I Hate My House

I hate my house. But I shouldn't. I spent the last twenty years enamored with modern design and architecture. I ran a modern design shop, worked for a modern furniture store, grew a huge modern design library (and moved it multiple times), read every magazine (I miss Echoes), read every blog and haunted every real estate listing. Palm Springs felt like heaven. Three family members have had places in the Mies buildings. My grandfather built two modern gems. Even my Nebraska photographs are love letters to simple farm vernacular. How did I end up in a dark and detailed Milwaukee craftsman bungalow? I know nothing about this house. That's the problem. I know nothing about arts and crafts architecture, nothing of the forces of the time shaping design, nothing of the manufacturers and makers who made a mark. It didn't interest me before, but now I have a vested interest. (Though mortgage rates are at a historic low I'm told). Now I start learning.