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en Homes Feed - Dwell http://www.dwell.com/homes/browse? Wed, 16 May 2012 03:33:59 -0700 hourly 3 dwell/homeshttp://feedburner.google.com Houses We Love » Facade Focus: Wood http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/1hKnL0XNAAk/facade-focus-wood.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-wood.html Tue, 1 May 2012 15:38:59 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-wood.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/facade-focus-wood-newton-house-square.jpg" alt='wooden Newton House Massachusetts by NADAAA' /></a> The architects plotted the striated addition with the owners’ primary goal in mind: to engage with the outdoors year-round. The walls of the rear kitchen and living space are virtually all glass, allowing sight lines to the existing gardens and new pool house through a series of framed vignettes onto the backyard landscape. The glass box is bookended by uniform “fins” that mark the edge of each picture window. That motif rotates 90 degrees clockwise as mahogany framing on the nearby pool house. According to firm principal Nader Tehrani, “The cladding on the renovation emphasizes verticality and the cladding on the pool house is a play on horizontality.” The two freshly minted facades create a study in contrasts that references New England traditions (board-and-batten and shiplap siding, respectively) without replicating them. wooden Newton House Massachusetts by NADAAA

wooden Newton House Massachusetts by NADAAA

The architects plotted the striated addition with the owners’ primary goal in mind: to engage with the outdoors year-round. The walls of the rear kitchen and living space are virtually all glass, allowing sight lines to the existing gardens and new pool house through a series of framed vignettes onto the backyard landscape. The glass box is bookended by uniform “fins” that mark the edge of each picture window. That motif rotates 90 degrees clockwise as mahogany framing on the nearby pool house. According to firm principal Nader Tehrani, “The cladding on the renovation emphasizes verticality and the cladding on the pool house is a play on horizontality.” The two freshly minted facades create a study in contrasts that references New England traditions (board-and-batten and shiplap siding, respectively) without replicating them.

]]> facade focus wood newton house square Newton House http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-wood.html Houses We Love » Facade Focus: Brick http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/w_jdRfxMvYU/facade-focus-brick.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-brick.html Mon, 30 Apr 2012 18:27:19 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-brick.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/facade-focus-brick-house-bva-square.jpg" alt='brick facade House BVA in Belgium by DMVA Architects ' /></a> For the street side, brown bricks were selected to match the roof tiles, presenting a monochrome look relieved only by the red door frame. Because of the couple’s low budget, the interior is plain and unadorned, with concrete floors and white walls, but a bright red glass hallway linking the street to the garden adds a warm, dramatic touch. “The garden is big and the family puts their bikes there, so they needed an access corridor,” explains Verschueren. “Building a wall seemed a pity. Red glass is a wall that’s not a wall, and it also adds atmosphere.” brick facade House BVA in Belgium by DMVA Architects

brick facade House BVA in Belgium by DMVA Architects

For the street side, brown bricks were selected to match the roof tiles, presenting a monochrome look relieved only by the red door frame. Because of the couple’s low budget, the interior is plain and unadorned, with concrete floors and white walls, but a bright red glass hallway linking the street to the garden adds a warm, dramatic touch. “The garden is big and the family puts their bikes there, so they needed an access corridor,” explains Verschueren. “Building a wall seemed a pity. Red glass is a wall that’s not a wall, and it also adds atmosphere.”

]]> facade focus brick house bva square House BVA http://www.dwell.com/articles/facade-focus-brick.html Dwellings » Hope Floats http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/JlD84ZTvGfI/hope-floats.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/hope-floats.html Wed, 25 Apr 2012 18:19:39 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/hope-floats.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/floating-farmhouse-exterior-square.jpg" alt='farmhouse renovation in Eldred, New York ' /></a> In 2002, when Tom Givone bought a toppling 200-year-old farmhouse peeling with outdated neon blue paint, his new neighbors in upstate New York advised chucking it straight into a pit in the house’s equally rundown backyard. Instead, the experience helped define the homeowner-turned-contractor's love of the picturesque and channel it into a newfound talent for renovation. A former advertising copywriter, Givone cheekily gives credit for his roundabout career to the "quintessentially awful" landlord who ejected him from a rent-stabilized studio in the late '90s, which spurred his first home purchase. His self-described "strange and delightful" path to architectural design thus began on a narrow cobblestone lane in the upper reaches of Manhattan in a dilapidated row house, built in 1882 among a double row of identical clapboard abodes. From there, Givone edged ever northward, to the western edge of the Catskill Mountains, where he first spotted the locally infamous blue farmhouse, then three others that he also eventually rehabbed back to health. His current weekend abode, nicknamed the Floating Farmhouse, is—so far—his capstone project, a synthesis of personal taste, material experimentation, and historically sensitive restoration: a living laboratory for how to bring the vernacular past into the present. This labor in homemaking has been methodical, if not by choice then by financial necessity, owing to the economic depression of 2008. Instead of suspending all activity on the creek-adjacent farmhouse, Givone focused on perfecting his materials. For the lattice of oxidized tube steel that frames the back wall of the rear addition, three years of exposure to weather (aided by a daily acid bath) yielded a just-so leather-like patina, repeated in the central fireplace stack, which is finished in matching weathered Cor-Ten steel. During that time, he also enlisted local laborers for help with the interior demolition, which Givone likens to “an archeological dig: messy but rewarding.” They removed two bays in the back of the house and erected a new wing, similar in proportion to the original gabled structure but finished with a transparent portal of 22-foot-tall skyscraper glass, the ne plus ultra of the picture window. The addition shelters the new kitchen—characterized by the steel-clad, cast concrete wood-burning oven and two massive salvaged ceiling beams—and a 12-by-50-foot covered side porch cantilevered over a meandering stream. The mélange of old and new is the backbone of Givone’s design philosophy: “I peel back layers, expose what is inherent to the structure, and incorporate it into the final design; add by taking away.” Once uncovered, the farmhouse’s original cedar shake roof shingles and rough wall planks factored in as a visible design element in what are now the master bedroom and the guest bedroom hallway. Eleven pine trees on the property, each over 150 feet tall and encroaching on the existing house, were cut and milled onsite, providing the raw material for most of its new custom woodwork, including wainscoting, the beaded boarding on the porch ceiling, door and window trim, and coffers in the first-floor living room. Bluestone, which wraps around the kitchen counters until it meets the floor, was quarried and manufactured locally. Salvage features strongly in the decor as well. A deceased uncle’s collection of vintage and industrial furniture makes an appearance as a therapist’s leather chaise longue, a baroque mirror in the otherwise-austere master bedroom, and a 19th-century wood-and-zinc soaking tub rescued from a New York City tenement building. Givone wrapped the latter artifact with shiny stainless steel; the metallic sheen contrasts the guest bathroom's plain white walls (sealed with Thoroseal plaster to prevent water migration and mitigate the need for ceramic tile). Hand-hewn beams scouted from a centuries-old barn in neighboring Pennsylvania add texture to the kitchen and master bedroom, both intentionally spare though cozy, thanks in part to the antique cast-iron radiators Givone had converted to hot water use, a “win-win-win situation: aesthetically beautiful, recycled, and very efficient as a heat sink*. An improved building envelope and circulation system shield the home from brutal winters in the Catskills: The building’s frame is sealed with soy-based expanding foam insulation, and the original wavy-glass windows have been hung with an additional layer of coated compression-fit glass, making them as airtight as new double-pane units. The heating system runs on biodiesel fuel, fired by a low-consumption Buderus boiler, and wide-plank wood floorboards in the master bedroom benefit from radiant heat. Givone categorizes the Floating Farmhouse not as an experiment in greening but as an exercise in responsible building; its low carbon footprint was cast back in the 1820s, when the home was built with local materials, delivered by horse and wagon, and fashioned by hand. Such a sensitive restoration-meets-renovation pays homage to that past, both aesthetically and environmentally. It also speaks to an innate desire in this particular homeowner: "A derelict structure inspires possibility where any rational soul would walk (if not run) away. For me, an ‘impossible’ project enables a more intuitive, process-based approach to architecture: remaining open to what the structure and the process reveal and evolving the design in real time.” And while locals may not understand such lengthy efforts to revive a dilapidated rural manor, they surely appreciate the result: a successful marriage of vernacular design to modern domesticity. *Coined in the 1930s, a “heat sink” describes a device that absorbs or dissipates unwanted heat. In the case of Givone’s cast-iron radiators, a heat sink refers to their ability to retain and continually release heat long after water has passed through the pipes. Givone explains that “the boiler doesn’t have to fire as frequently to maintain a room’s temperature and for that reason, converted antique radiators are more efficient than standard hot-water baseboards.” farmhouse renovation in Eldred, New York

