During an extended rehabilitation, renovation or even restoration, one is liable to lose track of important details. Too many small details whizzing past too fast and for too long. The brain falters. Memory fails. Photos and lists and other archives, no matter how methodically updated, fail to contain everything.
And when the dust settles questions ferment into mysteries. One such mystery is an irregular hole in the northern exterior brick wall outside the kitchen. The bricks and mortar are old, and pockmarks are more norm than exception at Rosslyn, but the size, and depth of this hole suggest that it was intentionally bored, not the result of spalling or a rifle shot.
I put the question to Jason McNulty, son of the previous owners, and periodic visitor and Rosslyn demystifier. He considered, then suggested that he hand a hunch. He would dig through old photos and get back to me.
Today he did.
Jason emailed me the photograph above with the following explanation.
I took a few minutes to investigate the mysterious hole in the wall that we noticed beneath the kitchen window. I dug out the pictures that I had taken back in 2004, and I found two pictures of the area in question. Both were taken at a bit of a distance, and… [the camera’s] resolution wasn’t sufficient to get a crystal-clear image of the area. But, it really does look like the railing surrounding the steps into the basement does penetrate the wall in that area. ~ Jason McNulty
Although the photo is dark and a little blurry, it does indeed appear to solve the mystery.
The old basement access was removed and sealed early in Rosslyn’s rehabilitation in order to eliminate cracking that was resulting from ongoing water damage to the foundation. The roof valley directed a large volume of water into this area, hyper saturation the ground and creating freeze-thaw strains each winter.
[pullquote]The doorway and stairway were eliminated and the metal pipe railing slipped from my memory.[/pullquote]
We stabilized this compromised corner by closing the exterior, sub-grade doorway (basement access) as well as another interior doorway which provided access from the oldest portion of the house into the ell. And a large concrete ballast was poured into the northwest corner of the basement to provide necessary buttressing to ensure that no further structural shifting will occur.
In the process, the doorway and stairway were eliminated and the metal pipe railing slipped from my memory. Seeing Jason’s photograph jogs my memory and confirms his hunch. Another mystery solved. Thanks, Jason!
Rosslyn Rapture (Sculpture: George McNulty, Illustration: Geo Davis)
Perhaps the sub theme for today’s post should be derivative content? The image above is a digital watercolor derived from an edited and altered photograph of the bronze figure sculpted and gifted by George McNulty. My poem below also re-examines the sculpture, also reimagines the bronze figure, also seeks to illustrate why, how this gift from Rosslyn’s previous owner continues to affect me.
Rosslyn Rapture, Poem
No homunculus this alchemist's art, this sculptor's artifact.
No bronze bauble this daily reminder of progeny and forebears.
But rapture itself, ecstatic, triumphant, lifted with gratitude.
This marbled, mantled rhapsody appeases my meandering mind.
— Geo Davis
Baby, No Baby?
In my previous post, I recounted a conversation I had with Jason McNulty about a bronze baby that was present in the sculpture’s upheld hands.
When I gave George McNulty’s son, Jason, a house tour a few year after completing our renovation, he immediately spotted the sculpture.
“What happened to the baby?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I responded, confused.
“The man was originally holding a baby up in the air,” he explained.
It had never even occurred to me that there might have been another part of the sculpture, a part now missing. A baby. That’s what he’s lifting up and celebrating.
I explained to Jason that we had not removed the baby. We had never even seen the baby. Aside from the addition of a marble base, this is exactly how the sculpture looked when it was gifted to us by Jason’s father.
Probably his father had made two versions, Jason suggested, one with a baby, and one without. Or perhaps the baby was cast separately and conjoined afterward. (Source: Rosslyn Rapture: A Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty)
Since then, I’ve had the opportunity to dig through old photographs, searching for evidence of the figure holding a baby.
I’ve now realized what I must have previously forgotten (or overlooked). Apparently I’d seen both versions — with and without baby — years before.
There are indeed two versions of the sculpture as Jason suggested. And if you look at the photograph above, you’ll see McNulty‘s sculpture *with baby* on the left side of the mantle above the fireplace. You may need to zoom in a bit, but the darkly, silhouetted figure clearly holds a baby high in the air.
However, our version of the figure, as you can see in the photograph below, holds no baby. Hence my fanciful notion that the figure, a metaphorical, stand-in for the homeowner, is holding aloft — in adulation and gratitude — a magnificent abstraction. Rosslyn rapture!
Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
It’s worth noting that the hands of the figure above betray no evidence that a bronze baby was cut out or ground and sanded off at some point.
George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway
The photograph above shows Rosslyn’s entrance hallway about the time we began looking at the property in 2004 or 2005. If you look at the top of the bookshelf, on the right hand side of the photograph, just short of the far end (ie. near middle of photograph) you can just barely make out the sculpture with baby, similar to the one on the mantle piece above. Here’s that same view from the opposite angle.
George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Entrance Hallway
The sculpture is clearly visible in this photograph of the entrance foyer along the north wall.
Now comes the exciting part. Reviewing my early photographs from visits to this house when we were still considering whether or not to purchase the property (as well as in the photographs that Jason McNulty generously gave me taken during approximately the same timeframe) the bronze sculpture appears in both of the locations here documented: on the bedroom mantle, and on the foyer bookshelf.
But I remembered another location: George McNulty’s basement sculpture workshop.
George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Workshop
Perhaps you’ve noticed the sculpture (with baby) just left of the G. McNulty, Sculptor sign that is propped against the back wall?
Here’s a slightly different angle, zoomed in a little tighter…
George McNulty’s Bronze Sculptures in Workshop
In both of the two images above, and there’s some thing else that might catch your eye. If you look directly to the left of the sign, I’ve described, you will see a head. And behind the head? I believe that squinting a little bit and looking closely, you’ll see the empty arms of a second sculpture with no baby.
And, so it would seem, Jason McNulty was correct. Two versions were made. So I will choose to imagine our figure holding high, not a baby, but the glorious abstraction of HOME.
After purchasing Rosslyn, George McNulty, presented us with a bronze sculpture born of his own hands and imagination. Standing with arms outstretched, extended skyward, the figure’s celebratory posture exudes joy and pride. In my view, McNulty’s miniature man appears to be celebrating or perhaps praising, arms reaching upward toward the heavens. Rosslyn Rapture, I’ve titled it (albeit only in my mind.) With no permission from the artist to name/rename his work, you’ll note no plaque adorning the base, no engraved nametag competing for attention. In fact, until now I’ve kept mostly mum about my personal title for McNulty’s sculpture. It felt presumptuous to impose my narrative, my interpretation onto another’s creation.
Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
And while we didn’t have Rosslyn Rapture plaqued, we did have it mounted on a small marble base for display. When we received the sculpture a couple of bolts protruded from the bottom of the feet for mounting. Since, at first, the figure could not be exhibited without a base, we held it in our hands. We felt the weighty bronze, ran our fingertips over the textured surface shaped by the fingers of a man who invested almost four decades into studying and documenting and slowly restoring the buildings which we now call home. We traced the figure’s lanky limbs and placed our fingertips into the sculpture’s tiny palms. There was an intimacy. A connection. Or so I chose to believe.
In time I came to see the sculpture as McNulty’s exaltation for a home and a heritage that he loved. A man exalted with reverence. It was a hypothesis that fit the man I’d briefly come to know. It was a hypothesis consistent with the anecdotes and memories shared by his Essex friends and neighbors. It was a hypothesis that justified his commitment—spanning almost four decades—to preserving this historic property. But mostly, as I’ve come to learn in the years since, it was a hypothesis that helped me explain my own love affair with Rosslyn. I realize now that I was ascribing my own passion for this property onto the previous owner. I was enraptured with Rosslyn, with our new life at Rosslyn, and with the prospect of restoring this stately home and grounds to the restrained elegance still evident but fading. I had reimagined this art as an artifact of the previous owner’s passion and devotion for Rosslyn when in fact my hypothesis was first and foremost self referential.
Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
A Bronze Sculpture
In short, I realize now that Rosslyn Rapture was my creation. McNulty’s was a bronze sculpture of a man with outreached arms and open hands lifted high. I saw a man grasping for something or praising a higher being. Or perhaps the man’s adulation was for a woman with whom he was impassioned? But fancy clouds my vision. The man’s arms are outreached. That is clear. Whether in praise or celebration or something altogether different, only the sculptor knows.
For many years the figure has presided over our living room from his perch on the mantle above the northern fireplace. When I gave George McNulty’s son, Jason, a house tour a few year after completing our renovation, he immediately spotted the sculpture.
