Modernity, Rising: 'Lifted: A Cultural History of the Elevator'

Lifted is an absorbing exploration into how the introduction of elevators into buildings transformed cities and the experience of living and working in them.

Lifted: A Cultural History of the Elevator

Publisher: New York University Press
Length: 320 pages
Author: Andreas Bernard
Price: $35.00
Format: Hardcover
Publication date: 2014-02
Three elevator doors in corridor of office building image from

The world we live in has been shaped, in deep and profound ways, by technologies we barely think about. Lifted is a fascinating, maddening, idiosyncratic exploration of one of them. It is, as its subtitle suggests, a book about elevators, but not in the sense that Henry Petroski’s The Pencil or John McPhee’s Oranges are books about their titular subjects. Lifted is not a comprehensive history of the elevator as an evolving technology, a manufactured-and-sold product, or a motif in literature and art. Rather, it’s an exploration of how the introduction of elevators into buildings transformed cities, and the experience of living and working in them.

The introduction of passenger elevators into buildings led to the reorganization of their interior spaces. Elevator shafts displaced stairways from the core of multi-story buildings to the periphery, where—like the shafts themselves—they became walled-off, utilitarian spaces. Banks of elevator doors replaced the lower flights and landings of opulent grand staircases as the focal point of ground-floor lobbies. Upper floors, too, were reorganized: corridors straightened and floor plans regularized to make the elevators—now the primary points of entry and exit—easy to locate even for visitors new to the building.

Uniformly spaced, consecutively numbered floors became the norm, first in order to accommodate human operators of hand-controlled elevators who had to anticipate the approach of each floor in order to slow and stop the car at the right moment, and later to accommodate the automated, push-button controls that eventually replaced them. The cumulative effect was to impose a degree of internal order on multi-story buildings unknown in earlier decades, and to suppress the ad hoc additions and rabbit-warren interiors that had once been the norm in multi-story buildings.

Simultaneously, elevators reshaped the ways that residents and visitors interacted with buildings. Upper floors, which had been the province of low-rent offices and stuffy garrets when they were reachable only by trudging up endless flights of stairs, began to command premium prices (and attract elite renters) once the elevator made access to them effortless. Roof gardens became popular.

The ease of vertical travel that elevators introduced also affected renters well below the penthouse and executive suite. Descents to street level—to walk the fresh air, visit friends, or take children to the park—no longer carried the price tag of a long, weary trudge up flight after flight of stairs to return home. The social isolation of the high-rise-building resident thus diminished along with the practical (if not physical) distance between them and the wider world.

Beyond these practical considerations, the elevator also reshaped thought and behavior. Open central staircases with landings on each floor offered residents of building regular (though brief and fleeting) glimpses of floors other than their own. Closed elevators moving in closed shafts, on the other hand, carried residents from their own floor to the ground floor without ever showing them what lay between. One’s own floor ceased to be part of a chain of adjoining floors and became, instead, an island unto itself—as (practically) distant from all the other floors in the building as it was from the ground and the outside world.

Elevator cars, too, were islands of a sort: small spaces shared, for brief periods, with an unpredictable cast of friends, casual acquaintances, and total strangers. They were fundamentally different from other kinds of interior space—quasi-public, like a lobby, but as intimate as a drawing room—and they required new, largely unwritten rules of behavior that had to be negotiated over time.

Andreas Bernard, who holds a PhD in cultural studies as well as the editorship of the Süddeutsche Zeitung, traces these changes as they unfolded in (mostly) Berlin, New York, and Paris between the 1850s and about 1900. He focuses on what we would now think of as mid-rise office and residential buildings, and winds up his narrative just after the turn of the 20th century, as construction of the Woolworth Building ushered in the skyscraper era in earnest.

Lifted thus offers a useful counterpoint to the canonical narrative of the rise of the modern city, in which the significance of the elevator begins and ends with the fact that it made the skyscraper possible. It breaks, casually but decisively, the elevator-skyscraper link, and shows that elevators (and their impact on urban life) were already significant before the Chrysler and Empire State Buildings were gleams in their architects’ eyes.

Lifted is, however, less straightforward, and less linear, than this sketch of its content implies. The introduction and four substantive chapters are organized thematically, rather than chronologically, and so go back and forth over the same ground multiple times from different angles. This serves the material well—Bernard is narrating the story of several sets of changes that unfolded simultaneously—but leaves the challenge of braiding the five threads into a single narrative up to the reader.

