Ashwell - The Shabby Chic Home

the

SHABBY

CHIC

home

Rachel Ashwell

photograpby by AMY NEUNSINGER
sketches and illustrations by DEBORAH GREENFIELD

F OR J AKE & L ILY, MY ROOMMATES

Opposite: I see my inspiration boards every single day: filled with colors and shapes I want to remember, and with things that are simply pretty. If a fabric for a new project is missing a color, or its texture eludes me. I turn to these richly layered boards to release my creative juices.

B efore I bought my housemy homemy children and I lived in a rented house. I was waiting to make the commitment. I had been waiting nearly nine years, since my divorce, believing it would be a commitment to make with another person. Similar to another romantic, special thing I was saving: a visit to Italy. In 1998 I did both, with my children, Lily and Jake.

Making the commitment was the beginning of a long process, which might have been longer had I not clearly known my criteria. I wanted an old house, and I wanted to live close to the beach. I was working within a budget and knew that these requirements would not make the search easy. I wanted an old house because I need certain qualities that go with an old house: thick walls, thick doors, stone work, old fireplaces, and a general level of workmanship you dont find in new houses. And I didnt want to move from Malibu or from the beach; the location was important not only because of my children, but because I wanted the immediate surroundings of my new home to reflect the tranquil atmosphere I planned to create within it.

Fortunately, my third requirement was that it should not be too large, which helped balance the budget. I wanted a house that was big enough for all three of us to have a measure of privacy, but I did not want it to be so large that we would lose the sense of intimacy wed had in our previous home. I didnt want us to live somewhere that we would expand into, to find ourselves filling closets with clutter and unnecessary acquisitions, to grow into our space by giving up simplicity. I wanted my home to fit my life, and I did not want to become a caretaker to a large house.

I had one other requirement: a garden. A pool would be a bonus, but a garden, even a small one, was a must.

The most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touchedthey must by felt with the heart.

H ELEN K ELLER

I had some other thoughts and wishes, not quite tangible enough to list for a broker. I felt the need for more color in my life, and I wanted to have some control over what was outside my house. For some time I had found the ocean view at my previous house a little melancholic in conjunction with the pale colors and tattered elegance of Shabby Chic. And although I remain as loyal to my palette (pale pink, pale green, cream, and white) as I do to my three decorating and furnishing maxims (beauty, function, and comfort), I wanted to add colors that leaned toward fun, youthful exuberance, a Caribbean atmosphere. And I wanted to look at views that gave me back some color, through windows that did not need curtains; views that allowed for a way of living in which the indoors became outdoors without the feeling of having crossed a boundary.

Although all these criteria were met in my new house, at first sight I did not realize it. My initial reaction was that the house was dark, spooky, witchy. The house itself was dark brown, inside and out; the neglected pool was swampy with black walls; the garden, gloomy and overgrown. The house was reached through a dark tunnel of brown walls that opened out to foliage and trees so thick that they did not let in light. My daughter was frightened by it. It was so diametrically opposed to everything I stood for that I was surprised my broker should have thought it worth showing me. And yet days and even weeks later, the house kept coming back into my thoughts, and I would hear it talked about. I heard that it still hadnt been sold.

Opposite: Work in progress.

Opposite: The heart of a ranunculus.

I asked my broker to arrange another visit. This time I walked in and instantly saw what had to be done. I could see the houses bonesits wonderful wide-plank floors, its old paned sash windows (a rarity in Southern California)and I fell in love with them, and with the house.

Buying the house was a protracted transactionno ones faultand it took nearly a year before I owned it. It was as though I were being tested over and over again as to whether I really did want the house. At times this caused me to think hard, but never to worry.

In renovating the house, budget was again a consideration, so I walked through my new house with my contractor and made two lists: the first, which would account for three quarters of my budget, included the essentials; the second, a wish list of alterations and changes to be done as I could afford them.

It was just a question of getting the house back to its bones. It had been built by a Swedish boatbuilder at the end of the 1920s. His maritime background can be seen in the magnificent floorsvery wide and irregular planksand the basic but securely latched storage areas. A Hansel and Gretel theme had been added by a subsequent owner, presumably in the 1940s, and some slicked-up kitchen and bathroom details reflected the taste of later owners. I wanted to take the house back to its origins and then add my own decor.