Hardware can be divine or bedeviling. It can tell a story, or send you on a wild goose chase. But it’s always useful, often beautiful and completely personal.
HouseCalls
By Michael Good
An old house may be made up of parts, but we experience it as a whole. Unless one of those parts is giving us trouble, in which case, the problem part (squeaky door, rattling window, fizzling light fixture) is all we see, hear and curse about. This tendency to make the little things the size of small monuments to frustration has a long and storied tradition. Think Jimmy Stewart in “It’s a Wonderful Life” descending the stairs, rounding the newel post and discovering the finial has come off in his hand. By the 100th time this happens, he’s ready to jump off a bridge. Literally. The saddest scene in the movie isn’t the blubbered prayer in the snow, it’s when that finial comes off one too many times and Stewart proclaims, “Why did we buy this old house anyway?” It’s not a movie about a man in need of divine intervention. It’s about a newel post in need of some glue.
But I digress. Point is, except when they’re leaking, smoking, sparking, rattling in the wind or coming off in your hand, all the various parts that make up your house should blend together into that all-encompassing whole we call home. In the Arts & Crafts tradition, the goal was not to impress someone with the audacity of your financial commitment to your lighting fixtures but to create a sort of pleasant harmony, where nothing stood out, everything went together and people felt at home, rather than bowled over by your pedestal sink. The early 20th century bungalow was supposed to be a refuge from modern life, not a reminder of your monolithic credit card debt. As you walk in the door, your blood pressure should drop a bit, your heart rate ease; you should sink into your club chair and slip into an old house reverie, or at least a nap. You shouldn’t be looking at your hammered brass escutcheon and thinking, I’ll have that paid off in 32 years!
Which brings us to the subject of hardware. Of all the parts that make up your house, large and small, visible and hidden, useful and merely beautiful, hardware is among the most personal. It’s the part of your house you regularly touch. Doorknobs and drawer pulls are part of the interface between human and house. When the hardware’s wrong—when it’s missing, mangled, covered in paint or replaced with something wholly inappropriate—it’s just plain irritating. Not only does it look wrong, it feels wrong. It breaks the whole illusion that your bungalow is a complete environment, something unique and intentional, not just a collection of parts that happened to be close to work and those 37 restaurants serving 742 different kinds of microbrews along 30th, just north and south of University.
So what, exactly, is hardware? It’s doorknobs, escutcheons, rosettes, hinges, strike-plates, sash locks, sash lifts, cabinet knobs, cabinet pulls, push plates, switch plates, mortise locks and various hooks, rods and registers. It’s usually made of metal, sometimes glass, and occasionally plastic. Hardware can be all but invisible, it’s easily taken for granted, but in addition to being useful, and expensive to replace, it’s one of those vintage items that can’t be faked. Either it’s original, an awfully good reproduction, or it’s from Home Depot. And it shows.
In theory, your house’s hardware should tell you something of its history, although in practice…it’s complicated. You might think you’d be able to look at the back of a door escutcheon, for example, and find a date telling you when it was made, or at least, who made it. Guess again. And hinges—shouldn’t they be stamped with the name of the manufacturer, and whether they’re brass or steel or unobtainium? But no. That would make sense. You’d think the style of the hardware would say something about the style of the house, too. But that would be in the Hollywood version. Recently I’ve run into a rash of hardware anomalies. Colonial Revival-style door hardware in an Arts & Crafts bungalow. Art Nouveau drawer pulls in a classic craftsman. Art Deco hardware in a Spanish Revival. It’s irritating.
“You have to realize that many of the builders had no architectural or art design backgrounds, so they simply used what was available,” explains historian Ron May, of Legacy 106. “I am sure some of them would not know Art Nouveau from Arts & Crafts or even Art Deco.”
May explains that architects and builders usually bought hardware in large lots, through a catalogue. So even if the builder had made an effort to design something we would think of as Craftsman, he probably used the same hardware on a Colonial Revival. The upside of this is that if your neighbor has the same hardware, you might share the same builder. Which explains the aforementioned Art Nouveau-looking hardware in a bungalow with very rectilinear millwork. It was built by David Owen Dryden, who was constructing a new house every six or eight weeks during the early part of the 19-teens in the West End neighborhood of North Park. Sometimes, an economic consideration can become a design signature, explains May.
“Louise Mary Severin used the same cast and hammered brass door lock and plate systems on all her doors. Cliff May also bought door hardware and polychrome ceramic doorbell surrounds in large quantities, which became his ‘signature’ on houses he built.” Sometimes, however, hardware that doesn’t seem to belong actually doesn’t belong. “I did a study of a house in Bankers Hill where all the hardware and most of the windows were removed and replaced with antiques in the mid-1970s. Even the upstairs windows were bought at antique stores. When I told my client nothing was original, he was outraged.”
If you’re wondering whether your hardware is original or not, a few hints: Since oxygen and sunlight change the appearance of wood, remove the doorknob and escutcheon and see if there is evidence that a different shape once covered your door. You may find different paint colors as well, and different screw holes. Some hardware is period specific. Art Deco, for example, didn’t really gain acceptance until the late 1920s. Therefore, Art Deco hardware can’t be original to a 1912 house. Online catalogues, such as House of Antique Hardware, are helpful regarding period-appropriate hardware. Other places to look for antique and reproduction hardware: rejuvenation.com; Liz’s Antique Hardware (lahardware.com); Pasadena Architectural Salvage (pasadenaarchitecuralsalvage.com) and our local source, Architectural Salvage (2401 Kettner Blvd., 619-696-1313). If your hardware was commercially produced, you’ll likely find it there. With prices running $45-$55 for a glass doorknob, $12-$15 for a backing plate and $8 to $12 for a glass cabinet knob, you’ll gain some appreciation for the original hardware you do have. And you can replace what’s missing.
If you have some unusual hardware, or you’re not sure what to make of what you have, e-mail me a photo and I’ll help you identify it. Or you can schedule a House Call at [email protected].
Restoring Your Hardware
Attention do-it-yourselfers: removing the paint from your hardware is one of the easiest DIY projects, and it can have a subtle-but-immediate impact. There are no expensive tools to buy and you can do one escutcheon at a time. Methyl chloride stripper is the surest, if most noxious, method. Take the part outside, throw it in a metal container with enough stripper to cover the offending part, go to one of those drinking establishments on 30th, come back an hour (or two) later and remove the paint with a plastic brush, paper towels and #000 steel wool. (Of course, wear latex gloves, eye protection, a chemical mask, a long sleeve shirt and a bulletproof vest.) You can protect the clean surface with wax or sprayed lacquer. Or you can leave it to acquire its unique patina over time.
