Wichita Central Library, 1967-2018, In Memoriam

Century II looms in the background,
 not acting in any way like a flying saucer.

Upon hearing that the Wichita Central Library would close its doors forever on May 6, my sister and I decided to take one last tour around the place, snapping final pics, and swapping stories of yore. She and I share similar sentimentality for the Ol' Brutal Beast, and more broadly seek to defend old, worthy structures and deflect the notion that newer is somehow always better. I do not believe that just any "old" building deserves reprieve—after all, every era births its own special, cheaply made, poorly planned monstrosities—but truly special elder buildings deserve extra care and consideration. The former Wichita Central Library, now retired, is one of them.

When you look at downtown Wichita from the raised vantage of US highway 54/400, the Central Library appears quite small, embedded at the fore of larger bulks of the commercial buildings that make up downtown proper. Wichita's version of skyscrapers, squat little buildings for the most part, reach their highest peak with the so-called "Epic Center," which takes the bragging rights for tallest building in Kansas (22 stories, 385 feet to the tippy top). I remember when they built it, how much I wanted to like it (it was !EPIC! after all), but even at that young age I knew it was a flawed thing. Aside from the plain face of it and tiny windows, the building is shaped like a stunted fountain pen. There's something about a short-tallish building with a reaching, pointy little tip, so desperate to seem bigger that it really is. I'm sure there's a metaphor in there somewhere...

Broken light.

Information.

North Stacks, 1st floor.

From that higher vantage, driving East/West, the Epic Center is to the north, the farthest of the skyscrapers from the main core of downtown Wichita. Much closer stands my favorite building of all, the Garvey Center. I grew up with my eyes always tilted toward its strange, aquamarine heights, the octangular cap, a thousand antennas spiking out the top, glowing little red blips at night. It is an air traffic control tower with delusions of grandeur. Garvey Center is somehow garish, absurd, and ordinary all at once. I can't think of a better representation for Wichita (save one) and would honestly mouth-kick anyone who dared suggest that it be changed in any way. Apparently the Garvey Center now has "luxury apartments," and let me tell you this is something that will keep me awake at night. WANT. TO LIVE. IN AQUA TOWER.

View eastward from the North Stacks.
The former central library and my sister's bike.

But from highway 54/400, the real colossus that dwarfs the Central Library stands just west of it, the iconic Century II, an ancient derelict spacecraft that crash landed in downtown Wichita around the same time the library was built. Oh sure there's plenty of "documentation" and "legal paperwork" claiming its origins are terrestrial and completely mundane, but we all know the truth, just look at the thing. Given the terrible, terrible things city leaders have done over the years (or allowed to happen, lookin' at you Twin Lakes horror show), it should come as zero shock that people want to tear Century II down. These local trendsetters would knock down the Coliseum to install another squaty brick "clock tower" Commerce Bank branch if given enough capital to do it. It's my firm belief that this is what has saved some of the architectural jewels of Wichita over the years—no money. Which is sad. It is my profound hope that Century II and the old Central Library are spared the wrecking ball, but in a world where Madison Square Garden was allowed to happen, I'm not holding my breath. If they did knock it down, the singular, most defining landmark of the Wichita skyline would be gone. Then we really would be basic bitches. Mark my words, city leaders!

Down to the basement to learn about local history and genealogy. 

View up to the 1st floor from the basement.

It is strange that this now outdated library—dwarfed by the buildings surrounding it, strange in design, sparing in construction—can seem so cavernous and overwhelming once you pass through the doors, the foyer, the security and circulation desks, and enter either wing. The north and south sides of the building are completely open two stories high, with stacks around each perimeter and communal desks set in rows at the center. When I was a kid, the stacks on the south side were arranged so that some of those desks were lined up against the east window walls, but it hasn't been like that in years. I always assumed it was a security thing, but it was a loss nonetheless. I worked on book reports at those desks, read Asimov, and giggled whispers to my friends.

