She's gone

At 8AM this morning, the Kestenbaum demo crew started knocking La Ronda down. It is sinking fast. I wasn't there, but lots of other people were. Including some of the Kanias, who I can't believe would even show their faces at this point. See the Save La Ronda homepage and Facebook group and Carla at Save Ardmore Coalition's blog for full updates.

It is still such a breathtaking house, even as it turns to rubble. It breaks my poor creaky architectural historian heart to think of all the Spanish tile, carved stone, groin vaults, plasterwork, and cool old windows being smashed up and dumped in a landfill. Not to mention the genius and labor that went into creating it, and the memories of the many who lived there. Absolutely sickening. What a waste. This didn't have to happen.

I haven't got much to say that hasn't already been said. Now that we're over the cliff, I hope those responsible are happy and at peace. Their big white elephant is on its final voyage out of their lives, their estate-owning dreams are coming true, and their public relations circus is over. I hope that when moving day comes, the Kestenbaums will receive a "welcome" they deserve.

Come on, Karma. Do your thing.

La Ronda: "You've had time."

So, two weeks have gone by and the La Ronda story just gets stranger and more pathetic. Seriously, nobody could make this up. This blog has lots of great information - click on the La Ronda tag for all the gory details.

Key Updates

1. Joseph Kestenbaum has been officially outed as the owner of La Ronda. True to form, instead of facing the music himself, he hired a PR firm to express his outrage that his decision to buy and knock down a landmark has generated a "media circus." Poor baby.

I do feel sympathy for his kids, having parents who are publicly revealed to be this greedy and egocentric. As I've said before, there was plenty of opportunity here to do the right thing, or to at least choose a less damaging solution. In his statement, reproduced here, Kestenbaum claims he was the only person willing to buy the place and that he was also willing to sell it once outrage erupted over the demolition permit. But did others have a fair opportunity to buy it from him?

He also claims he and his family had been searching for a new home for five years. Please. Of all the hundreds of luxury Main Line-area properties that have come on the market since 2004, and the fact that even now there are lots of high-end houses stagnating on the market with prices dropping due to the recession, was there absolutely NO other suitable place to buy? Did they even look at anything else, or were they eyeing La Ronda (or La Ronda's location, location, location) all along?

2. Kestenbaum was outed by none other than Arthur Kania, who justifies the violation of what was supposed to be a confidential real estate deal by saying "But he outed me first!" Serves them both right.

3. Kania, who has retained his own PR flack, is now asserting his salvage rights and carting off whatever movable property remains after Kestenbaum's August ravaging of the interior. He has hired a salvage company which has an, um, interesting background.

Meanwhile, the salvage company that reportedly received the primo elements from the August scavenging is not interested in returning them. As seen in this article, the company specializes in recycling salvage as unique furniture and gift items. What oh what will they do with those magnificent staircases? They could be broken up to make a headboard, or some nice garden ornaments, perhaps? And maybe the reuse of this desirable loot will be shown on their new reality TV show on the DIY Network. Just look at all those nice press clips!

4. Given Kestenbaum's refusal to negotiate and Kania salvaging what little of value is left, Benjamin Wohl appears to have given up. Heck, I would too. While technically the house is still standing, it lacks most of its key decorative elements, and has sustained major interior damage during the removal of said parts.

In retrospect, it's unfortunate that Wohl didn't show up early in the summer. Not his fault, since he apparently didn't know about La Ronda until July, but the eleventh-hour timing of his offer undoubtedly made it that much more unappealing to Kestenbaum.

Nice try, Mr. Wohl. Thank you. It heartens us all to see a deep-pocketed total stranger step up and offer to take on such an expensive and complicated endeavor. Keep an eye on the National Trust's 11 Most Endangered Properties and other preservation alerts. You will undoubtedly be needed again.

5. Various people have dug up dirt on Kestenbaum and his wife as a result of the public outing. Fascinating stuff, much of it revealed here, here, and here. Gotta love those photos with the cowboy hat. Now that will fit right in when you move to Bryn Mawr.

