Looking up in Boston
Boston has a way of welcoming you with a cold that isn’t just weather: it’s personality. It’s crisp, salty, and alive, drifting in from the harbor and curling around the streets like an old New England habit. That day, as we wandered through downtown, the air carried every sound with extra clarity: trolley bells echoing from afar, the low hum of traffic, the click of heels on damp sidewalks, and the sharp laughter of students weaving through the crowd. I’ve always loved cities in the cold. They feel honest. They reveal things.
I wasn’t searching for anything specific. I tend to drift through cities like I’m collecting small moments.
It’s rare to look up these days; most people keep their gaze straight ahead, eyes glued to their phones or the sidewalk. But something made me stop that day. I tilted my chin up, and suddenly, the whole energy of the street changed. There it was: The Proctor Building. Only three stories tall, but crowned as if it believed it were a palace.
The Proctor Building, built in 1897, is one of Boston’s exquisitely ornamented commercial structures from the late 19th century. Designed by Winslow & Wetherell, a duo known for turning practical city buildings into works of art. Its style draws from the Spanish Renaissance; full of terra-cotta flourishes, sculpted details, and high-relief ornamentation that catch the light in the most beautiful way. And then, of course, there’s the crown at the top: a band of oxidized copper cresting that glows greenish against the sky, like the city placed a tiara on its head and forgot to tell anyone.
The building was named for Thomas E. Proctor (1834-1894), a successful leather merchant whose estate oversaw the construction of the building after he died in 1894. The Proctor Building was an ode to its namesake: a monument molded in terra cotta to a behemoth of the New England leather industry, in what had once been Boston’s Leather District. (HBI Historic Boston Incorporated).
The terracotta was just as enchanting. It was carved with swirling motifs, almost floral and geometric, like something you’d expect to see on a grand European facade rather than a modest Boston commercial block. The windows were framed with unexpected softness, as if the architects couldn’t resist making even the functional parts of the building into art.
The Proctor Building reminded me that Massachusetts travel isn’t just about the big sites: Faneuil Hall, Beacon Hill, the Freedom Trail. It’s also about the tiny architectural treasures hidden in the city’s everyday rhythm. The kind that reveal themselves only to the curious. The kind that makes Boston feel rooted, layered, and human. The kind that begs you to slow down, even for two minutes, to appreciate the quiet craftsmanship left behind by hands that shaped the city more than a century ago.
And that’s why the building stayed with me long after we walked away. It became part of my own travel memories: the kind I bring home, reinterpret, and transform into art. My Proctor Building “stamp” isn’t just a visual piece; it’s a reminder to my collectors that beauty often lives above the noise. A reminder to look up. A reminder that places like Boston reward those who move through the world with curiosity.
As the morning grew brighter, the sun hit the crown just right, casting long, delicate shadows across the terracotta. For a moment, the building didn’t look 128 years old. It looked timeless: like a piece of art hanging in the sky. I felt grateful for the cold, for the wandering, for the instinct to look up. Without all of that, I would’ve missed one of the most enchanting facades in the city.
If you ever find yourself on Bedford Street, wrapped up against Boston’s winter chill, promise yourself one thing: take a moment to lift your eyes. Somewhere above you is a crown: a bit of artistry from 1897, waiting for someone to notice. Waiting for someone who still carries the heart of a traveler.
Because the best stories and the best pieces of wall art all begin the same way: with a moment you didn’t expect to find.
