The home's interior is casual and full of comfy furnishings that Brooke has gathered over the years.

The best beach houses evolve over time. They often start as simple shingled structures, solid and shuttered for when the waves whip to a froth.

As seaside memories are made, as more sand is tracked across the floors, as more dripping swimsuits leave their marks, as more wicker is added and more books are left behind, the beach houses accumulate their character. Textures become densely layered, shells and stones scramble for space on shelves and windowsills, dining tables extend to accommodate friends of friends, and flea market finds and hand-me-downs fill the spaces.

When Los Angeles–based architect Stephen Giannetti and his wife, Brooke, an interior designer, decided that rather than remain in Brentwood, a city district of L.A., they preferred to raise their three children in the more family-friendly coastal community of Santa Monica, they went in search of the perfect site to build their interpretation of a beach house. They found just what they were looking for—a tired, moldy tear-down in an ideal location, warmed and backlit by the western sun, in an established neighborhood that was situated just north of an area with shopping and dining amenities.

As they sought inspiration for their new home, they cast their eye not toward the Spanish-style bungalows built in the area in the 1920s, ’30s, and ’40s, but to the Shingle-style cottages closer to the coast and built in the 1910s as retreats for residents of downtown L.A. and Pasadena. The couple took their cues from those earlier models but updated their design to suit twenty-first-century living. “Most of those homes were broken up into tiny rooms,” Brooke comments. “We wanted an open flow with one big kitchen and family room in the back of the house.”

At the same time that he and Brooke were working on the design for their own home, Steve was conducting research for PCH, a sprawling beach house to be built on three adjacent lots in Malibu. At first, Steve’s client wanted him to draw on his Maryland background, and the initial plans reflected that influence. In fact, he so well channeled the East Coast that the owner asked if he could instead design a seaside home based on California-style cottages.

A sun porch doubles as a dining room in the Santa Monica house.

“At the time,” Steve says, “I did not know what those were. There were not many, so I looked at summer cottages in Crystal Cove, in Laguna, and in Santa Monica.” He applied their beach aesthetic to the Malibu design and culled from what he learned to create his own home. “All of the beach houses are done the same way. They are made of wood and have a beach vibe.” Steve’s design represented a contrast to the new homes being built in the Santa Monica community, homes which he describes as “stucco boxes with tiled roofs, grand entries, a big hallway down the middle, and no detail.”

The Giannetti home is all about detail. Borrowing from the past, Steve shunned the clunky 2x10s favored today and (like his forebears) chose lighter 2x4s for the rafters, sans insulation. The windows likewise contribute to the home’s cottage feel. The single-pane casements are divided by 3⁄4″ mullions and framed by shutters. He added eaves as well as overhangs to protect the windows and front porch and to add “an Old World feel.” He designed interior walls and ceilings as 1×10 v-groove.

While these details evoke early southern California cottage style, Steve went even further back in the past for his dimensional scale. The son of a Washington, D.C.-area ornamental plaster artist who did commission work at Monticello, Steve based his home’s design on the golden section, a ratio employed in the Renaissance and (some argue) even as far back as classical Greece and adopted by cottage builders in the 1920s. “The three-to-five ratio is particularly noticeable from the front view,” Steve says. “The proportions give it a harmonious balance.”

Inside and out, the home mixes traditional structural elements with a bit of the unexpected. The landscape offers one example. Frequent professional collaborators, Steve and Brooke worked on the landscape’s design together, Steve creating its structure and Brooke introducing what she calls “a little bit of chaos” in the form of favored English cottage garden plants like roses, lavender, thyme, cabbages, and sage. Paired urns flanking the home’s entrance and two stacked cement pillars standing guard at a pathway add order to the chaos.

Brooke works in her office space, where antiqued brick and beadboard ceiling add a layer of authenticity to the beach house.

This impulse toward balanced elements—formal and casual, old and new, masculine and feminine—is evident inside the house as well. Built seven years ago, the house belies its age. Adding patina are the antique architectural elements: columns standing as sentries to the living room, blue corbels adding a flourish to the stairwell passageway, another set of corbels decorating daughter Leila’s room, and a Victorian cutout screen embellishing the pantry door.

The light fixtures evoke an earlier era as well. There is not a recessed light to be found; instead, wall sconces, table lamps, and ceiling lights, as well as old schoolhouse fixtures in the kitchen, illuminate spaces with character and warmth. As is found in the most authentic beach houses, the furnishings include antiques and flea-market treasures, such as the Swedish grandfather clock standing by the stairwell, the old French church tower clock occupying the stair wall, Brooke’s antique dressing table in the master bedroom, and a capital from a Corinthian column that serves as the dining table base. New furnishings, many designed by Steve—the living room sofa, dining room chairs, and family room sectional, for instance—have their place as well. While Steve has his own architectural firm, Giannetti Architects, and Brooke has her Velvet and Linen design site, the couple joins forces as Giannetti Home, which sells Steve’s designed furnishings and Brooke’s finds, including “whatever I fancy at the moment,” she says.

