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Photo courtesy of the City of Philadelphia Dept. of Records
Philadelphia public schools and the condos they are slowly becoming have a distinctive look— two converging gradients of style. On the one hand, uninspired colonial boxes meld into imposing classical revival temples and narrow gothic structures which in turn meld into dramatic up-thrusting art-deco, culminating in the familiar modernist tawny brick fortress of your neighborhood elementary school. Chances are that said school fed into a middle school and a high school that looked suspiciously like it. These schools and yours, including Masterman, are mostly the work of one man, Irwin T. Catharine (1883-1944), chief architect of the School District of Philadelphia.
Catharine, whose father was a longtime Board of Education member, Union League stalwart, and one-time President of the School Board, was a fairly unsurprising pick for a district architect when hired right out of Drexel. The role was not significant. The previous architect, the grandly named Thomas DeCourcy Richards, was a one-trick Gothic pony who did not architecturally aspire for much besides Indiana Limestone trim and school names in a Gothic font above the door. Catharine, however, had bigger plans. His aims, especially after flu outbreaks and fires, were to open schools open to light and air and make them structurally sound. At the beginning of the 20th Century, Philadelphia public schools were expanding quicker than administrators had time to deal with, and Catharine was put in charge of finding quick solutions. He wanted to build modern, safe schools and impressive buildings and had all the influence to do so. Initially, he followed closer to Richards but even then showed signs of independence- especially architectural variety. While both shared a predilection for Blackletter school names and unusual front-door placements, Catharine was willing to go further than Richards in his designs. From the relatively staid and squat keystones of Rudolph Blankenburg School in Mill Creek to the utterly confusing, abashed flamboyance and ochre pillars of Cecil B. Moore’s Dunbar School, he showed a consistent taste for striking statements with strong reservations. Some statements are bolder than others (exhibit A, compare the unenthusiastically orange “Spring Garden School No. 2” with its even more unenthusiastic neighbor “Spring Garden School No. 1”), and considering that Catharine has over 130 school buildings to his credit, we are fortunate to have one of his most beautiful and unique buildings.
The most striking thing about Masterman’s listing in the National Register of Historic Places is that it lists the primary building material as limestone. Anyone who has ever graduated from Masterman or been fortunate enough to miss class to play in the graduation orchestra can attest that the building is made of marble, not limestone. Masterman—on the city, state, and national register of historic buildings—was built in 1932, at the peak of the Great Depression, as the next iteration of the Philadelphia High School for Girls. Girls’ High, established elsewhere in 1848, moved to the corner of 17th and Spring Garden in 1876. Most of the land was owned by a minor industrialist named Henry Becker, who did nothing with it, except the patio area, which was owned by the city. When Mr. Becker left for Europe, the city bought the land and gave the lots to Girls’ High, a city institution, that had overgrown its small, original campus for $1 million in 1873. On the grounds was constructed a fairly massive Gothic hulk, a cross between Roman Catholic and College Hall, with plenty of room for horse parking (hence Masterman’s foundation set back so much from the street). At the time of its construction, Girls’ High was the largest public school building in Philadelphia and the third-largest overall. This is not unusual as Masterman, occupying the exact same space (and slightly more) lies on five incongruously connected lots while most schools of the day barely used up one.
However, Masterman and Girls’ High were never properly zoned for a school and so have an educational exemption. The main lot (essentially the office, patio, and auditorium) is zoned for a multi-use residential building, while the others are the library lot and three mysterious lots that at one point were supposed to be reserved for houses are now the music rooms and the stage. The lot next door, though, was always occupied on city maps as being separate from ours. By the time Girls’ High was built and up into much of the 20th century, the neighborhood was industrial and our dear neighbors to the East were the Lebanon Smelting Works and a furniture factory. This remained in some sort until 1933 when the Wills Eye Hospital moved in next door and built the present Colonnade in an equally sober classical vein to the just-built Masterman. This clearly resolves the question of who copied whom.
Photo courtesy of the City of Philadelphia Dept. of Records
Masterman as a building is relatively unusual in Catharine’s oeuvre due to its plan. While familiar details abound, like large windows, a roof for recess, a large cafeteria, etc., the H-shaped plan was practical for many reasons. First, the constraints of the narrow lot and zoning made one of Catharine’s signature fortresses impractical, especially during the Depression when building supplies were limited. Also, the building needed exits. Catharine’s previous buildings often had a central staircase, while Masterman has four. Girls’ High’s old building had been gutted by fire several years before and a new building, with proper exits, was necessary, hence Masterman’s staircase-tower-based design and aesthetic practicality. Not everything succeeds: Staircase 2 is a design failure and despite being the brightest staircase, does not actually go anywhere. The hallways in the basement, to accommodate thicker foundation walls, are narrower, and whoever built the gym should be sued. While schools shaped around gyms and auditoriums are fairly common, submerged patios are incredibly unusual in Philadelphia, as well as the trees, which are fairly consistent with Masterman’s original landscaping. Girls’ High was a cramped, fairly dark, treeless building and Catharine made sure that the new school would be bright (hence the outsize windows), open, and flexible. Interestingly, Masterman was one of the first high schools in the country to have partition walls and changeable classroom sizes- though the only classroom that retains its original use is Rm. 104, which was originally the music room. Everywhere that a mens’ or boys’ restroom is now was once a classroom or office, which explains the inconsistent side of the hallway, while girls’ bathrooms have not changed spots since 1932 (and are all on the same side). Interestingly, Catharine’s most lasting contributions to school architecture were indoor school bathrooms. Masterman’s boys’ bathrooms used to be classrooms (which explains the strange size of 305), closets, and offices. Every Spring Garden-facing faculty office used to have a balcony as well- it is unclear what happened to them. Masterman never also seems to have had showers in the locker rooms, a rarity for schools of the time but has retained the same hardwood banisters and marble, giving it a retail value of $17 million in today’s market.
Having undergone many renovations (but still possessing a fallout shelter), Masterman mostly resembles, from the exterior, Irwin T. Catharine’s original plan, including the Girls’ High motto, which graces the front of the patio. While not a masterwork of Modern Architecture, Masterman school is a highlight in the oeuvre of Philadelphia’s most ubiquitous unknown architect. Unlike most other district schools in its design and academic orientation, Masterman stands out for a plan and execution that dare to be different and in their own curious way, save staircase 2, excellent.
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