farmhouse renovation in Eldred, New York

In 2002, when Tom Givone bought a toppling 200-year-old farmhouse peeling with outdated neon blue paint, his new neighbors in upstate New York advised chucking it straight into a pit in the house’s equally rundown backyard. Instead, the experience helped define the homeowner-turned-contractor's love of the picturesque and channel it into a newfound talent for renovation. A former advertising copywriter, Givone cheekily gives credit for his roundabout career to the "quintessentially awful" landlord who ejected him from a rent-stabilized studio in the late '90s, which spurred his first home purchase. His self-described "strange and delightful" path to architectural design thus began on a narrow cobblestone lane in the upper reaches of Manhattan in a dilapidated row house, built in 1882 among a double row of identical clapboard abodes. From there, Givone edged ever northward, to the western edge of the Catskill Mountains, where he first spotted the locally infamous blue farmhouse, then three others that he also eventually rehabbed back to health. His current weekend abode, nicknamed the Floating Farmhouse, is—so far—his capstone project, a synthesis of personal taste, material experimentation, and historically sensitive restoration: a living laboratory for how to bring the vernacular past into the present. This labor in homemaking has been methodical, if not by choice then by financial necessity, owing to the economic depression of 2008. Instead of suspending all activity on the creek-adjacent farmhouse, Givone focused on perfecting his materials. For the lattice of oxidized tube steel that frames the back wall of the rear addition, three years of exposure to weather (aided by a daily acid bath) yielded a just-so leather-like patina, repeated in the central fireplace stack, which is finished in matching weathered Cor-Ten steel. During that time, he also enlisted local laborers for help with the interior demolition, which Givone likens to “an archeological dig: messy but rewarding.” They removed two bays in the back of the house and erected a new wing, similar in proportion to the original gabled structure but finished with a transparent portal of 22-foot-tall skyscraper glass, the ne plus ultra of the picture window. The addition shelters the new kitchen—characterized by the steel-clad, cast concrete wood-burning oven and two massive salvaged ceiling beams—and a 12-by-50-foot covered side porch cantilevered over a meandering stream. The mélange of old and new is the backbone of Givone’s design philosophy: “I peel back layers, expose what is inherent to the structure, and incorporate it into the final design; add by taking away.” Once uncovered, the farmhouse’s original cedar shake roof shingles and rough wall planks factored in as a visible design element in what are now the master bedroom and the guest bedroom hallway. Eleven pine trees on the property, each over 150 feet tall and encroaching on the existing house, were cut and milled onsite, providing the raw material for most of its new custom woodwork, including wainscoting, the beaded boarding on the porch ceiling, door and window trim, and coffers in the first-floor living room. Bluestone, which wraps around the kitchen counters until it meets the floor, was quarried and manufactured locally. Salvage features strongly in the decor as well. A deceased uncle’s collection of vintage and industrial furniture makes an appearance as a therapist’s leather chaise longue, a baroque mirror in the otherwise-austere master bedroom, and a 19th-century wood-and-zinc soaking tub rescued from a New York City tenement building. Givone wrapped the latter artifact with shiny stainless steel; the metallic sheen contrasts the guest bathroom's plain white walls (sealed with Thoroseal plaster to prevent water migration and mitigate the need for ceramic tile). Hand-hewn beams scouted from a centuries-old barn in neighboring Pennsylvania add texture to the kitchen and master bedroom, both intentionally spare though cozy, thanks in part to the antique cast-iron radiators Givone had converted to hot water use, a “win-win-win situation: aesthetically beautiful, recycled, and very efficient as a heat sink*. An improved building envelope and circulation system shield the home from brutal winters in the Catskills: The building’s frame is sealed with soy-based expanding foam insulation, and the original wavy-glass windows have been hung with an additional layer of coated compression-fit glass, making them as airtight as new double-pane units. The heating system runs on biodiesel fuel, fired by a low-consumption Buderus boiler, and wide-plank wood floorboards in the master bedroom benefit from radiant heat. Givone categorizes the Floating Farmhouse not as an experiment in greening but as an exercise in responsible building; its low carbon footprint was cast back in the 1820s, when the home was built with local materials, delivered by horse and wagon, and fashioned by hand. Such a sensitive restoration-meets-renovation pays homage to that past, both aesthetically and environmentally. It also speaks to an innate desire in this particular homeowner: "A derelict structure inspires possibility where any rational soul would walk (if not run) away. For me, an ‘impossible’ project enables a more intuitive, process-based approach to architecture: remaining open to what the structure and the process reveal and evolving the design in real time.” And while locals may not understand such lengthy efforts to revive a dilapidated rural manor, they surely appreciate the result: a successful marriage of vernacular design to modern domesticity. *Coined in the 1930s, a “heat sink” describes a device that absorbs or dissipates unwanted heat. In the case of Givone’s cast-iron radiators, a heat sink refers to their ability to retain and continually release heat long after water has passed through the pipes. Givone explains that “the boiler doesn’t have to fire as frequently to maintain a room’s temperature and for that reason, converted antique radiators are more efficient than standard hot-water baseboards.”

