Last month, I read an article about a developer in Montreal who wanted to gut a beautiful Art Deco bank building rather than restore it. Got me thinking about how quickly we write off things that seem worn out or outdated, whether it’s buildings or people or neighborhoods. After thirty-eight years in the same house and eight years of major modifications to help my wife and me age in place, I’ve learned something important: sometimes the bones are better than anything new you could build.
I’ve been following restoration projects across Canada for the past few years, partly because I got interested in how older buildings were originally designed to work with natural light and ventilation – things we’re trying to bring back into modern design now. That Montreal bank story really struck me. The building had incredible terrazzo floors that just needed proper cleaning, original steel casement windows from 1929 that could be restored to be energy-efficient, and spatial qualities that would cost a fortune to recreate today.
It made me think about our own house. When we bought it in 1987, everything was very much of its time – heavy drapes, dark wood paneling, wall-to-wall carpeting in that peachy-beige color that was everywhere then. Over the years, especially after my wife’s stroke, I’ve learned that some of the original features we covered up or removed were actually better than what we replaced them with.
Canadian restoration work faces the same challenges we deal with as homeowners here in Michigan – brutal winters, freeze-thaw cycles that damage masonry, ice dams that wreak havoc on rooflines. I remember reading about a Victorian mansion in Winnipeg where previous owners had installed modern siding right over the original clapboard. Seemed practical at the time, but it created moisture problems that nearly destroyed the whole structure.
That’s exactly what happened in our basement. Previous owners had installed paneling over the original stone foundation walls, probably thinking it looked more finished. When I pulled it down eight years ago to install accessibility features, I found moisture damage and mold that had been building up for decades. The original stone walls, once properly cleaned and sealed, actually provided better moisture control than the modern covering.
What I find fascinating about restoration work is that it’s not just about preserving pretty old buildings – it’s about creating spaces that work for contemporary life while respecting what came before. That’s essentially what my wife and I have been doing for the past eight years. We’re not trying to turn our house into a museum of 1987, but we’re also not throwing away everything that worked well originally.
The most dramatic example I read about was a grain elevator conversion in Saskatchewan. Everyone thought the developers were crazy, but grain elevators have these incredible vertical spaces with amazing natural light and structural systems that would be impossibly expensive to recreate. They converted it into live-work studios for artists, keeping the industrial character while adding modern amenities.
That project reminded me of our church’s fellowship hall. It’s in a building from the 1960s that everyone keeps saying we should tear down and replace. But the original design has these huge south-facing windows that flood the space with natural light, and the ceiling height creates acoustics that work beautifully for gatherings. Instead of demolition, we’re working on restoration – cleaning up the windows, improving the lighting systems, making the space more accessible. Much cheaper than starting over, and we keep the character that makes it special.
What strikes me about Canadian restoration work is how it connects buildings to their specific places in ways new construction often doesn’t. Every region developed building traditions based on local materials and climate conditions. Red brick factories in Hamilton. Log construction from Quebec. The residential architecture of St. John’s with steep roofs designed to shed snow and rain.
Our house has some of those regional characteristics too – the way it’s positioned on the lot to capture winter sun, the original windows that were sized and placed to provide natural ventilation before central air conditioning. When I enlarged some windows for my wife, I tried to follow those same principles rather than just cutting holes wherever it was convenient.
I’ve been spending time in our local historical society’s archives, learning about how our neighborhood developed and what our house looked like originally. Found some photographs from the 1960s showing that many houses on our street had front porches that were later enclosed or removed. Ours was enclosed sometime in the 1970s, but the original structure is still there under the siding.
I’m thinking about restoring that porch as my next project. Not because I’m trying to recreate 1960, but because it would give my wife accessible outdoor space and create better connection between our living room and the front yard. The original builders positioned it to catch evening breezes – natural cooling that we lost when it was enclosed.
The integration part is where restoration gets really interesting. Modern buildings often feel like they could be anywhere – they don’t respond to their specific site or climate or community. Restoration projects force you to work with existing relationships – mature trees, sight lines, neighborhood context. You can’t just impose whatever design you want.
I’ve started incorporating more natural systems into our home improvements, not just because it’s trendy, but because our house was originally designed with natural ventilation and lighting strategies that work better than the mechanical systems we added later. Those heavy drapes we had for decades blocked natural light that could have reduced our need for artificial lighting during the day.
When I restored the original transom windows above our interior doors, it improved air circulation throughout the house in ways I hadn’t expected. Simple features that the original builders included because they understood how air and light move through spaces. We’d covered them up with trim and paint, thinking they were outdated, but they actually solved problems we were trying to fix with expensive HVAC modifications.
Adaptive reuse makes sense for homeowners too. Churches becoming community centers, warehouses becoming lofts, schools becoming artist studios – we’ve done the residential version by converting our formal dining room into my wife’s therapy and exercise space. The room’s original proportions and natural light made it perfect for that use, better than any purpose-built medical facility.
What really drives this approach for me is community connection. When you maintain and restore buildings that people remember, you’re preserving continuity with place and memory. Our neighbors have stories about our house from when their kids played with our kids, from block parties in the 1990s, from how the neighborhood looked when it was newer.
These stories help me understand which changes to make and which original features are worth preserving. The oak tree in our front yard that I thought about removing for easier lawn maintenance? Three neighbors mentioned how their grandkids had climbed it. That tree stays, and I’m designing the porch restoration to work around it.
The environmental argument for restoration makes sense too. The embodied energy in existing buildings is enormous – all those materials, transportation costs, construction processes. Tearing down a structurally sound building to build something “more efficient” often doesn’t make sense when you account for the full lifecycle impact. Same principle applies to houses.
Working on restoration has also taught me patience in ways new construction never could. You can’t rush this work. You have to investigate existing conditions carefully before planning changes. Sometimes you discover problems that require completely different solutions than what you originally planned.
That Montreal bank project is finishing up, and the developer who originally wanted to gut everything now considers it his favorite project. The restored banking hall will become a community event space. The building feels alive again, drawing people who slow down to look through the restored storefront windows.
That’s what good restoration should do – not preserve buildings as monuments to the past, but bring them back into active relationship with contemporary community life. Same thing we’re trying to do with our house. Not turning it into a shrine to 1987, but making it work better for who we are now while respecting what made it a good home in the first place.
David is a dad of two who started caring about design after realizing how much their home environment affected his kids’ moods and sleep. He writes about family-friendly, budget-friendly ways to bring natural light, plants, and outdoor play back into everyday life.
