When Denver homeowners start planning a major historic renovation, one of the first questions is who to hire first: an architect, an interior designer, a general contractor or a design-build firm. There’s a more important question to answer before that one: who is going to understand the whole project?

As a historic renovation interior designer in Denver, I take on that role: leading the design and coordinating the team the project requires

A major renovation draws on many kinds of expertise, but the person leading the design needs to understand both the house and the people who live in it. They establish how the house should function, what should be preserved, what should change and what the finished home should feel like. Then they carry those priorities through every decision the architects, engineers, contractors, fabricators and trades make along the way.

Start With the House and the People Who Live There

Before I decide who else belongs on the project, I want to understand the house and the people who live in it.

How do the homeowners live now, and what frustrates them? How do they cook, entertain, work, relax and move through the house? What do they love about it, what do they never use, and what do they wish worked differently?

The person leading the design needs to know the client well enough to understand not only what they like, but why it carries weight for them. A major renovation involves hundreds of decisions and compromises, and I need to know which ones my clients will barely notice and which ones they’ll feel every day.

Then I look at the building itself. Which architectural elements give the house its character? What is original, and what has been altered over the decades? What deserves restoration, what can be adapted, and where would something entirely new make the house work better?

A historic house isn’t a museum, and the goal isn’t to preserve everything because it’s old. The goal is to understand what you’re looking at well enough to know what to touch and what to leave alone, and those decisions set the direction of the renovation.

What a Historic Renovation Interior Designer Does

One reason homeowners are unsure who should lead a major renovation is that interior design is still often seen as something that happens after the important decisions have been made. I don’t work that way.

Hiring an interior designer to lead a renovation does not mean limiting the project to finishes or cosmetic work. At Studio Olio, I lead major renovations from the earliest planning stages through the final punch list. I develop space plans, design kitchens and baths, produce construction and permit drawings, coordinate architects, structural engineers and other consultants when their expertise is required, and solicit contractor bids.

On a whole-home renovation, my design work begins with space planning and circulation and continues through kitchens, bathrooms, primary suites, cabinetry and custom millwork, lighting and electrical planning, plumbing fixtures, flooring, tile and stone, interior and exterior doors, windows and hardware, paint, wallpaper and architectural finishes, exterior material specifications, furnishings, built-ins and window treatments.

Depending on the project, that work extends outside the house as well. I’ve designed indoor-outdoor living spaces, outdoor structures, retaining walls, grading and drainage solutions, planting plans, and pools, ponds and other water features, along with the circulation that connects the house to the landscape around it.

I develop the plans, elevations, details and specifications needed to communicate the design to the people building it. I coordinate the pieces so the kitchen isn’t designed independently from the lighting, the millwork isn’t developed without considering the architecture, and a decision in one room doesn’t undermine what’s happening in another. The job is to make the entire house make sense and be beautiful as a whole, not just one room at a time.

A Major Renovation Doesn’t Automatically Need to Be Architect-Led

Architects bring their own expertise to residential renovations, and I work with them when the project calls for it. An addition, significant changes to the building envelope, complex zoning or code questions, or other architectural work may put an architect on the team very early. Structural conditions may bring an engineer in even earlier, and a designated landmark adds preservation review.

Needing an architect doesn’t mean the architect needs to set the overall design direction or lead every part of the renovation. On the projects I lead, I work through how the existing house should function, establish the design direction and identify the questions that call for additional expertise. Architects, structural engineers and other consultants then join the team built around that project, and from there we develop the design collaboratively.

Each person brings a different kind of expertise, and my responsibility is to keep those contributions connected to the larger design and to the client’s priorities.

What About Hiring a Design-Build Firm?

A design-build firm puts design and construction inside the same company, and for some homeowners that’s the structure they want. I ran a landscape design-build company from 2008 to 2013, and on every project I was both the designer and the project manager, with my own installation crews as employees. My clients worked directly with the person designing their project and running its construction. That’s one design-build model, but it isn’t the only one, which is why homeowners should understand exactly who they’ll be working with before choosing a firm.

If you’re considering a design-build firm, find out who will be designing your house. Who is the designer assigned to your project, and how much time will you spend with that person before major decisions are made? Once the design is finished, will a separate project manager take over construction? If so, will that person know your preferences and the reasons behind each decision, or only what’s on the drawings? Most important, do you have the rapport and trust to spend the next several years making difficult and sometimes very personal decisions together?

When you hire Studio Olio, you’re hiring me to lead the design, and I’m the same person managing it through construction. A whole-home renovation isn’t a product delivered to a client. I take the time to understand my clients’ needs, wants, wishes and desires, and I carry that understanding from the first conversation to the final punch list.

Why I Keep Design Independent From Construction

Studio Olio is independent from the general contractor building the project. That doesn’t mean I work against the contractor; a good relationship between designer and contractor is one of the most important parts of a successful renovation.

Independent doesn’t mean separate from the construction team. It means I collaborate with the construction team while remaining accountable to my client and the design.

That independence shapes how problems get solved. When a concern comes up, the answer is never shaped by a crew that needs to move on to its next job.

When we’re selecting a general contractor, I prepare an RFP so everyone bidding is pricing the same scope. I interview contractors, walk the house with them and review their proposals with the client. The contractor is chosen for the project rather than predetermined by the company that designed it.

The same goes for specialists. If the house needs a historic window restorer, plasterer, cabinetmaker, mason who understands historic masonry, structural engineer or architect, we bring in the person suited to that work. The team is built around the project, rather than the project being built around the team we happened to start with.

The Design Lead Holds the Team Together

Everyone on a construction project has a job to do. The contractor has a project to build, trades have work to complete, fabricators have production schedules, and engineers and architects have their own questions to answer. All of them can be excellent at what they do and still see an issue from a different angle than the homeowner, which is why someone needs to keep the whole picture in view.

Jennifer Wright, the homeowner on an extensive renovation of an 1889 house, described what that looked like from her side:

“I’ve managed 2 major renovations myself, and will NEVER do that again. Hire Lora, unequivocally… Lora has the difficult conversations with contractors (and neighbors!) for me, keeps an eye on progress when I’m not home, helps me understand (not overreact)… inspires creative ideas and solutions AND, oh, yes, and she has both high level design and broad technical construction skills. And rolls up her sleeves and digs in whenever necessary (literally!).”

— Jennifer Wright, homeowner

When an issue comes up, my job is to understand the problem well enough to ask the right questions, weigh what each possible solution means for the construction and the design, and measure those options against what my client is trying to accomplish. Often the contractor and I work through the options together before bringing the client a recommended solution, so convenience in the moment never quietly decides what the finished house becomes.

Client advocacy and good construction collaboration aren’t opposites. Christina Delli Santi owns Crux Scenica, the Richmond fabrication company on that same 1889 renovation. She described the project from the other side. The work ran through the height of the pandemic, with prices climbing, permits delayed and contractors pulled in several directions at once:

“Lora always made sure everyone was on the same page, from delays in permit approvals to making sure front doors were built with historical accuracy. She always made sure that everyone was part of a team…”
She also described me as “the person everyone could go to get an update from in terms of timing,” and credited my “attention to detail, excellent managerial communication skills, coordination and … the kindness with which she leads.”

– Christina Delli Santi, Crux Scenica

That’s how I want a project to run. The homeowner shouldn’t have to referee the designer, contractor and trades, and the trades shouldn’t be getting contradictory information from several different people. Everyone needs to know what we’re trying to accomplish, who makes each decision and where to get an answer.

My Background Is in Construction as Well as Design

I’m comfortable leading projects this way because my construction experience started long before I designed historic interiors.

I learned tools, roofing and carpentry from my father and grandfather, and I painted houses professionally. I also spent years rebuilding and maintaining vintage Volkswagens, which meant working on carburetors, brakes, engines, clutches and wiring myself. It gave me an early understanding of how individual systems work together, and what happens when one of them doesn’t.

I began working professionally in landscape construction in 2004. In 2008, I started my own landscape design-build company, where I managed the construction of every residential and commercial project we designed. I hired trades, ran crews, coordinated grading and drainage work, managed procurement and deliveries, and carried projects from design through completion, operating small construction equipment myself along the way.

I later earned a certificate in residential design and construction, training alongside architects and trades instructors. The program went well beyond reading drawings: I did hands-on work in framing, electrical, plumbing, drywall and cabinet construction. I’ve also built cabinetry professionally and built a standalone structure with one other person.

That physical understanding shapes the way I design. When I look at a floor plan, cabinet elevation or construction detail, I’m thinking about what sits behind it, how it will be built, what the trades will need from one another and where a decision in one system is likely to affect another.

Old Houses Taught Me the Rest

When I bought my own 1911 house in Virginia, it needed a nearly complete renovation. I worked alongside my next-door neighbor, an experienced carpenter, and learned how old wood houses behave. I restored historic windows and rehung their sash cords, refinished original hardwood, installed new flooring and learned to make new work sit comfortably beside construction that had stood for a century.

My father, who has an HVAC background, and I designed and installed an eight-zone mini-split system with every line concealed in the walls. I refinished a cast-iron tub, repointed masonry, insulated the attic and crawlspace, solved water-management problems and did the painting, floor work and wallpapering myself.

