There was a rustling near the entrance to my house. Bobcats live in the thicket of trees across the street, and mountain lions occasionally stroll through the area, so I pay attention to any movement in the foliage that looks strange and predatory. I craned my neck to get a better look. “Hello?” I yelled. A head came into view. Unkempt hair, glasses, rapidly blinking eyes: the distracted expression and pallor of an architecture student in the fluorescent lights.
The exterior of the house in Orleans designed by Rudolph Schindler.
“Hello,” he said. “I’d like to take a look around.”
“You can’t look around,” I said. “This is my house.”
“But…” he stammered, “this is a famous house! I’m here to take notes and study it!”
Yes, I said, it is a famous house, but no, it is not open to the public, and unfortunately I am busy with another job and must return. I was as apologetic and friendly as I could be. Dejected, he slowly walked back into the street and appeared to be leaving, but half an hour later I noticed him at the end of the drive, scribbling furiously in his notebook.
The house offers impressive views of the San Fernando Valley.
My husband and I moved into the Kallis House in Los Angeles six years ago. Designed in 1946 by modernist architect Rudolph Schindler, it is considered by many, including Frank Gehry, to be one of Schindler’s finest works. The house is eccentric, perched on a hill, with a butterfly roof and a scrubby exterior made of vines. The interior is an unfolding series of surprising angles, and offers wonderful sweeping views of the San Fernando Valley. Schindler liked triangles and trapezoids, and they are found throughout the house; there aren’t many right angles. When we bought it, it was full of pain and hardship. We spent four years restoring it, and then, filled with the joy of completion, threw open the door every time someone passed by. We were like parents with a newborn, desperate to confirm to the world that they had created a beauty. Neighbors knocked and we led them inside. Conservation groups called. One time we came home to find a bus full of German architects in the driveway. Each time we would have excited conversations, offer coffee and give a tour. After a year or two there was no more coffee. Then there was no more tour. When the architecture student jumped out of the bushes I was off work.
Orlean and her husband worked to restore the building to its former glory.
Didn’t Joe DiMaggio sometimes wish Marilyn Monroe were just Norma Jeane? Living in an architecturally significant house is glorious, a privilege. And then, sometimes, it’s just your damn house and yesterday’s mail is piled on the kitchen chair and half-chewed dog toys are strewn about and someone hasn’t unpacked their suitcase from a trip last month and one day I’ll put my cosmetics in the bathroom cabinet instead of piling them on the counter, but it won’t be today. When we clean and spruce up, the house is a showstopper. But in everyday life, we live in it like everyone else, surrounded by the flotsam and jetsam of ordinary life.
“When we moved in, we thought of Schindler with every piece of furniture and every addition to the decor,” says Orlean.
When we moved in, we thought of Schindler with every piece of furniture and every addition to the decor, carefully—almost timidly—adding and changing things. Would Schindler have liked that Hans Wegner table? That’s a definite yes. But what about the Blu Dot chairs? Too modern? What about my Ikea desk? It’s hard enough making aesthetic choices, but it’s disheartening to imagine the person who designed the house grimacing in disapproval, even if only in your imagination. Still, you can’t help but feel a different responsibility to a place with this pedigree, a sense of being more of a steward than an owner, of having his needs met before your own.
When I moved to New York in 1986, my boyfriend and I were desperately looking for an apartment. One of the first apartments we saw was a ground-floor apartment in a turn-of-the-century brownstone. The owner had restored it with great attention to detail; I could almost imagine him massaging the mahogany banisters with velvet kitchen towels. He eyed us with concern. We were young, fresh out of run-down apartments and run-down college dorms, with a colorful array of furniture—used sofas, a few good finds from Goodwill, junk from the flea market. “What are your plans for the decor?” the owner asked. “Does it fit”—he gestured with his hand across the living room—“the house?” His tone suggested that the house was a sentient being that could be offended by inappropriate furniture. Unfortunately, we knew it wouldn’t fit. We imagined the landlord’s eyes would pop out of his head if we dumped a scratched Parsons table on his hardwood floor or, worse, a ’60s bubble chair we’d picked up at a flea market that was completely at odds with his scrupulous Greek Revival orthodoxy. We found a less spectacular apartment that was less forgiving of our belongings.
The house is a collection of trapezoids and triangles.
Now I think back to that fussy landlord with sympathy. Some houses command obedience: their presence is so palpable that you give in to it, knowing the results will probably be worth it. I certainly don’t want ours to look like a house museum, with us filling the kitchen with chicken jelly and potato hot dog salad and a rotary phone. But there is a strong argument for harmony. What fits in, what fits comfortably and naturally in the space, is furniture with clear shapes and accessories that reflect its particular visual rhythm. We don’t feel obligated to own items from 1946, but the fact is that a lot of what looks good was made in the 1940s and 1950s. But not everything, and that’s a good thing. Instead of a slavish attachment, we have developed a good relationship with the ghost of Rudolph Schindler. When he showed up, we would put on a pot of coffee and show him around.
This story originally appeared in the September 2024 issue of ELLE DECOR. SUBSCRIBE
