In the end, we painted everything with lime wash—also to connect the new wall with the whitewashed masonry walls. The texture now looks like scaled-up woodchip wallpaper. We’ll have to see if the wall lives up to expectations. In theory, it should be possible to loosen everything up again with water and rebuild it somewhere else (which was one of the aims of the experiment…).
Quite rustic—and time-consuming, as we discovered. However, there is no time pressure when working with it, because the clay can be moistened and made malleable again at any time. To achieve a slightly more homogeneous surface, we applied a layer of finely chopped straw and clay.
Attempt to build a fully compostable partition wall—from scrap wood, straw, and clay. Double-shelled, as a challenge (and to see how good the sound insulation is). We learned the basics of straw-light clay construction in a workshop with Franz Volhard, who has been researching this technique for many decades and knows everything about it.
In autumn 2024, we installed a dry toilet system. Without water, liquid/solid separation in the bowl. We had already gained experience with this in Venice. Here is a simple version: faeces falls directly into the barrel and is then later composted, urine is drained via the sewer system. Hands are washed with collected rainwater. We are currently using the toilet with two adults and two children.
In autumn 2024, we installed a dry toilet system. Without water, liquid/solid separation in the bowl. We had already gained experience with this in Venice. Here is a simple version: faeces falls directly into the barrel and is then later composted, urine is drained via the sewer system. Hands are washed with collected rainwater. We are currently using the toilet with two adults and two children.
The downpipe is 200mm thick and flows into a 120-liter barrel with a self-made rubber adapter. We use the toilet with two adults and two children and change the barrel once a year. Rainwater is diverted from the roof pipe with a raincatcher, stored temporarily in a tank and can then be used for washing hands. We filter the water contaminated with soap using a small grey water system and then channel it into the underground cistern or infiltration system.
Insulating the historic street façade on the 3rd floor from the inside with in-situ hempcrete in autmn 2024. We mixed hemp shives in a ratio of 4:1 with NHL 2.5 lime (natural hydraulic lime). The frames of the self-built interior double-glazed windows serve as permanent formwork. It will probably be a while before the windows are finished. The hempcrete also still needs to dry out a little.
When living in a house and continuously building upon it, things always layer upon each other anew. Initially, we only had two rooms: kitchen and bedroom. In between, we installed the bathtub. We grew to appreciate this combination greatly, even after new rooms (and children) were added. We have a slight obsession with doors. We enjoy building doors that are structurally too tall, too thin, or completely misshapen. But what is once built usually gets to stay, even if it’s just for the sake of beauty.
Actually, the house is like a large-scale model for us. While we strive for precision, what’s more important is that things can always be changed, corrected, much like in a model. What was initially just a sketch for a brief moment (like the silver-insulated ceiling) suddenly remains for a long time. It’s no secret that the wood stove (our heating for this floor) came earlier than the floor paint.
This is our ‘construction site stairwell.’ There’s still much to be done upwards. We’ve cleared the walls of loose plaster and, after over-ambitiously grinding the masonry with diamond discs on the lower floors, we’ve limewashed them. Additional doors are gradually being added, as variations of what has already proven to work.
In 2019, we moved in – knowing that we would probably continue to repair the house for several more decades if we still want to do everything ourselves. The door exemplifies what interests us: an architecture that is continuously built upon and never really ‘finished.’ In the first summer, the door was just a wooden board with a hole, more of a purely visual barrier. Then came the cold autumn, and we covered the hole with foil. It wasn’t until the following year, still without heating, that we added an insulated glass pane. And a mortise lock (which, due to the blunt door jamb, provided a lot of work and joy…).
Another window experiment, likely originated around 2018. Toilet window, non-openable, as ventilation is through another window. Attempting to see what a laminated glass pane can do when all options are explored: Inner insulated glass pane float glass hammered, outer insulated glass pane with reflective sun protection coating. Now being overtaken by virgin vine.
The staircase in the window is just wide enough for use. It’s not a regular access point, let alone a public one. It’s more of a friendly gesture towards the bustling and noisy street. The metal door is the same as the one leading to the garden – smallest standard size possible.