Old houses teach you what drawings can’t, because they rarely match anyone’s assumptions. You open a wall and find a stud where nobody expected it, three generations of electrical work or a soffit hiding something no one can explain. You meet plaster and lath, balloon framing, knob-and-tube wiring, old masonry and additions from several different decades.

You also learn that the modern construction solution isn’t automatically the right one for an old building. Historic brick requires a mortar compatible with the original masonry, often a lime-rich mortar rather than the harder Portland-cement mortars common in newer construction, and repointing with the wrong one can damage the masonry you’re trying to preserve. A decision that small can permanently affect a building, and knowing that changes the questions I ask before construction begins.

I’ve Been on Both Sides of the Construction Table

I’ve managed extensive historic renovations from design through completion. On the 1889 whole-home renovation, everyone working on the property coordinated through me: the general contractor, roofers, HVAC contractors, plumbers, electricians, tile setters, flooring specialists, demolition crews, window and door installers, brick masons, and the fabricators building our custom work.

My historic renovation experience includes whole-house projects inside and out, complex kitchens and bathrooms, and other substantial alterations to older buildings. I’ve managed historic renovations financed through renovation loans and handled the bank documentation that comes with them. I’ve pulled permits myself, prepared and submitted permit drawings, responded to plan-review comments, attended inspections and worked directly with building departments, engineers and trades.

On client projects, construction is contracted through the appropriate general contractor. My role is different: I bring years of hands-on construction and historic renovation experience into the design, then use that knowledge to coordinate the people required to carry it out.

Design Doesn’t End When Construction Starts

I don’t design a historic renovation, hand over the drawings and disappear, because some of the most consequential design decisions happen after construction starts.

On a Denver 1886 house, our plans assumed the existing plumbing ran through a chase in one of the walls. When the wall came open, the chase wasn’t there. The contractor called me first, and we looked at the framing, worked through what the conditions would allow and solved the venting with an air admittance valve rather than a traditional vent stack. That kept the design intact without tearing into more of the house than necessary.

By the time the homeowners heard about the problem, they also heard the recommended solution. That’s a very different experience from a mid-project phone call saying work has stopped and someone needs an answer immediately.

On old houses, moments like that come up constantly. A material is discontinued, a trade discovers something can’t be built exactly as drawn, or a dimension differs from the field measurement. Demolition uncovers an original feature nobody knew was there. And sometimes the feature everyone assumed was original turns out to have been installed during an unfortunate renovation in 1987, and there’s no reason to organize the next hundred years of the house around it.

Each of those moments creates another design decision. Individually they can seem insignificant, but a hundred small compromises can add up to a house that looks and functions very differently from the one the client thought they were getting, so someone has to keep protecting the whole.

Having a design lead through construction is an investment, and it protects the much larger investment you’re making in the house: against unnecessary change orders, bids that can’t be meaningfully compared, and decisions made under pressure in the middle of demolition. On a historic house, some of the most consequential mistakes are made in a hurry, after a wall comes open and someone needs an answer that afternoon.

The Right Team Is Different for Every Historic House

A 1920s Tudor kitchen within the existing footprint might need an interior designer, a good general contractor and a cabinetmaker, with an engineer brought in to answer one structural question. An 1890s Victorian getting a significant addition may put an architect and structural engineer on the team much earlier. A designated landmark may involve preservation review, and a property with substantial grading, drainage or outdoor living work might need landscape expertise or civil engineering.

Then there are the specialists: historic window restorers, plasterers, millworkers, masons who understand lime mortar, decorative painters and craftspeople who know how to repair what another contractor might simply replace. Wherever I work, I look to the local maker community first, because the right craftsperson for an old house is often a small shop or an independent maker. I’ve worked with a plasterer whose skills are sought after in Italy, and on houses altered so many times that working out what was original became its own investigation.

Old-house experience is its own expertise. An excellent architect, contractor or tradesperson can be highly skilled and still approach an old building very differently from someone accustomed to working with historic fabric. The point isn’t to assemble the biggest team; it’s to have the right people solving the right problems.

So Who Should Lead Your Historic Home Renovation in Denver?

Don’t choose the leader of a major renovation by the title on a business card. Look for the person who will understand how you want to live, and who knows the house well enough to separate what deserves protection from what can change. They should be able to design the whole project rather than one isolated piece of it, and understand construction well enough to know whether an idea can be built and to work productively with the builders when site conditions force the design to change.

That person should also know when another kind of expertise belongs at the table, and be able to assemble that team and keep it communicating. And they should still remember exactly what you wanted when you’re eighteen months into construction and someone needs an answer by the end of the afternoon.

For the historic renovations I lead in Denver, that’s what I do. I establish the design direction, assemble the team the house requires, and stay involved through construction so the hundreds of decisions made along the way continue to serve both the client and the house.

A successful historic renovation is more than a collection of good drawings, good finishes and good contractors. Someone has to hold the whole thing together.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

Who should I hire for a major renovation of a historic home in Denver?

Start with a design lead: the person who establishes how the house should work before anyone commits to architectural solutions. For the historic renovations I lead, that’s my role. A major renovation may also need an architect, structural engineers, contractors and specialist trades, and I bring them in when the scope calls for their expertise.

I begin by understanding how the homeowners want to live, how the existing house works and what should be preserved, adapted or changed. Needing an architect on the team doesn’t mean the architect needs to lead the entire renovation.

Can an interior designer lead a whole-home renovation?

Yes, if that designer has the experience to lead the scope you’re planning. Studio Olio serves as the design lead for whole-home historic renovations, not just the interiors within a larger architect-led project.

My work runs from space planning through kitchens, baths, millwork, lighting, doors and windows, exterior materials and indoor-outdoor living. I develop the plans, elevations, details and specifications for the design, assemble and coordinate the additional professionals the project requires, and stay involved through contractor selection and construction so decisions made in the field continue to support the overall design.

When does a historic renovation need an architect?

An architect may be needed for additions, substantial changes to the building envelope, certain code or zoning issues, and work that requires architectural expertise or stamped drawings. A structural engineer comes in when a renovation affects structural systems, often early in the design.

The right team depends on the house and the scope. Part of my role as design lead is identifying where additional expertise is needed and bringing the appropriate professionals into the project, rather than assuming every historic renovation needs the same team.

What is the difference between hiring Studio Olio and a design-build firm?

A design-build firm provides design and construction within the same company. Studio Olio is an independent design firm: I lead the design and collaborate closely with the general contractor and other professionals hired for the project, but I’m not part of the construction company.

That independence lets the contractor and specialist team be chosen for the particular house and scope of work. It also keeps me accountable to my client and the design.

Whichever model you consider, ask who will design your house, whether you’ll work directly with that person, and who will manage the design through construction. Ask, too, whether the person on site will understand the reasons behind the decisions made at the start of the project.

Does Studio Olio stay involved during construction?

Yes. The general contractor manages the construction work under their contract, and I stay on as the design lead from contractor selection through the final punch list.

Historic houses regularly reveal conditions no one could see before demolition. When walls come open, materials change or trades hit something unexpected, I work with the contractor to evaluate the options and weigh how each affects the larger design. Then I bring the client a recommended solution that still serves the house.

Is it worth hiring a design lead for a historic renovation?

A design lead is an investment that protects the much larger investment you’re making in the house. Contractors bid against the same scope, so their proposals can be meaningfully compared. Field problems get solved with the whole design in view, which helps avoid unnecessary change orders and keeps one isolated construction decision from undermining another part of the design. And no one is left making decisions under pressure in the middle of demolition.

On a historic house, some of the most consequential mistakes are made in a hurry. Having one person who knows why every decision was made is how you avoid them.

Learn more about historic home renovation in Denver →

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

Building an outdoor living space for a historic home isn’t always straightforward. In Part One, I showed where this garden ended up: a screened pergola, French doors from the kitchen, and a garden the homeowners use as a room of the house. This post covers how we built it. Every decision on this site depended on another.

Planning an Outdoor Living Space for a Historic Home

The lot is twenty-eight feet wide and one hundred and fifty feet long, and that length includes the house. Overgrown plants crowded the yard. The barn-style shed was too small for a house with no attic or crawlspace storage, which is common in old city houses. A raised masonry curb projected into the path to the shed, so every trip meant stepping up and over it in both directions.

Stumps, Roots and 27 Inches

Two neighbours had removed large trees the year before, so we began with stump grinding. When we graded for the new fence, we uncovered roots from those trees, many thicker than my thigh, and cut out every one.

Everything we built reached the backyard through a 27-inch passage between the house and the property line, the only route from the street. No large machinery could get in. The shed, the pergola, the copper, the brick, the soil and every plant came through that gap by hand. On a site like this I depend on contractors who work hard and solve problems creatively, and these crews did both.

Building the Structures

We framed the fence at the same time as the pergola. We simplified the porch scrollwork slightly for the new structure, and the carpenter hand-cut every piece. If anyone knows who designed the original 1889 scrollwork on this porch, I would love to hear from you.

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The custom shed went up next. Its 9-foot walls give the homeowners far more storage than the old shed did, which a house without attic or crawlspace storage badly needed. I specified cedar for both the pergola and the shed because it resists rot and insects and holds up to years of Richmond weather. The roofers formed and cut all of the standing-seam copper on site.

We also added a header to both the first- and second-floor balconies, which let us remove several posts the homeowners had been looking around to see the garden.

