If you know me, you know I'm not the suburban type.
I get to say that because I tried it a long time ago in a county not all that far away and I was miserable with all of it: the distance to the city, the lack of sidewalks, the dead end streets, excuse me, cul de sacs, every bit of it.
So while I wasn't nearly as curious to see the Richmond Symphony Designer House all the way out in Hallsley as I'd been when it was in the city, the reliably generous Holmes offered me tickets so I grabbed a friend and went to the county.
Clearly, I went in biased because I'm not a fan of a) big, showy houses or b) suburban architecture or even c) overly designed rooms that don't seem livable.
Example: designers who put color-coordinated covers on books in the library or study so the books match the decor (actually happened at another designer house). Spare me.
All of this is a roundabout way of saying that much of the designer house was not to my taste. Not the pseudo-Hamptons architecture, not the retro '80s wallpaper styles, not the nouveau riche accouterments.
Even so, I can always find something to appreciate and today it was the porches and the graffiti.
The screened porch was unlike any I'd ever seen, with its arched screened walls and enormous center screen wall with no support pieces breaking up the view of the woods.
Oh-so politically correct, it had a faux wood floor, touted as easy to clean, but I tend to think that's a non-issue because rich people don't actually use screened porches, do they?
I also gave it points for its multiple uses given there was a sofa, two chairs, a chaise lounge and a table for eating, all with views.
The upstairs sleeping porch, just as huge, had only a single bed where I would have put a queen bed and used it every night of the summer. But that's just me.
A couple of women came in behind me, noted the whirring ceiling fan and immediately started asking where the vents for heat and air conditioning were. None were to be found.
Reminding them that it was a sleeping porch, I said that the idea was to have the many windows open to the night air. But wait, rich people don't want fresh air ever. What was I thinking?
The porch had a lot of charming elements including an unusual shape that gave it six walls of windows and a table with an old Candyland game set up on it.
One room I got a kick out of was a guest room designed by the U-Fab guys over on Robinson Street. What I loved about their very colorful room was that the inspiration had been all the street art on the old GRTC bus sheds which sit directly across from U-Fab.
Photographs on the walls were close-ups of the street art - including a scarred door on which was painted "just another day in paradise" - and the palette was just as colorful, all bright primary colors. The rug had been made out of bright t-shirts woven together making it very soft underfoot.
Maybe I liked it because it had such an un-suburban feel.
An unexpected bonus to my suburban field was walking into bedroom #4 to find a designer friend who had created the modern, masculine room. He proudly explained that the colorful, large, abstract photographs were close-ups of geodes he'd found as a kid. One sat on the dresser.
I gave him much credit for such a nerdy take on his design. Well done, my friend.
We hadn't seen each other in months, but part of that is how busy he's been since he took on the designer house project, a seven day a week proposition apparently. On the plus side, he said he'd given out hundreds of business cards, and hopefully that will translate into new customers, surely the goal of doing one of these extravaganzas.
I heard on the way out that the house has been sold to a young family who will take possession of it once all the designers' hard work is removed. One woman said she'd heard a rumor that the new owners had bought everything in the master bedroom because they liked it so much.
Meh. Not my style.
But then, neither is county living. I'm the type who prefers to actually sleep on porches. And I like to see my street art first hand.
That said, I'm glad I went. It's important to be reminded how good you have it. Simple, but so good.
Showing posts with label designer house. Show all posts
Showing posts with label designer house. Show all posts
Saturday, October 11, 2014
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Eating Some of My Words
When I blogged about seeing the Richmond Symphony Designer House back in August, here, I was convinced that I would hate everything the designers were going to do to tart up the magnificent 1913 Rothesay house.
I'm here to say that that's not entirely true and I'm making that acknowledgement for my friend David who was convinced that upon seeing it after all the work, I would recant. And I am, but only partially.
First of all, I couldn't have chosen a more beautiful day to visit the house on the James. Unlike recent weeks, it was mid-70s and breezy when I arrived around noon. I was sorry to see that more windows weren't open, but with no screens, perhaps it's a dust or debris issue.
So what impressed me? I loved the foyer's nod to the house's history as a place where music was often performed, with instruments scattered about.
I was charmed by the morning hall where the current owners still have breakfast in the east-facing room with a beautiful river view (and a tiny zebra finch in a cage; I had a pair in college and they're personable little birds).
In the earlier post I had expressed my concern about the books being covered in the library (actually it's the study) and I was told today that the reason for that was to lighten up the room; I still didn't approve.
But I was most impressed to learn that the little room had originally been a garage and when larger touring cars came along, it was converted to the current use. The floor tile had been almost black with dirt, but upon cleaning they discovered intermittent square tiles depicting knights fighting mythical creatures. They were the highlight of the room for me.