Perhaps it is a little juvenile and obsessive to publicize all these tidbits. But let's face it, Kestenbaum's actions are those of an insecure cowardly little man, who is now having a PR-facilitated tantrum about all these mean people who should have bought La Ronda when they had the chance instead of making a fuss about it. He's like Veruca Salt in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - "I want the world, and I want it now!" Sit and spin, little fella.

If you ask me, Kania is just as much of a skunk as Kestenbaum. Some people think he's a good guy for trying to stop Kestenbaum from salvaging. From my chair, not so much. He is not protecting what's left from harm, but has his own salvagers doing the exact same thing as Kestenbaum's, so he too can profit from the haul. I doubt he's upset about the loss of the house parts illegally removed by Kestenbaum, only the loss of the money he would have made selling them. Not only did he precipitate this entire fiasco by letting the house run down and then selling it to a secretive but clearly demolition-craving buyer, but he aborted any further attempt to pull the house back from the brink with the insistence on maintaining his "salvage rights." He knew damn well what would happen if he made legal provision for salvage rights. Interesting that he didn't try to enforce these rights until Wohl showed up in August, even though Kestenbaum was already well into stripping the interior by then.

I could go on, but I'm running out of sputter.

Disgusting behavior all around. Hopefully karma is as much of a bitch as they all say. I almost hope that poor house will burn down with what's left of its dignity, rather than subjected to the continued picking and scavenging of the vultures responsible for its demise. Twenty years from now, will the key players involved look back and be proud of their actions? I can only hope that the loss of La Ronda will result in stronger future protections for historically significant properties in Lower Merion and the greater Philadelphia area, much as the demolition of New York's Penn Station helped galvanize the national historic preservation movement in the 1960s.

Just to leave one last taste of the stink of this affair, enjoy the last word from Kestenbaum's flunky, courtesy of the Philadelphia Inquirer's Derrick Nunnally:

Kestenbaum's spokesman, Jeff Jubelirer, said Wohl had agreed to the requirements and was attempting a "publicity stunt" by offering further negotiations.

"He hasn't proven or shown that he can execute," Jubelirer said. "You can come up here and do your charade and get lots of press and make us look like the evil guy, but you've had time."

You've had time too, Joe (and Arthur). Oh, the names I could call you besides "the evil guy."

La Ronda - a story of selfishness

I am absolutely disgusted by a travesty occurring as we speak in the Philadelphia suburbs. The house in question, La Ronda in Bryn Mawr, is an Addison Mizner Spanish Revival mansion constructed in 1929. It was Mizner's last commission, is among the finest examples of Spanish Revival architecture in the Philadelphia area, and is the only Mizner commission in Pennsylvania. The only Mizner house north of the Mason-Dixon line, actually. Reportedly, it is in nearly original condition. Or was, until the past month when the salvagers started scavenging and hauling off some of the best pieces.

Google "La Ronda demolition" and search philly.com for "La Ronda" to get a better picture of all the nuances, but here is the basic story in a timeline:

March 2009: A mystery buyer, hiding behind an anonymous corporate front, purchases La Ronda and its 3.2 acre property for $6 million, quite a bargain when you think about what you're getting. The house needs some work, but is still magnificent and well preserved.

The Mystery Buyer (MB) soon files for a permit to demolish La Ronda. Because, among other grievous faults, it doesn't have air conditioning and it would be "too expensive" to install it. It "just doesn't work anymore for a family of today." The architects who supposedly went through the house aren't creative enough to figure out what to do with it. And the owner only needs a 10,000-square-foot mansion, so what could he possibly do with an 14,000SF mansion? (note: sarcasm is mine) I mean, if none of this works for you, why buy this house anyway? You could probably get more land somewhere else, and have your bonus room too.

Honestly, MB, if you can afford to buy and then tear down one of the greatest surviving Main Line estate homes and then build your dream castle on the site, how can you snipe about the cost of air conditioning? It cannot be more expensive to renovate La Ronda than it is to knock it down and build a huge new house. You could save yourself a lot of money and live in a landmark too.

May-June 2009: After putting off the decision for a month, Lower Merion Township, the municipality in which the house is located, approves the demolition permit. The township has a demolition-delay ordinance, i.e. a 90-day "cooling off" period during which alternative solutions may be found and any required documentation completed. Their ordinances and comprehensive plan were written 30 years ago, long before the economic conditions and greed of the early 2000s led to widespread teardowns. At this time, La Ronda was classified as a "Class II" building, which affords it minimal protection. As with most municipalities nationwide, the township has little power to stop a teardown, and the horse has left the barn. Seriously, sometimes it feels like the 1960s all over again. Doesn't anyone remember Penn Station?

Fundraising and other efforts by local preservationists and the Lower Merion Conservancy are rebuffed by MB and his lawyer.

July 2009: Lower Merion township officials visit the building for a walk-through, and a consultant makes required architectural documentation of the house, at which time it is still intact.

By the end of the month, workers begin dismantling and carrying off interior fixtures and other salvage from the house.

August 2009: A potential savior arrives in the form of Benjamin Wohl, a Florida resident who saved and lives in another Mizner house. Wohl offers MB a six-figure fee to buy the house and move it to a nearby property at his own expense.

MB apparently rejects one offer, refuses to negotiate or even take phone calls, and hides behind his not-very-personable attorney. Meanwhile, the former owner, Arthur Kania, claims he retains salvage rights, throwing another monkey wrench into the whole fiasco.

MB's plans for the site include a house bracketed by a basketball court and a pool, with a circular driveway almost as big as the existing house. How nice.

Yesterday, August 31, 2009: Demonstration held at the gates of La Ronda. Wohl flies up from Florida to attend.

Today, September 1, 2009: The date on which MB can receive the demolition permit from Lower Merion Township. Although the permit requires the house to stay up for 30 more days, the vultures can pick at the fresh kill and carry off anything of salvage value. If anything is left at this point, which is debatable. Kania's rights to salvage are upheld, meaning he is now at odds with Wohl, who would be left with a fixture-less shell if MB agrees to let him move the house.

This story has received considerable local coverage, and even some national coverage. See here for a partial list of articles. There is a Save La Ronda website and Facebook group. Adrian Scott Fine of the National Trust posted about it here.

I'm praying for a last-minute save, but given the selfish and deplorable behavior of MB and Kania, I have a hard time believing in miracles.

Those at fault for this, as I see it from my antique armchair:

1. Lower Merion Township. You should have updated your ordinances and put La Ronda on your Class I list long ago, and not made designation voluntary. This only proves, once again, that anything in the township is teardown bait. I hope this is a lesson for you, however hard it is to swallow. Get your house in order before another permit application arises.

2. Arthur Kania. You own the place for decades, let it get run down, then sell it to MB for a handsome price. You probably realize MB is thinking of tearing it down, because you insist on retaining interior salvage rights. This means you not only get a large amount of money from selling the place, but you have first dibs on harvesting the best parts of it, which you can then sell. When a person appears who wants to buy the house and move it, you help scotch any potential deal when you step in to insist on protecting your salvage rights, which essentially negates all other arrangements that may arise to save the place. To add insult to injury, you try to prove your altruism and desire to "preserve" the house by claiming you will donate some of the pieces to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Scum.

3. Mystery Buyer, now revealed as one Joseph Kestenbaum, president and CEO of Marsh Hawk Capital Management LLC, Conshohocken, PA. You know exactly what you are doing, and you know it is at the very best an unpopular decision, and at worst, wasteful, shortsighted, lazy, and wrong. As such, you can't even step up and reveal your identity, until someone finally tracked you down and revealed it yesterday.

If you believe so strongly in your right to do what you wish with your property, then show your face and take the heat instead of hiding behind your high-priced attorney and corporate front. Can you not even consider negotiating or compromising? You'd save yourself the hassle and large expense of demolition and redeem yourself considerably with the locals. The only downside for you might be a delay of a few months while the house is moved. Let's face it, once you build your McMasterpiece and move in, people are going to know who you are and they are going to hate you with a passion. Nobody is going to show up with a welcome plate of cookies, believe me.

