Lies Verwimp and Gitte Jansen’s slender townhouse in the Belgian town of Lier was built in the 17th century. But its history is far from illustrious. Originally a blacksmith’s forge, it later served as offices, a tattoo parlour and, more recently, a computer shop. Any original features – plasterwork, panelling – were swept away during decades of utilitarian knock-throughs. When Lies and Gitte first visited in 2019, lured by the intact beauty of the gabled stone facade with its elaborate carvings, all that remained of the interior were the quintessentially Flemish rosy-brick walls.
This suited the couple, who are both teachers in a local secondary school. Instead of attempting to recreate a lost heritage, they have capitalised on the raw, industrial feel of the space. They left rough brickwork exposed and installed the steel-framed door which opens on to the hallway. A punchy palette – black, pinks, purples – is defiantly modern. “We wanted any changes we made to look new – like deliberate interventions – not a pastiche of the past,” says Lies.
But their first task was to make the best use of the building’s unusual proportions by reconfiguring the layout to suit the way they work and live. The three-storey property is 3m wide, but the interior, which unfurls tantalisingly like a series of Chinese boxes, is 14m deep.
A designer friend stepped in to rejig the floorplan. “We thought a great deal about how to make the most of the space. There was a lot of overthinking. And then more overthinking,” Lies says. Several drawings later, the solution they arrived at is the slightly upside-down layout. The bedroom, with its view of the church spire, is tucked under the eaves on the top floor, where there is also a secluded terrace and home office. In the middle storey, the kitchen leads on to a sitting room lit by a new skylight. The ground floor, most recently a shop, multi-tasks as the entrance and bathroom. Wardrobes, which house an impressive shoe collection, are tucked under the stairs, the door frames having been designed to align with the treads.
It was Gitte who insisted that the vertiginous, bannister-free treads – typical of the Low Countries – were painted a vivid yellow. “I’d seen this done in a magazine and it stayed in my imagination,” she says.
Lies’s brother, Raf, a florist known for his imaginative use of shape and colour, also had a firm say in the restoration. He helped them pick out the plywood used for the joinery throughout the house – the rich reddish tones suit the brickwork, which was left unpainted. The wooden floors, once scruffy parquet, are now a glossy black. Raf’s shop (around the corner) was the source of the oversized, midcentury lamps in the sitting room, with its squashy 1980s Togo sofas. It was also Raf who made the colourful wall decorations, teasing painted dried foliage into sculptural shapes, “like a floral installation”, says Gitte. One wall is painted in limewash tinted a deep violet that glows in the dark.
A flight of steps leads to the kitchen. Here, the floor-to-ceiling joinery was designed to capitalise on the long, narrow space. The original staircase – more of a ladder – which leads upstairs was re-positioned to add more room. Gitte found the sociably round, midcentury dining table, made of faux marble, online. Underfoot, the faux tiger rug was designed by Walter Van Beirendonck for Ikea.
The floor-grazing, weighty cotton curtains, embellished with modernist motifs, have an emotional significance. They came from Lies’s childhood home. Her mother made them and they feature, like a vibrant studio backdrop, in photos of parties and family gatherings with her late father. “In one, I’m cutting my birthday cake with my dad. They’re a constant reminder of him. My mother re-made them to fit this room. I’m so glad we were able to find them a new home.”
The top floor was the most neglected part of the original house. Rain dripped through cracks in the glazed roof, seeping into time-blackened walls. By removing a dilapidated bathroom they were able to install the long desk (also made of plywood). A wirework Bertoia chair – based on the 1950s original – is one of the few new pieces of furniture.
The terrace, lined in rustic tongue-and-groove, feels like an outdoor sitting room. On summer evenings, strains of choral music drift across the slate-covered rooftops from nearby churches, accompanied by the clatter of bicycles on cobbles far below.
Inside, all the family rolled up their sleeves to restore the brick walls. They painstakingly scoured off the soot and dirt of centuries with soft brushes, adding a translucent glaze to preserve the texture. But it proved impossible to find the right bricks to repair the holes. Instead of faking it with modern alternatives, they used swathes of plaster to patch up the gaps: a visible reminder of their home’s fascinating past.