Throughout the house, it was little details like that which grabbed my attention more so than the overall "done" look of the rooms.
The floor in the living room had been stenciled with stain and was now a work of art and the fact that they took an existing wooden floor and made it the featured focus wowed me.
In the butler's pantry, the shallow drawers were over a yard wide and held divided sections for all the varied silverware of the household. This would have been during the days of seafood forks and pickle forks and god knows what other obscure cutlery that no longer has a place in our casual lives.
In the garden room, a living wall of plants would be a delight in the dead of winter, lush and green. On the upper foyer, which amounted to the second landing on the stairs, a collection of French oil paintings were hung salon-style, my favorite way of hanging art.
Because I had been to the bare bones party, I was particularly struck by how the small, stark spaces that were the servants' quarters on the third floor had been transformed into three beautiful rooms. The designer dubbed them "David + Kelly Forever." One visitor asked, "Oh, is this where you put your boomerang kids?"
Remembering the ceiling-less shower room, the toilet stall and the tiny bedrooms with sinks, I was amazed at the transformation. Anyone who hadn't seen the original spaces couldn't possibly appreciate the change as profoundly.
And what of the enormous screened porch with the view of the river that had so completely captured my attention on the first visit?
To my taste, it is over-furnished, but in all fairness, half of it is being used as the Rothesay Cafe for now. I had intended to spend some time out there, much as I had done on that post-storm evening I'd last visited.
I was able to do so by enjoying lunch on the porch. I chose the table nearest the screen doors and facing the bend in the river and leisurely enjoyed a roast beef, cheddar, red onion and horseradish sandwich on ciabatta, followed by red velvet cake, tuning out the chattering women and couples nearby.
I learned that the way the Designer House works is that when the owners return, they get to live with the floors and the walls (best walls: the sunroom's stunning deep blue walls with cream-colored fretwork over top) and have the option of purchasing anything else they want from the designers.
That pleases me no end because it means that most likely the screened-in porch will return to a simple but superb space in which to read a book or ponder the bend in the James River. And, most importantly, from which to enjoy the power and beauty of a thunderstorm.
But if I were them, the one thing I would be inclined to purchase would be that beautiful painted steel pendulum by local metalworker Tom Chenoweth that sits just outside the screened porch.
It's the least frou-frou part of the entire makeover and the only possible thing that could further enhance the porch's view. I'm just happy I got to spend an evening and an afternoon there.
It may be the highlight of my long-time screened-in porch devotion. If only it had stormed...
I'm here to say that that's not entirely true and I'm making that acknowledgement for my friend David who was convinced that upon seeing it after all the work, I would recant. And I am, but only partially.
First of all, I couldn't have chosen a more beautiful day to visit the house on the James. Unlike recent weeks, it was mid-70s and breezy when I arrived around noon. I was sorry to see that more windows weren't open, but with no screens, perhaps it's a dust or debris issue.
So what impressed me? I loved the foyer's nod to the house's history as a place where music was often performed, with instruments scattered about.
I was charmed by the morning hall where the current owners still have breakfast in the east-facing room with a beautiful river view (and a tiny zebra finch in a cage; I had a pair in college and they're personable little birds).
In the earlier post I had expressed my concern about the books being covered in the library (actually it's the study) and I was told today that the reason for that was to lighten up the room; I still didn't approve.
But I was most impressed to learn that the little room had originally been a garage and when larger touring cars came along, it was converted to the current use. The floor tile had been almost black with dirt, but upon cleaning they discovered intermittent square tiles depicting knights fighting mythical creatures. They were the highlight of the room for me.
Throughout the house, it was little details like that which grabbed my attention more so than the overall "done" look of the rooms.
The floor in the living room had been stenciled with stain and was now a work of art and the fact that they took an existing wooden floor and made it the featured focus wowed me.
In the butler's pantry, the shallow drawers were over a yard wide and held divided sections for all the varied silverware of the household. This would have been during the days of seafood forks and pickle forks and god knows what other obscure cutlery that no longer has a place in our casual lives.
In the garden room, a living wall of plants would be a delight in the dead of winter, lush and green. On the upper foyer, which amounted to the second landing on the stairs, a collection of French oil paintings were hung salon-style, my favorite way of hanging art.
Because I had been to the bare bones party, I was particularly struck by how the small, stark spaces that were the servants' quarters on the third floor had been transformed into three beautiful rooms. The designer dubbed them "David + Kelly Forever." One visitor asked, "Oh, is this where you put your boomerang kids?"
Remembering the ceiling-less shower room, the toilet stall and the tiny bedrooms with sinks, I was amazed at the transformation. Anyone who hadn't seen the original spaces couldn't possibly appreciate the change as profoundly.
