I'm about to start designing.
But before I can put pencil to paper, I am faced with a host of questions. What strategies will I use? Can I give the client what they want? Will my design be any good? All projects start in this way, but frustratingly the design process isn't linear, and simply answering these questions won't lead me to the final design. First, I must take a leap of faith and come up with a solution, then test it to see which questions it answers. If it doesn't answer the right questions, it will be time to start again.
This particular project involves a Grade II listed former vicarage. Its layout is familiar: mature trees rise from behind a tall boundary wall; impressive entrance gates lead to a gravelled forecourt with the well-proportioned redbrick house beyond; an entrance porch with a shallow stone arch shelters an ornate front door; elegant chimneys extend the brickwork high above the eaves line of the steeply pitched roofs. The extensive gardens wrap around to the south, while to the north a further gated entrance leads to a service courtyard and coach house.
The owner of the property can't provide a detailed brief for her project since, at this stage, neither of us can predict what might be possible. She can however articulate the problem. Designed for staff, the service end of the house comprises several relatively small spaces that face the forecourt. These include the kitchen, scullery and pantry. Her question is, how can the house be modified to suit contemporary living with a large family kitchen and dining area that opens on to the garden? And how can this be achieved without compromising this fine listed building?
Some initial research reveals that the house dates from 1877 and is attributed to a prominent local architect of the period. However, certain uncharacteristic aspects of the design make me question if this is true. Anecdotal advice suggests that the house was the vicarage to the village church. This would almost be believable except that the church is a quarter of a mile away and the house sits adjacent to a Presbyterian chapel. It therefore seems more likely to have belonged to the chapel. But how does one account for the relative scale and grandeur of the house compared with the austere nature of the chapel?
A chance discovery of an image of the minister gives an insight into life in the 1880s. It shows him with his family, building a snowman in the garden while the housekeeper looks on from a downstairs window. Reference to early Ordnance Survey maps reveals that the house was substantially extended soon after completion. Why did the original design prove inadequate? What is the story of the minister and his family?
In carrying out a dimensional survey, I realise that the service end of the house has been altered over the years, but it is difficult to identify the precise original layout. There are no original fittings in this area, so I can't tell if the kitchen had a range with a back boiler to provide hot water, nor whether the house was built with flushing toilets. Close to the rear door, there is a well. Could water have been hand-pumped to a tank in the house? There were so many improvements happening to domestic sanitation at the time, but what was installed in this house? Perhaps the best of what was available?
In a project like this, I have to answer the question posed by the client, but I also have to respect the original house. In some ways, it is as if I have more than one client, only one of which can provide me with straight answers. But there is another ‘client’ who I have to consider too, and that is the Local Authority Conservation Officer. Their support is vital since we will need Listed Building Consent for any alterations, but what will they think? And will I be able to persuade them that my, yet to be realised, design is sympathetic and complementary to this protected building? To this end, I must do what I believe is right and not fall into the trap of second-guessing the questions that they may have.
In summary: I have a client who can't fully articulate a brief because what is possible is currently unknown; there are no original drawings and no confirmation of the original architect; little is known about the first occupants and their circumstances, although one image provides a tantalising glimpse of family life; there is a lack of knowledge of the precise layout and fittings in the original service quarters; and no idea what the Conservation Officer will think of my future proposals.
It is in this context that I must begin. The answers to the questions raised, fascinating and intriguing as they may be, will not tell me what to design. Many things will have to remain unresolved, time is pressing, and I need to deliver. Such is the messy start to most projects. Coming up with a coherent response is both the challenge and the joy of what I do. What will I come up with? I’m about to find out. How will I know if it's any good? From experience, I have found that the quality of the solution will be gauged by the extent to which it feels 'just right'. When the client says simply, "yes, I like it". And when the design, and its impact on the original house, begs no further questions.
This article was written by Andy Foster for the September ‘20 edition of the Sherborne Times.