Hubert Savage, Architect (5)

 

 

Modest Victoria bungalow, Finlayson area, ca 1920: note full basement

 

How can we know with certainty that the house Savage designed is in fact a bungalow rather than a chalet or a cottage? Alan Gowans, in The Comfortable House: North American Suburban Architecture 1890 - 1930, offers guidance on how we can decide whether a building is a bungalow, elaborating four features that were characteristic of the Indian 'bangala' (from which the archetypal Anglo-Indian bungalow evolved).  The four features can be summarized as follows: there is no basement; the building is one or one-and-a-half storeys high; a roof sweeps out over a prominent verandah; and, inside and outside environments interpenetrate. Let's consider each of these in order.

The Savage bungalow definitely lacks a basement (for more on this topic, please refer to Hubert Savage, Architect (1)). Building a low crawlspace over a natural, mostly shallow, hollow enabled Savage to design a building sitting very close to ground - indeed, one that seems to rise directly from it. One byproduct of the crawlspace is external access to the building's underside, via a small door (with much more limited access to the northern third, where there is insufficient height). This proximity to ground also characterized the original Indian bangala, which came on a plinth made of mud, later modified, as the British adapted the building to colonial needs, to brick or stone. The plinth served to elevate the building slightly off ground, raising it a foot or two so that it remained dry during the monsoon season. The use of plinths continued as the British evolved the Anglo-Indian bungalow, giving it a similar horizontal emphasis. With the advent of the California-style bungalow (from about 1905 on) the plinth turned into a crawlspace beneath the building, allowing them to be built directly above soil. Construction on brick or cement piers topped with timbers resulted in "a very low foundation, thus emphasizing its mainly horizontal lines" (Robert Winter, The California Bungalow). The use of crawlspaces in Southern California gave bungalows a similarly horizontal look to the bangala. It was also appropriate technology for this locale too, as it rarely rained there and the native soils tended to drain well. However, there were occasionally problems with crawlspaces arising from the tendency of moisture to collect there, which could sponsor rot in a largely wooden structure. Addressing the problem required a method of venting the enclosed space so that trapped moisture escaped. Insects and rodents could also cause problems too. But one positive achievement of the technology was a dramatic reduction in building costs due to not having to build basements, making these savings integral to the real estate formula behind the bungalow's heady success. Alan Gowans reproduces an advertisement from Bungalow Magazine, from 1914, listing the price of various models of kit bungalows available through Sears, with prices ranging from as low as $393 for a small one to a high of $1407 for a deluxe model. These houses were pre-cut, shippable anywhere railways ran, to be assembled on-site: the price included "all lumber, lath and shingles, siding, ceiling, flooring, doors, windows, moldings, frames, porch work, stair work, finishing lumber, building paper, sash weights, pipe, gutter, hardware, paint and varnish," and with no knots in the old growth timber to boot! 

 

The Savage bungalow is also built over a low crawlspace after the California manner, with low foundation walls emphasizing a similar horizontality. But it has the additional twist of being placed organically on a natural feature of the site, allowing Savage to pull the building even lower. Brick piers that support the bungalow vertically combine with curtain walls of stone to close the building to the world outside. The characteristic of sitting just above or even at ground level (especially on the West wall) sets the Savage bungalow apart from other commercially built bungalows of the era, which tended to come seated on a full basement, to accommodate a furnace and heat distribution system, among other things. The practice of building a full basement tended to raise them higher, especially those found in Victoria and Vancouver, where it was convenient to build basements that were mostly above ground. The resulting look is awkward compared to way a California bungalow sits - see first picture for a moderate example of this awkwardness). Indeed, as bungalows came to be successfully marketed outside Southern California - appearing in northern cities with real winters - the need for full basements to accommodate furnaces grew too. The Savage bungalow, with its ultra-low projection, is thus more consistent with the look of the original bangala, the follow-up Anglo-Indian bungalow, and the California variant that ultimately came to inherit the mantle (see photos below).

 

 

 

Small door accessing the bungalow's underside

 

Northwest end of the building, where the crawlspace is too shallow for easy access

Building under repair, showing its proximity to ground

 

 

The Savage bungalow is also a building of just one storey (although it appears to be taller as approached from the front path, where the lay of the land and the use of cross-gables lend it a more-grand presence). The ground floor is capped with a long gable roof, which is more apparent from the west side of the building (see first photo below). The original Indian bangala was also a one-storey structure, and this feature carried over into the Anglo-Indian bungalow. When a derivative of the Anglo-Indian bungalow eventually landed in Victoria, B.C., where it was known as a colonial bungalow, it rapidly set a fashion for utilization of the stylish roofspace for bedrooms, achieved with light-admitting dormers (see photos below). This tendency to utilize the roof for added living space got bigger over time, so the dormers grew larger. Bungalows built in California tended to take a similar approach, thus making bungalows one-and-a-half storeys almost immediately. Use of the roof for additional living space was well-advanced by 1913, when Savage designed his bungalow, but the attic was always intended as storage rather than for living space. This must have seemed reasonable at the time, but as bungalows became more widely built (in quantities that would make them America's first 'dream home') their roofs were increasingly used for living space, and especially for bedrooms, thereby confirming the bungalow's one-and-a-half storey status. 

 

 

Early thatch-roofed bungalow in India, circa 1865 - without any dormers

"Although the advantage of the bungalow was that it was mainly on one floor, the limited space usually necessitated a staircase leading to the attic or more likely a tiny sleeping porch that by the twenties was usually windowed in. The literature, a little embarrassed by this cheating on the original single story idea, suggested that this space might be used for a study, a game room or a guest room. As the bungalow developed, more and more often the upstairs space was enlarged and used as a sleeping area. In fact, even the early bungalows often have an upstairs bathroom." Robert Winter, The California Bungalow

 

 

Elegant colonial bungalow, with dormers allowing roof space to be habitable

Colonial bungalow with graceful dormers to expand the liveable space

 

 

Over time, the roof level of bungalows thus tended to be habitable space, which was realized by means of dormers set tastefully and modestly into it. The Savage bungalow could still be expanded in this manner, despite only the west facade being available to take a dormer (the east facade, being cross-gabled, isn't usable without incurring major damage to the building, which is ruled out by heritage designation). In order to transform the current storage attic into additional usable space, it would be necessary to address the issue of the steepness of the existing access, which is precariously vertical; this could be done, in part, by relaxing that staircase's rise and adding a landing to it, which would change its direction and exploit the ample attic space. This transformation would allow bulkier objects to be carried upstairs. A more-relaxed staircase (one sloped less sharply than at present) is a necessity that may involve the addition of a small dormer above the walk-in closet roof (and would also likely require the sacrificing of existing closet space in the master and spare bedrooms). Assuming all this could be done tastefully, it should be possible to add as much as 700 square feet to the existing footprint (enough room for, say, a large master bedroom at the southwest end, flowing into a spacious ensuite bathroom with separated tub and shower facilities, plus a large spare bedroom that could double as study/office space at the north end of the building). There would also be an access corridor to serve these rooms, as well as an opportunity to add storage closets along the east side. This added storage space would partially compensate for the missing basement. It would also be useful to take down the upper section of the redundant second chimney (to the left, second photo below) in order to simplify routing the new staircase and access corridor. 

