BACK IN THE DAYS OF DECO

La Maîtrise Pavillon for Galeries Lafayette, among the
fantastical structures that introduced the public to Art Deco
at the Paris Exposition in 1925.

In April 1925, an exposition opened in Paris that was to influence American design for the next twenty years. It carried the unwieldy moniker: L’Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes . However, the name of the style it gave birth to is short and sweet: Art Deco.

The Exposition was meant to showcase only the most modern European design, whether in architecture or consumer products, so no historically-based decoration was allowed.  Instead one found a gaggle of fresh new motifs based on simple geometry: chevrons, flutes, zigzags and rays, as well as some highly stylized floral forms.

 William Van Alen's Chrysler
Building of 1930, whose pinnacle
is perhaps the best known
Art Deco structure in America.

By 1926, such design—which would not be called Art Deco until long after the fact—was already filtering into the American psyche via shop displays and movie sets. Also that year, architect Timothy Pfleuger wowed San Franciscans with his pointedly non-traditional Pacific Telephone Company building, thereby putting the style on the architectural map as well. In 1930, architect William Van Alen completed perhaps the most famous Art Deco structure around, the Chrysler building. In 1931, Pfleuger doubled down with his spectacular Paramount Theater in Oakland, another acknowledged masterpiece of the Art Deco era.

Art Deco remained a commercial style for the most part, yet residential architecture couldn’t help but be affected by it. For those architects and builders brave enough to break away from the traditional styles of the day, Art Deco brought a whole new look to housing. In many ways, it emulated Bauhaus design, with its flat roofs, curved walls, and bands of windows; yet true Bauhaus adherents would have been aghast at the further addition of strident colors and wild geometric motifs such as ziggurats, sunbursts, and lightning bolts.

The lobby of the Oakland Paramount Theater, designed by
Timothy Pfleuger and completed in 1931,
features the ultra-Deco "Fountain of Light".

In the mid 1930s, Art Deco branched into a related style known as Streamline Moderne. Its features were derived less from the Paris exposition than from industrial designers such as Raymond Leowy, who throughout the decade had been madly reshaping everything from typewriters to steam locomotives to mimic the fluid lines of modern aircraft. In 1935, Leowy painted “speed lines”on the nose of the Pennsylvania Railroad’s new streamlined S1 locomotives, suggesting the streaking of an object in motion. Ironically, this decorative device became a favorite motif on Deco and Moderne homes as well, despite the fact that these houses clearly weren’t going anywhere.

Raymond Loewy poses on the Pennsylvania Railroad's
S1 locomotive of 1939, whose heavily speedlined cowling
gave it a look of motion even when standing still.

By the eve of World War II, the palette of Deco/Moderne was well defined: stucco walls (often curved); glass block (often curved as well); steel casement windows; vitreous tile (an opaque glass wall finish available in various colors, though most commonly found in black);  stainless steel and chrome accents; and the now-familiar geometric ornament in low relief.

In years after World War II, a renewed sense of American pride led buyers back to the more home-grown look of Colonials and Ranchers, and the high-voltage era of Deco/Moderne quietly faded out like a dying battery. Since the style never really caught on with tract builders, Art Deco residences are quite rare, often appearing singly among the more popular bungalows and cottages of the era.

A small Art Deco jewel in San Franciso, circa
the late 1930s.
(Image courtesy of decopix.com)

The unique design of Art Deco and Moderne homes brings with it a number of characteristic troubles. The flat roofs and lack of overhangs beloved by this style often translate into maddeningly persistent leaks, as do the often poorly-waterproofed stucco details. Also, the  ubiquitous steel sash found in these houses—the leading-edge window technology of the 1930s—has a propensity to both rusting and sticking shut due to accumulated layers of paint.  

But hey, a Deco jewel is worth a little trouble, oui?

"ARCHITECT-DESIGNED" STUFF: Maybe We Should Stick to Buildings

Architect Gerrit Rietveld designed his iconic chairs—
this one dates from the early 1920s—as sculptural
statements. He didn't consult his butt regarding the design.

Architects, it seems, feel compelled to put their stamp on many things besides buildings. There are architect-designed lamps, architect-designed teapots, toilets, and lighting fixtures, and (heaven help us) architect-designed furniture. Few of these designs are particularly distinguished, despite the enormous publicity they often engender.  

What makes people think an architect is qualified to design everyday, utilitarian objects? You wouldn’t hire a surgeon to rebuild your motor; why expect an architect to excel at designing kitchenware? We architects are trained to design buildings. While many of us would like to think we’re just as dandy at designing other things, the facts don’t seem to bear this out.  