]]> floating farmhouse exterior square Floating Farmhouse http://www.dwell.com/articles/hope-floats.html Dwellings » Time Share http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/U--WjhKJHw4/time-share.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/time-share.html Wed, 25 Apr 2012 09:58:55 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/time-share.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/CP-harbour-house-outdoor-floating-bed-soren-and-annika-square.jpg" alt='outdoor wooden hanging bed ' /></a> Sharing a vacation home is a common arrangement. But sharing an architectural and conceptual experiment—as well as a linked basement, sprawling deck, and utility bills—takes more imagination, and that’s the idea architects Melana Janzen and John McMinn developed for their “cottage” near Toronto. Together with a couple of friends they built a complex, not quite one house and not quite two, that can accommodate both families at once under the shelter of a giant covered porch. The idea of a rustic second home was attractive to the couple, who live with their kids—five-year-old Soren and two-year-old Annika—in an apartment in downtown Toronto. McMinn’s friends Graham Barker and Karina Inzunza became their partners after Barker and Inzunza got the chance to buy a rare waterfront lot on Georgian Bay, “a community of creative people, a lot of ex-hippies and artists and poets,” says Barker. Both families wanted space to entertain, McMinn and Janzen needed a bedroom for the kids, and Barker and Inzunza needed a home office and a music room. How to fit it all? They considered building tiny neighboring cabins, but the architects looked for a more collective solution. Tight zoning regulations meant they could only have one “house,” so McMinn and Janzen stretched the definition. Their final scheme consists of a massive shed—a post-and-beam structure of Douglas fir, 20 feet high at its apex—that shelters two separate, fully insulated structures. They’re connected underground in a linked basement, where two mechanical rooms hold water heaters and an electrical system (solar panels on the roof offset power from the grid). Aboveground, each couple has a 15-by-30-foot home with views to the outside, plus an adjoining sleeping cabin for guests. “There is an intentionality about what is separate and what is shared,” Janzen says. The expense and maintenance of the electrical systems are pooled and the outdoor spaces are common ground. Almost every day, communal lunches and dinner parties unfold on the porch, which is outfitted with swings and Japanese lanterns. The mostly symmetrical layout of the compound, McMinn says, precludes a sense of territoriality. “The two houses and cabins have a kind of equality,” he says. That’s distinct from the typical family compound in this region and elsewhere, where small cabins usually orbit a main house. “There’s always a question,” McMinn says: “‘Are we going to have dinner on their side or on our side?’” This comes up often, because the complex has become a year-round meeting place for the two families, who have an unusual bond: The kids call Barker and Inzunza, who is Chilean, tío and tía, and Barker says they’re “practicing for a new stage of life” as grandparents. They all come together for singalongs with guitar or mandolin, often joined by people from nearby cottages—some of whom grew up with Barker, who has summered on Georgian Bay since he was young. All four agree that an inclusive atmosphere is paramount. “Community is important to us,” Inzunza says. “Through music, through food, through entertaining, it’s important to bring people together.” Five Tips for Designing for Community Make it simple to maintain. The property is partially off the grid and designed to avoid problems typical of cold climates—for example, the water lines drain into the mechanical room, which is heated all winter to keep the pipes from freezing. Give everyone control over their space. Although the structures share a solar panel array, the families heat their individual spaces with wood. 46. Create flexible space for entertaining and play. A spacious wraparound deck accommodates a wide range of activities, from tricycle riding to communal sunset cocktails to naps on the bed swing. Allow people to be together and apart. The houses are oriented to the water but also to look away from each other. Insulation keeps noise at bay. Food matters. Each house has its own well-equipped kitchen and several dining areas, indoors and out, that foster an easy atmosphere of communal meals and impromptu gatherings. For more photographs of the project, please view our slideshow. outdoor wooden hanging bed

Sharing a vacation home is a common arrangement. But sharing an architectural and conceptual experiment—as well as a linked basement, sprawling deck, and utility bills—takes more imagination, and that’s the idea architects Melana Janzen and John McMinn developed for their “cottage” near Toronto. Together with a couple of friends they built a complex, not quite one house and not quite two, that can accommodate both families at once under the shelter of a giant covered porch. The idea of a rustic second home was attractive to the couple, who live with their kids—five-year-old Soren and two-year-old Annika—in an apartment in downtown Toronto. McMinn’s friends Graham Barker and Karina Inzunza became their partners after Barker and Inzunza got the chance to buy a rare waterfront lot on Georgian Bay, “a community of creative people, a lot of ex-hippies and artists and poets,” says Barker. Both families wanted space to entertain, McMinn and Janzen needed a bedroom for the kids, and Barker and Inzunza needed a home office and a music room. How to fit it all? They considered building tiny neighboring cabins, but the architects looked for a more collective solution. Tight zoning regulations meant they could only have one “house,” so McMinn and Janzen stretched the definition. Their final scheme consists of a massive shed—a post-and-beam structure of Douglas fir, 20 feet high at its apex—that shelters two separate, fully insulated structures. They’re connected underground in a linked basement, where two mechanical rooms hold water heaters and an electrical system (solar panels on the roof offset power from the grid). Aboveground, each couple has a 15-by-30-foot home with views to the outside, plus an adjoining sleeping cabin for guests. “There is an intentionality about what is separate and what is shared,” Janzen says. The expense and maintenance of the electrical systems are pooled and the outdoor spaces are common ground. Almost every day, communal lunches and dinner parties unfold on the porch, which is outfitted with swings and Japanese lanterns. The mostly symmetrical layout of the compound, McMinn says, precludes a sense of territoriality. “The two houses and cabins have a kind of equality,” he says. That’s distinct from the typical family compound in this region and elsewhere, where small cabins usually orbit a main house. “There’s always a question,” McMinn says: “‘Are we going to have dinner on their side or on our side?’” This comes up often, because the complex has become a year-round meeting place for the two families, who have an unusual bond: The kids call Barker and Inzunza, who is Chilean, tío and tía, and Barker says they’re “practicing for a new stage of life” as grandparents. They all come together for singalongs with guitar or mandolin, often joined by people from nearby cottages—some of whom grew up with Barker, who has summered on Georgian Bay since he was young. All four agree that an inclusive atmosphere is paramount. “Community is important to us,” Inzunza says. “Through music, through food, through entertaining, it’s important to bring people together.” Five Tips for Designing for Community Make it simple to maintain. The property is partially off the grid and designed to avoid problems typical of cold climates—for example, the water lines drain into the mechanical room, which is heated all winter to keep the pipes from freezing. Give everyone control over their space. Although the structures share a solar panel array, the families heat their individual spaces with wood. 46. Create flexible space for entertaining and play. A spacious wraparound deck accommodates a wide range of activities, from tricycle riding to communal sunset cocktails to naps on the bed swing. Allow people to be together and apart. The houses are oriented to the water but also to look away from each other. Insulation keeps noise at bay. Food matters. Each house has its own well-equipped kitchen and several dining areas, indoors and out, that foster an easy atmosphere of communal meals and impromptu gatherings. For more photographs of the project, please view our slideshow.

