by Michael Angus | Dec 14, 2020 | Blog
Of Episode 5, the one home which prompted further reflection is Mouse Cottage ……for if home is defined in language, then Mouse Cottage exemplified two terms so associated with ‘home’: the type of home: ‘Cottage’ …and that familiar component so often inherently associated with home: ‘Garden’.
Of the former, I admit that initially I have less to say, other than this example of ‘Cottage’ was truly an exemplar. Less so the decor; but rather in its traditional and thereby familiar disposition, of front door placed centrally, of small rooms and thick roughly hewn stone walls and deep-set windows, square of course, and ceilings upstairs that pressed down upon one’s head, making manifest that most impressionable aspect of Cottage: spatial intimacy (a polite way of saying: tiny …. as more befitting a mouse perhaps…?)
Leaving further thoughts aside of the Cottage itself, and moving onto its setting, it’s a curious fact, that so often buildings of this nature – buildings that are essentially tight in spatial terms – are built in landscapes whose character is of anything but restraint. As it is here – outside, spatially, was undeniably a counterpoint to the spatial character of the Cottage: a scene of cascading pastoral intensity, an outpouring, as if necessarily complimentary – and furthermore, resplendent in a curious facet all its own: the number of frightfully rightful places to sit. Undeniably the Garden had received as much investment as the Cottage, and rightly so, perpetuating the sense of repose that the Cottage too endorsed; and curiously yet, the Garden had been so manipulated to appear ‘random’ as distinct to the tended nature of the infinitely more ‘smooth’ character of the neighbouring golf course. Nature in both manicured therefore, equally, to suit their own ends.
Personally, I could not live here, much as I enjoy watching golf. Truth is: Cottages just do not do it for me – unless they are in a considerably greater state of disrepair. For it is their age that I am drawn to, that they are aged. It is a quality that I suspect entices many, though I must confess, I would sooner let the past that existed before my time, remain past. The echoes don’t stir in me, as I might interpret (possibly incorrectly) they might in habitants of such Cottages: as if echoes of the past can (continue to) have validity, greater than that of the present? It’s a harsh observation on my part, perhaps, and if so, apology is duly proferreed – but nevertheless, I often sense in such circumstances, denial; as if steel had (or worse, preferred that it had) never been invented…..? Mind you, I’m not sure, whether given a choice I’d opt for steel before stone, but that decision is one based more on the inherent prescient qualities of each – not the appeal of those echoes of distant associations, and the implication of time, being better then, than now. I can understand the appeal, but personally, I cannot live comfortably in the long past. And anyway, I’m too tall…….
But credit is most certainly, and objectively due: for Mouse Cottage is unquestionably delightful. More so, I cannot forget, nor undervalue the delight evident also in the external workroom – in and of itself a simple yet wonderful little space, which offered that experience which never fails to thrill in an architectural ticklish kind of way – by entering through what seems to be both a door and a window, at one and the same time.
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Altogether then, I’d suspect many would consider Mouse Cottage the ideal Cottage – and Garden – and yes, absolutely ideal, as I might – but this reflection began, by wondering about the terminology, as it might define the typology: Cottage. Of all the inferences, more than anything I’d suggest it infers stasis, as opposed to dynamic, as say ‘Apartment’, or ‘Flat’ might. It’s a place that has ‘done its time’, and as such, it’s a place where one could dutifully rest, and not feel pressurised by any lingering demand of time, to keep up; for time itself rests here too……
Maybe, one day, a Cottage might also suit me, ideally so……its just a matter of time……
Michael Angus (Dec 2020)
by Michael Angus | Dec 7, 2020 | Blog
Who might testify – and with conviction, testify – that (one of) their fondest memories would (willingly) include those memories from childhood, of hearing fairy-tales? I know I would.
Like the tales themselves, though originating from long, long ago, I delight that these memories despite being distant, resonate deeply yet, and, more so, positively – for they are embedded in such magical times, not least because fairy tales then were categorically assured of certain guaranteed facts: that dreams could come true – as they so truly were, in those fairy-tales as told – and, that everyone would live happily ever after……
Both facts were true, then, and once upon a time – but time passed, and at some point, doubt pervaded, and of such persuasion borne of life-experience as to cast a pall on such gorgeous reminiscing, and to sully the memory: that maybe even then, as it is now, it was but a dream, and that any fairly-tale was only that, a tale; it was not real, nor was it ever – and everyone would not always live, happily ever after…….
