Do I need to build a second home?

Vacation homes are a substantial portion of our portfolio, and we consider them an essential part of a balanced and healthy life in the big city.

Manhattan rarely offers anything else than just tiny apartments with minimally-acceptable floorspace, even for high-income dwellers. Close to what the Germans call existenzminimum, the bare minimum to exist, to be. We tolerate being crammed into small spaces in the city because we can get out, find a place where to relax, breath some clean air, have a connection with nature, and feel the weather. Life in the big city fosters the psychological and physical need to escape from it and reconnect with nature on a regular basis.

In that direction, the construction of a holiday home is the best opportunity to build your own space; a space that will become the center of your world.

Semiotician Fernando Andatch* explains our meaningful relation with the built environment when building a holiday home:

Successful houses demonstrate a careful consideration to their natural surroundings. It is not necessary to “retouch” trees or ponds to make them become components of an architectural code where the meaning is clearly defined: The piece of landscape that we frame with a window belongs to the system of symbols and signs of our built environment with the same rights of the bricks or the wood timber used to build it.

To make a project, architect and client use signs, elements to satisfy physical needs (to stay away from the weather and intruders), but it cannot be done without aspirations or desires. These aspirations are codified by the community: we need to feel comfortable, important, modern, etc.

Thus, the act of building is a dialogue between ecology and mythology. A dialogue between what is already there and what we want to see and do there.

What about buying an existing house and then renovating it?

A renovation is also an excellent option, and considering sustainable goals, it is always better to reuse and adapt existing buildings than using new land for a new development. You can see one example of renovation here.

However, we must consider that existing houses were originally built for different people, with different hopes and desires. They showcase a different set of connections with nature that are not your own. And most likely, they have a standard spatial distribution, which is not tailored to your needs. They may have the amount of rooms you required, but the plan layout and the relation of these rooms with the exterior would be following someone else’s intentions. 

Therefore, renovations have to be substantial, deep, and sometimes even radical to really transform the essence of an existing house.

Fundamentally, we all experience our vacation time differently, and we exercise a natural tendency towards the customization of our environment. 

In this direction, Andatch also explains how holiday homes belong to a different “time zone”:

The holiday home is a transgression of myths. Transgression, understood etymologically as “act of crossing, passing over”, related in a way to switching teams. From the team of the workers, to the team of the holidays makers. This is an abrupt personality change.

The holiday home is a house where we stay a bit [of time] and live a lot [of time]. This apparent contradiction is resolved when we analyze the time dimension in two categories with emotional charge. One of this categories reads time as memorable and enjoyable, while the other represents just waiting and forgetting. 

In the holiday house we stay just a fraction of the whole year, of the time that we consider normal time. We can call this normal time chronic, from the Greek Kronos, a time that we can measure and calculate. It is composed by a continuum of small fragments, identical between each other according to a social convention. Is the time of work, routines, and duties. It is the essential primary commodity of bureaucracy, and the bureaucratization of private life. 

About a sixth of this time is the time we spend in a holiday home. This is the first scandal of practical reason. However, we live there much more of the other time, the time of the opportunity that we cannot let go. These are the times that we designate with the Greek name Kairos (Greek for occasion, opportunity). The strength of this time is in its condition to of been memorable, establishing a cut with normality. In this time we have weddings, honeymoon, trips, and of course holidays in this second house. This time is not composed by similar pieces that are all the same and that we can repeat of Infinitum but it’s characterized by a maximum of expectation, high tension, and passion in space. 

Usually we say “let’s go out”. And it is not just leaving the apartment or the city. We are talking about abandoning Kronos to get into the exceptionality of Kairos. Here is the transgression that we were talking about: we switched teams and to stopped being a citizen adapted to the norms of the polis where he leaves, works, and dreams. Thus we change habits and clothing from every day life, and we access another space with another time.

The permanent dwelling home is located in the antipode of the natural, because it is the definition of urbanity, of the civilized effort to control chaos. Considering that, the holiday home is located in a place in-between. It is neither totally urban, nor totally savage. It limits a space of new possibilities, of new meetings with respect to the everyday. This is the construction of the myth of the return to the origins that Rousseau was talking about: The natural man (man of the nature) that has to replace the social man, the man of the man.

What about moving to the suburbs?

It is worth mentioning that a holiday home is not —and cannot be— a suburban house. The suburban house still belongs to the space-time of the city. It is a house used in the everyday, and our rhythms and times are the times of work, routine, and school. Telework fueled by the pandemic was pushing our Kronos time in different, new directions, but still, it was not morphing it into Kairos. 

