The Park School Building at 50

Revisiting a Heroic Structure: An Architectural Historian Outlines Its Significance by Amanda Reeser Lawrence, PhD

FOR OVER 50 YEARS, THE PARK SCHOOL HAS BEEN AHEAD OF ITS TIME. THIS HOLDS TRUE FOR ITS STUDENT-CENTERED EDUCATIONAL PHILOSOPHY, BUT IT ALSO HOLDS TRUE IN ANOTHER AREA: ITS ARCHITECTURE.

I IMAGINE THAT MANY of you reading that first paragraph wonder if we are talking about the same building. The concrete and brick structure at 171 Goddard Avenue? Yes, that one. Not only is the building considered a significant architectural achievement—a prominent example of what is commonly referred to as “Brutalist” architecture—it was also borne of a set of values that still drive the school today: community, authenticity, progressivism, and diversity.

The term Brutalism does not naturally suggest the warmth and welcome one would expect in a building created to nurture young learners. However, as every visitor discovers when walking through the hallways with light pouring down from skylights above, or touring the multi-level library at the heart of the structure, or perhaps most of all when encountering the whir and whiz of 4-yearolds and 14-year-olds bustling through its connected spaces, the building is the opposite of “brutal”—it’s warm and welcoming, full of life and energy.

This was exactly the intention of the architects, Earl Flansburgh + Associates, when they designed the building 50 years ago. The “new” Park School building opened on September 23, 1971. This milestone in the building’s life provides an opportunity to explore the original aspirations of the architects and the ways in which they still resonate today and into the future.

“Brutalism” was first coined in the late 1950s, though from its inception the outlines of the style were ambiguous. Indeed the only consistent attribute of Brutalism was its material. Brutalist buildings were constructed of concrete: more specifically, of unfinished or “exposed” concrete. Arguably the first Brutalist building was the Unité d’Habitation (1), in Marseille, France, designed by the leading Swiss/ French architect Le Corbusier, in 1952. A massive 18-story residential housing complex constructed entirely out of concrete, the project functions as a self-contained vertical city for 1,600 occupants, complete with a school and a commercial street. Le Corbusier used concrete for the structure because it was widely available and relatively inexpensive after World War II and he left the concrete rough—with visible traces of the wooden formwork that had served as the mold—as a way to save on labor. He used the phrase “beton brut”—meaning “raw concrete”—which was bastardized in its English translation as “Brutalist.” Brutalist architecture, however, was never intended to be “brute” or “brutal.” Rather, its exposed concrete surfaces were understood as an honest and authentic expression of the building’s materiality, and they represented an important shift away from not only traditional architectural styles but also from the “machine-age” or “international style” modernism of the inter-war period. After the destruction wrought by the War at the hands of technology, a shift to more “humane” architectural language was seen as an ethical imperative.

(1) Unité d’Habitation in Marseille, France, designed by Le Corbusier in 1952.

Photograph by Andy Wright distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license, 2005.

This “New Brutalism” was soon embraced by architects around the world, but nowhere more enthusiastically than in Boston. This was partly because Le Corbusier’s only building in the United States—the Carpenter Center for the Visual Arts (2)— was constructed at Harvard University in the early 1960s (though here the concrete is lisse (“smooth”) rather than brut (“rough”). It can also be attributed to a boom in the Boston real estate market in the late 1960s as a powerful new mayor and leadership in the Boston Redevelopment Authority exploited federal funding sources and urban renewal policies to develop areas including the West End, Government Center, and the Central Artery. For these government officials and planners, as well as their architects, the monumental architectural language of concrete embodied the goals of the “New Boston.” Notable among the concrete buildings constructed during this time were the Christian Science Center (3) complex by I.M. Pei & Partners (1964–73); The Government Service Center (now the Hurley Building) (4) by Paul Rudolph (1962–1971); Peabody Terrace (5) by Sert, Jackson & Associates (1958–1967), and of course, Boston City Hall (6), designed by firm Kallmann, McKinnell and Knowles (1962–69).

(2) Carpenter Center at Harvard University, designed by Le Corbusier in 1963.

Photograph by Gunnar Klack, distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license, 2018.

(3) Boston’s First Church of Christ Scientist Colonnade Building and Reflection Pool were designed by Araldo Cossutta for the architectural firm of I. M. Pei in 1973.

Photograph by Rizka, distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license, 2014.

(4) Government Services Building in Boston, designed by Paul Rudolph in 1962.

Photograph by Marcbela, distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license, 2009.

(5) Harvard University’s Peabody Terrace Apartments in Cambridge, designed by Sert, Jackson & Associates in 1964.

Photograph by Daderot, distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license, 2012.

