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Behind fortress-like walls in Long Beach sits modernism’s best-kept secret: Edward Killingsworth’s own home, where 30-foot ceilings and 12-foot doors proved that post-and-beam could be palatial. Built in 1961, this wasn’t just another Case Study experiment — it was an architect showing Conrad Hilton and John Wayne how luxury could wear glass walls.
Edward Killingsworth arrived at modernism through painting, not Bauhaus manifestos. Born in 1917 in oil-boom California, he wanted to be an artist until practicality steered him to USC’s architecture school. But those artistic instincts never left — they just found expression in proportion, light, and the kind of dramatic entrances that made clients gasp.
After earning a Bronze Star producing invasion maps in WWII, Killingsworth returned to Long Beach ready to revolutionize California architecture. In 1950, Arts & Architecture’s John Entenza drove past a house Killingsworth designed and immediately invited him into the Case Study Program. The young architect had arrived, but not to build worker housing — his vision aimed higher.
In 1961, while designing modest Case Study homes for magazines, Killingsworth built something entirely different for himself. On 0.7 acres in the exclusive Virginia Country Club neighborhood — where Spanish Colonial and Tudor ruled — he created a glass fortress that whispered rather than shouted its radicalism.
The approach tells everything: high walls ensure privacy, then curated patio “rooms” lead to 12-foot-tall double doors that wouldn’t look out of place at a embassy. This is democratized modernism’s opposite — architecture that declares its occupants have arrived, just in steel and glass instead of limestone.
Enter the house and modernism’s modest scale explodes. The central garden room soars 30 feet, topped by skylights that turn sunlight into architecture. Brick floors flow seamlessly from interior to exterior gardens — not because Killingsworth couldn’t afford transitions, but because boundaries offended him.
This atrium isn’t just tall; it’s the house’s beating heart. Every other space relates to it, creating what Killingsworth called “cubic square-footage” — volume mattering as much as floor area. The 2,781 square feet feel like 5,000 because ceilings don’t crouch at standard heights.
The boys’ bedroom featured sliding walls — not for poverty of space but richness of possibility. Kids could create private zones or open everything up, modernism solving real family problems. The dining room and Killingsworth’s office sit slightly elevated, adding spatial hierarchy without breaking the open plan.
Before construction, the family planted scores of trees, ensuring the house would be born into mature landscape. This patience — waiting for nature before building — epitomizes Killingsworth’s approach: architecture as long game, not quick statement.
Killingsworth understood something his modernist peers missed: wealthy clients needed to feel luxury, not just function. When Conrad Hilton or John Wayne visited, he’d invite them for lunch at his home. They’d enter through those towering doors, pause in the soaring atrium, and suddenly understand that modernism could mean magnificence.
The house worked. Those lunches led to commissions for hotels across Hawaii, Japan, and Indonesia. Killingsworth’s sons Greg and Kim had laid the entrance bricks themselves — a detail that charmed tycoons who valued craftsmanship. The residence proved that post-and-beam could scale from beach cottage to grand resort.
The Killingsworths regularly opened their fortress for Long Beach Symphony fundraisers and Civic Light Opera benefits. Architectural tours made pilgrimages. Yet mysteriously, Julius Shulman — who photographed nearly every other Killingsworth project — never shot the house. Perhaps the architect wanted one space that remained personal, undocumented, purely lived rather than published.
After 58 years in the Killingsworth family, the house faced its biggest threat in 2019: the open market. On 0.7 acres in prime Long Beach, developers smelled opportunity. Teardown seemed inevitable. The modernist community held its breath as the property listed.
Then Laurence and Janet Watt arrived — not with wrecking balls but with restoration plans. “This is a house that needs to be preserved,” they declared, purchasing not just the property but most of Killingsworth’s original furniture. They’re removing a non-original jacuzzi, sourcing period-correct materials, and pursuing historic landmark status.
The Watts plan to continue the home’s community role, hosting charity events and architectural tours. They’re even exploring an artist-in-residence program with local universities. The house that elevated modernism refuses to become a museum — it remains alive, evolving, hosting.
The residence at 4606 North Virginia Road hides behind security gates and high walls — invisible from the street, as Killingsworth intended. Regular tours don’t exist, but the house occasionally opens during Long Beach Architecture Week or Historical Society events. Patient enthusiasts should monitor these organizations’ calendars.
For deeper study, the Edward A. Killingsworth Papers at UC Santa Barbara contain 358 linear feet of drawings and documents. The 2013 monograph “Edward A. Killingsworth: An Architect’s Life” by Volland and Mullio provides the definitive account, with rare interior photographs of this enigmatic house.
In an era when modernism meant efficiency and economy, Killingsworth dared to ask: what if it meant elegance? His residence answered with 30-foot ceilings, fortress privacy, and the kind of grand gestures that belonged in embassy compounds, not suburban streets.
This wasn’t betraying modernism but expanding it. While Neutra and Schindler focused on dissolving barriers between inside and outside, Killingsworth added another dimension: dissolving barriers between modernism and luxury. His success birthing a luxury hotel empire from this glass-walled manor proves that sometimes revolution comes not from rejection but elevation.
Today, as developers demolish mid-century homes for McMansions, the Killingsworth Residence stands defiant. Protected by new owners who understand its significance, visited by architects who still learn from its volumes, it remains what its creator intended: proof that modernism’s clean lines could frame magnificent lives, not just efficient ones.