It’s no secret that the McMansion’s proliferation on the American landscape is tied to the recent property bubble. According to an August, 2008 paper by James Poterba of MIT and Todd Sinai of Wharton, America’s idiosyncratic tax system broadly inflates demand in the housing market. In a nutshell, “the mortgage interest deduction, the property tax deduction, the unique treatment of capital gains on owner-occupied homes, and the absence of taxation on imputed rent,” can all be implicated in driving ordinary Americans to spend more on housing than would be expected given their incomes.

Homeowners and property speculators alike benefited from the rapid extension of credit in the mortgage market during the last decade. Financial innovation on Wall Street and among mortgage lending institutions made borrowing money to buy or build a new home the easiest it had ever been. 

In an April article in Forbes magazine, Dartmouth’s own Todd Zywicki asserts that Greenspan’s decision to lower short-term interest rates paved the way for super-low interest adjustable rate mortgages to permeate the market. These were wildly popular among young families and those with poor credit, opening the possibility of homeownership to tens of millions.

The housing bubble offers us a simple explanation for the boom in new residential construction in the years leading up to 2007. But what it fails to explain is why the McMansion as a style and mode of construction achieved preeminence during this period. What drove Americans to embrace oversized, glitzy stucco boxes without yards? To answer this question, we need to look beyond the financial indicators.

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When my grandparents moved to Holladay, Utah, shortly before they had my dad in 1953, the neighborhood consisted mostly of orchards and vacation homes. The house they settled into—a trim, 1920’s cottage on Casto Lane that had belonged to an orchard groundskeeper—was already a relic of the area’s fading pastoral heritage.

Casto Lane was still a dirt road when my dad was born, but it was paved before he could remember. It meets with Holladay Boulevard at its west end, at the bottom of the hill. From there, it soars towards the foot of Mount Olympus, gaining 200 feet of elevation as it plows into the arid hillside. At the top, Casto used to join up with Wasatch Boulevard, a meandering highway perched high on a natural bench above the valley.

The stretch of the Boulevard above Holladay forms an impenetrable border against civilization, and above it the tame suburbs yield to writhing, stunted oaks and crumbling limestone the color of rust.

As my dad was growing up, so was the neighborhood: the orchards were slowly filled in, replaced by rows of boxy, Midcentury Modern homes of various sizes and styles. Some builders opted for ever-popular ramblers, complete with bunker windows, car ports and flat, leaky gravel roofs. Others, ostensibly with the budgets to do so, were more experimental, toying with parabolic arches, glass walls, and cantilevered footbridges leading from the streets to the front door.

By late 70’s, Holladay was an “established suburb,” its trees were mature enough to obstruct the mountain views, and the city limits were now three miles down the road in nearby Cottonwood Heights, then a sleepy “exurb” at the mouth of Big Cottonwood Canyon. This was where my dad built his own home in 1978. Looking at greenish, overexposed Polaroids he took of the area reveals how it, too, would change in the years to come.

Like Holladay before it, Cottonwood Heights made a swift transition from sparse, windblown outskirt to leafy community in a decade’s time. Barren hills became cluttered with human dwellings, followed by wide highways and transplanted greenery. This pattern continued in earnest until the 1990’s, when urban sprawl had consumed the last of the remaining land on the east side of the Salt Lake Valley.

My grandmother has lived on the same half acre plot in Holladay for nearly sixty years now. She is a consummate gardener, and the property is a monument to decades of her hard labor. She has cultivated a relative jungle here, given the dry climate, with the help of a hundred year-old irrigation canal that creeps along the eastern edge of her verdant corner of the world. For half a century, this wooded sanctuary managed to resist the changes happening in the outside world.

But Holladay is in transition again. During the last decade, a new wave of building has fundamentally altered the neighborhood’s character. Where a golden field and distant, white-capped peaks used to backlight the maples south of the house, now the view has disappeared, replaced by an imperious slate-gray block some 30 feet high. To the east, an identical spectacle rises behind the walnut trees, obscuring what used to be Mount Olympus.

