From the outside, the 19th-century redbrick church in the rural village of Sheffield, Ontario, gives very little away. “We deliberately kept the exterior traditional,” explains Matt Barnes, who lives here with his partner, Nikki Ross, and his two daughters. Other than Barnes’s “weird collection of cars” – a 1980s Porsche, a 1970s Chevy pickup, a 1960s Pontiac muscle car and a 1930s hot rod – there’s not much to suggest the tumult of colour, pattern and pop culture that lies within.
Barnes, a photographer and director, bought the church with his now ex-wife seven years ago. At the time they were living in Toronto and looking for a weekend home – a period property with character within easy reach of the city. “We saw this place and it hit all the marks,” he recalls. “It had been on the market for a while, so we went in with a low-ball offer, which was accepted. And then it was like: ‘Oh boy, now the fun begins …’”
Up to that point, the building had still functioned as a Methodist church. “The village only has a population of about 300, so the congregation had dwindled down to five or six,” says Barnes. The original pews were still in situ and the walls were painted in what he describes as “baby shit yellow”. The interiors were tired and dreary, with a poky basement kitchen, “where they gave out egg salad sandwiches after the service”. But, when the curtains were pulled back, the potential suddenly shone through. “The girls were quite young when we first took them to see the church,” Barnes says. “They were so happy to be in the space, they began running and jumping around. I realised then that it was a really exciting place to be – it was a giant blank canvas.”
The first thing they did was sell the pews and paint the interior white. “It was a big transformation that happened very fast,” Barnes says.“That pace and that excitement stayed for the next two years.” At weekends, the family would camp in the office, a 90s extension that had the luxury of a small heater.
Barnes enlisted the help of a carpenter he worked with on film sets. “He shared his tool collection and a lot of his knowledge with us,” he says. “Six years ago, I could have hung a picture, but that was probably about the limit of my DIY skills. Now I’m pretty good at a lot of stuff.” They transformed the choir loft into the main bedroom and positioned the bed directly underneath the stained-glass window. Rugs and furniture found on Facebook Marketplace fill the lofty, whitewashed space.
The main living area is actually more of a play area. At one end is a full-size trampoline, at the other a tunnel slide. “That was a big thing,” Barnes says “A couple of years ago, I was staying with my parents and they pulled out a box of drawings I’d made as a kid. In it was a picture of what I imagined my future home would look like and it had a slide in it. I went online and there was this slide for sale that used to be in a local McDonald’s. I bought it for $1,000… I basically like the same things I did when I was 10 years old.”
Other unexpected oddities include a 1970s pinball machine, a 1940s jukebox and a ticket booth that served as a prop in a Guillermo del Toro film. Downstairs in the basement is the kitchen, a traffic-cone-orange dining room and cocktail bar (complete with creepy mannequin), an office and editing suite, and ample storage for the couple’s vintage clothing and prop collection, which they sell via Etsy.
Throughout the church, the walls are covered in vintage advertising, film posters and black-and-white photographs – ephemera gathered from antique stores and flea markets across Ontario.
“We weren’t allowed to put posters up on our walls as kids,” Barnes remembers. “I think that’s why I have so many things on the wall. It’s like my own peaceful rebellion!”
During the pandemic, Barnes and his ex-wife sold their home in Toronto and relocated permanently to Sheffield. Shortly after, three major setbacks occurred. First, a pipe froze and flooded the basement. Then, a family of squirrels nested in the chimney. When the furnace was fired up, a “back puff” of greasy soot covered the contents of the building and everything had to be thrown away. And then the couple split up and got a divorce. For six months, he was unable to return to the building that had promised so much joy.
Eventually, his friends convinced him to pick up the project. Three years ago, he met Nikki – also a photographer – and the pair have continued to transform the church. “I would say that Nikki is definitely more minimalistic,” Barnes explains. “I’m absolutely maximum overdrive of everything always. So even if our place doesn’t look minimalistic in any way, if I lived here alone, I think it would honestly look like some kind of weird wizard’s house.”
As it is, Barnes is considered something of a Willy Wonka in the village. The egg salad sandwiches have been replaced by a never-ending supply of Freezies (ice lollies). “It’s not completely wild, but there are toys and bikes all over the place all the time. It’s an open door policy at the church.” In that respect, everything and nothing has changed.
