As part of Dwell magazine's 25th-anniversary celebration, this formative story from the February 2001 issue showcases an extraordinary architectural achievement that shocked even its own clients. When architects Frank Escher and Ravi GuneWardena designed a supremely minimalist house floating high above Pasadena, the first people to be stunned by their creation were Bryce and Rochelle Jaime, the couple who commissioned it.
Bryce Jaime, 35 at the time, had been dreaming of a rustic, cabin-style house, but his wife Rochelle, a Montessori schoolteacher, convinced him to pursue something more contemporary. Even Rochelle, who had specifically instructed the architects that she wanted "lots of air, lots of white, and extremely modern design," was taken aback when she saw the plans for a futuristic box perched atop two massive towers.
Had the Jaimes known the two 40-year-old architects better, they might not have been so surprised. Soft-spoken and cerebral, Escher and GuneWardena's highly rational approach to architecture stands out in Los Angeles, where artistic heroes like Frank Gehry, who prioritize the lyrical exteriors of their buildings, are typically celebrated.
"We don't design something because we think it's fashionable. Not at all," declares Escher, who with his pale complexion, unkempt black hair, and utilitarian polo shirt, appears almost too intense for his thin frame.
Referring to their philosophy as "poetic rationalism," Escher and GuneWardena favor geometric, structure-based design. They spend hours working with the volumes of interior spaces, eliminating what they consider nonfunctioning in-between spaces, before even considering the building's exterior.
"This ensures that even the smallest houses will seem expansive," explains GuneWardena, whose pinstriped shirttails tend to hang outside his pants and whose quick smile masks his serious nature. Partners both in their office and at home, Escher and GuneWardena share an obsession with cost-effectiveness. For instance, they persuaded the Jaimes to lower their ceiling height so that patio doors and windows available at WindowMaster could be used.
Bryce Jaime, a senior networking engineer at Paramount Pictures, didn't know any of this when he called the pair for advice in 1996. All he remembered was that 11 years earlier, GuneWardena, who was born in Sri Lanka like both the Jaimes, had designed a house for his uncle in San Diego.
Jaime had discovered a steep hillside lot for sale in Pasadena that fulfilled his primary requirement: "I always wanted to look out over a golf course." He hoped that, like a surfer who spends hours studying the ocean, he could improve his golf game by gazing out at the 18-hole links day after day. Standing on the road above their future home site, he and Rochelle could see little besides the Brookside Golf Course. The site plunged so precipitously from the pavement that Jaime wondered, "Could you even build here?" In desperation, he reached out to GuneWardena.
The clients' love of golf should have been a warning sign for the less athletically inclined architects that their highly evolved design ideas might not be immediately understood, let alone embraced. The Jaimes, who had immigrated from Sri Lanka in the late 1980s seeking a better life, proved to have very conventional ideas about the house that would fulfill that goal. They wanted separate and enclosed spaces: a formal dining room, four bedrooms, a family room, and naturally, a powder room by the front door. In contrast, the architects envisioned "simply one big space with some wall partitions."
"But," says GuneWardena, "we had to acknowledge that was how we would like to live, and even if we'd convinced them to live our way, they would have reverted to the way they were accustomed to living."
Escher and GuneWardena decided the best way to nudge the Jaimes toward their way of thinking was to give them a crash course in Los Angeles modernism. The subsequent tour included a visit to the Chemosphere House, a flying saucer-like home designed by John Lautner in 1960. Also situated on a steep hillside and owned by German publisher Benedikt Taschen, the Chemosphere was being restored under the guidance of GuneWardena and Escher, who administers the John Lautner Archives.
The strategy worked. "They really got us excited about building something different," Jaime recalls. "So when I talked to Frank, I said, 'I wish we could do something that nobody's even thought of before.'"
What truly brought the clients into the architects' camp was the 71 percent downward-sloping site. Building a house on such a steep slope required imaginative engineering, especially given the limited budget. The unique structural solution the architects developed ensured that the final design would be anything but conventional.
