Off The Beaton Path

Just feast your eyes on this house, would you?

(Ashcombe House, Wiltshire. Former home 

of Cecil Beaton, current home of Guy Ritchie. 

Photographed by Tim Walker.)

I've harbored a fascination with it ever since I read Cecil Beaton's memoir about living there, called "Ashcombe: Story of a Fifteen Year Lease." It was love at first sight when he first visited it with Rex Whistler, Stephen Tomlin and Edith Olivier. They almost didn't find it, however. As Beaton tells it:

We motored along the main road...then suddenly turned off to circle through narrow lanes.... The pathways became rough and overgrown, and a few rabbits bolted at our approach.

"It can't possibly be this way. Nobody would live up here", remarked Rex. We found ourselves mooring over the side of the downs at a perilous angle.

Eventually they arrived at their destination.

None of us uttered a word as we.... stood before a small, compact house of lilac-colored brick. We inhaled sensuously the strange, haunting - and rather haunted - atmosphere of the place.

After a tour of the grounds, they made their way back to their motor car:

 It was as if I had been touched on the head by a magic wand. Some people may grow to love their homes; my reaction was instantaneous. This house must belong to me.

By all accounts, Beaton spent his happiest years at Ashcombe. He held legendary garden parties there called fete champetres (literally, "country feasts") which involved his guests dressing up in their finest gowns, drinking champagne, declaiming poetry and running barefoot at midnight along the rolling downs.

They were heady years. Beaton enlisted the talents of his artist friends to help him redecorate the place, painting an extravagant circus mural in his bedroom. 

(Decorating Beaton's bedroom at Ashcombe, 1931.

Group includes Lord Berners, Rex Whistler and Oliver Messel. 

From this book.)

There was always a project going on. One summer, they filmed an amateur movie with Beaton in the lead. 

(Ashcombe, 1935. From same book as above.)

And how's this for a lovely token of friendship? Before his guests left his house for the first time, Beaton made them trace the outlines of their hands on his bathroom wall. As he recalled:

By degrees an extraordinary collection was achieved. As one lay sousing in hot water, one could ruminate on the characteristic traits shown in these significant and life-like shapes and the choice of position or proximity to others chosen by their owners on the wall.

In 2005, Ashcombe was photographed by Tim Walker for Vogue when Madonna lived there and I always thought she did a wonderful job retaining the spirit of the place, as evidenced in a few photos here:

And I would love to have a fete champetre, wouldn't you? So many summer outfits seem to languish in one's closets just waiting for an invitation to be seen. And gardens provide the perfect backdrop for Arcadian glamour. Gossamer silk against velvety flowers, a well-cut linen suit framed by tangled vines -- it's that age-old juxtaposition of refinement and unruliness. 

Maybe that's why I've held onto this picture of Chloe Sevigny for so long. Photographed in her city garden in Manhattan, it nonetheless captures the spirit of a fete champetre in full bloom, don't you think?

(Cover of House and Garden, January 2007)

Come on, who's going to have one first?

Heat Up the Rowenta!

When, during one of my recent internet trawls, I spied these deliciously chic napkins and tea towels from British designer Lisa Stickley, I had instant visions of owning them. 

In my fantasy, I had already skipped over the actual tea party and fast-forwarded ahead to ironing them. (Note: It's a predicament because I admit they ache with character all rumpled like that. But ironing linen is soo satisfying.). I'd send Piero and Luca on a multitude of errands, plug in my trusty Rowenta, turn up the soundtrack to "The Hours", take out my lavender ironing spray and go to town on these babies.

I love how the talented Ms. Stickley subverts a traditional idea and makes it cheekily modern. Her designs of vintage floral crockery completely avoid tweedom by mixing a nostalgia for the past with an elegant spareness.  

And look at this napkin with its photo of a menu from a local chip shop. 

I mean, come on.  Adorable, right?

This one, made of Irish linen, comes in a set of three and features a different dinner suggestion on each.

