The instinct for beauty
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| Dove Cottage, once the home of poet William Wordsworth, Lake District, England |
Many architects helped shape British Arts and Crafts architecture, but there were a number of recurring themes: building in ways typical in the locale, with local materials, was one (timber or stone sourced directly on-site intensified this effect); shaping a new house to suit its site, by drawing design-leads from the immediate topography and scenery, was another; integrated design of all details, including interior finishes and decor, in order to unify outcomes, was a third. Construction based on these principles, executed by highly skilled craftsmen, was how to go about producing a more authentic building. These were not the only themes followed by Arts and Crafts architects, but they were among the most frequently applied. Foremost among those shaping this direction in the early twentieth century were Barry Parker and Raymond Unwin - architects working in shared practice selected to design the first-ever Garden City (at Letchworth, some thirty miles north of London). The ideas galvanizing the Garden Cities movement drew from the writings of Ebenezer Howard (Garden Cities of Tomorrow, 1902).
"Town and country must be married, and out of this joyous union will spring a new hope, a new life, a new civilization." Ebenezer Howard, Garden Cities of Tomorrow, 1902.
Parker and Unwin first came to public attention by authoring an influential book entitled The Art of Building A Home (1901) advocating techniques steeped in an Arts and Crafts perspective. The pair were later invited by Gustav Stickley, editor and convener of The Craftsman (an influential American Arts and Crafts magazine) to recast the book as a series of articles for publication. Barry Parker, in an article appearing in 1910, remarks that "every house should to a very large extent be thought out on its site". This continues a line of reasoning he first elaborated in The Art of Building a Home: "The
site is the most important factor to be considered, for it usually
suggests both the internal arrangement and the external treatment."
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| Parker & Unwin, master plan of Letchworth, the first-ever Garden City |
It was a credo of Arts and Crafts architects that a pristine site could give important design-cues, enabling an edifice to fuse more fully with its natural setting. This was a precept Savage undoubtedly knew of, and one his particular situation (designing a
dwelling for personal use amid unspoiled nature) allowed him to implement. In
the creative act of designing a bungalow, he was blessed to have a picturesque setting and a defining ridge surrounded by old oaks. Parker goes on to suggest how to turn the unique qualities of the setting to full account: "In fact, to produce
a good plan, one should go to the site without any preconceived
conventions, but with a quite open mind, prepared to think out each
fresh problem on the spot from the beginning, and to receive all the
suggestions the site can offer. I hope you will pardon me if
I seem to insist unduly on the importance of so elementary a
principle as that of building to suit each site." Building to suit the specifics of the site was just what Savage had in mind for his new bungalow, with the overall aim of raising a building to fit the surroundings as a hand does a glove.
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Picturesque English cottage in Selworthy, Summerset, photo circa 1888
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Parker's article in The Craftsman continues: "the
designer must go on to the site and let it dictate to him what shall be
the interior arrangement of the house, and largely what shall be its
exterior treatment. The site must suggest the interior arrangement
because the contours and falls of the land must have their
influence on the design, or the house can never be one which will look
as if it had come there naturally, and were a pleasant part of its
surroundings...". Parker's objective here was to forge a bond between house and setting that would so indissolubly link them that they appeared to have been made for each other. The same naturalistic approach to siting buildings was taken in the layout of traditional English villages, or even individual cottages (see photo above, noting how the cottage steps down the land). The technique involves fitting a house artfully onto the site, chiefly by close observation of its particulars. Given that the Savage bungalow appears remarkably comfortable in its natural setting, it's most likely that this approach was taken. Letting the site signal the design for a house wasn't as easily done back in town, because development tended to occur on narrow, more uniform lots that were rapidly becoming the industry norm. This process of 'tract development' was driven by consolidation of the building industry by contractor-developers who preferred standardized lot-widths, even if it entailed blunt proximity to adjacent houses (smaller lot sizes enabled them to optimize real estate yields). This entire process tends to result in sameness of design for neighbouring houses.
