Small silvery living spaces

In the past year or so I’ve become somewhat fascinated by the idea of owning an Airstream travel trailer. This is new for me. At some points throughout life I may have given brief and cursory consideration to owning an RV, but until recently never serious consideration. They cost too much, you have to store them, maintain them and so on.

This began to change last summer when friends visited on their way home from Washington state. All of the camping sites near town were full, so they parked their little camper on the slab in our backyard for a night. Something clicked at that point that allowed me to more seriously consider life with a camper.

Backyard shed with potential

This new thought was furthered this summer as I started a backyard project, building a shed, in order to gain room in the garage for a wood shop. As I got into the project, I began to imagine the possibilities in the lumber I was using. The possibility for a tiny house, living in a tiny space. Or a studio.

I’ve always loved the challenge of designing for small spaces (as do most architects, apparently, smaller than skyscrapers anyway). There’s so much less room for error than in a large space. It demands a higher level of organization — not that larger spaces shouldn’t also aspire to a high level of organization — and the client and designer have to know exactly how the space will be used.

The shed project — combined with Facebook photos from a friend refurbishing an Airstream, milling his own lumber (mesquite) for the flooring — brought me back to these sleek, aluminum houses on wheels this summer, to living in small spaces.

I still don’t know what I’d do, exactly, if I owned an Airstream trailer though. First off I’d have to buy a vehicle to pull it, then have somewhere to go often enough to warrant ownership. The practicality of it still nags at me when I remember some RV parks charge as much to park your trailer as it costs to stay in a hotel.

But the idea of being able to take your house with you somewhere, sleep in your own bed when you travel (to a degree) use your own kitchen on the road instead of having to eat out so much, these are happy thoughts (even considering how often I lament the transient nature of our American culture).

And of course, come Scissortail it could function as artist quarters as well.

Fundamental flourishing

Creativity is fundamental to our humanity and a beautiful space is fundamental to our flourishing.

Amen.

Via Transpositions.

Intentional Observation: Antique furniture

Helping my dad out the past week in The Milestone Gallery I noticed a few intriguing things about some of the old furniture. Some cameraphone captures:

Beautiful architectural simplicity

I’m enjoying Rodney Wright’s book, The Hawkweed Passive Solar House Book, after meeting the architect face-to-face last month. Late last week I came up upon an image of a floor plan that really caught my attention.

The plan is dead simple, but at the same time would be a beautiful space to live in. The galley kitchen and bathroom are in the middle of the plan, with stairs going to a lower level also adjacent to this central cluster. Also important, in my opinion, to the beauty and functionality of the space is a good sized entry and a deck off of the south-facing solar wall.

I’m Not entirely sure, yet, why I found this space so beautiful. I was hoping to find some images of the interior and exterior online, but there are none, at least according to the first hundred or so Google images.

If these wabi-sabi walls could whisper . . .

Yesterday I started painting the whitewashed walls in our little bungalow. The plaster walls are 70 years old so bumps and cracks and drips abound. When I helped remodel old houses in Arkansas we would have hand textured the walls to cover up all of the imperfections. This texturing technique was nice, a bit of a stuccoed appearance. It made the place look new on the inside.

Work with the painter I’ve been helping out this year has been slow the past couple weeks, so I’ve busied myself with other things as much as I’ve been able (other things that are somewhat financially advantageous in these lean times, things not necessarily sculpture related as I’d prefer). I spent some time in my dad’s shop, The Milestone Gallery, painting walls, signs and staining furniture.

Our Sand Trap walls with a Marissa Lee Swinghammer print hanging on the chimney chase

Dad has noticed that people even want their antique furniture to look and function like new. Doors that are warped or don’t close all the way, the crazed finish of a tabletop or patina from age on a cabinet can deter people from purchasing the unique objects he collects. “I thought that patina was something people liked,” he said.

Indeed, why do we as Americans so often crave the new? The walls in our little house do just fine at what they were built to do, and as I spread “Sand Trap” — a taupe-y tint with hints of rose or purple in different lights — over the scuffed up old walls I began to appreciate their textures. In fact, I’ve concluded that perfect walls are actually boring in comparison.

By saying this I’m not necessarily advocating any kind of trumped-up aging process, no intentional distressing of new walls or surfaces. When you build a new building you should do it properly, straight studs and square corners. The history of a place must come organically; our little Nebraska bungalow may have more of an overall patina than most places, having been a rental for most of its years according to our neighborhood historian.

And now for an uncomfortable question: Does our dislike for the appearance of age or imperfection in our buildings hearken back to the same aversion we have to age in our own person, or in our American culture of human beauty where maturity is not esteemed as it is in other cultures?

My uncle, whose home also boasts whispering plaster walls, took advantage of the patina by exaggerating it, showing it off. I haven’t seen how he’s done this yet, but the idea is intriguing to me. If I feel like I have the time, I’ll probably try something similar.

The switch to renewables requires a redesign of American life

On the way down to Nashville for the Hutchmoot we stopped for lunch at a friend’s home near Kansas City. While there I began looking at a magazine called World, as I recall. I glanced at an article in the publication pointing at holes in the recent plans for renewable energy.

The long and short of what my skimming told me — I didn’t have time to finish the article — Renewable energy such as wind and solar won’t work for the cars we drive. No kidding! The article also, if I recall correctly, pointed out that these energy sources won’t even provide enough electricity, even if they are developed to the nth degree, to meet our current electricity needs.

I’ve made the point on the blog before, as I recall, that we need to revamp the culture and our environmental design in order to get to where most or all of our energy needs come from renewable sources. We can’t work from the assumption that we can maintain the cultural status quo while at the same time switching over to renewable sources of energy. Instead, we must become creative in all aspects of our lives. Developing more efficient lifestyles seems like common sense to me — regardless of where our energy is coming from (Per my cursory skim the magazine article suggested nuclear, but I’d still rather see other avenues developed further along with more intentionally efficient living.).

