Eat, Drink and Be Merry...

I’m sitting in my kitchen listening to Dave Brubeck’s rendition of “Silent Night” as snow falls into the purple light of dusk. We’re supposed to get a foot; it’s the first time in my fairly long memory that we had snow so close to Christmas and it’s magic. I’m baking cookies, making certain to remember the favorites of each of those I love. A very small gift, crafted from a million pounds of butter and sugar.

This week I was working on two different blog ideas I’ve been thinking about since before Thanksgiving, when, yet again, I got sidetracked. I decided it can wait till the New Year. All those wonderful ideas will be there, and my mind will return to them, less sentimental and refreshed by a break.

I’ve had many reminders this year, yet again, of how fragile life is, how tenuous happiness, how irrelevant success, and how important the fundamental things are that make our lives truly rich and meaningful. And today, as I bake these damned cookies yet again for about the 45^th year in a row, struggle to untangle the lights, plow my way through the packages and wonder why I make myself crazy every year, I know the answer. It’s what I do to let the people I love know that whatever else happens, whatever life brings, we have each other. The spirit of my parents long gone passes on to my grandchildren newly arrived, and traditions form the circle of continuity. That’s a gift to be celebrated in moments of peace and a source of solace in times of struggle. Little else matters.

If design is about anything, it’s about life. L’Chaim…

and Merry Christmas, one and all.

A Little Thanks…

I was reading and writing, absorbed in ideas, thinking about the “direction of design” when I looked up from my words, saw the date and paused. It’s the weekend before Thanksgiving, I’m the cook this year and I hadn’t really thought about any of it or started to plan. And as my fog lifted, I realized that that’s actually an amazing thing, quite wonderful in fact.

I’m lucky and I try not to take that for granted. My kids still like me and want come home, they like each other, like my friends and don’t really care what gets done or doesn’t. We pretty much have the Norman Rockwell of Holiday Celebrations, whether it’s at home or elsewhere- friends, laughter, too much food and (almost) no meltdowns in the preparation. Which is probably why, lately, it sneaks up on me and I’m unprepared; never painted that room, still haven’t knocked down the wall to make the dining room bigger, haven’t polished the silver or ordered the free range fresh killed organic turkey. As a designer, I know the “devil is in the details”, but on these occasions, of late, they just don’t seem all that important. Sure, I’ll pull out the tarnished silver, dust off the china and it’ll all look and feel like a holiday. Dinner will get cooked, we’ll all sit down, eat too much, drink too much and laugh a lot.

My Zen mindset wasn’t always this evolved. Used to be my type “A” side would kick in big time before the holidays- lists grew lists; rolls had to be kneaded and cranberries strained, at least one pie per person, menus planned, recipes pored over; my fridge overflowed. I would frantically run from work to schools to stores to nights in the kitchen, all to create “Dinner of the Year”. Sure, all that practice has given me an edge, so I can still assemble a reasonably downsized representation of those elaborate productions without too much sweat. But I’m thinking it’s more than that. This year, more than any other, I am most aware of the “big picture”.

The gathered group shifts somewhat each year depending on who’s around, who’s moved, who’s traveling, who’s family in Connecticut decided to host, who’s “left us”, who’s “joined us”, who’s married or divorced. There’s been joy in the additions, sadness in the losses and times when it seemed very, very hard to celebrate. But the datum, the constant, what really matters is that we all stop (on a weekday no less), take a deep breath, look at each other and see the good. Whatever we lost or gained in this year, whatever we’ve struggled with, there is continuity in life and this ritual dinner is a moment to just share. And today I am more aware than ever that what I have is a gift not to be taken lightly.

Much to give thanks for, most important for the people in my life. So, thank you, all of you who read this, those I will see and those I won’t, for adding to my life in ways that have made this year unique and rich in new experiences, and who add to that continuity of connection.

More on design after next week, if I’m not wigged out about Christmas.

The Lessons of Levittown…

A week or so back I got a call from a favorite client, someone I’ve worked with through many projects over many, many years. This particular call told me just how many- his daughter and son in law are renovating a house and he asked if I could help with their planning. I was honored, touched and a little bit depressed. I’m that old, I’m helping the next generation. There’s a wake-up call.