An introductory sketch of the elevator’s technological development, marketing, and adoption—or even a timeline of significant dates in an appendix—would have helped, but the book includes neither. The inexplicable absence of an index makes matters worse, forcing readers to rely on their memory (or brute-force page-flipping) to locate salient facts. The reader is left construct their own, either by reshuffling scattered references from different chapters into a chronological sequence, or by relying on a more conventional narrative history of the elevator (such as Jason Goodwin’s Otis: Giving Rise to the Modern City or Alisa Goetz’s Up, Down, Across as a reference.

The flow of Lifted is interrupted, periodically, by discussions of context far in excess of narrative need. Bernard takes care to sketch the cultural background against which the elevator wrought its changes. He notes, for example, the mid-19th-century push to rationalize street plans and number houses, which paralleled (and reinforced) rationalization of buildings’ interior space wrought by elevators. He explains how the elevator served the agenda of public health crusaders, by eradicating garrets and making possible the development of rooftop gardens. And he explores how the garret—decried by some for promoting disease and shortening life spans—served the needs of others, notably artists and authors, who used it to isolate themselves from the rest of society.

That Bernard attends to these things is unquestionably valuable, because it underscores the too-easily-forgotten reality that technologies that transform the world do so in the context of changes already underway. The length at which he does it, however, is likely to try the patience of readers more interested in the history of the elevator than the history of 19th century city life.

The introduction and Chapter 3, “Controls”, are a different manifestation of the same problem. They are fascinating—the introduction briskly demolishes the origin-myth of the modern elevator; the latter traces the technology-driven fall of the elevator operator from skilled workers to uniformed nonentity—but in the context of the book as a whole they feel oddly unmoored.

The rest of Lifted is so resolutely focused on the elevator’s impact on urban space, and the ways people used that space, that those two sections come across as digressions from the already fragmented narrative. They feel as if they wandered in from a different, more technology-centric book on the same subject.

Even when it wanders away from its central themes, however, Lifted remains highly readable, and—despite its complex organization and conceptual sophistication—it remains clear and easy to follow on a sentence-by-sentence level. Michel Foucault and other scholars make occasional appearances in the text, but jargon and technical terminology is wholly absent.

Bernard, though clearly well-versed in urban history, the history of architecture, and the studies of space and place, makes no such assumptions about his readers. His explanations of complex ideas are clear and concise, and David Dollenmayer’s translation from the original German is smooth and idiomatic. Published by New York University Press, Lifted comfortably straddles the line between academic treatise and general-interest non-fiction, simultaneously fulfilling the possibilities of both. Its unobtrusive, unapologetic use of footnotes and a comprehensive bibliography mark it as serious, but its elegant design—an elongated profile suggesting an elevator shaft, wrapped in a dust jacket evocative of 19th century magazine engravings—irresistibly draws the eye and the hand. Readers who allow themselves to be drawn in will be rewarded with a new, deeper understanding of the built environment that now exists in virtually all the world’s major cities.

We take it for granted that buildings will be divided into equal-sized horizontal slices of space called “floors”, each designated by a unique numbers and all equally accessible from elsewhere in the building. We assume, without thinking about it, that floor plans within a given building will be uniform and legible. We take it for granted that, in tall buildings at least, height above the street is a rough proxy for social class. We live, in short, in the world that elevators made, and Lifted—idiosyncrasies and all—is a sharp-eyed, readable exploration of its making.


Spawning Ground

David Antrobus

In this ancient place of giant ferns and cedars, it seems the dead outnumber the living; the living fall away too quietly, too easily, taken away by stealth. There is tremendous natural beauty here, but its hold is tenuous, like moss clinging to rotting bark that will ultimately break and sink into the forest floor.

If I were to choose a visual symbol of my adopted home of Mission, an average-size town in the impossibly green western Canadian province of British Columbia, I would probably come up with a rotting carcass in a verdant pasture, a vision of death amid life. If this sounds harsh, hear me out and I'll tell my own truth about this place.

Clinging to the swift-scoured, salmon-haunted northern bank of the mighty Fraser River like an ailing lamprey to the deadly smooth flank of a Great White, this town, situated about 70 kilometers east of Vancouver, owes its entire existence to the water of its rivers and lakes, and to the wood harvested from the dense, surrounding forest. Settled in the mid-19th century, Mission has managed to survive despite two serious floods, a bridge collapse, the ominous early signs of malaise in the natural resource sector (did we really think the salmon and the great conifers were infinitely, magically renewable?), and a general reputation for unfocussed, redneck belligerence.

