Dan’s Interview with Cass Gilbert – Vision in Stone and Sunlight
Dan Blanchard: Mr. Gilbert, it’s an absolute honor to speak with you today. Your work has shaped some of America’s most iconic spaces—from the U.S. Supreme Court to the Woolworth Building. But today, I want to talk about something closer to my home: the Seaside Sanatorium in Waterford, Connecticut.
Cass Gilbert: Thank you, Mr. Blanchard. I’m pleased someone still remembers Seaside. It was one of my most humane and hopeful designs—less monumental than my other projects, but perhaps more meaningful.
Dan: I’m glad you said that. The Seaside Sanatorium wasn’t just another building. It was a response to crisis—a stand against the horrors of tuberculosis, especially for children. What inspired your design?
Cass Gilbert: In the 1930s, we were losing far too many young lives. The state of Connecticut asked me to design a place for healing—one that didn’t feel like a cold institution. The guiding idea was heliotherapy. Sunshine. Fresh air. Nature’s remedies. The architecture needed to support that.
Dan: And you certainly delivered. The open-air ground floor, the southern exposure, the gentle curve of the building—all brilliant. But it almost feels ironic now, doesn’t it? That such a place of light would later become so dark?
Cass Gilbert: (pauses) Yes. Buildings often outlive their first purpose. But they carry memories. When Seaside became a geriatric hospital and later a mental health facility, the light dimmed—not just literally, but symbolically. These were some of society’s most voiceless people. And when the care faded… well, the building could only echo what was happening inside.
Dan: And that’s the hard part. I’ve walked the perimeter of that property. It’s beautiful—Long Island Sound shimmering, gulls flying—but there’s a stillness that feels… haunted. Not by ghosts, necessarily, but by forgotten stories.
Cass Gilbert: Precisely. Architecture is storytelling in stone. But if no one listens… the story fades. That’s why what you’re doing—bringing these hidden histories forward—is vital. The past has value when it teaches us something.
Dan: Thank you. One of the leadership lessons I’ve tried to draw from Seaside is this: Real leaders advocate for the forgotten. People often think leadership is standing at a podium or holding power. But true leadership means standing beside someone who has no voice.
Cass Gilbert: I couldn’t agree more. In my day, I advocated through design. Today, you advocate through storytelling. And both are necessary. Tell me, what do you hope happens to Seaside now?
Dan: I dream of someone with imagination—and resources—transforming it into something new. Maybe part museum, part hotel. A place that honors the past but brings joy and purpose into the future. Just like you intended: sunlight, healing, and fresh air.
Cass Gilbert: (smiling) That would be a second life worth living for a building born of hope. Let’s hope your generation doesn’t forget.
Dan: We won’t. Not if I have anything to say about it. Thank you, Mr. Gilbert.
Cass Gilbert: And thank you, Mr. Blanchard—for listening to the stones and the stories they still carry.
🧭 Post-Interview Reflection:
Cass Gilbert may be gone, but his vision lives on. And now, the torch is ours to carry. The lesson of Seaside is clear: beauty and pain can coexist, and leadership often means shining light into forgotten corners.
