The Skyscraper That Nearly Fell Sideways

I’ve never liked the Citicorp Center.

That silver pyramid cap jutting out of the Midtown skyline has always felt like it’s trying too hard. From some angles, it steals light from the Empire State Building. From others, it photobombs the Chrysler — and not in a flattering way. It’s not iconic. It’s in the way. A bulky modernist shoulder check in the middle of New York’s Art Deco ballet.

But beneath that awkward sloped roof lies one of the most chilling stories in American engineering — one that almost ended in catastrophe, and no one knew until nearly two decades later.

A Tall Building on Stilts — What Could Go Wrong?

Opened in 1977, the Citicorp Center (now known as 601 Lexington Avenue) was a bold addition to Manhattan’s skyline. Designed by architect Hugh Stubbins and structural engineer William LeMessurier, the 59-story skyscraper stood out not just for its roofline, but for a striking engineering compromise at its base.

To make room for St. Peter’s Lutheran Church — which refused to relocate — the tower was elevated on four massive stilts placed not at the corners, but at the midpoints of each side. It was hailed as a feat of modern design: a solution that preserved history while pushing architectural boundaries.

But pushing boundaries is dangerous when gravity is involved.

The Flaw: A Wind Load Blind Spot

LeMessurier’s structural system relied on a series of welded chevron braces — an X-shaped pattern designed to distribute wind loads through the building’s frame. In theory, it was elegant. In practice, it hid a fatal oversight.

The design accounted for winds striking the building head-on. But it completely missed what happens when winds hit the building from a 45° angle — so-called “quartering winds.” These diagonal gusts exert a different kind of force, one that the chevron bracing wasn’t built to withstand.

And the only reason anyone found out? A student at Princeton.

While working on a project, the student contacted LeMessurier and asked a simple question about how the tower handled diagonal wind loads. LeMessurier rechecked his calculations and discovered the truth: under quartering winds, the building could collapse.

Not metaphorically. Literally fall over.

The Secret Summer Fix of 1978

Hurricane season was approaching.

LeMessurier quietly informed Citicorp, then city officials. A blackout ensued — not of power, but of information. Overnight, under the cover of darkness, teams of welders were brought in to reinforce key joints in the building’s skeleton. Secret evacuation plans were drafted for a ten-block radius around the tower. Police were put on standby. Hospitals were alerted.

No storm came.

The welds held.
The evacuation never happened.
And the public? Left in the dark until 1995.

Why Did No One Blow the Whistle?

LeMessurier’s eventual confession was framed as professional integrity — and yes, he chose to speak up. But the deeper question is: why didn’t anyone else catch it?

This was a skyscraper in the middle of Manhattan. Built by a major corporation. Reviewed by multiple engineers. And not one of them ran wind simulations at an angle?

The answer is less about malice than it is about confidence layered on trust layered on assumption. Everyone assumed someone else had checked. And the higher the prestige, the fewer questions anyone dares to ask.

That’s how systems fail quietly — not from sabotage, but from delegation and ego.

From Blueprint to Near-Disaster

Had a storm like Hurricane Ella veered toward New York in summer 1978, Citicorp Center could have collapsed with little warning. Thousands of lives lost. Midtown devastated. The worst structural failure in American history — and it would’ve come not from an earthquake or plane, but from wind.

This wasn’t a blueprint problem. The blueprints were clever.
It was a hubris problem — and a chilling reminder that clever isn’t always safe.

Why This Still Matters

Today, cities are filled with “innovative” structures. Parametric design. AI-generated load paths. Floating airports. Cantilevered everything. We’re building faster, taller, thinner — and trusting software to do what engineers once did by instinct and chalk.

But the Citicorp story reminds us: risk doesn’t go away just because we stopped looking for it.

There are no points for elegance if the building falls over.

Final Thoughts: The Warning Buried in the Skyline

Citicorp Center still stands. The welds held. No storm came.
But the silence surrounding its failure to fail should still haunt us — because the next one might not be so lucky.

It’s easy to mock that awkward slanted roof. I still do.
But now when I see it, I see something else:
A warning. In steel.

More reading:

Council on Tall Buildings and Urban Habitat
“The Fifty-Nine-Story Crisis” (by Joe Morgenstern, 1995)