But quietly nestled behind an innocuous rough stone facade, a home exists as strident antidote to that insidious doubt – for it has made the dream real……and, as is the case with fairy-tales, it has been made from unlikely sources, fashioned from little more than pots of paint and a passion for junk shops, mixed together with a heady and vibrant imagination.
From the outside one would never guess of the exotic secret kept within. Two doors brightly coloured, one pink, one warm blue, indicate frivolity…..but still, by being two, the secret is safe: for if one had been uncoloured and left ‘normal’, then undue attention would have been drawn to the remaining coloured one. It would have been too much, and would have inferred, and obviously so, its internal intention (for this was hardly a place that warranted nor endorsed outward displays of exuberant colour…say for example that one door had been pink, it would not be hard to imagine the opening line of a fairy-tale: ‘Once upon a time there was a little town, made of buildings dull and stark – except for one, which though as predominantly banal and bereft of passion as any other, exhibited something unique to it alone: colour – in the form of a front door painted a peculiar pink of shocking prettiness…..’ )
But by two doors being so coloured, no such interpretation could be made – an impression reinforced by a bike and a bench, so distinct from each other, being disposed on either side and lacking that self-same sense of collaborative composition indicated by the coloured doors. No – there was nothing further to see. This was just two houses ‘having a moment’. Within would persist as within should, as indicative of the town as a whole: nothing fancy……
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This however all transpired to be a complicit ruse – for one house was in fact wondrous within, and more so really than any home has any right to be. For the inside was indeed, a fairy tale ….
The emblems were everywhere, as soon as one passed through the threshold….roses in particular, that doubtless if touched, their thorns would prick and render the injured to sleep forever until such time as a charming prince would come to the rescue. One could almost see the Disney-esque cartoons skipping through the rooms; one would not have been surprised if the furniture talked; and all the ornaments, the fabrics, and pictures and mirrors – doubtless all come alive when the house is empty…..and inevitably, a castle was also present – for it was pointed out that this home was known to have links to the castle …… but what castle? No actual castle was evident. One can only assume it was an invented castle, a castle that shadows so many fairy tales wherein dragons loiter in the basement, and princesses sleeping or possessing the longest pleated fair hair are imprisoned seemingly hopelessly in spikey turrets silhouetted high and inaccessible against stormy dark and troubling skies. There were enough hints in the darkened living room to make convincing argument that this was indeed the case ….and even if the basement were only perceived to host such dungeon-esque qualities, unquestionably as one moved up through the house, the colours lightened, as if one were stepping into some sort of heavenly ascendance….implying, surely, that this tale will indeed end happily….
It may not be true, this interpretation of this home as a manifest fairy-tale – but this interpretation is mine, and true to me. It is my dream…… it is quite something therefore, to know that a house truly exists wherein dreams do come true……and I do not think it such a stretch to imagine it as such; I would even wish it so, for how remarkable it is to have visited a home, wherein even such an interpretation could even be considered. That in and of itself is a worthy dream……
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | Nov 30, 2020 | Blog
Of Episode 3, my thoughts, after the filming, returned inevitably to the conversion in Park Circus. Park Circus – it was built at a time when Glasgow, evidently was exhibiting a degree of confidence arguably not seen since – and that confidence both predominates and persists: when approaching the townhouse on Park Terrace one couldn’t help but feel awed by the quality and scale of the sandstone facade, curving elegantly away, whilst forever maintaining a watchful gaze, securely outwards and unashamedly proud over Kelvingrove Park and beyond, towards the silhouetted University crowning the hill opposite.
Searching for a suitable adjective, stolidity impressed itself upon me – for of all the adjectives one might employ, stolidity surely is the one most applicable, as regards the external impression of this most magnificent architectural undertaking. Stolidity…..inferring a reassuring sense of permanence. The sandstone seemed hardly aged, the lifestyle within surely as potent, befitting the grandeur of the exterior: purposeful, and as pertinent?
But – on entering, I was struck by an overriding impression: that I had entered a tomb…..
The entrance hallway, though as grand as one might expect, and indeed as awe inspiring as implied by the outside, was nevertheless hollow. It was made dark, seemingly as if light had absented itself, failing to find any empathic reason to linger; and the hall echoed as cathedrals echo, imposing on one a weight of intangible origin. On its wall, friezes impressed, by the very fact of their existence – but though stirring, were faded and as indistinct as shadows can be, despite the warmth of their tones and subject matter. They exerted a characteristic that predominated, for altogether, the hallway reeked of desolation: because clearly, at one time this place must have been heartily fulsome – yet now, it was not. Apparently abandoned, it felt cold, and as unnaturally so as death can be.