“What happened to the baby?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I responded, confused.
“The man was originally holding a baby up in the air,” he explained.
It had never even occurred to me that there might have been another part of the sculpture, a part now missing. A baby. That’s what he’s lifting up and celebrating.
I explained to Jason that we had not removed the baby. We had never even seen the baby. Aside from the addition of a marble base, this is exactly how the sculpture looked when it was gifted to us by Jason’s father.
Probably his father had made two versions, Jason suggested, one with a baby, and one without. Or perhaps the baby was cast separately and conjoined afterward.
Both possibilities seem possible, probable even. Imagination flushes out the narrative. George McNulty sculpts the man out of clay, creates a mold from the original, and—using the lost wax process—casts several bronze replicas. Separately and by the same process, he casts bronze babies which he then welds to the man’s hands. One of the figures, for some mysterious reason, remains empty handed. No baby.
I found myself, wondering if his son, now standing in the living room of the house where he had grown up, might perhaps have been the inspiration for the sculpture, maybe even the model. The man did, after all, resemble his father. And the baby? Anybody’s guess.
It occurs to me later that there’s another possibility. Perhaps each of the figures originally held a baby high in the air. But one broke. Or the sculptor removed it. Maybe that’s why he gave it to me, because it was an incomplete piece. This seems like a reasonable hypothesis, and maybe it’s correct. But I prefer the possibility that he gifted us this version because it leaves open the hands, open the possibility that Rosslyn is the subject of the man’s ecstasy.
Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
Rosslyn Rapture: Bronze Sculpture by George McNulty
Melancholy Boathouse (Source: Douglas Peden, Essex Studios)
Melancholy much? Yesterday I posted this achingly evocative image on the Rosslyn Redux Instagram feed with thanks to our neighbor, Emma, who gifted the vintage photograph postcard to us. It was a gift to her from Michael Peden who, in turn credited his father, Douglas Peden, as the photographer. Here’s an excerpt from my caption.
Sometime in the early days of the millennium, perhaps. The condition of the boathouse suggested it may have been a few years prior to 2005 when we purchased Rosslyn. Such ethereal longing and melancholy in this painterly rendering. Hoping to learn more about this evocative photograph…
It turns out that my conjecture may have been off by a significant margin. There’s still no definitive date for when this melancholy moment in Rosslyn’s history was captured, but some interesting insights have emerged.
I’d guess that it is much earlier than 2005 – probably before 1985. If nothing else, the front porch doesn’t have its roof, and I don’t remember it ever being missing. The lack of the dock doesn’t mean anything, because with the water that high you wouldn’t see it, anyway. — Jason McNulty
I don’t recall the porch roof ever being missing either. Quick check from photos I have shows the roof there in 1969 and again in 2004. — George McNulty
Jason and George McNulty, two of the previous owner’s sons, have suggested that I’m probably off in my estimate by at least two to four decades. And George McNulty also shared another photograph doubling the subjects of my inquiry: when were these photographs taken?
Rosslyn Boathouse (Source: George McNulty)
Melancholy Boathouse Revisited
I’m grateful to Emma, Jason, and George for kindling this inquiry. And, as it turns out, the initial photograph gifted to Emma by Michael Peden (and ostensibly photographed by his father, Douglas Peden) which was in turn re-gifted to me has catalyzed even more intriguing feedback and photographs from Jason McNulty.
Jason McNulty followed up on Douglas Peden’s photograph at the top of this post with some feedback from his father, George McNulty, Sr. from whom we purchased Rosslyn sixteen years ago.
Sorry, but I really do not remember about the date. A good guess would be about 30 years ago. The photograph was taken by Doug Peden. It shows the dock house after I had rebuilt the cribbing but had not started to replace the roof. — George McNulty
Jason amended his own thoughts and another truly unique photograph of the boathouse.
For what it’s worth, if you fudge some numbers a little, this roughly corresponds with a picture that you posted on your site showing the dock house with its roof nearly destroyed by flooding in 1983. Given my parents’ finances at the time, it could easily have taken a few years to replace that roof. I’ve also found a picture in my collection from roughly 1989 showing a clearly new roof. — Jason McNulty
Boathouse 1989, original un-enhanced photo (via Jason McNulty)
Spectacular cinematic image! I’ve taken the liberty of tweaking the levels, etc. to improve the detail of the boathouse, pier, etc. Here’s the adjusted and enhanced version.
