Sam Fentress
People peered through blinds and strolled by with spaniels, craning to see inside their new neighbors' house. That Dumpster had been parked in front of the bland little Sunset Hills ranch for eight months now (and filled and emptied 18 times, but who was counting?). What could possibly be left in there?
Not the spriggy wallpaper in the bedroom, that's for sure. Not the three layers of yellowed linoleum unrolled from the kitchen floor or the Formica or the ontact-papered 1966 contractor cabinets.
Peg Hammerschmidt is an interior designer and architect; Gerry Krizek is her project manager (and spouse). Together they are Hammer & Schmidt Design—but this house was just for them, designed to their whims when they moved here in 2004 from Los Angeles.
Mr. Krizek came ahead of Mrs. Hammerschmidt and picked out the house. "We wanted main-floor living, inside the I-270 loop," he says. "And we wanted to show people what could be done with a '60s ranch, so if they decided to sell the big baby barns out in West County ... "
They walked through the house slowly, Mrs. Hammerschmidt doing drawings, Mr. Krizek planning the demolition work he'd do himself. "Not too many upgrades, thank goodness," he said. "It's always easier to fix the original than to come in behind someone else."
They'd been through the gut-and-rebuild process before, with a '40s bungalow out in L.A. That time, the previous owner had come to see the breathtaking results and snapped, "This isn't even my house anymore!"
Mrs. Hammerschmidt hadn't been able to restrain a small smile: "We know."
Now it's as though someone hollowed out the wee suburban ranch and washed it lean. Walls have vanished, doors are gone or glass, and soffits have created entryways, providing a sense of transition without walling off the rooms. A new kitchen floats on the palest maple floor, the oven and microwave recessed, the refrigerator secreted behind Poliform Varenna cabinetry. Four cobalt-blue glass pendant lights, tapered like inverted champagne flutes, glow above a Carrera marble—topped island. Vintage—authentic vintage—black and-white photographs hang above the counter: one of Mr. Krizek's mother in her kitchen, the other of the Krizeks' 1930s stove.
From the kitchen, you step into what feels like a moonlit glade, done in silver and misty shades of a grayed blue-green with a gray slate floor. This was originally a family room: "shag carpet, brick fireplace, wood paneling, cheesy bookshelves," Mr. Krizek recites. For them, it's a dining room: A glass tabletop rests on a stainless-steel base, surrounded by chairs with silvery mesh seats and backs. Mrs. Hammerschmidt and Mr. Krizek replaced the brick fireplace with a custom, brushed stainless-steel surround; flames rise up from dark, sparkling crushed glass as though summoned by a spell. In summer, a gargoyle sits hunched in the fireplace. "He comes out in winter and sits in front of the fire," Mrs. Hammerschmidt explains.
She walks to a window (a single 6- by 10-foot piece of plate glass that replaced three fussy double-hung window sections) and points to a larger stone gargoyle outside: "His name is Fred. He was Gerry's 50th birthday present; he made the trip from L.A., too."
Above the fireplace hangs a cast-aluminum sculpture by H.R. Giger, the urrealist who designed the monster in Alien. The figure looks like a fantastical angel, freed from gravity and sentimentality, reigning coolly over the future. Alcoves on either side show off Carnivale masks the couple bought in Venice; a tall, smoky glass vase traps Calla lilies, their stems curved like ballerinas' backs.
Hallway closets open to reveal a washer and dryer; the dinky powder room lost its back wall and merged into the master bathroom, creating a spacious room with French limestone floors; a doorless, lit shower; elongated windows; and a black marble counter surrounding a horizontal strip of stainless-steel basin. "It's actually a kitchen prep sink," Mrs. Hammerschmidt admits. She drew the cabinetry and commissioned a furniture maker in Colorado to build it from wenge. "Real wenge," she emphasizes, "not oak stained a wenge color."
In the bedroom, Mr. Krizek knocked out a straight wall and replaced it with a narrower wall set on the diagonal with a niche for a flat-screen TV. The diagonal placement points the way to a walk-in closet and a second bathroom. From the opposite corner, what Mrs. Hammerschmidt calls her Zulu warrior chair keeps watch, its tall, dark African-wood spikes hand-carved in a semicircle that shelters a zebra seat.
In her office, walls painted a saturated grassgreen foil the luminous orange of Chinese Lantern seedpods and the vivid colors of the painting behind her desk. It's a scene in Venice, but it was done by a Spaniard, and the couple discovered it in Montmartre; they carried it back to their hotel with the paint still wet.
Mr. Krizek walks through the sitting room, its "Paris Night"—colored walls the soft lavender of twilight turning to night. He opens the back door to a patio shaded by white canvas sun sails. "We didn't like the view," he says briefly, nodding toward a border of 54 trees that now encloses the yard. The tallest spires at the center were 20 feet when planted; they've grown. With its orderly, almost severe landscaping, huge windows, and open architecture, the home feels far larger than its 1,860 square feet, which the couple maintains is "perfect for two people. Those monstrosities that are fake-old—ugh!" Mrs. Hammerschmidt groans. "For a house that big, you had live-in staff. You can't keep it up properly without that, and people are rattling around in those houses."
"Luxury isn't cubic dollars," Mr. Krizek adds. "It's a state of mind."
"Our next house is going to be totally minimalist, glass and concrete," Mrs. Hammerschmidt says.
"Yeah, we want it to look like an automobile showroom with no cars," her husband says eagerly. "Big windows, a lot of outside-inside."
This home's already there, to more conservative minds. "We've had people come in and say, ‘It's so minimalist,'" Mrs. Hammerschmidt concedes. "I'd say modern, not minimalist. There are things that can go either way; that red couch in the living room is a 1930s style." Mr. Krizek's favorite response is when people ask, in bewildered tones, "Where is all your stuff?"
"We are selective in what we display," Mrs. Hammerschmidt smiles. "That's why I like minimalism—everything is so gallery-like, so special. Every object becomes a work of art. And you can just dance around the rooms, there's so much space."
This, for them, is halfway there—but they did everything they wanted at the moment, followed every whim. Next will come a spa bathroom, home theater, and gym in the basement, the central staircase signaled by a glass surround.
"We could care less what the next owners want," Mr. Krizek admits with a grin. "They can rent their own Dumpster."
