Eichler Living: The Apotheosis of the Nuclear Family

This is the Eichler I lived in.
Or rather, it's the garage I
lived behind.

And here's one, behind all
the shrubbery, right across
the street from mine.

Feelings run high among Eichler aficionados. In fact, a few years ago a possible romance died a premature death when I called Eichlers an aberration in postwar residential architecture. It was instantly clear, at least to him, that we were incompatible.

Now, to be honest, I don’t think Eichlers are actually an aberration. Abomination is probably a better word, because they are in fact quite the opposite of aberrant. They are the fulfillment of one of the most salient expressions of postwar prosperity: the independence (and the isolation) of the nuclear family.

Eichlers turn away from the street, butt-forward so to speak, presenting the garage for all the world to see, while the "front" entrance is tucked away inside the house, behind a fence, behind an atrium. No porch sitting in an Eichler neighborhood, obviously. And no greetings to friendly neighbors between proud homeowners tending their front yards. They cannot typically see their own front yard from within the house, so, if they do any tending, they do it out back. Out in front is usually nothing but a desolation of pavement or weeds and desiccated shrubs.

In this respect, Eichlers undermine the suburban utopia, the idea of living in park land. As Robert Fishman points out in Bourgeois Utopias: The Rise and Fall of Suburbia:

The front lawn is not family space, and family members rarely venture out

into it except to maintain it. It belongs, rather, to the community. The lawns

in conjunction with the roadside trees, create the illusion of a park.... The
lawn is the owner's principal contribution to the suburban landscape—
the piece of the "park" he keeps up himself.

In Eichler-land, the owners have so little investment in that part of their property that borders the street that it no longer connects them to the community they are in principle a part of. 

What’s more, Eichlers have floor to ceiling glass along the sides and back. It lets the sunlight in, for sure, but also prying eyes, leaving a person feeling just a little short on privacy. So every Eichler, with a hedge or fence around it invariably as high as the house itself, becomes a little compound in which the family is cozily tucked up. It doesn't encourage the building of strong communities.

Northern California has the kind of climate that makes it possible to live in a box with glass sides, but that doesn't mean it's very comfortable. I lived in one myself, and I can certify that it gets hot enough in summer and cold enough in wiinter to wish yourself elsewhere. A little more defense against the elements would really not be remiss.

This is not to speak of the fact that many Eichlers are very dark inside, with all that dark wood paneling and all the foliage outside meant to create shade and privacy (and nullifying the desired effect of opening up the house to the outside world). Cheaply built, they show the teeth of time gnawing away at the original luster of a really nice idea.

I know that Eichlers brought modern architecture to middle-income families. I know they made an important ideological statement about how middling Americans could live in California. I would be the last to say that’s not important. But one of them, somewhere in a museum, would be quite sufficient.

Marijke Rijsberman

Thoughts? Let me know: marijke@interfacility.com

More Information
Eichler-Holic Musing: Carrying on Life Through Art (this column is about my friend Judy, my connection to the Eichler subculture)
Eichler Archives
Robert Fishman, Bourgeois Utopias: The Rise and Fall of Suburbia (1987).