As I start to work with yet another generation, I’m thinking about changes to our idea of “home” in the span of years from our grandparents to our kids; the kind of houses we plan, build, desire, and remember…

The past fifty-plus years brought radical changes in how and where we live, much of that happening in my own lifetime. I grew up in the city (Brooklyn to be exact), and watched as my childhood friends joined the “diaspora” to the suburbs in the sixties, leaving sidewalk chalk and handball for swingsets and bicycles. That great flight outward was fueled by economic, technological and social changes, not the least of which was a combination of visionary (and insensitive) land development on a grand scale, which turned farmland to subdivisions linked by superhighways, all “driven” by our romance with the car. In the years since those early suburban developments, the shape of our lives has changed, and with that, our dreams of "home."

I was talking to a friend recently about his childhood Christmases at his aunt’s house on Long Island. The biggest room was his aunt’s bedroom. Somehow, magically, on Christmas day, the bed was disassembled and a table for twenty took its place. Now, THAT was a resourceful hostess. Talk about a multi-purpose room. Of course, one wonders where the bed was stashed while they all ate lasagne?

Volumes have been written about the post-war Levittown “Cape”. That first mass-produced “dream house for the common man” (because he could actually own one), was a little more than 800 square feet, included 4 rooms and a bath on the first floor and, if budget allowed, a couple of dormered bedrooms on the second. Coming from an apartment in Queens or Brooklyn, this felt positively spacious. It had a special nook for a TV built into the staircase (presuming you could afford the TV.) If there was a basement, and it was relatively dry, you slapped up paneling and stick-down linoleum and called it a rumpus room (what exactly was the rumpus?) No powder rooms, libraries, family rooms, guest rooms, master baths, dressing rooms; no game rooms, wrapping rooms, media centers, home theaters. No gazebos, no gates, no pool houses, no three car garages. If there was a pool, it sat above ground, leaked and wobbled when 15 kids dove off the metal surround, and the over-chlorinated water killed anything growing within 20 feet. A little crowded? Sure. Imperfect? No question. But it was home.

The American “dream house” certainly morphed over those fifty years, along with our other possessions, and nary a new home in the nineties was built without the requisite Jacuzzi (rarely used because it takes a full tank of hot water unto itself) and a vaulted two story foyer with a chandelier the size of a small helicopter. Just heating that space is an engineering marvel of orchestrated ductwork. Then try furnishing it… sectionals to sleep twelve, armoires like little castles, and baby grand pianos that play themselves because no one had time for lessons. The scale was impressive, and a little daunting. How much was too much? What kind of art, short of a Pollack, fills a 30 foot wall?

Will we rethink the need for that? Apparently we already are- as the “baby boomers” retire and we want less stuff to worry about, we’re downsizing in droves, moving to planned communities and looking for someone else to worry about lawn care. I’m wondering how we’ll “repurpose” those palaces when we’ve all retired to the two bedroom condo in Renaissance Estates…

It’s good that we slow down and think resourcefully. I’m getting a lot of that today from those of us who are finally remembering, yet again, that it won’t always “go up”, and maybe we don’t need it to. But we do need and want our space to be special, functional, and reflective of who we are. So how do we make it that way without doubling the square footage, or without disassembling the master bed a couple times a year? Because clearly there’s a middle ground, and one hopes it’s not the Seventies split level.

I spend a lot of my time renovating those post-war homes- capes, splits, center halls. The edges of the subdivisions have blurred and the sameness that was a hallmark of suburban development fades as successive generations place their imprint on the original “bland box”. It’s a real treat to walk into houses that retain their “fifties” or “sixties” identity and we look to see what can be done to make them work with our lives today.

Lesson one in design school, at least of my generation: form follows function. Some will say that’s dated and debatable, but there is definitely a hearkening back to purposeful design.

But what does that mean? The tendency in tight times is to be strictly pragmatic, but we want more from our homes, or I’d be superfluous. The lesson of Levittown is that we turn the “little boxes on the hillside” into places for personal expression. (Ironically, an untouched Levittown house is now a highly prized museum piece. Who would have thought?) It’s actually great fun to look at the imagination of those transformations- from Greek Revival to Gothic Modern, columns, turrets and all, sometimes on the same house.

