One piece of writing advice often given is to “make the setting into a character.” While the vivid depiction of time and place is appreciated, equating location with character has always felt somewhat inaccurate. Character is character, and setting is setting. However, my perspective shifted when I encountered the 96-year-old, eight-story Italianate building at 1205 West Sherwin Avenue. This majestic edifice, a regal presence in Rogers Park, challenged my long-held bias.
Sherwin on the Lake, as it’s known, is a name that evokes a sense of place, much like Stratford-upon-Avon. On a memorable night over a decade ago, strolling through the neighborhood, I first encountered her. Her aura of worldly glamour drifted across the sidewalk, reminiscent of a sophisticated older woman’s perfume. Like meeting a captivating individual, the Sherwin charmed with her harmonious entirety, an allure that made one want to linger.
Over the years, my wanderings through the city’s northern reaches repeatedly drew me back to the Sherwin. Towering above Lake Michigan, almost leaning as if it were the prow of a grand ship, she surveys the lake from sunrise to moonrise, through snow and rain. Steadfast, she observes every grain of sand on her private beach, each swimmer in the waves, each passing boat. Exuding a hard-earned charisma, undeniably human, the Sherwin is the kind of place that prompts the thought: “If only this building could talk!” And then, one day, she did, in a way.
In the late summer of 2020, during a particularly lonely pandemic day, a friend shared a 34-page document: Property History Quest Report: The Story of the Home at 1205 West Sherwin Avenue. Published in March by the Rogers Park/West Ridge Historical Society, it was commissioned by Brian Allemana and Amy McKeever, presumably residents of the building. The historical society, my friend explained, was giving buildings in the neighborhood, including the Sherwin, a voice through the Property History Quest. For a fee, volunteer researchers delve into every conceivable document related to a chosen residence – original titles and deeds, initial construction permits, decades of classified ads, newspaper articles about notable residents, and other historical fragments. Months later, they produce the building’s life story. And so, I began to eagerly read about Sherwin on the Lake.
The Sherwin building stands proudly in Rogers Park, Chicago, showcasing its architectural grandeur.
The land upon which the Sherwin stands was once part of the Birchwood Beach subdivision of 1890, advertised as a blend of peaceful living with easy access to downtown via train or the newly paved Sheridan Road. Following World War I, as housing demand increased, affluent city dwellers began to favor residential hotels, offering on-site shopping and dining, and a life free from “household cares and servant worries,” as American Builder magazine described it.
If the Sherwin had a father, it would be Walter W. Ahlschlager, a prominent Chicago architect known for his residential hotels and innovative movie palaces. (His portfolio includes the Logan Theatre, Davis Theater, InterContinental Hotel, and the Pierre condominium building.) Ahlschlager, in collaboration with developer Vernon C. McGill, envisioned the Hotel Sherwin as comprising 119 apartments with one, two, or three bedrooms. The building would feature an art deco lobby, boat storage, and a veranda stretching half a block, overlooking the beach. For the urban resort’s exterior, the architect chose an Italian Renaissance style – “the architecture of optimism during the Industrial Revolution,” as the Property History Quest report notes. He adorned her with lavish details: a public dining room designed like a sunken garden, the Triton Room for gentlemen’s card games, and the Orangerie, a solarium and lounge for ladies. Prestressed concrete was selected as the building material, allowing the hotel to be promoted as fireproof, a compelling selling point in a city still marked by the memory of the Great Chicago Fire.
Completed in 1924 and lauded by both the public and architectural critics, the Sherwin enjoyed early fame. National Magazine declared it unmatched in luxury among Lake Michigan hotels. It boasted the unique convenience of residents being able to “change into his bathing suit in his apartment, get to the main floor and be on the beach in less time than it takes for his bathtub to fill.” It was hailed as a work of art, “a veritable fairyland.”
Despite its rapid initial occupancy, the new hotel, which exceeded its initial $1.7 million budget by hundreds of thousands, faced fleeting popularity. In 1925, McGill sold the property to the Henry J. Stoops Hotel Company for $1.3 million, a significant loss. From that point onward, the report indicates, “rental rates dropped, based on classified ads from 1925 to 1979, never returning to the original levels.”
The private beach of The Sherwin provided residents with exclusive lakeside access in the 1930s and 1940s.
The chronicles embedded within the Sherwin’s walls detail not only her own fortunes but also the broader narrative of her neighborhood, city, and the nation—its booms and busts, gentrification and decline, and ethnic and economic shifts. In early 1929, the Edgewater Athletic Club, whose prestigious members were frequently mentioned in society and sports pages, established its premises in the Hotel Sherwin. Its presence reflects both the widespread enthusiasm for clubs and sporting organizations in America during the 1910s and 20s, and the pervasive racism and anti-Semitism of the era. Despite the architect himself being of German Jewish heritage, early advertisements for the club explicitly stated “Gentiles Only.”