Having two creative owners, the home is often the subject of experiments. “I think we look at our house as a science lab,” Steve offers. The neutral foundation, including wood floors and white walls, kitchen cabinets, counters, and backsplashes, allows for changes. “We can alter the feeling of the house by changing the couch covers and the pillows,” Brooke says. Recently, the couple has been adding industrial elements—a zinc-top table and medical-supply-store island stools—to balance some of the interior design’s more feminine qualities. “I think I lean toward industrial,” Steve says, “and Brooke leans toward European vintage. It’s a marriage of aesthetics and styles that creates a third look.”

“It’s like yin and yang,” Brooke adds. “Too much of either, and it’s too harsh or too soft and sweet.”

A farmhouse sink and tin ceiling add period touches to the bright kitchen.

The spaces themselves—from the white wooden lockers just inside the front entry to the back porch where the family gathers for meals—are decidedly elegant yet are absolutely family-friendly. Though originally open, the porch was enclosed in windowed walls and French doors when the Giannettis realized that Santa Monica’s year-round temperate weather is a bit on the chilly side. An attic loft, lined with an aluminum radiant barrier, makes for a cool playroom; the garage, fashioned to look like a petite cottage, has been host to birthday parties, with cars parked outside and melted ice cream and spilled drinks easily hosed out after the festivities. Even the master bedroom, occupying the back length of the second floor, feels a bit playful, with treetops hovering over it, creating a secret hideaway.

Built with tongue-and-groove walls and ceilings, floored with pine, furnished with pieces old and new, and designed for an active family of five, the Giannetti home represents the best of beach cottage style—not too cute but not too studied, casual and comfortable, solid yet light. Brooke is proud that people really love her home and recognize that she has created a happy place to raise children. For Steve, gratification comes from the success of the architectural details: “People walk in and think it is an old house.”

Laurel Kornhiser is a freelance writer and editor of La Vie Claire magazine. She lives on Cape Cod.

Peter Zimmerman Architects designed this stone house following the vernacular style of the region—Pennsylvania Dutch. Salvaged stone and brick were used in the construction of the building.

Nestled in the bucolic countryside of Chester Springs sits a fieldstone house that appears to have been resting in that spot for centuries. Sturdy and comfortable in its woodland surroundings, the house stands as testimony to the clever and creative genius of its architect, Peter Zimmerman of Peter Zimmerman Architects.

“One day I noticed a piece of property for sale. The home was not much, a 1960s contemporary in pretty bad shape, but the land it sat on was private and beautiful,” says Zimmerman. He immediately called his clients, a retired couple who had been looking for a site on which to build. The couple had called Zimmerman after seeing a home that he had designed published in New Old House in 2006. They loved the layout of that particular project—a small single-story wood farmhouse—but they wanted a different vernacular: a Pennsylvania Dutch fieldstone structure.

The challenge for Zimmerman was to create an authentic design that had most of its living space on the first floor. “I didn’t want the house to look too long or too low,” he explains. “That layout would not fit into a traditional design.” Another challenge Zimmerman and project architect William H. Johnson III faced was working within the existing house’s footprint; the zoning codes in the area did not allow for the house to be sited differently. To meet these goals, the team created a design where 70 percent of the living space was located on the first floor.

“We were able to manipulate the volume so that it didn’t look like a single-story house,” he states. The dormered stone structure is composed of a story and a half with two wings—one wing is a story-and-a-half gabled stone structure, and the other is a story-and-a-half clapboard structure. He leveled the existing structure to the first-floor plate and slightly modified the foundation, which is on a steep slope, to keep the footprint within the zoning boundaries.

New balusters, newel posts, and railings were incorporated into the antique staircase.

To create a suspension of disbelief as to the age of the house, Zimmerman weaved a plausible story of how the house may have evolved over time. He layered details within the volume of the house, such as a change in materials from stone to wood. This alteration makes the clapboard wing appear as if it had been added by a later generation. He also juxtaposed different time periods, adding to the illusion of the passage of time. The French doors and a sun porch also would have been “later” additions to the home. One can imagine that these architectural elements were incorporated to update the “antique” house to reflect twentieth-century fashions.

“There is a strong German influence in the area’s building traditions,” says Zimmerman, who clearly borrowed from the region’s eighteenth-century vernacular stone houses. Germans often built in stone, as they had done in their native land. Immigrant farmers would plow the rocky soil and remove the stones from the field to use as building materials, along with old-growth timbers. “Authentic stone veneers are about 8½” thick,” explains Zimmerman, who used salvaged stone from a local historical building being demolished. “The thickness of the walls creates deeper windowsills and door openings.” Many of the window jambs are splayed to admit additional natural light. “Antique brick was used sparingly in limited and controlled areas of the house because in the past, a stonemason would have to be hired to lay the brick,” continues Zimmerman.

Zimmerman, who is an advocate for using salvaged and reclaimed materials, did not stop at the home’s façade when incorporating recycled items into the project. “I have to applaud the homeowners, who found many of the salvaged items we used throughout the house,” says Zimmerman, referring in particular to the salvaged interior staircase. Zimmerman designed new trim detailing and got permission from the zoning board to use the original 34″ rail rather than replacing it with a standard 36″ rail, which would comply with today’s standard building codes.

