Open House celebrates the relationship people have with their homes and the objects within them. It’s an invitation into another’s private world and a suggestion to view your own with a newly sentimental eye. Much like kindred publications, notably Constance Rosenblum’s “Habitats, Private Lives in the Big City,” Open House focuses upon a home’s character in relation to its resident - rather than its immediate aesthetic appeal.
The concept for Open House was born during a final visit to my beloved grandfather’s home. Stepping through the threshold revealed a space so loud in its emptiness, so hollow with its lack of life that the objects left behind instead filled the silence. What they so raucously showed were vignettes of a vibrant life; a fringed dish towel, laid flat and set with a single portrait and a well-worn carpenter’s pencil; cabinets filled with hand-forged knives and unpublished poetry; windowsills littered with collected fossils and natural ephemera. All artifacts of a life once lived.
Over time, a home becomes filled with these types of artifacts. Together, they create a space so authentically representative of their inhabitants, that what remains is nothing short of a mausoleum to the soul. Open House is an invitation to step through the threshold and view these spaces in the midst of their creation. The door is open, welcome in.
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Steve Clark’s home is a study in perpetual progress; a space lived in intentionally, but organically, an ever-changing canvas that comfortably provides for the basic needs of life and then gently asks, “What’s next?”. There is room for experimentation here, room to try on ideas like a jacket and see how they fit; to do what you love and let the rest come as it will. This philosophy is one that has served Steve well over the course of his life, which has consisted of a series of moves and experiences that may appear carefully calculated, but in reality could only occur through maintaining confidence in oneself. “Everything I’ve done in my life has been an inclination. I’ve never been unsure. It’s always just been what I’m doing next.”, he tells me as we sit in the studio above of his Lake City workshop, discussing the nature of his space over baked goods and coffee.
I’d arrived earlier that day via Lake City Way, driving past a bevy of utilitarian businesses and industrial yards that have become an increasingly rare sight within Seattle. A century ago, Lake City was an unincorporated neighborhood on the outskirts of Seattle whose remote location appealed to both suburban dreamers and seedy business owners alike. Built around an avenue designed specifically to transport cars rather than trolleys or carriages, Lake City’s economy soon became linked to that of the automobile industry. This avenue eventually became Lake City Way, and although the construction of I-5 rerouted much of the traffic away from the Lake City bringing many businesses with it, the tie to its automotive heritage remains, as evidenced by the surviving repair shops, dealerships, and rental agencies that line the main road.
Steve’s workshop and adjoining studio sit nestled between two such businesses, hiding in plain sight among industrial warehouses and storage buildings. The building itself-- a two storey rectangular mass with brown clapboard siding, white vinyl windows and a faded green awning-- is undeniably unassuming. This fact doesn’t bother Steve in the slightest, in part because the humble exterior diverts prying eyes from the extraordinary work that goes on within.
When Steve bought the building, it had been functioning as a commercial office space on both levels. As soon as the deal was closed, he came by with the biggest dumptruck he could find and gutted nearly everything - shuffling around doors, ceilings, walls, and stairs until the space was exactly what he needed. The result is a warm and welcoming studio apartment perched above a fully outfitted workshop. As you may expect from a woodworker’s home, much of the cabinetry and finishes are experimental in nature making the single-room-loft feel like an extension of the shop below. The stained plywood floor and car decking ceiling sit in compatible contrast to the newly remodeled bathroom. Douglas fir ply panels (leftovers from a recent project) clad a few select walls near the entryway acting as a mock up for what Steve hopes to do to the remaining space over time. Over top all of this, save the kitchen counter, sits a fine layer of sawdust which has migrated up from the shop below.
While Steve possesses every skill to outfit his home in the way of Architect Magazine (he has, in fact, created work that graces its pages), he prefers to prioritize objects created, passed down, or repaired by his network of talented friends and family. The most notable of these objects is his father’s motorbike--or rather, the disassembled pieces of his fathers motorbike. The bike had been sold many years ago, much to Steve’s regret, only to be serendipitously found and repurchased some time later. Its condition left him with little choice but to deconstruct and repair it piece by piece, which is how his dining table became the backdrop for the veritable flock of parts which have been carefully knolled with a knack for aesthetics any influencer would covet. Upon the motorbike's resurrection it will be displayed proudly in the living room.
The rest of his space is filled with objects of similar sentimental value: various portraits of his son (a musician who spends most of his time in Texas but talks with Steve on speakerphone at least once every day), a spectacular rosewood desk gifted to him by a client, a watercolor big enough to be used as room divider painted over thirty years ago by one of his oldest friends, and countless other paintings, drawings, and sculptures created by family members spanning many branches of the genealogical tree - most of whom happen to be architects and designers.
During our conversation, Steve recalls a formative article he read in TIME magazine as a child that profiled young bohemians living out of warehouse lofts in New York City. He remembers seeing the photographs - big arch windows that went all the way to the floor, a bed in the corner, a few scattered objects, very curated, very artistic, very intentional, very sparse - and wondering what it would be like to live in a space like that one day. It took him years of living in his current home to realize that creating such a space comes not through intentionality, but rather by simply living. “That isn’t the way it works, you don’t go out to get any of that stuff, it just comes into your life.”
The last hour of our interview is spent downstairs in his workshop, Steve joyously sharing his latest projects, mockups, jigs, and various solutions to niche design problems. His satisfaction is radiant as we walk through the extension of his home, admiring particularly beautiful pieces of wood and clever saw set ups. It’s hard to imagine a world where Steve’s life and work are anything but intertwined. “If I could, I would work for free, just because I love it so much,” Steve quipped at me as we worked together on a broken mirror frame he had graciously agreed to help me repair. I fully believe it. His workshop is just as much an indicator of his personna as the loft above, hosting a rotating cast of friends, clients, and in-process projects brought over by both. Come equipped with an offering from a nearby bakery and an appetite for chatting, and Steve will gladly spend a day guiding you through whatever project could benefit from his expertise. You may end up doing more talking than working, but you’ll leave the shop filled with accomplishment and camaraderie (and maybe one too many pieces of cake).