 

 

Western roof form that could accommodate a shed dormer for added living space

 

Unused chimney to be removed, for improved access 

 

It's important, given the building's heritage status, that should this work occur, it be done right - which to my mind means in a manner consistent with early bungalow standards. Bungalow dormers were set into gable roofs tastefully, where they came well-proportioned and dressed for consistency with the overall design. The detailing didn't need to be excessive, but it came to define an authentic look for classic bungalow dormers. Modern dormers have a tendency to ignore the character of the original building (in typical Modernist fashion) adding features that are often jarringly incongruous (perhaps on the pretext of making a statement). This move should be resisted by heritage advisory committees with a say on proposed changes (one can only pray for buildings that are heritage-listed but remain undesignated).

 

 

Dormer addition bearing little relationship to the original bungalow's lines 

 

 

The resulting dormer should not look like an architectural excrescence, but rather fit within the available roof space and be appropriately detailed. The dormer may be on the large side (especially if, as with the Savage bungalow, it's not visible from the road) but it should fit within the existing roof form and not ignore it. Any appearance of the bungalow becoming a two-storey building should be firmly resisted. This isn't always the case today (cf. the photo above, where the new window, the dimension of the siding, and the blunt projection of the new roof line all ignore the existing details). This is why it's important that architects be guided by original bungalow values when adding dormers, principally by ensuring that the new structure fits comfortably into the space available rather than designing as if there are no limits. It's easy to go wrong here, because what's called for is restraint, meaning it's never just a question of maximizing spatial gain.

 

 

Modest dormer, sitting comfortably within the roof, likely added recently

 

Large shed dormer done right: quality windows and compatible detailing

Fairfield bungalow with shed dormers that are well detailed, if on the large side

Vic West bungalow with gabled dormers set modestly into the roof form

 

The problem with space gained by adding dormers is that it's temptingly easy to go too far. Today, people care less how a building looks to the public (cf. the modernist dormer, photo above) and more how the addition works internally (that is, we tend to overvalue spatial gain). Even if one has a commitment to dress the new dormers consistent with the original building style, overloading the roof with them tends towards incompatibility. At some point it all becomes too much, and the original bungalow form appears as a two-storey house.

 

"...the minute you put on a [palpable, obvious] second floor, away flies your bungalow roof. You may have a house, but you haven't a bungalow." Mabel Chilson, What is a Genuine Bungalow?, Keith's Magazine, April 1916. 

 

 

Bungalow with multiple dormers, teetering on the verge of being two storeys

Dormer continuing the exterior wall plane upwards, imparting a two-storey look 

A roof sweeping over a prominent verandah is another original bungalow feature that introduces a sheltered space around the point of entry. This was true of the original bangala, and it was maintained in the version that the British adapted to European use; it also became an important part of the California-style bungalow (although the verandah shrank in size over time, especially as built in tract developments). It is also a defining feature of the Savage bungalow. Verandahs on bungalows look best when they are furnished informally, which gives them the appearance of an outdoor room while acknowledging the transition between realms of outside and inside the building. The interpenetration of outside and inside set in motion by the verandah's broad, sweeping roof lines was often reinforced with other devices too, among these pergolas, lanais, outdoor dining spaces, windowed conservatories, sleeping porches, patios, and terraces. All of these functional extensions of the original verandah became typical of the bungalows built in Southern California, where the climate was largely benign and the indoor-outdoor theme easily reinforced. The Savage bungalow's compact verandah (by Anglo-Indian bungalow standards, at least) nonetheless works similarly, as an informal space perched high atop a natural ridge. In this location, it evokes a strong feeling of prospect (views to scenery removed from the roadway) and refuge (weather-protected and secure). The low verandah railing, which invites people to sit, is a typical feature of classic North American bungalows that would not be allowed under contemporary bylaws (cf. photos below).

 

 

A sweeping roof protecting a prominent verandah is an essential bungalow feature 

 

June light reflecting mature oak leaves as shadows on a projecting cross gable

A transitional environment conveying a strong feeling of prospect and refuge 

The fourth characteristic - inside and outside environments that interpenetrate - is where the Savage design really goes to town. This feature was characteristic of the original Indian bangala and it applies to bungalows everywhere that have any amount of land around them. Of course, as Gowans notes, by dint of the protected verandah alone, inside and outside are drawn into closer association. But Savage also explored other ways of connecting the outside to the inside that render this bungalow truly unique. To the abundant natural scenery he added a raft of generous windows that open compelling views, so that glimpses from within directly connect the building to the outside world. We chronicled the remarkable range of windows in our second post in this series (Hubert Savage, Architect (2)). But here we also have in mind Gustav Stickley's comments on windows as points of connection to the world outside the structure, made in an article promoting rural buildings in The Craftsman magazine:

 

"As the object has been to bring as much outdoor feeling as possible into the house, especial attention has been given to the windows, of which there are a great many." Gustav Stickley, The Craftsman, October 1909.

 

 

 

Savage established a vital sense of connection to scenery by means of windows

 

This feature of having many large windows also combines agreeably with the lively movement of wall planes, which are made to jog in and out on all four sides of the bungalow. This in/out movement strengthens the sense that inside and outside are connected, by design. As noted above, many techniques for reinforcing the sense of interpenetration started out as ways of taking advantage of benign weather patterns that was emblematic of Southern California, which was where the North American mania for bungalows began (and where a great many classy, architect-designed bungalows were erected).

 

"As a writer of bungalow books put it, 'the bungalow cannot be built too close to the ground and, indeed, the purpose should always be to make the bungalow a harmonious part of the grounds surrounding it....so that the indoors and outdoors may be said to join hands.'" Robert Winter, The California Bungalow

 

 

In Southern California, moderate weather supported shortcuts taken with building design (for example, open soffits and exposed rafter-tails, both hallmarks of the Craftsman style, went with a tendency to forego gutters and downspouts entirely, thus resulting in added savings made possible in a dry climate with well-drained soils). But the interpenetration of outside and inside that was consciously emphasized in modern bungalow design also applies to the original bungalows built in India. The fact that this feature - connecting the building integrally to its immediate surroundings - was also characteristic of the original Anglo-Indian bungalow, is intriguing. 

 

 

Elegant airplane bungalow in Los Angeles: note the lack of gutters and downspouts

 

Honey Grove, Texas: brick bungalow, sheltered verandah, Japanesque features

  

One of Savage's notions involved leaving what he identified on plan as a "summer tea room" open to the elements, almost like a sleeping porch. This idea evidently didn't hold up, over time. Although he had a way to shutter this open space in winter, this can't have been entirely satisfactory, as once shuttered, light and views would have been excluded during the long winter months (thus blinding the rear of the building). There is also the matter of rainfall that occurs beyond winter, as well as prevailing winds coming from the west, which would have meant wear and tear on the environment due to leaving the back porch open to the elements. Anyway, by the time I happened upon the scene in 1988, the summer tea room was fully glazed in, by means of a small wood-framed picture window that was flanked by a pair of aluminum sash windows with screens (which we changed to clear leaded glazing at the time of the first building remake). It's difficult to say whether Savage had anything to do with the remaking of the room that saw this area translated into windowed space, but I'm skeptical; we don't know the specifics, but he had generally better taste than the temporary and discordant quality of those aluminum windows. The summer tea room still shows as being open to the elements on Savage's 1951 version of the floor plan. 

