(White) House on fire: what to save?
Here's what happened when things were burning up at a White House fire
No, really: What would you save if everything is on fire?
Hi, everyone-
One of the reasons why I came to America, was because of riots that burned my hometown to near ashes and soot. I was reminded of this recently when I was at a White House Historic Association function.
I was also reminded, that halfway around the world from where I was and centuries before any of this happened to me, that:
One hot night in a young city of Washington—then a make-shift town with a few bad houses and a gaudy ‘presidential’ White House, if you can even call it that at this point—an underworld kind of fire was about to burn.
But before there’s fire, there’s fear.
Doors were slamming. Carts and horses hasting. Neighing. And screaming.
I don’t remember much about the heat during the riots that I experienced. But I remembered it being a lot quieter.
My family and I were glued to the TV that time. I don’t exactly know what we were hoping to see. When there was action, all we saw was overturned cars. When there wasn’t, all we saw was deserted streets.
The Washington riot that happened hundreds of years prior to mine, was chaotic.
One man was running. Or rather: holding. No, it was both. In his hands … were the only written papers of the Revolutionary government. Everyone was running for their lives. But this guy was potentially ruining his life with the one decision to save the papers.
What would you have done?
I couldn’t tell what I would’ve done.
But back in my living room, my father got news that the riot—after two full weeks of spreading around the locked-down city—was finally approaching. One day I’ll explain the full social and political nuance that created this whole mess to begin with.
But for now, our eyes were on one person: my father.
Whenever my father doesn’t talk, we can all hear the full volume of everything he isn’t saying. I remember distinctly eating a very silent dinner. And after dinner, my mother and father walked into the room next door. She is about two-thirds as tall as him. So the image of her one hand refusing to let go of the middle of his back—looked a bit like a once lost child who’s afraid to get lost again.
Someone said something on TV, and I turned my head away from my parents. And when I turned back, my father was gone. My mother walked back to us and said:
“He’s gone to join the watch … at the front.”
The Front … is one of those universal words for: We may never see him again.
And I believe those people at the front lines in Washington, all those years ago, must’ve understood the meaning, too.
Where they were, against the reddening sun, one person saw the Union Jack flag flying atop Capitol Hill. And at the president’s house, British troops had invaded the building.
At this point of history, in 1814, the Capitol consisted of twin buildings. One building on the north side is the Senate. And the south side is the newer House.
When the British entered the Senate, they would’ve seen:
An eagle sculpture … with a 12-foot span.
It would’ve sat high above the Speaker’s chair when they marched into the chamber of the House of Representative. The sculptor of this colossal eagle was a skilled Tuscan from the lands of Michelangelo: Giuseppe Franzoni.
Once inside, the rioters dumped all the White House furniture into a pile. And light it on fire. To make a point, potentially. To prove power, possibly. But ultimately: to cement a point in time where they turn human potential into inhuman possibilities … in the shape and size of a power bonfire.
One point after deciding on this fire, they noticed a table was set for forty.
And that’s when they made it personal.
Everyone knew that Dolley Madison had been hosting dinners for both sides of the political parties. “To peace with America and down with Madison,” cheered the rioters. Boots and feet up on the table cloth mocked any effort to hide table-mannered pretense.
We don’t know if she saw the whole thing unravel. Or if, behind the door opening around the corner, she watched on as the British troops mocked, muddied, and melt her years of effort to unite people who hated each other’s guts.
But if Dolley didn’t flinch, it could’ve been because she somehow agreed with my family. That: silence has a way of helping front a looming threat.
Then … a gallop.
A horseman shouted for everyone to run. The British are only six miles away!
And this is the moment, that I am most interested in. Because:
What would you save in a fire?
When my father went to 'the front’ that night, I remember having a creeping sense of responsibility. Not so much of saving my family’s life. Though that was definitely there.
The responsibility I was sensing, was of saving the memory of my family’s life.
Of the time I sleep-walked into the corner room cabinet and split my head open.
Of the times my mother stroked my hair in my bedroom for hours when I had a fever.
Of the time my father screamed for my mother’s name when he stepped on the electrical power generator in the garden.
It was about saving a gallery. Or at least the photographic album of a singular past.
Apparently, Dolley Madison, felt the same. And if there’s fire left inside a woman in danger—it often comes in the form of the stoic refusal to be rushed. And that’s exactly what Dolley did.
Instead of running away, she begged whoever hadn’t fled, to take the portrait of the first president.
Amid the ravaging fire—she and a couple of people rushed to unscrew the giant frame from the wall. Dolley knew they had just minutes … before the chance is gone forever. So she told them to … break the wood and take out the linen canvas.
“Under no circumstances allow it to fall into the hands of the British!”
The skylight of the buildings had now reached its melting point. Which made everything around it reach theirs. The glass oozes down and, on its descent, pulled the colossal eagle by its wings. Until, they became one with the ground where they were born. No longer taking flight. Now forever taken.