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| Vancouver, 1942: five of six new-builds have identical features in their facades |
Many decades prior to Parker and Unwin's extolling the advantages of such naturalistic siting, Uvedale Price, in his masterly Essays On The Picturesque (1842) commented on the opportunity given architects, when building in open countryside, to strengthen the connection between the house and its surroundings by uniting the structure with "the general character of the scenery" and "with the particular spot and the objects immediately around it". Price felt that a building designed expressly for the countryside had unique potential to "do what has so seldom been done" by an architect: "accommodate his building to the scenery, not make that give way to his building". Achieving this outcome would require "an architect with a painter's eye, to have the planning of the whole". Should this condition be met, however, "many are the advantages, both with respect to the outside and to the inside, that might result from such a method...it is scarcely possible that a building formed on such a plan, should not be an ornament to the landscape, from whatever point it might be viewed". He contrasted the opportunity of building amid scenery with the houses being put up in cities standing pretty much on top of each other, so lacking any opportunity to acknowledge their pre-existing surroundings. In this sense, the urban approach to buildings contradicts the potential charm of houses by impeding the relationship they might develop with the surroundings, should the context be allowed to remain. The modern process of gridding landscapes for maximum real estate yields tends to transform natural contours and vegetation into unwelcome encumbrances - things that are best removed in order to get land ready for development. An extreme example of this subdivision-style layout, on lots of severely truncated width, appears in the next photo, which depicts a restored section of Vancouver's old West End.
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| No room left for residual scenery in Vancouver |
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| Subdivision plan, circa 1912, Quadra-Cloverdale: note the lot-uniformity |
As
an Arts and Crafts architect designing a house for family use, Savage
could implement the opposite notion simply by allowing the site's contours and scenery to guide his choices. The actual ordering of rooms into sequences had to do with both their function and frequency of use, as modified by the amount of light that could be gathered by placing them in specific locations. This prompted Savage to put the bedrooms towards the north end of the dwelling, while the more public spaces (living room, dining room, kitchen and rear porch) were placed in the south.
"In the most successful bungalow plans, the bedrooms are distanced from the main living spaces as much as possible by the used of a connecting hallway that separates the two area. Usually locate off this hallway is the bathroom...This maximum sense of separation and privacy in such a compact house has retained its usefulness and appeal for today's occupants." The Bungalow, America's Arts and Crafts Home, Paul Duchscherer
Savage would likely have been comfortable evolving the elevations (the building as seen from the outside) only after he nailed down this flow of rooms (or floor-plan). Foremost among the factors he would have considered was the opportunity to obtain views to scenery by means of the placement of windows. In this process, Savage wasn't governed by the requirements of symmetry, so he could open a window wherever he felt it would be beneficial (relying on his talent for "informal grouping"). Other architects in the Arts and Crafts tradition felt similar freedom to open windows wherever they were helpful: Harvey Ellis, for example, a talented architect and designer who both wrote and designed houses for The Craftsman magazine, regularly cited the maxim: "not symmetry, but balance."
Parker and Unwin continue: "The
position of each room in relation to the points of the compass and the
outlook should be determined on the spot." This is a key concept of house design: the architect first familiarizes himself with the site's specifics, enabling him to comprehend its characteristics, which can then lead him to design a sympathetic structure. Necessarily, he would allow for the possibility of view corridors informing both floor plan
and the placement of windows. I believe that's just the approach Savage took to building in a pristine landscape.
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Bedrooms to the north (right) public rooms to the south: site-specific plans
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Well before the process of construction began, Savage would have been out on site, compass in hand, sketching prospective layouts and verifying potential placements and exposures. Looking around in full sympathy with the stunning immediate and distant scenery, he would have considered how to minimize the damage from construction while maximizing the access to view corridors from inside. What a great problem for an Arts and Crafts architect to have! Parker and Unwin also declare: "...no sacrifice
is too great which is necessary to enable us to bring plenty of
sunshine into all the main living rooms." This statement, expressing a typically English sentiment, became an obsession once it was possible to fabricate larger areas of glass (given the rainy winter climate of England). But it was also a universal sentiment among those living far enough from the equator to feel the ongoing need for exposure to sunlight. Savage was also in the enviable position of building on an
upland site, on a ridge bathed in sunshine, with abundant views. Parker and Unwin further elaborate on access to light and views: "But we do not today so
much build shelters for people who live out of doors, as dwellings
whence they may occasionally go forth. A primary
consideration then must be, to so place the house as to afford its
occupants the greatest possible enjoyment of such beauty of adjacent
country or grandeur of distant view as the site can command. While
doing this, however, we must place and design the house in such a way
that it shall not stand out as a disturbing excrescence, but shall
look at home in its site, in harmony with its surroundings." Or, as Price put it incisively decades before, so the house would appear as "an ornament to the landscape".
