There's a Narrative in Your House

It has been very interesting to spend more time now in Architecture after spending so much of the last few years in film. I guess it's not surprising that I now see buildings, more than ever, as containers for narrative and see a critical  role of design as support for that narrative. It's most obvious in forms that have developed over centuries, like churches. But once you see it, every building is a story. A house, for instance, holds the story of intimacy.
 
NOT QUITE A STRANGER
The fence is the first filter. The world beyond its line is public, a place where anyone can be.  But inside of it is a place that is yours, a little space where you have control, a world where you decide who may and may not enter.  It’s the first of the concentric layers between your most public and private worlds. In your little precinct, there's maybe a little path through the lawn, but it likely isn't concrete. It's not a public sidewalk, it's yours. It's special. So it's made of something a little special, like pavers or brick, to let everyone know they've left anonymity. A little garden, too, will help make the distinction between out there and in here, between wildness and domestication. Yeah, it's still vegetation, but it's vegetation of your choosing, arranged how you like it.  A bit of your personal taste on display.  You might have even planted your flag here in a very literal way, your name on a little banner staking your claim. At the very least your address is displayed, calling out the legal description of your small, rectangular portion of the world. Complete strangers are not allowed here. Almost-strangers can come in on occasion - a kid that hits a ball over the fence, the guy that reads the gas meter - but for most, your yard is a moat, a transition to be crossed on the way to the first real layer of intimacy, the land of introductions - the porch. 
 
THE PLACE OF NO NAMES
As a point of embarkation - a spot for keeping watch and welcoming travelers - the porch is the wharf of the house. It's even built like one. Neither inside nor outside, the porch is for those who are neither friend nor stranger. But unlike the visitor to the yard, the person on the porch has specific business with you. The canvassers, the salespeople, the Jehova's Witnesses and the pizza guy can stand on your porch. But that's as far as they go. Even inviting the pizza guy inside during a snowstorm would feel special and unusual and it would instantly elevate him above all the porch-dwelling pizza guys. You would remember him and probably even learn his name. Because beyond the porch is an even greater transition.

THE SORTING ROOM
The entrance hall is a critical junction for sorting and debriefing. Here, names are exchanged and sometimes papers or money changes hands. And here decisions are made about who leaves and who stays. This might be where you decide, for instance, whether to invite your date a little further into your life or send him packing. Notice that this room is well-prepared for such a decision. There are no seats here. If you say 'have a seat' in this room, that's invitation to another room. There's always a mirror here to let an entering person decide if they look good enough to go in and an exiting person to decide wether they look good enough to go out.  There's a coat rack in case you decide that you are leaving or that someone else is staying. The space is big enough to allow some distance, but small enough that the person entering can still make quick escape if they need. To help them decide, you've dropped some hints about yourself in here, giving glimpses of your taste in the furnishings and art, but just a little. It’s too early to show yourself completely. You’ll reveal a little more in the next layer.
 
WE ARE ACQUAINTED
If someone has made it to your living room, they are – at minimum – an acquaintance.  It's almost certain that you know the name of everyone who has ever been in your living room. Your insurance salesman, who you know a little bit, can come into your living room, but has probably been no farther inside. And if that date makes it this far, they’ll soon know a little more about you because the room will tell them. In here, there are pictures of you and pictures of your people. There are mementos and pieces of art chosen by you and likely made by someone you know. There are places to sit, since people here may be around a while, but there is still a little distance - a little formality. The seating in here is at angles or side by side, so we can all stay just a little oblique. We are still in eye contact with the door. Acquainted, but not close. For close, you need to move to the room where deeper conversations are held and where you share an intimate bonding ritual.

BREAKING BREAD
​In the Dining Room, you share the personal, biological, and ritual function of eating. Rather than being adjacent, you are gathered. In the Living Room, the focus is to the side, on a TV or a fireplace or a piece of art.  But in the Dining Room, the focus is centered. No longer side-by-side, you sit directly across from one another, face to face. Now that you are confederates, you can drop your guard a bit. Here, people lean back in chairs and tell stories that would feel inappropriate in the Living Room. You are free to laugh and to use the occasional swear word. The Dining Room turns acquaintances into friends. But your closest friends go in even deeper, hanging out – always – in the physical and spiritual center of the house.
 
WHERE CARE IS TAKEN
Love is expressed in the kitchen. You take care of each other, preparing each other meals or handing each other cups of coffee and wine. You trust those in your kitchen. You share germs. You'll stick your fingers into each other’s food and eat with your hands and out of jars. You swear freely. Announcements are made in the kitchen. Your friends prove how at home they feel here by sitting right on the counter. You are, here in the kitchen, your best self. This is the answer to the great mystery of why we always congregate here at parties. It's because in the kitchen, you know that you're with your truest friends.  But beyond the kitchen, real intimacy lies.
 
THE THRESHOLD TO INTIMACY
Nothing spells intimacy quite like the hallway of a house. Crossing this threshold requires overt permission or, at least, acknowledgement. “I’m going to get my coat!” you might shout. Or, “I’ll be right back.” Or, if you're looking for someone, “Is Karen down there?”  You'd never feel the need to announce a trip to the Dining Room, but you need to let someone know you’re going down the hallway. Because unless your bedroom is down there, you don’t fully belong in the hallway. Ever. No one does. Old, old photos of ancestors are often hanging in the hallway. It's deep history. It's backstage. This is the place you have your loudest, most difficult arguments because we're all family back here and because it's a no-man's land, a DMZ full of doors behind which you can escape or hide. Even the hallway of a sibling’s house has a weird feeling to it. It’s that intimate. This is, of course, because the hallway is the transition to the most intimate places of all.
 
EVERYTHING IS SHARED AND BARED
​Bedrooms are strictly for the people who sleep in them. There's no lock - and often no door - on the Living Room or the Dining Room because they contain no secrets. But bedrooms have doors with locks and, often, second locks. There are people who you have known for years, people that you count among your closest friends, who have never seen your bedroom. And you've never seen theirs. For kids, it’s a little less private because kids essentially have no privacy. But for adults, this is the place that holds your most precious moments, your most prized possessions, your deepest intimacy. Your deepest secrets are told here. Your confessions are made here. There are heavy curtains to be drawn to keep everyone, even the light, out. Your marriage is broken and repaired here. The conditions under which you are most vulnerable – naked, asleep, making love – all happen here. It’s so private that if your best friend is in your bedroom, it’s likely they are helping you dress for a special occasion or that someone has died. There is only one room in the world more intimate than this.
 
OKAY, SO WE DON'T SHARE EVERYTHING
In the bathroom, you are hidden even from your partner. Here, you are farthest from the public world, protected by layer upon layer of rooms and walls and doors, alone with your thoughts and fears and your biology. You can drop all pretense and be completely yourself here, gross and noisy and hairy and plain.  And you cry here in the shower because it's safe and because there is no place on Earth more private.  Here you strip all the way down and here you begin the process of reapplying the layers you need to face the world anew.

You mask yourself a bit with make-up and razors and deodorant in the bathroom, then with clothes from the bedroom. You need water and coffee from the kitchen, your bag from the living room, your hat and glasses from the entrance hall, and your umbrella from the porch. By the time you step out into the yard, you're ready to be a stranger again.