It began with a story in Sunset Magazine on a new style of modular home that is compact, energy efficient and eco-friendly.
The story on homes built by Michelle Kaufmann Designs caught the eye of woman I know who lives with her husband in a suburban community in the San Francisco Bay area. For years they have enjoyed spending weekends on the coast of west Sonoma County, an area of sprawling ranches, picturesque towns, and gorgeous beaches on the Pacific coast.
The couple had thought about building a small home there as a retreat from their more urban home in the East Bay. My friend saw it both as an investment and a way to take advantage of the great view.
Early this spring, my wife and I spent a day visiting my friend, who asked not to be named to protect her family’s privacy. Early on our only morning there, we awoke to see the fog curling through the valley below us, filling the gaps in the green hills.
Personal values and the ability to get approval from local planning officials both played a part in my friend choosing a Michelle Kaufmann Designs home. She hoped that its small scale and highly energy efficiency would make the home appealing to coastal planning boards trying to limit development in scenic open areas. And the simple design would enable her to present the plans herself, rather than relying on a developer. “You do better as a homeowner going through the process,” she said. And their hopes were borne out, her husband told me.
Kaufmann brought the modular home into the 21st century by making energy efficiency and environmental friendliness core principles of the design of these speedily-built homes. (Even with the public’s embrace of environmental design, the company couldn’t overcome the housing bust and financial meltdown and just days ago announced it is folding. It had built about 40 homes.)
Compared with their conventional counterparts, modular homes have always been cheaper because they are built in factories and simpler to build, avoiding the uncertainties of outdoor construction.
Kaufmann’s contribution was adapting them to the needs of a nation concerned about energy costs and climate change. Among the standard features of her homes are floor- to-ceiling sliding doors which, when placed opposite clerestory windows, result in balanced lighting and warmth in the winter. And as an architect concerned about preservation of scare resources, many of her homes use flooring made from fast growing bamboo, rather than wood from slower growing forests.
My friend chose a model with clean simple lines called Glidehouse. The 1,600-square-foot home they ordered from MKD is about half the size of their other home. Many of the environmentally friendly features my friend wanted were standard in that model. They ordered a few additional options to suit their tastes and needs.
Three units, each 14 x 48 feet, were built on the factory floor, delivered to the site and set on the foundation. One unit makes up the kitchen, living room and dining room; another the master bedroom and bath and a smaller bedroom, bath and laundry; and the third, another bedroom and half bath, along with a mudroom and exterior patio.
Her model came with sliding glass doors running the entire length of one side and clerestory windows on the opposite side. As an additional energy efficiency step, my friend installed roof-mounted solar panels, which are connected to the grid. “We pay whatever the minimum is to have an account with Pacific Gas & Electric,” my friend said. “There are no bills.”
Her flooring, while not bamboo, is a layered hardwood by Echo that is engineered to take a smaller bite out of the forest, she said.
A feature of an MKD home my friend especially appreciates is the ample storage hidden behind sliding wood doors all along the north side of the house. “They are very well designed,” she said.
Other than the front entry, the patios were of her design. Lining the entire south side of the home, they celebrate the nearly 180-degree view of the hills and coastline.
On an early spring day, my wife and I joined my friend and her daughter for a lunch of chicken sausage, rolls and salad on the patio. Because of unusual early spring rains, the hills were a lush green. We watched as a hawk rode the thermals above the estuary. Beyond, we could see a hint of the foam churned up by the Pacific surf as it pounded the coastal rocks. A tongue of land known as Point Reyes, the most prominent feature of the area, faded into the horizon.
“When it is not windy, I love it,” my friend told me recently. Asked to name a special view, it was the same as mine- fog filling the estuarial valley. “When there is a low creeping fog, you can see above it, so you feel like you are on an island,” she said.
Created by Brian Miller On 06/11/09 At 03:35 PM
Although I have already done so in previous blogs usually I would prefer not to talk about my paintings, because the meaning that I attach to them is then transformed over time in the eyes of the spectator, into the thoughts of those who imagine something that the painter has not conceived, but which is still a perfectly legitimate way of interpreting the painting. Despite this, since I have recently spent a good deal of time reconstructing the meaning of my work (a reasonable task you will probably agree for an artist who will be eighty very soon) in this blog I will describe how almost twenty years ago I came to create a group of paintings (reproduced here alongside the blog) which I consider quite significant to understanding not only how my own work but also how a painting is born and how from this others may unexpectedly come into being.
In 1992, or the years before, there was the implosion of the Soviet Union and the end of hope for an ideology that had affected the whole first half of this century and a conspicuous portion of the second half. Many people had believed in this ideology, the first great socialist revolution of the world. This idea of revolution was common place, the home of the thoughts, justice, and ideas that a great revolution promises. However, we know that all revolutions are unfortunately destined to be betrayed and, in the end, lead to corruption, fear and abandonment by the very people who had believed in them. And then I imagined a painting in red like the red flag of Communism, where the star is still visible, but everything is smashed and distorted. To create this painting I examined the painting of De Kooning in depth, because it seemed to me that, through those broken and continuous structures, I could more profoundly express the significance of this crisis. A man in the foreground, like a black silhouette, is leaving with a pair of suitcases, and the title is perhaps an indication to help understand the meaning. 
Going where? I immediately made another painting in this cycle still concerned with the same problem: Going where? Goodbye to the red house which also has writing going across the top of the house, in almost Cyrillic characters. Here, too, a man with suitcases is leaving this house, which is, perhaps, the house of his hopes and dreams. Then the subject became dilated and no longer concerned the fall, the implosion of Communism, but the destiny of man. So then, immediately afterwards, or, in some cases, even before this painting, I painted green paintings with men in a landscape or looking down from a terrace, and who seem to be lost in contemplation, all entitled Going where?, almost as though Man is in a critical, temporary situation and is searching for an identity inside a labyrinth, represented in this case by the natural world. This could have been a great moment, a problem set out before modern Man that he has to resolve, but as to how, that is a mystery. 
Then I made a very large painting, two meters by two meters thirty-five, entitled The game, more fantastic, or rather, more mysterious, in which I borrowed from Cézanne the silhouette of the two card players, while on the right a man looks as if he wants to know how this game is going to end. It is a red painting which, even if the characters’ silhouettes were not so clear, could be exhibited just for its background, almost like an abstract painting.
