This Modern Old House

Emerging in period condos and homes across the region is a contrarian view of historic preservation: Keep the bones - but kick tradition to the curb.

Just before entering Ron Lawner's Beacon Hill condo, you'll be asked to kick off your shoes. A quick glance inside reveals why: The hardwood floors are painted white. (Yes, white!) So are the brick walls, the exposed overhead beams, the soaring ceilings. Yet his two-bedroom home doesn't feel sterile. It's a sanctuary. "Cold is unacceptable to me," says Lawner, a retired advertising executive from New York City who moved to Boston in 1976. "You avoid it with the art of comfortable furniture by adding details that lend character."

There's plenty of character in the 2,200-square-foot flat, despite Lawner's penchant for modern furnishings. Lawner's condo occupies the top two floors of one of the city's few Arts and Crafts buildings. For years, he lived in a one-bedroom condo in the building, but six years ago the space next door went up for sale, so he bought it and began knocking down walls. He wanted to keep the bones of the historic unit. He left the brick walls and the ceiling's beams exposed and installed ductwork, but he tore down all but the most essential walls (the ones for the guest room and the main dividing wall between the living room and the kitchen/dining area). He wanted the interior design to feel anything but period. "I love industrial design and really clean lines," he says. "I love the character of an old building paired with a new kitchen. If both were new, it's less interesting."

The space's simplicity mirrors his most famous project, the award-winning advertising campaign that put Volkswagen back on the map in the United States. As an executive at Arnold Worldwide in Boston, Lawner masterminded the classic 1995 campaign - white background, one car, one very simple phrase: "Drivers wanted." Lawner, 60 and recently retired, has infused his home with that same thoughtful, clean style. For him, it's all about how you feel when you're in a space. "There's a physical feeling for me when I see something simply elegant," he says, "something pared down to its essences. That doesn't always mean it's incredibly spare, but it says all it needs to say and no more."

Lawner, who designed the interiors himself, believes exposure to modern art helped shape his tastes. An aunt took him to see the Guggenheim Museum in his native New York right after it opened in 1959. From there, his aesthetic developed. "Being in advertising, you fine-tune those senses," he says. "I was influenced by art and architecture, but stealthily. It seeped into me."

Although he appreciates fine art (and has a house full of it), he's not a collector of tchotchkes. There's no clutter. He doesn't cram his space full of furniture, but rather carefully chooses each item, whether it's a sculpture or a chair. "The things you touch every day," he says, "you should love them." For instance, the black and white painting in the dining room, seemingly haphazard X's and O's covering the canvas, still captures Lawner's attention.

He also enjoys experimenting with color. In room after room of crisp white, Lawner focuses the eye with spots of, say, yellow or orange. In the dining room, the mustard-colored padded chairs immediately draw your eye and make you long for a seat at the honey-colored wood table - made from two 15-inch-wide planks of recovered barn wood by a woodworker in Vermont. "It's exactly what I wanted," Lawner says. "I took advantage of some of the great craftsmen who are out there." Contrasting with rich shades of the dining room's table and chairs is the sleek stainless steel and blond wood of his kitchen. The clean lines of the bulthaup cabinetry balance the traditional brick and wood bones; the stainless steel unifies the kitchen with the dining area's snaking ductwork.

The kitchen, living room, and dining area all flow into one another, adhering to the open airiness Lawner intended. The only closed-off spaces are a guest room with an en suite bath and another bathroom off the dining alcove. Up a short flight of stairs is a mezzanine overlooking the dining and kitchen where Lawner set up a small home office - where again, white prevails: White laminate desk and custom filing cabinets blend into the white half-wall, floors, and ceiling, as well as storage cabinets and drawers he designed and commissioned craftsmen to construct. Perched on top are his three Emmy awards and a Grand Prix from Cannes. A colorful Native American wool rug pops on the white floor, as does his bright yellow office chair. Upstairs is the loftlike master bedroom. The intimate room has dramatic light, direct from the sun, streaming in through the wall of glass with doors opening to a small balcony. A custom-designed closet occupies one wall, opposite a mirrored wall that multiplies the sunlight. A rug and plush linens soften the room's hard edges. A full bath sits behind the mirrored wall, and his dresser hosts a small replica of his beach house on the Cape.

But Lawner's not just sitting pretty. Since retiring, he's turned his eye to philanthropy. His charity, Purple Dog Tag (purpledogtag.com), is raising money for wounded veterans returning from Iraq and Afghanistan who need rehabilitation and medical attention. Like his home, the design of the "dog tag" is simple but heartfelt - a necklace and key chain that mimic the military dog tags worn by soldiers. "We put the word `heart' on it," he says, "to show where the hurt is, and the hole is what's missing in their lives." He hopes that the tags will inspire ordinary Americans to action. "It's the natural order of things," he says. "At first, you work for your own advancement, then you teach younger people how to do it. Then at some point you work for others . . . you give something back. Seems like the right thing to do."

Janice O'Leary is a frequent contributor to the Globe Magazine. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.