Thinking In Centuries
It is mid-July 2014, and my father sits on the front porch of the summer cottage his grandfather built in northern Michigan in 1911. The house is now 103 years old and my father is 93. And I am looking at the two of them and wondering what he is feeling on this summer afternoon during his 93rd pilgrimage to this porch. I can’t be sure, of course, but I suspect that on some level he is feeling he’s at the center of the universe.
I suspect this for two reasons. The first reason, of which I am sure he is well aware, is the fact that he and this house basically grew up together, the house a kind of older sibling. Each summer of his life has been punctuated by a return to this place, if only for a week or two. And his life’s memories are stored here; each trinket or photograph or architectural nook participating in some part of his past. And so the house itself is a trigger for recollections, stories that emerge in every conversation.
The second reason, though, is one I am sure he does not comprehend. It is something, I’m embarrassed to say, that I’ve only recently come to realize for myself. And I should have realized this years ago, because it is architectural. It relates to how deftly this cottage’s design reconciles the grid of the street corner on which it sits with the commanding views of Little Traverse Bay that lie at a diagonal angle to that grid. Without such deft planning this house would either face the view, or the community, but not both. But the long-forgotten architect my great-grandfather once hired was able to bring both of these worlds together in a way that makes this porch, and the rooms behind it, a portal participating in both worlds: centering us in each.
Thinking about the century span of a house like this can bring a helpful perspective to some of the issues we architects struggle with daily. For my father, closing in on his century, this fusing of memory and architecture is a luxury he likely never anticipated having. For me, as a practicing architect, it is humbling to recognize two things. First is the fact that the decisions I make today are long-lasting, and that it is important to consider the fitness of any design for this kind of longevity: a century being the very definition of sustainability. Second is the need to maintain a healthy suspicion regarding the role of fashion and signature in the designs we make today.
A further embarrassment: I wish I knew more about my great-grandfather’s architect, as I am sure there is a good story there. But in the end it is the continued relevance of this house, in spite of the absence of a flamboyant signature, that is his legacy. It has served our family beautifully for more than a hundred years, and we see no need to alter its basic self for the next hundred. Houses should outlive us. And I am sure my father feels this way now, as he envisions future generations sitting where he sits, feeling at the center of the universe too.
It is mid-July 2014, and my father sits on the front porch of the summer cottage his grandfather built in northern Michigan in 1911. The house is now 103 years old and my father is 93. And I am looking at the two of them and wondering what he is feeling on this summer afternoon during his 93rd pilgrimage to this porch. I can’t be sure, of course, but I suspect that on some level he is feeling he’s at the center of the universe.
I suspect this for two reasons. The first reason, of which I am sure he is well aware, is the fact that he and this house basically grew up together, the house a kind of older sibling. Each summer of his life has been punctuated by a return to this place, if only for a week or two. And his life’s memories are stored here; each trinket or photograph or architectural nook participating in some part of his past. And so the house itself is a trigger for recollections, stories that emerge in every conversation.
The second reason, though, is one I am sure he does not comprehend. It is something, I’m embarrassed to say, that I’ve only recently come to realize for myself. And I should have realized this years ago, because it is architectural. It relates to how deftly this cottage’s design reconciles the grid of the street corner on which it sits with the commanding views of Little Traverse Bay that lie at a diagonal angle to that grid. Without such deft planning this house would either face the view, or the community, but not both. But the long-forgotten architect my great-grandfather once hired was able to bring both of these worlds together in a way that makes this porch, and the rooms behind it, a portal participating in both worlds: centering us in each.
Thinking about the century span of a house like this can bring a helpful perspective to some of the issues we architects struggle with daily. For my father, closing in on his century, this fusing of memory and architecture is a luxury he likely never anticipated having. For me, as a practicing architect, it is humbling to recognize two things. First is the fact that the decisions I make today are long-lasting, and that it is important to consider the fitness of any design for this kind of longevity: a century being the very definition of sustainability. Second is the need to maintain a healthy suspicion regarding the role of fashion and signature in the designs we make today.
A further embarrassment: I wish I knew more about my great-grandfather’s architect, as I am sure there is a good story there. But in the end it is the continued relevance of this house, in spite of the absence of a flamboyant signature, that is his legacy. It has served our family beautifully for more than a hundred years, and we see no need to alter its basic self for the next hundred. Houses should outlive us. And I am sure my father feels this way now, as he envisions future generations sitting where he sits, feeling at the center of the universe too.
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