How do we value the old made new? Adaptive reuse often walks a fine line between preservation and the bulldozer.

Once upon a time, a building was built for one noble purpose: the punishment of miscreants, the salvation of sinners, or the general improvement of society through the instruction and warehousing of its children. The rigorous application of steel bars and concrete walls, stained glass and wooden benches, chalkboards and rows of desk/chairs served us well for a time in penitence, worship, and education. Then, we, in our endless wisdom and grotesque irony, decided that such institutions were unnecessary — or at least too expensive to maintain. And so, the prisons were emptied, the schoolhouses abandoned, the churches left to the pigeons, and these fine, forsaken structures stood like forgotten tombstones of bygone purpose.

Until, of course, a developer caught wind of them, rubbed his hands together, and said, “Why, these would make lovely homes.”

Welcome to the age of adaptive reuse, where buildings once meant for industry, education, or incarceration are now retrofitted as a place to remand the great American dream — homeownership. It is a trend both noble and sometimes absurd, sustainable and occasionally grotesque, a testament to human ingenuity and a damning indictment of our inability to build anything new that isn’t a strip mall.

Take, for example, the old penitentiary. Once a haven for wayward souls with an overdeveloped enthusiasm for other people’s belongings, it has now been reborn as the Liberty Lorton Community in Virginia. Where once echoed the cries of the condemned, now rings the laughter of children. Where steel doors once clanged shut, now stands an open-concept kitchen with granite countertops. The transformation is complete — except, perhaps, for the occasional ghost of a long-departed inmate who rattles the pipes at night.

Not to be outdone, Melbourne’s circa-1851 Pentridge Prison has undergone a similar metamorphosis: a mixed-use development and “billion-dollar dining and entertainment precinct.”  The guard’s watchtower, from which many a convict was once observed plotting an escape, is now a charming architectural feature of someone’s living room. One wonders if the new occupants, sipping wine beneath the repurposed security bars, ever stop to consider the ironic poetry of their dwelling.

But why stop at prisons? Warehouses, schools, and even churches have become fair game in the adaptive reuse free-for-all. In Nashville, an old lumber mill has become a desirable community of single-family homes, its industrial bones repurposed into trendy loft-style abodes. Meanwhile, in Manhattan, the former Lincoln Correctional Facility, last known for housing petty criminals, is now the site of high-end real estate. One might call it a miracle of progress, or perhaps simply an elaborate joke played by time upon itself.

Valuing History

For the real estate appraiser, such transformations pose a conundrum: How does one assign value to a home where the kitchen was once a holding cell? How does the market account for a living room that once served as a place of prayer or punishment? The factors are many and bewildering.

Historical significance plays a role, of course. Buyers may clamor for a home steeped in history, so long as said history is charming rather than horrifying. A converted church, with its lofty ceilings and stained-glass windows, may fetch a premium. A converted slaughterhouse (Neuhoff Packing Plant, Nashville, TN), on the other hand, might require a more nuanced bit of marketing.

Then, there is the matter of location. The market cares little for poetry; a home is only as valuable as the market acceptance of the land beneath it. If an old schoolhouse sits in a prime neighborhood, it becomes a coveted relic of a more disciplined age. If it languishes in a forgotten corner of the world, it remains what it has always been — an abandoned schoolhouse, now with better insulation.

Economic viability must also be considered. The developer may dream of restoring history, but investors dream of profit. The costs of repurposing must not outweigh the potential gains, and so, adaptive reuse often walks a fine line between preservation and the bulldozer.

And finally, there are the ghosts — metaphorical and, in some cases, distressingly literal. Some buildings wear their past lightly; others carry it like a bad habit. Appraisers must weigh the unseen factors — buyer perception, cultural memory, and the unshakable feeling that the drain in one’s bathroom may have sluiced the fluids and viscera of cattle by the millions.

In the end, maybe adaptive reuse is often less about sustainability and more about the grand human refusal to let go of the past. We build prisons, fill them, empty them, and then move in ourselves. We abandon our schools and then call them home. We kneel in our churches, then convert them into luxury condos with vaulted ceilings and a faint whiff of incense. And through it all, the real estate market hums along, appraising, adjusting, and finding value in the most unexpected of places.

Perhaps, one day, this article will be rediscovered in the ruins of a former office building-turned-apartment-complex-turned-historical-landmark-turned-single-family home. And if so, dear reader of the distant future, let it be known: We did our best with what we had, and we had some odd ideas about home.