Chicago Public Library, reading room in water tank, 1873
Trauma at the scale of affecting a city unquestionably creates unique circumstances. In regards to architecture, it is sort of unmatched in that trauma often forces some sort of translation. More than just a response, which could be seen as verbatim restoration to what formerly existed, traumas often incite feelings of potentialities and create opportunities for what could come next. Of course, this is not always immediate and is only after the dust literally (and metaphorically) settles. The Chicago fire came in 1871 and decimated four square miles of land, destroying nearly all the buildings in this area and leaving approximately one‐third of the city’s population homeless. And yet, re‐
building was surprisingly optimistic, largely due to the widely read newspaper, the Chicago Tribune, which provided reassurance and a common goal: come back stronger. Through many buildings, but particularly the Chicago Public Library (1873), Chicago attempted to translate its identity post‐fire. There appear to be two reasons for this endeavor. First, it was an opportunity to use a building to hold a mirror to society, thus also a reflection of the self. Secondly, the finished building can also act outwardly, and become a projection of something to the rest of the world. In the case of the Chicago Public Library, it could have been built anywhere in the city, or placed in a purpose‐built newly constructed building. The fact that Chicago placed it in an existing water tank made a strong statement, and translated ideas of perseverance and resilience in the face of tragedy into a physical structure. An attempt to imbue values into the built environment is hardly limited to post‐ traumatic situations, but perhaps it comes with a stronger sense of urgency. Translatability following trauma comes as sort of a paradox. It could be easy to think that the Genius loci idea would be pertinent, in that there would be some sort of lingering character of the place cemented in extreme circumstances that would make translation difficult if not impossible. However, rather than the architecture being overly situated in time and space, one could argue that the lines are already blurred because it was already translated first by the trauma. Trauma at this scale often comes with obvious physical changes to the environment, such as destruction of buildings and infrastructure, but it also brings disruption to social and cultural systems. This creates a forced distance for the community for re‐examination, it becomes more than just a horrible physical event but becomes about the experience following the event and how one will react to it. Trauma tends to dislocate architecture, forcing it to re‐instill its multiple meanings. In the case of Chicago, the city was dubbed the “Second City” for two reasons. The first, because it was (at the time) the second most populous city in the United States, but it was also a city that had been built, destroyed, then rebuilt again. This ‘phoenix‐ complex’ is a huge source of pride for Chicagoans, and this optimistic spirit first found roots through the Chicago Public Library and reached the pinnacle of tangibility in 1885, towards the end of this rebuilding period, when Chicago embodied this spirit in building the first skyscraper.