 

 

Back garden seen through the small picture window, which we maintained

View through the small picture window in the conservatory room, in spring

The idea of designing each exterior wall differently - thereby imparting unique movement to each facade - was a fruitful one. Savage originally elaborated different treatments for the three most prominent walls, leaving the north wall as a plain, unwindowed version of the south wall (thus lacking its complexity, height and the balanced asymmetry of its elements). Then, by the addition of a walk-in closet sometime after the original bungalow was built, he gained an opportunity to create a more unique personality for the north wall too. The movement of wall planes was also exploited to the benefit of internal features, like the dining room window-seat built into a projecting bay window (see photo below) or the built-in radio in the living room that was also placed in a bay, or the walk-in closet with its built-in cupboards flanking a compact dresser. These innovations have all stood the test of time, as worthy ways of dressing the projections created by the lively movement of wall planes.

 

 

Rumble the cat relaxing on the built-in window seat

 

 

While that covers off the four items on Gowans's list that typified the original bangala in India (Savage's building exhibiting all four, thus assuredly a bungalow) there is another way to ascertain that this house was consciously designed as a bungalow, and that is by consulting the 1933 floor plan. There we find the building described as follows: "frame construction of bungalow type" (top photo, below) a notation that surely stands as definitive. And yet, by 1933 when Savage initialled this version of the floor plan, the bungalow era had already drawn to a close, supplanted first by World War I, followed a decade later by the 1929 stock market crash and the ensuing depression. Still, even in 1933, Savage continued to acknowledge the building type that, back in 1913 just two decades earlier, was so entirely the rage that he designed one as his lifetime home. Yet how quickly the bungalow era moved from such giddy enthusiasm to utter oblivion, returning only recently when these modest structures were again discovered to be worthy dwellings by today's middle class. Even while bungalows were still being built during the 1920s - in subdivision quantities, in cities across North America - the building type itself had already lost considerable cachet, and bungalows, however well they had anticipated people's needs for the latest in modern technologies, and however singular the contribution they made to the quality of the built environment, had now fallen from grace. The new reality in Victoria first became evident with the dawn of WWI, a time when younger Victorians in large numbers enlisted to fight in far-away Europe (some 66,000 Canadians died in WWI, out of a total population of eight million, which, given the scale of the country, was substantial). The downturn this event triggered, extended by the depression of the thirties, held local aspirations in check for many decades. Housing as it had been in the bungalow era left town for good; and when the market for new houses for people finally returned, it took forms that gave far less to the street and community than was standard in the bungalow era.

Detail drawn from 1933 Floor Plan: 'frame construction of bungalow type'

Savage initialled his 1933 floor plan of the Grange Road bungalow

 

 

Floor plan of Hubert Savage's residence, Summer Tea Room and California Cooler

 

 

There is another feature that came to typify bungalows for the public resulting from the British adaptation of the native Indian bungalow. That building, which began life as a fairly primitive native hut, was modified over time to better suit European needs, eventually becoming what's known now as the Anglo-Indian bungalow. That additional feature, absorbed by bungalows to such an extent that today they feel naked if they lack a semblance of its presence, started out as the idea of a compound around the building. Originally the compound was simply an area of land that could be controlled by those occupying the building (which in India could be of substantial extent). As Anthony King notes, in The Bungalow: The Production of a Global Culture, "the bungalow was invariably situated in a large compound, an area of marked territory which, in turn, was located at a distance from other buildings or places of settlement."

 

The compound then, as an area of land around the building, came to define the specifically British adaptation of the bungalow. "The spacious compound...was a prerequisite for the bungalow's development. Being of only one storey, and with an extensive thatch [roof] covering the whole, the dwelling depended on the space around it for ventilation and light. In fact, the compound was simply an extension of the bungalow's internal space, an outdoor room..." While the original rationale for the compound for defensive purposes - buffering the bungalow from other uses and other people - over time this land-area was transformed by the bungalow's inhabitants (and their servants, of which there were often many) into a gardened setting. The Anglo-Indian bungalow thus conserved all of the basic characteristics of the native building type during its evolution, but added to them the feature of having a gardened space around it. 

 

 

Anglo-Indian bungalow in a gardened setting or compound, with servants

 

The compound thus gradually evolved into the gardened setting that comes to typify the modern bungalow type - one where the natural pattern of movement is out onto the verandah and into a garden room that is fused with the dwelling. This phenomenon of appropriating a surrounding area of countryside was so ubiquitous that by the time the young Winston Churchill visited India, towards the close of the 19th century (as recounted in his book My Early Life) he would describe the bungalow settlement he lived in as follows: "All around the cavalry mess lies a suburb of roomy, one-storeyed bungalows standing in their own walled grounds and gardens..." Thus, by the late nineteenth century, the idea of a bungalow as a house in a gardened setting was travelling with the building form itself, as did the conjoined notion of the bungalow as "a retreat from the society around it". These realities became part of the successful marketing of bungalows, which started in Southern California and spread to cities across North America.

 

And the phenomenon of the compound, after transitioning to a gardened space around the building, moved lockstep with bungalows as an export product, making its way first to Australia, then back to England proper, and then finally on to North America, where it landed in Victoria, British Columbia (and also perhaps in Northern California, see below).

 

 

Worcester bungalow in Piedmont, San Francisco Bay, by artist William Keith

 

Jane Powell, in Bungalow: The Ultimate Arts and Crafts Home, has this to say about the Worcester bungalow: "It is generally agreed that Joseph Worcester's house, built in 1876 across the Bay from San Francisco in Piedmont, was the first Arts and Crafts house in California." That house is manifestly a bungalow, likely modelled after the Anglo-Indian type, the shape of which it appears to share (see photo detail below).

 

 

Clearly, Worcester's building is a bungalow modelled after the Anglo-Indian form

 

 

The bungalow as launched in Southern California was something different again, a unique product that eventually came to be built all across North America, including in Victoria. Mostly these buildings differed somewhat from true California bungalows for the simple reason that they weren't sited as near to the ground as was the fashion there (see essay above). However, even with a greater projection above ground as built in Victoria, California-style bungalows are still evident to my eye (see photos below).

 

 

 

California-style bungalow in Victoria, higher than in California to accommodate a garage

 

California-style bungalow in Victoria, lower than normal for a house on a basement

 

Another California bungalow in Victoria BC, sitting lower than typical local bungalows

 

In California, home of the modern bungalow-type, the compound that morphed into a gardened setting was integral to bungalow marketing efforts. As Robert Winter writes, in The California Bungalow, "...the idea of the extension of the bungalow into a garden is important for the understanding of the bungalow mystique. Landscape architecture, usually the province of the few, was [now] the property of the many." Winter is writing about the modern California bungalow, built extensively from 1905 on; but this product of American inventiveness was soon to be exported to every city in North America.

 

"The Arts and Crafts garden in California shared the general ideals of garden design elsewhere in the country in creating unpretentious designs out of local materials, in relating buildings to the broader landscape, and in treating garden space as an outdoor room." David Streatfield, The Arts and Crafts Garden in California, in The Arts and Crafts Movement in California - Living The Good Life, edited by K. R. Trapp 

Hubert Savage's bungalow shared the appearance of being built with a gardened compound around it, simply because it enjoyed a half-acre of space with no other structures standing nearby. Indeed even today, in a much-more built-up suburbia, it retains the appearance of having dedicated land around it, despite now being reduced to the dimensions of an RS-6 lot. While this fact entails that the landscape buffer is a bit thin on the north edge of the property, where ten foot setbacks arguably bring the neighbouring house a little too close for comfort, both the front and rear of the building retain the appearance of having a landscape unto themselves. All of which reinforces the idea that the bungalow on Grange Road is rightly seen as an icon of Arts and Crafts architecture.