Boathouse 1989, adjusted/enhanced for detail (via Jason McNulty)
I was curious about the photo’s provenance, also wondered about the boats, etc. Jason offered some helpful insights. Although he wasn’t certain who originally took the photograph, he felt confident that the year was 1989 (i.e. seventeen years prior to our purchase of Rosslyn.)
When I added the file to my collection, I renamed it and added the year 1989 to the name. I wouldn’t have done so if I was uncertain about the year, although I have no idea now why I was so confident then. As for the sailboat, it was my father’s second sailboat during my lifetime. It was fiberglass and this picture must be relatively early in Dad’s ownership of the boat since he didn’t wait too long to replace the outboard rudder with an inboard one. This boat eventually disappeared from its moorings with no explanation, although the aluminum mast was still in the barn for years later. The first sailboat was a wooden boat, possible yellow in color, that sank on the other side of the dock (parts of its frame can still be seen), and its mast is now the flagpole for the dock house itself. The rowboat was one of three or four that Dad designed and built using plywood. Growing up, I rowed it all over the shoreline, going at least as far the marina. Unfortunately, part of the reason that Dad had to make so many was that they kept rotting out. — Jason McNulty
Although I’ve wandered afield to be sure, my curiosity’s been awakened. I told Jason that I recollected him (or perhaps his father) telling me about the sailboat that sank. As a boater and a sailer, the tragedy etched itself into my memory. But, I told Jason, I didn’t realize that another sailboat had vanished as well. Mysterious. Might it also have sunk?
It might have, but I doubt that it sank at its moorings. It was tied to a buoy not to far away from the dock itself, and I’m sure that Dad did things like check to see if the rope was still there or whether there was a large white blur underwater. Besides, unlike the wooden sailboat, the fiberglass one didn’t leak. Beyond that, though, I’m not sure. — Jason McNulty
I’m aware that Rosslyn’s boathouse flagpole is their former sailboat mast. A perfect story instance of repurposing. And I have salvaged a few other pieces from the sunken vessel. But now my wonder wanders to the second sailboat that disappeared. Hhhmmm…
In the vintage postcard above — faded, blurred, and stained with touch and time — the historic lighthouse located at Split Rock in Essex, NY reigns over a promontory bearing a curious resemblance to an arboretum, more landscaped and less wild than today. A copse of diverse specimen trees here, a granite outcrop there, a grassy bluff here,… I can’t help but see a sort of Split Rock botanical garden. But it wasn’t. I imagine the photographer and postcard publisher were likely thinking of the flora and topography as mere garlands for the centerpiece, the focus of the postcard: Split Rock Lighthouse.
There’s something comely about an old lighthouse, a spire of stone stacked skyward to secure a lofty perch for a sweeping beam of light. Bold, dependable, comforting. Or is it? Perhaps it’s just a tall tower like a barn with a silo? Is tall bold? Is a fortress-like column comforting? We ascribe much meaning to lighthouses because of their function. They are predictable and dependable because predictable, dependable lighthouse keepers ensured that they were. Today, I suppose, that’s mostly the work of technology. Bold and comforting likewise derive from function. Stormy night, navigating challenging seas, unreliable visibility, a valuable cargo, and the wellbeing, heck maybe even the lives of the boat’s captain and crew,… And then a navigational beam cutting through the blindness, showing the way to safe port. Or at least around a potentially dangerous obstacle that might otherwise have scattered ship and crew, reducing their industrious mission to memory and flotsam and jetsam.
In short, we think of lighthouses, so often portrayed in photographs and other artwork, as visually equivalent to the function they fulfill. We conflate the building with service it enables. We deploy references to lighthouses with confidence that our audience will understand what we mean. We think in metaphor. We speak in metaphor. And, by and large, the viewer, listener, or reader understands what we wish to imply.
This Is Not a Metaphor
Seven years ago, I was hit by a truck. This is not a metaphor. I was crossing the street two blocks from home when the driver, blinded by the sun, rammed into me. During my nine-month recovery, I began to reflect upon my life… I realized that for years, I had been stuck on an endless hamster wheel… I remembered the joke about the airline pilot who addressed his passengers over the intercom: “Attention: I have bad news and good news: Radar is down. We’re totally lost! But you’ll be glad to know we’re making very good time.” I knew I needed to make a change. — Susan Fassberg (Source: The Art of Looking – Reinventing Home)
The tragic accident, Fassberg assures us, is not a metaphor. Real truck, real sun, real collision, and real injuries. But the hamster wheel and the airplane trip? Metaphors. A pair of accessible and effective metaphors help Fassberg tidily convey her truth. She was stuck and needed to make a life change.