The interpretation made of external façade dissolved, abruptly. Evidently, it had been nothing more than that; an interpretation, mistakenly made – for it was a pretence, and a desperate pretence at that. I wondered, and it might be fancy yet, if I had espied more cracks in that elegant facade than I had cared to notice, so complicit was I in the buildings effort to appear as resolute.
For suddenly, that reassurance was suspect; that permanence, a dubious claim – and if that permanence implicitly implied by the grandeur of the outside, and reinforced by the voluminous proportions of the interior hall; if that rationale, and all that confidence, suitably grounded, that had engineered the creation of this magnificent architectural undertaking; if all that security subsequently established by and within the correct order of things so manifested; if all this worthiness was so suddenly revealed to be reduced to nothing more tangible than a mute, fading memory, how then could this be a home, anymore? For is not that true that home must above all things persist, beyond and before us?
If so, would it not be better that this building be reduced to rubble than to stand in such falsity, demeaning to its inherent grace? If this home is voided of its purpose, then surely it should buried in dignity than left to crumble, and it’s worth, so abandoned to be disclosed inevitably as might a guilty secret unseemly discovered and displayed for consumption in garish tabloid manner?
Such was the pathos riddled sadness that filled those short, dusky coloured moments, as I loitered in the entrance hall; wherein I might have withered had it not been for the gift of knowledge, of what might yet come. I feigned delight; moving forwards, I settled momentarily beneath the once proud centrepiece of this townhouse: the stairs – and by their lingering elegance, hope flickered, hopefully…..and then burst bright and golden, from the first the moment of entering the flat conversion…..
Nothing is devoid of association, and in turn, if true, all things must make an impression, whether delightful through to critical, and ultimately dismissal…..the cacophony is endless, of thoughts derived from what one sees around oneself. How many such thoughts draped themselves upon me in that instant of entering I could not say – but there were hardly few. Things, abounded, each demanding its place; so, so many, many things. I have seen such things before, accoutrements of life, and so gathered, one impinging upon the other; I’ve been assaulted by abundance. But this was an abundant abundance – and I could not say: over-abundant, because, unlike the stacked junk shop, or the cluttered unused backrooms, or nearly filled attic, this building could accommodate such an outpouring. It was like entering an Aladdin’s cave, like discovering the hidden treasure, finally, and despite the cynicism of detractors of quest. It literally, took one’s breath away, so richly hued was the abundance, of things……
But as I reflect now upon it, I realise that there was some further abundance than that so transparently on display. There was a blessing being made, within this conversion, and it was a blessing for this townhouse as a whole, to have been gifted within its walls, and be party to such a level of heartfelt investment. From the hall it was clear that the life that had once imbued this townhouse was gone; long gone. That the townhouse had been sub-divided into apartments (and so brutally executed) only confirmed this bitter understanding: that its glory days were over…..and yet, here within this converted flat, an oasis had been created. A paradise, paraded in the form of furnishings, pictures, and objects, objet, relics, and ornaments, each tempered exotic…..but, what of these, things? So what, if a room is filled so?
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Though they delighted, it was not these things which impacted upon me, as much as the golden sculpted embellishments which proliferated, on the cornices. Inevitably the height of the rooms drew the eye, upwards, and so satisfactorily so, to witness such investment. Gratifying, indeed: for to fill ones home, abundantly is one thing; to impart abundance by the patient and tenacious application of one’s own hand – and at such height, and in acceptance of and with due diligence to the incredible intricacies of cornices (being conspicuously intransigent elements of the original building) – that inferred an abundance beyond, that not only embellished, but restored.
And I recalled that I had seen glance of such golden embellishments restoring high in the entrance hall…..
What strikes me now, is that factor which exemplifies this property more so than any other: not the investment made within the confines of the owners property, but rather that investment permeated out, to infer new life into the whole townhouse. Tentatively for sure, but nonetheless, one could not help but be both impressed and inspired by the efforts of an individual to breathe life back into a building teetering on the brink of extinction; and more so: to notice that this was indeed the case – to see behind the proud stoic facade and take note where others may not: that care was, despite appearances, so desperately needed here…..not just for ones own domain, as might be determined by legality and conveyance, but applied as and where the demand exists, even if without ones grounds.
To care so….literally, out-with one’s comfort zone….
These reflections provoke thoughts, not entirely rounded, nor concluded, and drift into meanderings that require time to settle. So – if these reflections do not quite rally, then it is only because this home invited considerations of matters that remain, even now, in germination. To end then with beginnings: if home does not allow one the opportunity to reveal ones deepest vulnerabilities in safety, then that surely is not truly a home…… and ones capacity to express care, so openly, and leaving one so exposed and yet, so secure, as is the case here….how would one measure this home?
