The Previous Strip Reborn: An architect artist communes with the ghosts of Las Vegas’ imploded lodges

IIn the days leading up to Christmas 1952, a new hotel opened on the Las Vegas Strip. Texas oil tycoon Jake Freedman dreamed of a Las Vegas resort that would attract all the stars of Hollywood. The Sands was to be the embodiment of his dream. It had lost over $200,000 within the first eight hours of opening. The problem, or at least part of it, was the marketing scheme of offering all 12,000 of its first guests a sack full of silver dollars. But the losses weren’t as great as they meant: All those silver dollars given up meant the crowds came into the desert; The Sands was a hit.

Freedman’s dream resort soon became the center of entertainment in Las Vegas. The architecture and clientele cemented it as a home for cool in the nascent desert city. Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., and other members of the Rat Pack made the Sands their own playground in the 1950s and 1960s. The Pack’s iconic 1960 caper film Ocean’s 11 was filmed on the property and used much of the architecture as a backdrop. Director Lewis Milestone, who had been making films since 1918, knew the power of great scenery. The same was true of Hollywood’s stars, who flocked to the Sands to let off steam. Central America was not far behind.

Wayne McAllister’s original design was highlighted by a 56-foot-tall sign with the slogan that the Sands is “a place in the sun.” Obviously, the Sands was more than just another casino; It was an actual place, an environment that represented a lifestyle well beyond the green felt. In 1966, McAllister’s shield was complemented by an iconic, 500-room cylindrical tower designed by Martin Stern Jr. The Sands was an American architectural gem from an architectural era that was uniquely American.

Why did the Sands implode in 1996, just 19 days before its 44th birthday and just 30 years after the completion of Stern’s iconic tower?

A shameful end: the Sands implosion on November 26, 1996. (Illustration by Eric M. Roberts)

AArchitecture is a collaborative and democratized art form that draws on past architectural choices to create the present. Any architecture student can debate the importance of studying precedent as part of the design process. Learning from the history and character of a place is essential to successful architecture. When a city – sheltered and supported by its landowners and agents – is so keen to erase its architectural history, where is the precedent to be found? What can an architect fall back on when the design loses its origin?

That was my conundrum when I came to Las Vegas in 2005 as a young architect. The architecture of my city’s past was still alive and thriving as a cultural touchstone—it just didn’t exist anymore. We could talk about it, but we couldn’t see it in all its three-dimensional concrete glory. Between 1993 and 2007, twelve resort properties in Las Vegas were destroyed by an implosion. The past has been erased. This went hand in hand with the design character, style and roots of an up-and-coming western town.

In fairness, the byproduct of all explosive pyrotechnics is a Las Vegas strip that’s constantly being refreshed with modern buildings with modern amenities. Each deleted hotel was replaced with a new property with enough rooms to accommodate the population of many of Nevada’s rural communities. The new structures included innovations in public safety, queuing, signage, fire safety, scaling, and over-the-top extravagance that were an important part of Las Vegas’ growth. Architecture and the world have benefited so much from what Las Vegas architecture has done and learned over the past three decades. But I can’t help but feel robbed of all the history I’ll never see.

WWhen my children were little, my parents were still alive. I cannot imagine starting my family without their help and experience. I could touch both the past and the future; I was a synapse between generations. The presence of my parents gave the children the experience of living roots and their own rootedness. Even now that my parents are gone, I think about how much I would ask of them to see my children into adulthood. But I’m forever grateful that the children had a living touch for a few years, and I know that the years in the presence of their grandparents will forever shape who they are and what they bring to the next generation. My relationship with my middle-class family can never work the same way: In a city overwhelmingly filled with people who have arrived since the Sands fell, none of us will ever have direct contact with the building that has become the center of our has become bourgeois mythology.