New balusters, newel posts, and railings were incorporated in the antique staircase.

“Salvaging old materials or preserving old structures doesn’t get enough credit in the green movement,” states Zimmerman. He believes that more often than not, contemporary structures that are LEED certified won’t last more than 25 years, whereas homes built using traditional materials and methods will last 100 years plus. “This house has locally milled lumber, resawn salvaged heart pine, and antique brick terraces, and it was even built on an existing foundation—you need to look at the total impact on the environment when discussing sustainability,” says Zimmerman.

Another important design factor for the homeowners was the relationship between the inside and the outside. The couple really wanted the house to be light and have a sense of openness to the surrounding woodland landscape. Zimmerman also wanted to create a nice visual connection between the front and back of the house. “There is a front hall through which you enter into the great room—this room has views to the south,” explains Zimmerman. Open porches flank both the front and back of the house, offering ample spaces to enjoy outdoor living. The windows in the dining porch fold back on themselves with sash hinges so the whole room can seemingly open up to offer alfresco dining.

The public interior spaces also open onto each other. The main structure is essentially one great room where the family gathers for relaxing and formal dinners. A series of balconies look from a second-story gallery onto that room, and this second-floor gallery has shelves tucked into knee walls for the couple’s extensive book collection. “No space was wasted in the house,” says Zimmerman. One wing is reserved for the kitchen, family room, dining room, laundry room, and mudroom, while the master bedroom, dressing room, master bath, and study are tucked into the other wing. Zimmerman added three bedrooms, along with two full baths and an office, to the upstairs. The dormered six-over-six wood windows allow the spaces to flood with natural light. The home is full of light, open, and airy—perfect for twenty-first-century living wrapped into the building traditions of centuries past.

Landscape architecture firm Horiuchi & Solien of Falmouth, Massachusetts, incorporated this shingled garden shed into a fenced vegetable garden. (Photo: Brian Vanden Brink)

A few weeks ago, I was at one of the big home stores, stocking up on some gardening supplies, and happened to notice the gardening sheds for sale. Various boxy prefab structures, by and large constructed of real wood but some made of composite or vinyl, were lined up along the edge of the parking lot like so many bits of flotsam on a beach. Expensive flotsam. When I went over to investigate, I was shocked to discover that the majority of these structures, 8′ by 10′ or so, were $1,500 or more.

Personally, I wouldn’t accept one of these structures on my property for payment, let alone purchase one, and I began to think about why my reaction was so viscerally negative. It wasn’t so much that they were ugly (they were—all built in mock country-barn style), but that they were also expensive. It seems to me that if you’re going to spend more than a thousand dollars on a structure for your garden, you should at least get something that doesn’t look like it was dropped randomly by some Oz-like tornado into the middle of your garden.

So what should you look for when choosing a garden shed? First of all, style. Those of you who’ve read my column on a regular basis know that I continually advocate making sure every element in your garden is cohesively chosen to conform to the style of your house. If you have a New England Colonial, your shed should share that theme. If your house is a Frank Lloyd Wright–inspired ranch, your shed should be, too.

Country Carpenters designs garden sheds and outbuildings appropriate for traditional New England properties.

Of course, finding just the right design often isn’t easy, potentially even requiring custom construction, but frankly, care and attention spent now will save you a lot of headaches down the road. Customizable designs are readily available from online sources, which then can be handed off to a local carpenter to build. Or if you’re handy by nature, consider purchasing one of the many kits available from numerous suppliers across the country and building your own. These kits come in a far greater variety of styles than you’ll find for sale locally and are surprisingly easy to construct. The hardest part is forming and leveling the base; after that, it’s simply a giant Erector set. All the parts come precut; assembly requires only a power screwdriver. I built all the structures in my yard from such kits, with a minimal amount of fuss, each in about a day.

When buying a shed, be sure to choose one that’s as adaptable as possible. Remember, well-built sheds have long lives and may change function over time. In my garden, I have two outbuildings. Both structures started life as off-the-shelf kit sheds but were eventually converted to other purposes as my gardening needs and interests changed. As I became involved in raising heirloom chickens, for example, my slope-roofed shed ceased housing tools and, with the addition of some ventilation, became instead home to several dozen hens. The other, which I call the “bee house” because I store my apiary supplies there, was provided with a mini-deck after I realized it would make the perfect place to sit on a spring evening and enjoy the scent of apple blossoms. These alterations were possible only because both were built of quality materials from a good design. An earlier structure I purchased before I knew better, made of cheap pressed wood, rotted out and had to be demolished rather than reused.

Both of my outbuildings share another element that has greatly increased their usefulness and longevity: ample light. It may sound strange, but good lighting is crucial to the proper utilization of a garden shed. No matter what your intended purpose, if you can’t see what’s within, you can’t use it. And since most structures in the garden are far from an electricity source, ample natural light is key. My bee house possesses a sliding door with a glass window and two medium sidelights that can be opened as needed, flooding the interior with light and making it easy to find whatever I’m looking for. The coop actually has plastic panels built into its roof as a type of skylight that brilliantly illuminates the interior. Intended by the manufacturer as a gardener’s shed with potting bench where seedlings were meant to sprout, now heirloom hens contentedly bask in what has become a de facto avian solarium.

