Every time I see a tree-house I feel as if I have been transported back into my childhood. When we were growing up I had a doll house, our dog De-john had his own little dog house, but my brother had so much more than that, he had a detached place where he could go to dream, a little tree-house which was suspended high above the ground. If I looked down from its front window I could see our entire back yard sprawled out under me. Unlike my doll house that occupied the entire corner of my bedroom, my brother’s sanctuary was located outdoors and completely private, entirely hidden from view.
Even now, after all these years, I still think of that little tree-house that was my brother’s second home, as a space so sacred that its existence could only be described as a work of art that housed the nucleus of my brother’s independent self.
It was so much more than just a wooden observation platform made from a bunch of recyclable materials we collected. It was innocent and unfinished with its sloppily laid side panels and unsecured roof; it was his paradise and his one and only refuge from the harshness of the real world below.
A frayed rope ladder hung loosely from its deck enabling us access to his lofted structure, although, he rarely extended me an invitation, he preferred spending hours alone there instead, uninterrupted, contemplating the uncertainties of his impending future.
Since those days I have driven through many neighborhoods where I occasionally have caught site of the outside of a tree-house now and again, but what I really long to see is the interiors of these structures that too stand as a monument to pure flights of adult fantasy and aesthetic creativity – what follows are some of my very favorites: