We're in the Mornington Peninsula Victoria, which faces the Great Southern Ocean, with all its
ferocity and salt encrusted atmosphere, and as a result of its location, this project is about its
place. In 1997, the site was basically denuded; a series of sand dunes and spotting of tea trees
and wattles and that's what drew us to the site was this undulation and the primitive nature
and it actually inspired the whole construction methodology. Not trying to beat or compete with
the landscape. In fact letting it win, letting the house recede and allowing detail to dominate.
This house has been deliberately built across four stages. Time is a very valuable component of its
equation. The very first stage was two simple shacks; one for living in, the room I'm in now,
and one for sleeping in. It was designed on screw piles and the robustness of the construction
to this day still exists. Something that I thought was critical, imbuing the quality
that you let the sand dunes run through the house and the house is about screw piling delicately
into the landscape. After experiencing the intensity of the weather following 10 years,
we realised that we needed to recede to the north. So, stage two is about putting
in the pool and the cabana area that we could enjoy the sunshine without the wind intensity.
The alignment of the pool in stage two was deliberate, it's a direct access of
the bifurcation between the old original shacks that connects the water with the ocean, and glass
allowed that to happen. They were the two moments where, apart from the timber shield, that we allow
glass to break through and connect water to water. Twenty years onwards the family has increased,
my wife Grace and her children needed more area, so we knew that below this house,
below this slab, there was an undercroft area which we occupied underneath the grand stairs.
Much to my surprise was this peculiar space that we converted into a terrarium. This new atmosphere
when you open the sliding doors you get hit with this sense of smell of moisture. It is stimulating
your olfactory, a hidden sense of memory, so I open the sliding door and I feel like i'm in a
rainforest in Tasmania, but i'm just underneath in my living space. We created an area of recluse of
privacy and intimacy in direct contrast with the immediacy of the landscape, so we're building up
a series of experiences and emotions and stage three was the more quiet contemplative phase.
Finally, when you convert a shack to a villa, the garden needs to be part of the overall
consideration. We were conscious of not disturbing the landscape, not shifting the
consoles of the sand dunes. Making sure we don't interrupt too much of that movement was critical,
so it feels like the house is settled, finally settled into the landscape.
The bifurcated entrance is about controlling sensation. As you arrive
at St Andrews along a long driveway and upper ramp you're still not aware of any context.
When you get to the top of the ramp, then I open up the landscape and show you the fragmentation
of the smaller spaces. Then descending down to a void in a narrow space surrounded by jarrah
stairs and then into again the undercroft, which is his peculiar anomalous space and at night
lit up, it feels like an installation that you're living in nature in the middle of the night,
which also sets off a peculiarity of the energy of the landscape.
The first idea of the house was a leaning house to reflect the tea trees that have bent over
backwards over centuries of wind. Then upon reflection, because of the orientation of the
site, southwest being the ocean, that it became a mirror of the ocean in many ways. So, we protected
the north part of the house with shutters and actuated louvers, and allowed the southwest to
be a transparent veil with this galvanised steel window that sucks in nature into the interior.
Just at about sunset, the sun is just at the right angle where it presents itself horizontally and
creates this incredible interior glow. The jarrah that's uncoated begins to create a honey patina
and the whole interior emanates warmth. The invention of led strip lighting really saved
me from the tyranny of down lighting. We've concealed it throughout the whole residence.
You can't see it, it's in helmets, it's hidden behind skylights, it's under handrails.
Lighting is this arts that this house, both the day and night, adopts and plays with.
There's something about the reductive accumulation of materials here. The need for functionalism and
meaning and purpose. Every material does its job, it's not doing more than that, it's not
pretending to be more than what it is. Jarrah was one of the most important selections that we made
in the process. We know it ages well in seaside environments, we know it's used on old jetties.
Because it grays in this silvery manner and then on the interior it glows to golden, we then added
rust to it. I've worked out a way of sealing it in a way that holds the rust to a certain point,
and then the juxtaposition of the galvanising of the screw poles to make sure that they
endure through the climate then created a trilogy of materials of cool grey,
warm rust, and timber that both silvers and goes to golden.
It's this natural palette of materials that you could feel through the whole journey in the house.
I often get asked what is the favourite part of the house and in many ways it's the negative.
It's the garden, it's the space around it, not the actual house itself that we
can connect continually to the landscape. There isn't this one outstanding moment
and maybe that's my favourite part of the house - that it doesn't dominate.
The lesson that this house has taught me the most is searching a bit deeper.
Not only is the sense of quietness important and deep reflection of detail and material,
but also a holistic overview of what architecture can bring to your spirit. The negative,
the positive, the garden, your connection to the family, your connection to materials and light.
That's what this house, when everybody visits it, they feel more harmonious in their inner being.
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