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Palo Alto Online

Modernism for the masses

by Allen Clapp

My friends' houses always looked funny to me.

Not that I noticed their spiral staircases, small windows and shingled roofs -- they just seemed to have a different vibe than my house. I grew up in an Eichler. At the edge of a fairly large tract in Foster City, our house was bathed in the California sun, and the walls of glass blurred the boundaries between indoors and out. It wasn't until college that the full impact of my childhood home would be revealed. An article about Frank Lloyd Wright's Usonian houses -- custom, modernistic homes built with the idea of affordability and the capability for mass production -- awakened something in me. Navigating the legacy of Wright's works and paddling down the side streams and tributaries of modern house design -- from Bauhaus to the first Case Study House -- it finally hit me that the tract home I grew up in was part of that great river. It's also the conclusion put forth by the authors of "Eichler: Modernism Rebuilds the American Dream." Combining architectural history, Ernest Braun's impossibly idyllic marketing photographs and a character study of hard-nosed businessman and dreamer Joseph Eichler, the book examines the largely Northern California phenomenon that brought modernism to the masses. And though Eichler's developments weren't by any means loved by all, they have emerged as a unique expression of mid-century ideals that are just as relevant today as they were in the 1950s. A testament to their value, a number of Eichler neighborhoods -- two of them in Palo Alto -- have formed committees to seek historical designation for their mid-century modern neighborhoods. That this is the second book to chronicle the Eichler experience in 10 years -- the first, "Eichler Homes: Design for Living" By Jerry Ditto, Lanning Stern and Marvin Wax was published in 1995 by Chronicle Books -- speaks volumes. At the end of World War II, the National Housing Agency estimated builders would need to construct 1.5 million new houses a year for a period of 10 years to accommodate Americans returning home from duty and the families they would start. The stage was set for a massive wealth and population boom, and the debate about how to best house this new generation was argued by architects, politicians and university think tanks. It was similar to Europe's need to rebuild following World War I, and the answer they came up with was modernism -- a socially motivated amalgam of cubism and industry, using a vocabulary of simple geometry and openness. It replaced a tradition of unique craftsmanship and ornament with innovative technology. When the idea of modernism came across the Atlantic, it was embraced by a new breed of architects ready to dabble in social and artistic experimentation. Los Angeles architects Rudolph Schindler and Richard Neutra created pure modernistic statements, and dotted the hillsides of Southern California with works of art. Typically designing for wealthy, cultured clients, the houses reflected an optimism about technology. The future never looked brighter. But such designs weren't meeting the needs of the masses, which were rapidly being filled by merchant builders, slapping together tract homes quickly and cheaply with little thought for design, quality of life or durability. People bought them nonetheless. Joseph Eichler, a successful but frustrated CFO at Nye and Nisson - a large wholesale foods business run by his in-laws - was just about to rent a house that would change his life. It was 1943, and Eichler and his family had moved from New York to the Bay Area, where Nye and Nisson was a powerhouse in the butter and egg trade. He rented a Frank Lloyd Wright house in Hillsborough -- the Bazett House, one of Wright's futuristic, scaled-down Usonian houses -- and then he "began to dream." Eichler appreciated the free-flowing spaces, the floor-to-ceiling walls of glass, the sense of luxury by design, not ornament, and he wanted to build houses that gave people the same feeling. He quit his job, and immediately immersed himself in the business of home building. Spurred on by his love of the Bazett House -- where the family lived for only two years -- Eichler built his earliest homes in Sunnyvale, Palo Alto, Menlo Park and Stanford. Based on his own ideas, he hired draftsmen to turn his visions into reality. While not on par with the homes he would eventually build, the tracts sold and Eichler had expansion on his mind. He wasn't the only one. It was nearing the middle of the century, and academic interest in modern architecture was at its height. Everyone seemed to be looking for a modern prototype for mass housing that took advantage of the advances in technology while being socially responsible. Popular magazines such as Sunset, House and Garden and House Beautiful regularly featured modern houses in a manner the authors say bordered on promotion. Arts and Architecture magazine sponsored a series of Case Study Houses, in which architects were invited to create the house of tomorrow. The architects were grappling with the new vocabulary of modern building construction, and while the homes they produced were full of great ideas, they proved to be more experimental than feasible. Twisting steel, glass, concrete and wood into homes was neither as cheap or easy as they had imagined. Enter Anshen and Allen, world-class architects who were hired to design a new home for Eichler and family. During talks about the house, Robert Anshen -- a Frank Lloyd Wright devotee himself -- reportedly asked Eichler about his early subdivisions, "How can you build this crap?" The very next project Eichler would build -- the second phase of Sunnyvale Manor -- featured designs by Anshen and Allen. The homes sold out in two weeks. It was 1950, and the 1,044 square-foot homes sold for $9,500 including appliances. The worlds of pure modernism and merchant building had met. Eichler's command of building techniques had made modernism repeatable and affordable. In these and subsequent collaborations, both Eichler and his architects realized much of their hopes for a solution to the post-war housing problem. The homes were unmistakable in their modernity -- clean architectural lines, flat roofs, post-and-beam construction, and walls of glass letting the outdoors in. And, unlike their upscale siblings being designed for Arts and Architecture magazine's famous Case Study House series, Eichlers were replicable on a mass scale. The team continuously worked to improve their product, always trying to offer its customers more bang for their buck. For even though the concept of modern living was lauded in the media, selling modernistic houses to the public was a different reality. The housing market was still dominated by merchant builders cranking out ubiquitous "ranch-style" homes. Eichler's main competition was from such builders who kept costs low by using traditional construction methods and materials, offering their buyers familiarity instead of progress. Eichler, meanwhile, was employing a stable of cutting-edge architects -- including Anshen and Allen, Claude Oakland, A. Quincy Jones and Frederick Emmons -- and landscape designers to elevate the living experience. It also elevated his costs. To keep pace, Eichler used innovation as a key to selling his higher-priced product. But he also employed a sharp sales force, top Madison Avenue advertising agencies and copywriters, interior designers and, of course, the photographs of Ernie Braun, whose black and white images grace the book. The addition of hobby rooms, outdoor rooms called atriums and flexible floor plans enticed buyers. But the improvement that caused the biggest rise in sales was the addition of a second bathroom. It not only lent practical value to a family home, but allowed the master bedroom to be viewed as a separate suite with its own bathroom and dressing area -- typically a feature reserved for custom-designed homes. The move gave Eichler's home a sense of luxury other tract homes couldn't offer. The two-bathroom models debuted in Palo Alto's Fairmeadow project. As Eichler homes grew, and developments popped up around the perimeter of the Bay Area, the designs became ever more refined, and the projects ever more ambitious. He fought with city planning departments over building techniques, once yelled at the Palo Alto City Council about suburban planning, and ended up building approximately 12,000 houses in the state. He had less success with massive urban building projects, which he entered into in 1960s San Francisco. The sheer size of the projects and the complexity of city building ultimately led to massive cost overruns that bankrupted the then-publicly held Eichler Homes. But Eichler continued to develop until his death in 1974 under the name J.L. Eichler Associates. The very last Eichler was built in Palo Alto 1975 at 1750 Guinda St. It is perhaps in Palo Alto where Eichler's homes are the most and least appreciated. With two neighborhoods filing for recognition by the National Register of Historic Places -- Green Gables (1950) and Greenmeadow (1954-'55) - the Eichler legacy has been embraced. The city is also singled out by the book's authors as an example of the tear-down syndrome. A full-page photo shows the rubble of a Charleston Meadows demolition in 2000. The book quotes a New York Times article in lament of the trend: "The blessing and the curse of Eichlers is that many happen to sit in the heart of Silicon Valley, where tastes among the newly rich often run to freshly built Tuscan villas and medieval chateaus," wrote Patricia Leigh Brown. "With their single stories and simple roofs, the Eichlers are particularly vulnerable to the tear-down syndrome." Eichler's economy of design, use of indoor and outdoor spaces and consideration for neighborhood harmony fly in the face of today's construction practices, where McMansions and "Taco Bells" are built out to the lot lines. In a day when newly developed "classic" communities use historical imagery to evoke a sense of significance, Eichler's homes of 50 years ago look newer and fresher. It was in mid-century California suburbia that the imagination of the people was kindled by Eichler's vision for modern living. Possibly, the authors suggest, it's time for those developments to be reassessed for the abundance of ideas and resources they have to offer us in the future.

Allen Clapp is an assistant editor at the Weekly. He can be e-mailed at aclapp@paweekly.com