And what of the enormous screened porch with the view of the river that had so completely captured my attention on the first visit?
To my taste, it is over-furnished, but in all fairness, half of it is being used as the Rothesay Cafe for now. I had intended to spend some time out there, much as I had done on that post-storm evening I'd last visited.
I was able to do so by enjoying lunch on the porch. I chose the table nearest the screen doors and facing the bend in the river and leisurely enjoyed a roast beef, cheddar, red onion and horseradish sandwich on ciabatta, followed by red velvet cake, tuning out the chattering women and couples nearby.
I learned that the way the Designer House works is that when the owners return, they get to live with the floors and the walls (best walls: the sunroom's stunning deep blue walls with cream-colored fretwork over top) and have the option of purchasing anything else they want from the designers.
That pleases me no end because it means that most likely the screened-in porch will return to a simple but superb space in which to read a book or ponder the bend in the James River. And, most importantly, from which to enjoy the power and beauty of a thunderstorm.
But if I were them, the one thing I would be inclined to purchase would be that beautiful painted steel pendulum by local metalworker Tom Chenoweth that sits just outside the screened porch.
It's the least frou-frou part of the entire makeover and the only possible thing that could further enhance the porch's view. I'm just happy I got to spend an evening and an afternoon there.
It may be the highlight of my long-time screened-in porch devotion. If only it had stormed...
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Size Matters: Big is Too Big for Me
I am not a grand house person. If someone were to die and leave me their Windsor Farms house, I would sell it without ever living there. Oh, I'd walk through it and assuming it was pre-1940, probably find things I liked about it, but I'd never consider moving in. Large seems ostentatious to me and I've got better things to do than keep up with a big house. I do realize that I'm in the minority on this.
That said, I so enjoyed my evening spent at Rothesay on the James, the spectacular 1913 Tudor mansion that will be the Richmond Symphony's Designer House this year. A friend who is on the Richmond Symphony Orchestra League's board had suggested going to the Barebones party tonight, an opportunity to look at the house before the frou-frou obsessed designers get a hold of it. And it was truly something to behold.
Without a doubt, my favorite room was the brick-floored screened-in porch, which wrapped on two sides of the house and had a stellar view of a bend in the James River. I've always been partial to screened-in porches and this one was magnificent, surrounded by gardens (Charles Gillette-designed gardens at that) and still dripping after those epic thunderstorms that swept through. I went so far as to imagine how much I'd enjoy watching storms from that porch.
The library, small as it was, had a stunning tile floor, but I was dismayed when I heard that the room's redesigner will be covering all the books with color-coordinated paper for a better "look." Excuse me, but books are functional items, not decorative; that's the kind of thing that makes me use words like frou-frou. And also why I wanted to see the house for what it truly is and not how it can be tarted up.
The dressing rooms had built-in cedar drawers, cabinets and shelving, as did several of the bathrooms. There were closets everywhere (I peeked into one to find the mistress' eight fur coats) built into the hallways and many rooms. And the shower heads in the bathroom were the widest I'd ever seen, almost plate-size. I even made the trek up to the third floor to see the servants' quarters, evidence of a long-gone era. I loved the sense of history I got from the house.
Afterwards, the four of us went to Avalon for dinner. We hit it exactly right, after the happy hour regulars and before the late evening serious-drinking crowd. Abi was tending bar and I immediately guessed that it was her iPod when I heard Shout Out Louds followed by Yeasayer, so the music was definitely to my taste. Just as appealing to me was the volume.
I'm very fond of Avalon's small plate focus and after a lot of group discussion and starting two bottles of wine (Eola Hills Pinto Gris and Brandborg Pinot Noir), we finally got around to ordering. I was indecisive because of what they had already run out of : the octopus salami, the braised lamb canapes, the rabbit confit and the ham-wrapped figs, any one (or two) of which I would have ordered), It was just too bad for me.
Instead, I got the mussels with crispy fingerling potatoes (crispy thin potato sticks is what they were). cipollini onions and marjoram sherry butter sauce plus fava beans, fingerling potato and leek succotash with white corn butter. Fava beans with a nice Pinot Noir, yum.
My order soon prompted a discussion of everything being better with butter, which led to an inappropriate suggestion by my friend to his girlfriend. How quickly we went from high-end houses to low-brow banter. But it should be noted that once I finished my mussels, both of them were sopping my butter sauce and moaning. It was that good.
Other hits included the grilled beef teres major with fingerling potatoes, the seared scallops with Serrano ham and English pea salad and the Merguez sausage on Granny Smith slices with Manchego, ordered by my friend at my suggestion; he liked it as much as I had on my last visit.
