Tim Ross on The Value of Design
08.09.26

Essays is a compilation of musings that examine the broad yet impactful role design plays in contemporary life. Leading design writers, commentators and thinkers are invited to contribute an individual perspective – accepting or challenging the notion that design does or should embody greater “value” by drawing on personal experience, expertise and knowledge. Contributors are encouraged to explore design’s influence and application in domestic and commercial settings, across history, culture, politics, and its power to impact all aspects of life from small gestures of the everyday, to the future and sustainability of our planet.⁠

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Tim Ross is a celebrated Australian comedian, broadcaster and one of the country’s most influential advocates for architecture and design. Following a successful career in commercial radio, Tim has become renowned for making the built environment accessible to broad audiences through television, live performance, writing and public speaking. Blending nostalgia, humour and thoughtful commentary, his acclaimed ABC series ‘Streets of Your Town’ and ‘Designing A Legacy’, books, exhibitions and live ‘Man About the House’ performances in significant buildings have fostered a deeper appreciation for Australia’s architectural and design culture, earning him the National Trust Heritage Award for Advocacy and the Australian Institute of Architects‘ National President’s Prize.

Portrait by Caroline McCredie.

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The Value of Design by Tim Ross

As I tap away here, it’s the middle of winter and new slipstreams of cold air seem to be finding their way into my 1950s house like never before. It’s one of the few downsides of living in a house that’s nudging 70. It’s something we’ve simply got used to and, at some stage, I’ll get around to dealing with all those spots where the draughts creep in, although I’m not sure when.

It’s pretty Australian to accept that we often live in homes that are not much more than fancy tents. We expect it and, somehow, we’ve decided it’s just part of our lot.

Those old school holiday houses are a prime example of how readily we accept the discomfort created by the way we’ve traditionally built. We cop those brutal hot days in the sweatbox like a stubborn old boxer in the ring, trying to see it out until the sun drops and the cool change arrives like the final bell, bringing a much-needed reprieve.

In Sydney, Perth and Brisbane, the cold is something we pretend doesn’t exist – a strange blip in the calendar that comes out of nowhere, is briefly acknowledged and then conveniently forgotten when spring arrives.

When I first moved to Sydney from Melbourne in the late 1990s, many restaurants and hotels didn’t even have heating during winter. It was pure denial.

Melbourne is a different story. When I was a kid we battled through winters in a house with no insulation at all. We had single-pane windows, large gaps under every door and the only saving grace was the glorious sound of the central heating kicking in on a frosty morning, somehow warming the place enough that we avoided getting frostbite while eating Weet-Bix at the kitchen bench.

The central heating conked out one day and, for years, we relied on the open fire to heat the whole house, with a couple of blow heaters tucked under our desks while we did our homework. Those things sent the power bills skyrocketing. Mum finally relented, called in the repairman and we discovered the problem was simply that the pilot light had gone out.

Later, when I moved into a share house in North Melbourne, we battled through winter wearing doonas around the house and, on the coldest days, left the oven door open in a desperate attempt to warm the place.

Any European who spends winter in Australia will openly declare that we have the coldest homes in the world. One witty German architect once told me: “No wonder you invented the Ugg boot – your houses are fucking freezing.”

Winter is also when our homes get squeezed. Doors are opened only briefly, clothes horses take up valuable circulation space, and blinds and curtains are drawn, making us feel cosy but also a little cramped.

That’s the story of our place at the moment. During these colder months, we’re pushing the house to its red line and hoping the whole thing doesn’t blow a gasket.

We’re potentially at the peak stretch years, with two teenage boys and their mates. Yeah, thanks for turning the dining table into a ping-pong table and bouncing balls off my paintings for your own enjoyment.

It’s all part of the evolution of a modest-sized home that started with just me, then welcomed the gorgeous woman who was kind enough to marry me, and later our two boys.

It’s handled every stage with aplomb. I always knew there would be a few years when it felt stretched, but that’s part of the journey. Rightly or wrongly, when we renovated five years ago, we decided to work within the existing footprint rather than extend it.

I’ve always felt the beauty of the house is its scale. I firmly believe that, as a close family, we can still find places to retreat when we need them, but we naturally gravitate towards each other. The original design of the main living spaces, combined with some clever updates by Brisbane architect Paul Owen, allows us to feel separate without feeling disconnected.

The house has a little wriggle room for the day when at least one of the boys refuses to leave, but we also know it only feels tight for a few months each year.

As spring approaches, the doors will be flung open and the garden and balcony will create that extra sense of space as winter makes a hasty exit.

The average-sized home rarely gets much kudos. We marvel at the miraculous things people achieve in tiny homes and apartments, while drooling over those blessed with endless room.

The small home sends its occupants out into the world to find space before welcoming them back to a cosy retreat. The large home has everything on tap and gives its residents little reason to leave.

The average house, however, allows for wonderful moments of theatre. On those sunny days, the kitchen table or Bunnings table is carried into the courtyard, onto the deck or across the lawn, a tablecloth is thrown over it, and suddenly the perfect setting for a good time appears.

We’re essentially dressing up the house in the same way we put on our glad rags for a big night out. There’s magic in the temporary. It stirs something in us, much like putting up the Christmas tree.

How much space we need is rarely a choice these days, but we shouldn’t see it as a compromise.

We’ve all been in large homes with spare rooms piled high with stuff and double garages bursting at the seams. Those of us with tiny cupboards can’t help but shake our heads while also looking on with a touch of envy.

This is the world we created for ourselves. The seeds were sown back when my house was built.

Those mid-century homes were small because of circumstance. Materials were in short supply, austerity dictated their size, yet they still carried the dream of a modern life.

We were seduced by the promise of all the mod cons – fridges, Mixmasters, electric frypans and even electric can openers.

We’d entered the great age of consumerism and nobody was ever going to put that dishwasher genie, or the Rinse Aid, back in the bottle.

Our desire for butler’s pantries, coffee machines and air fryers was planted way back then.

Along the way, though, we’ve mistaken size for design, and they’re not the same thing. The value of design lies not in giving us more, but in helping us make more of what we already have.

Size has also become a by-product of property values. When your home is the biggest investment of your life, it’s understandable that resale value creeps into almost every decision about how you build, renovate or buy.

That desire for more is hard to shake, but I’m always reminded of a story a friend told me. He complained that whenever the kitchen was full of family, eating, drinking and laughing together, he had to move his chair away from the table just to open the oven.

Another friend leaned in and quietly replied, “That sounds like a party, not a problem.”