Enter Andrew Nasser, an engineer known for his work on tunnels, high-rise buildings, and Hollywood-specific challenges like the giant snake in the movie "Anaconda."
"Normally, architects come to me with their designs already completed, but they came to me first," says Nasser, who in his early career advised Eero Saarinen and later, Lautner. "[Escher and GuneWardena] wanted to know the best and cheapest way to support a house on a steep hillside."
Nasser's advice was straightforward: use a structural system with minimal contact with the hillside. While the Chemosphere House has a single pillar holding it aloft, the engineer reasoned, "This limits your design alternatives too much." He suggested a strategy for the Jaimes' home: construct a bridge, with two towers rooted deep in the hillside supporting a pair of steel beams upon which the house would securely balance.
Engineering considerations aside, the Jaimes' limited budget was a crucial factor. "It's not difficult to design a fantastic house if you have a budget of $300 per square foot," maintains Escher. "But to design one that's accessible to anyone who wants to buy the architectural equivalent of Ikea furniture—that was something we were really interested in."
The bridge scheme, requiring eight underground caissons at $8,000 each, was relatively economical. By contrast, the Spanish-style house next door, with nearly the same floor plan size, required 27 caissons. In theory, a budget of $100 per square foot was achievable. However, delays imposed by a two-year wait for permits from the city of Pasadena, combined with the precision required for the house's details, led to a final cost of $180 per square foot, or $425,000 total.
The bridge supports a rectangular floor plan measuring 84 by 30 feet. The architects took great pleasure in maximizing this box shape. By this point, they had reached a compromise with the Jaimes. "They realized they didn't need separate spaces, only spaces that could be used for different purposes, and that it was acceptable to have all the living spaces open and connected," according to GuneWardena. The interior reflects Escher and GuneWardena's obsession with mathematically precise layout.
To ensure that the floating quality of this rectangular space station would always be apparent, the architects prevented interior walls or doors from blocking views of the exterior walls. Therefore, no room along the house's perimeter walls is fully enclosed.
The only completely enclosed spaces are located deep within the house's interior: the powder room, laundry, a second bathroom, and the garage. The garage, artfully positioned in the middle of the house, separates the eastern, more formal end from the western section, which contains the kitchen, family area, and children's bedrooms.
Another design concern, particularly important to the Jaimes, was how to best frame the extraordinary views. Critical to the design was positioning the east and west windows at either end of the house so that from the kitchen counter, for example, the family could take in two different mountain ranges.
The result of all this sometimes meticulous geometry gives the 1,965-square-foot house (plus 400-square-foot garage) an expansiveness far beyond that of a traditional home with the same dimensions. When the Jaimes moved from their highly compartmentalized, three-bedroom house in the outer suburb of Tujunga, they were initially daunted by their new home's spaciousness. "At first it was challenging, walking from one end to the other, but we got used to it," remarks Rochelle, as if she had moved to a grand estate.
From the outside, the house is less subtle. Although its sharp edges are softened by the gray-white texture of its Cempanel siding, the rectangular box appears almost too delicate to justify the massive supporting towers. In contrast to the Chemosphere House—a space station-like form poised for graceful liftoff—the light-filled Jaime house, with its heavy foundations, is conspicuously earthbound. The outcome, in which proportions seem somewhat unbalanced, demonstrates Escher and GuneWardena's preference for design based on structure rather than aesthetics.
It's the interior that the Jaimes respond to most enthusiastically. And respond they have, taking delight in every inch of space. They had barely moved in before various relatives arrived from Sri Lanka to stay. Parties began happening regularly. The floating box was instantly bursting with life.
There's only one problem with life in the house with the fabulous golf course view: it's simply too hectic. "I haven't had time to play golf," laments Bryce Jaime, who confesses that his handicap is steadily increasing.
This remarkable project showcases how innovative architectural thinking, combined with engineering creativity and budget consciousness, can create extraordinary living spaces that challenge conventional notions of home design while remaining accessible to middle-class families seeking something beyond the ordinary.