 

Books for Looks:

 

Toward A Simpler Way Of Life, The Arts and Crafts Architects of California, edited by Robert Winter. 

The Arts and Crafts Movement in California: Living The Good Life, edited by K.R. Trapp. 

The California Bungalow, Robert Winter. 

The Bungalow: The Production of a Global Culture, Anthony D. King.

The Comfortable House: North American Suburban Architecture 1890 - 1930, Alan Gowans. 

Bungalow: The Ultimate Arts and Crafts Home, by Jane Powell.

 

Hubert Savage, Architect (4)

 

 

 

 

 

Frank Lloyd Wright-designed house built with machine-run components

 

"In the United States the technocratic and commercial spirit ruled, and the issue for the American Arts and Crafts movement became the wise use of the machine rather than its rejection." R.G. Wilson, The Arts and Crafts Movement in California.

  

We don't know whether Hubert Savage had read Frank Lloyd Wright's essay lauding the use of machined components in modern building, The Art and Craft of the Machine (1901). However, like Wright and other Arts and Crafts architects working in North America, Savage clearly accepted machine-run inputs as raw materials for home building - especially the old-growth fir that in the Pacific Northwest provided the basic materials for construction. Unlike Wright, who had worked with Louis Sullivan designing tall office buildings from 1888 to 1893 (which benefited from the load-bearing capacity of steel skeletons, large areas of durable glass, and elevators) Savage was then a designer of family residences made mostly of milled wood. There were many such mill-run raw materials available in 1913, all of it old-growth timber, its grain structure beautifully exposed by precise milling and sanding - and with zero knots in it to boot. As a designer of stylish homes, Savage would have been content to source such abundant, high-quality, natural materials for building. Indeed, they are displayed in every room of the bungalow he designed for his own family, so certainly he had come to terms with machine-run outputs.

 

 

Perrycroft: an Arts and Crafts house by C.F.A. Voysey, completed in 1895

 

At the outset of the Arts and Crafts movement in Britain however, this wasn't typically the case. Craftsman William Morris, rejecting both the abject conditions forced on workers by the industrial revolution, along with the disastrously poor design of its products, made a career in decorating by practising recovered crafts that could be conducted by hand (despite this making his output expensive to buy, which restricted it to wealthy markets). Morris himself took various positions on the use of machinery over the course of his eventful life; "it is the allowing of machines to be our masters, and not our servants, that so injures the beauty of life nowadays", was one example. But so great was his success as an artist-craftsman that he set a fashion among his following for the recovery of traditional crafts, like cabinet-making, pottery and metalwork, and for handiwork done by self-employed artisans. Indeed, it became an article of faith among Arts and Crafts architects to gain more knowledge of the core skills central to fashioning buildings.

 

 

Note adze marks (apparent handwork) on beams at Royal Oak Inn, by H. Savage, 1939

 

Despite the focus on handcrafted objects (cf. photo above) architects in the Arts and Crafts movement gradually came to take a more lenient view of machined inputs. As Gillian Naylor observes, in her The Arts and Crafts Movement (1971), "gradually each [architect] came to realize...that machinery need not be a destructive force, and that men, as [C.F.A.] Voysey put it, 'must live and work in the present'." This process of gradual self-realization became more generalized after Morris's death in 1896, as large-scale machinery was increasingly employed in the preparation of raw materials for use in construction. Most individual architects made their own peace with machine-process, especially if they perceived it didn't have to come at the expense of craft skills. In fact, some recalled how, prior to precision-cutting of wood in sawmills, there existed the laborious work of the sawpit. Operating a traditional sawpit took two people working a heavy sawblade to slice raw logs into planks that were used in building - one sawyer standing above the log, the other down in the sawpit (see next photo). This was the sort of labour process that many people felt could be better executed by machines, without loss of control. 

 

 

Country-sawpit used in making timbering for houses (G. Jekyll photo)

 

 

Some Arts and Crafts architects celebrated the demise of the sawpit because they felt such work wasn't a good use of craft skills. Better to automate that part of the job, the thinking ran, and concentrate rather on craft skills where they were could best be put to good use. Architect C.F.A. Voysey, while acknowledging that 'the human quality in familiar objects has in many cases been driven out by the machine', also felt that 'the machine has come to liberate men's minds for more intellectual work than was provided for them by the sawpit.' ('Ideas In Things',  in The Arts Connected With Building, 1909). Charles Robert Ashbee, another well-known British Arts and Crafts architect who trained skilled artisans to work as independent craftsmen, also came to feel that machines could play a creative role in building. Ashbee visited America on a number of occasions, becoming friends with prominent Chicago architect Frank Lloyd Wright. Early on, Wright confronted Ashbee with his credo: "My god is machinery, and the art of the future will be the expression of the individual artist through the thousand powers of the machine - the machine doing all those things that the individual workman cannot do. The creative artist is the man who controls all this and understands it." Ashbee, himself progressive on the use of machinery, decided that architects and craftsman had better reckon with it. "The whole tendency of what is known in America as 'fine machine-tool production' is in the direction of personal skill, and the use by the individual of the tool, and the power behind it under his direct control. All mechanism that helps individuality may also help the Arts."

 

 

II

 

If the British Arts and Crafts movement had to face such conflicts head on, there was no need to do so in America, where the fabulous quality of machined raw materials simply trumped ideas of making everything by hand. At the time, the old-growth forests being rendered into raw materials made for remarkably cheap inputs that were of exceptional quality. Wright, of course, took the arguments in favour of machines to a higher and more abstract level. He credits machinery with opening fresh possibilities for artists, once freed from being "engines of enslavement" responding only to the profit motive. Wright, by then also a successful domestic architect, continued: "The machine is intellect mastering the drudgery of earth...that the margin of leisure and strength by which man's life upon the earth can be made beautiful, may immeasurably widen; its function ultimately to emancipate human expression!" This self-expressive potential he contrasted with the shoddy design of industrial products, which take the form of past luxuries loaded with fake ornamentation. Wright, who professed to admire artist-craftsman William Morris, nonetheless maintained that the Arts and Crafts movement's prioritization of hand work was stuck in the past. "Is it not more likely that the medium of artistic expression itself has broadened and changed until a new definition and new direction must be given the art activity of the future, and that the machine has finally made for the artist...a splendid distinction between the art of old and the art to come?"  

"Now let us learn from the machine. It teaches us that the beauty of wood lies first in its qualities as wood. No treatment that does not bring out these qualities all the time can be plastic or appropriate or beautiful. The machine teaches us that certain simple forms and handling are suitable to bring out the beauty of wood and certain forms are not; that all wood-carving is apt to be a forcing of the material, an insult to its finer possibilities as a material having in itself intrinsically artistic properties, of which its beautiful marking is one, its texture another, its color a third." 

Wright concludes that the machine, through "its wonderful cutting, shaping, smoothing and repetitive capacity, has made it possible...to use it without waste..." As such, he claims that machine-productivity establishes an entirely new basis for art: "the machine is a marvelous simplifier; the emancipator of the creative mind, and in time the regenerator of the creative conscience." 