We stacked the old brick from the yard to reuse on the front walk. Part Three tells that story.

The Drain That Explained Every Wet Spring

The homeowners had lived with drainage problems for years, and I wanted them solved before the hardscapers arrived. When we dug up the existing drain, the cause was obvious.

Whoever installed it had used flexible corrugated drain line. That pipe crushes and clogs, and in my experience it fails, often within ten years. This installation made it worse. The pipe had no gravel bed and no filter fabric to keep out soil and sediment. The photo can’t show the slope: halfway along its run, instead of falling gently to its outlet, the line sloped down, then up, then down again. Water had nowhere to go.

I’ve dug up enough failed drains to be firm about this. A French drain needs rigid pipe, a gravel surround, filter fabric wrapped around the whole assembly, and a steady fall from start to finish. We installed a new drainage system built that way before a single brick went down.

Three Grades Instead of One

I divided the yard into three levels rather than forcing it flat.

We set the patio beneath the covered pergola at the height of the existing back porch, so the house and the new outdoor room meet at the same level. From there, the garden rises about 18 inches to the upper level, where the new shed sits. A low brick retaining wall holds that upper garden in place.

I designed the shed entrance on grade, with no step at the door. The homeowners use the shed for equipment and larger items, and they needed to roll things directly in and out.

The property drops again through the side courtyard, where the bottom of the ramp sits about 15 inches below the patio. Brick ties all three levels together: the retaining wall, the patio, the walkways and the ramp are all brick, so the grade changes organize the garden without breaking it into separate pieces.

Why a Ramp Beat Steps

The curb on the old route had frustrated the homeowners for years, and they move equipment in and out of the shed on a dolly. Stairs would have worked, but they would have been a daily irritant. The homeowners and I chose a ramp, which gives them continuous wheeled access from the side courtyard up to the shed. We set the shed entrance on grade so they could move directly in and out without a step.

I think about ramps personally. I was hit by a car as a pedestrian, and for a quite a long time I got around with a walker and a cane. Suddenly every step decided where I could and couldn’t go. Nobody plans for that, and you never know who will live in a house next, or what they’ll need. A future owner using a walker, a cane or a wheelchair can move through this garden, and ramps are easier and safer than stairs for people and dogs alike. Designing for aging in place costs very little at the planning stage and a great deal as a retrofit.

Squaring a Garden to a House

The neighbouring house isn’t parallel to this one, a common condition with houses over a hundred years old. If we had followed the neighbour’s wall, every bed and brick edge would have looked crooked against the Victorian. We laid out the geometry of the beds, brick edges and paths from the house itself and absorbed the difference along the property line.

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What the Soil Jar Test Showed

Before planting, I tested soil from several parts of the yard. You put a soil sample in a clear jar with water and a few drops of dish soap, shake it, and let it settle. The soap helps the particles separate, and over the next day the layers show how much sand, silt and clay the soil holds and how much organic matter floats on top.

The jar on the left had the clearest water and the least organic matter, the middle jar had the most, and the third fell between them. None had much. The yard was mostly sand, which drains well but holds almost no moisture or nutrients. So we dug out about 18 inches from every bed and refilled them with the 50/50 blend of soil and compost I specified, then mulched heavily. The compost holds water and nutrients where roots can reach them. The mulch protects the soil, moderates its temperature, slows evaporation and suppresses weeds.

I planned the garden to be drought tolerant from the start. Summers are running hotter, dry periods are lasting longer, and a garden that depends on constant watering hands its owners a permanent chore. Rebuilt soil, heavy mulch and plants suited to the conditions work together, so the garden needs less water and less maintenance as it establishes.

Trees, Yews and the Rest of the Planting

We removed several mature trees that had outgrown the lot and replaced them with three smaller flowering trees that will reach full size without overwhelming the garden. The first had a huge root ball, and the tree dolly wouldn’t fit through the gate, so we moved it with a regular dolly and three people. Always start with the hardest item.

I couldn’t find yews in Virginia at the size and maturity I wanted, so I sourced them from a grower in Oregon. The grower estimated 160 pounds each; my planter put them closer to 300. Every one came through the 27-inch passage. Mature stock costs more to buy and to ship, and it gave the homeowners full privacy on day one instead of years of waiting.

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We kept two existing hydrangeas, and around it planted grasses, cranesbill geranium, liatris and yarrow for summer bloom, pollinators, birds, scent and colour against the brick.

Groundhogs had been a problem on the property, so we installed metal mesh under the new shed to keep them from denning beneath it, and under the gravel areas as well.

The Finished Garden

While the neighbours painted their house, the cushions and mosquito curtains were made and hemmed. Then the homeowners moved outside.

They now step from the house onto the patio and into a screened room under copper, with the yews closing out the neighbours and the trees filling the view. From both balconies, the garden opens up without a row of posts in the way. The bins roll to the curb on brick instead of pea gravel, the ramp carries the dolly up to the shed, and the shed opens at ground level. The ladder hangs on the wall and the new hose reel reaches where the homeowners need water. Copper rain chains carry water off the pergola roof. They do the work of a downspout without putting one on the most visible face of the structure, and they repeat the copper of both roofs. As the trees fill out, the copper darkens and the yews thicken, the garden will settle further into the house it was designed for. 

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In Part Three, we go to the front of the house, where the brick from the backyard became a new walk and a continuous path now leads from the street to the garden.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

How do you design an outdoor living space on a small historic lot?

Design a small historic lot around how the property needs to work rather than trying to force it flat. On a 28-foot-wide lot at an 1889 house, Studio Olio organized the garden across three grades, with a covered patio, an upper garden and shed, and a side courtyard joined by a ramp. The same plan solved privacy, drainage, storage and daily routes for bins and equipment.

Why use a ramp instead of stairs in a garden?

A ramp lets wheeled equipment move between levels and makes a grade change easier for everyone to cross. On one historic property, the homeowners move larger items to their shed on a dolly, so I designed a ramp leading to a shed entrance set on grade. A ramp also makes a garden more usable for someone with a walker, cane or wheelchair. It can support aging in place at little additional cost when it’s planned from the start.

How do you improve drainage in an old backyard?

Find out why the existing drain is failing before replacing it. At one 1889 house, the old drain was flexible corrugated pipe with no gravel bed or filter fabric, and it sloped down, then up, then down again. We replaced it with a drainage system using rigid pipe, a gravel surround, filter fabric and a continuous fall toward the outlet. Along Colorado’s Front Range, many properties also have clayey, compacted soils that can drain poorly, although soil conditions vary considerably from one site to another.

How can you make a garden more drought tolerant?

Start by understanding the soil rather than assuming what it needs. A soil jar test can help show the proportions of sand, silt and clay and the amount of organic matter present. Along Colorado’s Front Range, many soils are clayey, while other properties have very different conditions, so the solution depends on the site. In one sandy garden, I replaced approximately 18 inches of soil in the beds with a 50/50 soil-and-compost blend and mulched heavily to help retain moisture.

Is mature landscaping worth the additional cost?

Mature plants can be worth the cost when they have a job to do immediately, such as providing privacy. For a covered pergola on a narrow historic lot, smaller evergreens would have taken years to screen the neighbours, so I sourced mature yews from out of state. They cost more to buy and ship, but they gave the homeowners privacy from the first day. In Denver, screening plants also need to be selected for the property’s particular sun, soil, exposure and water conditions.

What materials work well for outdoor structures at a historic home?

Choose materials that suit the architecture, climate and expected lifespan of the structure. For a pergola and shed at an 1889 house, Studio Olio specified cedar for its outdoor durability and resistance to rot and insects. Standing-seam copper roofs tied the two structures together and will develop a natural patina as they age. In Denver, intense sunlight, dry conditions and large temperature swings make durability and long-term maintenance important considerations when selecting exterior materials.

How do you build a garden on a historic lot with limited access?

Plan the construction route along with the design. On one project, the only way into the backyard was a 27-inch passage beside the house, so no machinery could reach the garden. The structures, brick, soil and plants all had to come through by hand, including mature yews weighing hundreds of pounds. On any historic property, existing garages, fences, trees, narrow side yards and other site conditions should be considered before construction begins.

Project Journal

Every historic renovation has a story. The story of this 1889 Victorian unfolds across three journal entries:

Indoor-Outdoor Living in a Historic Home 
How an old house gained a garden that works as a room of the house.

Building an Outdoor Living Space for a Historic Home (Current Article)
Tree roots, a failed drain, three grades and 300-pound yews through a 27-inch passage.

Restoring the Front Entry of a Historic Home
Salvaged brick, a gate that finally swings the right way, and a replica front door.

→ View the Victorian Indoor Outdoor Project for the complete project overview

When most people picture indoor-outdoor living, they picture contemporary houses with walls of glass and sliding doors, where the interior and the patio were designed at the same time. Owners of old houses often assume that picture isn’t available to them, or that getting there means gutting the back of the house. I disagree with both assumptions. Indoor-outdoor living in a historic home is possible, and it works best when the house itself sets the terms.

Old houses already understood outdoor living; they practised it on the front porch. The backyard was another matter. On a nineteenth-century city lot, the yard behind the house was a work yard for laundry, coal, storage and service, and many old houses still turn their backs on it today. That was the situation at this 1889 house in Richmond’s Church Hill neighbourhood, on a lot just twenty-eight feet wide. It had a generous backyard that the house ignored.

