We are pleased to represent Maine in a newly published architectural book: 50 US Architects: Residential + Planning www.50usarchitects.com

50 US Architects: Residential + Planning presents a curated collection of award-winning residential and master planning work from leading American designers whose philosophies are rooted in the modernist doctrine or are distilled from vernacular precedents. Meticulously detailed and site-specific, the featured projects focus on sustainability, technology, and the human spirit.

The premise is simple and fertile:  At the heart of the museum grounds is the original Farnsworth House, built in 1850 for a wealthy young family whose daughter Lucy eventually founded the museum.  We are asked to re-imagine the original program, and design a house for a 21^st century Farnsworth family on the site of the existing house.

In our design process for the new house, we have taken the opportunity to explore not only solutions for the specific program, but to use this time to deepen our investigations of larger topics.  How do we develop a solution that represents this place and this time as much as the original Homestead does?  What does it mean to choose to live in the center of a Maine town when one could afford to have an undisturbed ocean parcel?  What is the cultural language of architectural materials and details—both contemporary and historical—and how do we use them intentionally to convey meaning?

 We realize we’ve been given a wonderful opportunity here.  We’ve aimed for a design that is rich and provocative, and respectful of this unique and distinguished place.

Premised simply, “maximize your gains, minimize your losses”, a Passive House building optimizes the envelope with air-tight construction, high insulation values, and the elimination of thermal bridging. The efficient envelope coupled with controlled ventilation, offers the opportunity to significantly downsize the building’s mechanical system and puts a building steps away from achieving true “net zero” energy-use without the use of expensive equipment.

Our commitment is integrated in our current projects, where we have collaborated with architects who follow the Passive House performance standard. And now our in-house commitment has greatened after graduating Devin as a Certified Passive House Consultant as of January 2012!

Passive House principles seem to be a perfect fit for our studio as we continually seek to holistically and harmoniously integrate sustainability, building performance, and aesthetics into the experience of inhabiting our buildings.

But, in retrospect—here on the dawn of the Year of the Dragon—we look back for just a minute to realize it’s been an incredibly stimulating and productive year. Projects take on a life of their own, and with the aid of all the great collaborators with whom we’re currently working, much is accomplished.

Weeks from completion is a major renovation in Pacific Palisades, turning an undistinguished 1960s house into something with character befitting its incredible site. Along the way, we deepened our understanding of Spanish mission architectural prototypes in California.

Well underway in design and construction are two new houses in Maine that have taken our practice to a new level in sustainability expertise (one of the houses, a large one, promises to score a near-zero energy footprint), while allowing us to study the line between tradition and modernity in architecture. This study—inherent to the roots of this firm—has been enlivened with the perspective of thinking about architectural details and materials as grammar in a language that conveys meaning. Our search, on every project, is to find the architectural language appropriate for this client, site, and team of collaborators.

Looking ahead in the Year of the Dragon (power, strength, good luck. . . . .), we will continue with projects mentioned; start the design of another new house using Passive House energy standards; and have been invited by the eminent Farnsworth Museum in Maine to participate in an exhibition that re-imagines the commission to design the 19th century Farnsworth House (at the heart of the museum grounds) for the same family in 2012, reflecting 21st century parameters and aspirations.

Meanwhile, back here on Rochedale Road—our home and studio—we only have to look out into our garden to see that much happens in a year, if we allow nature to take its course. . . . . .

We’ve decided to create a new forum for discussion of all things DESIGN this fall by hosting a series of lunches right here on the long table in the garden at Rochedale Lane. We’re not academics, but we don’t have our heads buried in architectural sand, either, and we love talking about design—from architecture to art to writing and everything in between. This is not intended to be too structured, and sometimes the conversation may stray to favorite restaurants or must-read books, but we do see these lunches as opportunities to bring together design-minded people. If we have our act together, we may announce conceptual generators for discussion beforehand.

We’re inviting anyone who wants to drop by for lunch on alternate Thursdays. E-postcards will go out to some of our friends in the Los Angeles community, but all are welcome. Simply email us by Tuesday (devin@noreliusstudio.com or bruce@noreliusstudio.com), and we’ll make sure there is enough of whatever super-simple lunch we have for everyone. Because we recognize that everyone is busy, we invite you to arrive at 12:30, and leave promptly by 2.

Hope to see you.

SMMOA has the advantage and disadvantage of being in the tumble of art-filled industrial buildings that make up Bergamot Station. Bergamot has a scruffy energy, but it was difficult to identify the museum as distinct from all the other entities there, especially because it’s located on a pedestrian alley with other galleries around it.

Our concept was to create a gradual densification of “signs” as you approached the front door of the museum, much like the gradual magnification of musical sound as you approach and pass by that urban gospel church on Sunday morning. Quick crescendo, quick decrescendo. How could we do it without too much architectural self-consciousness or too much money? And how could we reinforce the museum’s image of being vibrant and unexpected?

