I just wanted to drop you a line to share some thoughts on the home addition you designed for us. My friend was in town this weekend for the azalea festival and she brought along her niece who just happens to be a designer. Maybe you’ve met her? Sarah S____? Lovely girl. So smart. Since she was here, I just had to ask her what she thought of your design. She had some notes. We could meet in person if you’d like, but for now, I thought I’d email a summary to you.
She suggested having the addition blend with the existing house. What you’ve designed sits next to the original home like it’s angry to be there. Like a rectangular slightly offended piece of cold marble. perhaps you could use a few curves to soften the emotionless edges? Maybe look to the outside world for inspiration instead deep within your own tortured soul. Or at least look towards the lovely home you’ve added to, or subtracted from, if I’m being honest. Do we really need to sever the connection with the past? And in such a gory fashion?
She asked about the voids. Are they intentional? Do they mean something? Are you trying to tell me something?
She asked about the space near the kitchen pantry. It’s room number 107.1C on some of the drawings. It doesn’t’ seem to have a door. Also, is that a sump pit in there? Is there a drain? what is it draining? your will to live?
She asked about the roofs. Why so flat? There are steeply sloped wood shingles on the original home. These are over 100 years old. They’ve weathered to a lovely grey patina. My husband has replaced the broken shakes over the years, lovingly caring for the flashings and sealants around all the intersections each spring, Carefully removing any debris that finds its way onto its beloved surfaces. He treats that roof as a member of our family. I swear he spends more time on it than on me. It’s a warm roof. But the new roof is… harsh. It’s a flat cold surface filled with puddles and oily patches of loneliness. But, there is nothing to care for on this roof. There is only a flat whiteness, that blurs the boundary between ground and sky. An emptiness. I would think the rainwater couldn’t drain itself off fast enough. And yes, It’s relentless surface attempts to drain everything that is near it. But, water rests there indefinitely, over our heads as we sleep, waiting, expecting. Did I mention I was allergic to mold?
In short, my friend’s niece who is a designer suggests that you make revisions.
She also suggests you seek therapy.
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