Lessons learned from a New England village

Designers and architects trained or plying their trades in New York City are adept at envisioning space where there is none; and they are particularly accomplished at providing every thoughtful convenience in between a waste pipe and an electrical riser. A cramped closet becomes the master bedroom, a linear hallway transforms into a library/dining room, a miniscule maid’s room evolves into the family room.

I have just discovered that this ingenious approach has found its seaside match in the tiny village of Siasconset on the outer reaches of the remote isle of Nantucket.

Siasconset is a hodgepodge collection of minute fishing shacks—some likening to a commodious Midwestern outhouse, seemingly befit only for children age 8 and under and with roof line eaves that descend to within 30 inches off the ground. Rooms are impossibly small with little to no headroom with additions that seem to be constructed using foreshortened materials of every breed. Helter-skelter floor plans make little sense and all appears to be constructed by out-of-season boat builders, moonlighting a bit by assembling shards and scraps of leftover anything.

Add to these Lilliputian structures Nantucket’s restrictive building codes, Nantucket’s infamous strictures on historical preservation, a heaping helping of non-expansionist ethos, and you’ve got the perfect equivalent of a fifth floor walk-up studio on the lower east side. Don’t forget an initial price tag of $1.5 to $2 million for one of these dilapidated carbuncles and you’ve sparked an attention to square-inch detail that appears only in those rarefied, economically highly evolved abodes. The scale of this fishing village, though quite unique, is not dissimilar to our fishing communities that center in the Springs, Noyac and Montauk.

I am always fascinated with how various regions of our country deal with and solve their indigenous challenges, especially as it relates to our own East End environment. Siasconset has much to teach us.

Simplicity is elevated to godliness. The structures are shingled with exposed interior studs and plank wood walls. There’s no insulation to catch the mold, no drywall to cake on salt or rot. The wood is painted with a washable, durable, high-gloss white or possibly a whisper of hue. Cracks, shrinkage/expansion, all rusticity of construction is accepted and celebrated.

Mouldings are practical and simple and used merely to cap an end. Doors are low, latches are old and locks are non-existent. Windows sport primitive hardware, have many panes and sometimes haul open themselves awning-style with roping. A clean, scrubbed, no-nonsense, yet well maintained approach, is evident everywhere.

Spatially, the designer, homeowners and architects of Siasconset have heeded the teachings of their city-dwelling cousins. Beds are pushed into low slung eaves without space-hogging headboards. Window seats for extra sleeping space are built into incredibly foreshortened spaces conveniently flanked by easy-to-reach bookcases.

Bumping your head, knocking a knee, or stubbing a toe is endemic until you ease into the understanding that this kind of space is enveloping, endearing and remarkably comfortable. You are engaged with the architecture because it is immediately upon you and you understand right away that the eccentricity is part of the escape. The word “snuggle” is the operative verb and “cozy” is the operative adjective.

Kitchens are open-shelved (no city dust) and so easy to cook in and also to enjoy your pretty crockery. Counters meander and all small appliances are tucked in cleverly. Small tables surprisingly accommodate large numbers of guests especially when china is sized appropriately (pre-1970s) and chairs are small. Rafters provide hooks for mugs, teacups, pots, mitts, aprons and pot holders. Studs provide support for shelves that house glassware, stemware, spices and bottles.

Siasconset prides itself on its handcrafted, handmade, weekend or rainy-day project architecture. Corner cupboards are neatly but not always so skillfully constructed with a jigsaw. Old windows are installed between studs, not necessarily symmetrical. Stairs are steep, shallow and winding—not for the faint of heart—however, it’s never too far if you fall.

Since it was a fishing village initially, a shipboard sensibility is always evident: porthole-sized windows, cleats, marine varnished woods, space-saving pocket doors, marine use lavatories and sinks, ship latches, anchors and racks.

Designers and homeowners use upholstery without fat arms, lots of space-saving sturdy Windsor chairs, small rockers and few coffee tables because the space is at a minimum. Vintage hooked rugs are spread out. They are soft, washable and stand up to the years of sand, sun and wear. Their patterns hide the dirt. Closets and cabinets stand behind easily shifted space-saving curtains that look as if they and all the canvas slipcovers were lovingly made by your great-aunt Nettie.

Big things—paintings, accessories, and furnishings—simply are of no use, which honestly makes all of this quite fun, personal and intimate. A small watercolor, lovingly painted on a carefree weekend, can be tucked between studs and yet still look oddly professional. Or a perky crab shell can be painted as a leaping Santa Claus and hooked onto a crevice between boards. Memorabilia from travels and photographs can populate the short shelves and those silly small lamps can fit everywhere.

Because these child-sized volumes often required additional elbowroom, cubical rooms can be added on wherever necessary creating meandering floor plans and infinitesimal “breezeways.” Windows between rooms and above doors have been either simply left remaining or installed casually to allow light to filter between such confined spaces. Peaked spaces are severed into lofts with balcony spindles instead of walls separating bedrooms.

And since space is so limited, an evergreen bow with a sprig of holly placed casually on a small shelf is all you need to indicate the celebration of the season. In these small rooms, the impact is great.

Seaside Nantucket was recently awash with all that is Christmas. The “Christmas Stroll” is a yearly pilgrimage that is made festive by tree-lined streets decorated by every manner of Nantucket organization and personage.

Shopkeepers go all out sticking to a lush New England seasonal theme, chock full of evergreens, holly, cranberries and all manner of natural elements, including, of course, a bounty of seashells and scrimshaw everything.

Carolers abound, Victorian dress, plaid pants, and many muffs amid sleigh bell festooned horse-drawn carriages drift along the cobblestone. Scents of bayberry and brewing wassail drift into the back alleys and the sense of 19th century village Christmas hovers over all.

So pervasive is the atmosphere, you find yourself believing that Saint Nick is soon to arrive from far away Lapland. Though thoroughly commercial, the community’s participation is quite personal and heartfelt with the results that the essence of this season, bringing warmth, light, charity and good will to all, is effortlessly achieved. A wonderful inspiration for our own East End.

Marshall Watson is a nationally recognized interior and furniture designer who lives and works in the Hamptons and New York City. Reach him at 105 West 72nd Street, Suite 9B, New York, NY 10023.