Historically inspired hardware can enhance the traditional look of your garden shed, as these iron strap hinges and thumb latch by Acorn Manufacturing demonstrate. (Photo: Eric Roth)

Concomitant with purpose goes size: You would be surprised how much room a mower, a few lawn chairs, and a small collection of tools can consume. Add a bit of workspace for the odd garden chore or project, and suddenly you’re talking about a considerable amount of space. Decide in advance what you plan to store in your shed, calculate the square footage, and then double it. I’m not sure why, but it’s a truism that sheds attract equipment like moths to a flame; the second you build one, it will be full. I’ve found from long experience that 8′ x 6′ is the smallest practical storage area for most home gardeners.

Finally, the old real estate adage of “Location, location, location!” really comes into play on the subject of sheds. Storage facilities have to be strategically placed near where their contents will be used; otherwise, their utility is severely compromised. Think about where the maximum amount of gardening takes place on your property, and locate your shed logically in this area—as a focal point at the end of a vista, for instance, or centered along the side of your vegetable garden space.

This prominent location is another reason why your shed needs to look good: It’s now become a centerpiece of the garden. This often means additional construction in the form of pathways to provide access, fencing to frame or enclose the space, and planting to settle the structure into the garden, proving yet again that building a shed is not something to be undertaken lightly. But believe me, the first time you’re surprised by a spring shower and take refuge in your shed, surrounded by neat rows of implements snuggled safe and dry from the drops pitter-pattering on your new little roof, you’ll relax, look out over your tended plot, and breathe deeply of the sweet smell of gardening success. After all, a good shed is like a good friend: It’s always there when you need it.

Michael Weishan is the author of The New Traditional Garden. For more tips and techniques of traditional gardening, follow Michael’s Old House, Old Garden blog.

Michael Imber designed this home for a Texas couple to look like it has always been in its woodland location. The rustic design is influenced by the German vernacular present in Fredericksburg.

A big place like Texas can accommodate a variety of architectural styles. The Monte Vista District of San Antonio, for example, features house styles that range from Queen Anne to Prairie to Spanish Colonial Revival. It was from one such character-drenched house that a particular couple decided to move 10 years ago.

“We really love old houses,” insists the husband. “I just got tired of things not working.” So they packed up their three young children and moved a bit farther north to a house that was both bigger and newer. “Everything worked,” says the husband brightly. “But,” he continues with far less enthusiasm, “it had no personality.”

Taking heed of the lessons learned from these houses—one pretty but prone to falling apart, and the other the exact opposite—the couple knew the third time would be the charm. Starting from scratch with a house lot of four and a half acres in Hill Country Village, a small agrarian suburb 25 minutes from downtown San Antonio, they started to envision their dream house and, approaching it academically, drew up fairly detailed plans. They knew they wanted a big but not gigantic house, one that would feel cozy even after the children left for college. The husband wanted a house that was “fairly masculine, where you can hang deer antlers and they look good.” (He’s not a hunter, but his son is.) Most of all, the couple yearned for “a house that looks like it’s been here forever”; however, “here” proved to be somewhat vexatious.

“They had a nice sloping wooded site with good exposure toward the southeast,” says architect Michael Imber, whom the couple found through a friend. “But the house had to be oriented around a rocky ledge, a ravine, and several specimen trees.” Imber took the challenge in stride. His firm, Michael G. Imber Architects, “is sensitive to culture and environment and the way we build in response to that,” he asserts. Recognized in 2009 as a “Top Mountain Architect” by Mountain Living magazine, the firm embraces the rough and varied landscapes of the western United States as a natural palette for its structures.

The entryway unfolds into a gallery. Underfoot is a cool Oklahoma Sugarloaf stone floor.

Indeed, this house was designed to work itself into the Texas hill country landscape—rolling, somewhat rugged hills that consist primarily of limestone. “There is a lot of topography here,” says the husband, a geologist, “and we wanted to situate the house to take advantage of some of the lot’s drama.”

In response to the topographic quirks of the site, the 5,000-square-foot house is an amalgamation of major blocks and low-slung connectors, all of which follow the natural outline of the woods. To the north of the entryway sits the master bedroom suite, including a large office, and on the south side of the entryway are the interconnected kitchen and living, dining, and family rooms.

The entryway itself opens into a gallery, beyond which the living room, with its 20′ ceilings, “is reminiscent of a barnlike structure,” Imber says. At one end, a large picture window looks out at the woods.

Adjacent to the living room, the dining room is a more intimate space with 9′ ceilings that is oriented toward the outdoor living area provided by a screened-in porch. “We use the porch every evening from March to October,” say the homeowners. “It’s like another room.” San Antonio is often referred to as “a place where the sunshine spends the winter,” and an outside fireplace has become a common feature of Texas homes. This family also has a grill area out near the pool, which is intentionally hard to find. “We wanted the pool to be something people would come upon, like a rock pond, not a focal point of the landscape.”

The kitchen and dining area open onto one another.