We look to our spaces to reflect ourselves, and they say as much about who we are as the car we drive or the clothes we wear. Form and function still do work together; It’s a matter of unifying need and expression, whether it’s picking a paint color or ripping out walls. Somewhere between the Levitt Cape and the McMansion there’s a happy balance that’s big enough to fit our needs, considerate of the environment and adaptable to changes in our lives. Maybe in this next generation we’ll get it right…

Peacocks and Ostriches…

My son came home with a flyer for one of those ubiquitous self- help seminars, one where you get more in touch with your “inner self”. Hmmmm…..I’m thinking, enough already. I’m pretty damned familiar with my inner self, thank you. In fact, I think I’m maybe a little too “in touch” with her; right now she’s annoying me.

In general, I think of myself as a positive person, and always believed that hard work brings good results. I’ve been through other tough times and recognize that all those trite axioms are true- yes, this too shall pass, yes, there’s always darkness before the dawn. OK, we get it. But so what?  Right now I’m tired, I want a sign that things are getting better, and everyone I talk to is feeling the same way.

When the immediacy of hard times makes me more conscious of the bottom line, I’ve often wondered about the value of my work. Art and design seem frivolous, the “peacock” whose purpose is questionable. But as I look for what feeds my soul lately,  I see the value that creative thinking adds to our lives, maybe even more now than when it’s easy. It’s all about the outer expression of that interior self, and we all wear way too much black these days.

Leo Leonni  wrote a wonderful children’s book called “Frederick the Mouse”.  While all the other mice gather nuts and branches preparing their nest for winter, Frederick collects colors, thoughts, words and imaginings. Come February, when the mice have had just about enough of the grayness and sameness of the days, Frederick’s imagination brings light into their cave. That’s the power of art- in all its forms and permutations, it brings laughter and light into our lives. And it’s easy to forget the importance of that when we pull in our belts to hunker down through tough times.

But it’s also easy to hide from the realities of tough situations in pleasures, and that’s the other side of the coin. Strip away the extraneous and we can see how we’ve hidden from some of the challenges in our lives. The stark reality of uncertainty brings mistakes into focus, and the ostrich’s head is in danger of being permanently implanted in the sand. So it’s all about balance. As I finally managed to do a handstand after years of falling over, physical and metaphorical balance seem to be coming little closer. No accident that happens now, as I’m dealing with that merging of art and reality in my life and my work.

In these last couple of years, I’ve been fortunate to have work, but the shape of it has changed. Gone are the grand projects of the past- people just aren’t building those today. It’s a bit like going from full orchestra to soloist. But much like in music, there’s real pleasure in the immediacy of this new venue- less complex, more intimate, fine tuned and each note resonates. Small projects require a different kind of attention to detail; I’m certainly enjoying the immediacy of completion and results at a time when so much else is in flux. Like everyone I’m adapting.

I’ve thought a whole lot this week about transitions, about the changes I’ve experienced in this recession, about decisions I’ve made and fears that have kept me from growing. Instead of regretting my choices I’m learning from them, and thinking about goals. I’m using this time- freer than I’ve ever had before- to recalibrate; to research new ideas and fill in professional blanks that I’ve ignored. This time has been a gift, albeit one reluctantly received. In the past I blew through projects, tenacious, mostly organized and efficient, without really considering what I wanted at the end of the day, or a year from now, or five. I kept up, kept pace, reacted and responded, but never really developed clear direction. Now I’m thinking about what I want, where I want to be and how to get there.