Where This Home Ended Up

I’ll start with the result, because the result is the point.

Today, French doors open from the kitchen straight into the garden. A few steps away stands a screened pergola with a copper roof, cushioned seating and mosquito curtains the homeowners draw on summer evenings. They eat out there, entertain out there, and garden around it. Dense yew hedging screens the neighbours’ windows, three compact flowering trees fill the view in spring, and cranesbill, liatris and yarrow bloom beneath them through early summer. Birds and butterflies work the beds, and the family dog has his own ottoman under the roof.

Before any of that existed, the homeowners had nowhere sheltered to sit, a second-storey balcony too narrow to use, a shed that dominated the view, and a pea-gravel path that fought them every trash day. Here is how the garden became a room of the house.

Let the House Set the Design Language

I didn’t ask what kind of pergola goes with an old house. I asked what belonged with this house.

This house has remarkable scrollwork on its front porch, and I used that millwork as the reference for the new pergola. I studied its shapes and proportions and translated them into a new structure. I didn’t want a reproduction, and I wasn’t pretending the pergola had stood there since 1889. Up close you can read it as new; from the kitchen it reads as part of the same family as the porch.

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Design the Garden From Every Window

A garden behind a house is seen from more than one place, so I designed it from more than one place. I stood where the French doors would go and asked what the homeowners would see, where they would land when they stepped out, and where they would want to sit.

Then I looked at the balconies. On both the first- and second-floor balconies, the homeowners had been looking at their garden around a row of posts. We added a header to each balcony, which let us take out several of those posts and open the view.

From the second-storey balcony, the homeowners would also look down on the roofs of the pergola and shed rather than at their walls. Any roofing that works from the ground could have become the main view from above. The homeowner chose copper for both roofs, and together we settled on standing seam for its fit with the historic context. From the garden, the copper ties the two structures together. From upstairs, the roofs become part of the composition, and they deepen in colour every year. Copper costs more than conventional roofing, and it will outlast it by decades with almost no maintenance. For a surface the owners see every day, I consider that money well spent.

The same thinking turned the shed around. I gave it tall cedar walls and faced its door toward the side fence. On a lot this narrow, the shed sits at the end of nearly every view from the house, and now the homeowners see a cedar building that belongs to the garden instead of a utility door.

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Plan the Doors Before You Build the Garden

This garden was Phase One of a whole-home renovation, and I designed it for French doors that didn’t exist yet. I knew where they would go. We set the patio under the pergola at the height of the existing back porch, so the outdoor room meets the house at its own level, and the paths lead from that threshold into the rest of the garden.

When the kitchen renovation followed, the doors went in and the connection was complete. Nothing in the garden had to be moved or rebuilt. Because I planned the whole house first, the garden was ready for the doors rather than rebuilt around them.

Solve the Routes People Use Every Day

The garden had to work on trash day as well as on summer evenings. The original yard had a pea-gravel service path that shifted and collected leaves, a masonry curb that blocked the route to the shed, a ladder lying on the ground and a hose spigot in the wrong place.

The finished garden answers each of these. Bins roll to the curb on a hard surface, a screen hides them, and we reversed the swing of the front gate so they pass straight through. A ramp replaced the curb, so the homeowners wheel equipment to a shed entrance set level with the ground. The ladder hangs on the wall and the new hose reaches where the homeowners need water. None of this appears in the finished photographs, but the homeowners use each of these routes every week.

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Create Privacy Without Building a Wall

The neighbouring houses stand close, as they do throughout Church Hill, and the pergola had to feel private. A tall wall would have closed the garden in. I used evergreen yews instead, and I bought them mature so the homeowners had privacy the day we finished rather than five years later.

Bringing the Same Approach to Denver Historic Homes

This house is in Richmond, but I see the same design problem in Denver. Many historic homes here were built with a strong relationship to the street and very little thought for the backyard. The kitchen may have only a small service door to the outside, and the yard often developed separately from the architecture of the house.

The goal isn’t to make an old house behave like a contemporary one. It’s to look at how the house is used now and build a stronger connection to the outdoors without losing what makes the architecture distinctive.

In Denver, climate becomes part of that equation. Intense sun and summer storms make covered outdoor space especially valuable, and our dry climate calls for drought-tolerant planting, healthy soil and moisture retention from the beginning. The details change from house to house, but the starting point stays the same: the architecture and the way the homeowners live there decide what the connection should become.

What It Took to Build

Getting this garden built was its own story. The only access was a 27-inch passage beside the house, and the yard held tree roots thicker than my thigh, a failed drain and three different grades. In Part Two, I walk through the construction, the soil and the planting that made this outdoor room possible.

If you own an old house and want the garden to become part of it, this is the work I do in historic home renovation in Denver. 

FAQs — Indoor-Outdoor Living in a Historic Home

Can you add indoor-outdoor living to a historic home without making it look contemporary?

Yes. Indoor-outdoor living in a historic home doesn’t require walls of glass or a modern addition. It works best when the design starts from the architecture already there. At an 1889 house, Studio Olio connected the kitchen to the garden with new French doors. The covered, screened pergola outside took its proportions and details from the home’s original porch millwork.

How do you connect a historic home to its backyard?

Plan the views and the routes together. Many older homes in Denver were built facing the street, with only a small service door at the back and a yard that developed separately from the house. Start with what you see from inside, where you land when you step out, where you’ll want to sit, and how you move through the property every day. Then design the doors, patio and paths around those answers.

Can you add French doors to a historic home?

Yes. The right location depends on how the interior rooms connect to the outdoor space, and the doors should relate to the proportions and details of the house’s existing openings. For designated Denver landmarks and properties in Denver historic districts, exterior changes associated with a permit are subject to Landmark design review. Plan the doors before you build the garden, so the garden is ready when they go in.

How can you create privacy in a small historic backyard?

Evergreen planting can screen a small historic yard without closing it in behind walls. On a 28-foot-wide city lot, I used mature yews to block the neighbours’ views of a covered pergola. Mature plants cost more than young ones, and they give full privacy the day the garden is finished instead of years later. In Denver, I choose screening plants suited to the dry climate, intense sunlight and conditions of the individual site.

Should an outdoor structure match a historic house?

An outdoor structure shouldn’t copy a historic house, but it should clearly belong to it. For a pergola at an 1889 house, I used the original porch millwork as the reference and translated its shapes and proportions into a new structure. The same approach works for a Denver Victorian, Foursquare or Tudor: take the design language from the house itself rather than from a catalogue of “period” styles.

Does indoor-outdoor living work for historic homes in Denver’s climate?

Yes, and Denver’s climate shapes the design. Intense high-altitude sunlight and summer storms make covered outdoor space especially useful. The dry climate also makes drought-tolerant planting, good soil preparation and moisture management important from the start.

Who designs indoor-outdoor living for historic homes in Denver?

Studio Olio is a Denver design studio specializing in historic home renovation for houses built before 1960, including Victorians, Foursquares, Tudors and Craftsman bungalows. Principal designer Lora Frost plans the connection between an old house and its garden as part of the whole home, from French doors and covered outdoor rooms to planting and privacy. Learn more about historic home renovation in Denver.

Project Journal

Every historic renovation has a story. The story of this 1889 Victorian unfolds across three journal entries:

Indoor-Outdoor Living in a Historic Home (Current Article)
How an old house gained a garden that works as a room of the house.

Building an Outdoor Living Space for a Historic Home
Tree roots, a failed drain, three grades and 300-pound yews through a 27-inch passage.

Restoring the Front Entry of a Historic Home
Salvaged brick, a gate that finally swings the right way, and a replica front door.

→ View the Victorian Indoor Outdoor Project for the complete project overview

A few years ago, in an 1889 Victorian, I removed the kitchen fireplace.

I want to lead with that because it tells you more about how I actually work than any list of services could. The fireplace was original. It was also sitting in the middle of the one room in the house that had to function as a real kitchen for real people, and it was eating space that room couldn’t spare. So it came out. Not because I don’t care deeply about original fabric, but because preserving every original element was never the goal in the first place. Carrying the house’s architectural intent forward is the goal. Sometimes that means protecting a hundred-year-old window down to the glazing putty. Sometimes it means taking out a fireplace so the kitchen can do its job.

Most articles about historic home renovation in Denver will tell you to save the trim and match the paint colors. That’s not wrong, but it’s not the actual work. The actual work is figuring out what a house needs to keep being itself while it becomes livable for the people in it now — and that’s a different question for every house, sometimes every room.

What I’m actually looking at

When I walk into an old house for the first time, I’m not cataloging original features. I’m reading proportion and flow.

Proportion is everything at once — materials, sightlines, scale, era, craftsmanship. It’s rarely one obvious thing that tips a room from right to wrong. It’s the cumulative effect of trim sized for the room it’s in, openings sized for the walls around them, cabinetry that respects the ceiling height it was designed under. When someone’s altered a house without understanding this, you feel it before you can name it.

Flow is separate, and it’s the one people misread most often. Flow is how people move through a house and how the house separates function from function. It is not the same thing as open concept, and in a lot of Victorians, open concept actively works against it — sound carries across a fully open first floor in a way it was never designed to, and you lose the separation that let a house hold a dinner party and a quiet reading room at the same time.