There is no getting around the fact that the interior is dated. The primary carpeting, a horrid eyesore meant to cause blindness and brain damage, has definitely been replaced since I grew up here, but much of the interior is exactly the same. The desks are the same, the chairs are the same, even some of the lounge furniture is the same. You can see the wear and tear, but for at least some of these objects, it's fifty years of wear and tear. Considering this, the old brute is actually holding up remarkably well.

I cannot help but think of that beaten-to-hell library back in Utah, Magna, how it was so new, so similar to many of the other new libraries I've visited, and yet how it clearly had been abused by patrons over a very short life span. And it wasn't just an errant clipping of a desk edge that split prefab from cheap vinyl, it was worn edges on furniture that was not meant to outlast the average span of securing a bachelors degree. Communities with money to burn, please listen to this if nothing else: Do the math! One of the biggest takeaways from my trip around the country is the prevalent unwillingness of decision makers to invest in hardy, sturdy, rough-and-tumble, quality materials not only for the construction of the library itself but for all the necessary interior materials, including fixtures, furniture, carpets, and so on. It's safe to bet that carpet will have to be replaced fairly regularly in any well-used common space, but outfitting libraries with rickety, clicked together, IKEA-standard furniture will end up costing a community more in the end. Hear me, peoples! Invest in your common endeavors. It is worth it!

Despite rolling with the punches and enduring fifty years of patronage, the Wichita Central Library simply could not keep up with technology. It's not wired for the times, and in such a sparing building, there is no acceptable way to retrofit it to meet the needs of the twenty-first century. I worked in the Flatiron building for over a decade, and loved the envious comments and hungry questions about the interior. Was it as beautiful as the outside? What's it like to work in such an iconic building? Well, drafty. Creaky. Leaky. Squeaky. Many of the offices are weirdly angular and ill-fitting for rectangular desks, file cabinets, square chairs. There are legions of "water bugs" (which look suspiciously identical to cockroaches HMMM) skittering high above workers' heads day in, day out. One dropped from the ceiling right next to my friend as she was working late one night. Dropped. From the CEILING. Almost in her hair. She was traumatized. Wonderful building, beautiful building. Old building.

Seating in the South Stacks.

And from whence did yon water bug drop? Well, from the drop ceiling of course. Because that's how you retrofit a building built in 1902. We saw the actual ceiling once. There was a mighty flood after an icy, long weekend ruptured the pipes above our floor and the calamity wasn't discovered until water started leaking out of the elevator shafts on the first floor. It disintegrated the drop-roof tiles completely. It also ruined thousands of dollars worth of equipment, computers, fax machines, copiers, and God knows how much paper—administrative, manuscripts, books. It was a disaster. But we got to see how far up those walls really went (far!), the aged and peeling paint from Ago (lead!), and thousands of wires weaving every which way, bound in bunches and intersections with zip ties.

The allure of the Flatiron is the hard spade shape thrust against the flood of humanity flowing at its intersections, Fifth Avenue, Broadway, 23rd Street, that lovely, carved sandstone, and large widows set all throughout. It is a giant ship from the beginning of a new era in the modern world, slim, tall, improbable, sublime. A little bit of ceiling space could be spared, and was, to make it a modern(ish) office space. The same could never be done for the Wichita Central Library.

South Stacks, delighting in the lighting, shot from every angle, 

and one caney plant in need of pruning (years ago).

South Stacks, a view of the main stairway.

Those wings, those glorious wings! The breathtaking space, spanning high and far. No drop ceilings allowed. When we visited the library for the last time, I marveled out how easy it was to get caught up in those wings, all that light streaming in, the intoxicating smell of books everywhere. I swear I could still smell the old card catalog, even though it is years gone and God knows where. If you had spent a significant amount of time sifting through those cards, opening and shutting those drawers (carefully, for fear of getting stern looks from library staff), you would know that the card catalog had a similar smell to books—it's paper and wood after all—but there was also a tinge of something else. Strong and creamy and spicy. And I swear it lingers still, somehow, despite the years between. There's no place in Wichita that gives me a more jolting sense of recall than the old Central Library. As we all know, smell and memory are inexorably linked.

