Restoration Nation
Wrestling With Period Buildings
“A room must be essentially comfortable, not only to the body but the eye … well behaved but free from too many rules … mannered yet casual and unselfconscious.” — John Fowler
The UK is known around the world for the sheer breadth and quality of its historic architectural offerings, from Gothic cathedrals to Palladian palaces and Art Deco mansions. This is something of which people are understandably proud, and foundations and charities such as the National Trust and English Heritage were set up in order to preserve the nation’s heritage. This links into a system of “grade listing”, so that properties of special architectural or historic interest aren’t needlessly destroyed, either by the wrecking ball or through successive owners whose taste might not necessarily be for preservation and sympathetic restoration. There are also, for that matter, conservation areas, in which the overall atmosphere and architectural landscape has to be respected in terms of new developments which might impinge too heavily on overall character. This is why some have been understandably horrified by the slew of glass towers springing up across the London skyline. Very recently protestors were dismayed by London Mayor Sadiq Khan’s (b. 1970) refusal to block an “eyesore” office block of two linked towers, dubbed “the slab” — or rather tower and slab — by conservationist Sir Simon Jenkins (b. 1943), that will be more than twice the height of its neighbouring National Theatre. Replacing the old ITV headquarters, the development was approved on the say-so of just six members of Lambeth’s planning committee, who, whilst admitting it’s likely to be “controversial and extremely unpopular”, felt it justified on the basis of its “creating over 4,000 jobs” (despite that fact, that if anything, London suffers an acute labour shortage, not a surplus). Jenkins has opined that “[it’s] inconceivable … central Paris or Rome would tolerate such an intrusion,” citing the fact that Khan “has never shown the slightest interest in London’s appearance”. Yet, objectively, when I.M. Pei (1917-2019) first presented his design for a 71-foot-tall glass-and-metal pyramid in the nineteenth-century Cour Napoléon, the main courtyard of the Grand Louvre in Paris, it was met with vitriolic hostility. Dubbed the “Battle of the Pyramid”, Pei and the then French president, François Mitterrand (1916-1996), were roundly chastised, with one 1985 New York Times story rounding up the criticisms: “[The Pyramid is] an architectural joke, an eyesore, an anachronistic intrusion of Egyptian death symbolism in the middle of Paris, and a megalomaniacal folly imposed by Mr Mitterrand.”
Already an established star, Pei was wholly unprepared for the strength of the hostility his plans would receive. Having taken inspiration from Napoleon’s fascination with the pyramids on the Nile, Pei had gone out of his way to ensure his extension did not interfere with, let alone harm, the heavily ornamented nineteenth-century façades of the “Nouveau Louvre” (as it had been dubbed contemporaneously, and which, as an aside, had nowhere near the elegance of its architectural forbearer, the Tuileries Palace). He considered the Pyramid shape to be the “most compatible with the architecture of the Louvre, especially with the faceted planes of its roofs.” Pei’s coveted Pritzker prize, dubbed “Nobel of architecture”, did nothing whatsoever to assuage his Gallic detractors, and tensions continued to escalate to the extent that the museum’s director, Andre Chabaud (1921-2019), resigned complaining the project was “unfeasible” and posed “architectural risks”. Today these reactions are almost unfathomable, with Pei’s glowing glass Pyramid transforming what had previously been a car park into one of the world’s most iconic public spaces, seen as a symbolic gateway to the triumphal route, linking the Louvre with the Grande Arche de la Défense. Similarly, almost a decade earlier in nineteen seventy-seven, the Pompidou Centre, designed by the architectural quadrumvirate of Richard Rogers (1933-2021), Su Rogers (b. 1939), Renzo Piano (b. 1937) and Gianfranco Franchini (1938-2009) received the same critical response that seems almost de rigueur for buildings that go on to be much-loved landmarks, with an article in Le Figaro lamenting: “Paris has its own monster, just like Loch Ness.” In its defence, Rogers reasonably pointed to the considerable hostility directed toward the audacious design of the Eiffel Tower when it was first erected in the late nineteenth century. A stickler for tradition, whenever in Paris, English Arts and Crafts pioneer William Morris (1834-1896), spent most of his time working and eating at the restaurant there, on the basis that: “When you are on top you are on the only spot in Paris where you can’t see the damned thing.” Similarly, French writer Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893) found the “unavoidable and agonizing nightmare” of his “iron arch nemesis” so utterly unbearable that he left Paris for Sicily. When de Maupassant died only a decade later at the age of 43, he was buried at the Cimetière de Montparnasse which, luckily, offered only oblique views of La dame de fer, or “The Iron Lady”, as affectionately know. In the pithy words of Piano: “Making change is not easy.”
