AND ANOTHER THING
Building a small cathedral to art in darkest Bayswater
PAUL JOHNSON
My great-uncle James, an archetypal Forsyte, laid down the law on this point: 'No sensible man ever builds his own house.' To do so is to invite endless delays, frustration, quarrels with architects, often financial ruin. With Blenheim still half fin- ished, the Duchess of Marlborough wished she had never heard of Vanbrugh. When George Washington Vanderbilt got Richard Morris Hunt to create Biltmore, America's largest country house, in North Carolina, he almost ruined himself in the process, and the New York Times reported that, on his first visit to the finished pile in 1897, he asked for a glass of water but was told the pump had stopped. I had reached my late sixties without departing from my great-uncle's advice. My old, beautiful house in Iver was built in 1719, when 'Van' was still rowing with Her Grace. My present one, in London, of which I am even fonder, was finished in 1840, expiring Regency really. My house in Somerset is what I call Attlee-Truman, a 1950 conver- sion. I thought I would never have dealings with an architect. But I wanted a studio of my own at the bottom of my garden. Studios I had had before, when I lived in Paris. My first, which I shared with a liberated Yankee lady, was high up in Montparnasse, with a gallery and an enormous north light. I had another one, in Montmartre, which was just off the Place Clichy, with an even bigger north light and a grand piano, and was perched over a nightclub. Oddly enough, I hardly ever painted in these splendid apart- ments, being then engaged in writing short stories, novels and similar rubbish. They were fine for parties, though. My father had a stu- dio but never called it that — it was 'preten- tious French nonsense'. He followed the practice of 18th-century English artists like Hogarth and Reynolds, and called it his 'painting room'. As it happens, French artists don't use the word studio either — it means a one-room flat. They talk of mon atelier. I have a 'painting room' in my London house, but it has a south light and I only use it for water- colour. Working in oils is a messy, smelly business which demands a cordon sanitaire from the rest of the household. Last year I had a sudden, overwhelming urge to return to oil painting, and especially to portraits, and that too pointed to a garden studio. Happily, at the bottom of our garden was a large, brick-floored, dark and dilapidated structure, full of strange things, much feared by the grandchildren, and aching to be demolished. Without this fortuitous edi- fice, Westminster Council would never have given us planning permission to erect anything. Then we suddenly remembered a friend of one of our sons, a brilliant young architect called Jason Cooper. He was asked to submit a design and responded with delight. At that stage I was still engaged in pipe- dreaming, not serious planning. When I asked Jason about the likely cost and he mentioned, with some diffidence, a rough estimate and I, remembering great-uncle James, doubled it (thus hitting the eventual cost almost exactly), all the warning signals flashed red. But when Jason produced his design, I knew I had to have it, whatever the cost or trouble involved. For it had two outstanding merits. First, it brushed aside, as though with a magic wand, the tiny dimensions of the project, contriving instead to hint of grandeur, expanse, mag- nitude. Like the remarkable horse in Mr Sponge's Sporting Tour, it was Multum in Parvo. Second, it included a flash of genius. I had wondered holy Jason would solve the problem of including a north light in so small a structure. He simply inserted the main window, at an angle, straight in the middle of the huge, over-arching gable roof, thus producing what is technically called a broken pediment. Once someone had already thought of it, it is obvious. But it would never have occurred to me in a million years. That, of course, is why one employs an architect. So I gave the go- ahead, without hesitation. I will not take the reader through all the difficulties, anxieties, delays, heart-search- ings and disappointments which followed. Work started in January and was due to be finished in May. But May came and went, and June and July; and August had arrived before the men were clear of the site. Marigold had to cancel our annual summer
'There's always next time!'
garden — party one of her greatest plea- sures — thus adding ponderously to my weight of guilt. The structure is of cedar, and demanded the highest quality of wood. The standard of carpentry required was unusually exacting. The roof, the real crux of the building, is complex and sui generis. Jason was on site virtually every day sometimes several times a day — ensuring that his precise instructions and specifica- tions were met with complete fidelity. As our builder, Mr Hendrick, remarked, 'Mr Cooper is a most punctilious gentleman.' So it all took longer than any of us expect- ed. And, gradually, Marigold's beautiful garden was reduced to — well, a building- site. But the remarkable thing was that, from first to last, none of us exchanged a single harsh word. Never once, between builder, architect, myself, wife, or any of the men was a voice raised in anger, or a shoulder shrugged in disgust. All was har- mony or, at worst, courteous resignation. The manners of the men were impeccable — not a single four-letter word was uttered. I, for one, emerged from what might have been a harrowing experience without a scar on my soul. And there were unexpected delights. Learning, from Jason, the curious mean- ings architects attach to certain words 'historic' is anything that took place before the site was cleared; 'political' are disagree- ments which have nothing to do with the building as such. I enjoyed my 'on-site con- ferences' with architect and builder, listen- ing with silent grandeur to their rapid exchanges of technicalities, and feeling like Pope Julius II while Bramante and Michelangelo conferred about St Peter's. When the tarpaulins were removed and the structure emerged from its chrysalis, I was in a wonder of delight at this singular and unique work of art I had caused to be brought into existence. Now it is finished. Its
ro
surunds of York stone and large pebbles are in place, the lawn has been returfed and looks pristine, a luscious new border has been laid down, trees planted, and the copy of Donatello's David restored to its place of glory. I have even begun to move easels, paints and canvases in, though serious work will have to wait until I have completed my latest giant tome, A History of the American People, at the end of the year. Everyone who has seen the studio loves it. I am poorer but prouder, and Bayswater has another small item to add to its architectural felicities.
Previous page
