DOES YOUR HOUSE HAVE AN IDENTITY CRISIS?

or, Whatever it is, stick with it!

By

Michael S. Vados

An old friend, a newly retired fellow journalist, has invited me over to see improvements he is making to his home. Always the thoughtful introvert, he seems to be enjoying his new role as the meticulous at-home gentleman. His temperament is decidedly that of the thoughtful perfectionist, and I am looking forward to seeing his upgrades with the curious anticipation one might feel when about to view the fresh creations of an artist who has been experimenting in a new medium.

The house is a two-story "colonial;" part of a late 1960’s housing tract located in an outer suburb of Baltimore. The exact same model of house, in varying exterior treatments, is repeated every fifteen lots or so as you drive through the curved streets, streets now given a certain established character by fully grown Slippery Elms and White Oaks.

My friend is the original owner of the house, purchasing it in 1969. Say what you will about ticky-tacky and cookie cutters; this little house, we will call it Model 4B2B, is a good little house -even if it is not exactly the stuff of Architectural Digest. Sitting serenely in its landscaped thicket, Model 4B2B seems to have made peace with itself. Because it is not trying to be Manderly, it has an air of dignity. Its honesty lends a type of stylistic poise. You feel that at some point, Model 4B2B took a long look in a three-way mirror and thought: This is me. I am not Falling Water. I am not a Phillip Johnson glass tower. I am not even an authentic colonial. But neither am I a hillbilly shack, or an outhouse. I am a tract house, in the colonial style. I must identify my good points, provincial as they may be, and play them up to the best of my ability.

The builder/architect who conceived Model 4B2B must have been somewhat thoughtful. Various standard features of the house do, indeed, suggest an early American domicile, even if they fail to convince you that the claim is legitimate. Narrow clapboard siding, symmetrical Georgian facade, pilaster and pedimented doorway, hardwood floors throughout. I have seen worse imitations.

The furnishings that my friend and his late wife purchased over the years have been in keeping with the style of the house. Traditional, with a smattering of interesting antiques. Her contributions are a lasting tribute to her quiet good taste. A rather clever William and Mary slant-front desk greets you in the entrance hall, tempting you to snoop through its cunning pigeonholes. A Hepplewhite hutch stands proudly in the dining room, its glowering mahogany lending warmth, making the room a catalyst for the type of memorable discussions that go on by candlelight long after the last morsel is finished. Commanding respect in the living room are a pair of wingback lounge chairs, again from the Hepplewhite era, that I will admit to coveting even though I am known for my Eames-inspired taste in furnishings. Equestrian and countryside themes, in the tradition of George Stubbs, dominate the abundant artwork, each piece looking as if it were lovingly chosen. It is the type of place men and women can each find something to like.

As I drive up the driveway, I immediately sense that something is off balance. I spot the first improvement. A stunning new Victorian grand entrance door unit, an ornate leaded glass and wood affair with sidelights, which I recognize as having been on sale throughout the summer at the local home mega-store. I guess the style would be typed as high Victorian gothic; it is, indeed, an entrance that might have been thought up by one of William Burges’ less talented protégés as a kind of side entrance to the architect’s Trinity College in Hartford. It looks like the kind of doorway that might lead to the boudoir of a Victorian madam, or the powder room of Mae West. I am instantly sentimental for the unimproved former state, and indignant at the embarrassment with which the dignified little colonial must now greet its guests. I have an ominous feeling as I approach the house.

"Didn’t you always hate that plain front door?" My friend asks me in greeting. His face is glowing in anticipation of my approval, but I find it hard to quell my disappointment.

"I rather liked it. Is it still around?"

"What? Nah. Don’t you like the new door?"

"It’s splendid, opulent, it looks like the entrance to a cathedral," I say, thinking of Henry James’ overdressed Catherine.

My friend is saying something else but I do not hear him. I am too busy looking at the new floor in the foyer. Beautiful, rugged, glazed Mexican ceramic tile. An authentic touch of the southwest, right here in our little suburb! I dismally surmise that it does not stop in the entrance, but extends to the back of the house, into the kitchen, and then trespasses into the dining room. It just sits there, looking rather embarrassed at the brash statement it is being forced to make in bright blue, red, and gold. It is interesting, the effect that a floor can have on a house. Nothing is quite right anymore. The traditional furniture is suddenly stuffy. The muted, painterly hues in the artwork clash with the bright primaries in the tile. The antiques no longer look right; whether it is because they are too old or not old enough I cannot tell. It is funny how when a scheme works you do not necessarily zero in on individual components. Every part is symphonic, a smaller part of a thematic composition. Now as I survey the broken roomscape each piece of furniture seems to stand alone in stark relief, weirdly out of tune.

The living room has sprouted new wall-to-wall carpeting. "What, you don’t even like carpet? Don’t be such a fanatic!" Now in itself, carpet is nice. Wonderful, furry stuff. Sadly, in this case it is the final deathblow to any vestige of distinctiveness the poor room might have had left. New vertical blinds on all of the windows heighten the Comfort Inn ambience. The whole space seems very beige, as if it had been power-sprayed with liquid generic. So be it.