If a client comes to me wanting to take out every wall on a Victorian’s first floor, I tell them directly that it’s the wrong move. If a completely open floor plan is ultimately what they want, I’m probably not the right designer for that project. That’s not the studio I run.

The things I’ll fight to keep

Original windows are close to non-negotiable for me, and it’s not sentimental. A window built a hundred years ago was built to be repaired, not replaced, and a well-maintained hundred-year-old window can have another hundred years in it. Vinyl replacements don’t come with that promise. I’ll replace a window when it’s genuinely beyond repair, or when I can’t talk the people living in the house out of wanting it gone — but that’s the bar, and it’s a high one.

Millwork gets the same respect. Where it’s missing, I reproduce it based on what still exists elsewhere in the house. My preference is usually for that reproduction to sit indistinguishably alongside the original, though there are remodels where the design intent calls for the new work to read as its own moment instead.

Two things I will push back very hard on are stripping out original millwork and pulling original windows for the sake of convenience. Those are decisions that are nearly impossible to undo later, and they’re the ones that quietly erase a house’s architectural language one project at a time.

The things people assume are sacred, and aren’t

Built-ins and fireplaces are where people’s instincts run backward in both directions. Most of the time, when a client wants to remove one, I’ll push back hard — those are the features people regret losing once they’re gone. But not always. The 1889 kitchen fireplace is the example I come back to: it was original, it was beautiful, and it also had to go because the room needed the space more than the house needed that fireplace to stay.

Lighting is where I’ll happily surprise a preservation purist. I have no problem putting a genuinely contemporary fixture into an 1890 Victorian if it’s right for the room. Lighting is one of the few places in an old house where I think upgrading, fully and visibly into something modern, is not just acceptable but often the better call.

And whether something is technically original doesn’t carry much weight with me on its own. If a feature was added in 1925 to a house built in 1889, and it fits the house and fits the people living there now, I have no interest in removing it just to chase a purer version of the timeline. What matters is whether it belongs, not when it arrived.

Imperfection is not a problem to solve

Uneven floors, old plaster, trim that’s not perfectly square — I don’t treat any of that as damage waiting to be corrected. Imperfection isn’t inherently bad, and you will find it in the plaster, in the paint, in the flooring of essentially every historic house worth renovating. Where the line sits is genuinely up to the client. Some people want their house to read as unmistakably old, evidence of handwork and all. Others want it corrected. Neither instinct is wrong — it’s a decision for the people living there to make, not a rule I impose on them.

Why the era of the house doesn’t change how I work

I get asked whether I approach an 1880s Victorian differently from a 1920s Tudor or a 1940s house. Aesthetically, obviously — the materials and the details are their own language for each period. But the decision-making process underneath it doesn’t change. I’m asking the same questions of a Tudor that I’m asking of a Victorian: what carries this house’s architectural intent forward, and what’s standing in the way of the people who actually live here. The style changes. The method doesn’t.

The house that’s been renovated badly three times

Some of the hardest projects aren’t the untouched ones — they’re the houses that have already been renovated badly, more than once, by people who didn’t understand what they were working with. In those cases, I don’t assume the job is to reverse-engineer the original house. Sometimes it is; we can go back to what the house was built as, if that’s the right call. But it isn’t automatic, and it depends on the dreams of the people who live there now. A house doesn’t owe anyone a return to a specific date. It owes them a coherent version of itself.

What I wish every client understood before they spend $500,000

Here’s the thing I wish people understood before they hire an architect, a designer, or a contractor for a major renovation on a hundred-plus-year-old Denver house: you don’t need to already know which parts and pieces have to remain for the house to keep carrying its original architectural intent — or which ones were never essential to that intent in the first place.

That’s part of what working with an interior designer who understands historic homes should help you figure out.

The important thing is to have that conversation early, before decisions are made that are difficult or impossible to undo. What needs to stay? What can change? What has been altered before and might be worth reconsidering? And where can the house give us permission to do something entirely new?

Get those decisions right, and everything that follows — the windows, the millwork, the layout, the lighting — has a reason behind it. Sometimes that means repairing a hundred-year-old window. Sometimes it means reproducing missing millwork. Sometimes it means hanging a very contemporary light fixture. And sometimes it means taking out an original fireplace.

That’s the work. Sometimes historic home renovation means following the rules. But when we get to choose, it’s about understanding the house well enough to know what makes it that house — what needs to stay, what can change, and how to carry its architectural intent forward for the people who live there now.

Historic Home Renovation Denver FAQs

What should be preserved when renovating a historic home?

Not everything that is original necessarily needs to stay. The more important question is which elements carry the home’s architectural intent. Original windows, millwork, proportions, sightlines and other defining features can be essential to what makes a house feel like itself. Other original elements may be able to change if doing so allows the house to function better for the people living there now.

Do all original features in a historic home need to be preserved?

No. An original feature can be beautiful and still prevent a room from working well. In an 1889 Victorian I designed, for example, we removed an original kitchen fireplace because it occupied space the kitchen genuinely needed. The goal isn’t to preserve every original element. It’s to understand which elements are essential to the house’s architectural intent and make thoughtful decisions about the rest.

Should original windows in a historic home be replaced?

Whenever possible, I prefer to repair original windows rather than replace them. Historic windows were built to be repaired, and a well-maintained hundred-year-old window can have another hundred years in it. I consider replacement when a window genuinely can’t be repaired or when there is another compelling reason it needs to change.

Can you use contemporary lighting in a historic home?

Absolutely. I don’t believe every new element in a historic house needs to pretend it’s old. A contemporary light fixture can work beautifully in a Victorian, Tudor or other historic home when its scale, placement and relationship to the room are right.

Should you open up the floor plan of a historic home?

Sometimes, but open concept isn’t automatically better. Flow is about how people move through a house and how different spaces function together — not simply how many walls can be removed. In many historic homes, those separations are part of both the architecture and the way the house works. I look at what an opening or wall contributes to the proportions, sightlines, sound and function of the house before deciding whether it should change.

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a historic home renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

There is a strange idea that sometimes comes with owning an old house: that respecting its history means preserving everything exactly as it was. It doesn’t work that way, and treating it like it does usually does the house a disservice.

A home built in 1889 was designed for the way people lived in 1889. Kitchens were service spaces. Electrical needs were almost nonexistent by today’s standards. Families had different expectations around bathrooms, storage, lighting, heating and how rooms functioned. We live differently now, and much of my work renovating historic homes in Denver is about making these houses work for the way people live today.

The goal of a thoughtful historic renovation isn’t to recreate a particular moment in time. It is to understand what makes the house worth preserving, keep as much of that as possible, and make deliberate changes so the home works for the people who live there now. Sometimes that means restoring an original window. Other times it means moving the kitchen entirely.

Start With What the House Already Has

When I walk into an older home, I don’t begin with a list of things that must be preserved simply because they’re old.

It depends on the house, but there are things I will almost always try to keep.

Original built-ins are high on that list. So is original trim. Historic windows should be retained whenever possible. Fireplaces and their surrounds are often important architectural anchors in a room. Original flooring can usually be refinished rather than replaced.

These things aren’t decorative extras. Together, they establish the proportions, craftsmanship and architectural language of the house.

When original millwork is missing, new trim can be made to match what remains. When a built-in has seen better days, refinishing it may give it another hundred years. Old floors don’t need to look new to be beautiful.

What I don’t want is to remove something irreplaceable simply because replacing it is easier.

And please, no three-quarter-round added to the bottom of beautiful original baseboards. It’s a builder-basic shortcut when a simple shoe molding does the job without fighting the proportions of the original trim.

An old house deserves better than builder-basic shortcuts.

Preservation Doesn’t Mean Preserving Every Room’s Original Purpose

Among the more significant changes I’ve made to historic homes was relocating the kitchen in an 1889 Victorian.

The original kitchen was approximately 11 by 11 feet. That made sense when the house was built, when kitchens were utilitarian spaces deliberately separated from the rooms where guests were entertained.

It didn’t make sense for the person living there more than a century later, so we moved it. The former dining room became the kitchen, and the original kitchen became a flexible room with natural light and access to the yard.That’s a substantial change. But we weren’t trying to make the Victorian behave like a newly built house.

Original heartwood pine floors were refinished and retained. Original rosettes were restored and reused. New millwork was fabricated to match the existing profiles. An original window that had been bricked in was restored. Millwork from the original fireplace surround was carefully deconstructed and reused to create the new range hood, with the range occupying the location of the former firebox.

The room changed completely and the house didn’t lose itself in the process.

Preservation doesn’t require maintaining the original use of every room. Sometimes respecting a historic house means understanding its architecture well enough to know where you can make a significant change without losing what made the house special in the first place.

Not Everything Added Later Needs to Stay — or Go

Historic homes accumulate layers, and none of those layers are automatically right or wrong just because of when they were added. Someone remodeled the kitchen in 1952, replaced a door in 1978, added an archway in the 1990s because arches were having a moment. Some additions settle into a house so completely that removing them would do more damage than leaving them alone. Others fight the architecture from the day they’re installed.

In the 1889 Victorian where we relocated the kitchen, a 1990s renovation had introduced details that never matched the house’s original language and weren’t doing the room any favors functionally either. Removing those interventions let us recover the proportions of the original rooms before deciding what the house actually needed next. The question isn’t whether something is original — it’s whether it belongs.