And, more so, if a home allows one to discover care, again, the ability to care, where there was once, only loss; to become a place of iterative restoration, is that not a home, truly, a home, tested, and found not to be wanting in that most profound capacity: to be stolid, by provision of solace?
They say, home is where the heart is – it’s some home, that has made that heart, silenced, beat again.
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | Nov 24, 2020 | Blog
I’ve swithered, and to be honest, prevaricated somewhat, on what the focus should be of this second SHOTY reflection, basically as to whether the attention should be on the winning finalist, the Manse …..not because I was in a huff (!) – there are astounding aspects to this finalist, it’s decor most of all – rather, because the specific circumstances provoking the need for judgement of the draw, invite further reflection more so on the on the debate than the outcome, and the actual winner.
The winner – is a rather difficult term, when associated with the programmes process, generally, for it implies a hierarchical evaluation; and we, the team, and the three judges, have from the outset acknowledged that all the homes submitted are already winners. Nevertheless, the debate in this episode demanded that one be selected, of the two tied; and somehow, the debate highlighted some objective peculiarities which ultimately might help the discernment of exactly why some homes are in fact, better than others, beyond the subjective.
So – speaking of the subjective – my personal preference was the Church conversion. Not because it was objectively better than the Manse, but because the Manse was, in my opinion, worse – and this was all down to personal taste: I could not live with the over-exuberant décor. Although I could appreciate the intention, and the quality by which the interior had been executed it was to me cacophony none the less. I would have had to completely re-decorate and re-furnish – to do so, I would have to strip everything away, and I’d be left then with a shell of a Manse. A challenge, admittedly – but hadn’t the Church conversion had taken on challenges considerably greater? By even just the obvious practicalities, the remoteness of its location, by the absence of services; the buildings condition? Credit due, therefore: the Church conversion already, more meritorious than the Manse conversion, on account of the difficulty of initial circumstances.
Unfortunately, however, if I had lived in the Church, once converted, I would have had to do the same as with the Manse: I would have to re-decorate and re-furnish……for its décor and furnishings were, once again in my subjective opinion, by comparison not cacophonous enough. The space created demanded more……
So – either way therefore, I would be left with a shell, and an inherited one at that – and therein lies perhaps the troubling heart of the debate: the question of value, once purpose has been served; and too, the ability to appropriately appropriate.
Of those two inherited shells, both would forever resonate, though hardly equitably. The Manse was always a home; it is not difficult to imagine that it could continue to be a home still – but, as for the Church? Could one ever truly live in a building so immutably created for a purpose otherwise, and especially one so imbued: a house of ‘God’, as opposed to a home for ‘Man’? One could of course remove the iconography that identifies the Church, as Church. But what then the point, and then there’s the issue of respect: the conversion of Church demands, somehow, that the trappings that make it so are retained (in this case specifically the lancet windows, and the voluminous centre). Conundrum compounds conundrum – for by doing so, this respect due to the built fabric constrains from the outset the making of a home, to be so constricted by both form and fenestration; not to mention the endless echoes that would forever permeate: doubtless, the prayers previously intoned would continually seep out of the walls and flavour the living, whether welcome or not.
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The question remains then, whether it is ever appropriate to re-inhabit a building, devoid of its original use, a concern which applies when any building typology is re-inhabited. One would balk at the prospect of storing wine in a coffee pot, whilst pouring coffee from a wine bottle; what difference a building? Even the re-inhabiting a building of the same typology can provoke subtle troubling concerns, in the same way as one might shudder at wearing clothes of the departed. But here, we have a situation that demands the question: is it appropriate, to so undermine the intentions of a building, designed, created, and maintained in the service of one unique activity, by adapting it to suit another, an alternate, and as unique, activity?
The conclusion is perhaps unavoidable: that it is not appropriate – and furthermore, the outcome of the debate, and the outcome too, of which one of these two finalists is a winner, is pre-determined, and inevitable: it is the Manse, it has to be – for there is in fact no debate: the Manse was once a home, and therefore can continue to act so (despite the inevitable, though minimal seepage). The Church, on the other hand, was a Church – and always will be a Church, no matter how hard one might try to convert it otherwise. Its faith is simply too strong; it is too imbedded, and too demanding to be heard – and no amount of wallpaper could ever silence, though gentle, its persistent cacophony.