]]> CP harbour house outdoor floating bed soren and annika square CP Harbour House http://www.dwell.com/articles/time-share.html Dwellings » Going Big, Going Home http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/-lb1_y8TyLU/going-big-going-home.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/going-big-going-home.html Fri, 30 Mar 2012 17:24:44 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/going-big-going-home.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/chiavelli-residence-second-floor-sitting-area-office-square.jpg" alt='modern office space Eames lounge chair' /></a> After nearly eight years of renting a tiny apartment in the center of Asolo, in northern Italy, Guido Chiavelli and his wife, Sabrina, were ready to find a house outside of town and start a family. “Our dream was to go back to the countryside where we both grew up,” says Chiavelli, who runs his family’s clothing company, Il Gufo. “We want our children to experience close contact with nature. If you live in an urban area, you have a different kind of childhood.” The Chiavellis knew exactly where they wanted to live—a short drive from Asolo in an area called Monfumo, or “silent hills.” And so on nearly every free day they had for two years, the couple drove around, looking for just the right sort of site: one that would be accessible but not overly visible from the main road. Three different real estate agents later, Guido and Sabrina found a crumbling and abandoned farmhouse with an overgrown vineyard, tucked away amidst the rolling hills. “We knew immediately what it could look like with our efforts,” says Chiavelli. “We like fascinating old houses, but we also share a love of contrasting old and new.” In Italy existing structures are well protected by the government, so every step of a renovation is strictly monitored and evaluated by officials who repeatedly visit the site before, during, and after construction. “They judge you on a scale of zero to four, and we received a two for the stable and a three for the house,” Chiavelli recalls. “We were not allowed to raze the buildings, even if we’d wanted to, which we didn’t. It would have been quicker and cheaper to knock it down—and in many times in this area, structures just happen to fall down during construction because they are ‘old.’ But we liked its character so much that we wanted to keep thinking that our home would be the old structure.” The farmhouse was in rough shape. The stone facade had been clumsily covered in cement, and when they started scratching the surface they realized there was no insulation. The stone itself, a yellowish sandstone called pietra gialla con sabbia erega, is indigenous to the region and had special significance. “There are stonemasons in this area who have spent their entire lives working with this stone,” explains the architect, Filippo Caprioglio, an old friend of the Chiavellis who came to the project after touring the site with them and who shared the couple’s reverence for local materials. “Each stone is completely irregular,” adds Chiavelli. “One person spent days and days with a hammer to shape every single one, and that is long, patient work. Only the older stonemasons know the technique, and it’s an art we are going to lose if we don’t keep the tradition alive.” Caprioglio turned to Luigi Bordin, a seasoned local contractor who employs stonemasons trained in this precise technique. “I had a splendid professional relationship with him,” says the architect. “He is a man of wide experience, and I learned so much from him in terms of operating in such a complex site’s orography and soil conditions. He led a team of five stonemasons, supervising and also physically working at the site for the entirety of the project.” Because the Chiavellis wanted to preserve the shell of the existing structure, the process of shoring it up was of paramount importance, particularly since the house is situated in an earthquake-prone area. “Building is different than renovating, and just holding up the building was the most delicate part,” explains Chiavelli. “The perimeter, the shell, was so tenuous that people thought we were fools—I mean, there were times when if you just touched the wall, it would have come down.” Caprioglio braced the building with a steel pilaster to support the main structure of the roof. “This was an important component in particular, but in general I tend to expose structural elements in my work,” says the architect. “I prefer to highlight elements that give strength without appearing heavy in dimension.” Once that was accomplished, it was time to focus on the interior and start planning a modern addition. “This was a farmer’s house, and they stored crops here,” says Chiavelli. “The rooms were so tiny, and there were so many of them. We wanted a luminous space to capture the beauty of the surrounding environment, and we knew we wanted our living areas to be at the very top to make the most of the light. Once we shared our desires with Filippo, and told him how we wanted to live in this house, he made it happen by addressing every one of our needs.” By the time construction was well underway, so too was the Chiavellis’ plan to start a family. Their son, Rocco, was born toward the end of the project and therefore fundamentals of baby-proofing were built into the design. At first glance, however, the house does not necessarily look very child-friendly, particularly when considering the most defining element of the first floor— a massive central staircase and catwalk system composed of glass and steel. “It’s beautiful, but it’s dangerous,” admits Chiavelli. “Protecting him was, of course, our main priority.” Notions of protection and accessibility figured into every decision the Chiavellis made. Due to the high volume of the structure, the team decided that the home would be comprised of four floors connected via an elevator accessed from an underground garage and wine cellar. “Having four different levels, well, at first we thought we might not need that much space. But then we started thinking long term. We look at this house as the home of our lifetime,” explains Guido. “That means we envisioned that someday we may not be able to climb steps without difficulty, and we wanted our friends and family who may not have the easiest time getting around to be able to visit us comfortably.” When the new home was complete, the couple hosted a party to thank the 100 or more people who worked on the project. “It was a very emotional moment; we were all crying and congratulating each other, drinking prosecco and hugging,” Chiavelli recalls. “All the effort and hard work of these people, every day for two years, to give us such an extraordinary and special home—we are so proud, my God, that whatever it cost, that moment paid for it.” modern office space Eames lounge chair

After nearly eight years of renting a tiny apartment in the center of Asolo, in northern Italy, Guido Chiavelli and his wife, Sabrina, were ready to find a house outside of town and start a family. “Our dream was to go back to the countryside where we both grew up,” says Chiavelli, who runs his family’s clothing company, Il Gufo. “We want our children to experience close contact with nature. If you live in an urban area, you have a different kind of childhood.” The Chiavellis knew exactly where they wanted to live—a short drive from Asolo in an area called Monfumo, or “silent hills.” And so on nearly every free day they had for two years, the couple drove around, looking for just the right sort of site: one that would be accessible but not overly visible from the main road. Three different real estate agents later, Guido and Sabrina found a crumbling and abandoned farmhouse with an overgrown vineyard, tucked away amidst the rolling hills. “We knew immediately what it could look like with our efforts,” says Chiavelli. “We like fascinating old houses, but we also share a love of contrasting old and new.” In Italy existing structures are well protected by the government, so every step of a renovation is strictly monitored and evaluated by officials who repeatedly visit the site before, during, and after construction. “They judge you on a scale of zero to four, and we received a two for the stable and a three for the house,” Chiavelli recalls. “We were not allowed to raze the buildings, even if we’d wanted to, which we didn’t. It would have been quicker and cheaper to knock it down—and in many times in this area, structures just happen to fall down during construction because they are ‘old.’ But we liked its character so much that we wanted to keep thinking that our home would be the old structure.” The farmhouse was in rough shape. The stone facade had been clumsily covered in cement, and when they started scratching the surface they realized there was no insulation. The stone itself, a yellowish sandstone called pietra gialla con sabbia erega, is indigenous to the region and had special significance. “There are stonemasons in this area who have spent their entire lives working with this stone,” explains the architect, Filippo Caprioglio, an old friend of the Chiavellis who came to the project after touring the site with them and who shared the couple’s reverence for local materials. “Each stone is completely irregular,” adds Chiavelli. “One person spent days and days with a hammer to shape every single one, and that is long, patient work. Only the older stonemasons know the technique, and it’s an art we are going to lose if we don’t keep the tradition alive.” Caprioglio turned to Luigi Bordin, a seasoned local contractor who employs stonemasons trained in this precise technique. “I had a splendid professional relationship with him,” says the architect. “He is a man of wide experience, and I learned so much from him in terms of operating in such a complex site’s orography and soil conditions. He led a team of five stonemasons, supervising and also physically working at the site for the entirety of the project.” Because the Chiavellis wanted to preserve the shell of the existing structure, the process of shoring it up was of paramount importance, particularly since the house is situated in an earthquake-prone area. “Building is different than renovating, and just holding up the building was the most delicate part,” explains Chiavelli. “The perimeter, the shell, was so tenuous that people thought we were fools—I mean, there were times when if you just touched the wall, it would have come down.” Caprioglio braced the building with a steel pilaster to support the main structure of the roof. “This was an important component in particular, but in general I tend to expose structural elements in my work,” says the architect. “I prefer to highlight elements that give strength without appearing heavy in dimension.” Once that was accomplished, it was time to focus on the interior and start planning a modern addition. “This was a farmer’s house, and they stored crops here,” says Chiavelli. “The rooms were so tiny, and there were so many of them. We wanted a luminous space to capture the beauty of the surrounding environment, and we knew we wanted our living areas to be at the very top to make the most of the light. Once we shared our desires with Filippo, and told him how we wanted to live in this house, he made it happen by addressing every one of our needs.” By the time construction was well underway, so too was the Chiavellis’ plan to start a family. Their son, Rocco, was born toward the end of the project and therefore fundamentals of baby-proofing were built into the design. At first glance, however, the house does not necessarily look very child-friendly, particularly when considering the most defining element of the first floor— a massive central staircase and catwalk system composed of glass and steel. “It’s beautiful, but it’s dangerous,” admits Chiavelli. “Protecting him was, of course, our main priority.” Notions of protection and accessibility figured into every decision the Chiavellis made. Due to the high volume of the structure, the team decided that the home would be comprised of four floors connected via an elevator accessed from an underground garage and wine cellar. “Having four different levels, well, at first we thought we might not need that much space. But then we started thinking long term. We look at this house as the home of our lifetime,” explains Guido. “That means we envisioned that someday we may not be able to climb steps without difficulty, and we wanted our friends and family who may not have the easiest time getting around to be able to visit us comfortably.” When the new home was complete, the couple hosted a party to thank the 100 or more people who worked on the project. “It was a very emotional moment; we were all crying and congratulating each other, drinking prosecco and hugging,” Chiavelli recalls. “All the effort and hard work of these people, every day for two years, to give us such an extraordinary and special home—we are so proud, my God, that whatever it cost, that moment paid for it.”