The dunes and their landmark were imploded on October 27, 1993 to make way for Bellagio. (Illustration by Eric M. Roberts)

We have history, of course, the surviving words and facts that are kept on library shelves. We have photos and even schematics. Thank goodness we’re having conversations with the dwindling population of Vegas classic cars who knew the Sands – and, for that matter, the Dunes, the Landmark, etc. – not only by the end, but by the beginning. Most large cities evolve over time, showing the impact of their entire individual history on a particular neighborhood or side street. Great American cities like New York changed building by building over the centuries; Erasures were still painful, but the new usually coexisted with the old, and they communicated with each other as if the old buildings were betraying their secrets to the new ones. Occasionally, whole areas have been swept through a purge, caused either by overzealous urban planning or, as in the case of some European and Asian cities, by war. But these were exceptional circumstances and not the lightly accepted rule of town planning. In other words, Las Vegas is exceptional in many ways: In a span of less than 20 years—roughly 1993 to 2010—my city willingly and without much discussion replaced everything. A generation steeped in history, aesthetics, culture and community has been surgically removed from the heart of Las Vegas. New buildings and designs were drawn from the full. If there were any “sibling” structures left in the Sands, I might not feel this loss as much. But that entire layer of history—the synapse between then and now—was erased.

Nothing has forced Las Vegas into such a radical transformation. It is true that other cities suddenly lost large parts of their architectural heritage and had to replace them not only with new buildings but also with completely new ideas about civic space. In many cases, a fire was the historical reason for the city’s reconstruction. London (1666), Moscow (1812), Chicago (1871), San Francisco (1906; earthquake and fire) had no choice but to rebuild from the ashes. Las Vegas, on the other hand, gave up its old self voluntarily and with great fanfare. The destruction of Las Vegas was accompanied by fireworks, parties and television coverage as our city’s history flashed and then collapsed in embers. There was no mourning period or memorials for the disaster that leveled much of this city. There are no monuments to the buildings that were, to the places that lived and breathed and were the lifeblood of this desert oasis. Today, modern Las Vegas vibrates and hums based on our memories. Our modern buildings soar into the sky, standing square on the throat of our past.

The space-age landmark opened on July 1, 1969 and imploded on November 7, 1995. (Illustration by Eric M. Roberts)

For architects—and, I believe, for the community at large—there are design conversations to be had and lessons to be learned from interacting with lost Las Vegas buildings like the Sands. Today’s design is built on the sum of its history. In my present, a gulf of understanding separates me from the designs of early Las Vegas. In my presence, the long past and my future have been sacrificed on the altar of expediency. The last 25 years have snuffed out the Las Vegas design spark of the previous 45.

I think of other great world cities and the modern buildings they have received, all well past their 44th birthday: the Sears Tower in Chicago, the Space Needle in Seattle, the Transamerica Pyramid in San Francisco, and Frank Lloyd’s Guggenheim Museum Wright New York City. It would be blasphemous to suggest the demolition of any of these buildings. They are part of the culture and character of the city and skyline.

IDig into the sandy soil of memory and discover the treasures of my design ancestors in books and pictures. Through anecdotes about vintage cars – and in a young city like Las Vegas you don’t have to be that old to be a vintage car – I get to know the disappeared generations of our urban planning. I reflect on old photos and draw the phantoms of our architectural past. When pen meets paper, I imagine the process of creation. The lines form the branches of our civil family tree. A touch of color helps me get in touch with the soul of my ancestors. With pen and brush I bridge the gap and discover parts of myself in these forms from decades ago.

My everyday life goes without parents. Both my biological parents died before I was 40 years old. My architectural “parents”—and aunts, uncles, and cousins—were taken away from me by the demolition man. Nevertheless, I can direct their light into the future. I can choose to learn about them, reflect on the things they taught, and pass those things on to future generations. In cities, just like in families, we don’t really lose what we love until we stop preserving its memory. ◆

Eric M. Roberts is a Fellow of the American Institute of Architects. History and Art from his forthcoming book 33 Beats of the Architect’s Heart.