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.  It's most obvious in forms that have developed over centuries, like churches.  But it’s also kind of shocking how much your house is a series of stage sets for the drama of your life and how important the transitions between the spaces become when you think of it this way.
 
A well laid-out house is all about levels of intimacy. It starts, or it should, with the fence in the front yard. The world beyond that fence is public, a place where anyone can be.  But inside the fence is yours, a little space carved out where you have control of who may and may not enter.  It’s the first of many concentric layers of transition between your most public and private worlds.  Behind your fence, you're still out in the open, but you are separate.  Maybe there’s a little path through the lawn, made of pavers to denote that it isn't a sidewalk.  And a garden to help make the transition between wildness and domestication.  Yeah, it's vegetation, but it's vegetation of your choosing, arranged how you like it.  A bit of your personal taste is on display here.  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.   But your lawn is still connected to all the other addresses and lawns in the neighborhood.  So you have a porch. 
 
This is Level Two intimacy.  No strangers are allowed on your porch unless if they have specific business with you.  This eon the porch are not strangers, exactly, but you don't necessarily know their names.  The pizza guy can  stand on your porch, but that's as far as he goes. Even inviting him into the entrance hall during a snowstorm is an act that feels special. If you did that, you would probably ask his name.  Because the entrance hall is a critical junction for sorting and debriefing. Here, names are exchanged and decisions are made.  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's always a mirror to let you check your hair before you open the door and a coat rack in case you decide that someone is staying.  Theres room for some distance if its a stranger, and room for  hug of it's your mom.  There are subtle hints in here of your taste, but the furnishings in are mostly generic.  It’s too early to show yourself completely.   You’ll reveal a little more in the next layer.
 
If someone has made it to your living room, they are – at minimum – an acquaintance.  It's almost certain that no one whose name you do not know has ever been in your living room.  Those people are front yarders, poachers at best.  But your insurance salesman, who you know a little bit, can come into your living room.  And if that date makes it to 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 a places to sit.  There are mementos and pieces of art chosen by you and likely made by someone you know.  A person here has your initial trust, but they are still at arm's length.  The seating, for instance, is at angles or side by side so we can stay just a little oblique.  If you want to get a little closer, you move to the room where deeper conversations are held, where you sit directly across from one another, and where you share an intimate bonding ritual - a meal.

Stories are told over meals, making the dining room the place where guards are dropped.  You are free to laugh here and to use the occasional swear word.  Nobody leans back in the chairs in the living room, but in the dining room they will lean back, fully relaxed.  The makers of chairs know this and build dining chairs accordingly.  So, if being in the living room makes you acquaintances, then sitting in the dining room makes you friends.  But your closest friends go in even deeper, hanging out – always – in the kitchen.
 
Here the rules are different.  You share without the formality of plates and forks.  You eat out of jars and stick your fingers into each other’s food in a way that would be rude back in the dining room.  You can really uncork your potty language here.  And in this space, you take care of each other, preparing each other food and snacks and pouring each other wine.  Secrets are told in the kitchen and announcements made.  Your very best friends prove how at home they feel by sitting right on the counter.  People always wonder why we congregate in the kitchen.  It's because it's like the clubhouse of the house - it reminds you that you are with your closest friends.  But beyond the kitchen, real intimacy lies.
 
There’s a hallway, and nothing spells intimacy like a hallway.  Going down the hallway in any house except your own always brings a slight twinge of discomfort. Crossing this threshold requires 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.  This is the place you have your loudest, most difficult arguments because its a no-man's land and 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.
 
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.  Closets have doors with knobs, but no locks.  But bedrooms have doors with locks in the knobs and, often, another lock on the inside.  People who you have known for years and who you consider among your closest friends 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 deepest intimacy.  Your most secret secrets are told here. Your confessions happen here. There are heavy curtains to be drawn.  Your marriage is broken and repaired here.  The conditions in 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 or that someone has died.  There is only one room in the world more intimate than this.
 
In the master 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 biology.  You can drop all pretense and be completely yourself here, gross and noisy and hairy and plain – all without shame.  There is no place on Earth more private.
 
So, what does this mean for an Architect?  It means that beyond sculptural beauty, beyond the efficient use of space and materials, and beyond style, there is a larger context to consider in every building – the narrative of the lives inside of it.  Things that might seem unnecessary – that front fence, a foyer, a little more hallway, room for a real dining table, bedrooms that don't open directly into living spaces, a little extra separation for that bathroom – can be critical to the real function of the house, which is to stage the lives being lived inside of it. And that might might make us re-think, for instance, that open plan concept.  It might make us consider the windows and ceiling heights of rooms differently, and to mores carefully plan the transitions from the most public to the most private spaces.  And that’s just in a house.  The awareness of procession and narrative can help us foster and celebrate the stories that happen in every building, whether we’re helping provide dignity in a hospital, creativity in a laboratory, spirituality in a church, or laughter in a kitchen.