Hello, Sunbeam: Fleeting Light though Well-Loved Spaces

A splotch of rainbow appeared on the wall of the upstairs hall yesterday morning. A brilliant, prismatic, disembodied streak of light. How curious. For some 35 years I have lived in this house, but I'd never seen light falling on that wall before. I reached out my hand and caught the light in my palm. I leaned into it then looked backwards over my shoulder for the source. Ah, it was just a ray of sun glancing off the corner of the vanity mirror left standing open. Nothing mysterious. Just a happy surprise, after a long winter of cold grayness.

In these early days of "Just-spring," I am more aware of such luminous aberrations. I came downstairs one morning last week to see the folds of a sheer curtain on a north window lit by a rosy glow. It seemed far removed from any opening that might allow a ray of light to penetrate there. No, it wasn't Tinkerbell hiding there, as my young sons might have fantasized a million years ago. It was just the sunrise reflecting off my neighbor's window into my front hall, finally landing on the curtain two rooms away. Again, nothing mysterious. Just a wayward beam of light that had found its way into a dark corner of the front parlor.

My house was built around 1860. There have been a number of alterations to it over the years. A new porch in the early 1900s. An extension to the dining room in the 1940s. Several shutters have gone missing. But, for the most part, the house remains little changed from when it was originally built. For over 150 years, the light has entered this house through the very same window sashes. It follows the same path across my floors now as the one it traced in the 19^th Century.

Light was once considered the enemy of interiors. Indeed, sunlight is very destructive of just about everything domestic – textiles, paper, wood, works of art. The fight against its ravages was once waged not only by servants in grand houses, but also by housewives of more modest means. Fine things were expensive. Carpets, needlepoint, paintings, and furniture all reflected the family's position in society. They were part of the legacy to be passed down to future generations, and thus should be carefully conserved.

Exterior shutters were the first line of defense against sunlight in the 19th Century. Then came interior blinds and rolled shades; then curtains, first a sheer layer then finally heavy opaque fabric like brocade, lined with linen, which could be drawn against the harmful rays. Interiors were dim.

In the U.K., the epicenter of material culture during that period, curtains were covered with paper when the house was not occupied. Carpets were covered over with sheets of coursely woven fabric called “druggets” to prevent wear and fading. Upholstered furniture was covered not only with slip covers, but also top cloths to keep off the dust. It is interesting to note that the country houses north of London best known for their tapestries were often least used and, therefore, least subjected to light.

But farther north on that island, the attitude toward sunlight is much different. One September, I stayed in the hamlet of Sheildaig in the Scottish Highlands with a friend who was scouting a site for a cottage she hoped to build with her husband. This area of Scotland is at the same latitude as Labrador. Winters can be dreary affairs, often with somber skies and copious rainfall.  Even in fair weather, there might be less than an hour of daylight. The sun – or lack of it – plays a significant role in siting buildings.

Scottish Highlands near Sheildaig.

My friend and I explored a number of areas, ticking through a list of queries to find the ideal spot. Most of these related to the position of the sun. Where is south? Will the house be out of the shadow of that hill? If not, the building could spend five cold months during the winter without being touched by  a single ray of direct sunlight. What kinds of plants thrive here – do they reflect good conditions for a garden? Sunlight, in that place, is an important asset.

Conservators struggle to guard precious collections from the ill effects of light. Modern prescriptions for preventing deterioration of museum-quality interiors are based on a more scientific understanding of the properties of light than the slip-covers and druggets of the 19^th Century. They now well understand that incandescent bulbs emit little UV radiation, but generate a large amount of heat, which damages collections. Care is taken to keep the light at a low intensity and far enough away so that its effects on the items displayed are minimized. Under-shelf lighting, which tends to overheat an exhibit, is avoided. Florescent lights are cooler than incandescent ones, but emit UV; they should be fitted with a UV-absorbent jacket. In addition to shutters and sun-blinds of their predecessors, modern conservators use such things a UV-absorbent film installed on the window glass. (However, LED lights, the new darling of energy-efficiency moguls, have proved deficient as far as color discrimination and degradation of certain hues.)

My house, however, is a living-place, not a museum. My children have already put cartons of household treasures inherited from the dismantled homes of their grandparents in storage somewhere. I'm not sure how much more they want or need.

So, the rays of light that find their way into my house are welcome, if fleeting, visitors. Yes, I look at my rugs and my curtains and think, “These are getting a bit faded, aren’t they….” And yet I make no move to block the sunbeam that has traveled the same path across the floor of my dining room for going on two centuries. Far more important than protecting my aging furnishings is enjoying the perpetual - and sometimes whimsical - journey light takes through my well-loved spaces.

Resources:

Sandwith, Hermione and Sheila Stainton, Comp. The National Trust Manual of Housekeeping. New York: Penguin Books in Association with the National Trust [U.K.], 1985.