One of their other favorite spots in the house is a small sitting area outside the husband’s office. A triangular space that juts out into leafy treetops, it is “a perfect little viewing area looking toward the rocky ravine below,” says Imber, adding that it was “a good way to capture space.” With two wing chairs facing one another, it also provides an ideal setting for parent–child conversations, the adults have discovered.

“There is no organizing aspect to the floor plan other than working the masses around features of the site,” observes Imber, noting a very large cedar elm in front of the house, one Virginia cedar, and other trees, primarily live oak, that the homeowners insisted on preserving. As a result, in several rooms of the house, especially the children’s upstairs wing, trees are at eye level, producing the effect of living in a tree house.

The owners love to spend Sundays reading the paper on the screened porch, which is adjacent to the kitchen and dining room.

Country lovers, the family plans to build a barn for horses on an adjacent lot they own and have also decided not to deer-proof their property with unsightly fences, even though the animals, they say, “are a bit of a nuisance.” Landscape architect John Troy used native plant choices, eschewing the type of formal landscape design that would contradict the organic nature of the house. “John attempted to accentuate the architect’s vision,” say the homeowners. “The house looks like it’s growing up out of the landscape.”

Building materials, too, were chosen with an eye to blending the house with its natural setting. During the Paleozoic era, this part of Texas was underwater. Dense, crustaceous Leuders limestone, quarried nearby, was used extensively for both the exterior and interior of the house. Described by Imber as “a very rich caramel-colored stone that gives a warm palette,” this particular mix includes some rather large fossilized gastropods that were culled out and used to accent the entry and rear porch, a special feature for the geologist homeowner. Together with the stone, a copper roof, warm-toned plaster, and cypress with a weathering stain, it creates a naturally inviting exterior that ages well. “All the materials are traditional,” says Imber. “We’re just using them in a new, fresh manner.”

The living room has 20' ceilings made of stained vertical-grain fir. The walls and fireplace are made of Leuders limestone, which is locally quarried.

Inside, more Leuders limestone harmonizes with warm woods, particularly the handsome stained vertical-grain fir that is used for all doors, ceilings, cabinetry, and most of the trim. The floors, with the exception of the Oklahoma Sugarloaf stone floor in the gallery, are reclaimed longleaf pine. Mahogany distinguishes the master bath.

While observing that their house leans more toward the German vernacular of Fredericksburg than Spanish Colonial architecture, with perhaps a few Texas frontier-like elements, the owners of this rustically sophisticated hill country gem are adamant that the house “has its own style. It can’t be pigeonholed into a regional architectural category.”

What’s clear is that the family cares less about labeling the house than living in it. “We don’t lead a particularly peaceful life,” says the husband, “so the house is like a retreat. I would much rather stay home, have coffee and a plate of pancakes on the screened-in porch, and read the newspaper than go on vacation.” This begs only one question: Do they take reservations?

Cape Cod-based freelance writer Janice Randall Rohlf writes frequently on lifestyle topics, including art and architecture.

Miles Redd's Little Italy town house. (Photo: Martyn Thompson)

Designer Miles Redd heard the criticism: “You can’t have both awnings and shutters. Never mind that revered French decorator Madeleine Castaing had the same features on her house—it just shouldn’t be done.” But rather than heed the advice of naysayers while planning the restoration of the façade of his town house in New York’s Little Italy, Redd went to Gil Schafer, III, of G.P. Schafer Architect, PLLC.

“With the shutters and awnings, Gil was one of the few that said, ‘Okay, I get it. It’s not what I would do, but it’s a great photo op,’” Redd says with a laugh. Schafer adds that the tension between his academic approach and Redd’s self-described “idiot savant” sensibilities can produce wonderful results. “Sometimes the tension between those two forces can yield something more interesting,” Schafer says. “Just to be perfectly correct all the time can be really boring.”

Completed over roughly two months in the summer of 2009, the façade restoration on Redd’s 1826 home was the final stage of the one-and-a-half-year overhaul of the town house, and the most recent in a series of collaborations by Schafer and Redd. The duo had previously worked together on an apartment in Greenwich Village, a Greek Revival house in Millbrook, and a home in upstate New York.

Schafer designed new lintels that incorporate a Greek key pattern. New casement windows were also custom-constructed. (Illustrations: Rob Leanna)

Though Schafer wasn’t involved in work on the interior, Redd says the inside—highlighted by the addition of a mammoth David Adler bathroom purchased from a salvage warehouse in Chicago—set the bar and influenced the meticulous attention paid to the façade. “You can’t have these glamorous spaces and not care about the outside,” Redd says. “That was my impetus for going the extra mile, whereas in New York, most people don’t tend to do that quite as much.”

The restoration of the town house, which has been Redd’s residence for about 10 years, was completed under the auspices of the New York Landmarks Commission. The philosophy toward the restoration was fairly simple, Schafer says. “‘Preserve the bones’ of the town house to keep its character in tune with the rest of the neighborhood, but add a flair unusual for a New York town house with a variety of layers on top.”

Redd adds, “The idea was to be true to certain Federal details—the lintels over the windows. And the surround around the door is original. But I wanted to have a little bit of a French feel.” Among other sources, Redd consulted a book from the 1930s titled The Small Outbuildings of Versailles and explored a litany of French homes. Redd had formed most of the concepts before speaking with Schafer. “He had a very clear vision, and it was really just up to us to help execute that,” Schafer says.