 

Wright, who was an eccentric genius responsible for launching the Prairie style of architecture, was also a bit of an outlier. Other American commentators would probably not have gone as far as he went, but they were nonetheless fascinated by the inherent potential of technology (Americans on the whole embraced machinery in ways that the British Arts and Crafts movement had to struggle with). The American Arts and Crafts movement was willing, for example, to reconcile itself to the idea of hand-fashioning, chiefly by reserving it to the later stages of production, where marks on products could appear to be finishing touches (visible traces of a supposed encounter with materials) on products that were largely made by machine.

 

"Far from being a prelude to the modernist movement in architecture, the Arts and Crafts movement in California was anticommercial, antimodern. Ironically, it was not antimachine. Its proponents might be slightly embarrassed by their dependence on machines, but they nevertheless used them to saw the wood and power the gadgets that were employed in all but the most primitive Arts and Crafts houses." Robert Winter, ed; Toward A Simpler Way of Life, The Arts and Crafts Architects of California. 

 

 

The Gamble House, by Greene and Greene, under construction in Pasadena, California

 

Interestingly, as an aside, the British Arts and Crafts movement, with its reverence for craft-labour and hand work, for the most part designed and oversaw the building of larger homes for those with money - either wealthy capitalists (or their scions, such as William Morris at Red House in 1860) or arty aristocrats with the resources and urge to own country estates. Morris himself complained that he was forced, by dint of economic position, to "minister to the swinish luxury of the rich". While in North America, by contrast, the impetus for architects and craftsmen grew directly out of the rising urban middle class, for whom the principal design-object was the more humble Arts and Crafts bungalow. This is not to say that some bungalows and larger houses weren't designed for people with oodles of money (cf. the Gamble House, by Greene and Greene, photo above) but rather that, on average, the homes designed by North American Arts and Crafts architects were more likely to be aimed at things the aspiring middle-class could afford than they could be in that era in Britain. 

 

"Certainly, the distinctive realm of the Arts and Crafts house has only begun to be explored, rediscovered, and savored. As it nears its second century on our landscape, the vintage qualities of Arts and Crafts design embodied in the bungalow may be said to be aging well." The Bungalow: America's Arts and Crafts Home, by Paul Duscherer, 1995.

 

III

 

In 1912 Hubert Savage got to design and oversee construction of a house in what eventually became the municipality of View Royal, way out in a then-remote location on Eaton Road. We don't know just how he accessed this construction site, but the experience more than likely acquainted him with Garden City's potential. There was already a buzz around the marketing of quarter-acre parcels there, the sales pitch buttressed by positive attributes (like the Interurban electric rail line, access to town water, potential for electricity, etc). An ad for Garden City in the Daily Times in 1911 ran opposite a news story reporting that crews were already out clearing right of way for the Interurban line. This ad, subtitled "Success Sermons", captures the active land speculation in Greater Victoria at the time. The subtext was that wealth would inevitably flow from investments made today.

 

Success Sermon extolling the benefits of investing in Garden City land

 

Investing in real estate that would be served by streetcars was a savvy way to make a lot of money fast. This was speculation in motion, larded with hype, yet plausible because land values had rapidly doubled wherever the streetcars ran. 

 

  

Saanich Interurban line crossing Viaduct Trestle (now Interurban Road)

 

 

"Victoria B.C. is a city of destiny. Its growth has been steady and sure. It is the capital centre of what is acknowledged to be the richest province of the whole world today. It is the mecca of the people in search of an ideal climate and beautiful homes. Garden City is on the outskirts of Victoria, in the beautiful fertile valley of the Colquitz - Garden City will have city water and electric car, [i.e. the electric Interurban line] electric light and all the conveniences of the city without the high taxes...Garden City is the ideal location - values will double in Garden City within a year...and the ones who get in now on this legitimate real estate proposition...will make the money."

 

I have argued elsewhere (see Hubert Savage, Architect (1)) that Savage took advantage of the relative cheapness of land in Garden City to purchase a couple of contiguous quarter-acre parcels. That holding came with unique picturesque attributes too, and as an Arts and Crafts architect, he would have instinctively recognized their suitability for building a home. The Success Sermon of course made the big payoff sound imminent: "Good real estate here will never be worth less. It is inevitable that it will rapidly become worth much more." Still, it would be long after Savage's death in 1955 before subdivision of the original holding actually became feasible, as it took that long for the real estate market in Victoria to recover from the effects of two world wars punctuated by a major depression. Savage however is unlikely to have cared how long it actually took to come about, because his upland half-acre had the scenery to make a unique setting for his nest. And there was a world of old-growth timber right at his finger tips to mix with some discerning craft skills in order to create an artistic bungalow. 

 

 

1911 ad for Garden City: low taxes, Electric Carline, city water, graded streets, sidewalks

 

 

 IV

 

Woodworkers Limited Sash and Door Factory, Douglas St, circa 1912

The engraving above shows one of several Victoria factories cranking out high-quality windows and doors to be used in home construction. Increasingly, such semi-finished components were available ready-made, the products of custom milling operations. An early instance of prefabrication - of exceptional quality, using only the best materials that were manufactured to high standards - these ready-made components simplified the act of home construction. This isn't at all comparable to today's tawdry prefabrication - all chip-board and OSB, grossly under-sized two by fours, and synthetic glues and plastic components. Back in 1913, the availability of prefabricated, high-quality components simply meant that on-site carpenters didn't have to fashion every door or window to go into a house. They still, however, needed to know what they were doing, and the carpenters Savage hired certainly did.   

 

"To say in this day of well-nigh perfect machinery that anything that is good must be done entirely by hand is going rather far. There are certain purely mechanical processes that can be accomplished much better and more economically by machinery, giving the craftsman prepared materials to work with instead of taking his time for their preparation." The Craftsman Catalogue, 1906, Gustav Stickley 

 

Stickley also commented on this issue that year in The Craftsman, in an article entitled The Use and Abuse of Machinery, noting that "the essential element of craftsmanship...is not the mere idea of doing things by hand...but the putting of thought, care and individuality into the task of making honestly and well something that satisfies a real need." "The modern trouble lies not with the use of machinery, but with the abuse of it, and the hope of reform would seem to be in the direction of a return to the spirit which animated the workers of a more primitive age, and not merely to an imitation of their method of working."

 

The most common wood in this part of the world, for all aspects of construction (excepting roofs, where cedar shingles were preferred) was old-growth Douglas fir, which could be turned into everything from the studs and joists used to manufacture the building's skeleton, to the wooden components that could bring walls, ceilings and floors to finished appearance. 

 

 

V 

 

 

Exterior Treatments 

 

 

Sash windows, drop siding: mill-run components

  

Local mills produced dimensional lumber in various widths and thicknesses, providing raw materials for both exterior and interior carpentry. That's precisely what appears throughout the bungalow, outside and in. Nowadays, whenever a piece of the original building has to be repaired or replaced, the carpenter doing the job must have architectural joinery skills so that he can replicate the precise dimensions of the original component. It is no longer possible to just buy these components off-the-shelf, in most cases, as the wood now is systematically wrongly sized (due to our having gone metric in 1975) as well as being skimped on in dimension, a practice that seems to run with the use of second-growth timber - see photo below.