When Susan and I opted into the adventure of reawakening Rosslyn as our home, we knew that we needed to make a change. We were navigating disorienting liminal changes (personal, professional, financial, and even philosophical/ethical). In the midst of these tempestuous transitions, we latched onto a hope that Rosslyn would help us reboot. Rehab. Maybe reawakening a needy property would reawaken our own hopes, optimism, confidence. We were in need of a full system reboot. Unplug. Count to ten. Replug. And, in our infinite wisdom (read irony, ergo… our infinite folly?) we chose to believe that Rosslyn, in need of TLC (and possibly life support) herself, would be able to minister to us. Made perfect sense at the time!
We had not been hit by a truck. Not a literal truck at least. Perhaps a metaphorical truck. Or several metaphorical trucks. And the joke about the airline pilot? Really, really familiar. Only, purchasing Rosslyn didn’t exactly precipitate a safe landing. Not for a few years, at least. And, yes, we were lost before throwing ourselves at the feet of Rosslyn, and we were often quite lost during those first few years.
Sure, we needed change. But we basically leaped into the tumbling kaleidoscope of constant, unpredictable change, each juggle and bump triggering a dazzling aurora borealis of tumbling technicolor mystery. Mysteries. It was spectacular and intoxicating. And it was often disorienting. Sometimes it was debilitating.
Are you with me? Maybe 50-100% clear on what I’m trying to say?
No?
Me either.
Not a metaphor, I promised. And then, I dove into metaphor. Metaphors.
Sorry.
Sometimes what I want to say and what I think I want to say are like the nearly marooned boat captain and the fog-lancing lighthouse. Each reaching through the turmoil toward one another, but only occasionally, fleetingly connecting.
When in danger of becoming marooned, I tell myself, narrow the focus. Tack 90° or so in a different direction. Decrease distance to desired destination by abbreviating the current journey….
Projecting Passion & Lovestruck Infatuation
I’ve often used the words “smitten”, “seduced”, beguiled, enchanted… when referring to Rosslyn. I ought to be more specific. I used these fuzzy euphemisms when describing my personal relationship with Rosslyn. And, in an effort to be as candid as comfortable — hopefully catalyzing some sort of catharsis, some sort of eureka moment clarifying this sixteen year affair with a home — I insisted, especially early on after purchasing Rosslyn from Elizabeth and George McNulty, that he, George McNulty, seemed to have had an almost four decade long love affair with Rosslyn. I even once asked his son, Jason McNulty, what he thought of that observation. I don’t recollect him making too much of my peculiar characterization, but perhaps I’ll find the opportunity to revisit this over-the-top and totally unjustified hypothesis. I bring it up now because it strikes me as peculiar that I initially felt so certain, perhaps I even needed to understand the previous owner’s relationship with this property as being a sort of love affair, an enduring passion that ran parallel to his marriages. And peculiar that Susan and I adopted this anthropomorphic oddity in explaining our own relationship with Rosslyn.
I relied on this fuzzy explanation for our outsized investment of energy, resources, and life into an old house because it was a way of avoiding the complexity of our true relationship. I figured that my love entanglement language would simply be heard as metaphorical exaggeration. And I hastened to contextualize my own infatuation with the previous owner’s alleged love affair as if to suggest that this property had a certain charm that could only be approximated with the language of love and passion. We all tend to speak in hyperbole, especially when asked to justify odd, uncharacteristic, or extreme behavior. Certainly our family and friends would have been justified in describing our all-in obsession with Rosslyn as reckless, foolhardy infatuation.
But I suspect that most who’ve heard me claim that we were beguiled or smitten, never really took me literally. Perhaps I didn’t take myself literally. I’ve come to wonder if this is not a metaphor at all. Or if we’re unable to navigate, to grapple with loss and hurt and confusion and hope and optimism without the medicine of metaphor.