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| Designed by an architect with a painter's eye, as an ornament to the landscape |
Savage's half-acre holding gets more light than many another due to its substantial elevation (a
fact of geography that modifies sun angles, allowing light to reach further into rooms - especially in a house running south to north that is at the same time not very deep). Also, the site comes with ample views to distant large-scale scenery ('grandeur of distant views') such as the Olympic mountains across the straits of Juan de Fuca, or closer by,
glimpses of Portage Inlet, an inland waterway that's part of what's now called the Salish Sea - atmospheric features that could be taken in at a glance from the principal windows of the bungalow. And recall that when Savage built in 1913, there were no
other buildings standing anywhere nearby, so nothing impeded his exploration of those views. Parker and Unwin continue: "This consideration
of the house as a detail in a larger picture will bring us to a
determination of its general form, its treatment and its colouring.
Some positions demand a lofty building, while others seem to
suggest that it be kept as low as possible. And in the country,
certainly, the low house is more successful, more in harmony with the
scenery."
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| Savage wanted his bungalow to connect intimately with the natural setting |
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| Same windows, from outside, showing lively movement of wall planes |
Savage took full advantage of the natural aspects of his exceptionally well-endowed site. Rising elevation from the road and the building's placement along the ridge resulted in a structure with long walls facing east and west, which optimized the light reaching into rooms. As noted above, he was free to place windows wherever they were advantageous, so he must have been intrigued by how this wall-porosity would shape the experience from inside. Using windows, as singletons or clustered in banks, to admit light to the interior while capturing views to scenery kept the inhabitants directly connected to
their immediate surroundings. Savage evidently shared Parker and Unwin's perspective on natural light, but he didn't have to make sacrifices in order to bring it into the building. As a result, there are many different shapes, sizes, and treatments of windows in the Savage bungalow - some thirty-two windows in all (by my count), many substantial, in a house whose footprint is less than 1600 square feet. A number of these windows are hinged casements, but even more of them are generous double-hung sash windows (five feet high, on plan) which open and close easily due to the counterweights hidden within their elegantly trimmed frames. Both panes of glass thus open, so residents are able to explore the 'stack effect' that optimizes cool air circulation on hotter days (especially if the attic door is open as well, giving hot air another building level to rush to). Cumulatively, the windows are generously distributed (except for the north face, where their presence is limited to two small panes of glass, one of which is serves as an end window in the attic) and work to provide the intended effects.
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Small picture window in the conservatory looking out to the rear garden
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| Even in December's light, the view from the conservatory feels dramatic |
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| The kitchen and other windows showing remarkable wall-porosity |
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Kitchen windows in May, with views to the protected back garden
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Kitchen windows, rear door, conservatory windows seen from the garden
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The Charm of Vista
In an authentic Arts and Crafts approach, the architect allows the sequence of interior spaces
to develop out of the site itself, while exploring the opportunities to open views to specific features (so as to exploit what Parker and Unwin call "the charm of vista"). They recommend that the living room, given its centrality, be placed optimally to garner maximum light: "The living room, as
the most generally occupied, and therefore most important room, is
placed at the south-east corner, having the double outlook to the
south-east and south-west, and getting all available sunlight and the
best of the prospect." As it transpired, this is pretty much where Savage placed his living room, with windows facing east (for morning light) and south (for afternoon light). Of course, the living room doesn't occupy the full width of the building (which, after all, is a small, artistic bungalow) sharing space with the dining room and the utility-room/rear porch, so it just receives indirect light from the west. But it is never dull in there.
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| Living room oaks in fall, pictured through wavy 'old' glass windows | | |
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| Main bedroom, views to an oak forest from a bank of windows set in a bay |
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| Visible front window shows thinness of the house |
One result of Savage's configuration of windows is the ample light gathered in all of the rooms. His bungalow was, after all, ideally situated to take in natural light, not at all deep (see photo above showing the building's thinness) but long and oriented so that sunlight penetrates it from both east and west. Indeed, he gave it so many significant windows that the light-gathering function is effectually accomplished. What follows are a few pictures showing how well he succeeded in bringing natural light into the bungalow.
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Morning light blasting into the entry foyer
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January mid-day light blasting into the living room: virtues of a ridge site
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Warm light reaching deep into a central corridor
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| January light blasting into the small dining room |
Savage
presumably worked through a flow of rooms and only
then developed elevations for the bungalow. We can't be sure of this however, as no elevations have surfaced to date, making it harder to know for sure whether they came after he settled the floor plan (certainly, however, this was the way Arts and Crafts architects tended to approach design of buildings). And the elevations as built do feel organic, blending seamlessly with the building's immediate context (the cross-gables on the frontage, for example, seem to mimic the shape of the fir boughs visible behind the structure in Marigold Park). We have to accept the possibility that there may only ever have been sketch-plans of the bungalow's exterior, the detailed design of which may have been worked out during the actual construction. The woodwork inside the building is absolutely flawless, a tribute to the skill of the carpenters working only with hand tools who obviously knew what they were doing. The same can be said of the bungalow's exterior, and the trio of cross-gables that define the main facade stand as a brilliant interpretation of bungalow form set cross-wise, on an upland ridge, in a truly picturesque landscape.