In the 1960s, the bakery on the ground floor was converted into an apartment. The former street access was bricked up to the height of the parapet. Later came the vacancy, and for a long time, the entire ground floor was bricked up for vandalism protection reasons. We reopened the window all the way down to the floor. The difference in height was bridged with a newly added staircase.
Window experiments. Or: How much window does one need? For us, a window doesn’t have to do it all: be openable, ventilate, and soundproof at the same time. These laminated glass panes are just clamped and can’t be opened. Sure, that creates a thermal bridge. But there are much weaker spots in this facade. That’s why we’re happy to live with this detail – for now.
We’ve relocated our office to the former bakery on the ground floor. The cross pillar wasn’t there initially; we added it through masonry. The old beam, made of railway tracks, had already sagged significantly. Heating is provided by a wood stove. Not because of the romance, but for very pragmatic reasons: more or less green energy without major construction work. The aluminum flex pipe is an attempt to distribute warm air from the oven to adjacent rooms using a pipe motor. It seems to work, though perhaps only due to a placebo effect.
Also part of the window setup is a basic standard metal door that we included. We’ve found the strategy ‘transparent equals fixed’ and ‘opaque equals movable’ tends to work well. Whenever glass needs to be moved, it adds weight, cost, and fragility. Despite that, sometimes we can’t resist the temptation…
On the ground floor used to be a bakery until the ’60s. Towards the back was the bakehouse, which collapsed about thirty years ago, leaving behind a gaping hole in the rear facade. We patched it up with a large window, made up of many individual panes. Panels we could still lift with two people, mounted onto a self-built wooden frame.
At some point, the scaffolding had to come down again. Many stucco ornaments and relief plaster panels are still missing. To ensure the facade retains some vitality, we didn’t smooth the fields between and above the windows but instead only skimmed the brickwork. This isn’t historically accurate, nor is it sound from a construction or physics standpoint. However, the skim coat made from Roman lime and NHL lime surprisingly holds up well, even after six years.
The accompanying profiles beneath the windowsills were precast on the table, following the practices of the time. Here, too, we used a mixture of Roman lime and NHL lime. The metal template on the sliding carriage was taken from an existing profile. Not all pieces survived the transportation from the beer bench to the facade.
Interesting how the facade is constructed from various materials: embedded sandstone elements, cast consoles (previously made of gypsum, now of firmer casting mortar), mortar profiles drawn on-site, and smooth plaster. Back then, color unified everything. We reprofiled the sandstone elements with Roman lime and skimmed the masonry with a mixture of Roman and hydrated lime. Many ornaments are still missing; perhaps we’ll set up scaffolding again someday.
In 2017 and 2018, we tackled the historical street facade with its stucco. Not much was left of it. We did everything ourselves. We removed the ornaments that were still in somewhat good condition, repaired them, cast them with silicone, and then proceeded to cast all stucco elements anew. A putto every weekend.
As mentioned, the house lacked a staircase, having served as a heating source for the neighbour in the 90s. For a while, we relied on a ladder system for vertical movement. Those white suits were probably a bit placebo-ish, supposed to protect us from the pigeon droppings that were everywhere in thick layers. We ended up hauling out quite a few bags of it.
Friends visited with their camper in summer 2023. Backed it into the garden, plants handled it well. There was probably more luxury in the camper than in our house. But in the summer, living indoors isn’t so bad either, and for a few months, we forget about the winter chill.
Starting in 2014, we spent several summers decluttering the house and garden. There was quite a lot of junk: car parts, tons of plastic films, surprisingly many plant pots. Interestingly, a significant portion of it was near the border with the neighbor – it seemed to have been a well-frequented dumping ground for the area for several decades…
1998: These photos were brought to us by one of our neighbours on a USB stick. Since the Wende (German reunification), it seems no one has lived in the house anymore. The photo in the middle was named “Thief.jpg.” According to our neighbour, the courtyard buildings have partially collapsed on their own or were demolished by the city of Leipzig for safety reasons.
This Leipzig apartment building from 1888 was for sale in 2014. No one wanted it. No staircase anymore, but many pigeons instead. The structural engineer suggested demolishing the house. We decided to repair it instead.