Franklin D. Roosevelt
Memorial on Roosevelt Island

Louis Kahn

1991

There are numerous ways for a person to encounter a monument: in most cases, one does not choose the encounter, but rather is confronted with it. In other instances, one makes a trip to see a monument, cited on a list of “ten must-see” this or that. Sometimes, one very intentionally visits a monument in order to understand the culture or place that it represents.

You don’t simply come across the Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial, on the contrary, you intentionally make a trip across the East River in order to see it. The Franklin D. Roosevelt Memorial, part of a four-acre park called Four Freedoms, stands at the southernmost point on the tip of Roosevelt Island. If one’s gaze happens to be targeted south, one has a clear-cut view of the United Nations Building, while to the north, one can see the Queensboro Bridge spanning the East River. The procession-like nature of approaching from the north –passing between a double row of trees that narrow as they approach the focal point of the sculpted bust of Roosevelt– can be likened to a pilgrimage. With the bust functioning as a quasi-Mecca, it’s easy to forget that there is much more to see beyond it.

The monument, in its totality, is a roofless modern version of a Greek temple, built with granite. The renowned architect Louis Kahn was commissioned to design the memorial in 1972. His concept was simple: drawing inspiration from Roosevelt’s Four Freedoms speech of 1941, Kahn designed an open “room and a garden,” destined to be located at the bottom of the

island. The trees on either side of the island form a “V” shape, and lead to a two-walled stone room at the water’s edge, framing views of the New York skyline and the harbor. Excerpts from Roosevelt’s speech are carved on the walls of the room-like space. In a 1973 talk given at Pratt Institute, Kahn explained his intentions for the design of the memorial:

“I had this thought that a memorial should be a room and a garden. That's all I had. Why did I want a room and a garden? I just chose it to be the point of departure. The garden is somehow a personal nature, a personal kind of control of nature. And the room was the beginning of architecture. I had this sense, you see, and the room wasn't just architecture, but was an extension of self.”

Standing at the tip of the island on a gloomy February day, in proximity to the relic of a smallpox hospital, one can’t but think about the “extension of self.” Are memorials a tool for an extension of self? Are they a tool for the extension of many selves? Extensions of a people and their ideals?

The word “monument” originally comes from the Greek word mnemosynon, and the Latin moneo, which means ‘to remind’, ‘to advise’ or ‘to warn’. The etymology of the word suggests that a monument allows us to see the past, and in turn helps us visualize what could materialize in the future. When used as an adjective in English, the word “monumental” makes a reference to something of significant size and power. The word  memorial, on the other hand, comes from the Latin word memoriale, referring to a record or a memory, often presented in the form of a monument and serving as a reminder.

Monuments – and subsequently memorials – are thus a physical representation of power, of ideals set in stone: unchangeable, resistant to erosion and upheaval. This is perhaps why they torment many of us. They are, at their core, an attempt to place some understanding of history beyond dispute: this man was a hero, this leader was great, these ideals are ultimate, these words should be remembered.

“In the future days, which we seek to make secure, we look forward to a world founded upon four essential human freedoms: the first is freedom of speech and expression – everywhere in the world. The second is freedom of every person to worship god in his own way – everywhere in the world. The third is freedom from want… everywhere in the world. The fourth is freedom from fear… anywhere in the world. That is no vision of a distant millennium. It is a definite basis for a kind of world attainable in our own time and generation.” – Franklin Roosevelt, January 6, 1941.

Perhaps, most notably, what stands out on the procession towards the tip of Roosevelt Island is the larger than life, bright red, Pepsi-Cola sign, hovering over the waters. In the midst of the serenity of the experience, the deafening and ultimate silence of such spaces, nothing screams louder than the icon for American consumerist culture. As the viewer gazes at these words “freedom from want,” and “everywhere in the world,” the Pepsi-Cola sign manages to remain in the field of vision. Somewhere, in the distance, with Manhattan and the United Nations Building to your back, you can’t help but crave a soft drink.

Monuments are, of course, just that: inanimate physical spaces. Places subject to our gaze. Immovable and static. Surfaces on which snow lands and pigeons defecate. It is we who inject them with meaning. What we choose to commemorate as a people says as much about us as the moment or person we are attempting to commemorate. We see ourselves reflected in whatever shape the stone is in, whatever words carved on its surface. It is easy to wish upon yourself such histories, to think that they could, for a fraction of a second, belong to you. But, more often than not, they don’t. They belong to other times, a specific moment from the past, and other people. If the function of a memorial is to remind us of certain core values, one can’t help but wonder about the deep implications of such a purpose. In the process of remembering, are we forgetting to practice these core values? Are we comforted by the fact that such ideals are carved in stone, that they will always be there, and thus we need not bring them to life?