Looking South from Split Rock Light (Vintage Postcard)
Why did I illustrate this post with Split Rock Lighthouse? Why did I borrow Susan Fassberg’s brave truth and then trip repeatedly over metaphor despite an sincere effort to come clean, to carve our some crystal clear truth? And why is it so comforting to include this second postcard above as I wander toward my conclusion-less conclusion to this post?
The vantage from the lighthouse, looking south, the postcard states (although its actually sort of southeast), across the northern end of the Split Rock Wildway, across Lake Champlain at the beginning of The Narrows, and then across Vermont toward the trailing end of the Green Mountain, this vantage is familiar. It is our metaphorical front yard. It is a significant reminder that our attraction to Rosslyn was, yes, a handsome old home and boathouse, but it was also this realm, this wild and overgrown invitation to let go… of so much. And to allow ourselves to gradually reawaken, to reinvigorate our hopes and dreams and to rediscover a future that had become stormy and confusing.
[I’ve just attempted to reread this post without hitting delete. What in the world am I wrestling with? And why is it so elusive? Damned if I know. Yet. But if you’ve made it this far, I apologize. Sometimes the captain navigates the ship. Other times the tempest itself seizes the helm!]
If you’ve been following along over the last couple of months, observing from afar as we rehabilitate and repurpose Rosslyn’s icehouse, then perhaps a vision is beginning to take shape in your imagination? Or maybe you’re struggling to envision the future of this handsome but understated utility building? I’ll be sharing design and structural plans piecemeal in the months ahead, but today I’d like to show you a couple of slightly whimsical renderings of the icehouse as it *might* (see note below) appear when rehabilitation is complete. The work of friend and frequent architectural design collaborator, Tiho Dimitrov, these illustrative previews are an enjoyable way to fertilize the team’s imagination as they progress.
Rendering for Icehouse Rehabilitation, East Elevation (Source: Tiho Dimitrov)
The image above depicts the east elevation, the most visible to passersby who happen to glance west, beyond the house, past the stone wall and the linden tree, to where a pair of “barns” —actually a carriage barn and an icehouse — are backlit by the setting sun. This east-facing icehouse façade was the primary focus in our meetings with the Town of Essex Planning Board. Because of the impact it has on the historic viewshed, we have endeavored to minimize changes, even repurposing/recreating the former icehouse door as a storm door per the encouragement of several board members.
Rendering for Icehouse Rehabilitation, North Elevation (Source: Tiho Dimitrov)
The second rendering of the icehouse as viewed from the north is notably absent the carriage barn (located directly south of the icehouse.) Although this might initially seem misleading, there’s potentially an intentional and beneficial consideration as explained below. Of note in this view (not visible from the public viewshed) is a change to the original fenestration. Only a single window, the one furthest to the left, likely dates to the building’s construction in the late 19th century. This 3-lite window, along with an identical window south side, have served as the template for three windows in the rehabilitation plan. When we purchased the property a massive window had been cut into this wall, but we removed it during the initial phase of structural rehabilitation in 2006-7. It is visible in the photo below, taken by the previous owners’ son, Jason McNulty.
Icehouse, North Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
It’s also evident in the following photo taken by Jason McNulty. Both photographs were recorded on November 8, 2004.
Icehouse, North Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
The three six-over-six double hung windows in Tiho’s rendering have been templated from the carriage barn, and the three small windows above are templated from similar windows in the carriage barn that were originally installed in rack of the horse stalls. They are visible in one of the photos I shared recently in the post, “Local Lumber& Fall Foliage”.
As It Might Appear?
I qualified my statement above about these renderings illustrating how Rosslyn’s icehouse will/might appear after rehabilitation is complete. Why, you ask? Architectural renderings are a powerful tool for visualizing designs and structural plans, but they are subjective. For example, in the renderings above, attention is focused on the icehouse to the exclusion of other conditions (ie. the carriage barn located mere feet to the south of the icehouse). There’s something romantic, even misleading when we isolate a specific subject from its broader context, and that is certainly the case with these delightful renderings. Colorful and capricious, they are extremely effective tools for catalyzing imagination for the future of this rehabilitation project. But there’s much more at stake as we adapt the northwest quadrant of Rosslyn’s public property (as opposed to the meadows and fields to the west of the gardens and orchard). I’ve chronicled in other recent posts concurrent site work to the north and west of the icehouse, removing some of the topographical changes introduced early in the 20th century when a clay tennis court was installed. We will be reintegrating the landscaping in the immediate vicinity of the icehouse with elements already present on the property in order to restore greater cohesion and balance to the landscape design.
