To glance At the Old Vanderburgh County Courthouse in Downtown Evansville is to see a history of our fair city and the grandiose dreams of forefathers who envisioned the edifice as an everlasting temple to American justice. By the time the first stone was laid in May 1888, for what would be the county’s third courthouse, that intent had long been set into motion.

The design, selected in a contest that drew entries from prominent architects, was that of Second Empire Renaissance — an architectural style at its zenith, popularized by Napolean III with the Grand Opera House he ordered built in Paris. Bearing the motto, “Fac et Spira” — Latin for “Do and Hope” — the courthouse’s baroque design came from the hand of German-born Henry Wolters, a 42-year-old architect who topped his 15,000-square-foot building with a majestic copper dome towering 216 feet in the air and decorated the exterior with Greek goddesses and bare-bosomed muses.

The latter harkened back to classical Rome and ancient Greece from which American democracy had been crafted; and like 19th century courthouses rising across the young nation, it reflected an architectural philosophy rooted in the belief that majestic palaces of justice would endow the courts with the principles of law rather than the whims of men.
As Evansville historian William Bartelt would chronicle a century later, it was intentionally a far cry from the log house where the county’s first judge, Henry Vanderburgh, presided in 1818. And it was a major step up from the city’s second courthouse, covered in stucco to hide fire-scarred walls and declared by the city’s leading lawyers — including Asa Igleheart, whose descendants still reside here — to be “unfit for occupancy” 15 years after it was built.

So grand were the visions of county officials in early 1888 that they mortgaged the future on it, issuing 30-year bonds to the amount of $225,000 for its construction —the most the county could incur under law. Costs would soar before its completion, but as opening day neared in late 1890, a chorus of praises rang forth. “An architectural triumph,” one of the city’s newspapers declared. “Kingdoms may fall, dynasties change, or republics become no more, but only an upheaval of the earth, or an unlooked-for phenomenon of nature can obliterate that perpetual monument of Vanderburgh’s greatness, the new county courthouse.”

Seventy years later, it wasn’t an act of God that would threaten to obliterate the monument but an act of men who would vote to spend $20 million to erect a campus of sterile and modernistic government buildings to be known as the Civic Center Complex.

Burdened with what they feared was an antiquated monstrosity, county officials were forced to determine the old courthouse’s fate. Reflecting a sentiment that would later claim other grand historic landmarks in the city, some county officials called for its demolition. Advised one of the city’s leading architects: “Kick it over and forget it.”

It's a notion that horrifies Kelley Coures, president of the Old Courthouse Foundation which was formed in 2001 to advance a private-public partnership put into place to guide the future treatment and use of the building. Coures is convinced the landmark is essential to our identity. “It’s what gives Evansville its sense of place,” he says.

That’s how saviors of the structure felt in 1967, when they formed the Old Courthouse Foundation’s predecessor, the Conrad Baker Foundation, to save the building from the wrecking ball. Named for a 19th century Evansvillian who’d gone on to become governor, it’s founding board was a who’s who of the city. Among them were industrialists Alexander Leich and Louis Ruthenburg, architect and third-generation Evansvillian Richard Brennan, philanthropist Clarice Koch, and attorney William Calvert Welborn — who at 90 and still practicing law, had witnessed major events unfold at the courthouse, including the 1916 climb, from ground to flagpole, by Harry “The Human Fly” Gardiner, and the 1948 and 1960 appearances, respectively, by presidential candidates Harry Truman and John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

It was this dedicated group of citizens, and many who followed in years to come, who are credited for saving the courthouse for posterity. In May of 1969, shortly before Vanderburgh County government offices moved into the new Civic Center, founders of the Conrad Baker Foundation convinced county leaders — fretting over the $350,000 it would cost them to demolish the old courthouse — to hand over responsibility for the building to the foundation under a 99-year lease.

It was a victory for preservationists, but the question of what to do with it next remained to be answered. Guidance came from James Biddle, president of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, who was invited to the city to help convince Downtown merchants of the worthiness of the quest. Biddle stressed the need to turn the building into something self-sustaining and functional rather than “just another museum piece.”

“Like Notre Dame in Paris and the Westminster Abbey in London,” the late Evansville historian Ken McCutchan wrote, “our courthouse is the kind of building so encrusted with sculpture and stone carvings that one cannot take it all in at once. It requires study, and one sees something new and interesting each time he examines it.”

McCutchan wrote these lofty words as part of an introduction to a short book, “A Pictorial Study of the Old Vanderburgh County Courthouse,” published in 1972. In his introduction, McCutchan — whose ancestors were among the county’s earliest residents – acknowledged that money was coming in slowly for the restoration project, and he speculated that too few people had yet to see the building for “the valuable work of art that it really is.”

He described the larger-than-life-size allegorical figures that prominently adorn the courthouse above its four massive entrances, representing justice, learning, bounty, and commerce; and he pointed out the multitude of fat cherubs, ornamental friezes, soaring symbols, and countless garlands and wreaths laden with the fruits, vegetables, nuts, flowers, and leaves indigenous to Southwest Indiana, all carved out of Indiana limestone. He hailed the main sculptor, German-born and European-educated Franz Engelsmann, and his army of stonecutters who crafted their work on-site much to the delight of passersby who stopped often to gawk. And McCutchan noted that Engelsmann, while here, fell in love with and later married Louise Benninghof, the daughter of a prominent Evansville family for whom an East Side street was later named.

“So, undeniably we have something here very special,” noted McCutchan. “The sweating, skilled, sure hands of artisans who created it are gone, but they have left us a masterpiece of their vanishing art form that, if properly cared for, can be enjoyed and cherished by generations yet unborn.”