One of the things I never appreciated about the Central Library when I was a child was the lateral slats of light pulling patrons forward from the relative dark of the front foyer into the library proper. There sitting central and adrift alone under those running cleaved segments—the fluorescents blurred, the optics bent, bouncing off the wood sections to create a kind of light that seems almost natural, like sunlight where none could possibly exist—the information desk sits forever unmanned. When I was young, there was always someone there, but recently, more often than not, it stood empty and seemingly without purpose. This always struck me harder than anything else, whether it was due to the upcoming relocation to the new library, shutting down old services or redirecting resources, I don't know. But than unmanned information desk unnerved me and set my stomach all aquiver. Quiet little deaths.

Southwest corner, windows from floor to ceiling. 

To the left of the information desk (or south) is the main stairwell up to the second and third floors. Just past the desk, after a wide swatch of open floor where the card catalogs used to be, is another stairway leading down to the basement, and another quirk in an already quirky space. Growing up, the basement space was there, but the majority of it was not for public access. I have no idea what was going on down there—records, conspiracies, seances—but I never had reason to explore it until recently. This is where genealogy and local history is housed. It is also the only place in the library where drinks are strictly forbidden. It's a fun notion, descending to the ooky-spooky basement to look through our collective past, but honestly whoever thought to carpet the stairs in blue and the basement in red deserves a wet kiss on the mouth. It looks so damn slick, so damn cool, so utterly sexy and WILDASS. And such a groovy departure from the seizure-inducing, emetically inspirational carpeting elsewhere in the building.

You wanna tell me these chairs didn't see the Johnson administration? Get outta here. This is the little seating area between the elevators and the main staircase on the second floor. The "view" behind the seating area has always been a weird space, since it is basically the flat, unattractive roof above circulation, "Friends of the Library," and the front foyer. It's really just a broad swath of parking lot for bird crap and trash. I always thought it would make a nice permanent garden space if they could figure out how to do it wink wink nudge nudge. Like seriously, grass and trees. Something other than tarry gravel?

A view of the North Wing from the second floor.

A view of the South Wing from the second floor.

The second floor is basically within the same space as the main foyer on the first floor with open views over the north and south wings. This area houses the hilarious and beloved "Business Center," mostly unexplored by yours truly other than to fawn over the old timey typewriters and find an open desk with an extension cord/power strip. These desks, which featured work spaces, chairs, and shelving for periodicals and reference materials relating to all things work (jobs, finance, resume building, etc.), were largely taken up by people charging phones and other electronics. I worked there successfully once, not so successfully other times. It wasn't a quiet space. But it afforded great views over the vast wings...and those typewriters!

South wing and concrete brutalism appreciation.

(Addendum: Our typing teacher in high school was an efficient, serious older man with white hair and a mustache. I wish I could remember his name. He insisted we practice not only on the humming monsters that were the electronic typewriters, but on the horrid murder weapons, heavy as anvils, sharp and wicked and cursed, that were the manual typewriters. Yes, we had actual manual typewriters in typing class. Just a couple, for learning and suffering and character building. I am not sure I got much out of the exercise other than a sincere appreciation of technological progress. I'll never type like a possessed monkey all fingers flying whilst texting on my phone, but hey, at least I don't have to stand on the damn keys and stomp to put one simple word—"halp" probably—in faded ink on blue white paper ever again.

Anyway, that's who I think of whenever I see that Business and Technical sign and the lonely electric typewriter poised waiting and ready to serve should its time every come around again. Thanks for the character building, Mr. Typing Teacher Man!)

Groovy waiting area outside of Admin, 3rd Floor.

The third floor, though. I lived on the third floor. All those books about celebrities! The cork wall! The haunted piano! When I was a kid, there was no such thing as DVDs and barely such a thing as a videotape. And you could not check any such things out at the library. Though it wouldn't surprise me to learn that audio vinyl, 8-tracks, or cassette tapes were available for loan (or at least listening on-site). If that ever was a reality, I wasn't cognizant of it.