The wrought-iron fence Schafer created for the front of the town house also features a Greek key motif.

To add some vibrance to the town house’s façade, which was originally natural brick, Redd painstakingly scrutinized the soft blue-gray he intended to use, adapting it to more or less match that of a similar home down the street. But more important, the color scheme was intended to contrast with its stark brick neighbors on either side. “I’ve never really been a fan of brick, and our brick wasn’t particularly pretty,” Redd says. “I definitely come from the school of painted finishes and surfaces, but it works and is well integrated into the street.”

The windows needed the most work. “They were hideous metal windows with bars across them, probably left over from a 1970s renovation,” Redd says. In their stead came French casement windows with Greek key lintels. “The lintels were more historically appropriate with the Greek key motifs,” Schafer adds. And then, of course, there were the shutters and retractable awnings. “I actually do use the awnings from time to time in the summer. They pull all the way down, and it gives the house such an Italian feel,” Redd says. “And it creates such an interesting light inside, kind of soft…you just feel like you’re in a different place.”

Schafer added a David Alder-inspired lantern to the front door. Other accessories include a silver door knocker by E.R. Butler.

Inspired by a similar piece on the McCormick Blair House, the restoration also involved the addition of a railing and a small black-and-white door that leads into an English basement. One of the most eye-catching elements of the façade is also a relatively subtle one: an enormous E.R. Butler door knob with a rose-shaped backplate attached to the three-paneled French front door. “It’s not nickel. It’s actually silver, so that has a lot of impact,” Schafer says. “But it’s something you see when you get up close.” An Adler-inspired lantern and a wrought-iron hanger loom over the door and the front steps, which, with the exception of the caps and large stone spheres, were left untouched.

Schafer also initiated the design of a black garbage enclosure with Greek key fretwork to keep the unsightly refuse out of view. “He just told me, ‘You’re going to have a big, beautiful, black box,’ and it all worked so perfectly,” Redd says.

Instead of stemming from any sort of architectural epoch, Redd says his sensibilities come from emotional responses. “Every day, I wanted to feel as I walked into the house that I was happy to live there,” Redd says. “Every time I look at this house and see that the lantern is lit, or it’s covered in snow, or the apple tree in the front is starting to flower, all those little parts of living in a house and seeing it through the seasons are inspiring to me.”

Jeff Harder is a freelance writer and editor who lives in Massachusetts.

Woodcarver Eric Bogdahn creates works of art in his Rhode Island studio.

For most of us, a prospective trip to Nantucket Island—whether for business or pleasure—comes with a certain level of exuberant expectation. No matter the season, the whaling port of old offers visitors the opportunity to step back in time to an authentically preserved maritime community—a community that, despite the fairly recent sprawling development of massive summer homes, continues to offer a glimpse of and refreshing appreciation for the beauty of a past era preserved.

Yet for woodcarver Eric Bogdahn, a first-time visit to Nantucket came disguised as a haphazard whim. Five years of working in the office of registration at the Center of Adult Education in Cambridge, Massachusetts, had begun to take its toll. “I think I just needed a break to figure out which direction I was headed. A friend’s parents had a room available on the island, so I decided to go down just for the summer and paint houses.”

Change in Class

Unfulfilled with more monotonous labor, Eric decided to enroll in a woodcarving class at one of the local woodworking shops. The class he selected just happened to be taught by Paul McCarthy—the same man whose proficiency at woodcarving in Scituate, Massachusetts, garnered him a feature article in an issue of Fine Woodworking in the early 1980s; since that time he has gone on to teach literally thousands of aspiring woodworkers in various disciplines.

Early on in the course of his classes, Eric discovered an overwhelming passion for the craft of woodcarving. “Not only did it come naturally to me under Paul’s instruction, but I really enjoyed the creative freedom it offered.” Additionally, it seemed woodcarving wasn’t the only thing Eric was excited about, as a classmate named Noelle had caught both his eye and his heart. “We started dating, then quickly married,” says Eric.

Bogdahn got his start making quarterboards on the island of Nantucket.

Family Business

Noelle, who had already established a small clientele before meeting Eric, was well-accomplished at a multitude of woodworking techniques. “Honestly, Noelle had all the finishing skills when we started out,” Eric says with admiration. It was her attention to detail that inspired Eric to dive into the meat and potatoes of most aspiring woodcarvers around the island: milling and carving quarterboards. “They’re those little signs carrying a property’s name that owners place over the doorway or gable end of their home,” Eric explains. “A very popular item around Nantucket and Cape Cod.”

Each fully carved quarterboard received two coats of oil primer, followed by three coats of enamel paint, then a gold-leaf overlay. Eric estimates that in their busiest year they probably made about 150 quarterboards. “That directly translates into thousands of hand-carved letters,” he says.