 

 

Left, full-dimension old-growth 2 X 4, right, second-growth with knot & split

Vern Krahn replacing old-growth fir with old-growth fir during soffit rebuild

Corner boards, string and belt courses bound walls

 

Savage opted for double-bevelled drop-siding as exterior cladding, preferring this elegant designer-touch to that of the more commonly used cedar shingles. Cedar shingles for siding were emblematic of local Arts and Crafts buildings, but Savage chose a more formal look for his siding, which added dramatic shadow lines to the exterior  while reinforcing its proximity to ground. This graphic siding-type, bordered by raised string courses above and below, is coupled with vertical boards on the outside wall corners (photo immediately above). The upper string course (the horizontal black banding) is sometimes referred to as a frieze band, while the lower string course is now called the belly band. There is also a significant drip ledge positioned just above the belly band too, which is designed to catch and cast away any moisture running down the walls. Note also that the cross-gabled frontage jetties outwards, mimicking the manner of Tudor-era buildings. The interior corners of the wall plane (to the left in the photos above and below) have recessed corner boards inserted in them, to make the siding appear to run continuously through inside corners, further reinforcing horizontal emphasis. Note also that Savage has encased the soffits in wood (often the choice on local Arts and Crafts buildings) necessitating the use of a masking device, descending from the barge board, in order to mask the boxed corner (see photo above). The masking device may be another example of a Savage original design. The moulding along the barge board lifts just at the end of its run, thereby exposing the barge board end more completely. 

 

 

Inside wall turns (left, above) are not marked with vertical boards

Note drip ledge near the base of the wall, immediately above the belly band

 

 

In the top photo above, a rebuilt Craftsman-style front door with original bevelled-glass panes (four over four) offsets to some extent the damage done when the lower door panel (for reasons unknown) was replaced with plywood and a jarring lion's head knocker (at least the plywood wasn't 'good-one-side' grade!). Note also that the sash windows are made to descend from the frieze band, a common feature of bungalow designs in the era.

 

"Even with a [verandah] of symmetrical design, it is quite typical to see a deliberately informal, asymmetrical placement of the front door and windows." The Bungalow, America's Arts and Crafts Home, by Paul Duchscher  

 

Savage set his single sash windows and front door (top photo, above) asymmetrically into the front facade, reflecting the freedom bungalow architects felt to add elements of rusticity and informality to their buildings (this contributed to the impression made, while sidestepping classical conventions on window spacing). Note too that the verandah's beadboard ceiling (top photo, above) is of markedly narrower width than the drop-siding used for cladding. The English Tudor-style lamp illuminating the verandah is a more recent addition in a style we deemed appropriate, given the residual Tudor features of the house.

 

 

Drop siding run up into the gable peaks, contrasting with the front facade

 

 

Intriguingly, when Savage designed the facades for the south and north ends of his bungalow, he chose to run the drop-siding right up into the gable peaks (see photo above). This contrasts with how the cross-gables are treated on the front facade (where he used Tudor boards with plaster between, giving them an entirely different look). The contrast further differentiates the street facade from especially the south wall, where the latter's height is emphasized by continuing the siding right up the wall (as well as by the pronounced stone foundation). One also appreciates the emphasis gained by reserving vertical corner boards, which are painted black, to the outer corners of the wall plane. This enables viewers to enjoy full continuity of the horizontal surface, even as the wall plane moves in and out, introducing pleasing jogs to the building's outline (photos above and below).  

 

 

South wall fully differentiated from the other walls, with asymmetric composition

Continuous bevelled siding on inside wall turns, for a seamless effect

Savage jogged the rear utility porch outwards, by lifting the roof slightly

The three photos above show the active and fanciful movement of wall planes on the south-east and western facades of the bungalow. Savage designed markedly different movements for each wall, in the southwest corner raising the roof angle just enough to accommodate the back porch and the rear garden door (photo above). The north end of the building eventually played host to a walk-in closet, nestled against the main building, which was an opportunity to further differentiate it from the other facades (the walk-in closet was added sometime after the original bungalow had been built). The result is lively movement on all four sides of the building, which imparts a genuine "sense of surprise" to each facade (Pevsner, The Englishness of English Art). All four walls thus receive novel treatment, which keeps the footprint moving constantly and captivates viewer attention. The feat of rendering each wall wholly differently while integrating them into a unified whole was a significant feat (Philip Webb, the first Arts and Crafts architect and a lifelong friend of William Morris, did this routinely, beginning with his first commission at Red House).

 

Walk-in closet adds complexity to the north facade

 

Note that the walk-in closet steps up the landform (photo above), a spatial device often employed by British Arts and Crafts architect Hugh Baillie Scott. Here Savage went out of his way to avoid blasting out the rocky ledge, preferring instead to step the building up a level (see photo below). The addition is also rendered in a style that varies somewhat from the original design (while remaining broadly consistent) a technique that was often utilized by Arts and Crafts architect Edward Lutyens to demarcate later additions to structures he'd previously worked on (see photo above). The important thing, as J. D. Sedding asserts, is not that the building is modified over time, but rather that the addition expresses "unity of effect" with the previous work.  

 

 

Added walk-in closet stepping up the landform 

 

 

VI

 

 

Interior Treatments

 

Arts and Crafts architecture wasn't about working in a particular style, but about taking an approach to building whose goal was a worthy outcome. It sought to model itself after local traditions of building, but not slavishly. As a first principle, it involved crafting the house as a unified whole, inside and out. But Arts and Crafts practitioners were also concerned to show respect for craft skills, express fidelity to materials, and generally engage creatively with the entire building process (including, in some cases, direct involvement of the architect). These priorities were held to be useful ways to enrich construction, all of them articles of faith by the time Savage came to design his bungalow. 

 

I attempted to demonstrate in previous articles how Savage may have gone about siting and designing the bungalow (Hubert Savage, Architect (1) and (2)). Now I want to briefly describe the interior layout, in order to comment on how it goes about meeting the Arts and Crafts standard of unifying design. Bungalows were extremely popular back in 1913, right the way across North America, holding the middle class consumers who comprised their principal market in thrall. Moreover, bungalows were then relatively cheap to build, using the high-quality materials generated by an apparently inexhaustible supply of old-growth timber (as well as taking advantage of the initial affordability of lands opened up by electrified rapid transit). I believe Savage took advantage of both factors in constructing his deluxe bungalow of just under 1550 square feet. In doing so, he could save the costs associated with making a basement (which, on bedrock, would have been crippling) as well as foregoing the damage to the site this would have involved.

 

One enters the bungalow through a front door that's sheltered by an elegant roofed verandah that serves an outdoor living room and transitions from exterior to the interior. Passing through the front door, which is glazed with small bevelled glass panes (in two tiers of four) we enter a vestibule containing a closet for jackets, which becomes a short hallway, under an arch, leading to a doorway to the kitchen. The vestibule is fitted with wainscot of wooden panels in an upright rectangular pattern, capped by a prominent plate rail projecting outwards, along with distinctive door surrounds, all of it made of old-growth fir stained matte black. There's also a single wall-mounted lamp in the room, with two candle-shaped bulbs, centred in a frieze panel (photo below) made of a composite material painted to resemble plaster. This ensemble forms an elegant, compact entry space, done up in high style in order to make a lasting first impression. The setup is also unusual for a 1913 bungalow, inasmuch as direct entry to the living room from the verandah was usually the norm in both California and Craftsman-style bungalows (one way in which perceptions of the bungalow's typically compact spaces, in subdivision format in town, was maximized through design). Another space-maximizing device in smaller bungalows involved enlarging the opening between the living and dining rooms, with the effect of partitioning the rooms; this open-space was typically elaborately trimmed with wood. Savage followed neither convention however, preferring the more distinct separation of functions that came with having a vestibule, hallway and standard door openings (he did have the relative luxury of sufficient square footage that the front door need not open directly into the living room, which tended to make a virtue of necessity in smaller building). This immediately made the Savage bungalow more genteel than the majority of standard-issue models, but at the cost of necessitating more doorways and doors for access between rooms. 