Modernize the Things That Should Be Modern

Loving an old house doesn’t mean living with nineteenth-century functionality. Electrical systems should be modern. Plumbing and heating should work the way people expect now. Kitchens need real storage, more outlets than a house built in 1886 was ever wired for, and lighting that actually supports how someone cooks. Bathrooms need to accommodate real morning routines, not the ones a family had a century ago — and none of that requires stripping the house of its character.

Lighting shows how differently that plays out by client: I’ve worked with someone who wanted historic chandeliers built into the plan, and someone else who preferred fixtures with integrated LEDs so they’d never think about changing a bulb again. Both approaches can work in a historic home. My job is to understand what the client wants and needs, and find a way to make that work with the architecture rather than imposing my own preferred version of history.

Historic Doesn’t Have to Mean Stuffy — or Timeless

People sometimes confuse historic design with period reproduction, and separately, “timeless” gets used so often in interior design that it barely means anything anymore.

You don’t have to fill a Victorian with burgundy velvet, antique furniture, and wallpaper that looks like it came directly from 1893 — unless you want to. There are extraordinary wallpapers being produced today based on historic patterns, some of them custom-colored, and taking a pattern with roots in Victorian design and recoloring it for the person who actually lives in the house is far more interesting to me than recreating a period room. The architecture gives us a language to work with. It doesn’t dictate every word we’re allowed to say.

That’s also where the idea of “timeless” design falls apart. Good proportions endure. Beautiful millwork does. Craftsmanship and natural materials age well — a floor that’s survived a hundred years already has a fairly convincing track record. Colors and patterns don’t get that same pass. The avocado greens of the 1970s dated. The dusty mauves of the 1980s dated. Whatever’s popular now will date too, and there’s no version of paint or wallpaper that avoids it. A home doesn’t need to be stripped of personality to prevent anyone from knowing when it was decorated — I’d rather make deliberate choices that the people living there actually love. Paint changes. Wallpaper changes. Light fixtures change. Original millwork is what’s hard to undo, which is exactly why that’s where the real caution belongs.

Know Which Decisions Carry the Most Weight

Not every renovation decision deserves the same level of anxiety. Paint is low stakes. Moving a wall isn’t — relocating rooms, changing a floor plan, or building an addition can fundamentally change how a house works and feels, and those decisions deserve real deliberation. I’m not opposed to any of that; I’ve moved an entire kitchen from one room to another. But there needs to be a reason beyond what’s trending. Open concept is a good example: older homes weren’t designed as one enormous room, and removing walls just to chase that layout can destroy the proportions and sequence that made the house work. More often, the better solution is improving the relationship between the rooms that already exist — widening an opening, improving circulation, borrowing light, reconsidering which room should serve which purpose. The house can change without being erased.

A Successful Historic Renovation Should Feel Like It Was Always There

This is ultimately what I’m looking for when a project is finished: I don’t want the renovation to feel pasted onto the house, and I don’t necessarily need someone walking into a completed room to immediately know which pieces are original and which were added. I want it to belong. The architecture should still make sense, the transitions should feel natural, and new millwork should understand the old millwork so the rooms continue to relate to one another the way they always did.

But the house also needs to work for the people living in it. The kitchen needs to function. There needs to be enough storage, lighting that actually works, and a bathroom that accommodates the people using it. The electrical system needs to support a life that includes considerably more than a table lamp and a radio. And more than anything, the people who live there should walk through the door and exhale. They’re home. That’s what we’re preserving.

Don’t Be Afraid to Change an Old House

If you love your old home but you’re afraid renovating it will ruin it, you don’t need to be afraid of change. You need to be deliberate about it. Understand what you’re removing before you remove it. Know which details are difficult or impossible to replace. Pay attention to the proportions and relationships that already work. Make the significant decisions carefully, and let the house evolve where it needs to.

Historic homes have already been changing for generations, and a thoughtful renovation is simply the next chapter.

If you own a historic home in Denver and you’re trying to figure out what should stay, what can change, and how to make the house work better for the way you live now, that’s the work we do at Studio Olio. We believe you can have the functionality you need without erasing the details that made you fall in love with an old house in the first place. If you’re planning a renovation and want someone who understands both sides of that equation, we’d love to hear about your home.

Frequently Asked Questions About Historic Home Renovation

How do you renovate a historic home without losing its character?

Start by understanding what gives the house its character before deciding what needs to change. Original millwork, built-ins, windows, fireplaces, flooring, room proportions and the relationships between spaces all contribute to how an old house feels. A thoughtful renovation preserves the elements that matter while updating the layout, systems and functionality for the people living there now.

What original features should you keep when renovating a historic home?

It depends on the house, but I generally try to retain original built-ins, trim and millwork, historic windows, fireplaces and their surrounds, and original flooring whenever possible. Refinishing or repairing these elements is often preferable to replacing them, particularly when the craftsmanship or materials would be difficult to reproduce today.

Can you change the floor plan of a historic home?

Absolutely. Preserving a historic home doesn’t mean every room has to serve the same purpose it did when the house was built. I’ve relocated an entire kitchen in an 1889 Victorian because the original layout no longer worked for modern life. The important question is whether the change improves the way the house functions without erasing the architectural relationships that make it feel like itself.

Should you modernize the electrical and plumbing in a historic home?

Yes. Preserving historic character doesn’t require preserving outdated mechanical systems. Electrical, plumbing and heating should support the way we live today, and those systems can usually be modernized while retaining the architectural details that give an older home its character.

Can a historic home have modern finishes, lighting and wallpaper?

Of course. Historic design doesn’t have to be period reproduction. Contemporary lighting, modern functionality, color and pattern can all live comfortably in an older home when they’re selected with the architecture in mind. Even historically inspired wallpaper can be custom-colored to reflect the client’s personality rather than recreating a room from another century.

How do I find a designer for a historic home renovation in Denver?

Look for a designer who sees the existing house as part of the design rather than something that needs to be cleared away before the new work begins. They should be able to identify what is worth preserving, understand how new architectural details will relate to the original ones, and help you decide where meaningful changes will improve the way you live in the house. At Studio Olio, that’s at the center of our historic home renovation work in Denver: preserving what makes an old house special while making sure it works beautifully for the people living there now.

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a kitchen renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

I have some exciting news! Studio Olio has received two honors in BUILD Magazine’s 2026 Architecture Awards.

Studio Olio was named Historic Home Renovation Design Firm of the Year 2026 – Colorado, and our 1889 Victorian Bathroom Renovation in Richmond, Virginia received Best Historic Bathroom Renovation Project 2026.

BUILD’s Architecture Awards use an independent, merit-based research and evaluation process, considering design quality, project delivery,  sustainability and industry impact.

Historic homes are the heart of what I do at Studio Olio — houses with cracked plaster and good bones, the ones someone might be tempted to gut. I design kitchens, bathrooms and whole-home interiors that bring historic homes into modern life without erasing what made them worth saving in the first place. My rooms tend to be colorful and personal, layered with pattern and collected pieces, because respecting a historic home doesn’t require a neutral palette. The home has a history. The people living in it now deserve to be visible in it too.

So this one landed differently than most industry recognition does. It’s for the work I want to be doing more of.

Designing Historic Homes for Modern Life

Historic renovation isn’t a style I apply after the fact. It’s how I approach the whole process, starting with the house itself.

I begin by understanding its age, its architecture, the original materials, what’s already been changed, and the details that still tell its story. From there I figure out what’s worth preserving, what needs restoring, what got lost along the way and deserves to come back, and what has to change for the house to work today.

That means refinishing original floors instead of tearing them out. Retaining old windows, fireplaces, trim and built-ins. Designing new millwork that looks like it belongs. Sometimes it means reworking a kitchen entirely, or fixing storage and lighting problems the original builders never had to think about, or bringing in furnishings that reflect the people who live there now instead of the people who lived there in 1911.

The thread running through all of it isn’t a period or a look I’m chasing. It’s respecting the specific house in front of me instead of treating an old home like a blank slate.

Old houses were built differently than new ones — the proportions, the materials, the craftsmanship are part of what gives them character. So before I ask what needs to change, I ask what’s already there that’s worth keeping. That answer is different every time.

At the same time, these houses have to function. Electrical needs updating. Kitchens need better storage. Bathrooms often have to serve modern life in footprints that were never designed for it. A family might need an extra bathroom, better light, a kitchen that flows differently.

None of that requires tearing out walls or forcing an old house to behave like a new one. The goal is to understand the house first, then decide how it needs to change — and “historic” doesn’t mean any one aesthetic. For some clients, careful restoration is exactly right. For others, bold color and unexpected pattern sit beautifully next to original architecture. Either way, I create a home that respects its history and reflects the people living in it now.

An Award-Winning 1889 Victorian Bathroom in Richmond, Virginia

The 1889 Victorian Bathroom Renovation that won Best Historic Bathroom Renovation Project 2026 is 36 square feet. It’s part of a larger whole-home renovation of this Richmond Victorian, and it’s a good example of how I work.

The room came to me with cracked plaster, mold inside the walls, almost no storage, and a soffit that made a small space feel even smaller. But it also handed me clues about what belonged there: a small black-and-white hex pattern in the existing floor, a cast-iron tub stamped 1913 still sitting in place, and a big window that filled the room with morning light.