4. The culture of wastefulness and greedy excess that encourages this type of activity and makes it seem like a good and profitable idea to buy a house you hate so you can knock it down and build what you think is a better one.

For better or worse, the economy has now changed, and culture is starting to recognize the value of being "green," but reconciling green with historic preservation still has a long way to go. The message that "the greenest building is one that has already been built" has gotten through to the preservation world, but it hasn't quite made it into the mainstream. Right now, the mainstream is hung up on all the tax credits it can get for "weatherization" (i.e. "let's rip out our historic wood windows and doors, throw them in the landfill, buy and install vinyl replacements, and then we're green and get stimulus tax credits, yippee!"). I can only hope that the value of keeping old buildings and repairing rather than replacing them (AND their original components) becomes clear to the wider world before the economy and the real estate market rebound.

There was so much opportunity for a better solution to all of this, so much opportunity for both the buyer and seller to be the bigger person and do the right thing. Short of a last-minute miracle deal, everyone loses here.

Update 9/2/09: Much of the interior of La Ronda has reportedly already been destroyed by Kestenbaum's salvagers/pillagers. See photos here. Where is the salvage going?  How much money will Kestenbaum make from selling it, or will it be reused to add "character" to the McMasterpiece?  I'd hate to see those lovely metalwork elements end up on the scrap heap, but nothing would surprise me at this point.

Selling out

Warning: Here I go about teardowns again. This seems to be a recurring theme/obsession of late.

(FYI: some of my posts on this topic are now appearing on another blog, The Teardown Post).

I just happened across this article, and it echoed so much of my own experience with the teardown phenomenon. My parents' neighbors are having to make the same choice: Live with an outdated kitchen, or renovate in the knowledge that the investment will end up in a landfill. It's a curious and unsettling feeling to realize that something you've put years of investment and maintenance into is something that apparently nobody else would want.

Even my own house, however charming, is woefully inadequate in the eyes of today's real estate market. This kind of house would need a new owner who doesn't just want a house, but an old house, warts and all. People like us who can live with its quirks, fix its unusual problems, and aren't lamenting the lack of certain features that seem to be standard on all new homes these days, at least around here. Granted, there are things that could be done to make it more marketable, like adding a second bathroom upstairs, which we probably will do at some point. But its essential character is old, crooked, set in its ways.

The average homebuyer isn't into quirks though. The average homeowner expects their new investment to be much lower-maintenance than ours, and include today's most-desired features. At bare minimum, these seem to include a multi-car garage, a master suite with a bathroom, at least one two-story interior room or foyer, and a big kitchen with an island and adjoining "great room." My house has none of these things. Your average pre-1980s house doesn't have those things either. With good reason, the former owner of our house was petrified that someone would buy the place, dismiss it as hopeless, and knock it down (although with 2-foot-thick stone walls, that would take some doing).

On a side note, I wonder how many of the current "living standards" in new construction are based on what buyers want, or on what builders and realtors are trying to sell. I'm sure there are surveys out there about what people are looking for in a new home, and builders then respond. But with teardowns, who exactly is doing the dismissing of an older house as useless? Is it the buyers who bypass the possibilities of older houses? Or are there others in the supply chain who make assumptions about what these buyers want? Is it the realtors who cultivate relationships with (and slant their sales tactics toward) builders who will pay top dollar and increase their commission? Is it the builders who want to "improve the neighborhood" with their latest masterpiece and see dollar signs sprouting from the front lawn?

This article and another article that recently appeared in the Times discussed the nature of objections to teardowns. The first objection is emotional and nostalgic about erasing the history of a particular house, homeowners, or neighborhood, and concerned about the impact of these losses on the community. The second objection is to what fills in the empty space, and how offensive or intrusive the infill might be.

I'm not sure which aspect troubles me more, because both in my mind are pretty offensive. I probably wouldn't object quite so strenuously if new construction blended in instead of looming over the neighborhood, and if buyers and developers weren't so quick to dismiss something as unusable. I wish that people could look at an older house in a more creative way. While there are some houses that are essentially un-adaptable for today's standards, most could be adequate or even really nice if people are willing to do some remodeling and live in less-capacious quarters.