The third floor also features the poster and paintings loan section--something I thought I wasn't quite understanding until I saw something exactly like it—except worse and therefore so much better—in Bismark, North Dakota. It's not a crazy notion to loan artwork (or a facsimile thereof, anyhow) but the fact that both Bismark and Wichita had some seriously dated, incredibly tacky and ollllld offerings was indeed charming and silly and so wrong it was right. In those last days of the Wichita Central Library, they had those items on sale at the "Friends of the Library" section of the building, a makeshift space housed opposite circulation. Some pieces of art were old in a way that made me wonder if they were actually quite valuable...or would be sooner than any of us is really prepared to conceptualize. The 1980s were so chic, so pastel-and-black, so Nagel, but really so awful. Awfully gorgeous? I don't know...and may never have the perspective to properly assess such a thing. But they had some 80s prints for sale, gold plastic frames and all.

3rd Floor Chic.

This blog entry is loaded with references to the past: what I saw, what I heard, what I smelled. How things were in the olden days, how they persist in existing in the present days, and how I love the Central Library for what it was, what it still is, and hope that others can see past its technological shortcomings to find a way to give it a second life. Clearly there's a connection to my second life somewhere in there (ahem) and I am not too deluded to see that.

All of the above: Third floor stacks.

Third floor foyer.

But there is also a connection to memory and public spaces, how we come about a sense of history. A sense of purpose and permanence for us all. And that is, without a doubt, banked in the design and construction of permanent spaces, building something useful and memorable, a place that people not only must go to, but want to go to, spend some time, forge some memories, make it part of their oral histories, someday into written histories, and passed down from one generation to the next. Not every public space can live up to such lofty ideals, but we should want them to. For certain spaces, it must be a consideration. Libraries house our histories, our dreams. They are monuments to our hopeful permanence on this planet, aware that we are so momentary as individuals, but in some ways eternal in the halls of repositories, written in words, documented in historic occasions, our fingers on the pages.

A cork wall (left) and a stylish lounger with metal framing and corners 

so sharp you could extract an organ if you fell just right. PROBABLY 

ORIGINAL TO THE BUILDING. Also, located directly outside the 

Children's section. Where else?

Looking down the main stair case
from the 3rd floor.

I loved the third floor, "Hollywood" section of the library for the same reason I love the rest of it. Connectedness, a sense of history, little sparkling filaments pressed to paper and made indelible. Notions noted, imagination inked, made permanent, cataloged, and shelved. And legitimate because we say it is, given permanence in a world that feels like anything but. A space reserved just for that and nothing else. And doors open for anyone to come inside, travel the aisles, and lay hands on that one thing that will light them up. Maybe it's Song of Solomon, maybe it's A Brief History of Time. Hell, maybe it's the World Book series, still in publication despite the, you know, Internet (and featuring Will Smith's AI nightmare for the 2018 edition, apparently? I love seeing the World Book in libraries, I'm not gonna lie. It's like a big FU to Wikipedia and the insane amount of data available in the average person's pocket these days but SO WHAT we have a cool series of real paper BOOKS that make a whole picture from the spines when you place all the volumes together on a shelf so nyeh).

 A handsome display in the 3rd floor foyer.

And when I pass the old Central Library now, I cannot help but feel a hollow rooing at the moon inside; wistful, sad, but understanding that it could no longer live as a library...for now. Who knows, someday we may laugh at the idea of wired-anything, much as we do now when we relate stories of talking to our friends on rotary phones, wrapped around the cord, picking at the wallpaper nearby, bound with boundless energy nowhere to go except screeching "no wayyyyyyy" into the receiver, out into the ether, to reach the ear of a similarly imprisoned compatriot who also agrees no wayyyy. So the old library sits, an old rotary phone, her stacks gutted, her furniture sold or donated, her purpose unknown. I hope the City of Wichita does right by her. There is so much potential if you just open your eyes and see it.

Up next, my Initial, Highly Opinionated, Completely Biased and Unfair Review of the New Advanced Learning Library (a.k.a. the new central library)...

One last look. Brutal to the end.