What does “vintage” mean to you? And how do you renovate an old building without losing it’s soul?
The devil is in the details.
My goal in this renovation of the Woods Hole Inn is to dance on the fine line of “new-ish” — by which I mean modern, comfortable, functioning — without losing the soul. As they tear out the horsehair plaster, am I robbing the building of something precious and irreplaceable? Modernity (i.e. new bathrooms, electrical outlets that work without burning the place down and other small details like that) can not be achieved without some demolition. But how much is enough? And will next year’s guests appreciate it?
Honoring the small design details is important to me; check out this bulls eye door trim which I am fighting to keep upstairs. Even an exact copy of this will never look the same as this original with it’s 20 coats of paint, each one a badge of honor in a long and useful life.
Or how about this incredible floor in the front living room of the Inn. People come into the inn, regularly, and ask me how I got this “effect” …Ummm, let’s see. Start with original growth hardwood, cut up on the hill right here and planed in a sawmill. Paint it four or five times over the course of a century, walk on it a lot preferably with muddy quahog boots. When you celebrate it’s 100th birthday, ask someone to sand it down but (this part is very important!) fire him about half way through the job. Then, wait another 25 years, put one layer of polyurethane down, pour yourself a gin and tonic and enjoy.
These are the “vintage” parts of the inn that people come and admire. But not everything that I fight to save strikes a chord with guests. Let me share a brief example with you.
I am a fan of old mirrors like the one in Room One (see below). I very deliberately renovated around this, admiring the flowering mercury glass effect that is working it’s way up from the bottom. For me, it is like a tangible reminder of many hot, sticky summer days where you throw yourself in the salt water for relief then come home for a nice cool shower before a dock-side dinner of ice-cold oysters, lobster claw drenched in salty butter, hot summer corn and hand-churned vanilla bean ice cream for dessert. This look only comes with years of exposure to salty ocean air. It feels earned, like a stylish survivor. When I look at myself in this aging mirror, I feel a bit like Glenn Close in Dangerous Liasons, like I have a period costume on and my day will surely be filled with love letters.
But some guests disagree. One recently wrote a review on TripAdvisor specifically calling this detail out as something that she did NOT value. She is not the first! Others have mentioned to me that they specifically did not like this feeling of age on this particular mirror. And when I look at it in that light I think, what am I crazy! Rip it out! Who cares about my own likes and dislikes if it keeps guests happy.
And it doesn’t stop there. The judgement calls, they come up every day. Should we leave the old brick fireplace exposed or cover it up? Can the wide-board floors be repaired, new wood inserted where the walls once were so that you will see the old layout, the bones of the building preserved? Or will that look like we simply cut corners? If the window trim can be saved, should it be at the expense of less insulation in the walls? What is more “green” – saving the trim or making sure the building is more heat efficient? Wow! These are hard questions!!
There is a fine line between vintage and just old. I was grappling with this today as I walked home and I passed these two guys outside the Marine Biological Labs (“MBL”) scrubbing rust out of 1970’s era radiators. Another fellow stepped outside just as I walked by and said with disdain, “They gave it away.” And one of the seated guys said incredulously, “Gave it away! Why would anyone do that?” I don’t even know what “it” is, but I feel their pain.
Woods Hole is a thrifty, Yankee place where scrubbing out rusty radiators is preferable to buying new, where lathe is left in walls and mirrors with water-damage are cherished, where even in cutting edge scientific institutions it is not abnormal to see two guys huddled in the lea of a November north wind cursing the fool who didn’t see the value in an old piece of metal.
I strive to bring this spirit to the restoration of the Inn without losing the modern vibe. The push pull of old vs new, the constant barrage of questions about what to keep and what to toss, the thrill of the new space and the sorrow as they cart off the old is at the core of why I love my job. I just don’t want to hear “Why would anyone do that?” come April.
So….What do YOU think I should do about the mirror in Room One?
Week three of construction started today. Our crew is still demolishing the interiors, literally peeling back the onion-like layers of time to reveal the bones of the house. Our structural engineer Mark comes every so often to make sure the place is still standing. Today he told me that the wood was in excellent condition, first cut hardwood like you can no longer buy. Who ever built this did it the right way, he told me. Seems a bit unseemly, but I will admit that I beamed with pride. Like the mother of a newborn, projects feel like babies and no matter how ugly they may look, we love them.
I like to come stand in the barn-like space, gaping up two stories, ceiling and floor boards stripped away. It looks like a SoHo loft, or the Parisian atelier of a famous designer. Can’t we keep it just like this? I think. And then I remember that there are not too many fashion designers looking for rental space in Woods Hole. OK, I will stick with the plan and transform it into the weekend getaway FOR fashion designers… Yes, yes, that is it.
The guys arrive at 7 am and they work with crowbars, sledgehammers, saws. Masks are a must as the plaster dust swirls in the ocean breeze from open windows and wheelbarrows of debris head toward a revolving dumpster. There is a majesty to the work, a pace respected to the minute. Breaks are observed, meals shared, and “Lady on deck” shouted when I come close. I secretly wonder what they are saying when I am not there, although they may not be able to hear each other much over the blasting radio and the thud of metal on horsehair plaster. Underneath is the lathe, thin boards that were used before drywall to adhere the plaster to. They are so beautiful, my heart aches as they are carted away.
Being in there now — views of the ocean everywhere you peek — feels like flying inside the bones of a huge feather-less bird. There is a lightness — an airy feeling with the windows open, the roof space soaring two stories above you — that creates the sensation of flying. Maybe it’s just me, as the project flies along, feeling suspended in time, searching for my place in the process.
I pace the dusty boards — this will be the bedroom, here is where the new window goes, oh you can see the ocean from here! — scheming and referencing the floorplans when I get confused. I am desperate to make sure that when the dust settles, some of the majesty of the building itself, it’s strong bones and lithe walls, will still be evident. Check back in to see future progress!