Peter Pennoyer Down East

For almost every decade of the last century, one of the standard arguments in design has been new vs. old.  On one hand,  modernists insist that new is the only true religion, and that copying is bad.  On the other, traditionalists will put a gable roof on anything from cabin to shopping mall, and be satisfied that their God is being served.  Both sides have their points of course, but in the end, to my own eye, only one question matters---modern or traditional, is it good?  And in the last twenty years, as big traditional houses have come back in fashion, that question is more pertinent than ever as huge palaces of vinyl and sheetrock  have risen across the country, blighting the landscape wherever they land, often replacing older and better houses.

 Rendering of a house in Massachusetts, from Peter Pennoyer, Architects.  Described as 'Federal' in the book, it more fairly reminds this writer of the smaller houses of Philip Schutze.

Stair hall in the Massachusetts house.  Graceful in design & execution (I especially like the boxed treads and landing above the arch), its location in the center of the house recalls Ogden Codman's Berkely Villa at Newport

The reason I mention this is that I recently received a review copy of Vendome Press's new monograph, Peter Pennoyer, Architects, by Anne Walker, Pennoyer's collaborator on previous monographs about Delano and Aldrich, Grosvenor Atterbury, and Warren & Wetmore, and as I turn its lush pages, the question of tradition vs. modernism is foremost in my mind.

Mirrored Entrance Hall leads to central stair hall

 

Mr. Pennoyer first entered my consciousness years ago, when his country house for Louis Auchincloss was published.  It was an interesting house, designed for a book lover, traditional, based on Swedish precedent, and with more than a nod to post-modernism in its interiors.  Since then Pennoyer's houses have grown increasingly pure in their traditionalism, and exponentially larger and more expensively detailed, following exactly the pattern of wealth redistribution that has overtaken the country.  When looking at one of Pennoyer's designs, one is transported back to those halcyon years before the great depression, when understated but lush country houses were being built on Long Island, and quiet, elegant townhouses rose on the upper East side.  Mr. Pennoyer's architectural world recalls sleek limousines (not limos), silver cocktail shakers and Lanvin gowns, and nobody practicing today does it better.

Drawing Room in an upper East Side town house betrays no sign that it was not built and decorated in the 1920's

And herein, as I carefully examined each house pictured, trying to keep thoughts of revolution, or at least tax reform, from clouding my critical judgement, I had what was for me an interesting revelation.  And that is, that the houses that Mr. Pennoyer and his peers are creating for the latest generation of plutocrats, impeccably detailed, beautifully crafted, are interesting, not just for themselves, but because they are a new generation of the type---based not on early precedent, but rather on the latter work.  Thus, if a 1920's Long Island country house of classical Georgian design draws its inspiration from 18th century English precedent (or 17th century  England or Italy, or 18th century France, pick a style)---Jane Austen meets the jazz age, if you will---and the 18th century house in turn evoked ancient Rome, Pennoyer's houses go back to the latest model, and give a new, respectful version for the 21st century of the sophisticated, tasteful, architecture of ninety years ago.  In short, think if Ogden Codman channeled Blondel, Pennoyer is channeling Codman channeling Blondel.  This was brought home to me by a photograph caption, which gave inspiration for a beautifully carved Corinthian capital to Clarence Hanson, the carver who did much of Philip Schutze's millwork, rather than to the 18th century carvers who in turn inspired Hanson.

Stair hall in upper East Side Town house, again, purely evoking the pre-depression past

The best of these houses are beautiful indeed, with a level of correctness in design (no shortcuts taken here, moldings are full and complete, curving staircases sweep beautifully skyward), and a sure sense of proportion that is rarely seen in traditional architecture today.  These are buildings meant to convey a message of taste and luxury, of money that is correctly spent, and that rebuke the sprayon stucco chateaux and palazzi that have appeared across the country, in this latest gilded age, filled with Real Housewives waiting for their closeups.

 Channeling Delano & Aldrich--a Georgian paneled drawing room mixes with neoclassical in its oval shape, and acanthus grilles above the windows

If I have a quibble with the Pennoyer firm, it is that they are almost too respectful in their homage, and missing is the light anarchy of some of his heroes---the sublimely elegant reductionist designs of Delano and Aldrich, who made traditional so modern, or the picturesque and materials-oriented Atterbury, or the over the top, rule-breaking Warren & Wetmore.

