Designer’s Visions : For Mark Singer, Realizing Architectural Dreams Often Means Having to Clear Hurdles at City Hall

Throttling his black BMW up the steep hills south of downtown, where the cottages give way to sprawling homes, architect Mark Singer points out his handiwork--some of the 70 houses he has designed or remodeled in this city.

An optometrist’s home with windows slightly resembling a pair of eyes features garages modestly tucked underneath the building. This design detail, Singer says, involved persuading the Design Review Board to reverse the usual setback requirements.

On the private cul-de-sac of Summit de Mont, three of his concrete-walled homes are under construction. Singer notes how the unadorned walls of one residence set off a large outcropping of rock--a tacit acknowledgment of his concern for the natural setting.

At another house echoing with the din of drills and hammers, he remarks on the flow of light and the vistas.

“At night, lit up, it’s just a fabulous view,” he says.

Singer, the son and grandson of carpenters, moved with his family from New York’s Lower East Side to Los Angeles in 1957. For a 9-year-old, the new neighborhood in Baldwin Hills was paradise, complete with a construction site that he and his pals turned into a playground. When he discovered a book in the tiny grade school library about the boyhood of architect Frank Lloyd Wright, his career path was set.

While studying for an engineering degree at Cal State Los Angeles, Singer would roam Silver Lake, admiring the airy, open-plan homes designed by Richard Neutra and Rudolph Schindler.

Singer’s first boss, Orange County developer E.O. Rodeffer, gave him “a lot of freedom to learn.” After passing the contractor’s exam, Singer started buying lots and designing buildings to be sold on spec. But the high interest rates of the early ‘80s and Singer’s evolving style led him to take the state architecture exam and start designing for clients.

Along with his peers, Singer frequently has tangled with the city’s rule arbiters, most memorably in 1988, after he told the city of his plan to build a two-story residence on a 3-acre plot north of Arch Beach.

Concerns about the integrity of the ridgeline and open space in a designated “hillside protection zone” led the then-pro-environmental City Council to insist on a site closer to the road and 8 feet lower. Design Review then stipulated a single-story house.

“I bought a site that every developer was trying to put 45 houses or 25 condominiums on,” Singer argues. “I decided to put one house on it, and 50 people came down and complained because they thought it wasn’t an [appropriate] building site.

“When [the city ruled] that I couldn’t use the best part of my own site, I just figured, I don’t owe them anything. And I said so.”

Despite this major setback, Singer designed a home that maximizes the lay of the land. A row of small rectangular openings in the unassuming concrete facade hints at the expansive coastal views from the interior.

Several outdoor “rooms” for solitary relaxation, breakfast or entertaining take advantage of the sun’s movement.

In an oversight officials cannot explain, the City Council neglected to place a deed restriction on the lot. Consequently, it had to grant Singer’s request to build another, smaller house on the property.

“We ended up getting a poorer project than if we’d just granted him [the original site],” laments former mayor Neil Fitzpatrick.

“The way I look at it,” Singer says, “this house has won two honor awards from the American Institute of Architects, and I’ve given something to Laguna.”

As he strolls past the workshop where he makes furniture, Singer sounds a wistful note.

“Here there is no control board,” he says. “You design something and you can actually see it completed without a whole lot of . . .” His voice trails off, but many in Laguna could have supplied a choice word.