Trivian is an Imaginary Friend. The chances of her answering my letters any time soon are slim. Be a real friend and hit reply or comment.
Dear Trivian,
You know I had been thinking about the difference between houses that have spirit and houses that don't. I think I already got an answer. So soon? you will ask.
Last weekend I went to a concert. It was held in the private home of an acquaintance, and the name of the event was Chopin et Chocolat. It was a Californian retiree who had worked as a food chemistry professor and was making chocolate to help Ghanain farmers. He had discovered a book called Aesthetik der Tonkunst or something, in which the author was going through Chopin's preludes one by one and explaining to the reader the emotions he was supposed to be taken by while listening to each piece. The Californian played each piece on an electric keyboard and then served us chocolate.
The mistress of the house was fretting around her old aunt, a tiny frail woman, closer to 90 that 80. She was brought water, then wine, then truffles to taste, then asked whether the draft was troubling her, as the large terrace door could be closed if she wanted to. Everyone was passing by her tiny throne of a chair, paying their respects, loudly and slowly, bowing.
You know I have been working on my Imaginary Homes project for a while now, gnawing my way around what home means, what home looks like, what home feels like. Especially, the question of “Is it alive or is it dead“.
Well, dear Trivian, wait ‘till you hear this lady.
I am quite the rarity at this sort of events, being younger than 65 and all. French countryside is a bit like Florida. There's nothing much to do here other that retire.
So she had noticed me and had taken a liking in me. We ended up talking until all the guests had left and chairs had being tucked away. At first, I sat up in front of her, bowing to hear what she said. Then, I sat down, as everyone was fretting about in an "end of event" sort of mood. She told me about life after the war as a young person (my troubles fade dramatically in comparison, my dear Trivian), about how she went to Paris to study art and became an art teacher, even though her father had been warned against it. She told me about the old castle ruin on the other side of the farm.
I told her about my life and she smiled an understanding smile.
She then asked me if I wanted to see the house. She gathered her strength, hoisted her tiny self up and started towards the living room. Her L-shaped crooked back rested on a cane. She stopped in the middle of the kitchen and asked for a chair. The kitchen remodel was, she explained, the newest addition to the house, which they were all very proud of. It was a custom build by a local artisan. It didn't even cost more that a standard one after all, her niece's husband later explained.
This farm had been in her family for a hundred years. Every generation had, year by year, added elements of betterment to this place. Not with a lot of money. Instead, care and patience, and a deep understanding of the place were they all brought. And love.
She had been born in one of the upstairs bedrooms. So had her niece. And there was a pond near the house and a bigger lake further away, and there where old trees planted long ago and young trees that will bear fruit one day. There were frogs and flowers and old furniture and blue shutters.
Her hope was that her grand children would come and learn the magic of the place. They live in the city and play video games, but there is still hope. At least for a visit, in August maybe.
That house is alive.
It breathes of all the attentive choices that have been made about it, all the tiny changes and iterations, all the love poured in. It will be alive for a lot longer, provided the next generations that come will understand it as the old ones did.
And love it.
A house tends to our needs as we tend to it’s own needs. It lives with us, with the way we lead our ife, always molding itself to us. Then molding us in return.
So why are there houses that live and houses that are dead? What gives spirit to walls and roofs? It sure ain’t insulation systems or HVAC.
A house where every small change warrants a professional and every new addition is externalized will be a mirror of nobody's life. It will only ever mirror the money poured into it. That house does not live through the instinctual choices of everyday life spent in it.
Is there a tiny choice like this in the house where you live now? Or the house you lived in when you where a child? A water spout near the garden, a perfectly placed tree for shade, a sleeping spot? Do you know who lived there before? And how different their lives were from yours?
As always,
Jo
Imaginary Homes
I’m sure you’re curious to know more about this Imaginary Homes project.
Here’s what we know so far:
Imaginary Homes is trying to uncover an imaterial truth about homes and home space. Something we lost along the way in our - righteous - fight for better insulation and wall systems. It’s somewhere hidden beneath the surface, but philosophical blabla by ones self is not enough. This is a “together” quest.
Honestly I’m basically trying to answer the question “Why are new homes so ugly“. But it goes deeper that visual appearance. This is about how spaces feel like, the sounds, the smells, the textures. The temperature.
Like I say, imaterial. Like this.
What I’ve been reading:
Oh, is Courtney Cook right about that! We drown in stuff. Our creativity suffers from it. In the whip-smart words of Survival by Book: