"Architecture is surely not the design of space, certainly not the massing or organizing of volumes. These are auxiliary to the main point, which is the organization of procession. Architecture exists only in time." – Philip Johnson

It is important that we feel received when we enter our homes, however, the practicality of the back door has superceded in some ways the cultural importance of arriving at the front door. As a result, the procession from outside to inside as a sequence of events that allows us to transition from our public persona to the freedom of our most private selves has been significantly diminished.

The experience of entry begins at the street. The quintessential American house has a series of transitional elements that bring you from the public openness of the street to the privacy of the interior. A picket fence and maybe a gate is often the first layer. A path to the front door offers a change of texture underfoot, encouraging a change of pace: the rhythm slows. Direction may be indicated through landscaping, a planter with flowers, a large boulder.

Stepping up onto the porch continues the procession toward privacy. This is the first connection to the actual building where we can turn and look back, enclosed by the low roof over our heads. Chairs on the porch give us a space from which to greet the community. Although held in the private embrace of our home we are exposed to the wider world, inviting connections by virtue of our spatial proximity to the street. Random encounters with friends and neighbors become possible.

Walking my dog down Chestnut Street, on any given day, two little boys playing out front would run over to share their latest creations, dodging the tree swing, and the dogs would play together while I exchanged local news with dad, who would be sitting on the porch, surveying the activities. As a neighbor, I was able to watch the boys grow up and I miss their presence, in the same way that I miss the presence of their house, recently demolished, and the porch that made those activities possible.

A space to enter into, no matter how small, offers you a place to pause for a moment. There is a sense of relief about shutting the door behind you and then letting go of your shoes and packages, the things you carry with you all day. As you throw your coat on a chair and the keys on the table, the pets come up to be patted. How do you feel if you are frustrated every time you arrive home because there is no place for the keys, coat or shoes? Would a closet for coats, a hook for keys, a bench to sit and take off shoes allow us to breathe that sigh of relief and gratitude, knowing that we are home?

The story of moving from front to back unfolds as we move through the interior spaces of our homes until we reach the back deck. In our narrative, moving from public to private, the front yard and the back deck serve diametrically opposing patterns of use. The back deck is where we grill burgers or read the Sunday paper. If the front yard is the public face of the house, the back of our homes is where we let it all hang out. The back of houses offers us the residential freedom NOT to impress the neighbors. It is often our desired destination for domestic bliss – sipping a cold one with our loved ones on one of those perfect Maine days where the sun shines and the bugs retreat long enough for us to savor our own domestic idyll of family arrival.

This evolution of space reflects the changing patterns of use in our private lives. A century ago, our exterior social spaces were in the front. The back of the house was where the trash got dumped. Nobody had invented onto back decks yet because the patterns of use didn't exist. We didn't grill burgers with friends. While these more relaxed ways of socializing in the back of the house support our family lives, losing the connective element that is the front porch speaks to the diminishing of public life and dislocates the continuity of procession that allows us to unwind and truly appreciate our most private spaces.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Chris Wohler came to Camden 20 years ago after living in New York for 24 years. She has a BA in History from Cornell University and a Masters of Architecture from Columbia University. She has taught at Ball State University, Parsons School of Design and Columbia University. Her design practice, Breathing Space, encompasses everything from architectural design to retail merchandising.

She likes blackbirds, crosswords, babies, Miles Davis, avocados, quantum physics, Robert Frank, chartreuse, Puccini, roses, graphite drawings, the collaborative process, Great Danes, Patti Smith, gardening, J.S. Bach’s Suites for Solo Cello, architectural plans, movies, Philip Pullman, cooking with friends, everything by Beethoven, New York City and her two sons who currently live there. Reach her at breathingspace2@gmail.com.

Rosie Curtis lives in Camden and teaches architecture at UMA.

Originally from England, she has been designing and building in Midcoast Maine for the last twenty years although she indulges in a spot of work for a British engineering firm now and then. She holds two bachelors degrees and a masters degree in architecture and has been interested in the built environment her whole life. She believes that design is fundamentally about things working well and looking good. Her two kids are fed up of hearing her pontificate about all things design related and hope this column will provide a channel for her endless wonderings. Reach her at rosie@fairpoint.net.