Home Sweet Home
Architect Sarah Susanka has some big ideas in
Creating the Not So Big
House. She contrasts the glamorous, glossy-photo house plans of
vaulted ceilings and palatial living rooms with the livable, day-to-day
pleasure of cozy window seats and comfortable breakfast nooks, and her
conclusion is resonating with families across the country: bigger but shoddier
isn't better than smaller and well-made. Face it, do you really need a
5,000-square-foot house when it's just you and your dog living there? Read what
Susanka has to say about her beginnings in architecture and the appeal of
smaller, more efficient, and more interesting houses in this exclusive essay
for Amazon.com.
I am often asked how I got started thinking about the design of the
American house. In 1971, when my family emigrated from England to the United
States, I was just 14 years old. We moved from a quiet village of 1,000 people
in Kent to Los Angeles, where my high school had a population three times the
size of my village.
In the U.S., we lived in a suburban development in a ranch house, and
though not large by American standards, to us it was palatial, with three
bathrooms, four bedrooms, a spacious living room, and a family room replete
with a wet bar and built-in barbecue. It was a far cry from our decade-old
two-story brick home in Kent, which had much smaller rooms and only one
bathroom.
But what seemed very strange to me, a teenager not yet of driving age,
was that there were no shops close by our new home, no places to hang out with
friends other than each other's houses, and an almost complete dependence on
parents--and their automobiles--to get anywhere worth going. Unlike England,
where people walked daily to the grocers, the butchers, the bakers, and the
sweet shop, here, no one walked at all. There was an absence of people on the
street, and even inside the houses there was no visible activity. The "front"
room, or formal living room, presented a window to the sidewalk, but it rarely
revealed any human beings.
As I got to know other teenagers in the community, I was invited into
their homes. I noted that American families ate in the kitchen, usually at a
small round table with little to recommend it aesthetically. Meanwhile, the
formal dining room and living room looked overdecorated and underinhabited.
Many of these homes, although large, felt insubstantial to me. They were all
square footage, and not much else, and while the formal rooms were lavishly
furnished but seldom used, the spaces people lived in were often lacking in
windows, lit with florescent lights, and generally uncomfortable. I came to see
that though this was a country rich in material possessions, it seemed to be
missing a certain soulfulness. Money was spent on making an impression, rather
than on livability.
I decided to pursue a career in architecture in large part because I
knew that there was certainly a way to make better places to live and work.
Using my own physiological responses to the places I visited, I started to
develop a personal approach to architecture. For example, I noticed that given
the choice, I would almost always prefer to sit in the corner of a restaurant
rather than in the middle of the seating area. There was a greater sense of
protection and comfort in the corner. If in addition the ceiling over the spot
in the corner were a little lower than the rest of the room, I found it even
more appealing. Labeling this concept "Shelter Around Activity" gave me the
opportunity to both explain and repeat this spatial construct. I also found
that if you place a lighted picture, or better yet, a window, at the end of a
long hallway, the experience is transformed from inhospitable to delightful.
Our physiological response to light overcomes the oppressive feeling so common
in a corridor. I named this concept "Light to Walk Towards." Gradually, I
discovered that by naming these concepts we can develop a language that will
allow us to identify and design in those characteristics that make "house" into
"home"--the key to Creating the Not So Big House
.