A new proposal: Down goes the four-story TCF Bank building in downtown Minneapolis, up goes a mixed-use skyscraper 50 stories tall. Is it time to call in the historic-preservation brigade? It seems like every other month we lament the loss of smaller, older buildings, and wonder if we're losing our heritage to big new developments.
This is not one of those times.
The TCF Bank building certainly sums up the 1970s. Half a block of dark brown brick. Could be a bank. Could be offices. Could be the Gerald R. Ford Mausoleum. Could have been beautiful; there's nothing objectionable about large quantities of brick, and dark hues can project a certain earthy honesty. But so does a cow pie.
The problem with the TCF building always has been its big, dated brick arches, which looked like a classical touch done on the cheap. The top two floors are recessed behind the columns, creating a realm of shadows and gloom appropriate for the First Bank of Mordor.
The 17-story TCF Tower is not part of the proposal. Too bad. It's the sort of building you found in abundance in suburbs in the '70s, scaled up four times. Brick and horizontal bands of mirrored dark glass — real estate stacked up until it ends. Could be three stories, could be 30. At the fifth floor, it widens out, which makes it look like Fatty Arbuckle sitting on a footstool. (That was another hallmark of the '70s: Buildings got wider as they rose, as if the architect had been staring at mushrooms all day.)
The TCF Tower's slight bulge looks as if they ran the numbers, figured out what the steel structure would hold, and bumped it out for 3 percent more rentable space.
How to work around the remaining tower? That's the problem. The portion of the TCF complex slated for demolition may be stale cake, but at least it's a small portion. The TCF's low height gives its neighbor, the Foshay, space to rise and command its quarter of the block. Fifty stories rising next door might wall off the Foshay, make it look penned up. On the other side, the new tower structure incorporates the TCF Tower, or comes so close that people will be able to lean out of one building and ask their neighbor if they have any Grey Poupon. It's a challenge.
Whatever they build, it probably won't have an empty atrium. If you've visited the TCF building, you know it's not solid offices. There's a four-story open space. At present, with TCF's workers decamped to Plymouth, it is one of downtown's most bereft locations — no benches, no chairs, no coffee cart beneath a colorful umbrella, no vegetation. A rectangular brick fountain is dry. A huge greenish sculpture on the wall looks like a mass of barnacles fastened to a rusting ship.