Here's another one which lists weekly food rations during wartime England in 1940. Among the items are "4 oz. bacon or ham", "2 oz. jam spread" "1 oz. cheese" and "1 shilling's worth of meat."

It just now came back to me how I found her website. I was doing a Google search for an ironing board cover and found her version. 

I love that it's scrawled with cleaning suggestions. The wallpaper tip is particularly appropriate for my house. (Stale bread? Who knew?)

Her website is extensive and includes a range of makeup bags, totes, pillows, mugs and more. And she couldn't be cuter herself...

Click here for the link to her press page which features an interview Elle Deco UK did on her and her darling retro apartment in South London.  She's a girl after my own heart -- I love that whenever she is stuck with work, she whips up a batch of scones!

I'm Hyperventilating...

(Charleston House, Lewes, England)

(www.charleston.org.uk -- worth the click!)

Two of my favorite entities, Charleston House and Farrow and Ball, have joined forces to create a new color called "Bloomsbury Blue Gray." (How did I not know this until now?) The exclusive color has been painstakingly matched to the original woodwork and was used to restore the exterior of the house this past spring. I'll have to call the Melrose store and see if it's out yet. I feel sure I can find something in my house that desperately needs a coat of "Bloomsbury Blue Gray." 

To commemorate their collaboration, Farrow and Ball are sponsoring two public events at Charleston House that I would give my eyeteeth to attend. The first one is a Screen Painting Workshop on July 18-19th in which you use Farrow and Ball paints to make original stencils inspired by the many beautiful decorative screens in the house. Please, someone out there attend and report back!

In the second workshop (to be held on 13 October), a Farrow and Ball international color consultant is giving color tips on how to  create the interior of your dreams, use color to change the shape of a room and much more. Charleston House's curator, Dr. Wendy Hitchmough will also discuss the unique color palette of the house. 

I visited the house in 2007 and was absolutely besotted by its wayward charm. I'm sure that pale gray blue on the window frame must be the color in question, don't you think? It's almost luminous against those taupey hues of the wall.

And of course those errant lashings of green around the windows only add to its appeal.

When it comes to design and my love of sweet disorder, I hew closely to the poet Robert Herrick (1591-1674) and his insistence that a bit of carelessness and neglect and wild civility "...Do more bewitch me than when Art is too precise in every part." 

Anyone with me on that?

Buon Compleanno

(Piero, San Francisco, 1970's)

It's the Divine Italian's birthday today. We've been together 17 years, married for 13, and I can truly say that every year keeps getting better. He's a veritable force of nature, as everyone who knows him can attest. 

Whether he's cycling up the Col de la Colombiere in the Alps...

(Piero, French Alps, 2008)

...telemark skiing down a mountain of untrammelled snow...

(Piero, Mammoth, 2007)

...or whipping up boeuf bourgignon for ten on a Sunday afternoon...

(Piero, home, 2008)

...he is fully present in each moment and has been instrumental in teaching me to slow down and enjoy the Campari. He is a seeker -- always curious, always looking forward, never backwards, always planning our next adventure. He's a wonderful father, a brilliant friend and he has the best laugh in the world. Ti amo, dude.

A Peace of Green

It was just a blanket on the grass, that's all it was. Strewn with a few pillows for propping purposes, a stack of books and the latest World of Interiors. 

But to me, today, it was so much more. Yes, I know it's 2009 and I live in Hollywood, California, but when I crept out here after breakfast and laid my things down under our majestic pittisporum tree, visions of Edwardian lawn parties and fetes du champetres and pastoral scenes from a Trollope novel popped into my head. It was the reading material, it was the serene milieu and it was the mood I was in.

In my last post, I announced we were going to take a road trip up to Northern California. But after a cocktail the other night, The Divine Italian and I decided that it would be more restorative to stay put on our little patch of green.

And so today I lazed and I loafed and I read. And I listened intently to the birdsong and I sipped my coffee and I watched the dappled sunlight make patterns in the grass and I scooted over when Luca and Piero lay down beside me and I was grateful for earthly pleasures.

Just a blanket on the grass. That's all it was.

