"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.

WASTED LIVING SPACE: The Modern Kaisersaal

Can't you just picture lolling all over the couches in this
 cozy living room?  What—you can't?

In upper-class German homes of the last century, it was common to have a chamber known as the Kaisersaal—an off-limits room containing all the owner’s best furniture and possessions, and kept spotless in case the Kaiser happened by for a visit. This, of course, was about as likely as Queen Elizabeth stopping by your place for Pop-Tarts.

Today we chuckle at the silly pretense of the Kaisersaal, but in fact many of us have the modern-day equivalent in our homes—formal, showy rooms that may contain our best furniture, but are seldom used except to impress visitors. Come on, admit it—do you spend more time in your so-called “living room”, or in your kitchen?

The formal dining room: It uses lots of space,
but it doesn't get much use.

That’s what I thought.

Following are some notorious modern-day Kaisersaals and their appurtenances, each with the trait of existing mainly for show:

•  The top Kaisersaal award goes to the living room. For the last fifty years, it’s been steadily declining in usefulness, finally becoming a sort of furniture showroom forbidden to family, friends, and pets. The only people who actually sit in most living rooms are guests you want to impress with your good housekeeping and impeccable taste—in other words, people you’re trying to fake out.

That pretentious tract house must-have,
 the soaking tub, is another space hog
that doesn't earn its keep.

There are two solutions to the living room dilemma. One: if you already have a living room, for heaven’s sake, do your family a favor and let them live in it. Two: if you have the luxury of starting from scratch, either design your new home with a living room that’s actually for living, or else forego it altogether in favor of a bigger family room and kitchen. Those are the rooms that actually get lived in.

•  The beloved “formal dining room” runs a close second in uselessness. Even the most devoted gourmands use their dining room but a few times a month. The rest of us just try to keep the dust off the woodwork. Why waste an entire room just so you can dine like Henry VIII once in a blue moon?  If you’re planning a new home, consider devoting the 150 square feet consumed by a formal dining room to a more functional purpose. And if you’re among the many already “blessed” with a formal dining room, why not resign yourself to a few spaghetti stains on the carpet, and actually eat there every day?

Here's a Kaisersaal two-for-one—a pompous
soaking tub and a fireplace. Hey lady,
watch out for that burning log!

•  The modern tract house master bath, with its space- and energy wasting whirlpool tub, is another Kaisersaal gimmick. Be honest now—do you actually use that big tub, or do you just want your friends to know you’ve got one? If my remodeling clients are any indication, the space consumed by a giant tub would be far more useful as extra storage. But closets just don’t have that Kaisersaal allure, which is why developers keep offering this white elephant, and why consumers keep buying into it.

If this guy stops by,
give him the good bedroom.

•  And speaking of pointless appurtenances, many new homes routinely feature two or even three fireplaces, despite the fact that hardly anyone uses them. If you’re serious about practical living, you can probably get away with one. Or none.             
And by the way—if an old German guy in a spiked helmet stops by, you might want to give him the big bedroom.

HOWDY, FOLKS: The California Rancher Rides In

Long, low, and simultaneously modest and chest-thumping:
The Rancher bespoke American values of the 1950s.

Author's note: This is another in Architext's occasional essays on American residential styles.

America was riding high in the 1950s. The country had recently returned from trouncing the Axis, despite a late entrance into a war whose odds were far from certain. The economy had been launched out of the Depression, first on the strength of wartime contracts, and then by a pent-up postwar demand for consumer goods. As a result, U.S. industry was now far and away the mightiest on earth.  And America’s faith in democracy, so shaken by the Depression years, had been restored to granitic solidity by its great triumphs both overseas and at home. 

What better time for a home style that managed to convey all this and more?

Extremely elaborate examples, nowadays
referred to as "Storybook Ranchers",
featured diamond-pane windows, knee
braces, and other over-the-top rustic details.

That style was the California Rancher, and it became the architectural emblem for a yet-unsurpassed time of prosperity in U.S. history. The Rancher’s design was emphatically native--a melange of homegrown vernaculars ranging from the Spanish Colonial-era hacienda with its full-width porch, to the functional ranch building with its shaggy simplicity, to the bungalow with its ground-hugging lines and low-pitched roof. 

Dutch front doors, shown here with the
ubiquitous crossbuck motif, were a red-hot
fad during the Rancher era.

Ranchers also reflected a classic paradox of the American character: On the one hand, it embodied Yankee modesty with its countrified, aw-shucks motifs;  on the other, it glorified power and consumption with its rambling street frontage and chest-thumping double garage. It simultaneously managed to proclaim:  We’re Americans—we’re real nice folks, but we kick butt when we have to.

The Rancher is a breeze to identify. It’s the first popular style to flaunt an attached double garage, for those two cars Herbert Hoover had promised us decades earlier. But the Rancher’s garage made up for its late showing by being impossible to overlook: it projected well forward of the house, with the huge door itself becoming a broad billboard often tricked out in moldings or x-shaped crossbuck motifs, all underlined by a vast swath of concrete driveway. 