At the bottom of the street, a grove of Scots Pines has turned into a triad of imitation French manor houses clustered around a truncated cul-de-sac. The development comes complete with an imposing iron gate, surely meant to deter Vikings and bread rioters.

Up the street, a “stone” villa sprawls across two lots and handily dwarfs its own garage, which is large enough itself to house a full-sized RV or a few decommissioned ICBM’s.

Holladay’s turn-of-the-century cottages and horse pastures are disappearing. In their place, palatial halls have sprouted on the same postage stamp-sized lots. What in hell’s name is happening?

New York environmentalist Jay Westervelt may have been the first to use the term “McMansion” in 1990, although some sources will attest that it first appeared either in the San Diego Union-Tribune or the Los Angeles Times the same year. The term has performed some semantic gymnastics in the years since then, and even today its definition isn’t entirely clear.

Originally, a “McMansion” was any cookie-cutter tract home, mass-produced and assembled into a homogeneous (and highly profitable) subdivision by an enterprising developer. Later, the term came to refer specifically to a kind of oversize unit targeted at middle and upper-middle class buyers. Nowadays, it also implies a kind of eclectic architectural style commonly associated with this type of structure. McMansions are distinguished from true mansions by their quality of design and construction as well as the size of the lots they occupy.

This specificity aside, between 1980 and 2007, “McMansion eclectic” became the predominant building style among residential developers in the United States. McMansions aren’t endemic to any particular region; rather, they are most common in those areas of the country that experienced the rapidest suburban growth in past decades.

If you hail from a suburban, upper-middle class neighborhood and occupy a home that is less than 25 years old, it is very likely you live in one. If you’re not sure, consider the following:

First, McMansions distinguish themselves by their size. According to the National Association of Home Builders, American homes have been growing steadily for decades. The median size in 1970 was 1,400 square feet; by 2007, it had risen to 2,500. Owning a home of greater than 3,000 square feet was once a marker of significant wealth; today developers routinely build units of between 4,000 and 6,000 square feet in middle-class neighborhoods.

But the square footage of these homes alone is rarely what gets people’s attention, for better or for worse. Average lot sizes have been declining more rapidly than floorspace has been growing—that is, just as the “waistline” of the average single-family home has bloated, its trousers have shrunken to boot. The NAHB reports that between 1990 and 1998 alone, the average lot size belonging to a single family declined from 14,000 to around 12,000 square feet. Consequently, McMansions tend to swell against property lines, shrinking lawns down to useless, vestigial strips. In newer, lower-cost developments, it’s not uncommon to see new homes squeezed to within ten feet of one another.

McMansions are also distinguished by their comparatively large number of rooms. Although the average household family size shrank from 3.1 in 1974 to 2.6 thirty years later, rooms have proliferated in both number and function. Whereas older homes may have consisted of a kitchen, a living/dining area, 2-4 bedrooms (adaptable as studies or “dens”) and 1-3 bathrooms, McMansion-style homes tend to include a central “great” room, separate living and dining rooms, “rec rooms,” studies, exercise rooms, and innumerable others in addition to traditional living quarters. Very common as well are garages equipped to house three cars or more. Again, before the 1980s, these were amenities typically reserved for the wealthy, but today they come standard with newer Middle-American homes. Many of these extra spaces see very little use. 

McMansion architecture typically encompasses a pastiche of styles, which varies by region, neighborhood, and builders’ preferences. Most units, however, follow a few basic guidelines.

The abundance of rooms of different functions means that an ordinary McMansion has a relatively complex layout. Designers tend to focus on organizing the interior elements and allowing this to dictate the building’s exterior appearance. From the outside and in the front elevation in particular, they tend to be highly complex, irregular, and asymmetrical.

The convoluted layout makes for what contractors refer to as a “busy” roofline, which usually includes an irregular, unpredictable mix of hips and gables. This has the added effect of making the structure look larger than it really is. The roof almost always has a relatively high, and sometimes soaring, pitch. Since the majority of these homes are two stories or more, McMansions tend to tower over their older counterparts.