 

 

Wainscot, plate rail, arch above, in the vestibule

 

Vestibule and front door from living room, showing consistency of treatment

 

To the left off the vestibule, through another doorway, lies the living room, which is generously sized, richly decorated, and furnished with ample windows that reinforce a sense of connection to the outside world. While decorative treatment of the vestibule and living room are handled similarly as regards the height and dressing of the wainscot, the decorative brackets at the base of the plate rail go from being chunky squares with rounded corners in the vestibule, to being brought to a squared point in the living room. Overall, the living room elevates the vestibule's design to a higher plane, with box-beamed ceilings, a brick fireplace and tiled apron, asymmetric bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, bevelled glass in a built-in mirror above the fireplace, and a mantle piece that continues the overall design of the room. It feels very 'woodsy' in the living room, which has the atmosphere of an environment made substantially of old-growth fir (including the wooden floor, which is stained a honey-brown tone). The living room, obviously contrived as the bungalow's social living space, is centred on the hearth (as bungalows of this era typically were) yet there is no inglenook. The wainscot and ceiling beams are also stained matte black, bringing the English Arts and Crafts style into the living room. Despite the darkened wood treatment however, there is no lack of light in the room throughout the day, as the windows, facing east and south, admit plentiful light. And the wood, being stained, still exhibits its grain-structure.

 

"Wood panelling was frequently carried up the walls to form a high wainscot and usually capped by a plate rail, which was a shallow, grooved shelf for the display of plates, trays, pottery, small pictures, or other objects." The Bungalow, America's Arts and Crafts Home, Paul Duscherer, 1995.

 

  

Living room showing wall and ceiling treatments, light entering via the ample windows

Lawson Wood frieze, boxed beams, wainscot

 

Living room treatment: boxed beams, plate rails, wainscot and scenery 

 

 

Fireplace and tiled hearth, built-in mirror and bookshelves, door treatment

 

 

There was once a built-in radio in the small alcove off the south wall of the living room (the alcove jogs the facade, which is expressed as a dormer on the outside - see photo below); the built-in radio shows as intact on both the 1933 and 1951 floor plans, but had been removed sometime prior to my arrival in 1988. There is also a colourful frieze band (a lithographic print, I believe) signed by English artist Lawson Wood in 1921, which gives the room added atmospheric punch.

 

"Generally speaking, the warmth of natural woodwork was considered appropriate in the main living areas. Typical features, like box-beamed ceilings, door and window casings, and various built-ins showcased the pleasing colour and textual variations of wood." The Bungalow, America's Arts and Crafts Home, by Paul Duscherer, 1995. 

 

 

The creation of box-beams in the ceiling often inspired a lighting scheme, which would have been useful at night-time when the darkness prevails. Alas, I discerned no evidence of beam-lights or lanterns ever having been installed in the Savage bungalow. Beam-lighting was widely available by 1913, and initially the raw light of bare bulbs was deemed tolerable due to the novelty of lighting. But lights evolved rapidly into more sophisticated fixtures, like lanterns and table lamps that gave off more indirect or shaded lighting. Sometimes the box-beams were also decorated or stencilled, or the panels between them were wallpapered. But Savage's design was far too chaste for any such treatment (which would have had the effect of making the interior of the bungalow feel much busier). Savage was much more concerned to allow the old-growth fir to speak for itself, and he had a living room large enough to accomplish this purpose.

 

 

Roofed dormers on the exterior become alcoves with built-ins inside

 

Lawson Wood decorative lithograph adds atmospheric punch to the decor

 

The dining room, which is accessed off the living room through a standard doorway (or from the kitchen, via a similar doorway - see pictures below) is handled in a manner consistent with the living room's decorative scheme, yet differs marginally from it. It too has box-beamed ceilings, but these run in straight lines, as befits a smaller area of ceiling, while the box-beams in the living room are made to cross, indicating the room's relatively greater spaciousness and formality. The dining room comes with a separate fireplace too (see second photo below) and is also has wainscot, plate rails, plaster-effect frieze-band (akin to the vestibule, again made out of some sort of paintable composite material) and two original wall-mounted lamps (the wainscot runs higher in the dining room than it did in the living room, as there is no lithographic frieze band to accommodate).  Here the style of decorative bracket repeats the chunky form of the vestibule. As recounted in my post entitled First Impressions (2023), the dining room had just been painted when I first saw the house in 1988, its matte black stain already hidden by a coat of relatively tasteful yellow-gold paint. Fearing that this move was likely to continue into the other matte-black areas (which turned out to be the plan) my offer-to-purchase was conditional upon all painting of darkened woodwork ceasing. 

 

"Although many bungalows were designed by known architects...the majority of them weren't. The simplicity of the style lent itself to endless variations of the basic elements, and soon individual builders, building companies, and land speculators were throwing up tracts of bungalows. Plan books, already a fixture since the nineteenth century, began to feature bungalows. Anonymous architects or delineators designed most of these, though not all." Bungalow: The Ultimate Arts and Crafts Home, by Jane Powell, 2004.

 

 

The decorative centrepiece of the dining room is the built-in window-seat, appearing between incised shelves in its own alcove; it's backed by clear leaded-glass casements with a matching transom above. I always marvelled at the light these windows caught due to the southern exposure, with the added light-gain of being set into a projecting dormer. On plan, the room also originally contained a buffet (in 1951 identified as a sideboard, yet still extant) which was perhaps a piece of furniture designed by Savage, but it too was gone upon my arrival. There weren't any marks on the wainscot indicating it had been built-in, however, so likely it was freestanding.

 

 

Doorway, wainscot, plate rail, incised shelves, window seat with leaded glass

Second fireplace, now an off-white colour, wall-mounted sconce, mantle  

Built-in window seat between incised shelves

 

 

If one imagines the dining room as still matte-black, like the living room and vestibule/corridor, it's relatively easy to see this bungalow as a gendered place (which in fact bungalows mostly were). Design of the rooms at the south-end, with their darkened wood finishes and cozy fireplaces, bookshelves, mirrors, window seats (and other built-in features) represented a place for the male breadwinner to find refuge - somewhere he could withdraw to from the hectic squabbles of the working world. The rest of the house, by contrast, represented a more female domain, including the kitchen, bathroom, and the bedrooms, which were correspondingly less heavily finished and decorated for a much lighter effect. It was in this part of the house where, for example, wallpaper and paint were more prominent and appropriate. It was also here, in the female space, where the majority of gadgets were found, intended as aides to render homemaking and housekeeping much simpler than they had been in Victorian houses.

 

Among the elements supporting an overall unity of design, without and within, is the uniformly low ceiling height of the rooms. At eight foot four inches high, these ceilings carry the marked horizontality and proximity to ground of the exterior right into the building itself. Perceptions of the bungalow as low-lying are also reinforced by the many windows, which gather light while imparting a vivid impression of scenery around the building. Lowered ceiling heights were a key way of contrasting bungalows with Victorian-era buildings, which regularly came with ceilings as high as thirteen feet (so, nearly five feet higher). Higher ceilings imparted feelings of grandeur and luxury to the Victorian-era interior, but came at the cost of being inefficient to heat (due to hot air rising into the upper reaches of the room). They also had the side-effect of pushing buildings higher, the opposite effect of a low-slung bungalow where nearness to ground was the conscious emphasis.

