I was at PS 1 in Astoria this weekend to attend a symposium called “Foreclosed,” about housing in America.  I walked through the courtyard installation, a series of white cables that shaped ghostly curved surfaces in the air.  And I saw the exhibit of art made in response to 9/11.  But what impressed me most was the architecture of the museum, which is housed in an old public school.

There’s nothing subtle, nothing graceful, about it.  The school is a hulking, symmetrical, red brick building with stiff facades and severe proportions.  The original structure and finishes have been left in place.  There are rough brick walls and wire security cages in the stairwells, and tile arches in the ceilings.  And the long hallways have checkerboard linoleum floors sealed in layers of varnish, and sagging oak doors leading into the classrooms.  A friend, an architect and native New Yorker, explained that the building design was once standard for New York public schools.  Some would find the institutional feeling oppressive, especially in relation to the forward-looking art.  But I found it, on that day, particularly reassuring.  In contrast with the symposium, which offered cerebral propositions about housing and living, the building offered shelter and space.