(Published by LocalLife Magazine)
Space exists everywhere. It’s all we know and all we want to do is capture it. We want to bend and shape it a certain way in order to create a new space, one that inspires distinct feelings within those who occupy it.
Thanks, Dad.
Space exists everywhere. It’s all we know and all we want to do is capture it. We want to bend and shape it a certain way in order to create a new space, one that inspires distinct feelings within those who occupy it.
This is the architect’s enduring and undying pursuit. When he erects a wall, he doesn’t just form an interior, but also an equal and opposite exterior. This exterior effects the space just as much. Often it’s why we’re there in the first place. Otherwise, more of us would live in windowless houses. Instead, we want to plop ourselves down in the middle of a beautiful place and be immersed in it.
But how? We need more than a look through a window or a daily walk to the car. How can we dive deep into the place we’ve chosen? Inside is inside and outside is outside. And then, of course, the almighty architect gives us… the porch.
And this porch here. This porch was mine. This house was my home. But so was the marsh, the mud, the water. My bedroom, the living room, the den, all at times felt like dark holes. Static. Stagnant. But the porch was always open. Open to music and laughter, to silence. Open to parties and dancing, to solitude. Open to the world around. A space that always gave me a calm, visceral buzz that numbed my mind in a nothing to do, nowhere to be sort of way.
How did I get here? It’s a question I ask myself and then let the thought drift down the creek with the outgoing tide. A confidence in time and place rouses, a boost of kinetic energy builds toward the here and now. That’s what a space can do. That’s what this space has done for me and anyone who’s been supported by its beams. And it just so happens that the architect also shaped me, for he is my father.
Editor’s Note: We close our home and garden issue with this tranquil image of family and friends gathered on the porch of Joni and Terry Rosser’s home in Sea Pines. The following was written by their son, Dylan Rosser.