By this time, the place had begun to fill up. I saw Prabir meeting a date ("I can't talk. I'm on the clock," he explained as he made his way to a dark corner) and owner Peter, also with a date, who sat down with us to chat. A guy leaned over me to order a "Daws Eek-wes" and it was everything Abi could do not to smile at his mispronunciation, instead politely saying, "We don't carry Dos Equis." It was clearly a teachable moment.
By the time the third bottle was emptied it was slammed at the bar, so we concluded our arguments about the Designer House's merits pre- and post-transformation. Personally, I'll probably enjoy what the array of landscape architects do to the eight acres more than what the over-zealous designers do to the interior. Aqua flocked wallpaper? Not my style.
When all is said and done, what will impress me is if there's a perfect storm-watching chair on that screened-in porch. It still wouldn't make me want to live there, but I'd feel like that magnificent space got the only possible thing that could make it better.
And you can be sure I'll sit in it when nobody's looking...but just for a momentary pleasure.
That said, I so enjoyed my evening spent at Rothesay on the James, the spectacular 1913 Tudor mansion that will be the Richmond Symphony's Designer House this year. A friend who is on the Richmond Symphony Orchestra League's board had suggested going to the Barebones party tonight, an opportunity to look at the house before the frou-frou obsessed designers get a hold of it. And it was truly something to behold.
Without a doubt, my favorite room was the brick-floored screened-in porch, which wrapped on two sides of the house and had a stellar view of a bend in the James River. I've always been partial to screened-in porches and this one was magnificent, surrounded by gardens (Charles Gillette-designed gardens at that) and still dripping after those epic thunderstorms that swept through. I went so far as to imagine how much I'd enjoy watching storms from that porch.
The library, small as it was, had a stunning tile floor, but I was dismayed when I heard that the room's redesigner will be covering all the books with color-coordinated paper for a better "look." Excuse me, but books are functional items, not decorative; that's the kind of thing that makes me use words like frou-frou. And also why I wanted to see the house for what it truly is and not how it can be tarted up.
The dressing rooms had built-in cedar drawers, cabinets and shelving, as did several of the bathrooms. There were closets everywhere (I peeked into one to find the mistress' eight fur coats) built into the hallways and many rooms. And the shower heads in the bathroom were the widest I'd ever seen, almost plate-size. I even made the trek up to the third floor to see the servants' quarters, evidence of a long-gone era. I loved the sense of history I got from the house.
Afterwards, the four of us went to Avalon for dinner. We hit it exactly right, after the happy hour regulars and before the late evening serious-drinking crowd. Abi was tending bar and I immediately guessed that it was her iPod when I heard Shout Out Louds followed by Yeasayer, so the music was definitely to my taste. Just as appealing to me was the volume.
I'm very fond of Avalon's small plate focus and after a lot of group discussion and starting two bottles of wine (Eola Hills Pinto Gris and Brandborg Pinot Noir), we finally got around to ordering. I was indecisive because of what they had already run out of : the octopus salami, the braised lamb canapes, the rabbit confit and the ham-wrapped figs, any one (or two) of which I would have ordered), It was just too bad for me.
Instead, I got the mussels with crispy fingerling potatoes (crispy thin potato sticks is what they were). cipollini onions and marjoram sherry butter sauce plus fava beans, fingerling potato and leek succotash with white corn butter. Fava beans with a nice Pinot Noir, yum.
My order soon prompted a discussion of everything being better with butter, which led to an inappropriate suggestion by my friend to his girlfriend. How quickly we went from high-end houses to low-brow banter. But it should be noted that once I finished my mussels, both of them were sopping my butter sauce and moaning. It was that good.
Other hits included the grilled beef teres major with fingerling potatoes, the seared scallops with Serrano ham and English pea salad and the Merguez sausage on Granny Smith slices with Manchego, ordered by my friend at my suggestion; he liked it as much as I had on my last visit.
By this time, the place had begun to fill up. I saw Prabir meeting a date ("I can't talk. I'm on the clock," he explained as he made his way to a dark corner) and owner Peter, also with a date, who sat down with us to chat. A guy leaned over me to order a "Daws Eek-wes" and it was everything Abi could do not to smile at his mispronunciation, instead politely saying, "We don't carry Dos Equis." It was clearly a teachable moment.
By the time the third bottle was emptied it was slammed at the bar, so we concluded our arguments about the Designer House's merits pre- and post-transformation. Personally, I'll probably enjoy what the array of landscape architects do to the eight acres more than what the over-zealous designers do to the interior. Aqua flocked wallpaper? Not my style.
When all is said and done, what will impress me is if there's a perfect storm-watching chair on that screened-in porch. It still wouldn't make me want to live there, but I'd feel like that magnificent space got the only possible thing that could make it better.
And you can be sure I'll sit in it when nobody's looking...but just for a momentary pleasure.
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