Frank Loyd Wright frequently designed furniture for his
houses; this dining set was for Chicago's famed Robie House
of 1909.  Wright was probably not the only one to be
black and blue from sitting in his furniture.

The architect’s compulsion to design more than just buildings dates way back. Stanford White, the darling of the late-nineteenth-century Vanderbilt crowd, was known to design not only the villas of the rich, but to choose their interior furnishings and decorate their parties as well. The “I-do-it-all” schtick didn’t really get rolling until the Modernists arrived, however. Because of the close alliance between Modernist architects and painters, sculptors, and other artists, early Modernists were early on bitten by the need to create some art and sculpture of their own.  

Wright's original chair design for the
S.C. Johnson Administration Building (1939):
It was redesigned with four legs.

Unfortunately, these works usually took the form of bizarre and unusable furniture that wasn’t much good for anything besides looking at. Architect Gerrit Rietveld's famed chair, designed in 1917 and built in various forms for a number of years afterward, was a stunning piece of sculpture, but a dubious place to park your hiney. More famous yet is Mies van der Rohe's so-called Barcelona Chair, a work of incomparable elegance, but once again an ergonomically unkind object in which to sit.

American Standard's Platner
toilet: Not a moneymaker,
but certainly a conversation piece.

Frank Lloyd Wright was perhaps the king of veering from his lane of expertise. Wright himself is quoted as saying, "I have been black and blue in some spot, somewhere, almost all my life from too intimate contacts with my own furniture." Early in his career, Wright designed the dining table and chairs in his own Oak Park studio, where they engender grimaces from tourists to this day. This experience didn't seem to dissuade him, however, as even in the twilight years of his career, he provided office furniture designs for the S.C. Johnson Administration Building. These included a three-legged chair whose disturbing—if predictable—tendency to tip over required it to be revised into a four-legged version.

One of Katerina Kamprani's "Uncomfortable" items:
Finally, an architect who gets it.
(Image courtesy of Katerina Kamprani)

Despite the less-than stellar history of architect-designed household objects, attaching the names of architects to products continued to hold cachet. Hence, in the late 1980s, American Standard featured a line of plumbing fixtures designed by architect Warren Platner. The rather amorphous toilet and sink designs didn't sell especially well, but are surely collector's items by now.

One clever architect, Athens-based Katerina Kamprani, has turned the whole architect-designed-object fiasco on its head by creating what she calls "The Uncomforable"—a series of everyday objects that are deliberately unusable right from the outset. Apparently, Kamprani knows something that most of us haven't figured out yet.

DOMESTIC TECHNOLOGY: Not Rocket Science, But Still A Mystery To Some

Electricity was leaking all over the house.
(With appreciation to James Thurber).

Almost eighty years ago, the humorist James Thurber wrote about an aunt of his who had some profound misconceptions about technology. She was convinced, among other things, that electricity leaked out of empty light sockets. Today we like to think we’re pretty savvy about such things, but judging by some of the questions I get from clients regarding their houses, I suspect we all still have a bit of Thurber’s aunt in us:  

•  If I turn the thermostat way up, will my house heat up faster? Alas, no. The typical thermostat is more like an on/off switch than an accelerator; it’s activated by a bimetallic spring that responds to changes in temperature. Since it can’t do any more than turn the furnace on or off, setting the thermostat to 90° won’t heat the house any faster. However, if your furnace has a variable-speed blower (not all do), it may push the warm air a little faster than normal.

Yes, even the fanciest new thermostat
is still basically just an on/off switch.

• My refrigerator is supposed to cool things, so why is there warm air coming from the back? A refrigerator works by compressing a special gas called refrigerant. The gas gets hotter when it’s compressed, just as the air in a bicycle pump gets hotter. That heat is dissipated into your kitchen by a fan coil, which is where the warm air comes from. But here’s the neat part of the process: when the compressed gas is allowed to expand again, it tries to regain the lost heat by absorbing it from other objects—in this case, the warm six-pack you just put in the fridge. 

A refrigerator works by transferring heat from the inside
to the outside—where these radiator-like coils dissipate it
into your kitchen (most newer refrigerators have the coils
underneath, however).

•  Fuse, circuit breaker, GFCI, AFCI—what’s the difference? A fuse is a device meant to prevent too much current from flowing through a wire of given size, because when that happens the wire gets hot and, as Jesse Jackson might say, hot wires start fires. Fuses are found in most houses predating World War II; they consist of a screw-in socket enclosing a thin strip of metal.  When the metal carries more current than the rating of the fuse, the metal strip melts (or “blows”) and the circuit is broken.  