It all comes down to the Fraser River. The river has brought both food and trade; it provides a thoroughfare upon which the people of Mission (among others) float the great log booms that are the defeated renderings we humans fashion from the vast tracts of coastal rainforest (cedar, spruce, fir, hemlock) in our seemingly inexhaustible compulsion to exploit her resources and bring Mother Nature to her matronly knees — in part because (we believe) we can.

But the details about life in this town — the jeweler murdered in a robbery, the pretty high school graduate killed by a drunk driver, the 14-year-old suicide — in fact, all the jostling narratives crowding like paparazzi, each insisting on exclusive front page drama, bubble and coalesce and ultimately conspire to reveal the hidden Mission. There is a dark vortex lurking beneath the seemingly placid surface; the ominous shadow of something ancient beneath sun-dappled waters. Even the countless apparent banalities playing out on the town's rural borders disguise something deeper, more clandestine: the hobby farmer up in MacConnell Creek bemoaning his exhausted well; the entrepreneur hungry for an investment opportunity, eager to transform the hillsides of quiet, bucolic Silverdale into sudden, lockstep suburbia; the hiker mauled by a black bear in the mountains north of Steelhead. And always, the numerous lives derailed by marijuana grow-op busts. For all the gradual liberalisation of laws at the consumer end of this local economic rival to wood and water, those who supply the celebrated crop usually feel the full force of Canadian justice, anyway. There are times when nothing in Mission seems devoid of some kind of meaning.

A monastery sits above this town, a Benedictine haven of alternating silence and the evocative clatter of Sunday Matins bells. Its tower is phallic and disproportionately defiant, rising above the landscape like a giant darning needle, casting its intrusive shadow over the patchwork quilt of human settlement as if to stitch a final tableaux, symbolically and definitively, of the history of the original inhabitants and their mistreatment at the hands of the white settlers. Said inhabitants were (and are) the Stó:lo people (their language, Halq'eméylem, was an exclusively oral tradition, so the words are spelled phonetically nowadays). Stó:lo territory stretched along the river valley from present-day Vancouver to Yale in the Fraser Canyon, a 170 kilometer swath of virgin, fecund land, teeming with such totemic creatures as salmon, ancient sturgeon, deer, black bear, cougar, coyote, beaver, and wolf.

The Stó:lo, a Native American (or First Nations) people belonging to the larger group of Central Coast Salish, settled this area around 10,000 years ago. Europeans, attracted by rumours of gold, arrived in the 1850s. The resulting clash of cultures did not work out well for the indigenous people, and today they are still recovering from the trickle-down effects of at least one generation having been torn from its extended family. Residential schools, for which the monastery in Mission is a present-day symbol, were sites of a particularly virulent form of cultural genocide. First Nations children across Canada were taken from their homes, often exposed to physical and sexual abuse and occasionally murder, their mouths scoured with soap if they even dared to utter their own languages. St. Mary's in Mission, founded in 1861 and relinquished in 1984, was the last residential school in Canada to close.

There are 82 Indian Reserves in the Fraser Valley. There are eight correctional institutions, two in Mission alone (Aboriginal people represent around four percent of the Canadian population, yet account for 18 percent of the federally incarcerated population). Somebody — something? — really likes to control and segregate people, around here.

This fragmentation is reflected in the odd demographics of the town in general. Leaving their multicultural mark have been, at various times, Italians in Silverdale, Swedes in Silverhill, the French in Durieu, the Japanese in the early years of the fruit industry (as in the US, the Japanese were rewarded for their labours by being sent to internment camps in 1942), and immigrants from India in the early days of the shake and shingle mills. (The Western Red Cedar, with its straight grain, durability, and imperviousness to the incessant rain, while inspiring Native culture with the quixotic grandeur of totem poles, grabbed more prosaic European imaginations in the form of the shake and shingle industry, which provides reliable roofing and siding components for homes.)

In some ways, Mission is a vibrantly conflicted example of Canada's multicultural mosaic. With just over 30,000 residents (of which 3,000 are First Nations) mostly crammed into a relatively small area, bordered by the river to the south and the mountains to the north, mill workers and biker gangs, artists and Mennonites, muscle car boys and summer folkies, soccer moms and Sikh Temple-goers, merchants and pagans, Freemasons and caffeine addicts, street people and Renaissance Faire anachronisms all rub shoulders with varying degrees of friction, occasionally achieving harmony in spite of themselves. Perhaps the relative accord is due to the overall youth of the population (73 percent are under 35-years-old).