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Brilliant articulation of bungalow form set cross-wise in a picturesque setting
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| Another view of the cross-gabled facade |
"We could" says Raymond Unwin, "if we really
desired it, so arrange a new building site that it should not be an
actual eye-sore, and might manage that it should have some little of
the charm of the old village." One goal of Arts and Crafts architecture was to fit new structures into existing landscape so that it didn't compete for attention, but actually embraced the site itself. The trick lay in making the building feel so comfortable in the setting that it gives an impression of always having been there (rather than, say, remaking the landscape to fit an arbitrarily defined building lot, which is what we do nowadays). The latter outcome, the result of town-development practices ("through not co-operating with the scene") treats the site with zero respect, as if all land were infinitely malleable, manipulable, and gradable. In a bona fide Arts and Crafts approach, the scenery is treated more respectfully, reverentially even, and as a result, the building comes to be "pleasing in the landscape".
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| A building fashioned by design to appear 'pleasing in the landscape' |
Elsewhere in Century Bungalow (in a post entitled The Romance of Possibility, August 2016)
I commented on the charm and beauty of the site's natural contours,
with its mature oaks front and back. It's an inherently picturesque
landscape (an exceptional one too, despite now being reduced from its original grandeur to the dimensions of an RS-6 lot) - a lot still magically protected by Savage's original organic building placement. The "architect with a painter's eye" who first composed the scene took utmost care in his handling of the site, avoiding the re-contouring that excavation or
grading would have entailed. This was, after
all, Savage's best chance, as a professional architect, to build a home in a truly authentic Arts and Crafts manner, and perhaps one of only two instances where he got to shepherd a
beguiling natural landscape through a complex building
process while ensuring the site remained substantially undisturbed (another instance of the quality of work Savage
was capable of is Stranton Lodge, a small nearby English Arts and Crafts cottage designed for his friends Thomas and Maud Hall in 1934, a building I hope to canvass more extensively in a subsequent post).
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| Stranton Lodge, by Hubert Savage, 1934, seen here in February 2018 |
Intriguingly, on the topic of naturalistic siting of new buildings,
Savage's choice of the ridge as a building site just happened to align with Gustav Stickley's preferences for building placement, as expressed in an essay in Craftsman Homes and Bungalows: "the hillside site, affording...well-nigh perfect
drainage, makes it possible to put into effect a favourite Craftsman
theory - that a house should be built without a cellar and should,
as nearly as possible, rest directly on the ground with no visible
foundation to separate it from the soil and turf in which it should
almost appear to have taken root." This preference was akin to the way of siting traditional English village churches, a method followed by Arts and Crafts architect William Lethaby at All Saints church, pictured below.
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| All Saints, Brockhampton, by William Lethaby: a building rising directly from the land |
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| Ridge sites come with natural advantages, including superior drainage |
Whether Savage knew of Stickley's writings or not, his approach to home building is remarkably consistent with Stickley's "Craftsman idea". The house obviously benefits from its placement on the brow of a hill,
and running it along the length of the ridge does indeed offer possibilities of,
if not 'perfect', then at least very good, natural drainage. This results in a dwelling that seems to absorb the foundational ridge into its being.
"No
house should ever be on a hill or on anything. It should be of the
hill. Belonging to it. Hill and house should live together, each the
happier for the other." Frank Lloyd Wright, Architect, in An Autobiography, 1932
Rainfall
tends to run away from a building built on a ridge, in patterns that are readily
discernible if an architect takes the trouble to observe them (this would mean that the site is visited and absorbed into consciousness long before any construction begins). If a house is
well-contrived to disperse rainfall to ground (which many today are not) good drainage is pretty much assured. However, the Savage bungalow was also made to look 'settled into' the surrounding landscape, taking full
advantage of the lay of the land (its 'contours and falls' in Barry Parker's poetic phrasing). On the west side, along the back of the building,
the house (borrowing Stickley's words) "sits upon a foundation of field stone that is sunk so low as
to be hardly perceptible, so that the house, while perfectly
sanitary and well-drained, seems very close to the ground". Barry Parker, commenting on the layout of a traditional building, remarks "does not the old building seem almost to grow out of the ground on which it stands?" And that is just the way Savage designed his then-modern bungalow to appear.