As an art student in “the good old” days I  worked in a darkroom, blindly rolling film into a little box by touch. I remember the feeling of detachment between process and results, and how much depended upon instinct and intuition. I’m a painter, and oil to canvas is immediate and tangible; I mix a color, smear it on and see how it works.  The darkroom process was disconcerting for me- results seemed something of a crapshoot ruled by timing and practice. Right now my life feels a little like that- not knowing what will come from the changes of the past couple of years, I’m learning to count on experience and instincts.  Fortunately, I have plenty of both- and when they fail, I’ve got yoga to remind me- and of my fallibility, because sure as hell, I’ll make lots more mistakes. Wax on, wax off…

Time out is a good thing, and this transition is providing that, if nothing else. Quiet time to sort through, figure out, clean house and reorganize; time to empty the proverbial closets and see what I’ve got stashed in there. Time for patience and reflection, and marrying those “inner” and “outer” selves. For someone like me who is used to results, to having a task at hand, to having an answer and solving a problem, that’s been a hard- and very humbling- lesson, but one I most certainly needed to learn.

It’s very easy to fall into the trap of cynicism when we’ve been working hard and getting ambiguous results in any aspect of our lives. And that’s a danger, because we miss the big picture. Truth is, it takes time for change, and right now patience and perseverance are hard to maintain, but most essential. And lest we get too serious, I’m thinking of that peacock, and how some “frivolous” pleasures help pass the time more lightly.

Some things just take time…

Pocketbooks…

Last week I was in Manhattan for the opening of a new design showroom in the Architects and Designer’s Building. Lavish, sleek, elegant and ever so Italian, with designers like Pininfarina creating their product, Snaidero is the best of the best- well-engineered, beautifully detailed and presented. Very seductive, like any good Italian…

It also happened to be “Fashion Week” in New York, when the couture designers present their spring collections- full of fantasy, beautiful women and drama. Always wonderful to look at, always something of a dream. So many negative things have been said about fashion’s relevance in tough times, but couture remains alive for a reason.

My architect friends took issue with my contention that good design doesn’t take a lot of money. Looking at that gorgeous showroom, I can't argue- luxury has its place, and it’s in showrooms with designers like these that we get our inspiration. Like any other field, the best always stands out- the Ferraris, the Diors, the Tiffanys; iconic designers who create beautiful objects that drive our desire; we’re inspired by those beautiful objects- by artists who have the creativity and skills to make things that are unique and special.

Government statistics say we’re coming to the end of this recession. It feels a bit like the end of a tsunami. We’ve been holed up listening to the wind howl outside and we’re cautiously peeking through storm shutters assessing the damage. Some of us have been really hit hard, others shaken by the reality check. We’ve all been affected in our outlook and expectations. It’s been a long, tough year, and it will be a long time before we feel secure enough to take big risks again. But clearly we want to have things of beauty around us, and more important, need to feel that we can have dreams about what’s next.

Enough about being frugal and cautious- we know we need to assess the damage and fix the problems, and as grownups we’ll take care of business. Sometimes design- and the best things in life- are in the small extravagances, and we just want to splurge a little. And we should- just a little.

I think back to my parents and my Aunt Jessie, who came to adulthood in that last great financial cataclysm. They didn’t buy a lot and wasted nothing, but there was always room at the table for an extra person, and I can’t remember how many times we gave up our rooms to a cousin or stray friend.  Aunt Jessie used to wash the plastic forks and save the aluminum pans after a party; we affectionately teased her frugality. She had a giant pocketbook the size of a small suitcase that was always full of little treats- candies, glamorous earrings that turned our ears green,  toys to distract us when we were being pests. It was a bag of wonder she would peer into and pull out something magical- better than Santa. Aunt Jessie cooked enough food on any given Sunday to feed a family of 12 for two weeks, and feed us she did. Enough was never enough, and there was never a question of what she could give. But there she was, washing those plastic forks. Aunt Jessie lived in a little apartment above a store in Brooklyn; simple and immaculately clean, it was full of people and food and laughter and great love. Her generosity lives on after her in the spirit of her children, grandchildren and now great-grandchildren, and in the hearts of an enormous extended family.

It’s not either/ or. It’s both. Wonderful to have those with deep pockets and broad imaginations who create things of lasting beauty as inspiration to us all. No question of their significance in affecting the landscape of our imagination. And innovation most often comes from the top. We need those with money to invest in the creative pursuits of great designers. Without Charles and Ray Eames, there wouldn’t be IKEA.

