Occupying two corners were, respectively, a white stork and a pair of mute swans, distinguished by their orange beaks. It was a landscape of the American West at its most idyllic: a tranquil lake and waterfowl surrounded by a thick forest. A small back room presented a quieter, more reflective mural. Catholic priests, swashbucklers, and revelers passed in front of a faded Mission church, opposite a seascape with a Spanish galleon in the foreground and another silhouetted on the horizon. Stretching across all four walls of the dining room was a depiction of colonial San Francisco.
Two murals, dusty and faded-they were unsigned and of no great ability, but what charm they had. Thankfully, the house’s most unusual features were left exposed, though you had to squint to see them amid the encroaching whiteness. So the subtle distinctions among types of wood-oak, mahogany, fir-were erased in favor of aesthetic uniformity and an oppressive glare. Realtors had informed the sellers that to attract buyers and a good price, the place needed to be brightened up. Most of its surfaces, however, had been painted white. Narrow and wooden, it was in some ways a time capsule of 1910, the year it was completed, with stained-glass windows, parquet floors, and a built-in buffet.
What luck, then, that we did find our house. Silicon Valley tastes had gotten there first. Instead there was clean, crisp minimalism. Inside we expected to find the San Francisco that my parents and grandparents knew: formal, dignified, timeless. Mat and I visited a few grand Victorians, their facades dripping with gingerbread trim. We wanted to save a piece of historic San Francisco, making a new home in an old place before it became unrecognizable. The typeface Blocus is used courtesy Martin Desinde via the Velvetyne Type Foundry.Ī few years ago, my husband and I decided to buy a house.
She holds a master’s degree in historic preservation. Christina Lalanne lives in San Francisco and works in the travel industry.
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