Removing Clapboard Siding from Icehouse (Source: Hroth Ottosen)
Preparation for historic rehabilitation of Rosslyn’s icehouse is underway, and the photo above captures progress as of this afternoon. On the third day of removing clapboard siding from the icehouse we are now officially 3/4 of complete. And top of the good news list was confirming that the old cladding is in excellent condition except for a little dry rot on NW corner. Per Hroth, “Overall everything looks really good!”
Tabula Rasa
But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s rewind about a week, back before our priority shifted to removing clapboard siding.
Rosslyn’s ice House was chockablock, not with ice, but with a decade and a half of architectural salvage, building supplies, woodworking projects, etc. Step one was emptying everything from the interior of the icehouse, inventorying the materials, transporting them to the rental storage container, sorting and storing the materials in a secure and orderly fashion do that we can retrieve as needed in the months ahead.
Mission accomplished! Pam and Tony moved mountains of material, and this is what the inside of Rosslyn’s icehouse looks like now: a true tabula rasa ready for reimagining.
100% Empty Icehouse (Source: BP Murphy)
Removing Clapboard Siding
With the icehouse now 100% empty, attention turned to the exterior. When we purchased Rosslyn back in 2006 the icehouse was in pretty rough shape. The north and south walls were “corn cribbing“ (falling outward, top plates literally leaning away from each other), and the roof was collapsing in. I posted a recap of our structural stabilization of the icehouse that will get you up to the present.
In some respects, the way the icehouse looked when we purchased the property was pretty similar to the Jason McNulty’s photos that zip posted in “Icehouse on Ice”. We patched in clapboards where windows had been, where a large section of the Southwest wall had been cut open, where animals had compromised the walls, where rot had damaged the structure, etc. The result was a charming patchwork of clapboard siding that resolved itself a bit once we primed and painted the building. Remember, that this was a temporary measure, intended to last long enough for us to stabilize the structure and complete the majority of the house and boathouse rehab. but months turn into years, turned into a decade and a half. At last we’re ready yo resume the project yoo long deferred.
Hroth and Justin began removing clapboard siding from the west facade of the icehouse first (see the later new installation here). Since this side of the building is not within the public viewshed it made sense to experiment, troubleshoot, and fine-tune the process here first. The photo above is early in the process, and the photo below is after completion.
Justin finishing up siding demo on west facade (Source: Hroth Ottosen)
So, yes, I fumbled the chronological sequence be featuring that first photo at the top of this post. I really should have been here at the bottom since it’s the most recent update, but it looked too dramatic to bury at the bottom!
As for the black-and-white images in this post, chock it up to experimenting with “ways of seeing” and ways of redacting (ie. culling and crating the story). If you prefer glorious technicolor, or you’re just curious, here are the color versions.
Removing Clapboard Siding from Icehouse (Source: Hroth Ottosen)
Removing Clapboard Siding from Icehouse (Source: Hroth Ottosen)
Removing Clapboard Siding from Icehouse (Source: Hroth Ottosen)
Icehouse on ice. Yes, this tidy clutch of words and ideas appeals immensely to my poetic perspective on living, but there’s more to it than that. Like so many of the posts I’m revisiting lately, the earliest iteration of this originally somewhat melancholic reflection is nearly a decade old. Like many blog drafts it became an “orphan”, put aside for a day when my time was more abundant or my melancholy was less crowding or my thoughts were better gathered or…
You get the point. As with my poems, I frequently launch into a draft with the passion and clarity of purpose propelling me. And then, something stalls. And the initial foray falters. Or, at the very least, the seed for what I envision writing is cast aside indefinitely.
Often enough I circle back, allowing the persistent relevance of the idea, the recurring urgency to undergird a certain confidence that I might be on to something. That I need to revisit the seed, germinate it, nurture it.
This is the case with my work on preservation by neglect. The idea is baked into my love for and efforts toward rehabilitating old buildings, and it’s in many respects more compelling to me than the finished accomplishments of a preservation project. Not sure I’m ready to put my finger on exactly why yet, but it’s akin to my penchant for wabi-sabi. In my perspective there is profound beauty in the imperceptibly slow entropic forces revealed in aging, even failing, man-made artifacts. Sorry, that’s a major mouthful and earful, and it’s a bit of a mind bender. That’s why I’m not yet ready to flesh this idea out. I’m still trying to sort it for myself. Hopefully soon I’ll be able to better articulate what’s percolating in my noggin.
