Photography by Rodolphe Foucher
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This Bold House
By Belinda Luscombe, September-October 2003
Easy-grip handles, flat thresholds, and adjustable-height vanities are just the beginning in the world's most accessible house. Its creator invited us in for an exclusive look
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When Jim Pirkl winces, it's almost imperceptible. He has seen many battles. So minor irritations such as this one—the contractors have put in the wrong thermostat, one with teensy, hard-to-read numbers—barely register. Even though he has seven new thermostats with bold markings that he ordered directly from Honeywell, the builders as a matter of course put in the standard, small-digit thermostat that was shipped with the system. He sighs. Just another thing to do over.
We are at the entrance of the house he has been building for about two years. Conceptually, he's been building it for decades, in lectures and books and conversations. In a way, the house is his life's work. James Joseph Pirkl, as he's known professionally, is the father of transgenerational design and one of the world's foremost experts on it. While most designers think about what their clients want and need in the present, he thinks about what they will want and need their whole lives.
"Transgenerational design is design for all ages and for all abilities," says Pirkl. "If a teenager sprains his ankle, he's disabled for a while. If a woman gets pregnant, her mobility is temporarily affected. We all have some level of disability during our lives. No design will serve 100 percent of the people 100 percent of the time, but we're trying to make sure no one group is excessively penalized by the design."
This house is his magnum opus, the proof positive to all his theories. From the outside, the place on a hillside in Placitas, New Mexico, doesn't look like the apotheosis of anything in particular. There's not a lot to distinguish it from the houses nearby: 2,700 square feet, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, an office, a study, a large living-dining room, and a big garage, all built around three sides of a courtyard that holds a narrow pool. It's low slung, with a little more olive in its stucco than its ochery-orange neighbors, so it more closely blends in with the native flora.
The layman might not even notice that it was designed to be "universal." But there is no nook of the house, no appliance, no surface that has not been painstakingly planned, from the adjustable-height bathroom vanities to the thresholds—or lack thereof—to the way the door is unlocked: by a remote device instead of fiddly keys.
As Pirkl points out the dozens of details, one's head begins to spin. (Just as well he has installed discreet, strategically placed grab bars.) Because the house is completely flat, it had to be carefully landscaped so it didn't flood when it rained. There's cork flooring in the kitchen and study because cork has a natural cushiony consistency that makes it easy to stand on. Other floors have nonslip tile or low-pile, low-maintenance carpet. There's a square pass-through in the wall between the entryway and the kitchen so you can put your groceries down immediately. Then there's that special kitchen trolley that tucks away when not in use, but helps with carrying extra heavy pots and pans. The ironing board and the shower are adjustable in height. The bath is surrounded by a wide, tiled bench on which to sit before swinging your legs over to slide in. The windows are crank operated (easier than pushing up and down). The doors all slide—for easier wheelchair access if needed—and, for the same reason, much of the most often used storage, like the pantry, pulls out of the wall as a unit (no more crawling to the back of a cupboard to retrieve a can of tomato sauce).
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