The Cenacle
Just as plentiful as the
stories housed within the walls of abandoned places are the stories
taken from them - Tales woven by the minds of those who have come to
see, wander, or perhaps pay respects to a property long after its
final days of use. These experiences are, themselves, incredibly
personal matters. Regardless of how many people may visit a shuttered
school, collapsing home, or in this case - abandoned religious
retreat, everyone will leave with a differing impression of what
they saw, and how they felt roaming those silent passages. Reality is
subjective, hinging wholly upon the eyes of the beholder. To expand
upon this theme we have partnered with long-time friends AbandonedNJ to present this entry, 'The Cenacle', from two different
perspectives, and across two websites. Herein you will find our reflections of what we saw on that chilled winter day, and on their website you will see the same place anew, through their
eyes. Below you will find an intermingling of both of our imagery,
our own will be presented as usual, and theirs will be framed in red.
Long dark halls reached out limbs of cold brick. In the air floated a strange
aroma, an uncomfortably sweet mixture of carnations and a damp
decomposition. Off of the central corridors were chambers as large as
they were empty, and within them ornate mantles framed massive
fireplaces. Caked in dust, long extinguished, and from which cold winter air flowed.
The chill was biting and stung any exposed skin it caressed. Down
more enshadowed halls stood a singular point of light - The chapel.
Once magnificent and proud, now forsaken as the rest of the estate had come to be.
Man-made structures contain in them incalculable unseen things. From the very moment they come to exist,
buildings slowly absorb the histories of not just the locality in
which they stand, but the personal tales of each and every person who
had interacted with and within it through the years. Over decades and
centuries, the architecture comes to serve a far deeper purpose than that
of its initial design, holding time itself within its geometry.
This awareness
of generations, of our own very fleeting moment in history, is
far easier to perceive when a place has fallen silent. Left without
use, we can often use these abandoned structures as points of
reflection, seeing a place clearly without the distraction of daily
life which once consumed its halls. To see the forest as well as the
trees. The Cenacle of Mount Kisco, New York, is a place that will
forever exist as a reminder to how time can shape a place, and
perhaps more significantly, just how temporary it all is.
This grand convent began its life as a
far smaller building, though small is relative in this case – The roots of this winged structure spread outward from the central
mansion, which once stood alone on this wooded ridge, its name was Rose
Hill.
The original manor was constructed atop a
rolling parcel of land in 1904, eventually becoming home to famous showman of the day Billy Rose, who bestowed upon it the name 'Rose Hill'. In 1956 a massive fire ravaged the estate, gutting a
majority of the structure and decimating the personal effects of
Billy Rose. When interviewed by a local paper after the ordeal Billy
plainly stated “I lost a lot of things that can’t be replaced
with money.” Of those things he was referring to was a collection
of seven original paintings created for him by his close friend Salvador
Dali. Some time thereafter the property was sold off to 'The Convent of Our Lady of the Retreat
in the Cenacle', who rehabilitated and
expanded the initial mansion for use as a convent with a final size
of some 70,000 square feel. Much of the additional space was utilized
for classroom and dormitory-style living quarters. The most notable
portion of the 50s expansion was the creation of a beautiful chapel
which came to be a hallmark of the property. However, as we
previously mentioned – Everything is temporary.
The convent eventually sold off the property as well, and it changed hands several times throughout the decades. Always though, officially or not, the property retained the moniker of 'The Cenacle'. During a period of vacancy in the late 1970s, David Krebs, manager for the band Aerosmith organized the rental of the entire building, with the hopes of utilizing it as a sanctuary away from the influence of drugs, so that they may compose with clear minds and bodies. This proved futile, however, as Steven Tyler comments upon in his autobiography Does the Noise In My Head Bother You?, "Drugs can be imported, David...we have our resources. Dealers deliver! Hiding us away in a three-hundred room former convent was a prescription for total lunacy." At the end of their endeavors the band created the album Draw the Line, which was received poorly for numerous reasons, with most criticism seeming to stem from the group's rampant drug abuse at the time.
The convent eventually sold off the property as well, and it changed hands several times throughout the decades. Always though, officially or not, the property retained the moniker of 'The Cenacle'. During a period of vacancy in the late 1970s, David Krebs, manager for the band Aerosmith organized the rental of the entire building, with the hopes of utilizing it as a sanctuary away from the influence of drugs, so that they may compose with clear minds and bodies. This proved futile, however, as Steven Tyler comments upon in his autobiography Does the Noise In My Head Bother You?, "Drugs can be imported, David...we have our resources. Dealers deliver! Hiding us away in a three-hundred room former convent was a prescription for total lunacy." At the end of their endeavors the band created the album Draw the Line, which was received poorly for numerous reasons, with most criticism seeming to stem from the group's rampant drug abuse at the time.
The last organization to call The
Cenacle home was 'Our Lady of Mount Kisco', who operated the grounds
as a retreat center. After they vacated the building in 2011 the
grounds sat more-or-less without use. There were some grand
redevelopment plans which would pop up from time to time, stirring up
a bit of fanfare before disappearing into the void from which they
came. All the while The Cenacle sat, its century of stories,
memories, and lessons moldering away in the woods.
Buildings grow wise with age, and they
are not selfish with the knowledge. An old building will freely
impart what it has learned to whoever may care enough to pay listen.
It's a mutual exchange though, where one may glean knowledge, and the
building may garner respect. And with this respect may come safety.
Safety from neglect, from being forgotten. Unfortunately, any stories or lessons which The Cenacle
had to share were lost with it in the spring of 2019, when it was quickly and unceremoniously leveled to make way for a proposed housing development that will one
day sprawl across the hilltop.
Corridors of empty sleeping quarters.
Beautiful woodwork adorned the master stair and many lower chambers.
A postcard from our personal collection, depicting the chapel in far better days.
Text from the rear of the postcard.
What follows are the images of Louis Sam Inghilterra (@sweetlou1962),
who visited the property just days after demolition. He was kind
enough to allow us the use of his imagery for this entry, and in doing so
lends yet a third perspective to the story of the Cenacle, as sombre
as it may be.
The salvage company 'Olde Good Things' tried to save the ornate stonework from the Cenacle's entry, but unfortunately ran out of time before they could find an interested buyer.
115 years, undone in weeks.