Cameraphone capture of part of a wind turbine, going down I-80 on our way home from Nashville.

On our way down to the Hutchmoot last week, my wife and I were introduced to Rodney and Sidney Wright. Rodney wrote The Hawkweed Passive Solar House Book. He showed us around their house — inserting at least one pun into every sentence — pointing to all of the attention paid to making the home more energy efficient. The energy bill for the home was less than $50 a month for the 1,200 square foot structure in Paducah, Kentucky (a walkable community, he pointed out). The couple paid good money for energy efficient appliances, used prefabricated wall panels with dense foam insulation to build with and of course designed the home with climate and geography in mind, in a passive solar fashion.

It’s going to take this kind of intentionality in our design of life, I believe, in order to make renewables work. Sure some things might cost more now and then, but Wright made a point of saying that even though their uber efficient Swedish microwave/convection oven might have cost them $3,000 they built the home for only $85,000 (doing some of the work themselves, such as painting) just four years ago.

Wright also pointed out that we used to do better at designing our dwellings and communities as they relate to their local environments. What will it take as a culture to forgo the more common and under-considered living spaces we create in the United States?

Conceptive creativity vs designing spaces

My predisposition towards creating and refining interior spaces is getting the better of me again. Here we are in our new little home which we moved into — I avoid the word purchased since the bank still own’s 90% of it — in part because it was livable. Livable, yes, but not ideal.

First project underway, now complete.

The trick in part will be not putting too much time or money into the place, and working on projects that add the most value. The home isn’t in the best of neighborhoods and we won’t be able to add infinite value to the space with our projects. This, however, is a practical point of view. Merge this with a designer’s sensibility, which considers the practical as well as the aesthetic, and that’s where I’m headed.

The most expensive project will be replacing the kitchen cabinets. In our previous home we got away with painting and replacing the hardware, but the cabinets there were in better shape and more plentiful. We have a lot of saving to do before I tackle the kitchen. Before then will come removing the wall between the living room and kitchen (which is done), adding walls and flooring in the basement to create a family room and a bathroom (the bathroom is already partially plumbed) and painting inside and out.

Part of creating an organized studio space for myself to work in will be adding the walls in the basement. This is a relatively inexpensive project when you don’t include flooring, but it takes a fair amount of time. As in probably a month of weekends start to finish when you consider the wiring and pluming that will also be involved. And building in an entertainment center.

The struggle comes with another pervading inclination, that of creating works of art. Today I want to start a small series of paintings. My clay is either too wet or too dry at the moment (I’m still looking for a local supplier of a new clay body that I like since we moved) so I thought I’d do something in the way of conceptive creation, in this case painting (something I do on occasion). I quickly realized, however, the lighting over the new work surface I scrapped together is insufficient, so I’m back to thinking about spaces and projects around the house.

It’s a vicious cycle for me.

Art is supposed to be challenging; what is design supposed to be?

According to jazz musician Henry Threadgill, art should be challenging. From an NPR interview:

Threadgill says art is supposed to be challenging, and that he doesn’t care if his audience likes his music, as long as it moves them.

“My only hope is they’ll have a reaction, and the reaction doesn’t have to be positive,” Threadgill says. “It could be negative. It’s fine with me if I drive you away. That’s as good as if I kept you there. If it was strong enough to run you away, then it’s going to do something to you. It’s going to make you think about something. It’s going to make you feel something that you weren’t feeling or thinking about before. And that’s the whole idea.”

Generally speaking, I agree with Threadgill, although this doesn’t always have to be the case. What’s challenging to a person is a somewhat subjective idea anyway. Most American’s ideas about art, I’d venture a guess, make them think about anything fluffy and sugar-coated, warm and fuzzy. Most Americans, thus, aren’t going to be interested in war-related images to hang on their walls and set on their shelves. They’ll be thinking of pastoral Kinkade’s or wildlife or an innocuous architectural scene with impressionist brush strokes — pictures in their head that sooth, not challenge.

Going with the idea that art should be challenging, though, I’m wondering what design should thus be. Should design (architectural and interior) actually be geared towards giving us a sense of comfort while the art within our spaces pushes our boundaries, asks us to think outside the box?

On missing loft living

A follow up to this and this, talking about living downtown.


I also miss the living space, living in a loft.

I miss the large open living area and the [inefficient] high ceilings. I miss the large windows (even though we didn’t have windows so much as storm windows) on a second floor with, well, more of a view than most first floors in common city neighborhoods.

Sure the living arrangement we were in wasn’t the best. We shared a bathroom 50 feet down a hallway and a kitchen literally half a block away, and we didn’t have closets either. But the overall living space was still desirable.

Key, I think, to that kind of residence would be figuring out how to make the loft as efficient as possible, particularly with regard to high ceilings and utilities. High ceilings are desirable, high utility bills are not. Well-considered window treatments, quality windows themselves and air circulation seem to be a must.

Photo of a July 2009 supercell west of downtown, Grand Island.

Dead space comes alive

Last week I had a bit of a lull in the projects and was able to relax some. Things have been busy again this week though as I work on both second floor bathrooms. This work included my first attempt at soldering copper, which failed — not miserably, but enough to require the assistance of a plumber in the end. Some work with drywall and paint was also on the docket.

I’m also adding some built-in storage. I really dislike dead space in buildings. Sometimes it’s inevitable, but in most cases it can be turned into useful storage. And more good storage also, in my experience, means that less square footage is needed for the same function.

Bathroom storage

I’m filling dead space with the same boxes I used for my wife’s yarn storage. Instead of yarn, we’ll be filling these with towels.

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