Why Men Build Mansions
His grandparents' house was an understated work of art. But the new owner tore it down. Why would he do that?
By Oliver Broudy, illustration by L-Dopa
The enormousness of the house started making more sense when I learned
that this was actually the fourth house Muehler had built in this town.
That’s four opportunities for marginal entitlement to work its magic on
his floor plan. Doubtless, if he had moved directly from his first
home, which was 3,200 square feet, to my grandfather’s property, the
current house would be considerably smaller.
Taken together with improved construction techniques, the same logic does a lot to explain why houses were so much smaller in 1950 than they are today, and why the size increase since then has been gradual. The U.S. Census Bureau estimates that the average person will change residences 12 times. That’s a dozen chances to marginally upgrade the amount of space we think we’re entitled to—assuming, of course, we can afford it.
His architect, Muehler was saying, was a master of scale. “This is a good-sized room, but you don’t feel, at least I don’t think people feel, really, that it’s imposing.”
This was true. The room did feel small—given that it was basically the size of a chapel. The exposed roof beams brought the ceiling closer, and the tall windows helped maintain an overall sense of proportion. In Muehler’s world, then, the architect’s job was twofold: to satisfy Muehler’s desire for space, and to design the house such that he needn’t feel guilty about it. “From the outside, it can look somewhat formal,” he admitted, “maybe even imposing at times, but inside it’s a pretty warm atmosphere. It’s a comfortable, casual atmosphere, which is more our lifestyle.”
But this raised a question: If making more seem like less was so important, why build such a flashy house in the first place? Wouldn’t a more self-effacing style, one that blended with the environment, have suited him better? The more we talked, the more I began to understand that what Muehler wanted was not, as he kept insisting, to be known as a “casual” person (“We’re jeans, Eddie Bauer, Gap kind of people,” his wife had told the home and garden magazine); what he wanted was to be known as a powerful, affluent person who was casual despite his affluence. We are just like you, the inside of the house seemed to say. We are not at all like you, said the outside. It was the best of both worlds.
At one point, Muehler confessed that one of the biggest thrills of the wraparound design was catching occasional glimpses of his own house—from the inside.
The architect had arrived, a soft-spoken, lightly bearded man in his late 40s. The conversation moved to the kitchen (double stove, 8-foot table, fancy espresso machine). Why French? I asked him simply. “If you’re going to deploy all this energy and resources,” he told me, “the idea of building something that is timeless, and will endure, is really responsible.” He pauses for a moment. “I mean, everyone’s excited about green architecture, and I think one of the greenest things someone can do is build something that will serve people well for 100 years.”
I couldn’t help but admire the spin. When I’d put the same question to Muehler a little earlier, his answer had suggested that he was less interested in whether the house was still around in 100 years than in its looking like it had already been around for 100 years. More important, perhaps, the French style had proven its durability on the market—a critical factor for anyone concerned with exit strategies.
“If you have a property,” Muehler said, “regardless of what it looks like on the inside, the curb appeal is always an extremely important aspect.”
Curb appeal. That seemed sensible. The fact is, people today are much more canny about the investment ramifications of home buying and home building than they were 50 years ago. The entire real estate market has been radically democratized by the Internet, and how-to information is ubiquitous. There’s even a TV show called Flip That House. But, as Morris Davis, a professor of real estate at the Wisconsin School of Business, told me, the greatest factor of all may have been the last two big housing booms, the first in the ’70s, and the second that ended a couple of years ago. With all the hype surrounding real estate, Davis said, “how could you not think of housing as also an investment?”
It was hard to fault Muehler for his investment acuity. What I did hold against him was his failure to realize (or accept) that a house, more than an investment, could also serve as a blueprint for balanced living, that it could instruct as well as shelter. With his vast resources, one might fairly expect that he would have availed himself of a wider range of ideas. (One local architectural historian I spoke with, who shared my frustration, told me he had recently advised the Kellogg School of Management outside of Chicago that instead of requiring multiple courses on statistics, they should offer students a course on architecture, so when they make their first billion, they’ll have a better idea of what to build.)
All the same, beating Muehler up over these failings would have been uncharitable. Which isn’t to say I don’t still occasionally fantasize about doing so. But now that I’ve met him, it’s harder to imagine punching him. Likewise, now that I’ve seen the inside of the house, it’s harder to imagine driving an Abrams tank through the living room.
About 3 months after visiting Muehler, I called him up again. I wanted to tell him at least this: that he wasn’t the bastard I’d hoped for. It wasn’t the easiest conversation. I had a cold at the time, and my voice sounded deep and strange. Possibly, he thought I was crazy. “I can certainly appreciate those feelings,” he replied carefully. “I don’t quite know what to say. But, uh . . . it’s . . . Well, I’ll leave it at that.”
Looking back on it now, I see that my mission, such as it was, was doomed from the outset. I wanted something Muehler couldn’t offer. I wanted my grandparents’ house back. I wanted to pull in the driveway and hear the smooth, caramel-colored gravel popping beneath the tires. I wanted to race up and down the long hallway and stand in the dark of the living room staring out at the blooming meadow. I wanted to feel once more in the presence of the world my grandparents had fashioned—a world that had fashioned me.
We all are shaped by the houses we live in, and so, in the end, it only makes sense to build those houses to reflect the values we hold most dear. Honesty, for instance. Strength. Individualism. Hard work. The kind of confidence that lets our character speak for itself, without the need for showy amplification. Together with timber and concrete, great homes are built on such values. They’re such a fundamental part of the structure that you may not even realize they’re there—until 20 years pass, and you realize they’re part of you, too.
The only way to bring my grandparents’ house back, I now realize, is to build it myself. And maybe that’s what I’ll do. But not for me. I am shaped already. I’ll do it for the grandson I hope to have someday.
