Soaring Italianate: America's Vertical Visions

For years, when we talk about Italianate architecture in America, the mind conjures images of broad, stately villas: low-pitched roofs, deep overhanging eaves, and a rather horizontal, grounded presence, often evoking a sense of tranquil, sun-drenched Italian countryside. That's the conventional wisdom, the picture painted in most guidebooks. But spend enough time tramping through historic districts, peering beyond the velvet ropes, and you start to notice something else entirely. A surprising, often dramatic vertical ambition, a reaching skyward that subtly, and sometimes overtly, defies the horizontal stereotype. These are the buildings that whisper of towers and attenuated windows, pulling the eye upwards with an almost gravitational force. Why did some American architects choose to emphasize height when drawing from an Italian tradition often associated with expansive, rather than towering, forms? The answer lies in a fascinating interplay of evolving tastes, a distinctly American desire for grandeur, and the ingenuity of master builders who adapted European ideals to their own vision. We’re not talking about Gothic spires or Beaux-Arts skyscrapers here, but a more nuanced, deliberate verticality woven into the very fabric of the Italianate style. It’s a detail most casual observers miss, focused instead on the brackets and bay windows. But once you start looking for it, these upward gestures become impossible to ignore, transforming a familiar architectural language into something far more dynamic.

Litchfield Villa: Brooklyn's Unexpected Crown

Anyone strolling through Prospect Park in Brooklyn eventually stumbles upon the majestic Litchfield Villa. Completed between 1854 and 1857, this isn't just another pretty mansion; it stands as perhaps the quintessential example of American Italianate design with a pronounced vertical emphasis. Architect Alexander Jackson Davis, a titan of 19th-century American architecture, truly outdid himself here. He conceived a structure dominated by a commanding four-story square tower, meticulously integrated with an octagonal three-story pavilion. This isn't a mere decorative flourish; the tower acts as the building's central organizing principle, drawing the eye upwards from every approach. Gaze closely at the tower itself, and you’ll discern how Davis achieved this impressive height. Arched window openings repeat on all three exposed sides, but it's the specific fenestration—the arrangement of windows—that truly articulates the vertical climb. You'll find double casement windows, those that open like a door, on the second level, transitioning to triple casement windows on the third. This rhythmic progression doesn't just add visual interest; it creates an unmistakable upward pull. The octagonal pavilion further contributes with its curved bay windows, and a pair of cylindrical turrets on the north side almost playfully reinforces the strong vertical lines. What might surprise you is that the facade isn't natural stone but brick, skillfully painted to mimic its grander cousin, a common practice of the era to achieve a desired aesthetic without the prohibitive cost. Visiting is relatively easy, as it's now part of Prospect Park, though interior access can be limited to special events. Expect to spend an hour just circling the exterior, admiring the sheer ambition.

Blandwood Mansion: Where American Italianate Took Root

Travel south to Greensboro, North Carolina, and you'll encounter Blandwood Mansion, a site of profound historical significance. Designed by none other than Alexander Jackson Davis and completed in 1846, this residence holds the distinction of being the oldest surviving Italianate example in the entire United States. While its overall massing feels more restrained than Litchfield, its verticality is no less intentional, centered around a prominent three-story tower. This tower doesn't merely crown the building; it organizes the entire composition, asserting its dominance over the surrounding wings. What makes Blandwood's verticality so effective? Davis employed a stucco-on-brick veneer, giving the building a smooth, unified surface that accentuates its forms. The low-hipped roof and deep projecting eaves, characteristic of the style, might seem to contradict verticality, but they actually provide a horizontal counterpoint that *highlights* the tower's upward thrust. Look closely at the windows flanking the tower: the lower-level windows are subtly elongated, a clever trick to visually stretch the building towards the sky. The tower itself features arched openings with double and triple casement windows, echoing the techniques Davis would perfect at Litchfield. It’s a quieter verticality than some later examples, a foundational statement on how to adapt European grandeur to American tastes. Tours are regularly offered, usually on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, making it a well-structured visit. Admission is typically around $10-12, a small price for stepping into architectural history.

Newport's Edward King House: A Duet of Towers

Newport, Rhode Island, is renowned for its Gilded Age "cottages," but step back a few decades, and you find the Edward King House, a masterful Italian Villa completed between 1845 and 1847. This brick structure, designed by the prolific architect Richard Upjohn—famous for his Gothic Revival churches—offers a fascinating take on vertical Italianate. Here, Upjohn opted for *two* distinct three-story towers, differing in height, which flank a central, recessed main entrance. This isn't just a single focal point; it’s a dynamic interplay of vertical elements. Upjohn's genius lay in his deliberate variation. While many Italianate buildings strive for symmetry, the Edward King House embraces a more picturesque, irregular outline. Round-arched windows are abundant, but you’ll also spot pedimented flat arches, mixing and matching to create visual interest. Scalloped canopies hang over projecting balconies, adding another layer of texture and depth. The combination of gabled and hipped roofs further contributes to this intentional asymmetry, all while reinforcing strong vertical lines drawn from the ground up through the towers. Originally, the brick exterior was painted a lighter color, a common practice to unify the facade and enhance the visual effect of its varied forms—a detail often missed when we only see restored buildings in their natural material. This private residence offers limited public access, making exterior viewing a primary focus, but its visual lessons are profound.