43 Hayes Mews, decorated by John Fowler in the 1950s, the perfect evocation of his penchant for relaxed country house design, photograph by Daniel Slowik
Francis Sultana’s set at Albany on Piccadilly in Mayfair, with a turquoise chair designed by Sultana and a Zaha Hadid “Liquid Glacial Table”, photograph by Paul Massey
The Slab does seem somewhat devoid of any architectural merit, destined to become nothing more than another blot on the corporate landscape that will inevitably have a detrimental effect on a London skyline already marred by such banal, ill-thought-out monstrosities as “The Walkie-Talkie” and “The Razor”. Of course, playing devil’s advocate, a good many thought the same about the Hayward Gallery, National Theatre and the Barbican, all of which have, in time, come to be admired for their avant-garde, brutalist architecture; ergo, what if in decades to come this apparently banal office block is thought of an architectural gem, that was entirely ahead of its time? (Unlikely, but still.) Yet, despite the wide-ranging impact for all those living in or visiting the Capital, in recent months, more column inches have instead been given to a fierce war of words — dubbed “The Gates of Wrath” by The Times — that has broken out between warring factions of interior designers, over a set of electrified gates installed prior to planning permission at the Grade II listed Odiham Lodge in Wiltshire. Built for Henry VII (1457-1509) in the fifteenth century, with its distinctive ogee-gabled “pretend Jacobean” facade (added in 1720 for the Mildmay family of Dogmersfield Park), in the nineteen-forties Odiham became home to legendary interior designer John Fowler (1906-1977), considered by many to be the éminence grise of English decoration, and in turn, an emblematic embodiment of country house style — described by Fowler’s biographer Martin Wood (b. 1945) as the “prettiest small house in the world”. Fowler added an entrance hall and kitchen, installing numerous decorative elements, such as the heavily carved Baroque fire surround in the sitting room, and reclaiming the garden from heathland, laying it out in an eighteenth-century Dutch style as a rather grandiose cottage garden. “What I wanted here was something utterly unpretentious,” explains Fowler of his decorative scheme, “very comfortable, with a veneer of elegance and informality”. The pretty neo-Jacobean structure de facto became Fowler’s own personal Petit Trianon. There was even a jocular rumour that the revered designer was the French Queen’s reincarnation, with his staff quipping that he “entered every room sideways, as if managing an invisible pannier dress”. Keith Irvine (1928-2011), Fowler’s assistant in the 1950s, would later recall that there were “fraught days, when, if John was being super-difficult, the best way to defuse the situation was to get him onto his pet subject, Marie Antoinette.” In the nineteen-sixties and seventies, with a passion for “old decoration” and “undisturbed houses”, Fowler preferred working with the National Trust, and became a key voice in the way conservation practice in historic interiors evolved. The faded splendour of English country houses became his beau ideal, a decorating style he put into full effect at Odiham, and as the designer’s friend, Architectural historian John Cornforth (1937-2004) put it: “The contrast of discomfort and luxury was an integral part of staying there during his later years.” Upon Fowler’s death at the age of 71, he left Odiham to the National Trust and for a while no one wanted it, that was until waspish society decorator Nicky Haslam (b. 1939) — famed for his tongue in cheek tea towels (or “drying up cloths” as he refers to them) — took the reins, as it were, living at the property for forty years until 2019.
