Vision for a livable waterfront

By Jane Holtz Kay
Published in Boston Globe 03/16/98

On days when the wind drifts inland and the tide plays tricks with the sea, the smell of

salt air wafts over Boston like a gust from the past. Seagulls circle by the Custom

House, and the sea that has shaped Boston is mated to the shore.

 

That briny background of land and water, one would think, would be the source - indeed, the

soul - for the design of South Boston Seaport's prize 1,000 acres. And so, when the state

weighed in and stopped the towers proposed for Fan Pier, the seafaring spirits of the city

might have breathed easy.

 

Now, in the eye of the hurricane surrounding the city's building boom, Bostonians have a

chance to think about how we can honor that waterfront, how we can follow a new seaside

maxim: nothing higher than a whale by the water. That's Moby Dick's length at 50 to 70 feet

from jaw to tail. And why not? The water's edge is for working ships, for walking citizens.

 

Today, as a city chastened by criticism of its waterfront plans goes back to the drawing board,

the whale - and history's tale - provide the precedent. The 19th century granite wharf

buildings rose 50 feet; the brick and wood neighborhoods barely higher. At five stories, they

flourish. In fact, the better part of building in Boston, commercial and residential alike,

settled in and stays walkable, livable, civilized at little more than that height.

 

''Civilized'' is hardly in the construction guidelines for a site that most cities would die for.

Now, the operative slogan in this sky's-the-limit period of development seems to be: ''Eyes

up.'' And up again. But why?

 

Sure, developers choose to define the city for the towers that line their pockets. Their

argument is couched in numbers: 150 feet, 225 feet, 295 feet, like some Trifecta. That's the

high-stakes game of sell-a-city for players like Boston Properties, Pritzger, Fidelity, and

anyone who's lucked on to owning a piece of hot property.

 

But why has it become the game for the rest of us?

 

In the midst of pursuing that elusive practice called planning, what did the BRA do? The city's

planning agency scuttled to the back room to play the numbers game: It set a height ceiling at a

supposed ''low'' of 150 feet. Faced with greater affronts, some neighbors accepted the

''concession'' and ignored the lack of ''vision.''

 

Let's look at the numbers instead: that 15 stories is downtown tower dimensions - a plop

architecture for the prosperous. That's not density and diversity for livability. That's not

planning for people. That's parceling - mindless, boilerplate nonplanning.

 

Clearly, Boston can do better.

 

Consider the water's edge that we venerate: the brick wharf buildings of the Children's

Museum punctuated by the cheery milk bottle, the sturdy stone warehouses on their aged

pilings. They're five to six stories.

 

Recall the six- or seven-story Fort Point Channel lofts and industrial buildings given a second

life. The wooden phalanxes of homes in Charlestown, East Boston, the North End. Three, four,

five stories. At this height, their shops and centers, their schools and neighborhoods - their

sense of place - remain.

 

Then, survey the last decade: the isolated Harbor Towers or chilling Federal Reserve building

lost in the clouds, bringing wind and shadows to earth. The massive Rowes Wharf Hotel and

looming Federal Courthouse, an interloper that turns the once-beckoning harbor into a tepid

basin, show the impact of even 100 to 150 feet.

 

Calculate what is to come: the clunky 16-story Seaport Hotel is rising beside the World Trade

Center with a dead wall to the street and a sweeping driveway. The proposed 200-foot hotel by

the convention center would hold 2,000 cars - yes, 2,000 - for roads already too impassable

to serve conventioneers and too hostile for walkers.

 

Let's begin from the ground up. Architect Stanton Eckstut, who designed the low-rise enclave

of New York's Battery Park, tells us to start with the sea. We should think of ocean arrival and

seafaring departure, he says; of commuting ferries along the congested coast, of shipping and

marine-related businesses.

 

Fail to plan the Seaport right and the tract will yield to a 21st century wasteland of roads and

parkinglots. The bus transitway now sketched is meager and ill-conceived; the hub, South

Station, not reinforced. We need to look down, not up.

 

We have a history of doing so. When developers ignored the limits and projected the Copley

Square's Westminster Hotel two stories beyond the limit, the city tore it down - and set a

precedent for historic districts. When the ''Massachusetts Miracle'' brought a city of steel and

glass high-rises, restrictions came. For a while, we built ''gophers instead of giraffes,'' as one

insider called them. Not now, though. But why not?

 

The sky is not the source for shaping the city. The land hanging low, lying salty and sweet,

defines the sense of place and should define its future. Earth (and we do mean earth) to Mayor

Menino: It's time to cap the free-for-all.

 

Jane Holtz Kay is the author of ''Lost Boston'' and ''Asphalt Nation: How the Automobile Took

Over America and How We Can Take It Back.''

This story ran on page A17 of the Boston Globe on 03/16/98.

© Copyright 1998 Globe Newspaper Company.

 

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