B.C. Binning Residence - Canada's Original West Coast Modern Built 1941

The Binning Residence built 1941 © Stacy Reynaud

Originally published in 2010 with additional commentary in 2013 regarding the sale of the BC Binning Residence by The Land Conservancy (TLC).

All photos © Stacy Reynaud

Residence from the road. Summer 2010

built of concrete, cedar and drywall in 1941

© Stacy Reynaud

Terraced backyard built into the slope.

 Summer 2010 © Stacy Reynaud

Designed with help of BC mid-century architect Ned Pratt 

©Stacy Reynaud

B.C. Binning Residence

Original address plate ©Stacy Reynaud

 

Interior murals by Binning © Stacy Reynaud

Binning mural at the end of the main hall. Washroom to the left. BC Binning's bedroom and studio to the right up a small flight of stairs. ©Stacy Reynaud

Living room with original built-ins and mid-century furniture. © Stacy Reynaud

Open concept mid-century style. Terraced backyard built into slope. View of ocean.

 © Stacy Reynaud

View from the back yard and Mrs. Binning's bedroom.

Local river stone fireplace. ©Stacy Reynaud

Mrs Binning passed away in the home in 2007 at age 101. 

She bequeathed the home to the TLC. 

The TLC sold the home a few years later for just over $2M.

There were many court battles. 

Some of which were covered here on Bijou Living. 

Links above or view more West Coast Modern architecture posts under Architecture

These photos are all from a tour I did of the home in Summer 2010. ©Stacy Reynaud

The Binning Residence and the original furniture and art. Summer 2010 © Stacy Reynaud

Original floor, Binning hall mural, BC ceramics by Wayne Ngan & Thomas Kakinuma.

The Binning's were avid collectors. Where'd the collection end up? © Stacy Reynaud

Exterior view into the West facing kitchen.

West Kitchen window. © Stacy Reynaud

Original cupboards sourced from BC wood. © Stacy Reynaud

Original kitchenware. © Stacy Reynaud

Binning Residence Backyard Summer 2010.

 River stone from interior wall carries on to the exterior.

West Vancouver ©Stacy Reynaud

Living room seating area with wood burning fireplace. Perfection. Binning Residence © Stacy Reynaud

Danish modern dining room table and chairs. 

Wood kitchen cabinets visible to the right. © Stacy Reynaud

Washroom beside Binning mural. Binning's  bedroom to the right. © Stacy Reynaud

The Binning's frequently travelled to Japan and their collections remained on display.

Lots of MCM teak furniture. 

© Stacy Reynaud

Collectables from the Binnings' travels. © Stacy Reynaud

View from the hallway. © Stacy Reynaud

Mrs. Binning's calendar from May 2007. 

Mrs Vincent Massey was one of the last people to see Mrs. Binning. 

She came for a visit along with two others May 25, 2007. 

She passed away in the home the same day.

To honour Mrs. Binning, the calendar remained open to the day she died.

© Stacy Reynaud

The entire home and its contents were bequeathed to the TLC. 

I have no idea where the contents went after the sale of the home in 2015. 

Tragic.

© Stacy Reynaud

Hans Wegner © Stacy Reynaud

One washroom in the home.

Bright yellow tiling.

Gorgeous.

© Stacy Reynaud

Original local cedar.

Mrs. Binning's room where she passed. 

View to the backyard and ocean.

© Stacy Reynaud

Cedar walls. Built in bed.

©Stacy Reynaud

Three steps up to Mr. Binning's room. Directly across the hall from Mrs. Binning.

© Stacy Reynaud

Mr. Binning's dresser, storage and golf clubs.

Mr Binning's studio was adjoined to his bedroom. The left (North) window is the front of the house viewable from the road. Notice the West facing windows at the top. The hallway is to the right. Also high windows. The 'window' in the hall is the opaque window in the living room seating area.

© Stacy Reynaud

Mr. Binning's bedroom to the far right. High windows let just the right amount of light into his studio. 

© Stacy Reynaud

Mr. Binning's studio is on the other side of the high windows.

Exterior mural by Mr. Binning.

© Stacy Reynaud

Work that was underway. Where did it end up?

© Stacy Reynaud

Built in corner nook with collectables from their frequent travels to Japan. Photo of Mrs. Binning pinned to the wall. Where did it go? © Stacy Reynaud

 

Mr. Binning's desk drawer. FIRST CLASS MALE stamp. Where'd it go?