Carson Mansion: Eureka's Exuberant Ascent

If the previous examples represent the more classical interpretations of vertical Italianate, then the Carson Mansion in Eureka, California, is the style's exuberant, maximalist grandchild. Built between 1884 and 1886 by the Newsom brothers, Samuel and Joseph, for lumber baron William Carson, this structure is a wild, joyful mashup of Victorian styles, but its vertical emphasis is undeniable and utterly dominant. Forget subtle hints; this building screams its height, primarily through its colossal, off-center tower, soaring an astonishing 103 feet above the ground. The Carson Mansion isn't just tall; it's intricately, almost obsessively, detailed to emphasize that height. Redwood strips, or "sticks," articulate the tower and rear sections, creating a decorative device that underscores vertical rhythms from one story to the next. You'll see repeated vertical framing elements, almost like exaggerated pilasters. The tower itself is a riot of arched windows and complex fenestration patterns, each adding to the upward visual journey. Steep gables adorned with Victorian Gothic barge boards—those elaborately carved boards along the eaves of a gable—further push the eye skyward. This mansion challenges the very definition of Italianate, blending its elements with Queen Anne, Eastlake, and Stick Style details, but the core drive for verticality, however reinterpreted, remains. As a private club, the interior is not accessible to the public, so your best bet is to admire its flamboyant exterior from a respectful distance. It's a testament to late-19th-century American ambition, a destination worth seeking out for its sheer audacity alone.

The Language of Height: Unpacking Verticality's Secrets

What threads connect these disparate buildings across the American landscape, allowing them to communicate a shared vertical intent? It's more than just a tall tower; it's a careful orchestration of several architectural elements. The most striking commonality is the fenestration pattern: tall, narrow windows, frequently arched or segmentally arched, often grouped in twos or threes. These aren't just openings; they're meticulously framed with thick, decorative hoods and elaborate moldings, each opening distinctively. This combination of height and articulation makes the windows feel like stretched canvases, pulling the facade upwards. Then there are the roofs. While low-pitched or flat roofs with deep overhanging eaves supported by heavy decorative brackets and corbels are hallmarks of Italianate, in these vertical examples, they serve a crucial contrasting role. They create strong horizontal visual breaks that, paradoxically, emphasize the vertical thrust of the towers and window arrangements, rather than diminishing them. It’s like a visual pause that allows the eye to appreciate the height more fully. The towers and cupolas themselves are, naturally, the most distinctive vertical organizing elements. Whether square or octagonal, they rise prominently, often featuring grouped windows—typically in threes, or small arcades—arranged vertically to create rhythmic, ascending lines. An architect once described the effect as if "someone was pulling the top of the building up, and as if the building was made of putty, as it stretched upwards, the windows and door frames became narrower and attenuated." That visual illusion of stretching, of being pulled thin, is central to the vertical Italianate experience. Even subtle decorative elements play a part: the careful arrangement of quoins, the distinctive, often contrasting blocks at building corners, and the vertical window surrounds and molded window heads all reinforce this upward momentum. It's a sophisticated visual rhythm, one that challenges the typical understanding of Italianate as purely grounded and expansive, revealing instead a surprising and delightful ambition to touch the clouds.

Why These Upward Reaches Still Resonate Today

Visiting these Italianate marvels offers more than a glimpse into 19th-century aesthetics; it provides a tangible connection to an era of immense architectural experimentation in America. What truly makes these sites worth the detour, beyond their historical pedigree, is how they defy our preconceived notions. We expect Italianate to be staid, predictable, a comfortable echo of Tuscan villas. But these buildings, with their pronounced verticality, remind us that architectural styles are never static. They are living, breathing entities, constantly reinterpreted and adapted to local tastes, technologies, and ambitions. Take a moment to compare the relative restraint of Blandwood with the baroque explosion that is the Carson Mansion. You’re witnessing a stylistic evolution, a journey from initial adaptation to audacious reinterpretation. These aren’t just pretty buildings; they are architectural arguments, asserting a distinctly American grandiloquence. They challenge us to look beyond the obvious, to notice the subtle proportional shifts, the deliberate grouping of windows, the strategic placement of a tower that elevates the entire composition. When planning your visit, be mindful of accessibility; while exterior views are often easy, interior tours often require booking in advance, especially for Blandwood. For the Edward King House and Carson Mansion, appreciate them from the public spaces, as they remain private. Each offers a unique lesson in architectural vision, urging us to look up, and truly see.