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| The west and north facades appear to be resting directly on the ground |
Gustav Stickley, in various articles in The Craftsman,
declared how enamoured he was of the exact building placement -
near or directly sitting on the ground - that Savage achieved at Grange Road. Of one such rural building, Stickley comments: "as the general effect of the house is broad and low, it is
fitting that very little of the foundation should be visible. A
far better effect is given if no attempt is made to establish too strict
a grade line, as the house seems to fit the ground much better if the foundation is accommodated to the natural irregularities..."
Not emphasizing the presence of a stone foundation by keeping it low (except along the south wall where the contour of the land makes it necessary) results in a
building that feels well "accommodated to the natural irregularities"
and as a result, appears to rise directly from the land
(see photos above and below). Even along the south wall, where the stone foundation is deeper, a boulder that forms part of the protruding
bedrock was made integral to the foundation.
"The point of the California bungalow was to get almost everything on one floor. Its exterior charm...was at least partly the result of the closeness of that floor to the ground. Good drainage of the soil...made it possible to put the little house on a very low foundation, thus emphasizing its mainly horizontal lines...The California bungalow seemed to hug the earth." Robert Winter, The California Bungalow
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| Front path that follows the "line of least resistance" |
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| Boulder (centre) incorporated into the foundation |
In another of the essays in Craftsman Homes and Bungalows,
Stickley promotes an idea for building placement that is simultaneously an
approach to the gardening of natural landscapes, one that involves modifying the context minimally (so more or less the exact opposite of the British form of estate gardening, which is, to put it mildly, more systematic). "Most fortunate is the home builder who can set his house out in the open where there
is plenty of meadow land around it and an abundance of trees. If the
ground happens to be uneven and hilly, so much the better, for the
gardener then has the best of all possible foundations to start from
and, if he be wise, he will leave it much as it is,
clearing out a little here and there, planting such flowers and shrubs
as seem to belong to the picture and allowing the paths to take the
directions that would naturally be given to footpaths across the meadows
or through the woods - paths which invariably follow the line of least
resistance and so adapt themselves perfectly to the contour of the
ground". Stickley's method here is consistent with a North American
Arts and Crafts approach to the gardening of natural landscapes (something few Europeans would have experienced at home, because Europe was inhabited for eons and therefore the landscape was much-modified). I'm
convinced the Savages took exactly this sort of approach, evolving their little patch of heaven during a long tenure there. The course of the front path evidently follows Stickley's "line of least resistance" through the landscape (see top photo, above)
and as a result, feels snugly fitted to the land's natural contours. This
approach results in an entry path traversing the entire front facade before accessing a switchback and a flight of steps, which finally arrives at a sheltered verandah. From the outset, and for many years thereafter, the final steps up to the verandah were made of wood (cf. 1933 floor plan,
where the steps are still identified as wooden); however, by the
time Savage came to draw up a second floor plan, in 1951, the switchback
and the steps leading up to the verandah had been remade into broad, curving stone steps, appearing today pretty much as they do in the photo below. The stone steps make a decidedly more impressive contribution than wooden steps would have made.
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| Curving stone stairs complete the switchback path |
Books for looks:
The Art of Designing A Home, Robert Parker and Raymond Unwin, 1901.
The English Vision, The Picturesque in Architecture, Landscape and Garden Design, David Watkin, 1982. Watkin makes a strong case for the convergence of picturesque notions of landscape with Arts and Crafts architecture, especially in chapter 5, The Picturesque House: Vanbrugh to Soane; and chapter 6, The Picturesque House: Salvin to Lutyens. Of Edward Lutyens he says: "Lutyens was the last and perhaps the greatest exponent of the Picturesque. Whether he would have immediately recognized himself in that description is unclear, but there can be no doubt that his sensitivity to local materials, his love of irregular massing, and his concern to relate the plan and the form of a house to its setting both natural and man-made, were deeply part of everything we have described as picturesque." (147). Lutyens was perhaps the greatest Arts and Crafts architect to practice in Britain, and he enjoyed a long-standing partnership with Gertrude Jekyll, the premier Arts and Crafts garden designer.
Essays on the Picturesque, Uvedale Price, 1842.
Craftsman Homes and Bungalows, Gustav Stickley, 1996 edition.
The California Bungalow, Robert Winter, 1980.
The Picturesque: Studies in a Point of View, by Christopher Hussey, 1967