Perhaps we could remind them that a century ago, even one bathroom was a luxury out of reach to most middle-class Americans. Do we all really need a bathroom the size of a bedroom, and a master bedroom the size of a small gymnasium? I'm hoping the price of heating fuel might discourage the popularity of the double-height window-lined family room (I know several owners of such rooms and nearly all of them complain about how hard it is to heat and keep warm). But I wouldn't bet the farm on it.

Finally, for educational entertainment, Westport Now offers an interactive map and "Teardown of the Day," a regular feature chronicling the frequent teardowns in that town (home to Martha Stewart and other wealthy and famous citizens). Sad, but fascinating. I'm amazed that anyone would want to knock down something dating from the 1760s - clearly generations of people have found that house adequate for their needs, at the very least. Go pick on the dilapidated 1960s raised ranch next door.

On Mc(Vacation)Mansion Pond

Even the lovely shores of Lake Winnepesaukee, New Hampshire, are being transformed by the mega-house invasion. The Times article is a decent representation of what is going on, though a little slow in noticing the phenomenon. Unfortunately, in a state where tax income is mostly from property taxes, there's little incentive to put the brakes on the trend.

We have a lakefront property up there and have been seeing more and more little "camps" getting demolished and replaced by these massive new houses, with their equally massive garages, boathouses, docks, and septic mounds. (Some of them are adjacent to our place and I've had ample opportunity to check them out on road walks or kayaking along the shoreline). While the camps are generally dinky and not much to write home about, and many aren't even that old (i.e. 1960s), it's still a sea change in the landscape.

There's really no way to protect the camps. Most are scattered randomly along the waterfront, often interspersed with newer places or empty zones. Other than the odd family compound here and there, there's not enough of a concentration of the little guys to create a historic district. Architecturally, they lack distinction - most are modest-to-tiny vernacular buildings with minimal detail and dating from the mid-twentieth-century. Charming at best, but not even close to the Adirondack Great Camps. Still, they represent a humble rustic vernacular, and recall a vanishing era when even Joe Schmo could own a little piece of lakefront.

Many of the lake camps survive on the smaller lakes in the Lakes Region, but they're vanishing rapidly from Winnepesaukee. It's hard to argue that the new mansions aren't an improvement on what was there before, but it's almost TOO much of an improvement. These vacation places are so extravagant that they're probably even nicer than the owners' regular houses - they defy the rustic simplicity that has drawn vacationers to the lake for generations. They bring all the trappings of modern life to the lake, rather than being a place to get away from all that.

It almost reminds me of the Gilded Age transformation of Newport with palace-like "cottages" owned by the summering nouveau-riche (Astors, Vanderbilts, etc.). But I'm not sure people will be opening these lakefront monoliths as house museums a century from now....

Deconstruction vs. Demolition

Just saw this really interesting article in the New York Times. Wouldn't it be great if all people in the construction industry were this conscientious? What I really like is that Brad Guy is using his experience to generate statistics that will be of use to others, and is also investigating how this type of endeavor could provide jobs for those who need them. What he's doing is also a much-needed smackdown to the wasteful machine-based demolition that is so emblematic of the teardown phenomenon.

I hate teardowns, as do most preservationists. I hate them because they are shortsighted and wasteful. I hate them because they destroy history and a sense of place. I hate them because they represent the worst aspects of the all-American need for everything to be shiny and modern and huge and up to date. I hate them because the buildings constructed to replace the demolished structures are often not only completely out-of-scale and out-of-style for the neighborhood environment, but of significantly inferior construction. I hate them because they signify another victory and a big cash prize for some vulture developer, giving him the means to begin the process anew on yet another property.

I hate teardowns (on a deep-personal-bias level) because my childhood home is in a landfill, and one by one, the houses of our neighbors are joining it, recreating the neighborhood in the sense that they are all ending up commingled as useless rubble, detritus of the ridiculously high land values in my hometown. My high school is also in the landfill, along with the childhood homes of at least three of my friends. The town library may be joining them next year. If the permits section of the town paper is any indication, the tanking economy has done nothing to stop the bulldozers.

