Olden days' infrastructure
Around a bend on the Chicago river stands this gleaming white palazzo: an exclusive boat club, with a high-ceilinged ballroom and a broad marble terrace, compleat with obelisk-studded balustrade for laughing ladies to langorously lean upon during swanky cocktail soirées? No. Its use becomes quite evident upon closer, uh, examination: a sewage pumping station. Once upon a time, Americans cared enough about their public realm—about civic art—to endow even the humblest of shit pumps with architectural grandeur.
(A slightly closer look reveals extensive graffiti under those arches, *on* the giant sewage pipes. Kids these days.)
Olden days' infrastructure
Around a bend on the Chicago river stands this gleaming white palazzo: an exclusive boat club, with a high-ceilinged ballroom and a broad marble terrace, compleat with obelisk-studded balustrade for laughing ladies to langorously lean upon during swanky cocktail soirées? No. Its use becomes quite evident upon closer, uh, examination: a sewage pumping station. Once upon a time, Americans cared enough about their public realm—about civic art—to endow even the humblest of shit pumps with architectural grandeur.
(A slightly closer look reveals extensive graffiti under those arches, *on* the giant sewage pipes. Kids these days.)