What Does Caring Accomplish When You Can't Save the Thing You Care About?

I recently learned about a house in New York City that I can't stop thinking about.

The Vanderbilt-Shepard House, built in 1891, still stands on West 57th Street in Manhattan. An old Gilded Age holdout, it is the last surviving mansion of its kind on a street that has changed almost beyond recognition. Now it faces the possibility of demolition as the property moves toward redevelopment.

There are people working to save it. Possibly preservationists, historians, architects, and others who have devoted their time and energy to making the case for keeping it. I am grateful that there are people willing and able to do that work.

I didn't know this house existed until I saw it in the news. And now that I know about it, I care and it hurts to think it could be gone forever.

That is the strange thing about discovering something beautiful that may soon be torn down. You can go about your ordinary day, completely unaware that something exists, and then suddenly you see it. You learn a little of its story. You notice the details. You feel for the craftsman and the designers that put their hard work and creativity into it. And once you've seen it, you can't quite forget it.

There is an ache in my stomach when I think about it being gone. Why? I’ve never even been near it. It never belonged to me, I’ve never been inside. Nothing. We have no history. 

But I know that once it is gone, it is forever gone. I’m sure there are others who feel the same.

We see a photograph. We read an article. We learn that something that has been standing for generations may soon be replaced by something cold, austere and generic: functional but lacking character.

And we think, Please don't tear it down.

But then what?

What does caring accomplish when you can't save the thing you care about?

I've been thinking about that question a lot.

There are people who have the resources, influence, knowledge, and determination to fight for places like this. Sometimes they succeed. Sometimes they don't.

And then there are the rest of us. The people who care deeply but don't have the money, authority, or ability to buy a building and save it.

We do what we can but it feels insignificant.

I won’t pretend that these situations are simple and I understand that cities change: I understand that buildings cost money to maintain, property owners have their own plans and land is valuable. I don’t think that every old building can or should be saved simply because someone finds it beautiful, I know that's not realistic.

I just feel so helpless.

Even if I had all the money, all the influence, all the time in the world, and the ability to intervene, I still couldn't save everything.

However, making jewelry, for me, is a small act of preservation. Not preservation in the literal sense. A necklace can't save a building. A piece of metal can't replace a room, a staircase, a façade, or the hard work someone put into it all those years ago. 

If the Vanderbilt-Shepard House is eventually gone, I won't be able to change that.

But perhaps I could make something inspired by it.

- Banner photo sourced from Facebook via Malcolm King Harris