The end result of this is that when I go home, there is less and less of my past to show my children. Even the much-beloved woods behind our house is gone, because the McMansion they built on our old foundation extends so far back that the back yard disappeared completely. So not only was the house destroyed, but dozens of mature trees too.

My old house was a well-built 1955 Cape Cod, on a loop street of almost-one-acre lots containing a mixture of Cape Cods and "Colonials." Each house was based on one of five models but customized so that no two were alike. They were beautifully proportioned to the size of each property, and nestled charmingly on their wooded, hillside lots. The smallest houses were small, don't get me wrong, and even the biggest ones were not palatial, but they were pleasant and adequate and easily expanded if more space was needed. Our house started out with six rooms and ended with ten.

I knew the house was coming down as soon as my parents said the winning bid was from a builder who wanted to "remodel" it. The guy gushed about how great the house was and how he wanted to make it better than ever, and offered them $20,000 more than the family from across town who wanted it. How do you say no to a buyer who outbids others by that much? If my parents were willing to take that bait, how much more willing would you be if you were, say, the executor of some old person who'd finally died and you needed to pay off some big debts or wanted to cash in to the utmost possible extent?

When we learned the guy was definitely not "remodeling," I called him. He had sent out a letter to all the neighbors indicating his plans, and including his cell phone number if anyone had questions. I'm not sure what I hoped to accomplish with this, other than maybe inflicting some guilt, or maybe salvaging stuff. Mostly I wanted to get inside the vulture's head and know why. Why couldn't they retain at least part of it? What was so wrong with it that the entire thing needed to come down?

The guy was civil but terse. He had "hoped to renovate" (not!) but then decided there was really nothing he could do with the house to make it the way he wanted. It didn't have central air. The front bedrooms had low ceilings (well, duh. It's a Cape Cod!). The bedrooms were too small (compared to a McMansion). The master bathroom was too small (i.e. it didn't have room for double sinks and a soaking tub and a shower you could wash your car in). In short, "Nobody wants to live in a house like this any more."

On and on, he ranted about all of its faults, and I'm thinking, if it sucks that much, why did WE ever want to live there? What does it say about us that our house, which we thought was an attractive, updated, spacious place to live, was apparently worthless crap? What does it say about our 28 neighbors, who are getting along just fine living in similar houses?

My parents had the foresight to offload some of the more movable and valuable house parts before they left, just in case. They sold the Vermont Castings woodstove to one friend, and the kitchen appliances to someone else. But everything else: the almost-new green marble bathroom floor, the woodwork my dad had carefully repainted before they listed the house, the kitchen closet door inscribed with 26 years' worth of our height measurements, the Craftsman-style oak banister in the family room that we all helped sand and finish when we added on, a whole house's worth of hardwood floors, joists, studs, built-in bookshelves, good-quality doors and sash windows that nobody makes anymore - gone.

They did at least reuse the foundation, reportedly now plagued by frequent flooding due to all the trees in back being ripped out. My initials are carved in the concrete basement floor, so I guess part of me still haunts the site. But there's nothing left otherwise.

(And there's an irony in the fact that the one house on the street that produced a historic preservationist was the first to fall, and initiated the neighborhood's irreversible plunge into teardown bait: of 29 houses, 4 have now been forcibly removed and replaced by towering monsters. Our former neighbors now have this gallows humor of "why bother fixing [fill in the blank] - when we sell, they're just going to tear the house down anyway!")

So I have to give major props to Brad Guy. He is raising awareness in such a valuable way, and I'm glad the Times has publicized what he's doing. Salvage on that level is perhaps the best possible outcome for a teardown situation, ascribing worth even to a house that is too decrepit for any other outcome, and making the best of the many undeserving victims of the trend. Even if our house couldn't be saved, I would feel infinitely better knowing that parts of it had gone on to productive second lives. If I knew some other kid was watching the world through our windows, or slamming my old bedroom door in a huff, I'd be more thrilled than words can express.