The sitting room at Odiham Lodge as decorated by its previous tenant Nicky Haslam, with an eighteenth-century Italian painting of Saint Joseph of Cupertino above the mantlepiece, image c/o Bonhams
Francis Sultana’s elegant bedroom at Albany, with a “Sabine Table Lamp” of his own design, and plaster columns inspired by those at Spencer House, photograph by Paul Massey
“It was love at first sight,” Odiham’s latest tenant Francis Sultana (b. 1973) told House and Garden. “I have known about the house since my teens; anyone who is in love with interior design will know its significance.” The designer, decorator and Maltese Ambassador for Culture already occupies a Grade I listed set at Albany on Piccadilly in Mayfair, one of London’s most prestigious, and private, addresses; which he shares with his partner, the esteemed gallerist David Gill. Originally a three-storey mansion designed by architect William Chambers (1723-1796) in the 1770s for Viscount Melbourne, the name Albany House was given to it when, in 1802, it was converted with additions by Henry Holland (1745-1806) into 69 bachelor apartments, known as “sets” (illustrious former residents include David Hicks (1929-1998), Fleur Cowles (1908-2009) Pauline de Rothschild (1908-1976) and David Tang (1954-2017). Sultana meticulously restored the space, paying attention to every historic detail, even down to the rabbit glue that fixes canvas wallcoverings. Unlike Sultana’s flamboyant London interior, replete with furniture by avant-garde designer Mattia Bonetti (b. 1952) — including a nine-foot-tall gilded overmantel inspired by Chambers’ elegant ceiling pattern of laurel leaves and arabesques — and artworks by such blue-chip luminaries as George Condo (b. 1957), Yayoi Kusama (b. 1929) and Chris Ofili (b. 1968), his plans for Odiham are somewhat more demure, as the designer explains: “I adore that my Albany sets are full of history. My approach to the renovations was historically correct and I will take the same approach here. The difference in this project is that it will not be about commissioning contemporary pieces but more about curating the rooms with pieces that are appropriate to the history of the house and that of British decoration.” Despite his best-laid plans, Sultana, who took over the lease of the National Trust property last year has recently come under fire from a militia of decorators, led by John Tanner, who urged his 27,000 Instagram followers to send objections to the local planning authority, Hart District Council, denouncing the scheme as at odds with the buildings Conservation Management Plan.
Whilst the original white-painted Wilks Water gates have been meticulously restored, Tanner suggests the new motorised gates, positioned directly behind them, will compromise the principal vista that has made the house famous. Sultana’s proposals for Odiham also include the installation of fourteen external security cameras and a plastic-coated metal fence around the perimeter of the property, which has only served to enrage Fowler’s acolytes further. “People’s idea of what being a custodian of a National Trust house [means] is subjective. I’m much more about preservation than destruction,” explains Tanner. “There’s a time and a place for modernising and this simply isn’t one of them. But I wouldn’t even call what he’s doing modernising; I’d call it whitewashing all the quirks that make old houses unique. If everything is allowed to get chopped and changed then what are we left with? If you want a contemporary lifestyle, then live in a contemporary house.” Sultana describes the new gates as an “acceptable compromise between not obstructing the view of the house while stopping the entrance of deer,” adding, “this is an improvement from ad hoc mesh previously installed” (the latter being in reference to the spools of chicken wire, haphazardly thrown up by Haslam). Designer Jasper Conran (b. 1959) who has spoken out in support of the campaign, said: “I don’t believe that John Fowler could possibly have believed that such additions would be possible. The National Trust is surely beholden to ensure that this truly beautiful building and its gardens are preserved without interference.” At the same time, a source close to those involved has dismissed the rabble-rousers as nothing more than “a jealous bunch who got rejected by the National Trust for the tenancy”, with many, such as socialite and Television personality Mark-Francis Vandelli (b. 1989), coming out publicly in support of Sultana’s plans, exclaiming: “Thankfully there are still decorators with the talent, respect and means to bring such historic homes into the twenty-first century.” Clearly, those factors relevant to bodies such as the National Trust in assessing the suitability of a modern intervention within the existing fabric of a listed period building differ considerably from those a planning committee might deem relevant to the impact a new building might have on its historic surroundings. However, it’s well worth keeping in mind that in both instances, innovation in terms of architecture and design has resulted in some of our most celebrated interiors, such as Robert Adam’s (1728-1792) Neo-classical intervention at Osterley Park (1728-1792) and more contemporaneously, the sumptuous Sweedish-inspired Art Deco rooms at Eltham Palace.
