 
To see one, I traveled past small towns in South Carolina’s Lowcountry, past fields of corn, cotton, and tobacco, and past watermelon and boiled peanut stands to what seemed the middle of nowhere (which, for the privacy of the owner, shall remain just that). But nowhere turned out to be a pretty significant somewhere thanks to the landscaping of horticulturist Jenks Farmer, who designed a series of formal and informal gardens creating a little paradise amid the pines. Farmer is kind, soft-spoken, unassuming, with a name that destined him to work with soil, much like my former colleague Max Justice was destined to be an attorney. Farmer had envisioned a structure or sculpture at the end of a man-made pond — a focal point to lure visitors through the vast gardens. Enter Huguley, a Charleston designer who recently started a company called Building Art, which focuses primarily on outbuildings such as timbered lofts, pergolas, arbors, sound gardens, and follies. For Huguley a mere sculpture wouldn’t do. What better structure to lure visitors through the gardens than a folly, as picturesque as it would be useful? Folly Roots A European invention, the folly is meant to be the perfect architectural complement to nature, and should be placed accordingly. Over the centuries follies have taken many forms, first appearing as fake ruins and mock castles in the gardens of Europe’s royalty and wealthiest families. Marie Antoinette had several constructed on the grounds of Versailles to escape from the intrigues and formality of the court. Not even Louis XVI was allowed entrance without the queen’s permission. The French were not the only ones captivated by these pavilions of pleasure. A wealthy banker in Scotland went so far as to create a look-alike of the Coliseum of Rome, McCaig’s Tower. Absurd? Perhaps, but that’s part of the fun. The chief goal of a folly is to entertain and delight. There are no limits on its form, style, or function. It can be anything from a place of repose and contemplation to a secluded spot for conversation or frivolity. Prince Charles favored the former when he designed a stone gothic folly at his Highgrove estate, with room enough for a single chair. Even before seeing a real folly, I had always been captivated by secluded retreats. In my youth, during slow, hot summers in the Tennessee mountains, I would clear out the wilted interiors of giant kudzu mounds to form my own private enclave with dappled sunlight streaming through the green vines. It was my escape, my creation. Later, as a young adult, I came across Thomas Jefferson’s garden folly at Monticello. Set amid rows of flowers, vegetables, and herbs, the little structure keeps the garden out if the triple-sash windows are closed, and invites the garden in if the windows are open. Home to a few centuries’ worth of reading, thinking, writing, romantic dalliances, and maybe even a proposal or two, this solitary structure inspires passersby to stop, interpret, and experience it in their own fashion. Ultimately, follies are meant to draw us closer to nature. Marie Antoinette’s little farmhouse folly connected her to land and animals. John Stuart McCaig’s Scottish folly commands spectacular views of the surrounding countryside. Prince Charles’s folly frames a pastoral view. Huguley’s follies achieve the same ends. Huguley and Building Art Huguley first stumbled upon fame as the young student who “saved” Frank Lloyd Wright’s famous house Fallingwater, voted by the American Institute of Architects in 1991 the all-time most important building of American architecture. While an engineering student at the University of Virginia, Huguley made a computer model of Fallingwater’s master terrace that revealed structural stresses that, uncorrected, would have eventually led to the building’s collapse. First disputed, his findings were confirmed by experts and led to a ten-year restoration of the building. Since then, Huguley has become known in preservation and education circles as the founder of the American College of the Building Arts, in Charleston, South Carolina, one of its kind in America in teaching the traditional building arts: ornamental metalwork, stonework, carpentry, masonry, plastering, and timber framing. Huguley envisioned the school after recognizing a gaping need for local skilled artisans in the aftermath of Hurricane Hugo, in 1989, which ripped ornaments, capitals, and roofs off many of the city’s oldest buildings, and left Charlestonians dependent on Europe for many of the artisans needed to repair them. Eventually Huguley found support and funding for a school to train a new generation of American artisans. That same passion for the traditional building arts also fueled the founding of Building Art, Huguley’s company, which provides apprenticeship opportunities for students and graduates to work on real-world projects — and builds follies. Building the Spring House So, there I stood in the middle of rural South Carolina, staring at this magical structure named the Spring House, a work of art that lures, pleases, and commands you to stay a while. Born of the surrounding landscape — a former tobacco farm where the owner played as a child — the folly has at its center the square footprint of a tobacco barn, and, at each end, removable extensions that allow for a wide variety of configurations. The folly has swinging seats that can be detached to form grounded benches, enabling easy transitions from afternoon tea to seated dinners. Or, it can simply be used as a peaceful retreat. Part of the magic of the folly are the old-growth trees with which it was built. Huguley, a proponent of sustainable forestry management, chose forester Ben Williamson to select and cut the trees. Williamson runs Oaklyn Plantation, a family property dating back to a King’s Grant, and is widely recognized as a valiant steward of the land. Williamson carefully selected several giant one-hundred-and-ten-year-old trees from crowded clusters, and loggers cut and hauled the trees according to his very detailed instructions, minimizing damage to the forest. It took roughly five weeks to mill the core heartwood of the logs into the massive timbers for the Spring House, then another six months to season the outer sections of the logs into planks for batons and flooring. No part of the trees was wasted: In fact, leftover wood was used to build the base of another folly, in downtown Charleston, for a friend of Huguley’s, Leslie Turner, who wanted something fun to fill the neglected back corner of her deep lot. Huguley envisioned something alive and whimsical, suspended from a large limb of a massive live oak without harming the tree. Turner’s son pulled out his crayons and worked with Huguley to conceive a “secret” hanging platform — a square, eight feet by eight, flat, swaying floor just high enough to keep out his little sister. Huguley suspended the folly using thick rope from old tugboats, then draped it with curtains for added privacy. Turner uses the folly for reading, naps, and entertaining. Most of all, her children love to play pirate games and “fish” off its edges, a blank stage for their imagination. A world of possibility The rewarding experience of building the Spring House culminated in a raising, very much like an old-fashioned barn raising, with power in numbers and a common cause. Two hundred people attended the festivities, and in a single day what had been only a dream took shape — minus flooring, doors, and, of course, the roof, which is a story unto itself. Huguley wanted the roof to be organic and tapered to blend in with the surrounding garden, so he decided upon a thatched roof. He wanted the thickness, longevity, and insulation of traditional thatching still in use around the world (natural reed thatch lasts more than sixty years and is water resistant). It sounded simple enough, but finding skilled thatchers and obtaining the materials proved to be a challenge. Huguley ended up importing both from England, a process that involved Homeland Security, the U.S. Department of Agriculture, customs officials, repeated fumigations, many delicate negotiations, and several months. To complete the folly, Huguley built swiveling and removable doors using the traditional wattle-and-daub technique, similar to modern lath and plaster. The wattling of white oak is akin to basket weaving, and allows air and sunlight to filter in softly while still providing privacy. With doors open or closed, day or night, with seating suspended or grounded, the Spring House folly embodies a world of infinite possibilities, whether for entertaining, reading, getting away from the stresses of daily life, or simply thinking or dreaming. Pure folly? Anything but. |
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