Over the next 10 years, the couple doggedly pursued their own woodcarving business, with much success. The quality of their shared labors helped secure further commissions for larger projects, such as fireplace mantels or surrounds, and some architectural furniture such as cabinets and built-ins. Additionally, some of their most popular commercial pieces welcomed the thousands of seasonal visitors ambling off island ferries into town, most notably the Ralph Lauren Polo clothing store on Main Street and the Nantucket Nectars snack depot on Straight Wharf. “Talk about great exposure,” says Eric.

A carving in progress.

On the Move

Despite the couple’s success, the work schedule—which averaged 12 hours a day, six days a week—kept them from truly enjoying the fruits of their labor. “Living on Nantucket was similar to living in a small town,” confides Eric. “There’s not much else to do, especially during the winter season.” That’s when they first considered the need for a change of pace.

Noelle, who had a bachelor of fine arts degree from Carnegie Mellon University, was yearning to do something different, so she decided to go back to school to get a masters in elementary education from Lesley University in Boston. Once finished, she taught on the island a full year before they decided to resettle elsewhere.

Eric and Noelle chose to relocate to Providence, Rhode Island, where Noelle was able to secure a teaching position, and where the expectant parents could be closer to Eric’s retired parents in nearby Charlestown. Before leaving, Eric had lined up some large commission projects to help smooth the transition. “I didn’t want to turn my back on those big jobs,” he recalls, “nor did I want to have to commute to and from the island to work on them.”

After completion of those projects and the relocation of his family, Eric decided to set up a small shop in an artist compound in Pawtucket, Rhode Island. Past clients and repeat customers continued calling from Nantucket, requiring four to five trips back to the island over the first year. Although Eric enjoyed the work he missed working with others.

Bogdahn carves the Nantucket sleigh ride into a mantelpiece.

Seeking Solace

Search for a new work environment brought Eric to the door of Rick Cantwell of Fairhaven, Massachusetts. An established woodworker for more than 25 years—complete with an actual degree in furniture making—Rick immediately hit it off with Eric. “Rick’s work is fantastic, and it’s completed with such amazing efficiency despite higher levels of difficulty and detail,” Eric says. “He has made a profound impact on me and my work in a professional sense.”

Now Eric splits his time between his commission work and furniture making. “I’ve been very fortunate to learn from guys like Paul and Rick,” says Eric. “Both have helped me push my work toward a higher level of quality.” Not only that, but Eric now savors more satisfaction from the craft than ever before. “Learning to work more quickly and efficiently, I can produce in one hour what used to take me two days,” he recalls. “Carving small details now comes very naturally, without even thinking about them, and that gives me a great sense of joy and pleasure.”

Now more secure in their surroundings, Eric and Noelle have purchased a 100-year-old Craftsman-style house in neighboring Rumsford, Rhode Island, with plans to renovate as they go, starting with the home’s mechanicals and then finishing with fine woodworking—the “real fun stuff,” as Eric calls it. Their daughter, Ella, turns seven this year, and everyone’s happy. “We have easier access to more diverse activities, which we can all enjoy doing together,” Eric says.

Commission work continues lapping at his doorstep, as Eric describes some of the projects he’s completed over the past year: hand-carved rosettes with a crab relief, an eighteenth-century reproduction fireplace mantel the owners wanted hand-carved out of chestnut, and an architectural rendering of a furniture-grade cabinet. “I just recently finished a 52″-tall heron with fine feather detail and jeweler-grade glass eyes that free-stands on the client’s carpet via use of an internal wire frame and magnets,” Eric says excitedly. “It came out absolutely perfect!”

Stephen T. Spewock is a freelance writer who lives in Massachusetts.

Connecticut-based firm Whitten Architects incorporated a transom over these six-over-six sash windows. (Photo: Brian Vanden Brink)

They are mostly clear but often seen, and they play a major role in a period-appropriate look. Ideally, windows appeal visually and operate efficiently while enhancing a cohesive architectural whole. If certain elements are out of step with an informing time period, however, the illusion of “old” can be lost—a particularly worrying outcome considering a window’s pervasiveness as a structural element.

In comparison to its straightforward purpose, a window’s components are intricate and its materials vary. Unless the goal is repair or exact reproduction, there is no one single equation governing the look of a new-old window. Unique combinations of design elements are possible, and homeowners who understand the historical reasoning behind their options are best equipped to navigate through window rights and wrongs.

In Proportion

Before tackling the window itself, architects first consider a home’s percentage of glazed area. “Determining how much of a building’s façade is taken up by windows greatly determines the character of a building,” explains Michigan-based architect Marc Rueter. The size of handblown panes and their availability in the United States affected proportions over time. Glazing allotment in a Greek Revival is much smaller than in a Victorian or Craftsman-style house, for example.

Another consideration affecting historical accuracy is the placement of windows in a building. “Modern houses are designed from the inside out based on a client’s lifestyle,” continues Rueter. In comparison, he adds, Greek Revival features were positioned in accordance with the style’s “perfect temple” ideal, whereas early frame construction necessitated windows arranged directly above one another in multiple stories. As a general rule, throughout the nation’s past, construction techniques and architectural authenticity—not lifestyle requirements—determined window placement.

