The Lath House

Wood strips, cross-purposed into lattice, made this nursery of interstices—a place that softened, then admitted, sun with shade, baffled the wind and rain, broke open space. It’s now more skeletal, a ghostly room the garden seemed to grow, in disrepair, long empty and well past its final bloom. Less lumbered, though, it cultivates the air by shedding cedar slats for open sky. As if, designed to never seem quite finished, it had a choice to seal and stultify or take its weather straight and undiminished, grow larger but be less precisely here, break with its elements, and disappear.