A ground fault circuit interruptor
may not look like much, but
it can save your life.

The problem with fuses has always been their multifarious ratings—10 amp, 15 amp, and so on. When one blew, no one ever seemed to have the right replacement on hand. So they’d cheat by grabbing a fuse with a higher rating (or worse yet, a copper penny), occasionally burning down the house as a result.

The inconvenience and frequent misuse of fuses brought us the circuit breaker. It’s essentially a switch that serves the same purpose as a fuse, except that when it “blows”, you simply reset it—hopefully after correcting the condition that made it trip. 

GFCIs, or Ground Fault Circuit Interrupters, are amazing little electronic devices that might save your life someday. Suppose you decide that, in order to save time, you’re going to blow-dry your hair while you’re still in the tub. Oops!  You dropped the hair dryer in the suds!  Fortunately, the GFI-protected receptacle you wisely installed in your bathroom senses that 120 volts is about to take a little road trip through your body, and within milliseconds, it shuts of the current. Relatively cheap (especially compared to being dead) and amazingly effective, GFI protection is now required by code for any receptacle within 6’  of sinks, lavatories or other water sources, as well as in garages and at outdoor receptacles. 

Arcs from frayed lamp cords can and do cause lots of fires,
which is why building codes now require AFCI-
protected outlets in bedroom.

AFCIs, or Arc Fault Circuit Interrupters, are similar devices that are now required by code in all sleeping rooms. Unlike GFCIs, they are designed to detect arcs such as those caused by, say, a frayed lamp cord—one of the leading causes of home electrical fires. They are only required in sleeping rooms because, presumably, the occupants of other rooms are awake and are more likely to detect an incipient fire.

•  And by the way, although electricity doesn’t leak out of an empty light socket, you can still fry yourself if you stick your finger in one—so keep a bulb in it for safety’s sake.

ARE AMERICAN THE MOST D.I.Y. CULTURE ON EARTH?

How many European homeowners will you find wielding
one of these?

It’s just possible that Americans are the handiest people on earth. We think nothing of fixing our own cars, upgrading our own computers, or making our own clothes. Whole industries, not to speak of countless YouTube videos, have grown up around the mantra of Do-It-Yourself.

Most of all, we Americans love to fiddle with our own homes. While that may not seem like a big deal to you, believe me, it is: you’d be hard-pressed to find a Parisian with a Skilsaw in his hand. In Europe, Asia, and in most other places, it wouldn’t even occur to people to attempt an unfamiliar job when there was a specialist around to do it for them.   

Framing is relatively easy, and the results are
gratifyingly visible.

Americans, on the other hand, delight in being Jacks-of-All-Trades. Maybe this cultural trait is rooted in old Yankee attitudes of hard work and self-sufficiency. Then again, maybe we just love to tinker.  Whatever the reason, the roaring success of home-improvement emporia like Lowe's and The Home Depot, along with all that DIY media on the web, makes it plain that this national trait is going strong.

Still, as that sage Dirty Harry once observed:  “A man’s got to know his limitations.”  (I expect he meant women too).  Some projects may simply not be worth your while—not because they’re beyond your abilities, but because their learning curves are too steep to be mastered in one project. Having tried my hand at just about every trade except laying carpet, here’s my personal rundown on what’s worth your time and what isn’t:

Don't take DIY electrical work too lightly—
one wrong move, and ZAP!
(Image courtesy of Sparky Channel)

•  Concrete work that’ll be hidden, such as minor foundations, can usually be pulled off by a novice, but don’t expect to do on-the-job learning at large-scale work such as floor slabs and patios. Concrete is notoriously unforgiving, and you'll be reminded of any errors for a long, long time.

•  Framing basics can be picked up in a fairly short time, and the results are gratifyingly visible.  Unlike concrete work, framing is also manageably paced—you can take it as fast or as slowly as you like. However, make very sure you’re fluent with a spirit level, or you’ll be fighting crooked walls and floors for the balance of the project.   

Taping drywall is as much an art as it is a craft. Some folks
have what it takes, and some don't. Do a couple of
walls for practice so you can find out which side you're on.

•  Rough plumbing and electrical work are only so-so candidates for DIY. It’s not the physical work that’s difficult; it’s knowing what goes where. Plumbing and electrical codes are complicated, and  and mistakes can be costly—sometimes even deadly. Proceed with caution. 