Addressing the proportion of a window itself is next in a designer’s decision-making progression. A window’s height and width are governed by a 2:1 ratio, explains architect Sandy Vitzthum of Sandra Vitzthum Architects in Vermont. She notes that, for example, windows in the South are often taller than 2:1, a telltale characteristic that makes a structure look Southern. “It’s important to know the proportions in a particular area,” she explains.

Connor Homes designed this Palladian window for a home in New York using classical detailing such as dentil molding and fluted pilasters. (Photo: Eric Roth)

General Guidelines

The extent of a new-old window’s period appropriateness varies depending on a home’s location and its owner’s goals. Customization tactics and historical knowledge vary even among architects and designers, points out Vitzthum: “It’s really important for homeowners to know their options in terms of customizing a window order so they know the right questions to ask. Even small order adjustments to stock windows can make a big difference when it comes to historical accuracy.”

Many window manufacturers have incorporated a variety of upgrades and options into their new “historic” windows. Marvin, for example, offers single glazing, authentic divided lights, and custom wood sills, as well as wood screens and storm windows. Depending on the level of preservation required, there are also specialty manufacturers and millwork companies that replicate original designs exactly or even piece together clues to re-create size and muntin profiles when originals no longer exist.

Glass type is a vital consideration: Designers desiring true authenticity select handblown sheet glass from restoration glass companies like Bendheim. Depending on the origin and craft method, this antique glass is also known as crown or cylinder glass and is the only accurate representation of glass produced during the eighteenth to early twentieth centuries. Shaped by hand, it is characterized by waviness and small imperfections—homeowners worried about visibility should inquire about light distortion levels.

Maryland-based architect Anne Decker, in reviewing her do’s and don’ts of new “historic” windows, summarizes: “It’s key to do an all-wood window with wood jambs.” If a window will ultimately be painted, Decker recommends fir or pine. Mahogany, typically stained, is especially appropriate for larger windows and doors. “Pine can shrink and warp with extreme weather changes; sometimes muntins can actually separate from a window,” she says. “Mahogany is a much more stable wood for anything oversized.”

Small in stature but important in a window’s overall appearance is hardware. Many manufacturers offer upgraded lines, notes Decker, who recommends oil-rubbed bronze or unlacquered brass for historical authenticity. Hardware for casements should not be overlooked: “We tend to use a push-out handle for in-swing and out-swing casements versus a crank. The push-out is very period appropriate,” she says.

Early Construction Techniques

Maurer & Shepherd Joyners makes historically accurate windows, such as this seventeenth-century lattice window with diamond panes.

How a window was originally made and what types of materials were available inform correct selection. Hap Shepherd, co-owner of Maurer & Shepherd Joyners, explains that the country’s earliest versions were lead came casement windows, an improvement over oilcloths reinforced by wood shutters. “Back then, colonists used pre-made lead with glass diamonds in sheet form from England. Then they would turn around and make their own frames,” he says. These sheets were later crafted into double-hungs.

Shepherd’s Connecticut-based company specializes in preservation and millwork and is known for crafting historically accurate windows, from eighteenth-century twelve-over-twelves to more ornate Palladian windows. Noting that, in any house, windows may have been replaced one or more times throughout the years, Shepherd uses his knowledge of early American construction techniques to investigate not only the original windows’ sizes but also their muntin profiles.

His firm places reclaimed cylinder glass into true divided lights—individual panes of glass between muntin bars—mirroring historic construction. Another detail his firm prioritizes is the wood’s finished texture. “There was no sandpaper in the eighteenth century,” he points out. “All of our surfaces are made by machine and then hand-planed. When the wood is painted, you can see a slight ripple.”

Efficiency and Maintenance

Thin muntins in this two-over-two window offer a historical look. (Photo: Eric Roth)

Jeff Hoffman, an architectural consultant with Marvin, is well versed in window options that blend older aesthetics with a dose of high tech. Individual panes of glass between muntin bars can be mimicked using simulated divided light (SDL), whereby grid work is applied to both sides of a sill. Spacer bars between the two glass layers complete the illusion of individual panes even though the window is double-glazed.

“Historic districts are typically concerned about keeping the same daylight openings, and SDL maintains these openings with the upgrade of insulated glass with the latest low-E technology,” says Hoffman. SDL also works with tri-pane glass; however, this option is rarely approved in historic districts and an uncommon choice for historical applications.

“Another consideration is the lack of weatherstripping in older windows,” Hoffman adds. “Our stripping performs, but is concealed as much as possible.”

Aluminum cladding is increasingly used for window exteriors when maintenance is an issue. Marvin uses a commercial-grade aluminum that “simulates painted wood and also exhibits much cleaner, crisper edges than vinyl, which can’t be machined to high tolerances,” says Hoffman. He references a recent project in St. Paul, Minnesota, with seven stories in a strict historic district. “We used all wood for the first and second stories, but aluminum cladding was allowed on floors three through seven.”

When selecting period-appropriate windows for a new-old house, addition, or renovation, no consideration is too small. Careful planning and research ensure that the sum of a window’s parts communicates the craftsmanship of past eras well into the future.

Looking for more inspiration? Upgrade the antique window hardware in your old home.

Jennifer Sperry is co-owner of Sperry Communications and a freelance writer based in New Bedford, Massachusetts.