Hackman brought a moviemaker’s sense of illusion to the finishing of the interior spaces. What he wanted was the subtlety of a house that has been finished over decades, gradually acquiring its own range of layers and patinas. “The house is new, but from its newness we tried to bring it back a hundred years or more,” he explains. “The plaster was very good, but I wanted water marks, as if there had been leaks over the years. I wanted the plaster darkened in some places, as if by smoke.”
It took some persuading, he admits, to convince the plasterers that this was really what he wanted, but the result is walls that shade from one color to another, defining and shaping spaces without breaking up the feeling of openness. In the entrance hall, for example, teal gradually turns into tan, a color bridge between outside and inside. In the same spirit, new ceiling beams were rehewn, burned, beaten with chains and repainted several times, with layers of different colored paints applied and removed again and again.
Hackman also wanted a traditional stamped-tin ceiling in certain rooms of the house. When no commercially available patterned tin pleased him, a local artisan was called in to do exactly what he envisioned.
Hackman was involved in every aspect of the house. He determined the floor plan for the architects, specified each detail in the kitchen, even helped out physically with the demolition. He’s an accomplished painter, and he occasionally mixed colors on his own palette to show the workmen precisely what he wanted.
Although he was on location for most of the time that the house was being built, Hackman remained in touch with everything that was being done. “He’s a deeply involved client, very artistic, very keen on details,” says Samuelson. “We had to call him and send sketches constantly. If we didn’t, we’d get a call in a few days: ‘Hello, this is Gene Hackman. Do you remember me?’ ” In addition, Betsy Arakawa was on the site much of the time, consulting with Hackman by phone and sending photographs of the work in progress.
When it came to furnishing the house, they did not want a pure Santa Fe look. Instead, Hackman explains, “We bought a few things in Santa Fe. Other things came from auctions in New York, an antiques shop in Germany that Betsy and I found, and from Los Angeles. It’s a nice combination of soft southwestern pieces and hard-edged antiques.”
Their new acquisitions, as well as furniture from Hackman’s Montecito house, were brought together by Santa Fe designers Ken Figueredo and Glynn Gomez, described by the couple as “our interior collaborators.” The softness of Santa Fe colors and contours and the traditionalism of European antiques were linked by colorful, large-scale accessories. As in the architectural style, there was no attempt to turn the house into a museum of New Mexican arts and crafts. Some of the most effective pieces come from Morocco, including intricately painted spice shelves that look like mosaics. The house was designed as a haven for the brief periods—perhaps two months scattered through the year—when Hackman is not on location. At these times, the emphasis is on comfort and quiet, undisturbed by the demands of houseguests and constant entertaining. If he’s in a painting mood, Hackman might get into his pickup truck and drive toward the mountains with his oils and canvas. Otherwise, he spends hours reading and listening to music in the living room, while the desert changes color and the clouds move through the mountains around him.