 Rancher loor plans—not to mention front elevations such as
this one—were stretched out to outlandish proportions.

Every Rancher worthy of the name also had a front porch, though few were really usable as such.  Rather, the point was to provide a showcase for all those down-home details:  Bandsawn knee braces sprouting from the tops of posts; crossbucks on the front door; and yet more crossbucks in the gawky wooden porch railings and on garage doors..

The classic Rancher exterior typically  had rough-sawn vertical board-and-batt siding (batts being narrow wood strips that covered the gap between boards), or else rustic horizontal lap siding. Later mass-produced versions used stucco on the majority of the house, reserving the more costly siding for accents on the facade and gables.

Eventually, things settled down to your basic stucco Rancher,
perhaps with a few features such as the wood wainscoting
and false dovecote in the gable of this tract-built example.

A genuine Rancher’s roof was invariably covered in shakes, a material that bespoke America as well: a little uncouth, perhaps, but tough and resilient as all get-out. In classic examples, a false dovecote topped by a weathervane might be found astride the roof ridge, while at each gable end, false beams jutted out to carry the rake boards with unshakable confidence. Rancher interiors emphasized the same plain-spoken, native materials as the exterior: used brick, copper, hammered iron, and coarse woods such as knotty pine.

Functionally, there's little to criticize in a Rancher. The floor plan is straightforward, with rooms methodically strung along each side of a long hall--much like a stretched-out bungalow turned crosswise. The style’s main structural problems stem from the fashion of making the houses ever longer, lower and closer to the ground. Often the effort was too successful--yielding a ranch-size meal for termites and dry rot.

RENOVATION OBLIVION—Or, How To Ruin An Old House

Unlike Americans, Old Worlders don't mind a little
imperfection. The Bishop's House, Sheffield, England,
circa 1554. (Image courtesy Friends of Bishop's House)

A while back, a client of mine asked me to give the once-over to a house he was hoping to buy. It was a charming, well-kept little cottage with all the hallmarks of a history—some gouges here, some settlement there, perhaps a few cracks in the plasterwork. It wasn’t dilapidated by any means; rather,  it had a nice warm patina of long use.

Happily, he did end up buying it. But when I came back a few months later to see what improvements he’d wrought, I was dismayed. He’d systematically gone through the house and replaced anything that showed the slightest trace of wear with brand-new stuff from the local hardware emporium.  Hefty old doorknobs with the burnish of fifty years had been swapped in favor of tinny, glitzy brass ones; ditto the old lighting fixtures and bath fittings. The varnished wood trim (which had a few nicks and scratches, to be sure) had been smothered in a bland coat of bright white latex. And the wood floor—whose dents and imperfections bespoke the foibles of who knows how many sets of grandchildren—had been sanded glassy smooth and coated with a hi-tech sealer.

Lots of remodelers love to tear out
the old kitchen so they can
put in a fake old kitchen.
(Image courtesy jillianharris.com)

So much for a warm patina.

Still, I can hardly blame my client for wanting to make his little cottage sparkle. We Yanks always want everything to “look like new”.  Maybe it’s because the U.S. is a relatively young country, and newness is practically all we know. But just as likely, it’s because advertising relentlessly conditions us to believe that new things—whether cars, clothes, or trendy toys for the kids—are always better than old ones. That goes for houses, too. Those of us who can’t afford brand new ones opt for the next best thing: we buy old ones and then “renovate” them into oblivion.

Yes, it's old and beaten up. So what?

The point, as you’ve no doubt guessed by now, is that new isn’t necessarily better. So here are a few thoughts to consider before you wield that screwdriver or paintbrush at your defenseless old house:

•  Think twice before consigning any part of your home to the junk heap.  The quality of the building materials in most pre-World War II homes—whether hardware, flooring, or lighting fixtures—is generally much better than the stuff that’s available today. In the long run, there’s little to be gained by exchanging quality materials that show some age for flimsy goods that will only briefly look brand-new. 

•  Use that paintbrush sparingly! The lesser durability of today’s paint formulas makes repainting an iffy improvement. Therefore, if your old house has a reasonably presentable coat of oil-based paint on the doors, for example, you’re probably better off living with it than covering it with a latex paint, which won't properly adhere to it in the first place, and won’t have the same shine or durability even if it does.

Too often, repainting over perfectly good
oil based paint will just get you this.

•  Learn to live with a few scratches here and there. Americans are obsessed with keeping their homes pristine; unfortunately, this is a battle that the universe will always win. Home ownership is a lot more fun when you learn to take the odd flaw in stride. That’s not to suggest that you neglect your home, but rather that you learn to accept a reasonable level of imperfection. Europeans, I’m loathe to admit, are way ahead of us on this count: they’re quite comfortable with buildings that are old and timeworn, because they regard age and imperfection as a badge of honor, not as a sign of decrepitude.

•  Finally, remember that any idiot can make a home look new, but only time can produce one with a history.