Look up and to your right to spot Manhattan Plaza, a massive pair of forty-six-story brown brick towers defined by repeating vertical columns of recessed balconies.
In nineteen seventy-four, this was supposed to be a luxury oasis for the middle class. The city provided a ninety-five million dollar mortgage for the project, which is over half a billion dollars today. This was under a state initiative called the Mitchell-Lama program, which was designed to create affordable middle-income housing.
But New York soon went completely broke, and the housing market tanked. Plus, back then, this rough-and-tumble stretch of Hell's Kitchen was the epicenter of the city's adult entertainment industry. Nobody wanted to pay a premium to live next to all of that.
The developers were desperate. To avoid financial ruin, they pivoted to Section Eight housing, a federal program where low-income tenants pay no more than thirty percent of their earnings for rent. But the surrounding working-class locals panicked, fearing an influx of thousands of troubled neighbors.
That is when a developer named Daniel Rose had a totally wild idea. He remembered a quote from a theater producer who said his family was often broke, but never poor. Rose proposed limiting the subsidized apartments specifically to people in the performing arts.
You can glance at your screen to see how the towers anchor the neighborhood in a shot from twenty sixteen.
The plan worked perfectly. By seeding the building with actors, stagehands, and musicians, they cleared out the adult businesses and stabilized the block when the complex finally opened in nineteen seventy-seven. Today, seventy percent of the sixteen hundred and eighty-nine units are reserved for theater folks, while fifteen percent go to longtime neighborhood residents and fifteen percent to the elderly.
The waiting list blew past three thousand names in the very first year. We are talking about a place where legends like Tennessee Williams, Al Pacino, and Mickey Rourke lived. Bruce Willis even poured drinks as a bartender down at the cafe at the base of the Ninth Avenue building.
But it wasn't just a glamorous dorm. When the AIDS crisis devastated the performing arts community, this complex suffered deeply. The building's director, Reverend Rodney Kirk, quickly set up an incredible social services program right here to care for sick residents, ensuring nobody had to face it alone.
The management office here is open Monday through Friday from nine A-M to five P-M, and closed on the weekends. This massive brick complex really is the beating heart of the New York theater world. Take all the time you need here, and whenever you are ready, we will keep wandering to our next spot.
