No matter where I went, I was always headed to New Orleans. I’d made all the ostensibly correct choices—undergraduate studies at the University of Virginia, architecture school at Princeton, internships in New York. But by the time I’d reached my mid-30s, even though I had a great job at a top Manhattan firm, I knew it was time to follow my soul to the city with the most soul.
This was my heart speaking, stirred by memories of childhood visits to New Orleans and images of streets canopied by ancient oaks and lined by tall, stately homes so close to one another that, by my youthful suburban reference, they risked all blending together. I was drawn to the whole crazy mess, the heavy atmosphere of green and fog, the sense of history that couldn’t be shaken. And so I packed up my life in the Big Apple and relocated to the Crescent City.
Though it’s less than 300 miles south of where I was raised in northern Louisiana, New Orleans is a world away from the Protestant culture of my upbringing. It’s a place more Caribbean than American, as locals rightly like to say. And after living first in a Victorian shotgun, then a Greek Revival side hall, and, most recently, a home by California modernist John Ekin Dinwiddie, my partner, Douglas Meffert, and I finally found our dream house in the University District—right where, in a sense, it all began for me.
My grandparents had settled in the same neighborhood, an enclave of turn-of-the-century homes flanking St. Charles Avenue as it approaches Audubon Park. The impressive houses are bordered by jasmine-covered garden walls that my mother and her friends would traverse like trapeze artists on a series of wires, atop narrow capstones that led from one block to another. But among those grand dwellings, one home stood out precisely because it didn’t, so inconspicuous behind its perimeter walls that when completed, in 1963, it prompted a prominent neighbor to ask in bewilderment, “Where’s the rest of it?”
I’d heard about the Curtis House from architect friends soon after my move from New York. Those who had been inside this midcentury-modern marvel set amid the Victorian preponderance described it as a glass box of public spaces connected by an enclosed walkway to a brick-and-stucco box of private spaces. Nathaniel “Buster” Curtis, of the internationally known architecture firm Curtis & Davis—whose credits include the Superdome—had built the residence for his family. The now landmarked structure was featured in national magazines of the time, most notably Life. As a child I had passed the home numerous times, knowing nothing of its significance and catching only glimpses of it through the decorative iron gate.
My first real look at the place came as a complete surprise. Doug and I were attending a large party at a venerable house whose rear gallery presented an unexpected view directly down onto the Curtis property. Relishing this rare opportunity to gaze into the secluded compound, we and a few other midcentury-modern enthusiasts stayed on the porch and watched it become more and more illuminated as the sun went down. The residence was actually a collection of several volumes, all wrapped with delicate steel columns and arches that created a gossamer refuge beneath massive live oaks. This was a house with a secret life, its sense of richness held deep within rather than being on public display. It was not the belle of the ball, it was the wallflower. And I was in love.
So in 2013, when the 50-year-old house was offered for purchase by the Curtis family, Doug and I scheduled a walk-through. We got to experience firsthand the wonderland of interlocking interior and exterior spaces, all with framed views into the gardens and meandering tree limbs above. We needed no further enticement to buy.
Though the home had been thoughtfully maintained, we began the task of making it our own. Seven bedrooms became three (plus a gym), the kitchen and baths were updated, walls received shimmering grass cloth, courtyards were relandscaped and lit, and fountains were restored. But once it was done, I found our decor somehow lacking. The furniture and art didn’t register against the dazzling green oaks and the ever-shifting panorama of white clouds and blue sky so evident through the clerestories. That outside begged to be met with a corresponding liveliness inside. So I added period pieces and a few antiques to a selection of classic midcentury furnishings original to the house, creating a more diverse, worldly mix. I also grappled with color choices, eventually reupholstering many items in blue and citron-yellow fabrics that complemented the red-orange hue of the existing walnut millwork.
Once the place was functioning the way we had imagined, we took a deep breath and began to enjoy our new surroundings. We love to open the sliding glass doors into the four courtyards to savor cross breezes and sounds of gently splashing water. When we throw parties, we take advantage of the natural flow between indoors and out. Even today we’re still astonished by this modernist gem and how all of this hidden beauty resides behind its unassuming street façade—our beloved wallflower, our home.
