not a precedent
I'm not usually one to post stuff i write online, but Sady's asleep so I can't print it out, and this is as good a way of backing up as any.
Sam Greenspan
Historical Archaeology
Assignment 1
615 Indian Beach Drive
Passers by are not meant to find this house. Yet, finding it by accident, as I had, I felt a mix of emotions imposed by this daunting estate. I tried to locate dominant sentiment the place elicits; awe, wonderment? Fear, loathing? If anything, this residence is designed to make an outsider, one like myself, drown in ambiguity, then give up trying to understand, and go home.
I arrived at the house just as the sun was beginning its descent. The orange rays filter through the dripping moss of the centuries-old trees that line the house’s perimeter, haloing the edifice. It’s a beautiful one, even by Sarasota standards. Though, for the property size, it’s surprisingly small, the house wraps architectural prowess in a petite package, perhaps to evade the constant threat of being labeled gaudy. The architect, maybe, had envisioned building a tribute to the Palladian neoclassicisms, a grand country home, a place where, in the midst of a cocktail party, a gentleman might step out on the back porch to contemplate the vastness of eternity, raising a glass to glistening Bay.
Not that anyone without invitation would ever become privy to this kind of image first hand. It’s clear that not just anyone can gain entree between the house’s ionic columns, between which you can see their living-room vista of the bay as it shines through glass front door. The most astonishing feature of the house isn’t the house at all, but the space it occupies; after the pavement on this street passes the two columns that demarcate property ownership, it divides in two, encircling a large patch of grass that seems too sophisticated to call a “lawn.” Hence, when I stood gawking at the house, it wasn’t at just the stained glass windows and classical frieze about the roof, but the holistic image-the sun, the trees, the air, the villa that would seem a static image if it wasn’t for the living backdrop of the water. And most of all, the enormous circular driveway reaches out like arms across the grass, strong arms, like those of a bouncer, giving the brush off someone like myself, while ready to warmly embrace any welcomed guest. Yet more than embracing an old friend, this long driveway hugs the earth-all this is mine the body language says.
Riding to the house from any direction gives possible insight as to the motivations of the house’s occupants. Going there from US 41, you’ll first pass dozens of dingy one-stories, some approaching the status of “shack.” Affluence increases as you head west, towards the water. Yet, even as the houses start to get big, really big, there are no building codes to speak of. An avocado-green bungalow sits right next a modernist megadome, both across the street from a turquoise oversized barn. The freeform of Old Suburbia is, in my opinion, charming and earnest-it’s not confined to the cookie-cutter imagery of planned subdevelopments like the one I grew up in. And yet, there is a niche in this neighborhood for people who appreciate the regulations that necessitate a homeowners association. It’s a private road off of Indian Beach Drive, framed by cement pylons. These houses are immaculately landscaped, and while each house is architecturally unique, each seems to bow to the others in an agreement of a norm. Follow this street to the end, and find the capstone of this avenue, number 615.
Maybe this house seeks not to align with the goals of the neighbors, but is just in this small residential pocket to enjoy the geographical convenience of removedness. Where the homes close to US 41 have no boundaries between the door and the passer-by, this place has two: the so called “private road,” in effect dichotomously calling others public ones; and alienation within this remote enclave.
Three even, if you consider the only adornment on the green expanse: a “no trespassing” sign with the number of the federal ordinance.
Sam Greenspan
Historical Archaeology
Assignment 1
615 Indian Beach Drive
Passers by are not meant to find this house. Yet, finding it by accident, as I had, I felt a mix of emotions imposed by this daunting estate. I tried to locate dominant sentiment the place elicits; awe, wonderment? Fear, loathing? If anything, this residence is designed to make an outsider, one like myself, drown in ambiguity, then give up trying to understand, and go home.
I arrived at the house just as the sun was beginning its descent. The orange rays filter through the dripping moss of the centuries-old trees that line the house’s perimeter, haloing the edifice. It’s a beautiful one, even by Sarasota standards. Though, for the property size, it’s surprisingly small, the house wraps architectural prowess in a petite package, perhaps to evade the constant threat of being labeled gaudy. The architect, maybe, had envisioned building a tribute to the Palladian neoclassicisms, a grand country home, a place where, in the midst of a cocktail party, a gentleman might step out on the back porch to contemplate the vastness of eternity, raising a glass to glistening Bay.
Not that anyone without invitation would ever become privy to this kind of image first hand. It’s clear that not just anyone can gain entree between the house’s ionic columns, between which you can see their living-room vista of the bay as it shines through glass front door. The most astonishing feature of the house isn’t the house at all, but the space it occupies; after the pavement on this street passes the two columns that demarcate property ownership, it divides in two, encircling a large patch of grass that seems too sophisticated to call a “lawn.” Hence, when I stood gawking at the house, it wasn’t at just the stained glass windows and classical frieze about the roof, but the holistic image-the sun, the trees, the air, the villa that would seem a static image if it wasn’t for the living backdrop of the water. And most of all, the enormous circular driveway reaches out like arms across the grass, strong arms, like those of a bouncer, giving the brush off someone like myself, while ready to warmly embrace any welcomed guest. Yet more than embracing an old friend, this long driveway hugs the earth-all this is mine the body language says.
Riding to the house from any direction gives possible insight as to the motivations of the house’s occupants. Going there from US 41, you’ll first pass dozens of dingy one-stories, some approaching the status of “shack.” Affluence increases as you head west, towards the water. Yet, even as the houses start to get big, really big, there are no building codes to speak of. An avocado-green bungalow sits right next a modernist megadome, both across the street from a turquoise oversized barn. The freeform of Old Suburbia is, in my opinion, charming and earnest-it’s not confined to the cookie-cutter imagery of planned subdevelopments like the one I grew up in. And yet, there is a niche in this neighborhood for people who appreciate the regulations that necessitate a homeowners association. It’s a private road off of Indian Beach Drive, framed by cement pylons. These houses are immaculately landscaped, and while each house is architecturally unique, each seems to bow to the others in an agreement of a norm. Follow this street to the end, and find the capstone of this avenue, number 615.
Maybe this house seeks not to align with the goals of the neighbors, but is just in this small residential pocket to enjoy the geographical convenience of removedness. Where the homes close to US 41 have no boundaries between the door and the passer-by, this place has two: the so called “private road,” in effect dichotomously calling others public ones; and alienation within this remote enclave.
Three even, if you consider the only adornment on the green expanse: a “no trespassing” sign with the number of the federal ordinance.