So, what does any of this have to do with design? Probably nothing, except that it reflects fundamental values about what lasts and what we remember as extravagance. I love beautiful things, great art and design, and have spent my life helping people make choices to make their environments special. If I’m honest with myself,  I’ll always covet those Manolo Blahniks. But it’s that little apartment above the store in Brooklyn that I remember as home, where I couldn’t wait to go and that I think of with great affection, where I learned about generosity and what being “rich” really means. 

As we come through this “correction”- the most significant in my lifetime- I think we’ll all feel that we have less, that we need to be careful. No question. But sometimes it’s those little luxuries that we allow ourselves- the treats we choose to be a bit extravagant about- that get us through the tough times. It can be as simple as those rhinestone earrings in Aunt Jessie’s pocketbook.

Limits...

I thought I’d sidestep the fact that tomorrow is 9/11, but all week my inbox has been full of reminders. It seems presumptuous to write about it in this, a blog about design, but it keeps coming to me in different ways and I don’t want to ignore something that has been so significant in all our lives. Another year, another cycle of seasons, changes and time to heal. We’ve all been touched by and lived with the process of finding a way to keep going after what for many of us was cataclysmic, and for all of us who were touched in some way by that event, at the very least a profound moment of loss and awakening to how fragile our lives really are and what can be taken away from us in a single terrible moment.

So why start there, and what does this have to do with design?

We live.

Life does go on, and as we come through what for many of us has been a difficult time these past years, it’s good to remember what’s really important. We’re here, we were lucky, we get to live, we rebuild, we get on with things. And we plan.

I started these musings thinking about “tight times”, how the challenges of the past couple of years have colored all of our decisions and perceptions, not just in design but in our lives. Perhaps this “correction”, though certainly more severe than anyone anticipated, has pushed us to discover our limits and challenge them; what we think we can do and how to make things happen in our lives. I’m thinking that these moments have much to teach us, not only about what’s of lasting value, but what we consider the limits of our own- and our world’s- potential.

I’ve been reading a lot lately about how good design is in danger of being “sacrificed” by the state of the economy. I can’t for the life of me figure out why. In my experience, budget has little to do with creativity. If anything, limits on our funds seem to push us to find more creative solutions. And knowing what resources we have available to make our dreams happen doesn’t preclude getting there, just sets the stage for our direction. If we’re using our heads and our hearts, the results can be pretty astounding.

In the last 10 years or so there’s been a lot of movement on the part of architects to find creative and humanitarian solutions to world crises and housing problems- from housing for the homeless and displaced, to low-cost schools and medical treatment facilities in third world countries. A whole generation of young architects has been learning to think about solutions to these problems with limited resources in difficult locations. The results have been amazing and inspiring- beautiful, simple structures with ingenious use of local resources or cheap, readily available materials. The ideas are what matters, and solving the problem. 

One of the most inspirational voices for this “new humanism” was Sam Mockbee, an architect who was pivotal in using his own personal force, sense of “soul”, and deep commitment to community to forge a new sensibility in architectural education. As one of the founders and directors of the Rural Studio, a program in the architecture department at Auburn University, he profoundly changed our thinking about what is important in our purpose for design. Under his direction, students in the Rural Studio built homes and community buildings for people in desperate need, often using recycled or “found” materials- a chapel built substantially from discarded tires; stucco walls studded with wine bottle windows, recycled windshields and license plates were the building palette with which he created dwellings and structures to enrich the environment in one of the poorest parts of the country. He and his students made our trash find a new life. In the process, he altered the thinking of many architecture and design lovers beyond his own small world as to what can be achieved if we aren’t limited by a lack of imagination. An award-winning residential architect, he brought to these designs the same respect, aesthetic and creativity that he applied to private clients. In the process he reminded us of what is important and how we can achieve it.

Those engaged in this process have been finding ways to work with limited resources without sacrificing ideas- and they’ve been at the forefront of thinking clearly about how to distill what’s most important in terms of fulfilling fundamental human need for shelter. Some of those designs are inspiring, some are technologically intriguing, all are done with extremely limited resources in difficult circumstances. “Architecture for Humanity”, a not-for-profit organization based in San Francisco,  has been key in promoting this thinking and it is wonderful to see what is coming out of the collaboration of people from all walks, from all over the world. 