The greening of suburbia

All right, this article in the Washington Post on "Can Big Be Green?" has gotten me all riled up. The premise is that even oversized new houses can be more "green" than small old houses. Basically, the article gives high-end developers and their clients the opportunity to justify building McMansions by insisting that even though they consume more land, raw materials, and energy than smaller/older dwellings, it's OK! Because they're sprayed with impermeable insulation and virtually draft-proof! So you can have six bathrooms and not feel guilty, or even have to worry about your heating bill!

The article defines "green" as follows:

"Generally speaking, a house is called green if it uses energy, water and natural resources wisely and offers good indoor air quality. "

What the article does not mention is that oftentimes, particularly in a couple of the neighborhoods specifically mentioned (Somerset, Chevy Chase DC), the only way to build a new house is to tear down an old one. Oftentimes that old one is a perfectly good and serviceable house, maybe a bit small or needs work, but probably has potential.

I need someone to explain to me how bulldozing such a house (which might contain excellent-quality old-growth wood and other natural materials) and throwing it in a landfill, then tearing out all the remaining trees in the yard so a builder can come in and construct a large, towering new house as far out to the property line as possible, using particleboard and Tyvek and pressure-treated lumber and vinyl, is being "green." How is that a wise use of energy, water, or natural resources?

At the very least, this is a colossal waste of resources, even if the old house was not particularly energy-efficient. It's also replacing natural materials almost entirely with chemical-infused manufactured ones, which may or may not be healthy to live in (time will tell). Finally, such an immense infill house inevitably has negative physical, aesthetic, and fiscal ramifications on an established neighborhood, although that's a rant I'll save for another day.

Even if the new superdwelling is built in a vacant area and no old houses were hurt in the filming of this eco-movie, its big footprint is occupying land which once absorbed rain, thus decreasing permeable soil and causing more runoff into area waterways (or neighboring properties). Since most new houses usually have a good-sized paved driveway and/or parking area for the three-car garage, the permeable surface is even further reduced. In terms of reducing runoff and pollution of our waterways, it would be more green to reuse and expand an existing building footprint than to create a new one.

Call me crazy, but I don't understand why anyone would want to live in a Thermos-like dwelling. Old houses may have drafts, but this also serves as a passive ventilation system. Houses built before the advent of air conditioning and modern climate control often have built-in design features to maximize winter heat retention and summer cooling. Air circulation through the exterior envelope, and cross-ventilation through the room arrangement, was a given. These features cost nothing to use, and have worked well since humans first lived in a built environment. If your new house is completely draft-proof, how exactly do you plan to get fresh air circulating through it? Why, an HVAC system! Which requires materials to build and energy to run! Maybe your air quality inside will be good, but is it truly fresh?

The article does not mention that the reason we have black mold, and black mold lawsuits, is precisely because new houses these days are built to be so airtight. Wrapped in Tyvek and vinyl siding, or slathered with synthetic stucco, and sealed with vinyl thermal windows, they don't have the passive air circulation of an older frame or masonry house with wood windows. Houses need to breathe and exchange air, particularly since they are exposed to varying levels of moisture from the inside and outside. When moisture gets into a wall and cannot escape, you get mold. What happens when the wood used to build a house is waterlogged by rain or insufficient curing/drying before the Tyvek and the spray-on insulation goes on? How will it dry out if your exterior walls are sealed like a Thermos? Ever smell a moldy Thermos you forgot to empty and wash for awhile?

So basically, I think it's great if you are going to build yourself a McMansion no matter what and you decide to jump on the "green/sustainable" bandwagon and stick a few solar panels on top. But it would be even greater if realtors, developers, builders, suppliers, consumers, shelter magazines, home-improvement TV shows, and Ty Pennington would recognize the value and potential of reusing existing buildings rather than putting up new ones. Sustainability, like preservation, is about long-term value and stewardship over generations, not the "I want it all and I want it now and I'll throw it away when I'm done with it" culture we live in these days.

This would be a more balanced article if the author had talked to some preservationists, instead of just the National Homebuilders and the LEED people. And it's crystal-clear to many of us in the historic preservation field that national environmental policy needs some help. My friend Richard in DC blogged about this a few days ago and has some additional salient points.