Whenever I heard that John Houser had moved—and he moved a dozen times—I would immediately take note that we had another house to be shot for the magazine. For three decades, John was Mr. Houser, the Spanish teacher at Mary Institute, then Mary Institute and St. Louis Country Day School.
But away from the campus, he decorated houses and traded in antiques. He had the eye of an artist. His undisputed specialty was picking colors. The exterior of the Kirkwood house he shared with his wife, Anne, is peach. The interior? A mélange of terra cotta, creams, and bronzes, with pops of black and gold.
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A thin man who wore glasses, smiled easily, and had an infectious enthusiasm, a quick wit, and a deep laugh, he was calm and gentle in a world full of divas who veer toward the dramatic. I hired Mr. Houser to redo my living room; he transformed it into my favorite room. He changed the walls from deep red to soft brown, replaced floral drapes with bamboo shades, added pillows in a Chinese print, and hung artwork we found scattered about. When I explained that my budget was limited, he had his fabricator put the expensive fabric on the front of the pillows and a less costly version on the back. When I confessed that we’d have to wait to replace the carpeting because my daughter’s tuition precluded it, he understood completely and said waiting would be fine.
But it wasn’t.
Before we had a chance to complete the room, John Houser died. Quietly. There was no public service, only a private burial. A designer who had no degree in interior design, no initials after his name, he was one of the very best in this town.
Mr. Houser will be sorely missed.
Descanse en paz.