By the time the pictorial book was published, the foundation had invested time and money repairing or restoring significant portions of the building that had gone neglected while in its waning years housing the courts and county government. And he described the foundation’s vision for the building, noting plans for concert and reception halls, historical exhibits and archives, and the possibility for an “elegant gourmet restaurant.” But as McCutchan cautioned: “All of this takes time and money.”

For decades loyal preservationists have cared for the building, sustaining and supporting their efforts by leasing offices and space to both full-time tenants and part-time users. They’ve raised money from private and public sources for restoration projects and re-examined their mission and methods along the way. In 1990, for example, the Conrad Baker Foundation changed its name to the Old Courthouse Preservation Society to better identify to the public its mission. Among longtime champions of the building’s preservation are Indiana Supreme Court Chief Justice Randall Shepard, an Evansville native who served five years as president of the Conrad Baker Foundation. In 1987, he stood in what was the main courtroom to be sworn in for his first term as Chief Justice by then-Indiana Gov. Robert Orr — an Evansville native whose ancestor, James L. Orr, was among the city’s leading citizens appointed by county officials in 1887 to select the winning architectural design for the building.

Still, the work has often been heavy lifting, as Faye Gibson, the former executive director of the Old Courthouse Preservation Society, often testified to local officials when she went seeking support to fund restoration work on rooms in the courthouse that have not easily been transformed into revenue-generating space.

A prime example is the room that once housed Probate Court. It’s one of the four courtrooms that had once embodied the awe-inspiring architectural detail — elaborately carved furnishings, marble wainscoating, Ionic pilasters, and ornate wrought-iron banisters and railings — that gave weight to the somber judicial proceedings that took place within. But in renting the room out to various tenants, including most recently a theater group, the room’s historical integrity has been compromised. The floors are badly damaged and a portion of the room and all the surfaces have been painted black.

Better protected has been Wedgwood Hall, now known as the Old Courthouse Ballroom. The former law library has been rented out for receptions on and off through the years, and the Superior Courtroom — where Shepard was sworn in — remains in its historical configuration with much of the original furnishings. Yet both suffered from water damage before the courthouse’s slate roof was replaced in 2002 at a cost of $1.5 million. By the late 1990s, the looming costs of repairing the aging building’s exterior, combined with renovating the building’s public spaces and the escalating costs of utilities and other operating expenses reached a critical mass.

In early 2001, 32 years after the Vander-burgh County officials abandoned the courthouse, the tables would turn. In January of that year, the Old Courthouse Preservation Society — whose members feared they could no longer fulfill their role as stewards — notified county officials of its intent to abandon the property and terminate the 99-year lease.

It would prove to be a new chapter in the life of the old courthouse, triggering an innovative private-public partnership dedicated to restoring the building’s structural integrity and its rightful place in the community’s history. Echoing the sentiment of the late Ken McCutchan, the people involved understand it will take both time and money — millions of dollars and years to complete — for the kind of comprehensive overhaul the 19th century structure needs to sustain itself deep into the 21st century.

For its part, the county has committed itself to a considerable investment, based on recommendations from a task force formed in 2001 that outlined plans for the building’s “highest and best use.” In 2004, for example, the county entered into a 10-year, $5.33 million contract with the Evansville-based Energy Systems Group as part of a far-ranging update of the old courthouse’s aged electrical, mechanical, and plumbing systems. The work is being done in conjunction with preservation experts to both protect the historic integrity of the building and to make it economically and aesthetically appealing to potential tenants.

As important are the efforts of the private partner in the project — the Old Courthouse Foundation, which was established in 2001 to act as a guardian of the building. In 2006, the foundation board and county officials authorized the undertaking of a preservation master plan. Conducted by VPS Architecture in Evansville and preservation experts at RATIO Architects, Inc. in Indianapolis, the plan is a detailed guide to future treatment and use of the building with the goal of long-term sustainability.

VPS president Mike Shoulders says he was humbled by the undertaking. “The building’s original construction, its design artistry, its detailing are all examples of a truly heroic effort by the Evansville community of that day and time,” says Shoulders. “It’s imperative we honor our ancestors by restoring this work that they have given us.”

It’s a sentiment echoed by many involved who are eager to attend the inaugural event of the newly renovated Old Courthouse Ballroom (formerly Wedgwood Hall), the scene of the 33rd annual Historic Preservation Awards banquet on May 20. The banquet kicks off a major fundraising effort to underwrite the cost of additional renovation work called for in the preservation master plan, including the return to grandeur of the Superior Courtroom on the second floor.

It’s a sentiment voiced by Vanderburgh County Commissioner Troy Tornatta earlier this year when he met with a group of University of Southern Indiana graduate students working on a marketing plan for the building. In talking to the students, Tornatta ruled out the option of failure, saying the landmark structure could not be torn down. “It would be,” he said, “like ripping the heart out of somebody.”

It’s a sentiment that echoes with USI business professor Les Nunn, who volunteered his graduate students for the project. Nunn’s family founded Nunn Milling Co. in Evansville in 1922 and his father, Lockett Nunn, served on the old Conrad Baker Foundation Board that helped save the landmark structure from demolition. Nunn remembers as a little boy walking through the doors of the massive limestone entrances with his father, under the watchful gaze of the sculptured goddesses above. In its grandeur, he says, is the hope, passion, and pride of what was a young American city venturing into the daring experiment of democracy. “It’s more than just a work of art worthy of preservation,” Nunn says. “It’s a symbol of who we once were as a people.”