•  Insulation work is easily accomplished by a handyperson, though it’s among the most unpleasant of all construction jobs: Those devilish little fibers find their way everywhere. Consider using one of the newer non-fiberglass "green" insulation materials, but in any case, don’t fail to wear the appropriate protective clothing and breathing apparatus. 

Unless you're a really good amateur painter, don't risk ruining
the most conspicuous part of your project. A beautiful
paint job can make all the difference.
(Image courtesy metcalfpainting.com)

•  Hanging drywall is not too difficult if you have a good strong back. However, plan to spend three to four times longer at this job than a pro would. After you've practically killed yourself at this job, you should also be prepared to have the taper complain about everything you did wrong.

•  Taping and texturing is equal parts of skill and art, and for practical purposes, a botched job is irreversible. Hang the drywall if you must, but be leery of on-the-job training in taping and texturing the walls and ceilings. If you’re really fired up about doing your own, do yourself a favor and practice on garage or closet walls and ceilings before you attack the really conspicuous stuff.   

•  Painting is a trade that many attempt but few master. And unfortunately, unlike many other phases of construction, a lousy paint job won't be hidden by succeeding work. I’ve seen lots of otherwise stellar DIY projects utterly ruined at the last minute by paint-splattering maniacs—so unless you’re truly handy with a brush, swallow your pride, open your wallet, and hire a pro. It’s a final touch that can make a big difference.

1980s RETRO HOME STYLES: Modernism, Take That

Busy rooflines, "sandwich grid" divided lite windows, and lots of
plywood siding: The beginning of 80s Retro Revival.

Author's note: After a week's vacation, I'm back with another in my occasional essays on architectural styles. Happy 2019 to all.

Somewhere, somehow, the members of my Baby Boom generation learned to hate Modernism. Maybe we got sick of bland white walls, moldings the size of popsicle sticks, and hollow doors you could put your fist through. Maybe we fell in love with the old Victorians or Bungalows of our grandparents, just as Millennials have fallen head over heels for Mid-Century Modern houses. At any rate, by the mid-70s there was already a growing disaffection with the kind of tract homes so many of us were growing up in.  

The first sign of a rebellion against
Modernism: Molded door trim
replacing the earlier, plain profiles.

“When I get big,” we’d tell ourselves, “I won’t live in some stupid tract house.  I’ll have a cool old house like Grandma’s.”

Well, we all grew up, and guess what? Most of us still live in stupid tract houses. But in some sense, we did get our way. By voting with our wallets, we got developers to change the way those stupid tract houses looked.  

The 1980s also brought us the molded 6-panel door,
along with a host of other patterns. They've been with us
ever since.

In the late 1970s, Boomers were seeing the beginning of a revolution in tract home design. The first sign was humble enough: door trim, which for forty years had been plain and narrow, began to widen out and exhibit the most tentative molded shapes. Developers quickly took note that new houses with this trim seemed to attract more buyer interest and, since developers are no dummies, they added more trim. Soon we were also seeing paneled doors—albeit molded ones molded from fiberboard—in place of the hated slab doors of the postwar generation.

In 1978, California’s Title 24 energy efficiency standards mandated the use of double-pane windows, so manufacturers took the opportunity to sandwich fake “divided lites” between the two layers of glass. Such retro-look windows were a natural complement to the new, more traditional doors and moldings, and they quickly became a hallmark of 80s-era tract homes.

"Sandwich Grid" windows: Another 80's-era hallmark.
And alas, still with us.
(Image courtesy of greenstarlouisville.com)

By the end of the 1980s, the retro movement was in full swing. The demand for moldings in turn led to more products becoming available, which in turn encouraged builders to use even more of them, which in turn made for even more sales. This snowball effect resulted in a Victorian-like orgy of ornament that, to this day, still shows no signs of abating. Inside and out, new homes continue to feature ever more moldings, columns, and related frou-frou. The 80s-Retro style was the wellspring of this second molding-mad era.  

Today's mania for crown moldings—
whether or not they're appropriate
to the style of the house—also
dates back to the 80's.

Homes of the 1980s do have many advantages over their predecessors, including superior energy efficiency, better electrical and mechanical systems, and a more earthquake-resistant structure. Unfortunately, they also presage a number of depressing trends in American housing. One is a continuing decline in finish quality, due both to ever-flimsier materials, as well as to the iffy profit margins of developers, which fairly ensures hurried and careless work.  

These houses also kicked off the ever-increasing bloat in home sizes, best evidenced in today's absurdly pompous master suites as compared to those of the mid-century era.
Home styles of the 80s are also culpable for the ever more haphazard way in which ornament is being used in architecture today—a longstanding trend for which baby boomers have only themselves to blame.