But speaking of taking …
Taking too long to unscrew the portrait, Dolley and the few last ones standing decided to just rip the heavy twill from its frame … with a penknife. If the painting was a human being, and the arm was under a heavy object in a fire—it’s the same:
Cut the arm. Save the soul.
Someone had already saved the papers of the Revolutionary government. Now, the portrait of the first president is ripped just minutes from extinction. But few realized: that the complex actually had over 3,000 volumes of rare collection scrolls and galleries of archives. That didn’t just take years to build. It took generations.
Whoever first thought that the bonfire was a good idea:
They must not have remembered that it’s not just the colossal eagle that would’ve been lost. It’s the ancient skill of a sculptor, imprinted on their creation—that’s forever lost.
But every now and then, destruction by fire does something strange.
Every now and then, long forgotten embers … remain.
And they generate just enough heat—to breed new life. The life that says:
You may burn the sculpture. But the gallery of life … remains.
-Thalia
PS:
In my 20+ years of work—and especially after deepening my architectural preservation research on the 1814 White House fire at the White House Historical Association function—that sense of responsibility I felt when my father went to the front … felt very much at the forefront. And it made it motivated me to spend many early mornings and late nights compiling and curating archival and photographic materials from the White House. While the kids were sound asleep.
Which I now want to share with you, in:
White House Renovations: A First Family Gallery
A museum-style rare collection of photographs of private quarters, kitchens, helicopter landing pad, second floor rooms, bathrooms, herb garden, West Wing entrance, president’s bedroom, Oval Office, and even pet kernels.
Plus, over 120-wall mounted frames of photographs capturing lesser known renovations and which changes different First Families made.
If all of the first families got together privately, sat by the fire, and exchanged all their memories—black and white photographs, film negatives, and smart phone files—and I get to independently put all of them together to curate a limited-time museum exhibit, the gallery will look something like this 120-frame photographic tour of all the renovations and candid moments taken when no one was looking.
Imagine spending your time in a national heritage complex.
Starting with a morning walk with the First dogs.
Learning their names. And meeting their puppies.
Then: a gardening session at the Kitchen Garden. Of course, that’s where you harvest the zucchini. To make into a flatbread that later gets served picnic-style.
That’s what the White House Renovations: The First Family Gallery … looks like.
What if you then get a close look at the renovations throughout the years at the White House—from an insider—all from your device?
What if you also get to sit on your favorite couch and scroll through these photographs, and see what it would’ve been like … to go up to wash up in the Family Quarter bathroom after that garden picnic?
To have a quick lunch at the First Family Quarters kitchenette.
To go downstairs to the main kitchen to thank the chefs, who at this point is starting their prep for tonight’s state dinner. We see the tiered food on the counter for the night.
To the West Wing to thank the thankless job of all the desk staff who stepped away from the phone and are now on their feet to greet you.
To see what it must’ve looked like in the building, on that fateful 9/11 day, when that one phone call changed everything.
And then to walk to the South Lawn driveway, where a dog would turn a leader’s burden into childhood freedom, with one cuddle.
And what if you get to walk through time—and see:
The gilded Blue Room and Red Room, where Kings, Queens, and dignitaries have to defend philosophies and power through the undertones of who-sits-where in a seating chart.
Meanwhile, back upstairs in the quieter private quarters’ central hallway, the bedrooms speak a different story.
Let’s not forget the Lincoln’s bedroom—where one night, Daniel Day-Lewis and Steven Spielberg arrived for a private viewing of their film.
…
All of this, you get to see from the perspective of candid photographs taken by White House insiders, staff members, and crew.
Real, honest, and personal.
You can get access to this now as a Founding Member, and:
Plus, FAQs on the White House gets answered:
The surprising location of the President’s bedroom
Why the Oval Office is actually *not* at the center
Does the president’s bedroom have windows?
What the White House Kitchen v. Family Kitchen really look like
Tiered dishes that a First Lady helped prepare in Kitchen
What head-butlering at the White House looks like
How the First family extend seasons from Kitchen Garden in Winter
Where a first lady took her tea every morning
What south lawn driveway looks like from inside the Presidential Car
Decorator sketch of furnishing Lincoln Bedroom during renovation
Hand-written Holiday cards to service members from the White House
Who really stands guard at the West Wing entry
Which room late-night speech writing often happens
To see how the First Families turn into Family First,
Get access to …
The White House Renovations: A First Family Gallery
The gallery is available for Founding Members. Early bird pricing (a $240 value) is $97 until Friday, November 8th at 5:00 PM US Eastern Time. After this, the amount reverts back up.
100% proceeds will be donated to the White House Historical Association. And:
What an incredible storyweaving. I never really thought about that particular fire much, but will now! Living in wildfire country, I do think a lot about what to save … it’s always too much, and too impractical, but means something.
That line about your father, and the familiarity of all those who hear “going to the Front” … oof.
Helluva day to tell this story Thalia. But as usual it's beautifully carved.