We’ve become more conscious of the fragility of our resources- the balance of nature and what happens when that’s thrown off, misuse and overuse of our natural materials, and much has been said and done to look at “greening” our choices. We’re rethinking what it means to use materials “honestly”, and what “honest” materials are- are plastics really an enemy, or can we find a way to use them more effectively? Is strip-mining the side of a mountain to tile our bathrooms really a good use of our natural resources? And all those rainforest boardrooms and media centers that we rip out in 10 years? It’s a process in making better choices and using what we have with more thoughtfulness. 

So are we all going to run out and build homes out of carpet samples and recycled tires? Of course not. But the fundamental concept of creative problem-solving is that we aren’t limited by our resources, but by our lack of imagination in finding solutions, and in assuming that those limits will stop us from building instead of inspiring us to build smarter. And build we will, because we can.

OK, I was a bit serious this time. Next week I promise I'll think about window treatments.

For more on Sam Mockbee and the Rural Studio, see the following link:

http://www.cadc.auburn.edu/soa/rural-studio/mockbee.htm 

For more on Architecture for Humanity:

http://architectureforhumanity.org/

 

Lasting Value…..

Last week we went to the New York International Gift Fair at the Javits Center in New York. Ferry from Weehawkin (awesome), hot and sweaty walk in Manhattan humidity up the hill to what is one of the biggest industry trade shows, and is usually packed and frenzied. Well, not this year. Echoingly empty spaces, and no surprise. As we all know and have said, people aren’t buying “Stuff”.

The Gift Fair is massive, including not only the entire Javits Center, but two of the piers. It goes on for days and covers everything from scented candles to furniture. Only in America could there be such a concentration of pricey objects whose intrinsic value is questionable. There are acres of vendors showing gardens of pretty things- the sorts of things that fill vacation gift shops, lovely to look at, fun at the moment, but with fleeting purpose. We were there to think about the direction of our own businesses, what we want to share with our clients, what we want to offer in this new economy. And what kept coming up for us was, what’s important? What is useful and what do we want to spend money on- our own and our clients?

We walked by booths with a tangle of trinkets and gadgets that attracted our eyes but we know are destined for a garage sale table. We bypassed all the tables that were filled with the kind of things we find at the back of Marshalls and Home Goods. What caught our imagination, what made us pause and talk were the objects that had imagination, beauty and purpose- and lots of things “reclaimed” or  “repurposed”.

There were beautifully carved wooden kitchen tools and accessories from a company in Pennsylvania- graceful and whimsical, well-crafted and practical. There were chunky clay casseroles and bowls from Chile with animal shapes  that were reminiscent of pre-Columbian artifacts- oven worthy, they will not only last a lifetime but make us smile. We found wonderful brightly colored children’s chairs made in Malaysia from recycled packing materials and reclaimed metal signage. An architect builds mosaic framed mirrors from glass tile samples that were absolutely dazzling. (I’m putting together a list of links for these sites and I’ll share them when it’s done). None of these things was “expensive” and all had heart and usefulness.

I came away thinking yet again of the old adage of “form” and “function”. The things we love best in our lives have both- they make us smile, they wear well and we don’t get tired of them. It’s those things that my kids want me to give them (and I won’t), and my friends always notice. A bowl from the Berkshires, my really old cast iron frying pans seasoned by years of French toast, my favorite twisty carved wood salad forks, and of course, my KitchenAid mixer. And my mother’s silver, which with a quick polish looks pretty spectacular after 70 years. These are things I pull out and use until they wear away- and they never seem to do that.

After a lifetime of buying and discarding stuff, we get a little smarter and look at  the real and lasting value in the objects we choose.

That’s good design. And it happens in our houses, not only in the little decisions like the towels we buy, but in the big ones as well- from what kind of furniture we need to whether we add on that second story. Those choices take time and an awareness of how we live in our homes. And we don’t want them to be just pragmatic- we want them to have the visual magic to make us smile when we walk into a room.

