So here’s the thing. A man’s home is meant to be his castle. Well, it is for people like my neighbors in Hamilton. They seem to be engaged in a competition to out-build each other.
We need an extra floor. OK, pop one on. More bathrooms? Sure, splash out. An extra wing? Be my guest. Or be my guest wing, more like it.
Castles, after all are designed to accommodate and impress visiting dignitaries. Take the Palace of Versailles for example. Louis XIV dropped some serious coin building that gorgeous, ornate little Holiday Inn, hoping that the money he spent would draw some cool guests. And it did. Marie Antoinette. She stayed there. Twice. Once as Marie Antoinette and once as Kirsten Dunst. Or was it the other way around. Who cares? The point is castles attract chicks. With big hair. Who eat cake.
I’m not fond of cake. I’m gluten intolerant and I am a firm believer in the view that a man’s home is his man cave, not his chick’s castle. Sorry, ladies. So I don’t feel the need to build the Palace of Versailles or to add an extra powder room for my or anybody else’s powdered wig. I’d like my home to be a non-fuss kinda place, somewhere casual to retreat to, away from the formalities of the world. There’ll be no genteel, formal reception rooms in the Minimalist Monument to Moi.
The Jenga House
Maybe though there will be more primitive spaces like those found in the Final Wooden House by Sou Fujimoto Architects. I’ll be mentioning this one to my architect too. It’s a puzzling construction but I like it. A house made out of giant Jenga blocks.
It literally is big, 350mm square beams of lumber stacked into a perfectly crafted cube (we are the Borg) with clever angled glass windows sealing the structure from the weather. But inside is where the man cave is. There are warm places to retreat to, cool holes to hide in, ready made benches to swing your hairy legs over and little cosy windows to peek out through when society comes calling. Ding dong!
ME: Who’s there?
HER: Steve, it’s Marie Antoinette.
ME: Hi, Mary. Take your wig off, darl. Find yourself a perch and let’s have a cupcake or maybe just a beer.
HER: Where are you?
ME: I’m not telling you, Mary. You have to find me. He he.
HER: Turd.