© Stacy Reynaud

JESSIE AND B.C. BINNING

Old Fashioned Granola Recipe

here's how to make classic granola - image Stacy Reynaud

It's $20 for 500 grams of granola on Hornby. Why? 

I made my own. Nothing fancy, just old-fashioned granola. 

It's vegan if that makes any difference.

Granola lasts about two weeks in an airtight container. 

Buy a vacuum sealer, and you can keep it for six to eight months! I just bought this one, and I love it.

INGREDIENTS

• 4 cups old-fashioned rolled oats
• 6 tablespoons each of pecans, pumpkin seeds, almonds*
• 1/2 cup packed light brown sugar
• 1/4 teaspoon salt
• 1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon cardamom
• 1/3 cup coconut oil (melted)
• 1/4 cup agave syrup
• 1 tablespoon granulated sugar
• 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

STEPS

1. Preheat oven to 300 F.
2. Grease a large baking pan (I use vegan butter).
3. Mix the oats, pecans, brown sugar, salt, cinnamon and cardamom in a large bowl.
4. Combine the oil, agave, and granulated sugar in a small saucepan.
5. Bring to a simmer; immediately remove from the heat and stir in vanilla.
6. Pour over the oat mixture.
7. Stir well until thoroughly combined.
8. Spread in the prepared baking pan.
9. Bake until golden brown - between 25-30 minutes - stirring every 8-10 minutes.
10. Transfer the pan to a rack and let cool completely*

* I soak my pecans and almonds in water for a few hours and then bake at 250 F for 50 minutes. If you do this, too, remember that the nuts are already cooked and burn when you put them in the oven again for 30 minutes. I learned the hard way! 

* Because we're using coconut oil, the granola sticks together quite well (coconut oil solidifies when cool). I let my granola cool for about an hour, then use a spatula to lift it out of the pan and break it up.

Doused in Mud Soaked in Bleach

My home on Hornby Island

Come doused in mud, soaked in bleach 

As I want you to be 

As a trend, as a friend 

As an old memoria 

 - Kurt Cobain, Come as You Are

It was Christmas Eve, and I wanted to dress up. I knew it'd be my cat Flo's, and possibly my Dad's, last Christmas, but something in me wanted to get dressed up,

Only a few pairs of socks and a black nightie (just in case), made it into my unfastenable duffel bag for my two-week stay, and here I was on week 30—two. 

Wearing the same fucking thing:

 

✅    men's vintage jeans - six sizes too big 

✅    thrifted wool Acne sweater – heavily repaired 

✅    burgundy fast-fashion toque – stretched out 

✅    men's 50-year-old dead duck down coat – shedding feathers 

✅    hiking boots - muddy 

I was as dumpy and worn out as my clothes. 

I can't remember if I was wearing the fake fur coat when I took off from Vancouver nine months prior or if I'd shoved it into my conveniently unfastenable bag while I ran out my door. Probably the latter. 

Well whatever, it now hung on a hook-shaped piece of driftwood that my Dad drilled into the wall beside my front door—the summer before all this shit happened. 

Pacificnorthwest accountrement

My fuck this, I don't give a shit anymore attitude wasn't fully developed yet at nine months in, but it was strong enough to construct a whatever; I'm going to dress up and find some people to stand around with. 

That dusty fake fur was the dressiest thing I had on that island of woe.

I thought about styling the dust catcher up with my little black nightie, long johns and hiking boots—and since grunge never died on Hornby...

Too friggin cold. 

Scratched that.

Agh Go.

I wiped off my boots and grabbed the dusty coat on the way out the door. I was headed to Ringside to see if I could find some humans. 

Ringside's Hornby's version of downtown and is located at the Island's only four-way stop. It consists of six vibrantly painted hand-built caravans organized in a circle - hence Ringside - a conglomerate of local artisan wares, tie-dyed tourist crap, seasonal tacos, and city-priced coffee. It's also a dependable spot where locals gather for rumours and news. You go to the gravel gas lot to find out where to get an iron clawfoot tub, but if you want to know whose nephew is sleeping with Helene's daughter, you go to Ringside. 

The past nine months were difficult for everyone on the Island. The Co-op grocery constantly ran out of food and supplies, people were divided by medical beliefs, and the winter hurricane winds had started early. 

As usual, I wasn't sure what I'd encounter beyond my gated yard, but I hoped it was humans. 

