As a child, I was swept away by the opulent film, "The Philadelphia Story." I announced that I wanted to live in that big house. My mother asked, "Do you need a house that big? Think about what you really need." In this way, she quietly introduced the idea of living according to one’s needs, not wants.
My husband and I are in our forties, and until now we have been happily, creatively nomadic, but we have come to the point where we need our own home. We had originally hoped to renovate an older home, but we found land. Or maybe it found us. The parcel that chose us included mixed-hardwoods on the edge of a lush ravine. White birch and maple dotted the bluff. The privacy and light-shimmering canopy lured us in, and the central clearing, probably created by lumber trucks during the last cutting, meant we would disturb few trees to build there. When I walked into that clearing, I felt surrounded by glittering, green-faceted walls. The question became how we would build gently, with integrity, in that space. First, we asked my mother’s question: what do we really need?
We need room for the two of us to move easily, to welcome my stepson, and to entertain small groups of friends. We need a place to cozy up. We like efficiency, but we are not appliance hogs and we don't have a lot of recreational toys--that means intimate rooms and a one car garage. We enjoy graceful light, proportionate lines, and interesting movement within spaces. Even though we had decided to build, we hoped to use as few resources as possible--not only because of our budget, but because new houses tax the environment. We decide to look for a small plan with a focus on aesthetics, not square feet.
I also remembered the American architect, Frank Lloyd Wright, built his Wisconsin studio, Taliesen East, on the "brow" of the hill so that it would blend into the contours of the land, not dominate it. (The word "Taliesen" means "shining brow.") As our search evolved, we realized we wanted to create a small home (1000 and 1600 square feet) which would fit into our hillside, our brow. Could we find a design that worked with the drop in elevation? Could we tuck-in the house so it would have a smaller, organic look?
Why small? Maybe because I remember growing up in a farmhouse with small, gabled, functional rooms which I shared with siblings. My sense of family was born in crowded hallways which doubled as toy rooms and a woods which replaced TV. Because those rooms were multi-purpose, we learned about sharing space and suspending territorialism. We learned about being together--not in perfect harmony--but in an imperfect, evolving sense of community. Despite childhood spats, I grew to love nearby voices, the close presence of another person. For me, small space meant communal bigness.
We began as many people do, by looking at design magazines and home catalogues. Many large floorplans offered interesting options, but few small ones revealed the artistic integrity for which we hungered, and not one depicted a one-car garage. We had hoped our need for a small home would have simplified the process. Instead, it created a greater challenge.
But as we searched, we began to learn more about ourselves and how we "practiced" home. For example, we love to cook with friends, so we wanted a central stove with access to other spaces. We also wanted morning light, which meant an eastern exposure in that kitchen. But the hillside slope ran west, not east. Those issues developed thorns. Shortly after we began sketching our own clumsy floorplans, we realized we needed help.
With some hesitation, we turned to an architect, not an easy decision for two independent people. But we discovered a compassionate man who respected our wish to build--and to contract with him--only what we needed. He agreed to develop the working drawings for a home of 1400 square feet, larger than we first imagined, but his idea of interlocking rooms terraced down the ravine--starting with an east kitchen--answered our need for site and size. In the process, he offered a remark that affirmed our search and sensibility. He said small homes were challenging, "Because it's easier to design big. Small ones call for art."
Anne-Marie Oomen is Director of the Creative Writing Program at the Interlochen Center for the Arts.