 

 

Tall Victorian-era house with high ceilings

 

A further way that Hubert Savage sought to unify his design was by making views of pieces of the exterior available from inside the building. One could be forgiven for thinking that this happened by chance, but I'm convinced it was deliberate. Bungalows offer unique opportunities for just this sort of visual sleight-of-hand, by dint of their articulation around a defining verandah (projecting out into the world, with a dominant roof supported on tapered pillars of (in this case) randomly shaped stones). And as we see from the photo below, the verandah constitutes a view that can be seen through the living room's grouped windows.

 

 

Roofed verandah, low railing, tapered stone pillar with posts, from within

 

 

Savage also elected to bump-out the west wall in the south quadrant, in effect creating another opportunity to glimpse the form of the bungalow from within. Here it's the thickening of the building to incorporate a rear utility porch that creates the opportunity to explore this effect, providing views of the structure through the kitchen windows and reinforcing the building form's tendency to ramble. The following photo shows the transparency of this move, graphically bringing the outside world closer to the viewer within while demonstrating how close to ground the bungalow is.

 

 

Bumped-out rear porch and back door seen through the kitchen windows

 

The design of the bungalow creates other opportunities to glimpse the building's exterior from within, such as the view of the long west wall one has through the glazed garden door - something seen whenever venturing into the back garden (photo below). The main bedroom, like the living room, also shows views of the verandah and the stone staircase that leads to it.

 

 

West wall view can be seen through glazed door

 

 

Earlier, we described the entry suite of rooms, showing how in the vestibule, living room and dining room Savage adorned walls and ceilings consistently while developing a distinct personality for each room. The wainscot, window treatments, and the handling of doorways demonstrates just how much structural interest can be created by similar treatments. But, as becomes evident in the kitchen - and this holds true for all other rooms in the bungalow - Savage obviously felt strongly about decorating ceilings with wood. It's my opinion that this happened because the ceilings comprise large areas that can be made to reinforce an overall effect, here a look of being built-in. All Savage's ceilings have this in some fashion, achieved principally by a band of wood (or a moulding) running along the top of the wall plane (see photos below). In addition to reinforcing the appearance the look that things are built-in, Savage gave each ceiling its own pattern in wood. In the kitchen, redone in 2005, we had the opportunity to continue Savage's original wall band on the new banks of cupboards we added, greatly reinforcing the look of being built-in (see photo below).

 

 

Band over new cupboards reinforces built-in look

 

But even in rooms like the master bedroom, Savage reinforced a similar look. Here it's combined with a woodwork pattern that makes the ceiling into a sequence of panels implying movement through space. This is combined with boards over the outside edges of the wall-corners. The rosette that centres the array of panels was a later addition, covering wires that once fed an overhead light that was part of the original ceiling - photo below). In other bedrooms (see second photo below) he used a cove moulding to reinforce the look of being built-in.

 

 

Irregular panelization was a Savage trademark

  

Note ceiling treatment in the second bedroom, using a cove moulding for effect

 

One room with truly unique treatment was the rear porch, simply because its ceiling had to be lower than the standard eight foot four inches throughout the main bungalow. This is because it was accommodate by lifting the roof slightly. As a result this compressed the height, forcing Savage to render it as barrel-vaulted, in order to conserve a maximum of apparent height for the low room. This gave it an unusual scooped-out effect, which made the compact room cozy to use (see next photos).

 

 

Barrel-vaulted ceiling resembling antique railcar

 

Conservatory ceiling, view looking northwards, barrel-vaulted treatment

 

There remains a bit more to be said about Savage's use of space and the compact hallways it leads to versus the tendency in California-style bungalows to engage in more open-space planning (a virtue made necessary by the small of size of subdivision bungalows). Savage had sufficient space in his bungalow to achieve flow between rooms in other ways, principally by using compact hallways. But every major room has at least two doorways (except for the bathroom) while the kitchen has four of them, all of which are in active use. In fact, we actually found that there were too many doors in the Savage bungalow (doors need storage space if they are left open; doors that are infrequently closed are redundant). As a result of this phenomenon, we removed a door that was habitually left open in kitchen (from the vestibule), which revealed the incised shelf it covered when open. Emboldened by this success, we removed the door between the living and dining rooms, also for space-retrieval. The door was also always open, obscuring architectural features. We had Vern Krahn repair the removed door hinges, so there was no trace of a door ever having been there.

 

When the walk-in closet was first added to the bungalow, there was for long only a single opening to it off the small bedroom across the hall from the master bedroom. This can't have been convenient, because the main users of the closet were Hubert and Alys. That arrangement shows as continuing on both the 1933 and 1951 floor plans. But by the time I arrived in 1988, another opening had been added to the walk-in closet from the master bedroom. I don't know the story of how that opening came to be, but Alys Savage lived on in the bungalow after Hubert passed in 1955, until well into the 1970s. Some sort of major renovation occurred sometime along the way, and things got rearranged. 

 

A word in closing on the overall design principles employed in bungalows: designers felt that the busyness associated with Victorian houses (the cluttered interior, based on collections of superfluous gewgaws) was to be avoided at all costs, by design. Traditional ornament they saw as being tacked on, rather promiscuously too, so they set themselves on a course to simplify design radically and to restrict themselves to decorating the building's structure (Pugin). Principally this was by means of rectilinear decoration that consisted of wooden materials, entailing the design of interiors using straight lines, right angles, squares and rectangles, with an emphasis on constructive finishes, in a search for a clean, modern and uncluttered look. Something they avoided at all cost was turned wood, which Victorian and Queen Anne-style houses had used extensively. Bungalow designers want to avoid the effect of using turned wood, but this wasn't at the expense of a woodsy feeling. Mostly their designs were about right-angles and straight lines. There were a few cove mouldings, to be sure, and a smattering of curves too, but mostly the emphasis was on straight lines. It was above all a linear style that eschewed tacked-on ornament. 

 

 

 

Books for Looks:

 

The Art and Craft Of The Machine, address to the Chicago Arts and Crafts Society, by Frank Lloyd Wright, 1901.

The Englishness Of English Art, by Hugh Pevsner, 1955.

CFA Voysey, 'Ideas In Things',  in The Arts Connected With Building, 1909.

The Arts and Crafts Movement, Gillian Naylor, 1971. 

The Bungalow, America's Arts and Crafts Home, by Paul Duscherer, 1995.

Bungalow: The Ultimate Arts and Crafts Home, by Jane Powell, 2004. 

Toward A Simpler Way Of Life, The Arts and Crafts Architects of California, edited by Robert Winter, 1997.

The Arts and Crafts Movement in California: Living The Good Life, edited by Kenneth R. Trapp, 1993. 

Artisans and Architects, by Mark Swenarton, 1989. 

Art and Labour, Ruskin, Morris and the Craftsman Ideal in America, by Eileen Boris, 1986.

Art and Handicraft, by J. D. Sedding, 1893.

"The Art That Is Life": The Arts & Crafts Movement in America, 1875 - 1920, by Wendy Caplan, 1987.