I didn’t recreate the original floor. I carried its black-and-white hex pattern into the new design at a larger scale, so the room’s history and the bolder, more graphic space I was designing could speak to each other.

The plumbing stayed put. We refinished the 1913 tub, pulled out the soffit, enlarged the original tub surround, and built a custom vanity that quadrupled the storage. A wall-mounted faucet made room for an artist-edition sink, and graphic black-and-white diamond wall tile picked up the floor’s play with scale.

The homeowner had spent time in France and wanted the room to feel collected and personal, not like a museum piece. I wasn’t trying to reproduce an 1889 bathroom — I was letting the old and new live together, with the historic details informing the design and the new ones reflecting who lives there now.

You can see the full transformation in the 1889 Victorian Bathroom Renovation project.

Recognition for the Work I Want to Keep Doing

Historic Home Renovation Design Firm of the Year 2026 – Colorado recognizes the part of my work I’ve deliberately made central: understanding old houses, preserving what’s worth keeping, and helping them keep evolving.

Best Historic Bathroom Renovation Project 2026 recognizes one very small room in Richmond where those ideas came together as part of a larger whole-home renovation.

Studio Olio is a Denver-area interior design studio specializing in historic home renovation, with projects in Colorado and throughout the United States, Canada and beyond. Whether it’s a Victorian, a Tudor, or something else entirely, I start the same way every time: understand what makes the house itself worth keeping before I decide how it should change.

A historic home doesn’t need to be frozen in time to hold onto its character. It needs design that lets its history and the people living there now share the same rooms.

Frequently Asked Questions About Historic Home Renovation

Does Studio Olio specialize in historic homes?

Yes. Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation and interior design — kitchens, bathrooms and whole-home interiors — with an emphasis on preserving what makes an older home distinct while making it work for modern life.

Does Studio Olio work outside Colorado?

Yes. We work with clients locally and throughout the United States, Canada and beyond. The award-winning 1889 Victorian bathroom above is in Richmond, Virginia, and is part of a larger whole-home renovation.

How do you modernize a historic home without losing its character?

I start by identifying what gives a house its character — original materials, architectural details, craftsmanship, proportions, even its quirks. That tells me what has to stay, what can change, and how to introduce new design without disconnecting the house from its history.

Can a historic home have bold color and pattern?

Absolutely. Historic doesn’t have to mean neutral. My interiors are often colorful and personal, with pattern, art and collected pieces living alongside original architectural details. The right approach depends on the house and the people in it — sometimes that’s careful restoration, sometimes it’s bold color and pattern.

Do you have to use historically accurate fixtures and finishes?

Not necessarily. My approach isn’t historical reproduction. Contemporary fixtures and finishes work beautifully in an old house when they’re chosen to complement its architecture. If historical accuracy is the goal for a given project, that becomes part of the process — but the approach should respond to the house and the client, not a fixed rulebook.

Can you renovate a historic bathroom without moving the plumbing?

Absolutely. Moving plumbing isn’t automatically the right call, especially in a small historic bathroom. In the 36-square-foot Richmond bathroom above, I kept the existing plumbing locations in place and still quadrupled the storage through a custom vanity and careful use of the existing footprint.

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a historic renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

Project Journal

Every historic renovation has a story. The story of this 1889 Victorian bathroom renovation unfolds across two journal entries:

Historic Bathroom Design: Restoring an 1889 Victorian Bathroom
Discover the design decisions that transformed a cramped 36-square-foot bathroom while preserving the character of this historic home.

Historic Bathroom Renovation: Behind the Build of an 1889 Victorian 
Follow the renovation from demolition to completion, including the custom millwork, restored clawfoot tub, disappearing plaster trades, and the sequencing required to renovate a Victorian bathroom.

→ View the 1889 Victorian Bathroom Project for the complete project overview, before-and-after photos, and finished details.

If you read Part 1, you know what this bathroom became. What you don’t know is what it took to get there.

This is the part that doesn’t make the reveal photos — the decisions, the pivots, the trades that are harder and harder to find, and the work that happened before a single tile went up. If you’re planning a historic bathroom renovation, this is the post you actually need to read.

Historic bathrooms present challenges that simply don’t exist in newer homes. Original plaster, aging plumbing, specialty trades, custom millwork, and preservation decisions all affect how the project unfolds. While every house is different, this 1889 Victorian illustrates many of the decisions homeowners face when restoring a late nineteenth-century bathroom. It’s one reason I love working on historic homes—every renovation teaches you something new while asking you to respect what came before.

What We Found Behind the Walls

When you gut a bathroom in a house this age, you’re making a bet. Sometimes the walls are fine. Sometimes they’re not.

In this case, the mold we’d seen on the surface had stayed on the surface. The studs were clean. That was the good news.

The question then became: do we replaster, or do we drywall?

In a historic home, replastering is always the more sympathetic choice—it matches the original construction, it’s more dimensionally stable, and done well, it’s beautiful. The problem is finding someone who can do it well. We’d had two difficult experiences with plasterers by this point, and that’s not an isolated story. The old world trades are disappearing. Plastering, in particular—real lime plaster, done properly—is a skill that’s becoming genuinely difficult to source. It’s a loss worth naming.

We made the call to go with moisture-resistant drywall instead. Purple board, which is the right specification for a wet room. In a full gut bathroom it’s a defensible choice—better moisture performance than standard drywall, and in this case, the right one given what we were working with on the trades side. It doesn’t carry the same character as plaster. But it will outlast a bad plaster job by decades.

The Tub Surround

The 1913 cast iron tub left the room early. It went out for refinishing—grey on the exterior, white inside—and while it was gone, we got to work on the surround.

The original brass surround was staying. That was never in question. But we were enlarging it, which meant finding someone who could weld brass cleanly and match what was already there. That’s a shorter list than you’d think. Brass welding is its own skill, and finding a maker who could work at the level this project required took some doing. When you’re restoring a 110-year-old bathroom, the metalwork either holds up to scrutiny or it doesn’t. We found the right person, and it shows.

The Vanity

This is where the room really got solved.

The original bathroom had almost no storage. The new vanity quadrupled it—custom designed and built to fit the room to the inch, which in a 6×6 space is the only way to do it.

The vanity was built by Steve Drake and me—custom designed and built to fit the room exactly, because in a 6×6 space, there’s no other way to do it. Every inch is spoken for before you start.

By wall-mounting the faucet, we returned about six inches of counter space—enough to fit an artist-edition sink instead of something standard. That decision alone changed how the whole vanity reads.

The design went through a real pivot mid-project: it was originally spec’d in oak, and we moved to an opaque stain partway through once we saw how the wood was reading against the tile. The V-shaped mullions on the vanity doors echo the black and white tile pattern on the floor—a detail that ties the whole room together without being obvious about it.

Steve also restored the original door, and his care shows in every detail of it—same as it does in the vanity.

The Order Matters More Than Most People Realize

One of the biggest misconceptions homeowners have is that bathroom renovations happen room by room. In reality, they happen system by system, and the sequence matters. In a historic home, getting that order right can prevent costly delays, protect original materials, and keep the project moving.

For this renovation, the work followed a carefully planned progression:

• Complete demolition
• HVAC modifications
• Plumbing rough-in
• Electrical rough-in
• Moisture-resistant drywall
• Priming
• Tile installation
• Crown molding
• Paint
• Reinstalling the refinished cast iron tub
• Plumbing fixtures
• Final trim and punch list
•  

We also installed a marble threshold at the bathroom entrance. While it’s a traditional detail in Victorian homes, it serves an important practical purpose by helping contain water inside the room and protecting the original hardwood flooring beyond the doorway.

One detail says more about how we approach renovations than anything else on this project: we removed and reinstalled the toilet twice during construction so the homeowners always had a functioning bathroom while the rest of the room was under construction.

It isn’t glamorous, but thoughtful sequencing like this can make living through a renovation significantly less stressful.

The Decisions That Didn’t Make the Photos

A freestanding tub against a window looks effortless in photographs and is anything but in practice—that gap between the tub and the sill is nearly impossible to keep clean. We talked about it and chose not to do it. The tub stayed where it was. The decision came down to how the room would actually live, not how it would photograph.

The light fixture was the client’s choice, and they love it. While I might have chosen something different, great residential design isn’t about imposing a signature style. It’s about helping homeowners create spaces that feel authentically theirs, and this bathroom does exactly that.

Standard sizing doesn’t work in a room this small. Everything has to be accounted for—the plumbing, the trades, the sequence, the six inches you fight to get back. That’s the real story behind a 36-square-foot bathroom that finally works.

If you’re researching Victorian bathroom ideas, planning a historic bathroom renovation, or trying to preserve original architectural details, I hope seeing the construction process behind this project helps you make better decisions for your own home.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

What is the biggest challenge in a historic bathroom renovation?

The biggest challenge is usually what you can’t see before demolition begins. Older homes often have outdated plumbing, electrical systems, damaged plaster, or structural surprises hidden behind the walls. Planning for these unknowns—and working with trades experienced in historic homes—helps keep the renovation on track.

Should you keep plaster walls in a historic bathroom?