As history would reveal, being opulent and over budget on the cusp of the Great Depression was far from ideal. Yet, the hotel weathered the economic storms of the ensuing years with a certain resilience. As I delved deeper into the Property History Quest report, I felt like I was exploring a shadow box of stories, revealing a portrait of the Sherwin as a composed hostess, unfazed by the passage of time. She seemed to invite me to relax beside her, sink my feet into the sand, and listen to her tales of the people she’s known – the residents who have come and gone, the geniuses, the eccentrics, and the everyday individuals whose joys and sorrows form the rich foundation of continuously inhabited urban spaces.
The Sherwin could recount the February 1934 incident when residents had to evacuate due to a fire causing $6,000 in damage. “A search of the basement … revealed a cache of oil-soaked rags in a storeroom, clear evidence of arson,” leading authorities to attribute the act to a recently fired employee who had made threats against the hotel.
But the Sherwin also holds stories of a community maintaining high spirits despite the Depression’s gloom. In July 1931, for instance, the Chicago Daily Tribune reported on the hotel’s resident monkey. Snookie, a ringtail monkey owned by Billie Forgey, was known for his “decided likes and dislikes.” Forgey told the reporter that Snookie, if displeased with a guest, was “just as apt as not to break a phonograph record over his head,” which was unfortunate for the guest and “bad on the record supply.”
Five years later, in June, the traditional wedding month, the hotel made headlines again. This time, it was for an engagement party for resident Rosemary White, fiancée of Chicago Bears end and assistant coach Luke Johnsos. The event was hosted by White’s employer, the Peoples Gas Light and Coke Company.
The Sherwin has stood steadfast as her narratives spanned genres: comedy and tragedy, romance and farce, political exposé and even mystery. In 1944, Sherwin residents Mildred Roloff and Ann Gerber spotted a car on nearby Chase Avenue with a human hand and foot dangling from its trunk. The driver emerged, shoved the limbs back inside, and sped away. Alarmed, the women reported the “murder car” to the police, who traced the license plate to Gus Knobloch’s auto repair shop on Birchwood Avenue. The mechanic admitted knowing the car’s owner, George Newman, well. “As a matter of fact just today I was inside the car’s trunk trying to find the source of a rattle while George drove the car around the neighborhood,” he confessed. After “exchanging wry glances with his colleagues,” the report reads, an officer named Drury declared the case closed.
Like any skilled storyteller, the Sherwin appreciates gossip. Consider the “Toothpick-Wielding Detective in a Messy Non-Divorce,” the story of James B. Mosher, a young “scientific farmer” who inherited several farms and was sued for divorce in 1933 by his “comely brunette” wife on grounds of adultery. He promptly accused her of the same, which she denied. Mosher hired a private detective to monitor their Sherwin apartment. Late one night, after one of the wife’s alleged lovers entered the apartment, the detective placed a toothpick between the door and doorjamb. In court, he testified that upon returning at 7:30 AM, the toothpick was still in place, proving the gentleman caller had remained overnight. Witnesses presented extensive evidence against both parties, leading the judge to deny the divorce, stating both were equally culpable and deserved each other. They apparently reconciled, as seven years later, the Tribune announced the engagement of their daughter, Janet, a Goodman Theater School student, noting her parents resided together at 1205 West Sherwin Avenue.
The Sherwin also knows when to name-drop, holding a special affection for artists. June Leaf, renowned for her abstract allegorical paintings and kinetic sculptures, lived at the Sherwin during her first gallery show at the University of Illinois’s Navy Pier campus in 1950. She soon moved to New York and married photographer Robert Frank. Another artist, perhaps less acclaimed but more widely seen, John M. Downs, also called the Sherwin home. He was a courtroom sketch artist whose work regularly appeared in the Chicago Daily News and the Sun-Times, notably his depictions of Richard Speck, John Wayne Gacy, and the Chicago Seven.
A vintage classified ad from the Tribune newspaper announces the opening of The Sherwin as a luxury hotel in Rogers Park.
Versed in science too, the Sherwin can tell you about Émil H. Grubbé, a pioneer in X-ray technology, who resided there in the 1950s. According to a 1946 Chicago Medical Society bulletin, Grubbé was the first to treat a patient with X-rays. Conducting many experiments on himself, by 1958 he had undergone 91 surgeries to repair radiation damage to his face and hands. He passed away in 1960 at 85, shortly after his 93rd operation.
Like many Chicagoans, the Sherwin is accustomed to corruption. In 1962, resident Thomas Selwyn, an assistant foreman at the City Bureau of Sewers, was investigated for allegedly working part-time for two companies holding sanitary district contracts. She is also fascinated by politics, or at least its dramatic aspects. In 1968, residents Alan Feldman and Cynthia Stannard were arrested for planning to bomb two Loop department stores during a peace march commemorating the one-month anniversary of the clashes between anti-war protestors and police at the Democratic National Convention. The couple received a lenient sentence of five years’ probation.