Earlier, I mentioned the presence of death. Why? Because it is everywhere here, its proximity eerily palpable. It inhabits the sly rustle of the towering conifers. It taints the air with the swampy pungency of skunk cabbage in springtime. It hums incessantly in the sub-woofer buzz of the hydroelectric dams. It shuffles along in the downcast, scuff-shoed limp of a lone child returning to a chilly home. From a distance, even the monks in their dark cassocks, knit-browed and bound by their vows of silence, seem eerily close to the Reaper caricature. For actual evidence of its pervasiveness, though, one need not go far back in time.

The bodies of three women were dumped between here and neighbouring Agassiz back in '95. Suicides and the furtive aftermath of murder, barely registering in the town at all, have spattered Burma Road, a potholed strip of rocks and dirt skirting the shore of Stave Lake. In 1997, Doug Holtam of Silverdale (a small community west of Mission) bludgeoned his pregnant wife and six-year-old daughter to death with a hammer. Against all odds, his young son Cody survived the attack. In 1995, a drunk driver, leaving in his wake not only the proverbial outpouring of community grief but also a devastated twin sister, killed 18-year-old Cindy Verhulst during the week she and her peers were busy celebrating their high school graduation. There was the little boy who slipped away from his day care centre and drowned in the swollen Fraser River. The 12-year-old boy found hanging from a school washroom towel dispenser. The elderly pilot whose body was discovered in dense forest a full two years after he had gone missing. And there was Dawn-Marie Wesley, a 14-year-old Native girl who took her own life in the basement of her home after enduring relentless bullying at school; barely noticed in life, Oprah material in death.

As disturbing and tragic as these stories are, however, there was little precedent for the breaking news in the summer of 2003. This one will need a little background.

Since the mid-'80s, women have been disappearing from Vancouver's Downtown Eastside, Canada's poorest postal code. Partly due to the initial incompetence of the Vancouver Police Department and jurisdictional issues with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (RCMP), partly due to the amorphous (read: investigative nightmare) nature of the disappearances, and partly because so few people cared about missing hookers and addicts, more and more women went missing, with nary a ripple in the public consciousness (or conscience). In fact, as of this writing, a horrifying total of 65 individuals are currently on the Missing Women list. For years, law enforcement didn't even refer to their disappearance as crimes, and it wasn't until 1998 that an official task force was even assigned to investigate.

Finally, in February 2002, Robert William Pickton, a pig farmer from the Vancouver suburb of Port Coquitlam (approximately half way between Vancouver and Mission), was charged with two counts of first-degree murder of two of the missing women. More charges followed in the months ahead. Pickton currently faces 15 counts of first-degree murder with seven more expected. DNA samples of 31 women have been linked to his 10-acre farm. In short, potentially the largest serial murder case in Canadian history is now underway just 35 kilometers from Mission.

Given the frequent intrusion of death into the area, I suppose it should have surprised no one when, on 20 July 2003, the missing women's joint task force announced they would be searching an area of wetlands near Mission. Just south of Highway 7 (aka the Lougheed Highway) and the man-made body of water known as Silvermere (itself the subject of a delightfully creepy urban legend or two), the area is basically marshland bisected by a meandering slough. Immediately following the announcement of the search, the site was fenced off with temporary chain link, and the highway's wide shoulders — traditionally home to roadside fruit and flower vendors hawking their locally grown products — were suddenly and unequivocally off-limits.

Driving this formerly innocuous stretch of blacktop, especially under the after-dusk arc lights, with their swirling bug armadas and liquid island oases in the dark, now touched off an indescribably eerie feeling. It was a relief when, on 8 August, the entire ensemble of law enforcement personnel (numerous forensic investigators plus 52 anthropologists) took up their tools again and vanished. They gave no word of what they had uncovered or even whether anything had been found at all, leaving our community to its familiar, fitful dreams once more. Mission's part in this unfolding story, as it relates to the wider world, remains amorphous and indistinct, with its usual chilly glints of barely suppressed horror flickering amid the overall grey.

Here, it seems, empirical proof takes a back seat to rumour and anecdote every time.

