By Tim Shannon
HOUSES are great story tellers, they reveal a lot about their inhabitants. Often life’s circumstances affect where and how we live in our houses, but the tussle between how we are shaped by where we live, and how we influence this shaping to our liking is where the stories grow. House making is such an important part of life, if we were given the freedom to forage through our dreams and imagine a house that told our stories, what Utopias might we discover?
I don’t like being isolated, or crowded. I am comfortable when I stand on a rise, facing north with dawn to my right and dusk to my left, under a big sky with the horizon in the distance. Perhaps this is because I grew up in Colonel Light’s Garden City, which was surveyed with a keen eye on a foreign landscape under a summer sun and clear skies 185 years ago.
HOUSES are great story tellers, they reveal a lot about their inhabitants. Often life’s circumstances affect where and how we live in our houses, but the tussle between how we are shaped by where we live, and how we influence this shaping to our liking is where the stories grow. House making is such an important part of life, if we were given the freedom to forage through our dreams and imagine a house that told our stories, what Utopias might we discover?
I don’t like being isolated, or crowded. I am comfortable when I stand on a rise, facing north with dawn to my right and dusk to my left, under a big sky with the horizon in the distance. Perhaps this is because I grew up in Colonel Light’s Garden City, which was surveyed with a keen eye on a foreign landscape under a summer sun and clear skies 185 years ago.
Adelaide’s dream offered shelter and sustenance on an acre of land for each settler family, free from religious persecution and government control, and an escape from the slums of industrial England. Here I experienced a faint Calvanistic aura, lean-ness, modesty, frugality, honesty, conservatism, guarded pride, and a clear connection to the landscape.
I left my Adelaide tribe long ago, but I fancy one of those acre allotments, in a beautiful peri- urban setting located somewhere vaguely familiar in Australia’s southeast. I dream of a house in a garden, or a garden that hosts a house, where the two are entwined and dependent upon each other, restoring and caring for the flora and fauna, being productive and resourceful, making the most of every nook and cranny. An acre must work hard these days to pay its dues, if it wants to be saved from subdivision.
A garden needs time and devotion. A garden’s labour can reward the generations who experience its delights. Its mood follows the seasons, its growth records the years which remind us of life’s cycles. It is host to insects, animals, reptiles, possibly fish and frogs, fragrances, birds and their songs, wind rustling leaves, dancing sunlight, cool shade, fresh dew, picnics and parties, children’s games and trees to climb, fruit, vegetables and nuts to eat; and it is a perfect place to keep memories safe.
A house also needs time and devotion. It takes effort to feel comfortable in your home. I dream that a house made of timber will age well, is gentle to the touch as well as the eye, has stories of its own to tell, and might be crafted as beautifully as a Shaker chair. This house belongs to the ground as it meanders through the garden. It is balanced between the points of the compass and the passing of the sun. The roof is a signature among tree tops, uplifting to make space below and to let light in and allow views of the sky above. This house is a musical instrument asking to be tuned and played.
Like a clearing in the bush, there is a place in the garden that suggests itself as a good place to settle, where the house is part surprise and part invitation. The entrance quietly signals its location; while remaining aloof, it is the prelude to being politely welcomed. It is reached after crossing the most important garden courtyard that the house has to offer, where the house wraps itself around, but offers little to suggest what lies behind its cloistered walls.
Passing through the doorway there is a glance to the sky, the entry hall joins a gallery which continues the journey of discovery, a labyrinth of passage that connects and separates the experiences of the house and its garden. Here, like getting to know a stranger, trust, desire and time are needed to learn what lies below the surface.
The plan of this house, like a good musical score, is a thoughtful arrangement which carries you along. The experiences of daily life find their place according to their importance and their needs, and in response to the sun’s path and the garden’s embrace.
Shared living takes pride of place. Like the occupants of an upturned boat, under a vaulted roof the dining table sits in the centre, a place to lounge about enjoys the northern outlook, while to the south the kitchen occupies the helm overseeing the affairs of the house.
Window shutters admit sunlight when it is welcome, there are views to the sky and access to the garden north, east and west.
Everything cascades from here as rooms open to galleries, galleries open to gardens, windows manipulate views, light and sun, and pergolas cast their striped shadows. This is a house for family and friends whose presence is always felt whether they are there or not, when the house is full it plays its tune in Fortissimo, while memories are stirred by the silence of an empty room.
Two sanctuaries enjoy dawn and its garden songs. A main bedroom hosts the rituals of beginning and ending each day, comfortably and without fuss, while a studio is the keeper of forty years of creative struggle and discovery. Then there is a study with its Calvanistic inclination, a bit out of the way, but close to things.
