Chapter 1
For the first four years of our marriage, Brad and I lived in a historic neighborhood in Jackson, Mississippi. Built around a small liberal arts college, Belhaven is an area filled with prewar bungalows, many with characteristic Southern style and flair. Generations of artists have found comfort and inspiration in these colorful streets, including the nationally acclaimed author Eudora Welty, who lived in her Belhaven home until her death. I loved our little house, even with its constant maintenance. The beauty of an older home is that the projects you can’t afford to tackle that year can be chalked up to charm and character. Our bungalow had all the qualities I loved: hardwood floors, large windows and landscaped views, crown molding, and ornamental mantels. It was Southern and it felt good. When we took our precious baby boy, Gibson, home from the hospital, this is where we brought him. Certainly, we have many wonderful memories we cherish in that home.

With the addition to our family, however, came the necessity of additional space. When Brad and I first viewed our current home, it was love at first sight—but the love was for the lot, not for the house. I had always heard “location, location, location,” and in this instance there was no denying the appeal of the setting. However, this midcentury split-level home was a far cry from our historic Southern bungalow.

“In this house simplicity was a necessity. I decided to eliminate moldings in favor of a more modern sensibility.”

This is where understanding the “bones” of your home proves important. By bones I mean the shell: a room’s floor, walls, and ceiling. The first thing I felt when I entered this house, aside from disliking its darkness, odd angles, and oppressively low 8-foot ceilings, was that the house couldn’t breathe. Previous owners with traditional sensibilities had dressed every space with ornamentation that fought the bones of the house. Where clean lines of drywall had once met the ceiling, there were now mismatched lowered entrances with heavy cased openings. Angles that had once effortlessly converged were suffocating in crown molding. All the things that I loved in the old house seemed wrong in the new one, and I quickly realized this house needed freedom—freedom to be itself!

My basic plan was to restore the original character and introduce charm where it was lacking. One important architectural element I looked to for guidance was the staircase balustrade. I surmised the design was original to this 1950s home; its Chinese Chippendale style was popular in that era. The dramatic geometric pattern also had been placed in side windows flanking the front door. Such deliberate and prominent placement of this motif led me to believe this is what the home yearned to reflect. Hence, the motif became my reference in the renovation process. The style of the balustrade catalyzed the mood for the house, and the white lacquered wood against the dark handrail set a tone for the other rooms to emulate. In this house simplicity was a necessity. I decided to eliminate moldings in favor of a more modern sensibility.

One must truly study the details of a home to understand its bones. By examining the flow of the rooms and the architectural elements, I began to notice inconsistencies in this house. Mismatched molding, intruding cabinets, and odd additions appeared as afterthoughts. In some areas rooms seemed to flow into one another, while in others dark hallways interrupted spaces, creating a disjointed effect. I did not have access to the original 1950s owners to ask questions, so I found myself having to work from my gut. I took my cue from original openings, where drywall simply merged with the ceilings—no moldings at all. I began reading about midcentury architecture and learned that the visual axis for residential design was horizontal. Rooms were meant to flow from one to another, creating a feeling of openness. Windows were key elements, and ribbon windows were introduced. (These are horizontal windows that emphasize the sprawling feeling of the 1950s home.) Openness was the goal, and I realized that dark halls did not belong here. I needed to honor the bones of this house and make the space feel as open as I could.

. . .

Our house had another midcentury characteristic we couldn’t deny: the parquet floor. Before we fully embraced the bones of our home, Brad and I wanted to replace the parquet with pine planks or cover the floors with wall-to-wall sisal. The wood had been stained so poorly in the past that its species was unrecognizable and, quite frankly, unattractive. It wasn’t until we sat down with a decorator friend who knew the history of the house that we learned the floors were teak! What a surprise—what we thought was a lemon was now a jewel. This is a classic example of understanding the bones of your home. Previously we had turned up our noses at the parquet because we were accustomed to more traditional planks of pine; then we decided to embrace and celebrate the original flooring. Instead of covering it up as planned, we stripped and sanded it and applied a protective coat of polyurethane to restore the natural teak hue. The difference is breathtaking. Once again, by accepting the original architecture and celebrating the genre of our home, we were able to uncover a work of art.

Having learned a huge lesson from the floors, we decided to keep embracing elements that were indicative of midcentury architecture, despite the fact that we entered the renovation with more traditional sensibilities. I must admit, having almost made such a grave error, I can understand how natural it is to impose one’s personal style on a home, regardless of whether that style coincides with the architecture. It’s an innocent mistake that previous owners had made. After I made the decision to embrace midcentury design, I was determined to stay focused. I would no longer consider exchanging modern casement style windows for traditional-style windows with mullions. Eliminating traditional attractive moldings, mantels, and baseboards took discipline because I like them. However, my research proved they did not belong in this house. I would have loved to raise every 8-foot ceiling, but aside from the cost, I knew the ceiling height in many spaces was deliberately designed with odd angles and pitches. Initially it was not easy to embrace these qualities, but as soon as I did, choices felt more natural. Elements that once appeared unfortunate seemed to shine. Slowly but surely our house was breathing again, resuscitated by the freedom to be itself.

“By accepting the original architecture and celebrating the genre of our home, we were able to uncover a work of art.”