In the holiday home we are different and we leave the life: we dress comfortably, we eat, drink, and relax. Because of that, the kitchen is one of the essential spaces of this house. Usually, there are two kitchens, one inside and another outside. 

Andatch explains how we change during the holidays: 

A picture of a half naked model seduces us, because it is some kind of in-between, not totally urban, not totally explicit. The model seduces because it swings as a pendulum between two worlds. Between what is free, spontaneous, care-free, and what is built, fixed, normalized. The holiday home creates a space with a singular wish, the wish of being someone else, at least in its own land. It is also the abolition of the sedentary conduct, albeit temporary, we value the environment in which everyday life is forgotten, with the necessary anesthesia.

In the holiday home everything changes, beginning by its inhabitants. Clothings, gestures, and schedules have to be readjusted to transgress normality without falling, however, into anomie.

The house for holidays is the art of time outside time and a place outside place, that wishes to escape the dichotomy that limits the day Sunday works of the contemporary man.

Thatched roofs, bricks or stucco, are chosen as materials that have been semiotics-iced. And they are located in classes that exclude the from within an architectonic system of materials that belong to the city.

*Andacht, Fernando: Entre signos de ‘asombro’. Antimanual para iniciarse a la semiotica, Trilce, Montevideo, 1993 (The translation is mine)

Our Design and Construction Process

Our work process is a mixture of traditional and innovative design methods. We present options on every stage of the process. Usually from two to four, and we work that way from inception to the end of the construction phase. At the beginning, we introduce and discuss alternatives such as different locations and building typologies. Along the way, we select finishes, materials and colors in a collaborative process with the client. And towards the end, together we define furniture, equipment and final details.

We present to the client just a few options: the best ones. However, we generate and discuss many more alternatives internally, in the design studio and the workshop. Up twenty different possibilities are created, pondered, and evaluated. Then, we filter these options to reach a manageable number for discussion with the client. From the location of a house on the site to the different types of curtains or window treatment that a room can have, we select the most suitable options for the client to visualize and decide. 

Narrative and options

We do not randomly search for options and alternatives. One of the most important steps on the creative process is to find a guiding principle. Together with the client we elaborate what we call a narrative guiding principle. This narrative is the story, or set of stories that the new spaces will tell us. These stories are created together with the clients, as they project their wishes and desires into a new environment. Sometimes the stories are brought in entirely by the client, and sometimes they are inspired by the site or the materials we will use. The initial narrative also helps us to narrow down the number of design alternatives that we need to ponder during the construction process. Our target is to materialize that narrative. 

For example, we worked the idea of a tube of light for a house extension. Once that narrative was clear, we knew that most of our finishing materials would be light colored and we would try to keep a minimal or minimalistic feel to the spaces. 

Likewise, we developed a nightclub as an electric muscle. So, we knew what kind of atmosphere we were going to strive for. In this case we went for strong colors, brilliant surfaces, and vibrant details.

A clear design concept simplifies and expedites the selection of options along the way. It is very important that we all understand the narrative or design concept that we are building together. We want to make sure that everybody is on the same page, regarding quality, prize, maintenance, look and feel, smells, and texture.

Generative design 

In the initial stages of the design process we tend to work generatively with the aid of a suit of software applications. We create a myriad of options in the computer, many more than what we can actually imagine. These apps then help us by framing the design universe. This is, they describe everything that can happen from a spatial point of view. The design universe contains all the possible design options, including those that are infeasible or cannot be built. Then, that universe of possibilities is optimized, selecting and filtering the options that we can actually build, or that are useful for our narrative. The results of the first optimization (called design space) can then be further filtered and classified into design families. If we are talking about the layout of a house, these design families are also called types, or typologies when studied as a group. We then present these options to the client for feedback, and we keep on refining our narrative until we have the best solution. (Read more here)

But things do not always follow a linear path: Some years ago a client came with three ornamented window security bars that she bought at a local recycling shop. She bought them on a whim, even before deciding that she needed a beach house. These elements were to be incorporated into a house that didn’t exist yet. So we developed the whole house around the ideas that were inspired by these security bars and the site. (Read more here) 

The integration of design and construction in a seamless process allows us to expedite the delivery schedule of a project. In the traditional design-bid-build process, contractors need to wait until the whole set of plans is ready before giving a price, and that implies that even the light switches have to be specified before starting construction. In our case we can initiate the construction process much earlier, while defining details along the way, working with a clear narrative and compatible options.