Jay Griffith, landscape architect, part of the collaboration, advocated for elimination of extraneous details, and repetition of a simple red color in all major elements. Three red perforated metal screens, each L-shaped, define three edges of the space.They’re built with sculptural precision by Cortney Lofton, of Lofton Contracting, Inc. Jay contributed a series of planters, each painted red. These moves bracketed the space well, but we still didn’t have anywhere for people to pause and dwell in the space. It needed another level of scale that was more human.

Elsa smartly saw a way to accomplish several things at once. Steve Keene, a New York artist known for his ability to explore several themes simultaneously at a truly galloping pace, had been invited for a resident week of painting pieces to be sold to the public to benefit the museum. Could we design a suite of furniture that he could paint, with the theme of “SMMOAsis”? We quickly came up with a number of pieces, to be built simply out of plywood, with lots of surface for paint. They’re designed to be caricatures of furniture, intentionally a little aesthetically awkward. The concept was fine tuned by museum registrar Santy Wang and furniture fabricator Brian Briggs, to make them easily stack for storage.

They complete the space: further “densification” as one approaches the front door, and a place to pause to think about that gorgeous Beatrice Wood exhibition you just saw, before you are thrust back out into the real world of trying to turn left onto Pico at rush hour.

These are the principles we established:

1. Document the existing house thoroughly.
2. Understand it as much as possible: its place in an experimental community, its specific geographical and cultural context, the architectural concept and intentions, its construction execution, and modifications made over time.
3. Stabilize and rehabilitate the house, but don’t expect to return it to a pristine condition that doesn’t express its age and story.
4. Do nothing to the house that can’t be easily reversed in the future.
5. Ensure the renovations respect the original design fabric, but remain distinct and expressive of today.
6. Move toward net-zero energy use, i.e., producing enough renewable energy to offset the carbon-based energy used.

Easily said. But more complex in reality. Each design decision raises questions, can seem contradictory or inconsistent, and must be balanced with the realities of budget and time. Still, we’re moving ahead. In simple terms, our goals are to paint, install a new kitchen and bathrooms, replace outdated systems for heat and hot water, and develop a garden that works for the way we live. Many possibilities never even crept onto our table for discussion: we don’t need an addition, we don’t need to reconfigure interior spaces, and there are no structural deficiencies that need remedies. We live in a mild climate, so we don’t need air conditioning, and we just need enough heat to take the chill off in the winter.

The first two principles—documentation and understanding—were relatively easily accomplished in this house. We were given original 1948 construction documents as part of the sale of the house, and they were very complete. We can see how the vertical and seismic structural loads are resolved in the house, where underslab plumbing lines run, etc. Everything was very carefully detailed. And, since this community has been well-documented in articles and books, we now know a lot about the house. My previous writing entry about getting to know the house by drawing its details is another layer of understanding that I now have for the house.

The third principle—stabilization without reconstruction—was also an easy and intuitive one for us. The house had no significant problems to be fixed, and it wasn’t in our budget to restore it to a pristine state, even if we wanted to, so we have quickly come to love the sagging eaves and wood posts with the marks of thousands of tricycles and new puppies. We did, however, remove paint from the originally-bare concrete block and take out the thick-pile carpet, cracked vinyl asbestos flooring, and miscellaneous light fixtures.

The fourth principle is where, perhaps, it gets interesting, and interpreting “easily reversed in the future” may be quite subjective. Still, this can be reduced to a fairly simple strategy. The kitchen and bathrooms are tired, and the bathrooms especially a bit stingy by today’s standards. We don’t intend to enlarge any of them, but we do feel it’s fair game to strip these three rooms to the walls and start over again. No windows or doors will be moved, and certainly no walls, but we will start with a clean slate, recognizing that the next owner will probably do the same, appalled at the decisions we made way back in 2010. This strategy dovetails with principle five, ensuring that new work is expressive of the time.

Regarding the fifth principle, we will try our hardest to stay away from trendy architectural gestures and materials. Our intent is to tweak the palette of materials already in place. The concrete floors, concrete block, and gray-stained douglas fir plywood walls are neutral and unrefined, and they could all be examples of the concept of wabi sabi. They are imperfect and show wear; they are lovely in shadow, and work together to create warmth and quietude in the house. We have painted all the beams and columns a very dark gray/brown to strengthen the shadows, and have exposed and polished the concrete floors. New cabinetry will be faced with oil-rubbed steel— a material that certainly wouldn’t have been present in the house originally, but in our minds a continuation of the celebration of raw, slightly industrial materials. We’ve used it successfully at our house in Maine.

So, the messy process begins: dumpsters, an assault on the house from all directions by contractors, and much deconstructing before any reconstructing can begin. Nevertheless, the house holds its own: it doesn’t have the feeling of a home stripped down to its bones and with its dignity violated. Instead, it feels like a traditional Turkish massage: abrasive, aggressive, and little uncomfortable, but invigorating and restorative.