Holding onto hope for the future, the Sherwin cherishes the story of a baby boy born in 1979, who chose “the coldest, snowiest night to arrive.” Born to Rita and Andy Mueller, the baby came earlier than expected. The Muellers contacted the building’s owner, Victor Vaccaro, to ask if they could use his truck to reach the hospital during the now-legendary blizzard. However, the truck wouldn’t start. While Andy was out on Sheridan Road seeking help, he missed the delivery. Vaccaro and other neighbors assisted in delivering the baby, weighing seven pounds and four ounces.
The grand lobby of The Sherwin in Rogers Park, showcasing its timeless elegance and architectural details.
“Do not open door for strangers,” read the sign at the entrance of Sherwin on the Lake when I visited, hoping to enter. As if prompted by the building herself, a departing resident disregarded the rule, and I found myself in the opulent lobby. The ballroom-like ambiance remained strong, even without the dances.
Moving through the lobby, I felt the palpable spirit of the place. Explore, it seemed to say, make yourself at home. Like a breeze through a screen, I made my way to the majestic veranda: kayaks, cottonwood trees, café tables, and blood-red geraniums in bas-relief pots. It felt like Miramare Castle in Trieste, or a slightly faded Eastern European resort after summer’s end. Twilight descended with a gentle melancholy, a pastel sunset painting the sky in violet hues. Families played in the water, and residents conversed along the terrace.
Heading back out, I noticed a condo ad in the foyer, listing the same enticements as countless others over the past nine decades. It advertised modern conveniences and luxury touches typical of real estate listings. Yet, I knew the Sherwin offered something more: a touch of extravagance, a hint of excess – glamour.
Glamour, of course, is glamorous because it is ephemeral. “Glamour” is always accompanied by the potential to “fade.” A romantic attractiveness, often illusory, glamour works as enchantment, fascination, bewitchment. Etymologically, “glamour” originates from the Scottish phrase “to cast the glamor,” where glamor is the Scots word for a spell. The Sherwin had cast her spell on me.
Mystically, after my clandestine visit, while casually browsing a Google map of Rogers Park, a label appeared over the Sherwin’s digital footprint: Soulrise Astrology. Clicking the link led to the website of astrologer Brian Allemana. Suddenly, I recalled: his name was on the Property History Quest report!
Brian Allemana, a resident of The Sherwin, shares his perspective on the building’s unique charm and community spirit.
I contacted Allemana through his website. He told me he had lived at the Sherwin since 2011, and a friend had commissioned the building’s history as a gift. He described his residency as “a magical experience of synchronicity,” marked “by times I needed something I didn’t know that I needed and someone or something from the building provided it.” He recounted an instance of feeling lonely and depressed before meeting his wife, when he found a notice on the Sherwin’s bulletin board announcing “Sing-Along on Friday Night.” It turned out to be a lively gathering of residents with guitars and lyric sheets. “I just ended up going and connecting with a bunch of people,” he said. “Like, wow, I didn’t know I needed that.”
Of this Sherwinian serendipity, Allemana observed, “This building seems to pull people in, and holds a space for them as they go through some crisis or deep transformation.”
When I suggested the building’s May 1st birthday makes her a Taurus, Allemana readily agreed. Taurus, he explained, relates to durability and strength. “This feels like a Taurean building. Taurus doesn’t like change. Everything changes, but there’s a lot about the building that hasn’t changed. Little bits and pieces, even the tile on the ballroom floor, not all of it, but portions are still original.”
If the building were a person, Allemana mused, “it would be a kind of older grandfatherly figure, someone very generous who has a lot of stories to tell, who knows how to make people smile. Who can be a little irascible. And kind of demanding, like ‘You have to earn my graces a little bit,’ but once you do, he’s very loyal.”
In humanistic geography, “space” is abstract, measurable, but lacking personal meaning. “Place,” however, is how humans connect and are drawn to a specific space. A place is a space imbued with meaning, formed by human social connections. Perhaps this is what Allemana meant by “something spontaneous that happens here that I don’t know if I could quite put into words.”
Another perspective of The Sherwin’s lobby, highlighting its architectural details and inviting atmosphere.
Over time, I’ve come to see the Sherwin less as a person and more as a ghost – a presence that remains as history progresses. All old urban buildings, not just the Sherwin, embody ideas of a past era, places of countless lived lives and dreamt dreams. A historic building is where history has occurred, but also where history hasn’t – unlike the surrounding cityscape, constantly rebuilt and reshaped by progress. This is the paradox of the historic building.
One constant for the Sherwin, as long as she stands, is her unobstructed lake view, though one day, rising waters may claim her. Until then, the Sherwin will endure, seemingly still yet evoking motion, a steadfast edifice amidst crashing waves.
And even if, heaven forbid, the Sherwin were to fall, her stories would remain – like tracing paper, layers upon layers, palimpsests upon palimpsests – echoes of the past that can never be fully erased.
