Long before I was the “Architourist,” I was a fan of Mid-Century Modern architecture. Shelving books at Eglinton Square Library, I remember being over the moon when I discovered Fifties Style: Then and Now by Richard Horn (Penguin, 1985) and, a year later, Populuxe by Thomas Hine (Knopf, 1986). Not only did these books give me the backstory, they gave me the language (Googie, biomorphic, amoeboid, woggle-and-cheese-hole, et cetera) to describe that brief period between, say, 1957 and 1969 (a.k.a. Sputnik to the moon landing) when expressive, futuristic architecture and design reigned supreme.
In 1995, I purchased Twelve Modern Houses 1945-1985 by Graham Livesey, Michael McMordie and Geoffrey Simmins (Aris Press and University of Calgary Press, 1995) and was gobsmacked by the image on the cover and the content on pages 24 to 27: Jerome Markson’s 1959 James Moses Residence in Hamilton. While I would find additional examples 10 years later as the Architourist, here was my first bit of evidence that Canadians had produced exactly the kind of Jetsons-esque, wildly expressive houses I had thought were exclusive to California.
“That house, it sang to me,” says Ken Rosenblood, who moved in with his family in 1970 after the Moses family left the country. “We already knew it was a really cool place … and we already knew all the kids on the street.”
The 360-degree fireplace hangs from the ceiling and is cradled by a circular conversation pit.Dave LeBlanc/The Globe and Mail
The street, Mayfair Place, is a little cul-de-sac a stone’s throw away from McMaster University, and Mr. Rosenblood’s father, Hamilton-born Norman Rosenblood (1934-2025), had started teaching English and applied psychoanalysis there a few years before. Plus, Ken Rosenblood’s paternal grandparents, Murray and Sylvia, already lived at No. 10: “He was the first Jew to come out of the ghetto and buy a house in Westdale in contravention to the CC&Rs [Covenants, Conditions & Restrictions],” says Mr. Rosenblood. “He did that on Bond Street, and all the Jews moved to Bond Street, including Eugene Levy’s parents. … My grandfather was an earner, to say the least, so he bought properties on Mayfair.”
Fast-forward to 1984: Ken Rosenblood leaves Hamilton and moves to Los Angeles (his mother, Laurie, an opera singer, was from California).
Fast-forward to 2003: the Architourist meets Jerome Markson (1929-2023), for the first time and I beg him to tell me more about his early, explosively creative work, such as Hamilton’s 45 Amelia St. and eight Mayfair Pl. (while Mr. Markson preferred to talk about social housing, he did later on). And while a visit to the Mayfair house (designed for his cousin and her family) eludes me, I develop a treasured friendship with Jerry and Mayta Markson.
The soaring, double-height, barrel-vaulted living room.Dave LeBlanc/The Globe and Mail
Which brings us to Saturday, July 4, 2026: armed with the lockbox code, I pull up to Mr. Markson’s magnum opus. Because of my conversation with Mr. Rosenblood and the photographs and drone videos he has sent, I’m prepared for the state of disrepair, which, he assures me, was not intentional: “It’s like a boiled frog, right. Deferred maintenance. And then the next thing you know [the house is] going down the ravine.”
The house, as I find it, has not begun its unceremonious slide into a verdant grave just yet, but there are cracks in Mr. Markson’s speckled, white-brick box that suggest soft earth and gravity are conspiring to deliver it there within the next few years.
That doesn’t stop my jaw from dropping as I turn the key and enter into the odd, small, circular vestibule – a moment to decompress from the world – and spy the soaring, double-height, barrel-vaulted living room. As I walk in and light and air envelope me, I feel that rush that I always do when experiencing the best of mid-century modern architecture: a mix of awe, childlike wonder, beauty, mortality and grace. Next, I almost run to see what the August, 1961 issue of Canadian Homes called “a giant ice cream cone”: the 360-degree fireplace, which hangs from the ceiling and is cradled by a circular conversation pit the magazine compares to a “Roman atrium.”
The street, Mayfair Place, is a little cul-de-sac a stone’s throw away from McMaster University.Courtesy Ken Rosenblood
The house, as described in the magazine, the 1995 book, and also in Laura J. Miller’s fantastic 2020 monograph, Toronto’s Inclusive Modernity: The Architecture of Jerome Markon (Figure 1), is divided into distinct living zones. There are the “wow” spaces to share with guests, contemplative spaces such as the den or enclosed porch, family spaces such as the dining area or conversation pit, and the private bedroom spaces, all achieved via a cruciform plan with areas of compression, expansion and an interplay between strict Mies van der Rohe geometry and Alvar Aalto playfulness (Mr. Markson was a fan of both). It was the “first of Markson’s houses to earn widespread recognition in the architectural press,” writes Ms. Miller. “It is easy to see why.”
So, what to do with a landmark? Mr. Rosenblood, who owns 75 per cent of the house (his sister owns 25), has the house listed for sale for $1, but he doesn’t really want to sell it: “I’m just trying to keep it spicy and figure out what the market’s going to tell me to do,” he says cryptically. “I know that when people visit and go in it, they have a reaction.”
The cover of the August, 1961 issue of Canadian Homes, featuring historical views of James Moses Residence.Courtesy Ken Rosenblood
He hopes that reactions are so great – and how could they not be? – that social media will explode to the point where he can interest Google or Tesla in helping him produce a documentary series. And what a series it would be: stabilize the house; source original materials to restore it; refurnish and decorate; make it as sustainable as possible; and then transform it into a Jetsons-esque model home featuring the most futuristic technology a tech giant can dream up. Mr. Rosenblood even has plans for a new, subterranean level, a series of ponds that direct water to power-generating turbines, and hallways filled with wall-mounted batteries for power storage.
“Then I get to have my cake and eat it too,” he finishes. “I get to keep the house and I get to build a $5-million renovation.”
A pipe dream? Perhaps, but it’s a television show I’d watch (or host, I have experience!), and it would be a wonderful way to honour one of the most significant pieces of residential architecture in Canada.