backstory

 

One morning I woke up to find that I had turned 50, I was eligible to retire, and David Bowie had died. 

"Bubba," I said to myself. "You're no longer a spring chicken!" 

That prompted a discussion with The Bride on what our retirement goals were. One outcome was to have a cabin in a cool place in New Mexico to enjoy during brutal (and getting more brutal...) central-Texas summers.

Why New Mexico? The Bride and I attended college at the New Mexico Institute of Mining and Technology, her parents lived in the state before they passed, and her brother still lives in (the OG) Socorro. And New Mexico has an enchanting way of seeping into your soul. Don't tell my Texas friends, but New Mexico is my spirit state.

Initially, we thought of finding a place between Santa Fe and Taos, but after spending a much too warm day in May looking at property in the area, we retreated to the AC to look elsewhere. And up pops Cloudcroft with average summer highs in the low 70s and high 60s and summer lows in the 40s (!!!). Could this be heaven? After spending a week in a VRBO to test drive the village and enjoy the cool weather, the wind in the trees, the bugling elk (which I first thought were wood apes), and the friendly people, we bought a lot for the price of a low-end Honda.

We built a Modern house in Austin and, as a result, have been spoiled by living in an architect-designed space. Given that Cloudcroft is not exactly a hotbed of progressive architecture, we decided to build.

Because I adore R.M. Schindler, my initial thought was to build Schindler's unrealized log cabin design from 1917-18:

However, several issues came up with that plan, namely Schindler designed the cabin for a flat geography, the orientation of the design relative to our lot, the low ceiling heights, the lack of indoor plumbing (!!!), and the challenges of meeting a modern building code (unlike Texas, New Mexico has a state-enforced statewide building code). We could have built a cabin inspired by Schindler's cabin, but that violated the primary intent of building his cabin.

Plan B was one of the kits from Rocio Romero:

 

The reason for the Romero was (1) the expected difficulty in finding an architect and builder in the area willing to design and build Modern and (2) that rocking-ass design. However, just like manna from heaven, Shelley M Hughes Architects and Green Mountain Construction (led by Shelley's hubby, Dan) fell into our lap. Since modular costs the same (if not more) than custom, we went with the local design-build. We traveled to Los Angeles with Shelley and Dan to tour several Schindlers and other mid-century modern houses by Neutra, Frank Lloyd Wright, and the Eames. Upon returning, Shelley and her trusty architectural sidekick, Gabriel Itzai Gaytan, designed us a cabin:

I'm a sucker for awkward lots. The lot we bought in Cloudcroft occupies an outside corner in an established neighborhood. The neighborhood was built out by the 1960s, but our lot never saw construction, due to, I reckon, only having 30 feet of access to the street.

One day, after our cabin was built, the neighbor two houses down walked up, introduced himself, and said, "How the f!ck did you build on this lot?!?!" Turns out the dude ran a real estate firm for some 30 years in town and had his people research the lot at one point. They told him it had no street access and that the neighbor that controlled access was not willing to grant an easement.

"We didn't need no stinkin' easement," I replied. I explained how I found the neighborhood plat and saw that the lot did have access. The road the city (or developer) put down Geronimo hugged it to the south side of the easement creating the impression that the lots to the north are 20 to 30 feet deeper than they actually are.

Another issue with the lot, given that it's an outside corner lot, is that you peer into the side yards of two neighbors. However, and this is the primary reason we bought the lot, the other two sides gaze spectacularly onto the Lincoln National Forest from a hillside. As a bonus, because it's an outside corner lot, it's also about 2.5 times bigger than a normal city lot. Land is inexpensive up there (compared to Austin), so it didn't cost much (less than a new Honda Accord). The previous owners had sadly clear cut most of the property before abandoning their plans, but it did save us the anguish of having to cut down any trees for our build. The sap is on their hands!

 

In my mind, challenges are always opportunities. The outside cornery of the lot allowed us to explore something I adore, what I call introverted architecture. I'm not sure of the inventor, but recent Japanese practitioners have perfected introverted architecture where, in an urban setting, architects put up a sculptural, abstract, and often windowless and doorless facade in favor of lightwells or a focus on the view out the rear (baby got back!).

So if you are wondering about the aesthetics (and logic) behind the design of cloudhaus, now you know. Our cabin is more akin to mulletecture (business in the front, party in the back) since the cabin fully opens up to the forest on the back side.

The concept has worked far better than we could have ever dreamed. From the street, the cabin presents a low, deceivingly small profile. This allows neighbors and passersby to enjoy the forest with as little obstruction as possible. Friends have asked, seeing the photo above, "Is that the garage?" "Is that a utility building?" "Is it made of shipping containers?" The answer to all those questions is "No." That's our damn cabin!

As you approach on foot, the cabin begins to loom like a dark obelisk. This is not a small structure after all. You also notice that the front wall leans forward at quite an angle, adding to the sculptural quality and once again announcing that this is a different building. The negative-space entry is lined with shou sugi ban, a Japanese technique of weatherproofing wood through fire, and the naked shout of a tall, green door. The concrete work in front provides a walkway to the entrance but also sculptural bollards to keep someone from sliding into the cabin from the driveway.

Once inside, the outdoors explodes into an open living area with soaring ceilings and walls of windows. It quickly becomes clear that, despite the dark introverted facade, this space is all about light and engaging with the forest. Just like an introvert, whose initial interactions are guarded, the cabin opens up wildly as your friend once you've crossed the protective threshold.

The facade is not for everyone (I would say that most folks are definitely not into it), but that's OK: this place was designed for us!

 

Postnote: At one point in the design process, I sent the architect some sketches of concepts I made with my iPad. One of the concepts—a complete joke—was the "Brisket House" shown above with brisket-laden air piped in from Mad Jack's Mountain Top BBQ. After we moved in, the architects told us that the "Brisket House" had actually influenced the design of the cabin, especially with the mention of shou sugi ban (which makes an appearance in cloudhaus in the entry and a hallway), the shape, and the negative space entry. We even talked about painting the front door "medium rare" but went with green (gang green?) instead. In the kitchen, as a house-warming gift, the design-build team provided us with a metal print of the Brisket House.

Ha!