Of course there is need for the usual servants of a house; utilities, stores, a garage, rubbish, gardening gadgets, all sensibly located out of harm’s way. Bookshelves, paintings and objects collected, benches inviting a rest and a conversation or places to put things, doors that slide, screens that divide, and all the things that turn a house into a home.
Finally, there are bathrooms, where sometimes the mirrored sight of our bodies reminds us of our being. Here early childhood memories are revived, bath time, hair washing and combing, teeth cleaning, pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, and the comforting smell of talcum powder. In this house, like some Japanese houses, the bathroom is a place of daily ritual where inside and outside are brought together and our senses are rejuvenated.
Here, where the garden and the house are safely entwined, this circle of dreams is complete, only to begin another one contemplating what this house might really be like.
I left my Adelaide tribe long ago, but I fancy one of those acre allotments, in a beautiful peri- urban setting located somewhere vaguely familiar in Australia’s southeast. I dream of a house in a garden, or a garden that hosts a house, where the two are entwined and dependent upon each other, restoring and caring for the flora and fauna, being productive and resourceful, making the most of every nook and cranny. An acre must work hard these days to pay its dues, if it wants to be saved from subdivision.
A garden needs time and devotion. A garden’s labour can reward the generations who experience its delights. Its mood follows the seasons, its growth records the years which remind us of life’s cycles. It is host to insects, animals, reptiles, possibly fish and frogs, fragrances, birds and their songs, wind rustling leaves, dancing sunlight, cool shade, fresh dew, picnics and parties, children’s games and trees to climb, fruit, vegetables and nuts to eat; and it is a perfect place to keep memories safe.
A house also needs time and devotion. It takes effort to feel comfortable in your home. I dream that a house made of timber will age well, is gentle to the touch as well as the eye, has stories of its own to tell, and might be crafted as beautifully as a Shaker chair. This house belongs to the ground as it meanders through the garden. It is balanced between the points of the compass and the passing of the sun. The roof is a signature among tree tops, uplifting to make space below and to let light in and allow views of the sky above. This house is a musical instrument asking to be tuned and played.
Like a clearing in the bush, there is a place in the garden that suggests itself as a good place to settle, where the house is part surprise and part invitation. The entrance quietly signals its location; while remaining aloof, it is the prelude to being politely welcomed. It is reached after crossing the most important garden courtyard that the house has to offer, where the house wraps itself around, but offers little to suggest what lies behind its cloistered walls.
Passing through the doorway there is a glance to the sky, the entry hall joins a gallery which continues the journey of discovery, a labyrinth of passage that connects and separates the experiences of the house and its garden. Here, like getting to know a stranger, trust, desire and time are needed to learn what lies below the surface.
The plan of this house, like a good musical score, is a thoughtful arrangement which carries you along. The experiences of daily life find their place according to their importance and their needs, and in response to the sun’s path and the garden’s embrace.
Shared living takes pride of place. Like the occupants of an upturned boat, under a vaulted roof the dining table sits in the centre, a place to lounge about enjoys the northern outlook, while to the south the kitchen occupies the helm overseeing the affairs of the house.
Window shutters admit sunlight when it is welcome, there are views to the sky and access to the garden north, east and west.
Everything cascades from here as rooms open to galleries, galleries open to gardens, windows manipulate views, light and sun, and pergolas cast their striped shadows. This is a house for family and friends whose presence is always felt whether they are there or not, when the house is full it plays its tune in Fortissimo, while memories are stirred by the silence of an empty room.
Two sanctuaries enjoy dawn and its garden songs. A main bedroom hosts the rituals of beginning and ending each day, comfortably and without fuss, while a studio is the keeper of forty years of creative struggle and discovery. Then there is a study with its Calvanistic inclination, a bit out of the way, but close to things.
Of course there is need for the usual servants of a house; utilities, stores, a garage, rubbish, gardening gadgets, all sensibly located out of harm’s way. Bookshelves, paintings and objects collected, benches inviting a rest and a conversation or places to put things, doors that slide, screens that divide, and all the things that turn a house into a home.
Finally, there are bathrooms, where sometimes the mirrored sight of our bodies reminds us of our being. Here early childhood memories are revived, bath time, hair washing and combing, teeth cleaning, pyjamas, dressing gowns and slippers, and the comforting smell of talcum powder. In this house, like some Japanese houses, the bathroom is a place of daily ritual where inside and outside are brought together and our senses are rejuvenated.
Here, where the garden and the house are safely entwined, this circle of dreams is complete, only to begin another one contemplating what this house might really be like.