You overlook the faults in people you love. Or, at least, you accept them and move on. It may not be the same with buildings. Whether you “love” buildings or not isn’t the point; it’s whether you accept faults and move on.
Perhaps it’s not acceptance of faults, though. Perhaps it’s blindness to faults.
I noticed something yesterday that I may not be able to accept, though alternatives to acceptance may be unavailable. Then, again this morning, as I look past the massive pine tree in my line of vision, I see ribbons of pink and grey and blue above the horizon. A gorgeous sight, really. The view matches perfectly with the songs of the dozens of types of birds that awaken early and attempt to urge me to do the same.
But I also notice, as I did yesterday, the windows on the west side of the master bedroom of this house. And beyond the master bedroom windows, I see the enormous picture windows just beyond them, windows that flood the sun room with light. And I notice that the windows are at least twenty feet, and more likely thirty feet or more, off the ground.
Had I noticed the distance between the steep, rocky ground and the large, light-collecting windows before we bought the house, I might have questioned how in the name of all that’s good and proper are those windows ever washed. The answer, I am sure, would have included the word “rarely,” because the process of cleaning the exterior of the glass cannot be anything but dangerous, harrowing, and expensive. Had the designer or builder been thinking practically, he or she would have built an exterior walkway around the perimeter of the house, a walkway that only window-washers and raccoons would use.
It’s not the architecture of the place I love, though. In fact, were I to design a house, this is not the one I’d design. No, far from it. I’d design a more contemporary place. No, what I most appreciate about this place is the view from the south side. The view that, unless I figure out how to keep those windows clean, will be clear only from the decks.