A few years ago I needed to explain how to do a tectonic analysis to my students in UC Berkeley. Tectonics in architecture is usually understood as the activity of construction as an art form.

At that time, The High Line was a very popular precedent that students liked a lot, and I presented some construction details through a series of fast sketches I prepared. 

Nowadays, I go for a stroll to The High Line from time to time, and I am always struck by the Park Rules: 

The following are not permitted while on the High Line:

• Walking in planting beds
• Picking flowers or plants
• Throwing objects
• Sitting on railings or climbing on any part of the High Line
• Bicycles
• Use of skateboards, skates, or recreational scooters
• Amplified sound, except by permit
• Solicitation
• Commercial activity, except by permit or otherwise authorized
• Littering
• Obstructing entrances or paths
• Drinking alcohol, except in authorized areas
• Film or photography requiring equipment or exclusive use of an area, except by
• permit
• Events or gatherings greater than 20 persons, except by permit
• Smoking
• Dogs

Although those are (kind of) common rules for parks in NYC, I think they still surprise me because I remember a line from the narrative summary from Diller and Scofidio + Renfro’s website:

“A ‘pathless’ landscape, where public can meander in unscripted ways.”

Wait… You cannot walk your dog in this “pathless landscape”? It appears from the rules there is not much you can do there—other than walk and sit in designated areas (paths) unless you get a permit, for which you need to script (write down) your intended activities.

In any case, the High Line is still a beautiful park. Highly regulated, but beautiful.

Some time ago a Japanese colleague told me that the best energy efficiency standards of Japan were not even close to the lowest standards of Germany. And yet, Japan used a quarter of the energy that Germany used in heating. 

Although I could not find the sources for any of those claims, the whole discussion seemed ill-focused, as when comparing tomatoes to potatoes: they have similar origin and sound quite close, but they are different things.

But, Japanese houses are cold, aren’t they?

Japanese houses are famously cold in winter, but life around the tatami room is a warm experience. 

Instead of heating the whole house, or the whole room, heat is focused where needed, just by the table. Cold evenings are kept at bay under the kotatsu, where kids do their homework, parents work, the family enjoys dinner, and friends have a drink.

The kotatsu is a short-legged table with a heater attached to the underside, and covered by a blanket or a quilt. You sit at the table, and your legs are covered and warm under the kotatsu. The upper body is kept warm with the help of thick clothings like hanten (a kind of padded jacket). If you are planning to move in and out from the kotatsu frequently, a tanzen would be a better choice for clothing (it similar to the hanten but longer, covering the legs as well).

Thus, thermal comfort is achieved with a small heat source and proper clothing, which actually makes a lot of sense from an energy efficiency point of view. In Norway they say “There is no bad weather, there is bad clothes!” Is it really necessary (or even wise) to crank up the thermostat just to walk around in T-shirt?  

OK, the tatami room gets nice and cozy with the kotatsu, but why are the houses so cold anyway?

We can find the reasons behind all this coldness in the way houses are built:

The first reason is, of course, earthquakes. Due to the constant seismic activity in the islands, the Japanese developed a light construction system with wooden structures, thatched roofs, tatami floors, and shoji partitions (paper over a wooden lattice).

Light structures are more resilient (less stress on the members), and shake and move with the earthquakes without snapping. (As an added benefit, if they do snap and fall over you, it is easier to crawl away from under light rubble.)

Then, humidity: Summers in Japan are hot and very humid, and structural wood, thatched roofs, tatami floors, and paper walls tend to rot very fast if they stay wet. Thus, the best way to prevent degradation is by allowing them to dry, which is achieved by good ventilation. This is, houses needed to be drafty.

Constant seismic activity also produces material fatigue on the structural members: minor cracks that appear at every cycle of movement. And after a while, the whole structure collapses. Unfortunately, repairs do not work well and there is no economic way to avoid material fatigue. For that reason, houses in Japan have had a pretty short lifespan (20 to 30 years), although constant advances in construction technology are pushing those numbers up nowadays.

The short lifespan brings another issue that impacts on energy efficiency: Upfront investment in insulation and double pane windows will not be paid off in lower utility bills during the life of the building. 

Why is central heating so uncommon in Japan?

An efficient central heating system requires a properly sealed and insulated exterior envelope. And as explained above, that is not usual because it is expensive considering the whole life cycle of the building.

You may find air conditioners on several rooms of the house, but they will not be switched on all at the same time. Similar to the way Japanese use the kotatsu, they switch the air conditioner on only when they are using the room.