]]> chiavelli residence second floor sitting area office square Chiavelli Residence http://www.dwell.com/articles/going-big-going-home.html Off the Grid » E+ for Effort http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/yGglTdQKUQU/e-for-effort.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/e-for-effort.html Sun, 25 Mar 2012 10:42:07 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/e-for-effort.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/e-green-home-facade-square.jpg" alt='e green home facade square' /></a> Visit Seoul, South Korea, and you’ll be stunned by the average apartment building—tens of stories high, and numbering in what must be the hundreds, these landscape-defining structures look less like the housing stock of a high-tech megacity than massive concrete milk cartons. Riding a wave of dissatisfaction with high-rise dwelling, growing numbers of South Koreans are looking for a different, more sustainable way to live. And a new housing prototype in Kyeong-Gi—the E+ Green Home—showcases the sustainable building prowess of the firm Kolon Engineering and Construction and also the design acumen of Seoul’s Unsangdong Architects Cooperation. Erected on the site of Kolon’s head-quarters, the show home is one of what the firm hopes will be many they’ll build across South Korea. With a tripartite approach to energy efficiency, the E+ Home is at once a laboratory and a showcase for the 95 green technologies used, many developed by Kolon. By saving (the house uses 27 percent of the average Korean home), generating (it produces 38 percent of what’s used by the average Korean home), and recycling energy, the E+ Home even meets German Passive House standards. A tool for marketing and education, the E+ Home is that rare spec house that actually functions as a working residence: Curious house-hunters can actually book a night or two in the place to get a feel for what serious green living feels like. Rare is the chance to spend a night in so techy an abode, but if you can’t swing a stay in Kyeong-Gi anytime soon, take our tour of South Korea’s bright green future. Click here to view more photos of the project. e green home facade square

Visit Seoul, South Korea, and you’ll be stunned by the average apartment building—tens of stories high, and numbering in what must be the hundreds, these landscape-defining structures look less like the housing stock of a high-tech megacity than massive concrete milk cartons. Riding a wave of dissatisfaction with high-rise dwelling, growing numbers of South Koreans are looking for a different, more sustainable way to live. And a new housing prototype in Kyeong-Gi—the E+ Green Home—showcases the sustainable building prowess of the firm Kolon Engineering and Construction and also the design acumen of Seoul’s Unsangdong Architects Cooperation. Erected on the site of Kolon’s head-quarters, the show home is one of what the firm hopes will be many they’ll build across South Korea. With a tripartite approach to energy efficiency, the E+ Home is at once a laboratory and a showcase for the 95 green technologies used, many developed by Kolon. By saving (the house uses 27 percent of the average Korean home), generating (it produces 38 percent of what’s used by the average Korean home), and recycling energy, the E+ Home even meets German Passive House standards. A tool for marketing and education, the E+ Home is that rare spec house that actually functions as a working residence: Curious house-hunters can actually book a night or two in the place to get a feel for what serious green living feels like. Rare is the chance to spend a night in so techy an abode, but if you can’t swing a stay in Kyeong-Gi anytime soon, take our tour of South Korea’s bright green future. Click here to view more photos of the project.

]]> e green home facade square E+ Green Home http://www.dwell.com/articles/e-for-effort.html Houses We Love » About Face http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/GSh3Us-EIB8/about-face.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/about-face.html Fri, 16 Mar 2012 16:43:48 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/about-face.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/houses-we-love-about-face-solar-homestead-square.jpg" alt='solar decathlon show home in North Carolina' /></a> Porches are a beloved element of the Southern vernacular and lifestyle, traditionally serving as an extension of the indoors—a shady place to gather, socialize, or share a meal. So when the students of Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina, entered the Solar Decathlon, a biennial energy-efficient residential design competition, the iconic space figured prominently in their concept. “We wanted to share the context of the region,” says Chad Everhart, an architect and the faculty advisor to the 30 students who worked on the project. But beyond simply paying homage to its traditional role, the Appalachian State students recast the porch as a power generator, integrating architecture and engineering in a surprising and elegant way. “We didn’t want to just tack solar panels onto the house; we wanted to integrate them with the design,” says Chelsea Royall, a graduate student and the project’s design director. To that end, the team installed a canopy of 42 bifacial solar panels by Sanyo atop a white pine trellis. The flat panels, which collect energy from direct light above and reflected light below, maximize the amount of energy generated per square foot by the 8.2 kW array. “The porch wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable if we used regular solar panels,” says Royall. “Light filters through these, and opens up the whole space. It’s a different way to use solar panels that shows how beautiful they can be.” Today, the house, which won the Decathlon’s coveted People’s Choice Award, stands on the university’s campus, a thoughtful marriage of technology and aesthetics. solar decathlon show home in North Carolina

solar decathlon show home in North Carolina

Porches are a beloved element of the Southern vernacular and lifestyle, traditionally serving as an extension of the indoors—a shady place to gather, socialize, or share a meal. So when the students of Appalachian State University in Boone, North Carolina, entered the Solar Decathlon, a biennial energy-efficient residential design competition, the iconic space figured prominently in their concept. “We wanted to share the context of the region,” says Chad Everhart, an architect and the faculty advisor to the 30 students who worked on the project. But beyond simply paying homage to its traditional role, the Appalachian State students recast the porch as a power generator, integrating architecture and engineering in a surprising and elegant way. “We didn’t want to just tack solar panels onto the house; we wanted to integrate them with the design,” says Chelsea Royall, a graduate student and the project’s design director. To that end, the team installed a canopy of 42 bifacial solar panels by Sanyo atop a white pine trellis. The flat panels, which collect energy from direct light above and reflected light below, maximize the amount of energy generated per square foot by the 8.2 kW array. “The porch wouldn’t be nearly as enjoyable if we used regular solar panels,” says Royall. “Light filters through these, and opens up the whole space. It’s a different way to use solar panels that shows how beautiful they can be.” Today, the house, which won the Decathlon’s coveted People’s Choice Award, stands on the university’s campus, a thoughtful marriage of technology and aesthetics.

