The news that Michael Sutton had passed away was not surprising but nonetheless a gaping hole opened in me. With every recent message I had sent, I wondered which would be the last.
Michael has inhabited my thoughts in one way or another since the fortuitous day I stumbled upon the townhouse in The Courtyards that would become my first home in 2000. When I walked in the door I just knew. Anthony (my partner then and husband now), who did not have much to say about architecture in general, and who was far more practical about making financial choices knew that we were not walking away from the encounter unscathed. We pooled our resources and were able to buy our first home.
The Courtyards (Wallace Honiball via Artefacts)
I have visceral memories of that place. The space was generous, the finishes sparse, the form simple and clean. The high walled courtyard garden was our haven. Brutal concrete beams over the terrace were covered in an exuberant banksia under which we huddled in summer. At night we shut ourselves away from the world behind sliding shutters and were woken in the morning by the slices of light through the slats.
That year, I wrote a rather amateur dissertation on Michael’s work with the...