But these are small quibbles indeed, and for this Down East Maine boy, the issue was brought home by a very large shingled summer house that Pennoyer designed on an island not far from here.  Variations on the Shingle Style have been the favorite of big new houses up here for the last two decades, and many of them are just bad---overwrought, over detailed, and over constructed.  Too many of these wannabes borrow too much from the famous examples, and are turreted, gabled, Palladian windowed and gambrel roofed within an inch of their over-designed lives.   This house takes it down a couple of notches---paying close attention to the local vernacular---and succeeds admirably, addressing its site and the conditions of the region, with none of the cliches that characterize much modern shingle work
 

  A shingled summer house on an island overlooking Penobscot Bay in Maine pays careful homage to the local vernacular without falling prey to standard cliches

The production values and photography in this book are first rate, as is Anne Walker's text., a welcome contrast to several recent design books.  As one would expect with a monograph of a living architect, critical assessment is beside the point, but the book is beautiful, and thought provoking, nevertheless.  I was especially delighted with the inclusion of several splendid renderings and sketches illustrating the Pennoyer firm's couture approach to design.

What could be more perfect than a library with a secret door?

Favorite Rooms: Smalt

Yes, you read correctly.  Smalt.  Read on.

 Warner House (Beaupre Photo, Historic Portsmouth Website)

One of my favorite  houses is the McPhaedris-Warner house in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, built by a merchant-privateer in 1718, and one of the earliest brick houses in New England.  A noble Georgian presence near the harbor, it has all the appearance of a fine townhouse in a small English city, and was the inspiration for many a good brick colonial revival house in the suburbs through the early 20th century.  Inside are handsome rooms, high and richly paneled.  The house remained in the hands of McPhaedris's descendants until the early 20th century, when the last of the family, Evelyn Sherburne, deeded the house and extraordinary contents to the Warner House Association, which has maintained it ever since.  The interiors have that romantic, rich flavor that only the accumulation of generations can give.  The hall has crude and enigmatic murals, the earliest in America to survive, with life size Native American chieftains flanking the huge arched window on the stair landing.  The dining room has interesting graining and marbleizing on the paneling.

The Warner House Association have been conscientious stewards of the property, maintaining it well.  In recent years, given the rich primary materials available, the curator, Joyce Geary Volk, clearly  a person both erudite and imaginative,  has restored different rooms to reflect varying periods of occupancy.  The drawing room is particularly evocative, restored to its Colonial Revival/ late Victorian appearance as Miss Sherburne had it.

But we'll return to all that in a future post.  Today's post is about smalt.  If anybody knows what smalt is, please raise your hand, but don't tell the others.  I didn't know smalt from s'mores until I saw this room. Continue reading.

An essential component of restoring an historic room is a chemical paint analysis, in which layers of paint are studied and broken down under a microscope to determine pigments used, to arrive at the colors for the desired period.  One of the early examples of this was the dining room at Mt. Vernon a couple of decades back, where it was found that verdigris in the pigment indicated an almost surreal shade of green originally covered the walls.

When a routine analysis was undertaken for the Parlor Chamber upstairs, a great surprise was in store.  One of the earliest layers of pigment was found to contain smalt.  For those who did not raise their hands, Smalt is ground cobalt blue glass.  It is most typically used in sign painting, to create the rough background surface one sees in older signs.  At the Warner house, the smalt was found to be of a particularly fine grain.  Although there were isolated instances of smalt being used for highlighting details of interior woodwork in England, this was the first time that researchers had encountered it in America, and the first time in an entire room.

The Parlor Chamber (photograph by Geoffrey Gross from Antiques & Fine Art)

With great excitement, the decision was made to restore the room to this appearance, and the hunt was on.  First, a smalt of the proper consistency had to be found.  Then, the painters had to find a way to properly adhere it to the paint.  A smalt-out was held, with many techniques tried.  The winner was----are you ready for this (pay attention, Martha Stewart)--- A glitter gun.  Another photo of the room may be found on Flickr

I recently visited the Warner house for the first time in years.  The tour was wonderful, given by an actress of talent playing Miss Sherburne, taking one through 'her' house and its history---lively, and not at all as corny as it sounds.  A giant improvement it is over the usual dry house tour given by well intentioned docents reading off long facts..

As we went up the stairs, and into this beautifully proportioned room, richly paneled, with its large deep windows of wavy glass looking out to the Portsmouth Harbor, I stopped breathing for a second.  It was like nothing I'd ever seen, and photographs cannot capture the ethereal effect; it has to be experienced  to fully appreciate it. The paneling had a low sort of luminescence, enhanced by the light from the river.  The color is difficult to pin down, sort of taupe/violet/mauve from the combination of a blueish green base shot with the cobalt smalt.  The already extraordinary effect was heightened by the reproduction of the original bed and curtain fabric, in a rich emerald green brocade.  It must be extraordinary by candlelight. The surprising combination of these colors and textures, with rich old San Domingo mahogany furniture, has to be seen to be believed.  Sometimes one sees something that challenges pre-conceived notions, and this is one of those instances.

Note to readers: Although this puts to shame  the gaudy and expensive paint effects various Park Avenue acquaintances have been allowing their decorators to smear over their walls for lo these many years, you should not try this at home.  Really, you shouldn't.  Unless of course, you have gorgeous 18th century paneled rooms that garner light from nearby water....