In sum, the tatami room is a nice example of flexibility and energy efficiency. Strategies for energy efficiency shouldn’t consider constructions as isolated systems, but as part of larger rhizomes that encompass not only climate and geography, but also habits and costumes, including furniture and clothing.

The Ultimate Flexible Space

While in Japan, I lived in an apartment with a tatami room. Since then, I have been a staunch advocate of the tatami room as the best possible room one can have at home. 

I always tell my clients that they need a tatami room. And I have succeeded… Never.

Well, almost never. I convinced my wife that we should build one for ourselves, but she lived with me in that apartment for 4 years. So, she understands.

What is a tatami room and why should I care?

A tatami room is a traditional Japanese-style room, and they get their name from the flooring material: tatami mats. These mats are roughly 6 feet by 3 feet (1.8 m x 0.9 m) and they are neatly arranged following patterns that vary, depending on the type of room, use, and occasion.  

The tatami mats are covered by woven soft rush (Juncus effusus) and have a distinctive feeling under the bare feet (no shoes allowed in these rooms, of course. Socks are optional). They feel fresher than carpets, and softer than wooden floors. However, they are firmer than mattresses. 

And they are fun: when western kids encounter a tatami room for the first time, they usually feel like doing some pirouettes on it, as the flooring material kind of invites you to put your hands down, touch it and roll over it.

They also have a particular smell, specially when new. If you ever lived under a thatched roof you will find it familiar: earthy, smoky, woody… Floral perhaps. Very pleasant, but difficult to describe.

Tatami rooms are part of contemporary life in Japan, and state-of-the-art houses and apartments usually include one of these rooms, as they are the heart of the house.

Can I put a sofa in a tatami room?

Yes, you could, but you would be defeating the purpose of the room.

The tatami room is a very flexible space and it changes functions during the day (and night). It is used as living room, dining room and bedroom, almost effortlessly transitioning from one function to the other.

When used as living and dining room, the usual arrangement is minimal: some sitting pillows or cushions, a low table, and the focus of attention of your choice: a TV set, music, or just conversation over a cup of tea or drinks.

When used as bedroom, things don’t get much complicated either: just lay the beddings (futon) and you are ready. The beddings are basically a thin mat laid on the tatami (shikifuton), and then a quilt to cover yourself (kakebuton).

The interesting thing is that the transition from living room to dining room, and then to bedroom, is extremely fast and smooth: when it is time to sleep, pillows and tables are folded and stored away, and sleeping mats, sheets and covers are brought from the closet. In the morning, mats and quilts are taken outside to dry, then folded and stored, and tables and pillows come out from the closet, getting ready for breakfast.

These closet (oshiire) is about 32” (~ 80 cm) deep. It is deeper than the traditional western ones, which are about 24” (~ 60 cm), and have less partitions. Usually, it has just one shelf at about 30” (~76 cm) high.

The key to all this flexibility is of course the type of furniture… Well, actually, it is a lifestyle, but one doesn’t need to be a zen monk to make it work.

The furniture that goes into a tatami room is small, light-weight and removable. You don’t use a California King bed. I mean, you could, but again you would be killing the idea.

I have used a California king bed and I did enjoy to extra room. But, it actually felt small when compared to sleeping on a tatami room, where the whole room is your bed.

Would I not die within one hour, sitting all the time on the floor, cross legged on a pillow, and without back support?

Yes, well, no, you won’t die, but I agree: it will not feel comfortable for long (unless you are used to it, or in fact a zen monk)

Fortunately, there are several things that will help us here. 

One that I am very fond of is a pit under the low table. It is called horigotatsu, (I made a drawing here) and you put your legs down when sitting at the table. At about 16” (~40 cm) deep, it makes sitting at the table very “normal”, if you are not used to tatami rooms. In fact, it is more common in traditional Japanese restaurants than in houses.

Once dinner is finished, the tables are folded and stored, and the pit is covered by a tatami mat. Once again, the uncluttered room gets ready for the futon. 

The dimensions of tables, pits and tatami are coordinated: some pits are 1/2 tatami, and others are 1 tatami. Longer tables and pits are of course possible, by adding to the 1 tatami module. Again, those are common in restaurants.

Another very convenient piece of furniture is the legless chair (zaisu), and when used together with the pit under the table it makes the whole experience extremely comfortable. We have now back support and room for legs, so it is almost the same as sitting at a common (western) table.

The tatami room is in fact part of an assemblage or rhizome (following Deleuze and Guattari’s theory) of space design, construction materials, energy efficiency, furniture, clothing and ceremonies. I will delve into energy efficiency, clothing and ceremonies in my next post.