five years. I can’t imagine ever getting used to them not being there. Forest at Elmwood will never feel quite right, not since they tore down the Richardson buildings. Condemned “in the interest of public safety,” the whole sprawling compound was dismantled stone by stone. Its proper name was Buffalo State Hospital. It was also properly called the State Insane Asylum or the New York State Hospital for the Insane, but we usually just referred to it as the Psych Center, or one of several less-sensitive labels. The buildings by famed architect H. H. Richardson first became part of my everyday milieu in the mid-seventies when I was an art student at Buffalo State College. Situated next to the school like a silent, stony sentinel, the massive medieval twin towers of the centrally located administration building were far more architecturally engaging than anything the campus had to offer. Ever looming beyond the chain link barrier separating us, Richardson’s cliff-like walls seemed impenetrable, enduring. We didn’t know it then, but we were witnessing the last functional days of the proud administrative center and its smaller offspring. The wards were being phased out for use by patients even as we gawked from outside the enclosed grounds. Since college, I’ve lived with my wife Renee and our kids on Auburn Avenue about a half mile from the Psych Center. Our home was built about a year before Richardson’s complex was completed in 1895. I like to imagine our modest Queen Anne and the big guy growing old together over the twentieth century. The difference is that we took care of our house. Proper building maintenance is a fundamental part of my personal philosophy. No one ever actually owns a building, or the property it’s on. You’re kind of just using it, staying there for a tiny sliver of eternity. Eventually you either sell it or die. In either case, the building passes into new hands that care for it for a while, then pass it on again. Architecture forms the fabric of our neighborhoods, past and future. You shouldn’t let a good building go into decline on your watch; it really doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to history. Richardson’s hospital ought to have lasted longer. Like the many carefully preserved architectural gems strewn across Europe, it should have been there to view by local visitors and tourists eager to recall the past, to remember where we came from. My sister Cynthia Adams is head recreational therapist at Buffalo Psychiatric Center. She works in the nondescript modern structure used by patients today. Having spent many years in the shadow of Richardson’s towering administrative fortress before it was overtaken, I often wondered if Cynthia had developed any feelings toward the building. Once when it was still standing, I asked her. “It was originally built for the mentally ill to rest and rejuvenate,” Cynthia explained in an informative manner. I thought she might have an aversion to the historical reality of psychiatric care in a less enlightened age, but that’s not how she sees it. “It represents our roots, a symbol of how far we’ve come. If we still look at the hospital today as a place to rest and regain health, then the grounds help meet that goal. Without the Richardson building, we’d lose some of the beauty of the place, a piece of art.” As an added aside, Cynthia noted that many patients who once resided in Richardson’s wards have said that they miss that structure’s enclosed porches. From these verandas, “they could breathe fresh air and view the city’s activities.” The new buildings don’t have outside access. It won’t be long before no one is left who remembers the wards. If we forget our past, we forget who we are. My memories of the hospital do include one minor “adventure.” During college, when one of the buildings bordering the campus was demolished to make room for a custodial shed, a friend claimed he saw full-body straightjackets and other implements of involuntary restraint lying amidst the rubble. In those days I was an amateur magician and a fan of Houdini, and the notion of acquiring a genuine asylum straightjacket was enticing. Soon, I found myself approaching the doors of the massive administrative building, and in the process getting my first close view of its commanding facade. I was struck by the tactile nature of the roughly carved stone, and the sheer mass of the structure. In the fading winter light it certainly looked like a place that might contain assorted restraining devices. In the dungeon I imagined. Mustering my full reserve of youthful audacity, I entered and approached a skeptical looking man standing behind a counter. Boldly, I asked if they had any unneeded straightjackets lying around that I could buy. For a brief moment I considered the possibility that leaving the place might prove to be more difficult than getting in. The man’s reception was cool. Initially he denied that they had any straightjackets. “Bondage is out these days.” After some discussion—and a card trick or two—he agreed to see what he could do, and disappeared into the belly of the building. Soon the receptionist returned with a modest-looking canvas affair, trimmed in assorted straps. “We can’t sell state property,” he said, and then he added with a slight smirk, “but if you would be willing to make a donation to the patient’s dinner fund, I guess I could give it to you.” Today when I show my straightjacket (from which I’ve escaped on numerous occasions), I’m careful to point out the hand-printed label inside that reads, “Wd. 4.” It was eight years before I visited the site again, and this would be the last time. A University of Buffalo master’s thesis art exhibition was being held in the abandoned wards, now a water-stained ghost town of flaking paint and strewn debris. Still, it was a spectacular setting for experimental art. What I remember most about that visit is that the entire complex seemed mazelike, even outside. Twisting passageways, spooky staircases, tile-lined underpasses; my faded memory is no doubt coloring reality, but nevertheless, the experience made a profound impression. Perhaps my fondest and most indelible personal memories are of the grand administrative building illuminated at night. Assemblyman Sam Hoyt worked out the details with several businesses and agencies, and one evening around the turn of the millennium, Richardson’s mighty edifice was suddenly awash in a radiant glow. The first time I saw it I had to pull over and park my car to avoid causing an accident as I admired the breathtaking sight. I sat there transfixed. I admit to having done this on more than one occasion. The sight of the majestic edifice glowing against the darkened sky grabbed my attention and held on. Until the lights were turned off for good. The preservationists fought to save it. They are forever battling that particular brand of cultural nearsightedness that causes the steady erosion of our architectural heritage. Sam Hoyt led the charge against the demolition. There were the usual protests, lofty proposals, and legislative deliberations. At times, things looked promising. But nothing concrete materialized. A chorus of doubters raised their collective voices: “How can you justify spending millions of dollars on an old building, when what Buffalo really needs is … (fill in the blank)?” Let’s make one thing clear, not a single penny has ever been spent on a building. Rather, money gets spent on the services of stone masons, electricians, roofers, plumbers, and other contractors. Merchants sell materials and supplies. Craftspeople ply their trade. Truck drivers, trash removers, painters, and window replacement specialists all take home paychecks. Funds flow into the economy, and of course they generate much more in the long run. Politicians blew the opportunity to do something. Funding was promised, then delayed, then redirected. Lawsuits wound their way through the courts and ultimately achieved little. Business proposals came and went. Grand announcements were made and forgotten. Then, almost overnight, it was gone. It’s still hard to believe. We had one of the great masterpieces by one of the great architectural masters, and we let it slip through our fingers. It was our responsibility to preserve it for history, and instead we tore it down. December, two years later. 7:00 a.m. Driving up Richmond Avenue, I jog left on Bird then right on Tremont to avoid the signal at Forest. I navigate the streets without any conscious thought; I’m in the zone. Leafless trees afford an unobstructed view of my surroundings, but there’s nothing to see. But now there is also nothing not to see. My eyes remain focused on the road without glancing at the view beyond the dashboard. The forgetting has begun. Epilogue: This story takes place in a parallel world very close to our own. The incidents described all really happened. The people are real. The quotes are genuine. Everything is accurate, with one noteworthy exception: the Richardson complex has not been demolished. Not yet, anyway. This parallel world has come perilously close to our own reality at various times. It’s not much of a stretch to imagine the State Hospital buildings being demolished. We’ve done dumber things. Maybe this is a parable; take from it what you will. But on some balmy summer evening, drive to Forest near Elmwood and stop the car. Take a moment to soak in the sight of Buffalo State Hospital glowing against the night sky. As you gaze at the spectacle before you, imagine nothing there. Bruce Adams is an artist and educator living in Buffalo. SUBSCRIBE NOW Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top