Boston Brutalist architecture was, and remains, a controversial style. For many architects, buildings such as City Hall are to be counted among the best of the twentieth century; in 1969 it was awarded the Boston Society of Architects’ Harleston Parker Medal, given annually to “the most beautiful piece of architecture, building, monument or structure within the city.” For others, however, they are eyesores. Many have already been demolished—including the Martin Luther King Elementary School (1968–1971) designed by Sert (a Catalan architect who was dean of the Harvard Graduate School of Design and Le Corbusier’s protegee)—or are under threat of demolition. Former Boston Mayors Thomas Menino and later Marty Walsh both lobbied to have Boston City Hall sold and demolished if necessary, arguing that the city government should move to the newly developing waterfront, and that the building was “cold and unfriendly.” Both were ultimately unsuccessful, and the building remains, but the public debates around the possible demolition of City Hall exposed divided opinions as to the aesthetic and urban values of Brutalist architecture.

(6) Boston City Hall designed by Kallman, McKinnell and Knowles in 1962.

Photograph by Daderot, distributed under a CC-BY 2.0 license 2013.

What is often lost in these debates is the recognition of the values underlying Brutalist architecture. Not only were these buildings understood as honest and authentic material expressions, they were also seen to exemplify truly radical and progressive architectural ideals. Indeed, a group of architectural historians has recently argued that “Heroic” is a more apt and accurate description of these works. These structures were not only bold and dramatic, they embodied radical democratic ideals, and a mandate for change. The construction of Boston City Hall in particular signaled a departure from the “old Boston” where cronyism and corruption ran rampant. And though today some may find these buildings historically incongruous, their material qualities–solid masonry construction, monolithic character, and use of deep profiles and shadows–were intended to resonate with age-old architectural qualities. Moreover, unlike previous architectural styles which had served the elite, and which represented antiquated ideological viewpoints, Brutalism was understood as a broadly democratic architectural language: one that was open to all, requiring no knowledge of past styles.

Which brings us back to Flansburgh’s design for The Park School on Goddard Avenue—a building designed at the height of the Brutalist period, and which capitalized on its democratic and progressive ideals.

Earl Flansburgh, the architect who designed 171 Goddard Avenue, completed more than 200 educational facilities during his 45+ year career. He served as president of the Boston Society of Architects (BSA) in 1981, was recognized with the BSA Award of Honor in 1999, and was known for his support for young professionals and women architects. His firm, Flansburgh Associates, is committed to the ideal that “a well-designed building improves the quality of our lives.” In his honor, the BSA and members of the Flansburgh family co-sponsor the Earl R. Flansburgh Young Designers Award, which recognizes design excellence by an architect under 40.

(Source: www.architects.org/members/honors-and-awards/ earl-r-flansburgh-young-designers-award)

The Park School moved to its current location on Goddard Avenue in 1971, having outgrown its former location on Kennard Street (now the location of Brookline’s Lincoln School). The Faulkner family had generously donated 14 acres of sylvan land, which was almost four times as large as the Kennard property, and once the funds were secured (no small feat given the economic climate of the late 1960s and early 1970s), the Board set about looking for an architect. They chose Earl Flansburgh, a relative newcomer to the profession, who had received his Master of Architecture degree from MIT in 1957 and founded his firm, Earl R. Flansburgh + Associates (ERF+A), less than a decade earlier in 1963. By all accounts the selection was a success: not only was ERF+A less expensive than other firms, but the project came in ahead of schedule and under budget.

By the late 60s, Park had outgrown its original location on Kennard Road.

The site chosen for the building was atop a hill on the southeastern corner of the land—offering spectacular views across the wooded property along with a nearly impenetrable base of Roxbury Conglomerate or “puddingstone,” the distinctive sedimentary rock unique to the region. Locating the building here necessitated extensive dynamiting and drilling to establish the foundation footings, but the architects were careful to leave traces of the stone. In the front entrance hall the impressive puddingstone boulders have provided generations of Park students with climbing opportunities (and a fair number of scrapes as well!) The puddingstone weaves its way in and around the building’s courtyards and perimeter as well, its soft gray color and pebbled aggregate echoed in the concrete structure.

Creating the “new” Park School from January 1970–September 1971.

The building’s structure is concrete frame, infilled with concrete block and brick infill walls. Portions of the building’s exterior are solid concrete—notably the stair towers—though here the texture of concrete is relatively smooth (like Le Corbusier’s Carpenter Center), dotted with small irregularities and air pockets. What would otherwise be an imposing building mass was broken up by the architects through the use of multiple volumes—including the theater, gymnasium, classrooms, and the concrete stair towers, which also creates a variety of spatial experiences both inside and outside the building. The treatment of the building’s exterior also creates interesting patterns and shadow, as the horizontal bands of concrete play off of the darker brick walls. An innovative facade strategy pairs deep overhangs and stepped levels to create volumetric interest (while also providing shade to the classrooms behind.) The front of the building is raised on “pilotis”— concrete piers that effectively “lift” the building off the ground, and provide a clearly delineated entrance.