]]> houses we love about face solar homestead square Solar Homestead http://www.dwell.com/articles/about-face.html Houses We Love » Coming into Views http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/MZBfT988vmU/coming-into-views.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/coming-into-views.html Fri, 16 Mar 2012 16:28:10 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/coming-into-views.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/houses-we-love-coming-into-views-hillsdale-screen-house-facade-square.jpg" alt='custom rain screen in rural New York' /></a> What drew Seth Grosshandler and Kim Wainwright to their 20-acre property in rural Hillsdale, New York, were the extraordinary unobstructed views of the Berkshires to the east and the Catskills to the west. The challenge on the completely exposed hilltop site was protecting their planned 2,800-square-foot, two-bedroom courtyard house from the occasionally brutal weather. In response, architect Lea Cloud, of New York City’s CR Studio, created a “superinsulated building envelope” intended “to feel light and airy,” Cloud says. So instead of the clapboard siding or shingles common in the region, the architects devised a rain screen of Atlantic white cedar that floats four-and-a-half inches off the structure. The clever cover allows the house to breathe, drains away moisture, and conceals the “cheap and hideous foam” covering the house’s multilayered insulation sandwich with light-handed elegance. Since Grosshandler and Wainwright wanted as many windows as possible, the architects next extended the slatted screen over the glazing in certain places to form a textured pattern that makes the outward vistas more complex and enables a rich play of sunlight within the house. And to create an enclosed pool and vegetable garden, Cloud morphed the screen into an intermittently porous fence that permits views of the Berkshires from selected points in the pool while keeping out garden-munching deer. The architects’ simple, surprisingly variable idea transforms what might have been a quotidian country home into a visually rhythmic exercise in immateriality. custom rain screen in rural New York

What drew Seth Grosshandler and Kim Wainwright to their 20-acre property in rural Hillsdale, New York, were the extraordinary unobstructed views of the Berkshires to the east and the Catskills to the west. The challenge on the completely exposed hilltop site was protecting their planned 2,800-square-foot, two-bedroom courtyard house from the occasionally brutal weather. In response, architect Lea Cloud, of New York City’s CR Studio, created a “superinsulated building envelope” intended “to feel light and airy,” Cloud says. So instead of the clapboard siding or shingles common in the region, the architects devised a rain screen of Atlantic white cedar that floats four-and-a-half inches off the structure. The clever cover allows the house to breathe, drains away moisture, and conceals the “cheap and hideous foam” covering the house’s multilayered insulation sandwich with light-handed elegance. Since Grosshandler and Wainwright wanted as many windows as possible, the architects next extended the slatted screen over the glazing in certain places to form a textured pattern that makes the outward vistas more complex and enables a rich play of sunlight within the house. And to create an enclosed pool and vegetable garden, Cloud morphed the screen into an intermittently porous fence that permits views of the Berkshires from selected points in the pool while keeping out garden-munching deer. The architects’ simple, surprisingly variable idea transforms what might have been a quotidian country home into a visually rhythmic exercise in immateriality.

]]> houses we love coming into views hillsdale screen house facade square Hillsdale Screen House http://www.dwell.com/articles/coming-into-views.html My House » Grateful Shed http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/pMzM_JtZ1PY/grateful-shed.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/grateful-shed.html Mon, 12 Mar 2012 13:42:57 -0700 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/grateful-shed.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/gamby-residence-facade-family-portrait-square.jpg" alt='DIY design home in Kauai' /></a> Tanya and Chris Gamby—a psychologist and web developer/portable outdoor movie theater owner, respectively—have called Hawaii home for most of their lives. After a detour to Los Angeles, where their children, Jackson, now nine, and Zeke, seven, were born, they came back. They were perfectly content with their old plantation house in the town of Lihue, on Kauai, when they accompanied Chris’s sister on her own property search in the island’s lush mountains. When they came across a 20-acre parcel that backed up to verdant, rainy valleys and stunning views, Tanya was immediately smitten. “When I saw the land, I thought, ‘I’d sell my soul to live here,’” says Tanya, who luckily only had to sell her existing house to do so. They bought the property as an extended family, and then the Gambys, with $80,000, limited construction experience, and guidance from local architects Ben Sullivan and Tony Hatto (who are also designing them a larger house on the site), built a temporary hangout made from three 10-by-12-foot modules and dubbed it Ag Shed Villa. Tanya: Our old house sold before we knew how the property would be divided up, and we needed to build something for ourselves quickly. We knew we could do as many 10-by-12 sheds as we wanted, so we thought we’d do three and just take them apart and put them back together as needed. We figured we’d just make this really sweet, simple studio we could use temporarily and eventually turn into a guest room and a home office. So Chris just started build-ing it, and our architects decided they wanted to help us, so they got involved, and it was this total spontaneous collaborative effort that morphed into this building. Originally we were going to put in a green roof and living walls—we had wanted to do that on our bigger house, too. So we started with a design and quickly discovered that there were some issues with living walls and mold in Hawaii, and then we found out that even though there’s all this research on Hawaii being a great place for green roofs, we couldn’t get home insurance here if we put them in. We have everything in place, so as soon as that changes we will put them in, but unfortunately we can’t do it yet. As it became a real building, our architects engineered it for us so that it would actually meet the codes. It was sort of a back and forth with the architects—we had the shape of the building and the design laid out, and they picked some of the materials, like the cement boards for the walls and the polycarbonate roofing, which was something they always wanted to try. The bathroom walls and the shower are made out of polycarbonate, which is beautiful in certain areas and in some it’s actually really hot, so the downside is we’ve created almost a greenhouse effect in places. But in the rainy season it’s incredibly beautiful. The other thing is, it’s loud. There have been times when it really starts to rain up here, and we can’t hear each other at all. Chris: The layout is pretty simple: We started off by building three small pods, and it was just going to be these 10-by-12 rooms with interconnected decks in an L shape, but it turned out to be too much of a hassle to make connecting decks so we just enclosed the whole thing. We have the kitchen at one end of the L, and then the middle is a connecting glass hallway containing the dining room. The corner is our all-purpose closet/laundry room, and up above that is our master loft, and then there’s another connecting glass area that’s our living room, and that connects to the kids’ pod down at the end. The layout is a little funky, but it all flows together. It’s pretty small—only 600-plus square feet—but if you’re in the kitchen, with canvas walls and screens everywhere, you can’t see the kids in their room but you can hear them. For the most part it’s nice because we’re all together. Tanya: The house is very nontraditional for Kauai. It’s funky but fun. Chris: We had to make it up as we went, so some things don’t work perfectly, but overall I think it turned out pretty well. There was a lot of experimental stuff that we tried because we knew we’d eventually build a bigger house and we thought this was a good testing ground. Tanya: Doing both the Ag Shed Villa and the “real” house, we found that it’s scary to experiment on a real house. It’s very expensive. It’s fun to experiment on something small, because your investment is not as big. If you mess it up or the siding’s wrong on 100 square feet, it’s a lot easier to fix. It was the first time we could say, “Yeah, try that, let’s see what happens.” We definitely changed some of our bigger house stuff based on the Ag Shed, like incorporating the boulders that are all over the land—we’ll repeat that. We actually unearthed one the size of a minivan that we’re going to use in the bigger house. We had some good unexpected surprises. Initially, we were going to put glass doors everywhere but we had to get out of our previous house before the new one was finished, so we just put canvas up on one wall—it’s so temperate here that it worked fine until we decided we needed a real wall. Chris put up a half-canvas, half-polycarbonate wall temporarily, and I ended up loving it. It looks really cool, it keeps the rain out, it’s solid, it can flip up if we want it to, and I don’t see us ever changing it. A glass door would have been predictable and followed the pattern of the house, but this worked so much better. Chris: Having a good plan is really important, too. It’s nice to want to do things on the fly and make it up as you go, but planning out certain things is hugely important. When I originally started building, my footings were a little small and we could see the building sinking on one side—it actually dropped down an inch or two. So we went back in and beefed up the footings, and they aren’t going anywhere now. It would have been nice to know ahead of time how big the footings needed to be. That was pretty key. Tanya: The whole idea for the structure was that this would be a really fun place for the kids for a few years. Chris made a pallet treehouse just outside their bedroom, and we added a slide right out of their bedroom window that leads to it. They’re out there all the time; they use all of that stuff constantly. But timeouts aren’t very effective; you go into their room and they’re gone. Chris: The kids also like to run into the house and lock the door to the slide behind them—they take turns locking each other out for fun. So it does get a fair amount of use. Tanya: The photographers were saying we reminded them of the Swiss Family Robinson. The day they were here, the kids took three showers, and they were still running around all muddy. And that’s exactly how I wanted them to grow up. DIY design home in Kauai