Of course, historically speaking, the approach was far less sensitive, for example, in 1725 after a fire at his family seat in Chiswick, a gabled and turreted Jacobean mansion house, the Third Earl of Burlington (1694-1753) took the opportunity to extend, building an adjacent Villa in the then highly fashionable Neo-Palladian style, which objectively, was at complete odds with the original red brick structure. Even at the time, visitors were confused as to its purpose, with Lord Hervey (1724-1779) acerbically describing it as too small to live in, but too large to hang on a watch chain, while the young Duke of Cumberland (1721-1765) dismissed it as “a small cupboard stuck with pictures”. Similarly, there were numerous hard-up aristocrats, without the means to build anew, who were more than happy to re-front their stately pile with a facade more au courant, so as to keep up appearances. Even Burghley, which thankfully, has retained its grand Elizabethan exterior, had its interiors entirely remodelled at the turn of the seventeenth century, resulting in Verrio’s (c. 1636-1707) celebrated “Hell Staircase”, which, with the ebb and flow of architectural styles was a common occurrence throughout Europe, even up until the twentieth century. An early arbiter of minimalism, storied French decorator Jean-Michel Frank (1895-1941) stripped back the dark eighteenth-century panelling of his own duplex apartment in Saint-Germain-de-Prés, turning it into a calling card for his “renunciation aesthetic” of neutrally hued refinement. An exercise in studied emptiness, there was nothing that wasn’t entirely necessary, with no pictures, paintings or superfluous ornamentation other than the occasional, meticulously selected item, for example, a Chinese statuette on the dining room mantelpiece and a wire sculpture on the bedroom wall. The overall impression was one of elegant, understated luxury — an antidote to the florid eighteenth-century pastiche favoured by the majority of the Haute bourgeois and a welcome respite from the chaos of interwar Europe.
Indeed were it not for Frank, or rather, had he instead, chosen to install a period-appropriate menagerie of Louis furniture, damask silks and crystal chandeliers, we wouldn’t have had designers such as Billy Baldwin (1903-1983), David Hicks (1929-1998) and Stephen Sills (b. 1951) who have taken classism and made it unashamedly contemporary and applicable to modern day life. In many ways, it does seem somewhat arrogant to suggest that no new designer can ever again match, or even surpass those that have gone before them. Inevitably everyone will have differing opinions on the balance between preservation and innovation, but even in the case of Odiham, Fowler replanned the interiors, adding numerous entirely new elements, which, some might say, were not entirely in keeping with the original fabric. Sultana’s interior modifications seem modest by comparison, streamlining bathrooms and opening internal doors, with very few changes to the existing layout. Fowler’s penchant for “humble elegance” prompted his friend the late Duchess of Devonshire (1920-2014) to describe him as “the prince of decorators”, a sobriquet that stuck, with his interiors having a profound effect on legions of designers who are, quite understandably, still influenced by his work today, and ill-at-ease when it comes to the prospect of losing one of his best-known works. Yet, in many ways, it seems odd that Fowler’s particular vision for Odiham should be preserved in aspic, as he was himself, in many ways, very modern in his approach — once even fashioning draperies from dyed army blankets. “We’re restoring and replacing all the significant features such as original wallpapers and specialist paint finishes,” explains Sultana of his approach at Odiham, “taking into account both Fowler’s original décor and the influences of Nicky Haslam over the past years.” Of course, the proof of the pudding is in the eating, and upon completion, I’m sure the usual glossies will be beating a path to the door (provided the gates are left open…) so as to photograph this new chapter in Odiham’s history. Only then can we judge.