In an old photograph from 1953, I’m five years old and barefoot, one arm slung over a dusty, makeshift fort. Despite the planks of wood jutting out at odd angles and threatening to collapse, there’s a big grin on my face and a feeling of pride that lights up the photograph. Not much has changed since then: I may have traded in wooden forts for beautiful homes across the city, but some 50 years later, I’m still in love with architecture.

My passion for building began in my grandparents’ tiny, four-room clapboard house, at a time when I didn’t even know what an architect did. Complete with chickens, a milk cow, a garden and tired dogs burrowed in the cool sugar sand of East Texas, my grandparents’ backyard become home to the playhouse I “helped” my grandmother build. Unencumbered by precision, she used reclaimed wooden boards, old tin and straightened nails to build a playhouse furnished with a bed, table, windows and doors—just big enough to make mud pies or play dominoes. That playhouse still stands today.

Twenty years later, fresh out of architecture school at the University of Texas, I launched my own practice. At times, it was a struggle: after starving my first five years with a salary of sometimes $800 per month and moving my wife and two sons from cheap house to cheaper house, I realized I had to make a living at architecture and not simply be satisfied to be the architect chosen for the job. Eventually, though, I figured out that running a business wasn’t much different from running the paper route I ran as a kid: you need to treat people right, deliver what you promise and turn a profit.
At the beginning of my career, I designed everything, from churches to schools and office buildings. What I liked to do best, however, was houses—they’re as unique as the people who sit down at the conference table with you. In fact, it has been my good fortune to work with some of the finest clients in the world; they’ve taught me so much about how a house works and lives and especially about how it feels. I have made lifelong friendships that mean far more to me than any building I have ever designed.

My first client, for example, was a retirement-age woman who had worked for the State of Texas her entire career. At our first meeting, she brought in a tattered, yellow 8½ x 11-inch drawing, complete with furniture of a home she had designed herself. I immediately saw how I could transform her idea into my own, reflecting the latest trend in architecture, and I asked if I could improve her plan. After a moment of hesitation, she agreed, reiterating that she really liked her plan and the location of her rugs and furnishings. The next week, we met at my conference table, and with great pride, I rolled out my idea for her home. At first, she didn’t say a word. Suddenly, her hands began to tremble, and then she started to cry—and it was not a cry of joy. I quickly told her I could draw her house exactly as she had designed it, simply making adjustments for better roofing. When we met the following week, she was overjoyed with the result. At that moment, I realized architectural design is about much more than the architect’s vision—it’s not so much about the house as it is about the people who live there. A great house begins with creating special spaces for the owners’ everyday activities, such as an intimate place for the family to eat, a cozy spot to read, a great space for friends and family to gather, outdoor living and dining and so much more. 

There is, of course, a learning curve: I remember when I was just starting my career, I designed a house with no roof overhangs, a trend that began in California but wasn’t suited to Texas, with its love of deep porches and shady overhangs. I am blessed to work with exceptional people in my office, as well as with gifted consultants, so I asked an old, trusted carpenter what he thought about my roof design. After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “Well, it’s kind a like buying a new hat and cutting off the brim.” That was my last zero overhang house.

I think I truly began to figure out architecture when I was in my forties, after a lot of discussion with my business partner, Charles Travis. The concepts I leaned in architecture school—form, function, beauty, proportion and detail—were important, but they began to be supplemented with whimsical elements and even “accidental architecture.” I started to gravitate toward less ordered and unexpected designs, which helped me shape how the house truly felt—not just to me, but also to the homeowners. Those ideas evolved further when I visited Frank Lloyd Wright’s “Fallingwater” and Fay Jones’ chapel, “Thorncrown.” They are both wonderful buildings, inside and out, with a great feel. I’m not yet sure what kind of impact they will have, as I am mid-stream in a career of surprises—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.