The former crack houses next door were in terrible shape. Cynthia Foster and Karel Samsom put them into intensive rehab. Before the three run-down 1920s semiattached bungalows in Venice, California, were even listed on the market, the couple took a leap and negotiated a deal for $1.7 million. The price was essentially the value of the land. “In traditional economics,” says Samsom, an environmental economist, “you do not do what we did. You take all this down and build prefab, sustainable bunkers.”

But they refused to tear down the teardowns. Foster, a writer and actor, and Samsom, who has lectured on sustainable entrepreneurship at several universities in the U.S. and Europe, “loved the architecture and the history,” he says, and were looking for an opportunity to apply their passion for solar energy, recycling, and sustainability. And Venice Beach has long had a hold on the couple’s hearts for its artistic, bohemian nature and for the beachfront and canals that remind Samsom of his hometown of Leiden, in the Netherlands. Their rescue operation eventually became the Venice Beach Eco-Cottages, which opened for short-term stays this past January.

Located four blocks from the beach, the cottages were built as vacation rentals in 1922, back when Venice was a series of islands navigated by gondola and crossed with small bridges. In 1929 the city of Los Angeles filled in the lagoon and replaced many of the canals with paved roads. “I can never understand why they did that— like tearing down Penn Station,” says Samsom. Over the years, as the area deteriorated and lost its status as a tourist destination (Venice was the site of hundreds of oil wells, among other coastal disturbances), the cottages became housing for migrant workers. In the 1970s and ’80s, when Venice was so dangerously drug-addled that few dared stray from the boardwalk at night, the cottages became crack houses.

The rehab of the bungalows took nine months. Foster and Samsom had no business plan and no architect. They were their own contractors, and Foster says they approached the undertaking as “a giant mixed-media art project—the art of sustainability.” It was a perfect fusion of the talents of the artist and the environmentalist.

Out went old aluminum windows and appliances, donated to Habitat for Humanity. In went solar panels that generate enough energy to power the buildings. The giant eucalyptus tree outside presented a problem, its branches blocking the sunlight. The couple found an artisan tree surgeon who skillfully trimmed the tree, took the branches to the desert to dry out, and carved them into fireplace mantles. “I felt that if we kept our resources on site, we would somehow keep the history and energy of the place,” says Foster. They also hired workers to remove the kitchen tiles and reinstall them as a bathroom mosaic.

At every turn, they rejected the use of plastic and petroleum products or anything made in China. “We did not want to save money on the backs of somebody else,” says Foster. “I feel that buying from big-box stores is essentially supporting slave labor and unregulated chemical pollution of the earth. I don’t want to be a part of that.” They shopped in salvage yards, flea markets, and thrift shops, and on eBay. In their 12-year-old Volvo wagon, they hauled back farm sinks, Hoosier cabinets, claw-foot tubs, and vintage light fixtures.

The 1920s were Foster’s main design inspiration. She turned vintage tablecloths into kitchen curtains. Timeworn crystal doorknobs became curtain holdbacks. She dressed up flea market chandeliers with antiquated necklaces and crystal beads. Kelly LaPlante, her likeminded interior designer, helped her source materials and figure out how to refashion a cast-iron birdcage into a swivel chair.

Foster and Samsom found eco-companies that make organic mattresses, bedding, and shower curtains. Spa robes and towels are a blend of bamboo and organic cotton. Recycled blue jeans, from a company called Bonded Logic, serve as insulation. In fully equipped kitchens, sparkling stainless-steel pans dangle from old trumpets and bugles. Forget about Teflon.

They also use a green cleaning service. All three cottages have identical square footage (450) and feature rotating exhibits of paintings and photography by local artists. Each has a breakfast nook, a living room, and a bedroom, as well as a bathroom with floors made from naturally antifungal used wine corks. Cut-up license plates provide the address numbers of the cottages, each of which has a name and its own aesthetic. The Papa Hemingway Cottage is brown and beige and masculine, the sort of place to inspire pulp fiction. Le Bébé Cottage mixes midcentury modern with Rococo flourishes. Aunt Zoe’s Place is like a cheery, kitschy lake cabin. This last cottage takes its name not from a beloved aunt but from a flea-infested, undernourished dog the couple brought home from one of their junkyard trips—who in turn is named after the veterinarian who nursed her back to health. “Yes,” Foster says, “even our dog is repurposed.”

Venice Beach Eco-Cottages: 447 Grand Blvd., Venice, California; 866/802-3110; $200 per night for a three-night minimum stay (sleeps two to three people), $1,250 and up for a week; venicebeachecocottages.com. "Oldies But Goodies" originally appeared in the Fall 2008 issue of Culture+Travel. For a complete list of articles from this issue available on ARTINFO, see Culture+Travel's Fall 2008 Table of Contents.