McMansions make vague reference to traditional or regional styles, but rarely in a costly way. Designers make use of prefabricated vinyl ornaments to create the illusion of cornices, archways, and columns to recall, but almost never to faithfully replicate, historical details. The façade often incorporates brick or cultured (that is, manufactured, as opposed to quarried) stone quoins to give the structure the appearance of age and permanence, but these features are always applied superficially. The front elevation may include as many as four different materials. Masonry features end at the front corners of the house and this is blatantly apparent from any viewing angle—except for the one or two appearing in promotional brochures. Designers pay very little attention to the appearance of the sides or rear of the house, which are featureless and usually sided in stucco, vinyl, or wood.

Developers have refined the mass production of these homes into a kind of economic art. Depending on the target price range, they may make use of lower quality materials and fixtures to keep costs at a minimum. Using just one or a small number of identical plans, large, untrained crews can construct these homes with minimal time or effort. This, however, means that each lot needs to be a “blank slate,” to eliminate the costs of adapting each building’s design to the local topography. Preparing the site entails wiping it clean of any standing trees and structures, and possibly leveling the terrain. When a large number of homes are constructed in an established community like Holladay, it changes the character of the neighborhood radically and irreversibly.

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So how did we get here?

Americans’ infatuation with suburbia is older than you might realize. As early as the 1840’s, upper-crust urban refugees were seeking the tranquil comforts of planned communities. With the industrial revolution, American cities became choked with soot, and impoverished immigrants clogged the streets and tenements. As heads of households departed for factory floors, crime and alcoholism spread among immigrant and native communities alike. Family businesses deteriorated and so, too, did family units.

Many in the Protestant Old Guard, alarmed at the tide of physical and moral decay, packed up and headed for the countryside, seeking refuge from the tumult of modernization. At first, their planned, park-like cottage communities were havens only for the wealthy. But successive waves of suburban growth during the late 19th and early 20th century brought more and more ordinary families into these havens.

Suburbs gave residents the ability to exercise independence and reap the benefits of land ownership (albeit in miniature), to control a cleanly delineated “domain,” and to provide a shelter for “traditional” culture and virtues. The architecture chosen for these communities has always reflected the values of their inhabitants. Indeed, suburban architecture in the US has always been among the most expressive of contemporary middle class aspirations and ideals.

The earliest suburbs were the birthplace of the “American Gothic” aesthetic. Drawing inspiration from medieval examples, this mode of construction was meant to explicitly indicate a homeowner’s commitment to Christian ideals. It was a time of religious self-consciousness and re-awakening, and amid the apparent moral decline that accompanied industrialization, the Gothic style suitably communicated Protestant America’s desire to return to the pious simplicity of their forbears.

At the beginning of the 20^th century, the ubiquitous Frank Lloyd Wright made strides in adapting suburban architecture to his own unique brand of Modernism. His sprawling, earth-hugging designs made no reference to history, but instead firmly embraced the American landscape and family life as inspiration for a wholly new kind of family home.

During the postwar housing boom, Americans flocked to simple, flat-roofed ranch houses partly inspired by Wright’s later “Usonian” designs. Wright had intended these homes to be simple and affordable to middle-class families, but even in its simplest form a Wrightian masterpiece was far from cheap. Shortly after his death, though, American developers of a somewhat less artistic bent converted the Usonian concept into a more economical form—the so-called “rambler.” Though bland and unassuming by today’s standards, in the 1950’s and 60’s, these ranch houses were coveted wonders made possible by space age industry. Although Modern architecture had already taken hold in Europe and America’s more progressive cities, it was the first (and so far, only) time when this revolutionary style would be embraced by the suburban middle class.

By the late 1960’s, many perceived Modern buildings to be soulless and alienating. “Late Modern” architects made some attempts to redeem the imposing style through a return to natural materials and greater attention to placement and environment. But the economic tumult of the 1970s limited the scale on which this movement could take hold in ordinary neighborhoods.

Enter Robert Venturi, a Princeton grad and the founding architect of the Postmodern movement. Venturi objected to Modernism’s flat rejection of historical styles, and condemned the “puritanical” idea that architecture should convey solemnity and dignity. In answer to Mies van der Rohe’s Modernist creed, “Less is more,” Venturi declared, “Less is a bore.”

Venturi and his disciples, the Postmodernists, believed that Modernist architecture had abandoned its essential human component. They endeavored instead to design buildings that were bright, comforting, and pleasing. In 1968, Venturi famously led a class at the Yale School of Architecture through Las Vegas, to demonstrate how the city’s glitzy, tasteless edifices had captured the hearts and minds of their visitors. His writings gave rise to an anti-Modernist revolution, and now his Disneyesque veneers and playful attempts at historicism can be seen in newer strip malls and resort hotels across the nation (Venturi even left his mark in our secluded enclave here in Hanover: in 1976, he oversaw the renovation of the Horace Cummings Memorial Hall at the Thayer School of Engineering. In 1998, Venturi designed Berry Memorial Library).

But more importantly, Venturi’s ideas—quasi-revived historicism and an emphasis on visual pleasantness in lieu of more “elitist” aesthetics—gave rise to the “McMansion eclectic” style as we know it.

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Princeton and Yale aren’t completely to blame for the McMansion, however. Houses are more than an art form—they’re consumer products, functions of demand and culture. The essence of McMansion architecture owes to major changes in the American lifestyle since the 1980’s.

A typical McMansion is a museum of conspicuous consumption. A multitude of rooms, an elegant façade, and a five-car garage all attest to a family’s status and success. Indeed, developers and real estate agents understand that property equals image. McMansions are specially designed to dazzle buyers and neighbors alike.

In the 1980’s, real estate agents coined the term “ten-minute house” to describe a home that could be sold within the span of a ten-minute visit. Newer homes have been constructed with this marketability in mind. The “great room,” an entry hall organized around a central stair, with vaulted ceilings and a chandelier, is a perfect example of a feature designed specifically for this purpose. Great rooms are meant to convey an instant sense of opulence and grandeur to a new visitor.

Good homes leave good first impressions. But McMansions have taken the art of appearances into the realm of deception. Grand entry ways and stunning facades mask shoddy workmanship, cheap materials, and inefficiency. Luxury homes are notoriously expensive to own, not just because of the extra square footage or higher property taxes.

Climate control is a major problem. Great rooms, vaulted ceilings, and towering attics create a tremendous amount of air space that is difficult and costly to maintain at a certain temperature. To make matters worse, McMansions sport windows galore, and this abundance of glass accelerates heat loss. A home built with particularly cheap materials may also have deficient insulation.

These and other issues mean that long-term owners will incur significant repair and remodeling expenses during the house’s lifetime. Poor-quality fixtures and appliances will eventually need to be replaced, as will energy inefficient windows and doors. McMansions built during the 1980’s and 90’s are already beginning to deteriorate, creating a thriving industry for contractors who specialize in addressing these issues.

It’s almost too easy to draw parallels between the shortsighted, image-conscious, insubstantial McMansion style and the wider consumer culture that bought into it. These homes proliferated in a time of burgeoning, inflated wealth and prosperity that many are now calling the “Second Gilded Age.” Their skin-deep beauty reminds us of Wall Street’s papier maché profits. Their bloated footprints recall the silent epidemic of obesity. Disappearing lawns and porches bring to mind a digital society that no longer leaves the house to interact.

And yet a relative instant of economic tumult has brought McMansion civilization to its knees. In Sunbelt states, entire subdivisions now sit vacant or unfinished. Last year’s oil shock has driven energy-conscious consumers to consider buying homes closer to their workplaces. And there are new indications that the next generation of homebuyers value craftsmanship, location, and efficiency over size and opulence. In the very near term, we may yet witness a “New Modernist” movement overtaking the Postmodern style in residential architecture, as it has already done on a commercial and institutional level.

But there will be no restoring the orchards, country cottages, or horse pastures we’ve lost during the recent growth spurt. There is no way to replace the countless bungalows and Victorians deemed “too small” or “too old” to satiate our modern appetites. We can only hope that tomorrow’s builders learn from these examples, and for the time being, we can be certain that the McMansion legacy is here to stay.

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Wyatt McKean is a sophomore at the College and the Executive Editor of TDI. His blog, “Wyatt’s World,” can be found here on DartmouthIndependent.com.