Walking across the gravel lot, I was greeted by social anxiety. I wasn't the only one who'd made the Christmas Eve pilgrimage. Ringside was packed. Folks dressed up in moth-eaten fur coats from the free store, Halloween top hats, silver Christmas boas from that box up in the rafters and the most outlandishly wacked array of Christmas accoutrements. 

Some stood alone, 

others in pairs, 

but most looked 

                       awkward 

and uncomfortable. 

It was a gathering of misfits, bound by our haphazard Christmas finery, an unbeknownst faith and resilience only a few will ever know. 

We'd pulled ourselves together in whatever way we could and left the isolation of our homes. Drawn together by a tradition that not many of us followed in the hopes of finding another suffering human in search of compassion. 

It takes courage to come out from behind a wall of isolating depression—IYKYK

Although I didn't talk to anyone on Christmas Eve, sharing the presence of other raw souls was more than enough.

The Back 40

my back 40

The wind's cold on my face, but I won't go inside until I feel the chill deep within my cheeks. 

Stoke the fire, 

drink hot chocolate, 

snuggle with my cat, and 

watch the birds from the bed beside the window. 

Dark-eyed Juncos snacking on Salal berries, 

Spotted Towhees kicking up dry leaves and

Rufous Hummingbirds fighting over the last flower on the Oregon grape. 

fireside good times 2020

My yard's my sanctuary. 

The cedars and firs protect me, 

hold me, 

and help me heal. 

Because 

there are 

no

arms 

to fall 

into. 

me in my yard 2019

My first autumn on the island was spent clearing my land by hand—the Back 40. I planned to build some raised vegetable beds and live off the land as much as possible. 

I wasn't sure exactly how to make those beds or where I'd get the soil, but that's what I wanted to do. Unfortunately, the only yard tools I had were a rotting pick axe I found in the bushes and a metal lawn rake left by the previous owners. 

back 40 after a few hours pulling crap out -  Fall 2019

trying to figure out how to make a raised bed

The Back 40 was about half an acre filled with: 

rocks 

sandy soil 

4 ft tall bracken ferns 

salal 

huckleberry 

blackberry 

dandelion and 

garter snakes 

before

the finished product - rocks are under the Fir tree top right

There were a lot of rocks on my property: giant slabs of conglomerate, perfectly round stones, and large boulders. 

I'd choose the spot I'd work on that day by the rock I tripped over. 

Trip 

Curse 

Kick 

Dig 

I'd spend the day digging the rocks out. 

First, I'd kick them to see what I was dealing with, 

and then I'd kick them some more because it felt good. 

The work - physically draining but emotionally satisfying. 

one of my few tools

Once I could see more of the rock, I'd try to pull it out with my stinky work glove-clad hands. If that didn't work, I'd use the head of the pick axe—whose handle broke off the first time I used it. 

Sometimes, the rocks were hidden by thick Salal bushes. In which case, once the snakes vacated, I'd start cutting the Salal back to grab hold of its roots and pull it out while briefly considering business opportunities in Salal distribution. 

stinky work gloves in Spring

My buddy Dave warned me not to try and pull the Salal out. 

Stace, you can't win against Salal. 

I didn't listen. No matter how many times I tried, I failed. 

Salal has a deep and wide root system. 

Most of the time I'd end up in a tug of war and on my ass. 

Root system still intact. 

Clearing the rocks became an obsessive challenge. 

the back 40 after I pulled out the ferns, salal and threw rocks

adhd hyperfocused back 40 after I was done with it

When the day's battle with the Salal and the rocks came to an end, I'd throw the rocks under the tallest tree on my property—the Douglas fir, which stood over 100 feet tall and whose top twinkled like a star on a Christmas tree when the setting sun caught it just right. 

Sometimes, I'd pretend I was a shot putter; other times, I was back on the softball field, and even more times, I was hurling balls of fire. 

Overhand 

Underhand 

Hurl 

I threw the rocks with my eyes closed. 

Occasionally, over my shoulder for luck. 

With each rock I threw, I released a stuck memory. 

The flat clap of the rock hitting another signified success. 

I never saw where they'd land, and the thick Salal surrounding the tree hid the pile. 

I'd consider future inhabitants of the land pondering the meaning of all the rocks piled under the tree. 

Is something buried there? 

Yes.

The Back 40 after I cleared it and put in the beds and firepit