When we decide to renovate there’s a hundred little decisions to make which have less to do with constraints of space and everything to do with quality of experience. Where do we place the window so we’re looking at the garden and not the neighbor’s basketball hoop? What do I want to see when I have my morning coffee?  If I add to the back of the house how does that affect the light that I loved enough to make me buy the house in the first place? Do I cook alone or want everyone to gather? Do I like the morning light or does it wake me up too early? Can my neighbor see my bathtub from their window? Do we use the backyard or is it just there because it came with the house? How often do the kids have friends sleep over, and do we want them in the living room?  What’s the first thing we want to see when we come up the driveway or open the front door. For that matter, do we need a front door?

The goal is to make our space fit us as comfortably as that pair of shoes we always pull out first because they still look great and our feet won’t hurt. But we also want our home to have that elusive quality that expresses who we are and looks beautiful- without costing a fortune.

If we weren’t looking for our homes to both fit and express who we are, it would be much easier to go buy that spec house or condo where someone else has made all the decisions – usually pretty well, if generically- than to suffer through the process of a renovation- because suffer we will!  The costs for renovation, the length of time and the mess we’ll live in is certainly a lot to consider. But in the end, if we go through the process with care and thought, our homes become very personal and very special, and will last like the most special objects that we love. And those favorite shoes will fit for a very long time.

Abundance…..

A word I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, as I’ve watched my own and friend's situations become more constricted by financial stress.

We’ve all built our dreams based upon growth. And we’ve all watched the monetary results of those dreams compromised by economic constriction in the past couple of years. I’ve seen friends who built businesses with their backs to the wall as they laid off long term employees who were as much family as friends; I’ve seen us all become fearful of our futures and stability as our bank accounts dwindled and work evaporated. And the stress has affected us all.

In the midst of this, we’ve all not only survived, but made adjustments. At first we were in shock from the shift, as in all changes in life. No, we’re not buying as many “things”. And maybe we can’t have “as much” as we thought. But maybe it’s time to think again about what we do have and what we can make of it.

I bought a house myself 5 years ago. It’s a little house and I’ve diverted thinking about what I wanted to do waiting for the time when I’d have “enough money” to do “the project”. I watched the value of my house keep climbing and then plummet- all on paper. I still have the house; it’s still full of the people I love and the things I’ve accumulated over the years. And maybe I just need to rethink that project and make it happen instead of waiting until there’s “enough”.

So, I’ve redrawn the plans to be more modest and manageable. And this fall I’m going ahead and doing it. Because my real priority is to create a space where the people I care about can be together and share. It will be beautiful, maybe less “perfect” than my original plan. But it will “abundantly” accommodate my dream.

I thought about this when I was working with a young couple recently. They’ve bought a lovely house on beautiful property, but it’s a rabbit warren of rooms. Built in the 50’s, it’s a relic of a different lifestyle. Long gone are the days of “formal” dining on china when we hid the pots and the chaos of preparing for our guests. We no longer present perfect meals on silver platters. Our lives are more integrated and less secret- we gather, we connect in conversation, we chop and cook together with our children under foot. We watch Bittman and Flay, and talk about how to marinade and grill. The walls have come down between men and women, work and home, and food has become play. Gone is the need for those formal spaces, and as our budgets constrict we decide what’s most important.

This young couple was looking to make a charming but quaint icon of a house work for the life that they live, not a past memory of what “home” was supposed to be. And their budget was “limited”. That turned out to be a powerful and positive thing, because they’ve thought carefully about what they really need and want. They set priorities and worked on a plan that would give them what they need now and allow for growth- both the house and their family- over time. The house will and can work, and the changes can happen over time- or not, but the space will still be great, and much more suited to the way they live.  And it won’t require granite countertops or professional ranges (though that can stay on the wish list) for their house to become home.

 And as money becomes less tight (as it will), the question will be what do we need and want to invest, not how much do we have? Will we need those “memory rooms”, the formal spaces that are largely uninhabited? Some of us may choose to have them- and that’s great. But I think that the lesson of today is that we don’t have to stop dreaming- or realizing our dreams. We need to rethink what dreaming- or abundance-means, in all parts of our lives, including our homes, and then get on with it.