Nowhere better illustrates Vancouver's brief history, and its transition from a city of labour into a city of leisure, than Yaletown and its immediate surroundings. New towers gleam against the sky as if freshly burnished with spit and polish, rising from the distant memories of wooden, working-class rowhouses. Expensive cars wend their way down narrow streets over the ghosts of railway tracks, wary of pedestrians weaving in and out of designer boutiques and swank eateries.
Late in the 19th century, the Canadian Pacific Railway relocated its mechanical and repair facilities from Yale in the Fraser Canyon to the northeast end of False Creek (hence Yaletown's name), and sweating workmen toiled on loading docks where people now line outdoor cafés. Less obvious are the alterations going on behind the façades and windows of what were once storehouses of industry. Some, like the McMaster Building at 1180 Homer, are being transformed into luxurious, loft-style living quarters for people with deep pockets. When its renovation is completed in fall 2005, the McMaster will be among the city's most exclusive warehouse conversions.
John Bingham moved here from England in the sleepy '70s, when Yaletown was low-rise and lifeless, False Creek was an industrial wasteland, and the West End had supplanted its grand early-20th-century homes with monochromatic skyscrapers seemingly made for Sarajevo. He is enthusiastic about the district's recovery over the last decade. A partner with Howard Bingham Hill Architects, he is designing the McMaster's renovation for owner Rick Illich, under the auspices of Townline, a Richmond-based residential-development company. Bingham's firm renovated the Murchie's Building (1912) down the street, and designed the Oscar and Hamilton buildings a few shops, salons, and cappuccino bars away.
Standing in the spring sunshine as noontime traffic courses by, Bingham regards the Homer Street side of the boarded-up, five-storey, Edwardian-era warehouse. "They don't build them like they used to," he says. "And sometimes that's a good thing."
He's referring to the original contractors' use of substandard brick and limestone. Back then, builders were more interested in speed than durability, and failed to estimate the degrading effects of a moist West Coast climate. While the imported, high-quality, white-glazed brick façade on Homer remains intact, the cheaper brickwork on the building's rear Hamilton Street aspect was long ago covered in tar to prevent chunks from falling onto hapless shippers and receivers. Fortunately, some sturdy local materials were also employed.
"We're preserving the heavy fir posts, beams, and floorboards as features," says Bingham, patting a gargantuan wood pillar inside the building.
Along the floor and walls, a montage of graffiti and pigeon residue testify to the long, narrow space's most recent occupants. If this were a Hollywood movie, at any moment two pockmarked, ponytailed hit men would emerge from the freight elevator's wire cage, greasily mumbling vendettas. But let's not kill the architect just yet. He and the interior-design team at Graham & deAraujo Design Studio have a lot of work to do in order to turn things around from blue collar to blue blood. The final result will contain 15 two-bedroom units--including a penthouse--and, on the main floor, an upscale retailer. Over the phone, Illich had described his target market as empty-nesters, singles "starting over", individuals and couples who want a downtown experience with quality amenities, and public figures who crave privacy and low-profile lodgings. Prices range from $619,000 to almost $1.8 million.
Cinematic clichés aside, heritage redevelopment isn't all that different from creating celluloid magic. You have to reshape historical values for modern tastes. The McMaster's external detailing hasn't changed much and must be refurbished with materials and colours in keeping with the city of Vancouver's Heritage Agreement. The interior, though, has seen some notable reincarnations over time and requires major reconstruction to make it not just suitable for contemporary living, but spectacular.
Built in 1910 by local entrepreneur James McMaster, it houses stockrooms that were, at various times, piled with bedding and stationery unloaded off trains, and later trucks, onto the Hamilton Street loading dock. A storefront housed a variety of businesses over the years, including a Royal Bank. In 1945, three firefighters tackling a blaze were killed when heavy machinery crashed through the second floor. Miraculously, much of the solid-wood skeleton withstood the conflagration and was raised so that floors ran level with those of the building on its southern flank. Consequently, bottom windowsills currently languish beneath floor level. This is one of several anomalies that will be corrected before tenants move in.
Although the building's façade will whisper of days gone by, the interior will wave the past farewell and focus on future buyers. That means high-end, contemporary accessories and finishes, not to mention Yaletown's first private car elevator. New Urbanists, who celebrate mixed-use buildings, promote living, working historical sites that contribute to a city's livelihood, rather than static preservation. But they are torn about how to finance and maintain heritage structures such as this. Truth is, inner-city heritage redevelopment costs more than tearing the whole building down and starting from scratch. To offset expenses, sometimes the city can offer developers incentives like tax holidays, zoning relaxation, and other carrots.
But sometimes that's not enough. Without support from all levels of government for heritage, affordable housing in historical buildings will remain elusive. Catering to affluent consumers is one way of ensuring that we maintain at least some vestiges of the past, which is pretty important in a young town like ours. The McMaster Building tells us something about where we've been, and, more importantly, where we're headed. Someone's got to pay for the conversation.
http://www.straight.com/node/1927