Sometimes, while hiking alone in the tree-bejeweled mountains west of Steelhead, east of the dams, I have suddenly felt the fetid breath of graves, a harsh raven-shadow lurking behind the abundant emerald and olive greens of this sodden paradise. Inexplicable noises in the deep tangled brush; distant rending, gnashing. Something skulking and hungry. With all the assured rationality of the white male immigrant, I've been known to smirk at the idea of ghosts, and yet stumbling along a jade-tunnel trail bristling with old man's beard and devil's club, I've occasionally recoiled from something, the skin of my arms prickling with gooseflesh. There are spirits here, all right, something not too far removed from the capricious tricksters who inhabit indigenous myth. Spectres of a kind, nursing some nameless, hollow ache of unrequited need rendered manifest, paradoxically, by a landscape dripping with life.

The closest we Europeans get to perceiving this (however inadvertently) can be heard in the low extended rumble of the nighttime freight trains as they call out in the dark, hunching parallel to Railway Avenue long after most residents are asleep, lonely as a buffalo herd that's somehow seen and almost comprehended its own approaching ruin.

Of course, my telling is by no means the complete, illustrated history of Mission, a town that can barely hold onto its own name (since 1884, take your pick: St. Mary's Mission, Mission Junction, Mission City, Village of Mission, Town of Mission, and currently the District of Mission). Not by a long shot; this lurid splash portrays but a small corner of the canvas. How can any one person paint the full picture of a community, after all? No, despite my perverse zeal to stir the viscous mud below the bright surface, great deeds and happy memories adorn the history of this place, too, adding the sparkle and lustre of life above and hopefully beyond the stillness and silence. And yet, no matter how much joie de vivre this community may exhibit on its special days, like a red-carpet celebrity when the cameras start rolling — whether it be the laughing children with their maple leaf flags and pancake stacks celebrating Canada Day up at Heritage Park, or the benevolently stoned crowd at the annual Folk Festival, or even the choked air and sharp adrenaline at the Raceway — surely one thing cannot go unremarked: nearly half of those missing-presumed-dead women were of Aboriginal descent. This adds one more layer of indifference to a jaded populace apparently caught somewhere between the small town rural cruelties of its past and the uneasy suburban shrugs of its gathering future.

I know this. I worked with the street kid population here for years, witnessed their hardscrabble resilience. Few people ever gave a genuine damn about the plight of these children, even though some of the throwaways had not yet reached puberty. Two-thirds of street-involved youth in Mission are Aboriginal. Many are sexually exploited by family members, neighbors, pimps and selected citizens, but few speak of it. Some of these kids head west to Vancouver for a date with misery, stretching already tenuous community ties to the breaking point. My job as a street worker was to speak for these lost children, to ensure some semblance of the child welfare system would kick in through advocacy with social workers or teachers or families or counselors or probation officers. In a world in which the so-called "bottom line" — money and the politics of money — has become drawn too garishly, these already marginalized youth were, and continue to be, largely abandoned by a system designed to protect them. Sometimes I stand beside the town's failing heart, its run down main drag (1st Avenue), taking in the pawnshops and thrift outlets and dollar stores, and I'm convinced I truly hate this place... but only because I've loved it so deeply. In life: death. In death: life. The great inscrutable cycle.

In this way, the perennially troubled summer Pow Wow, always skirting the edge of ruin (corrupt, inept politics and sporadic funding, take a bow), yet often prevailing regardless, seems to me a far more accurate symbol of the clutching, ragged breaths that secretly haunt the sleep of this community. The fleeting vibrant colours of traditional dancers whirling in bright regalia — poignant as the plumage of endangered birds, flying amongst the high wailing melismas of the Northern-style singing and the vital, aorta-punching drums of the circles — somehow speaks more of an unavenged wound in time and place, set amid the cruelty that underlies so much beauty, than anything else this conflicted human settlement seems capable of offering.

An absurd contrast, really — this vibrant gathering and the judgmental silence of all those surrounding stories of the dead — the whole place holding its breath waiting for these mortal sorrows to purge themselves before the pristine lawns and asphalt and vinyl sidings are allowed to spread and eventually suffocate every fucking thing that ever felt like something here.

For here, tenacious as the town itself alongside relentless churning waters, the living will no doubt cling to hope and the perpetual dream of life until the muscled river — unnoticed, stealthy, taken for granted — wrestles away everything (horror, joy, splintered wood and the final word) at long last, sending it all tumbling toward the planet's dark and pitiless seas for good.

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