The irony of living in a corrugated-iron church is not entirely lost on its artisan owner, Nick Kenny. ‘As an ex-Catholic, I do have a thing about original sin,’ he confesses – a theme reflected in many of his own little sculptures that are dotted round the place.
Nick Kenny decided to return to England six years ago having spent the previous five years in Paris. ‘First I bought a little cottage in Devon but most of my work was in Paris still, so commuting from the West Country was not practical. I needed to be nearer to France. I started looking for somewhere with a workshop in Ramsgate as I think the housing stock there is amazing. It was at that point that my brother-in-law heard of a church for sale in Faversham which was being used by a joinery company that needed bigger premises. I was immediately seduced by its size and its potential for both living and working in. I could be in Dover in 25 minutes, Paris in five hours and London in just over an hour.’
Nick moved in in February 2003. ‘It was freezing, freezing cold,’ he says. ‘I remember sleeping very badly for the first couple of nights. There was a lot of noise from traffic in the morning and people walking past.’
Noise was always going to be a problem, given that the church (or tabernacle) is made from prefabricated, corrugated iron, lined with tongue-and-groove pine boarding. On one early occasion, during a hailstorm in the middle of the night, Nick thought he was being attacked by terrorists.
Along with many others, the tabernacle was erected in the 1870s. It would have either been ‘delivered to the nearest Goods Station and erected on the purchaser’s foundation or marked for re-erection, bundled and packed on Rail or Wharf with or without lining’ – so states the catalogue of Cooper’s, in the Old Kent Road, one of the original flatpack-building manufacturers (WoI Sept 2000). By 1875, hundreds of tabernacles like this one had shot up across the country, some with quite extensive Gothic-style embellishments.
Nick’s tabernacle was deconsecrated during the 1950s. Thereafter the Scouts took it over for a while, then a dress-hire place, then several other businesses until it finally became a joinery factory. Today, the air is thick with the Mediterranean aromas of wine, shallots, flageolets, anchovies and duck, but before Nick built his kitchen he managed with just one cold-water tap for 18 months. Hot water came from the kettle and the only cooking utensil was an electric saucepan. His enthusiasm for French peasant cooking was challenged but not curtailed: ‘I’d have porridge for breakfast and petit salé for supper.’
The kitchen is full of quirky design details. ‘I have what I call ex voto doors – little doors within doors which are often too high for people to get into. You can’t see what’s in there unless you stand on a chair. It’s this tantalising thing. Most people are curious about what's in there.’ Inside one cupboard he has written ‘If you come looking for me I’m going to let you find me’ – a French expression meaning ‘Don't bug me.’
Nick designs kitchens and bathrooms for a living. His installations first became popular among his friends in Paris when he was living there. Sometimes, he had to shoehorn tiny kitchens and bathrooms into awkward spaces, for which he would use recycled zinc – a material that has become a trademark of his work. He sources it from the roofs of Parisian buildings when they are being replaced. ‘They close-board their roofs with timber and the underside of the zinc becomes dirty and stained because it touches the timber,’ he says. ‘I like that. I cut it up and clean it with acid to remove any dirt. I’m then left with pieces of clean but stained zinc which have the most extraordinary patterns on them.’
‘I use a couple of scrap yards on the outskirts of Paris. One is just like Dante’s Inferno: there are men stripping machines down and a huge crane that claws up all sorts of things, and enormous cutters.’
Nick almost never buys things new. ‘Everything here is second-hand,’ he says. He has a special fondness for thermometers and pressure gauges, which he uses in a lot of his bathrooms. Large beads brought back from travels become knobs on cupboards. Mirrors are another signature. ‘I buy odd bits and cut them up because I like fractured, reflected light. I use them on doors, inside doors and with tiles,’ Nick explains.
When it comes to tiling ,Nick is a mixture of anarchist and artisan. ‘I’ve spent 25 years learning how to tile correctly and now I’m trying to undo the work that I’ve learned,’ he says. ‘I like differing shades of white tiles patching areas where tiles have fallen off. I’m trying to be freer after being so regimented with my work. Nick’s tiling celebrates imperfections and random sizes, allowing spaces to develop a life of their own. The tiles he used in his own kitchen and bathroom were left over from other jobs.
As with many of his bathrooms, this one incorporates an old thermometer and pressure gauge in the shower. His choice of green for the woodwork evolved after three other colour attempts. Nick still feels it could be paler. I’d like it to be more 1950s, with a slight grey edge to it. It’s important to get colour right. Next time, I’ll add black to the white paint to make grey, save half the green and mix it with the other half. I can always paint it back again if I don’t like it, as it only takes an hour to paint the entire room.’
The spiral staircase leading up to the platform bedroom above the kitchen was originally an external fire staircase. Nick bought it on eBay, hiring a low-wheel base transit to bring it back from Leeds. ‘I’m not interested in Victorian stuff any more,’ he says. ‘I like this more industrial look from the 1950s or 1960s.’
There’s still a lot of work to do. ‘This building is a huge responsibility. It eats up everything I have. Right now I’m just nibbling at the edges; one day I’ve got to take a major bite and handle the new roof.’
Nick says he is very happy living in his converted corrugated-iron church. ‘I feel very much at home here and love living so close to the creek with its ramshackle boat yards and the Shepherd Neame brewery.’ He has also come to love the unique resonating sounds that come with his metal home. ‘Rain is pleasant, especially when you’re under the roof, dry and warm. It makes me smile.’
A version of this article appeared in the March 2007 issue of The World of Interiors. Learn about our subscription offers
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