I’ve been coming to the Pfister for about a year before this residency came to be. When I moved back to Milwaukee, I knew I needed to find my spaces. There’s the comfort of my little home, which I’ve spent a good deal of time making my own. But for the times I need to be out and in the world, I needed something different but equally intentional.
So many places now feel soulless. You might not consciously notice it, but I think we all sense it, or at least have subtle reaction to it. There are many places my body intuitively knows it doesn’t want to stay.
Sadly, the pendulum has swung. What once took years now takes months. Labor used to have love.
Even with historic spaces, developers will gut a building, keep the facade, and skimp on the quality refinishes. I’ve seen plenty of those too. Which is why I have deep appreciation for the specialty trades — the conservators of buildings, brick, plaster, murals and the like — but that knowledge is slowly dying as people take shortcuts to beauty.
When I learned about how the Pfister was built, I wasn’t surprised that it was made to last. Guido Pfister chose fireproof construction at a time when most buildings, hotels especially, were going up in flames because they were built almost entirely of wood. He wasn’t cutting corners. The hotel broke ground in 1890 and opened May 1, 1893. Three years. Built with Cream City brick, Wauwatosa limestone, and terra cotta trim, at a cost of nearly one million dollars.
The Pfister was one of the first places I found that matched what I was looking for. Somewhere I could work, read, journal, linger. There aren’t many places like this left, and I don’t think that’s an accident. They take too long. They cost too much. They require the kind of belief, passion, and spirit that isn’t valued as much anymore.
So find them. Seek them out. Spend your money there when you can. Sit in the lobby. Order the coffee. Stay for another hour. These places survive because people choose them, repeatedly and on purpose.
Until next time,
Megan