If the original plaster is in good condition and you can find a skilled plasterer, preserving it is often the best choice. However, when extensive repairs are needed or qualified craftsmen aren’t available, moisture-resistant drywall can be a practical and durable solution that performs well in modern bathrooms.

How long does a historic bathroom renovation take?

Every project is different, but historic bathroom renovations typically take longer than renovations in newer homes. Custom cabinetry, specialty trades, refinishing original fixtures, and uncovering unexpected conditions can all extend the timeline. Careful planning and sequencing help minimize delays.

Is it worth renovating an original Victorian bathroom instead of replacing it?

In most cases, yes. Preserving original architectural details while improving storage, plumbing, lighting, and functionality allows the bathroom to meet modern needs without losing the character that makes a Victorian home special. Thoughtful renovations often add both long-term value and everyday enjoyment.

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a kitchen renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

Project Journal

Every historic renovation has a story. The story of this 1889 Victorian bathroom renovation unfolds across two journal entries:

Historic Bathroom Design: Restoring an 1889 Victorian Bathroom
Discover the design decisions that transformed a cramped 36-square-foot bathroom while preserving the character of this historic home.

Historic Bathroom Renovation: Behind the Build of an 1889 Victorian (Current Article)
Follow the renovation from demolition to completion, including the custom millwork, restored clawfoot tub, disappearing plaster trades, and the sequencing required to renovate a Victorian bathroom.

→ View the 1889 Victorian Bathroom Project for the complete project overview, before-and-after photos, and finished details.

The People Behind the Work

This project was completed with the help of Steve Drake, who brought the same precision to every job that he brought to everything else in his life — his tools were always where they should be, his vehicle was always clean, and the work he turned out reflected both.

Steve Drake was my collaborator and right hand on this project. The vanity, the door, the crown molding, the paint, the fixtures—most of what you see in these photos passed through his hands. Steve passed away not long after this project wrapped. We were lucky to work together.

A Victorian kitchen renovation that feels original to the house doesn’t announce itself, and that’s the point. It doesn’t have a moment where you walk in and register that something dramatic happened here — no before-and-after reveal energy, no design feature reaching for your attention.

The heartwood pine floors run from this room through the rest of the home without interruption, refinished but not replaced, the same boards that have been there since 1889, and they’re what allows the kitchen to read as continuous with the rest of the home. The trim profiles match what’s in every other room. The corner blocks with their finials were fabricated to match the originals, and they do. The ceiling height is what it was when the house was built. The proportions are what the room had always had, before the 90s renovation divided it. What changed is everything inside that frame — and it changed in a way that the frame makes look inevitable.

That’s the goal of a Victorian kitchen renovation: not to create a kitchen that feels new, but one that feels as though it always belonged.

Designing the Range Wall in a Victorian Kitchen Renovation

The original fireplace surround was deconstructed and its millwork used to build the range hood — painted white, running floor to ceiling, proportioned to the ceiling height of an 1889 Victorian rather than to the standard dimensions of a modern kitchen hood. The range sits in the exact spot where the firebox had been.

The dark tile behind it runs floor to ceiling, charcoal, and at its center sits a pineapple tile mosaic — the one detail in the room that doesn’t reference the house’s history. It references the client’s.

The chimney is capped; ventilation runs through the wall; the fireplace upstairs remained working throughout. Nothing was taken from the house. The kitchen just moved in.

The Cabinets

The cabinets are fully custom, stained in tones of grey that pick up the wallpaper in the staircase hallway — warm enough to read with the heartwood pine rather than against it, settled and considered, disappearing into the room rather than competing with it.

The upper cabinets are a mix of solid and glass doors with decorative muntins, the glass ones positioned where the client felt confident that organization would hold.

What It Feels Like to Be in It

The circulation moves in a circle. Two sinks anchor opposite sides of the room — the main sink on the south wall, centered perfectly on the passthrough, with the dishwasher, and a second small grey enamel bar sink on the north wall with a coffee bar — and the island sits at the center, which means you can move through the space without doubling back, without getting in anyone’s way, without the kitchen feeling like it has a wrong end.

The south wall counter runs at 38 inches rather than the standard 36 — the client’s husband is 6’1″ and was dealing with back issues, and a counter at standard height meant leaning over the sink in a way that was adding up over time. Two inches makes a significant difference when you’re doing it every day.

The rest of the counters are standard height, all quartz, and the transition between the two is easy to read without being abrupt.

A freestanding table with a quartz top adjoins the east side of the island, running east to west while the island runs north to south. It’s not attached, and that’s the point — it can move, it can be pulled away, it can seat people when the kitchen is in entertaining mode.

It’s also a quiet nod to the Victorian kitchen worktable, the freestanding piece that sat at the center of every serious working kitchen before built-ins became the standard. It doesn’t announce itself as a historical reference. It just works the way those tables always worked.

Everyone has their own zone. The person baking and the person cooking can work at the same time, though they’ll need to coordinate on the oven — there’s one, and it’s a good one — and the drawer microwave lives where it doesn’t compete with anything.

A single glass-paned door on the north wall leads directly to the backyard — and from there to the trash and recycling area, which is the kind of practical connection that sounds minor until you’re carrying a bag of recycling outside in the rain.

The pet feeding station lives nearby: a raised bowl on a mat, chosen over a built-in for the same reason most practical decisions get made — it’s easier to clean.

To the west, the staircase hallway opens off the kitchen — wallpapered in a bird print, the same pattern as the front entryway but in a different colorway, which ties the two spaces together without repeating them exactly.

The electrical panel lives in that hallway, and it is completely invisible — covered in the same wallpaper, pattern-matched exactly across a removable cover with a lid that still opens fully. The paper wraps the edges of both the cover and the door, and the pattern lines up across all of it.

It took multiple steps, real patience, and two sets of hands — Steve, our specialist, and I worked it together, and it could not have been done alone. It’s one of those details that people stand in front of without quite understanding what they’re looking at, which is exactly the point.

When someone is entertaining and the kitchen is in use at the same time, the room handles it without effort. The passthrough keeps the living room close. The island gives people somewhere to land. The room is beautiful and peaceful. That’s exactly what a successful Victorian kitchen renovation should feel like.

The Finish Line

The room reads as though it has always been this way. Standing in the finished space, with the original floors underfoot and the original trim at the windows and the fireplace surround rebuilt as the range hood on the east wall, you cannot tell which parts are original and which parts are new.

In historic home renovation, that’s the only finish line that matters, and this kitchen crossed it.

FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS

How do you make a new kitchen feel like it belongs in a historic home?

 
 
Every decision has to be made in relation to what’s already there. Floors that match the originals. Trim profiles that match the originals, or are made to match them. Ceiling heights that are what they always were. Cabinets finished in a tone that works with the existing materials rather than asserts itself over them.

The goal is a room that reads as continuous with the rest of the house — not a renovation that announces itself as a renovation, but one that settles in and lets the house be what it always was.
 
 

Can you use a working Victorian fireplace as the location for a kitchen range?

 
 
With the right approach, yes.

In this home, the range went into the fireplace opening, the original surround was deconstructed and rebuilt as the range hood, the flue was capped, and ventilation was run through the wall. The fireplace upstairs remained working throughout the project.

The range wall reads as a natural continuation of the room’s architecture because the bones of that wall — the surround and the proportions — were already there.
 
 

Why are heartwood pine floors worth preserving in a historic renovation?

 
 
Because you cannot replace them with anything equivalent.

Heartwood pine from the late 1800s is old-growth wood — dense, tight-grained, and finished by 130 years of use into something no new material can replicate.

Refinishing original heartwood pine floors costs a fraction of replacing them, and what you get is infinitely more valuable than anything you could install new.

In a historic home renovation, the original floors stay whenever it is at all possible to keep them, because losing them is a loss the house never fully recovers from.

How do you design a kitchen that works for people of very different heights?

 
 
You design for the actual people using it rather than for a standard dimension.

In this kitchen, the south wall counter was raised to 38 inches to accommodate a 6’1″ homeowner with back issues, while the rest of the counters stayed at standard height. The difference is immediately functional and completely invisible to anyone who doesn’t know it’s there.

Custom design means designing for the people living in the home — not for the average.
 
 

Studio Olio specializes in historic home renovation in Denver and remotely. If you’re planning a kitchen renovation and want to understand what’s possible — let’s talk.

Project Journal

Every historic renovation has a story. The story of this Victorian kitchen renovation unfolds across three journal entries:

Why the Kitchen Moved
Understanding what wasn’t working and why the dining room became the new kitchen.

Relocating a Kitchen in a Historic Home
The structural, masonry, and millwork work required to make the move possible.

Victorian Kitchen Renovation: The Finished Space – (current article)
The completed kitchen and the details that make it feel as though it has always belonged.

→  View the 1889 Victorian Kitchen Project  with the full scope, photos, and details.

The People Behind the Work

This project was completed with the help of Steve Drake, who brought the same precision to every job that he brought to everything else in his life — his tools were always where they should be, his vehicle was always clean, and the work he turned out reflected both.

On this project, Steve restored all of the original millwork rosettes and doors in the home and did most of the interior painting. Outside, he handled the digging, site work, drainage, and planting that made the yard what it became. He was my second set of hands when the wallpaper went up. His hands are in this project in more places than I can count. Working alongside him was one of the real privileges of this work. Steve passed away shortly after this project was complete. He is missed.