Warning: The following post contains images that will horrify you. Readers are likely to experience nausea, vomiting, uncontrollable weeping and outrage at what they are about to see. Salvaged Beauty takes no responsibility for your weak stomach or anger-management issues, and advises that you proceed with discretion…

Sick is the only way to describe how I feel now whenever I head into Toronto via Kingston Rd. in Scarborough. I know this stretch of road pretty well, having traveled along it countless times when I was much younger, on my way to and from dancing classes.

The red bungalow you see in this photo spoke to me even then—long before I knew or cared about architectural styles and craftsman design. It was just my favourite house, and someday when I was bigger I was going to live in a house just like it.
That was back in the ‘70s, when this home was on the outer perimeter of the suburb of Scarborough. At that time, its neighbouring properties were other homes, all with similarly large lots of almost an acre. But this one was special—its style was quite different from all the others. I thought it looked like a giant gingerbread house, a chalet in Switzerland, or somewhere Goldilocks might have lived if fairy tales were real. The gardens were lush, and in those days there was a forest of mature pines behind this stretch of suburbia.

In 2001, my husband and I decided to search for a new home, and were already fans of the arts and crafts movement. John, who commutes to the city daily, kept telling me about this gorgeous bungalow that was for sale, and borrowed my camera one day to take photos—even though we had no intention of moving closer to Toronto. I laughed when I saw the pictures, since I knew this home well. Priced at over a million dollars, there was no way we could even entertain thoughts of owning it—but we wondered who would buy it, since that stretch of road was now a wasteland of deteriorating strip malls, gas stations and used car lots, and every other single-family dwelling that once stood nearby was razed long ago.

The charming red house was eventually purchased by a developer and rented out to a tenant, and thus began its quick descent into the annals of bungalow perversion.

Ironically, its first and last incarnation post-sale was as a religious temple…a religion whose followers were definitely guilty of having God-awful taste in decorating. What they did to the exterior of this house is deeply…sinful.
Believe it or not, now that the house is abandoned once again, it actually looks much better than it did a year ago – the tacky plastic devotional statues, religious posters and garishly-coloured signage which cluttered the property are gone—as is a great deal of garbage.

I took these photos on Tuesday as we drove by on our way to Niagara Falls (via Toronto). Honestly, I felt like I shouldn’t even be photographing this building in its present state. It seemed pitiful and almost shameful, and I wonder if that’s what taking a photo of a victim of abuse or tragedy must be like for the photographer. You can document the injustice, but in doing so, how can you not help but feel like you’ve just violated them further?

I suppose the end is truly near for my beloved red bungalow. She was unique – a house that was once one of the most admired and well-tended in the neighbourhood. The home of my dreams.
Yet, even in her ravaged state she stands defiant—those strong, graceful lines softening her vulgar makeup…she’s still beautiful in her last hours.

technorati tags: houseblog, remuddling, craftsman+bungalow, home+renovation+nightmares