The new school is to be in the shape of an inverted P, with the main entrance near the middle of the shaft, facing southwest to Goddard Avenue. Mary Nickerson, writing in The Park Parent, January 1969

Moving through the building is a bit like driving in Boston: there are many ways to get to any location, and everyone has their preferred route! After coming up the dramatically toplit main entrance stair to the second level, the visitor or student can either continue up the dramatic central staircase, or move along the corridor that runs from end to end. The architects designed this central spine to provide access to classrooms, but also thought of it as more than a corridor, widening it at points to create designated project areas. At the center of the School is the Library, which was conceived as the physical and spiritual “heart” of the building, and is accessed from the main stairwell, as well as the classroom wings. With all of its myriad pathways, somehow each route seems to lead to the light, and ultimately to the landscape outside.

The new Park School on Goddard Avenue will be library-centered and designed for flexibility…. Within the library, there is to be a diversity of moods to accommodate all types of individual study. This carefully planned flexibility is the soul of the new school. The Park Parent, January 1969

Connection to the landscape impacted all aspects of the building’s design. Trees were carefully preserved where possible. Enormous horizontal windows flood the southern-facing classrooms with light (while overhangs in the concrete slab prevent overexposure). And Kindergarten and first grade classrooms have direct access to their dedicated playgrounds. Throughout the building natural light floods in from above through skylights. The most dramatic toplight cascades into the triple-height entrance hall, but skylights also light the Library, as well as the as well as the six monolithic concrete stair towers, with their sharply canted/slanted tops.

This is an exciting time for Park. As we think and talk about the move, we renew our appreciation of the importance of this School. In a world where the quality of our children’s lives is threatened by crowding and by the technology of a Brave New World, the philosophy of Park has new relevance: that the individual and his development are the first value. At Park, small classes, an unfettered faculty, and an administration in immediate contact with parents and children work together for the growth of the individual child. To avoid the mediocrity of mass education, we must constantly seek new ways to encourage this growth and maintain the personal touch. Anne Prescott, Chair Board of Trustees writing in The Park Parent, December 1968

The building was completed for the start of the 1971 school year. With their impressive new structure—a runner up for the Halston Parker medal— Park was able to expand its PreK to ninth grade student body to 450 students. More than simply a means to grow larger, however, the new building provided an opportunity to create a more progressive and inclusive community. Reading through the memos leading up to the move in late 1960s, one is struck by the desire to create a larger school to allow for a more diverse student body. The School was also committed to small class sizes, and to immediate contact between students and teachers, both of which were facilitated by the new building. As an architectural style of the present— not the past—Brutalism embodied the School’s commitment to contemporary ideals of inclusion and openness, rather than a historical style that spoke to ideals from the past.

Over the past 50 years, the original Flansburgh building has been modified several times: in 1996, the West Building and pedestrian bridge were added. In 2008, another expansion created what is today the North Wing (home to Grades 4 and 5). This effort, dubbed “getting bigger to get smaller,” physically enlarged Lower Division classrooms, added 50 students in Grades 1–5, and reduced each class size from 16 to 14 students. And today the School is evolving once more: recent renovations have converted underutilized locker rooms in the original building into new classrooms, and made room for greater collaboration among students in new gathering spaces. These latest renovations by the Boston-based architectural firm Utile disprove the presumption that Brutalist buildings are difficult to renovate. In fact, the architects found the building’s design to be highly systematic, allowing them to make clever use of the concrete superstructure by opening up the non-structural infill walls (composed largely of concrete block and brick walls) through large expanses of glass. The results are new spaces opening onto the landscape filled with natural light—the same qualities that the architects sought in the original building.

Like most of you, I have not entered the building in nearly two years. I miss it. I miss giving tours to prospective parents (to whom I usually offer an abbreviated version of its Brutalist history!) and running up the main stairs to deposit a forgotten backpack. I miss the serene yet buzzing aura in the Library. I even miss getting lost in one of those top-lit concrete staircases and mistakenly ending up in the lower gym instead of the parking area. And most of all I miss being in a space that I know has such a profound impact on the way that our children learn and grow.

After half a century on Goddard Avenue, Park’s building continues to embody an ethos that goes beyond the individual architect who designed it or the style in which it was built. It is an honest and generous building, fostering connections between students, faculty, staff and community. The building may have been constructed in the style of its time, but it nevertheless remains timeless. It exemplifies the School motto “simplicity and sincerity,” and offers a powerful demonstration of how an architecture of humble materials can inspire its inhabitants.

About the author: Amanda Reeser Lawrence, PhD, is an Associate Professor of Architectural HIstory at Northeastern University, and has been a Park parent (Classes of 2020, 2023, and 2026) since 2010.