Bianca’s Busy Day
Slowly, a serene gray box with handmade redwood windows arose, prompting admiring glances from friends and strangers alike, and comments like: “Are you crazy, building this yourself?”
For a moment, her liquid brown eyes gazed lovingly up at mine; then breathing a short, contented sigh, she rolled onto her right side, head facing away from me. Sipping my raspberry leaf tea, I thought back to that day, several decades ago, at the age of 15, when I informed my mother with unfounded confidence, that one day I intended to live in an “architecturally designed house.” Was it a clear September morning like this?
Eyes closed, legs extended in front of her, Bianca thumps the concrete floor several times with her solid tail, stretched at my feet. In retrospect, I wonder how I got this idea. I don’t recall seeing any homes of architectural significance during my childhood in Hawaii, unless you counted things like the Victorian era ‘Iolani Palace or Queen Emma Summer Palace, homes of Hawai’i’s royalty. I was interested in art and architecture, so perhaps I saw something in a book or a magazine. I doubt I could have told you the name of any architects back then, or what, exactly, I meant by an “architecturally designed house.”
The concrete floor suits Bianca well. After a long walk, she likes lying on the cool slab, panting away with that dazed, joyous look that labs seem to get. “How far I’ve come,” I silently mused, remembering the disastrous high school mechanical drawing class. To reach my goal, I decided to become an architect, and gamely attempted mechanical drawing. I, who had excelled, or was at least competent in most subjects, was shocked to discover that my spatial reasoning skills were — and still are — shall we say, limited. I watched in horror as my grades plummeted, semester by semester. I finished the course with a C-minus. As I examined the answer to the final assignment, a rotated section bearing no resemblance whatsoever to my own rendition, my own skill and interest levels indicted me: becoming an architect was simply not an option.
As Bianca lies slumbering at my feet beneath the dining table, my eyes are drawn upwards through the 9-foot glass doors, up to the redwood deck rail and straight gray mineral cement board siding defining the outlines of the house, framing a patch of blue sky between us and our neighbor’s green stucco box. So the dream was shelved, but not forgotten. Like my one-time, short-lived aspiration to become a concert pianist, through the experience of trying to learn the needed skills, I gained a deeper appreciation of what it takes to be an architect (or a professional musician). Fourteen years passed. I had begun dating an architect (why didn’t I think of this before?). His work excited and electrified me. My dream, latent all these years, resurfaced.
Very early in our courtship, with my old confidence, I informed him, “I’m going to live in a house YOU design someday!”
Bianca has not been known to engage in bouts of introspection about the design of her home.
Bianca has not been known to engage in bouts of introspection about the design of her home. Nevertheless, she seems to like it here, racing full speed down the corridor through the main living area, or frolicking in the sunshine on the deck, gnawing on her favorite chew toys. I did not necessarily presume we would marry. In fact, to be honest, I wondered if my beau himself would ever live in one of his own creations, as it became apparent to me that the “shoemaker’s children” syndrome was alive and well among the ranks of architects. With characteristic optimism, I breezily informed him that I planned to either “make a lot of money or marry rich, so that I can afford to hire you.” I think he took the first part of the comment a little too seriously.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bianca effortlessly roll upright, pad over to another cool spot, and flop down again. My eyes drop from the deck railing to the courtyard below, taking in the teak table and chairs, ringed by Japanese reeds. Along the horizontal redwood wall boards to the north, pots with kangaroo paws alternate, orange and yellow, orange and yellow. Sitting here in the tranquil autumn light, enjoying the serenity of the courtyard and the quality of the light streaming through some of the 66 glass openings in the house — it seems too good to be true. Has it been three years already since we moved here?
Bianca’s claws click on the concrete as she goes in search of a scratch behind the ears. She pauses to survey the outdoors, hoping for a glimpse of the other resident wildlife, our two now geriatric cats, who were kittens when my husband and I first met. Long before acquiring the property, there were drawings and models for a home of his own, evolving from his fascination with Picasso and the Cubists. For awhile, our dates included romantic walks around Venice — scouting for real estate.
As I traveled frequently on business, he entertained me long distance with tales of tear-downs he had seen that week or real estate auctions he planned to attend. Finally one day, years of effort came together: a vacant lot, for sale by owner, a cash transaction and now he had a piece of land to dream on, work on, build on.
If Bianca only knew what this lot looked like back then. Local residents used to let their dogs out on the empty lot. Four of us gathered one day to clear off the weeds. Sweating profusely as dusk fell, 25 garbage bags later, we were perhaps half finished.
The planning/plan check/permitting process, as always, was not pretty. There was a day once, when I donned my best process design consultant hat and engaged my architect boyfriend in a discussion about the building department process flow. Reluctantly — very reluctantly — he obliged.
Armed with several large pieces of flip chart paper and piles of post-it notes, I was ready to tackle and understand this heretofore mysterious process. I was determined to chart it all in Visio, so we could see it, analyze it, and optimize it. After all, that’s what consultants do, right?
Hours later, with post-it notes spilling off the paper in all directions as he continued patiently answering my questions, I blurted out, “This is the most exasperating thing I have ever seen!” He kindly refrained from saying, “Told you so.” About a year and several thousand dollars in fees later, he could finally think about building on the lot, sitting fallow, fenced, formless all this time.
Bianca’s nemeses, our cats, H.C. and S.P., inhabit the great outdoors, napping in the shade of the bamboo and stretching out in a sunny spot near the herb planter, their world alive with butterflies and bees, new scents and sights.
He ate, drank, and breathed life into that barren, sandy, sloping plot of land.
My darling, and now dust-covered fiancé was architect, structural engineer (that undergrad math minor came in handy), general contractor, carpenter — and too many other things to count — on the project. He ate, drank, and breathed life into that barren, sandy, sloping plot of land.
Slowly, a serene gray box with handmade redwood windows arose, prompting admiring glances from friends and strangers alike, and comments like: “Are you crazy, building this yourself?” Our dog and cats are blissfully unaware of all this. Yet I can’t help wondering if good design affects them in some way.
After all, I sense we 2-legged animals respond to design more than we know. I purposely haven’t touched upon the 8- month construction loan process, nor the 25-month building period, which deserve their own stories. Suffice to say that the depths of fear, heights of anxiety, and the intense frustration involved at every step seem, thankfully, like a distant dream.
So here I sit, in a voluminous two-story space, relaxing and stroking my pregnant belly, smiling at Bianca’s contented sigh. After all, just 21 years later, my dream came true after all.
Originally published in The Journal of the Architectural Foundation of Los Angeles in April 2006. Formerly affiliated with the AIA, the AFLA was a nonprofit devoted to educational programming about architecture, the arts, and the built environment.