Tanya and Chris Gamby—a psychologist and web developer/portable outdoor movie theater owner, respectively—have called Hawaii home for most of their lives. After a detour to Los Angeles, where their children, Jackson, now nine, and Zeke, seven, were born, they came back. They were perfectly content with their old plantation house in the town of Lihue, on Kauai, when they accompanied Chris’s sister on her own property search in the island’s lush mountains. When they came across a 20-acre parcel that backed up to verdant, rainy valleys and stunning views, Tanya was immediately smitten. “When I saw the land, I thought, ‘I’d sell my soul to live here,’” says Tanya, who luckily only had to sell her existing house to do so. They bought the property as an extended family, and then the Gambys, with $80,000, limited construction experience, and guidance from local architects Ben Sullivan and Tony Hatto (who are also designing them a larger house on the site), built a temporary hangout made from three 10-by-12-foot modules and dubbed it Ag Shed Villa. Tanya: Our old house sold before we knew how the property would be divided up, and we needed to build something for ourselves quickly. We knew we could do as many 10-by-12 sheds as we wanted, so we thought we’d do three and just take them apart and put them back together as needed. We figured we’d just make this really sweet, simple studio we could use temporarily and eventually turn into a guest room and a home office. So Chris just started build-ing it, and our architects decided they wanted to help us, so they got involved, and it was this total spontaneous collaborative effort that morphed into this building. Originally we were going to put in a green roof and living walls—we had wanted to do that on our bigger house, too. So we started with a design and quickly discovered that there were some issues with living walls and mold in Hawaii, and then we found out that even though there’s all this research on Hawaii being a great place for green roofs, we couldn’t get home insurance here if we put them in. We have everything in place, so as soon as that changes we will put them in, but unfortunately we can’t do it yet. As it became a real building, our architects engineered it for us so that it would actually meet the codes. It was sort of a back and forth with the architects—we had the shape of the building and the design laid out, and they picked some of the materials, like the cement boards for the walls and the polycarbonate roofing, which was something they always wanted to try. The bathroom walls and the shower are made out of polycarbonate, which is beautiful in certain areas and in some it’s actually really hot, so the downside is we’ve created almost a greenhouse effect in places. But in the rainy season it’s incredibly beautiful. The other thing is, it’s loud. There have been times when it really starts to rain up here, and we can’t hear each other at all. Chris: The layout is pretty simple: We started off by building three small pods, and it was just going to be these 10-by-12 rooms with interconnected decks in an L shape, but it turned out to be too much of a hassle to make connecting decks so we just enclosed the whole thing. We have the kitchen at one end of the L, and then the middle is a connecting glass hallway containing the dining room. The corner is our all-purpose closet/laundry room, and up above that is our master loft, and then there’s another connecting glass area that’s our living room, and that connects to the kids’ pod down at the end. The layout is a little funky, but it all flows together. It’s pretty small—only 600-plus square feet—but if you’re in the kitchen, with canvas walls and screens everywhere, you can’t see the kids in their room but you can hear them. For the most part it’s nice because we’re all together. Tanya: The house is very nontraditional for Kauai. It’s funky but fun. Chris: We had to make it up as we went, so some things don’t work perfectly, but overall I think it turned out pretty well. There was a lot of experimental stuff that we tried because we knew we’d eventually build a bigger house and we thought this was a good testing ground. Tanya: Doing both the Ag Shed Villa and the “real” house, we found that it’s scary to experiment on a real house. It’s very expensive. It’s fun to experiment on something small, because your investment is not as big. If you mess it up or the siding’s wrong on 100 square feet, it’s a lot easier to fix. It was the first time we could say, “Yeah, try that, let’s see what happens.” We definitely changed some of our bigger house stuff based on the Ag Shed, like incorporating the boulders that are all over the land—we’ll repeat that. We actually unearthed one the size of a minivan that we’re going to use in the bigger house. We had some good unexpected surprises. Initially, we were going to put glass doors everywhere but we had to get out of our previous house before the new one was finished, so we just put canvas up on one wall—it’s so temperate here that it worked fine until we decided we needed a real wall. Chris put up a half-canvas, half-polycarbonate wall temporarily, and I ended up loving it. It looks really cool, it keeps the rain out, it’s solid, it can flip up if we want it to, and I don’t see us ever changing it. A glass door would have been predictable and followed the pattern of the house, but this worked so much better. Chris: Having a good plan is really important, too. It’s nice to want to do things on the fly and make it up as you go, but planning out certain things is hugely important. When I originally started building, my footings were a little small and we could see the building sinking on one side—it actually dropped down an inch or two. So we went back in and beefed up the footings, and they aren’t going anywhere now. It would have been nice to know ahead of time how big the footings needed to be. That was pretty key. Tanya: The whole idea for the structure was that this would be a really fun place for the kids for a few years. Chris made a pallet treehouse just outside their bedroom, and we added a slide right out of their bedroom window that leads to it. They’re out there all the time; they use all of that stuff constantly. But timeouts aren’t very effective; you go into their room and they’re gone. Chris: The kids also like to run into the house and lock the door to the slide behind them—they take turns locking each other out for fun. So it does get a fair amount of use. Tanya: The photographers were saying we reminded them of the Swiss Family Robinson. The day they were here, the kids took three showers, and they were still running around all muddy. And that’s exactly how I wanted them to grow up.