I suppose I am what you would call a purist. I guess I should try to see things my friend’s way. It turns out he never really wanted a colonial. Why should it bother me? I have been criticized for being an unrealistic, militant museum curator. The new style is more mish-mashy, eclectic; he encouraged me to get with it.

A Philadelphia couple buys their first home, a fifty-three year old Levittowner in the assembly-line community that revolutionized America’s suburban landscape. The one-story house is in fair condition, with all of its mid-century modernity intact, if not worn. The plain flush doors, free of ornament; the huge Thermopane windows that make the small house seem twice as spacious as it is; the speckled asphalt tile floor that is no longer manufactured. This particular model features the fanciful winged carport that makes the dwelling look as if it were eager to fly off into the space age. Alfred Levitt designed several houses for his planned communities, but The Levittowner was the star, the golden child. It was the hip choice among Levitt‘s offerings, the one designed for the style crowd. The house is a carefully planned, compact gem, a piece of mass-produced twentieth-century American history.

However, our couple does not care where the house has been, they can only connive where their fashionable aspirations will take it. Let’s talk Tuscan! Must get to work, have to faux-finish the siding to look like travertine. Let’s put some Romanesque church doors on that carport and make a real garage! Look! Vinyl-framed "villa" windows on sale at the home center! oh, for cute! Suddenly the house seems as small as it is. It now looks like a strange, Italian shoebox. We must rectify this. Let’s add a bell tower. I’ll bet this is just what houses look like in Tuscany! Right?

In a suburb of San Francisco, there exists a distinctive neighborhood of houses designed by Claude Oakland and built by Eichler during the atomic age. The houses are glassy conceptual masterpieces, incorporating clear-walled atriums and tiled loggias that seamlessly blend the indoor with the outdoor until the two are virtually indistinguishable. The whole neighborhood is a study of the horizontal line, a synchronized composition of long, low, Earth-hugging silhouettes.

Recently a new breed of headstrong home-improvement hoodlum has invaded this locality, this treasure. Despite the chagrin and heartbreak of their neighbors, they insist on adding awkward second-story additions, rendering the houses devoid of a definable architectural style and ruining the neighborhood’s carefully sculpted contiguous line. I would chance a bet that these same people are also nailing on Victorian entranceways and slapping down Tuscan tile. The whole thing makes me nervous. I have always dreamed of moving to California and owning an Eichler; will there be any left? Will I have to settle for a two-story Eichler with a gambrel roof? How about a Saltbox?

Before I get to sounding too self-righteous, let’s turn the tables. I strongly prefer modern architecture to the vaguely Victorian McMansions that have been popular builder’s fare for the last decade, but what if I was suddenly forced to live in the latter? Now that is a whole new wrinkle. I suppose I would become just as annoying, up late into the night with paintbrush and crowbar in hand, feverishly trying to turn the poor house into a kind of Victorian Mies Pavilion, or my own rendition of the Bauhaus, never mind that Walter Gropius did not normally prescribe bay window towers, nor gingerbread wraparound porches.

I can tell you what a sensible person would do, even if I am not sure I would do the same thing. He or she would try to see the house for what it was, and not insist that it change its sheetrock tresses from blonde to black. Our sensible friend insightfully understands that Marilyn Monroe as a dye-pot brunette would have made a rather poor Claudia Cardinale. So maybe he will not be able to bring himself to actually celebrate the house; nevertheless, he will allow it to be. Maybe he will make an effort to learn about the architect and try to see the structure as he saw it --after all, it can be a rather whimsical diversion, getting caught up in someone else’s vision. In time, he might develop a learned, quiet appreciation for the dwelling he at one time detested.

His neighbors would thank him for his discretion. Allowed to be true, the house would be highly esteemed by the Victoria crowd, and have a fair chance to grow on others. Hacked, girdled, and nip-tucked into something it was never meant to be, it is almost sure to be scorned by all except the hacker, and even he might wonder why he squints a little every time he pulls into the driveway.

Some were critical of Frank Lloyd Wright for being tyrannical, dictating the furnishings and embellishments long after the commission was completed, but I sympathize with the late architect. I think that perhaps he understood that purity, in itself, is a thing of beauty. Think of a person, rather plain of feature, but endowed with that increasingly rare gift of poise, 100% sure of who they are, an imitation of nobody. This attribute lends a powerful charm and magnetism all its own. But as soon as that same person walks into the room wearing the hairstyle and spouting the rehearsed phraseology of the latest celebrity hottie, they become ridiculous, pathetic; everyone thinks too bad, what a fine person has been lost… submerged!

Currently, you may not live in the style of home of your choosing; this is so for many of us. But before you make a trek to the home improvement mega-store, take a careful look at what you do have. Could it be that the best ornamentation you could grace your home with is purity? The distinction of sincerity? A phony is innately, universally repellent. Perhaps you may at some point locate an authentic model of the type of house you have dreamed of; I am sure you would be extremely pleased to find it unmarred by confusing aftermarket anomalies. Perhaps what you have now is exactly what someone else is looking for.