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“In the early ’90s, although we knew it would be years before we could move from south Texas, we bought 10 wooded acres in Quilcene, on Dabob Bay, along Washington’s Hood Canal near Port Townsend, and began to plan a house. We wanted something small that took advantage of the bay, mountain and sunset views – and looked like it belonged in the woods.
“My practical engineer husband drew up an efficient plan, perfectly symmetrical and proportioned to take advantage of standard lumber dimensions. Being an engineer myself, I understood efficiency; but I knew this was ugly. I went through dozens of plan magazines looking for a design with that indescribable something — that soulfulness.
“Finally, one day a photo and description in a tiny ad in the Port Townsend Leader spoke to me. The owner called his house a “Craftsman bungalow” and put me in touch with a local architect, Rick Erickson of Port Townsend, Wash. He also suggested that I read Christopher Alexander’s
“ was his name. I only talked with him that one time about 12 years ago. He had designed and built his own house and was an enthusiastic student of A Pattern Language. I’m sure he noticed that I had difficulty describing what I was looking for, but understood that simplicity, comfort, small size, pleasing proportions, fitting with the landscape — these were important qualities. He’ll probably never know how much he influenced my life.” …
“The architect did not design all the minute details a la Wright or Greene & Greene. Instead, he introduced us to a remarkable circle of craftsmen, almost all of whom took special pride in their work as the house took shape in 1999. We ate lunch with them on a picnic table at the job site most days to discuss details and problems. The conversations often strayed to politics, poetry and religion. Several drew on their inner artists and added unique touches, mostly taking their cues from nature. Some of them needed to be coaxed, some needed to persuade us and some just surprised us. We learned to appreciate, encourage and embrace their artistry – and our own.”
I asked the shingle installer if he could make the bottom of the second story flare, like the hem of a skirt. He said he wasn’t an artist, he was a tradesman. He left, thought about it and came back with an idea. The flare is perfect.
The living room features a series of arches.
When we discovered that the skylight was installed in the wrong place, giving us a view to the upstairs wall rather than the sky, the shingle installer surprised us with a face pattern he placed there in the shingles.
I was apprehensive when the carpenter the architect recommended to build the winding staircase breezed in with his beret cocked, took a couple of quick, seemingly careless measurements, scribbled them on a torn piece of paper and stuffed them in his pocket. Before he left, I offered him soup for lunch. “Do you have tomato?” he asked. “The color is so beautiful.” And so is the staircase.
I met with the blacksmith in his shop and discussed a simple stair-railing design. When he came out to take measurements he said, “I want to build something special, something I’ve never tried.” He designed a beautiful banister with a series of undulating leaves burnished with brass on long stems.
I asked the finish carpenter to build a storage bench to fit in the tiny alcove in the entry. We discussed a very basic design. He took measurements and returned in a few weeks with the bench; he and his girlfriend had carved a charming newt on leaves in the front panel. Again, something they had never done.
“You need a carved corbel on the truss,” the carpenter said. Imagining a subtle bas-relief, we agreed and gave him a 4˝ x 6˝ x 20˝ piece of wood. He called a friend whose family has been in the carousel animal carving business for five generations. We now have an intricate green flying-dragon corbel, carved and painted in carousel style.
The inner artist must sometimes be summoned in times of disaster. I fashioned a leaf out of scrap wood to cover a gaping hole in the kitchen cabinet left by the electrician.
The finish carpenter made an extra-large baseboard to cover an electrical junction box. He said he wanted to finish it in his shop and returned with a carving of a winter wren.
The tiles are made with clay rolled out like cookie dough. I cut each tile by hand with a needle tool. I smoothed the edges of the wet clay with my finger and drew in details with various sculpting tools. They are bisque fired, glazed, and fired again. I tested dozens of glazes to find colors I liked. After I had the tiles made I spent days on the floor of my garage manipulating the tile layout. The mosaic is set in thin set and grouted just like most tile installations.
The patterns come from years of collecting leaves. I became fascinated with leaves when I got my first pair of eyeglasses at about age 6 — before then, trees were just green blobs. The creatures are mostly little ones that most people don’t notice — frogs, newts, bees, dragonflies …
Our lamp is not a Van Erp but my husband’s junior-high-school shop project.
For an important anniversary we asked a talented local furniture maker to build a table for an awkward spot in the living room. With few more criteria than approximate measurements, he made a table we will always treasure.
Very nice story and a wonderful description of the process. I plan on giving the article to my future clients.
do you have a sketch of the room layout?