It is categorically worth re-iterating, that had no debate been warranted, the Manse, independently, displayed characteristics in which it excelled, as home, inside and out. It was stunning, memorable, and of innumerable merits which in their own right welcome due acknowledgment and inspire consideration as much as this debate might.
As for the debate itself ……that’s just a matter of my opinion……
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
by Michael Angus | Nov 22, 2020 | Media
Of the three contenders, I had expected that one in particular would win, and categorically so: The Edge.
It was undeniably notable, by its siting alone; and the building itself smacked from the outset of being ambitiously smart and sophisticated, evidencing touches of class even from the roadside: a cleanly profiled timber boundary fence, indicative of the buildings lustrous character, confirmed by the revelation, subsequently of expansive glass and sharpened profiles resplendent outside, leading seamlessly inside, to interiors, sleekly trimmed and elegant. Self-confidence exuded throughout, befitting altogether therefore a final place guaranteed for this stylish contender, and certainly more than the other two …. or so it seemed.
However, it was piqued by a transparently less remarkable offering: a (nominally) converted Victorian schoolhouse in Kelso, decorated with sensitive sweetness it must be said but otherwise, one might argue: of forgettable architectural merit…..
So – how so? What did the latter possess that the former did not? What made the Kelso schoolhouse conversion a more appropriate finalist as ‘home – of the year’?
The Edge – it should have won…. and I’d advocate, always, that a new build places considerably more demand on the designer. Even so, a conversion had won…..?
Perhaps then, conversions pose equally as complex design issues as a new build? Maybe – but the choices of the former are innumerable, often of conflicting and contradictory character, presenting the undeniable impression that any attainable resolution will always be a compromise: for how to balance the demands, of location, of materials, of composition, of construction, of form……the list of concerns goes on and on, and to resolve them harmoniously, and furthermore, to the satisfaction of client needs, to negotiate a perceived and desired reality, when no reality exists: the building is yet unknown – is difficult, for sure.
Conversion, by comparison, does not need to contend with what it means: to be conceived – and yet, conversely, new build does not necessitate having to deal with equally as elusive intangibles: to be forgiving, for example, to be able to forget, to interpret, to fathom, and more so: to establish, nae, discern the appropriate line that is forever a blur, between conservation and conversion, running incessantly the risk inherent of stepping inappropriately across it, and making marks that might unruly scar as opposed to restore.
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Not so this conversion, however. Infringement into the building’s fabric was slight; and its execution kindly considerate to the constructed fabric, both inside and out (notably evident by the caring repairs made to the existing external stonework). Subsequent finishes, internally, of colouring and furnishing maintained that self-same level of care – and so, if the underlying and most critical aspect of conversion is not to abuse the existing building, but to enhance, this conversion clearly met that condition. As for the Edge, if (one of) the most critical aspects of new build is to locate the building as to best maximise the opportunities of the site, then The Edge did not. And therein lies the distinction: The Edge was hardly on the edge. Rather, it set itself, its back, deep into the site; not buried, but effectively so. Yet the site offered so much more; the potential that other sites do not possess: a site, literally, on the edge – but the building as built failed to exploit that most obvious condition. It hesitated, and declined the invitation to excel – for there was opportunity to be remarkable, to be precipitous, to reach out into the air and allow for a considerably more dynamic intervention, an intervention that by doing so might have revealed more of what might be, than what already is….
Unfortunately, and to compound the assessment, the buildings architectural character cited many who had done just that, especially those hailing from Los Angeles in particular. When one has seen Neutra’s Lovell House and more so, that most iconic house on the edge of them all, the Stahl House in LA by Pierre Koenig, one cannot help but be infused by a certain amount of disappointment in The Edge.
Comparatively, I was not disappointed in the Kelso conversion; I might have wished for more dramatic stimuli, but I was comfortable, at ease, and content. The ambition had been met; I couldn’t complain. Yet, at the Edge…? I suspect I’d always be wondering, and yes, left feeling somewhat dissatisfied, despite its obvious merits – and one thing surely that one should never be, in and with one’s home: is disappointed ……?
Of course, these ruminations are driven by my architectural preoccupations, and the selection of the finalist not mine alone, but the result of a collaborative and cumulative assessment. This distillation of the rationale is hardly objective therefore – though I would argue, had the Edge responded as cited, architecturally to the location, I suspect that the resultant building would have long retained its place in any visitors consciousness, as a place of singular qualities, exemplary, awe-inspiring and doubtless therefore worthy of universal accolade.
Michael Angus (Nov 2020)