I’m wandering afield, so I’ll lap back to my earlier intentions.
Ice House, Northeast Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
Icehouse Rehab Revisited
Icehouse on ice. Again.
Rehabilitating (and repurposing) Rosslyn’s historic icehouse is an ongoing desire. Has been since the outset. But advancing this desire to rehabilitate the icehouse has been chilling on ice almost as long.
Going all the way back, since the summer of 2006 when we purchased this property, we’ve wanted to transform this obsolete utility building into a relevant-for-the-21st-century utility building. But, alas, we’ve perennially and indefinitely postponed the project for a variety of reasons. Actually that’s not 100% true. We ensured the building’s preservation back in 2006-6 by tackling the most pressing challenges.
We stabilized the failing structure, replaced the failed roof, repaired the crumbling stone foundation and upgraded the mechanicals. But then we mothballed the project, deferring the next phase indefinitely until circumstances warranted moving forward. For several years we’ve used the ice house as a storage and maintenance annex for the carriage barn, but recently we’ve begun to address a sustainable plan for use. I hope to address this in more depth over the course of the next year. But for now, I’ll just say that we understand that simply stabilizing the building is not enough. Successful rehab demands a sustainable plan for use. And we’re working on it! (Source: Demolition Dedux )
But once the icehouse’s structural integrity was restored, we shifted further rehabilitation off the short-term priority list. It could wait. It would have to wait. Completing the house rehab (and the boathouse rehab) had proven challenging enough. Hemorrhaging time and money, our scope of work had been repeatedly curtailed, narrowing to the two most essential buildings.
Ice House, East Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
Icehouse On Ice, Hurrah!
Let’s step back a moment, before moving onto the exciting update (in the next section as well as several other recent posts) about the looong neglected icehouse rehabilitation coming to an end at last.
This handsome little outbuilding has endured for six score and more — probably about 130 years or so, but how could I resist the chance to borrow that linguistic artifact when polishing an aged subject?!?! — rugged winters and sultry summers. And looking around it’s pretty evident that most icehouses haven’t endured. They’ve largely vanished from historic view-sheds throughout the country. But this well built, classically proportioned addition to Rosslyn’s timeless property remains with us, ready for a new chapter.
Although various reasons likely underpin the icehouse’s endurance, and the attentions of previous owners are no doubt high on this list, I would suggest that one of the reasons we’re now fortunate to undertake a purposeful re-imagination of this building is that it’s been preserved for more than a century, in large part, by neglect. First and foremost it wasn’t demolished to make way for other needs (such as the clay tennis court that adjoins its west and northwest flank). And it wasn’t adapted into a chicken coop or conjoined with the carriage barn or… It served a limited functional purpose for at least two previous owners that I’m aware of (one as part of honey-making accommodations and another as a woodworking shop), but the building wasn’t irretrievably bastardized to fulfill its temporary needs. And this, as mentioned elsewhere, so forgive my repetition, is the best argument for preservation by neglect.
Ice House, Northwest Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
Icehouse On Ice No More
After sixteen years, we’re finally moving forward. And not just baby steps this time. Building on the original infrastructure improvements from 2006-7 and drawing upon a decade and a half of perspective gained from actually living on this benevolent property, we’re now ready to rejigger our original vision, tempering the lofty, grounding the capricious, and infusing new relevance into this landmark utility space.
Ice House, North Side (Source: Jason McNulty)
I will be sharing new plans as we move forward, showing here what we presented to the Town of Essex Planning Board last month. There are still some adjustments to be made following our public hearing and project approval last week. I’ll delve into those details separately as well. But in the mean time I’ll like to honor the beginning of the thaw, the un-icing of this too long postponed project. And it struck me as a poignant opportunity to showcase images that were gifted to us by Jason McNulty. The photographs taken by him on November 8, 2004 and were sent to us on July 6, 2010 following his first return visit back to Rosslyn, the house where he grew up. There is a personal appeal for me, glimpsing the property well before we owned it. And the gratitude we felt upon receiving the images a dozen years ago is rekindled now as we initiate our preliminary stage of rehabilitation.