]]> gamby residence facade family portrait square Gamby Residence http://www.dwell.com/articles/grateful-shed.html Dwellings » Hygge House http://feeds.dwell.com/~r/dwell/homes/~3/EpJoKF184Y8/hygge-house.html http://www.dwell.com/articles/hygge-house.html Thu, 8 Mar 2012 17:12:11 -0800 <a href="http://www.dwell.com/articles/hygge-house.html"><img src="http://media.dwell.com/images/148*148/vedbaek-house-interior-glass-and-iron-floor-door-peter-maja-and-carl-portrait-square.jpg" alt='cozy small spaces ' /></a> A few hours into a visit with Peter Østergaard and Åsa Olofsson at their house in Vedbæk, a coastal town 12 miles north of Copenhagen, the couple is parsing the meaning of hygge. A Danish word that has no direct equivalent in English, hygge (roughly pronounced hoog-eh) describes the warm, cozy feeling that develops when friends gather in a room with some open flames (candlelight, fireplace), alcohol, and plenty of time to enjoy the experience. There’s an aesthetic component, too—worn wood and strewn sheepskins help. So do “small things, and blankets,” offers Olofsson. “On the beach you wouldn’t hygge,” says Østergaard, “and it’s not really partying.” Though it’s somewhat difficult to define, they know it when they see it. In fact, “we’re hygge-ing right now,” Østergaard points out, nodding at the surrounding tableau: a weathered wooden dining table topped with homemade apple pie, half-drunk glasses of red wine, and lit votives. “This house helps.” Indeed, the house, a cottage built by fishermen in 1860, is exceedingly cozy, with sloping ceilings, a sculptural spiral staircase, and “lots of irregular little steps and corners and twisted angles,” as Olofsson puts it. The couple bought the place in 2005 and immediately enlisted Østergaard’s best friend, Jonas Bjerre-Poulsen, the head of Norm.Architects, to help renovate it. The house was originally a warren of small rooms, with an attached greenhouse and a low-ceilinged storeroom. Bjerre-Poulsen fixed it up in stages over the next four years, transforming the storeroom into a guest room and the greenhouse into a long, narrow sitting and dining area. He tore down the interior walls in the main building’s 430-square-foot ground floor, creating an open-plan kitchen and living room, and built custom furniture to fit the tight spaces— a platform bed with integrated storage in the attic bedroom and a pair of streamlined sofas in the narrow sitting room that overlooks the garden. The renovated house feels much more spacious than its 1,260 square feet would suggest, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling white interiors (including a low-profile kitchen with appliances tucked behind false drawer fronts) and some architectural tricks. The low ceiling in the sitting and dining room is pierced with skylights to give a sense of verticality, a move inspired by traditional Japanese temples, as well as to create a rhythm of light and dark and “spaces within a space,” as Bjerre-Poulsen puts it. Similarly, an underground wine cellar adds a sense of depth in the living room thanks to the one-and-a-quarter-inch-thick glass door inset into the wooden floor. At night, the lit-up cellar acts like a built-in lamp, flooding the room with an atmospheric glow. Though it’s a tight fit for the family of four—baby Carl sleeps in a crib in his parents’ attic bedroom and six-year-old Maja sleeps in a closet-size nook in another corner—it’s not yet cramped, and for a while longer should fulfill Olofsson’s original fantasy: “a house where we could live close together but not on top of each other.” And if things ever feel too squeezed, they can imagine the home’s 19th-century residents, a troop of Nordic fishermen who crammed into the home’s formerly tiny rooms— a situation few would call cozy, no matter how much candlelight, furs, and booze you had on hand. cozy small spaces

A few hours into a visit with Peter Østergaard and Åsa Olofsson at their house in Vedbæk, a coastal town 12 miles north of Copenhagen, the couple is parsing the meaning of hygge. A Danish word that has no direct equivalent in English, hygge (roughly pronounced hoog-eh) describes the warm, cozy feeling that develops when friends gather in a room with some open flames (candlelight, fireplace), alcohol, and plenty of time to enjoy the experience. There’s an aesthetic component, too—worn wood and strewn sheepskins help. So do “small things, and blankets,” offers Olofsson. “On the beach you wouldn’t hygge,” says Østergaard, “and it’s not really partying.” Though it’s somewhat difficult to define, they know it when they see it. In fact, “we’re hygge-ing right now,” Østergaard points out, nodding at the surrounding tableau: a weathered wooden dining table topped with homemade apple pie, half-drunk glasses of red wine, and lit votives. “This house helps.” Indeed, the house, a cottage built by fishermen in 1860, is exceedingly cozy, with sloping ceilings, a sculptural spiral staircase, and “lots of irregular little steps and corners and twisted angles,” as Olofsson puts it. The couple bought the place in 2005 and immediately enlisted Østergaard’s best friend, Jonas Bjerre-Poulsen, the head of Norm.Architects, to help renovate it. The house was originally a warren of small rooms, with an attached greenhouse and a low-ceilinged storeroom. Bjerre-Poulsen fixed it up in stages over the next four years, transforming the storeroom into a guest room and the greenhouse into a long, narrow sitting and dining area. He tore down the interior walls in the main building’s 430-square-foot ground floor, creating an open-plan kitchen and living room, and built custom furniture to fit the tight spaces— a platform bed with integrated storage in the attic bedroom and a pair of streamlined sofas in the narrow sitting room that overlooks the garden. The renovated house feels much more spacious than its 1,260 square feet would suggest, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling white interiors (including a low-profile kitchen with appliances tucked behind false drawer fronts) and some architectural tricks. The low ceiling in the sitting and dining room is pierced with skylights to give a sense of verticality, a move inspired by traditional Japanese temples, as well as to create a rhythm of light and dark and “spaces within a space,” as Bjerre-Poulsen puts it. Similarly, an underground wine cellar adds a sense of depth in the living room thanks to the one-and-a-quarter-inch-thick glass door inset into the wooden floor. At night, the lit-up cellar acts like a built-in lamp, flooding the room with an atmospheric glow. Though it’s a tight fit for the family of four—baby Carl sleeps in a crib in his parents’ attic bedroom and six-year-old Maja sleeps in a closet-size nook in another corner—it’s not yet cramped, and for a while longer should fulfill Olofsson’s original fantasy: “a house where we could live close together but not on top of each other.” And if things ever feel too squeezed, they can imagine the home’s 19th-century residents, a troop of Nordic fishermen who crammed into the home’s formerly tiny rooms— a situation few would call cozy, no matter how much candlelight, furs, and booze you had on hand.

]]> vedbaek house interior glass and iron floor door peter maja and carl portrait square Vedbæk House http://www.dwell.com/articles/hygge-house.html