The Road(s) Paved With Good Intentions...

(Mackinac Island lighthouse, via Flickr)

First of all, let me preface this post by saying that the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island more than lived up to its name. It was gracious and elegant and The Little Prince and all his cousins were agog by its magical splendor. 

Unfortunately, a full rundown of the trip will have to wait because I dropped my Nikon in front of a fudge shop and it's gone catatonic on me. Hopefully it can be fixed.

That wasn't the only calamity during the trip -- two acts of kindness on my part went horribly awry!

Calamity The First:

The day after Luca and I arrived in Michigan, there was a glorious midday thunderstorm. The sky went black and the forces of Nature unleashed a magical sound and light show. 

(via Flickr)

Driving with my father afterwards, we came upon a downed tree in the road, just around the corner from here.

(Cranbrook Art Museum)

Another motorist was trying to lug it off the road, so I suggested we help him. We were making excellent progress when suddenly my father fell to the ground clutching his knee in pain. We rushed to the ER only to be told he had somehow snapped his quadriceps muscle. Twenty four hours later, he was having surgery to re-attach the tendons to his kneecap. He's now on crutches and out of commission for the next 10-12 weeks. Despite being 81, he's still freakishly athletic and had a busy summer planned -- a 5 day, 400-mile bike tour next month, followed by a trip to Norway to hike, fish and visit his siblings. Now those plans are out and he won't know until ski season whether his leg will be the same. 

I can't help but feel horribly responsible for his accident because I'm the one who suggested we get out and try to move the tree. It just seemed like the right thing to do -- a lark, an escapade, a little deed to feel good about later. I keep thinking if I hadn't said anything, maybe we would have turned around and gone a different way...and his knee would be fine.

Calamity The Second:

(Mackinac Island in rain, via Flickr)

The rain made intermittent appearances on Mackinac Island as well, and one afternoon my mother rented a bike to ride around the island. It looked gloomy, so I offered her a plastic bag to protect her hair in case the skies suddenly opened up. (Coif-ically speaking, my mother is a traditionalist. She has her hair professionally set every week and heroic efforts are made to maintain the sanctity of the 'do between appointments.) Well, apparently she was having a grand time until a terrific gust of wind blew the plastic bag up and out of the bicycle basket. In her attempt to grab it, she let go of the handlebars, lost control of the bicycle and crashed onto the pavement, severely spraining a finger and winding up with a continent-sized bruise on her knee (the right one, same as my father's.) On the bright side, her hair was fine.

Again, it's impossible to deny that if I hadn't given her that plastic bag, she wouldn't have crashed.

Fortunately, both of my parents have remarkable senses of humor and have instituted a running joke that all helpful suggestions I make from now on are to be ducked, dodged, sidestepped and thoroughly avoided. In fact, they have suggested that whatever I say, one should immediately do the opposite.

The Divine Italian has decided a therapeutic healing trip is in order, so I'm repacking suitcases for a short trip up the California coast. We're going to Ojai, Santa Barbara, Big Sur, San Francisco and wherever else hits our fancy. 

Happy Fourth of July to everyone. I wish you all blue skies and a safe, accident-free weekend. 

A Midwestern Prediction*

*This post was pre-written before my departure.

(Summer night, Michigan, May 2008)

I'm somewhere deep in the heartland of America right now. 

Five things I'm definitely not doing:

1. Eating deep-fried cheese.

2. Mall-walking.

3. Sitting in a speedboat.

4. Drinking beer.

5. Buying holiday decorations at Frankenmuth Christmas Village.

Four things I might be doing:

1. Visiting Greenfield Village, the Saarinen House or Meadowbrook Hall.

2. Watching Luca play with all his curly-headed cousins.

3. Browsing through 19th century tomes with my dad at John King Books.

4. Rocking on a porch swing at my mom's house and marvelling at the white nights of summer.

 

Two things I hope I've done:

1. Successfully persuaded one and all to come visit us in California.

2. Remembered that when it comes to family dynamics, I can be right or I can be happy, and being right is overrated. 

Home on Thursday.

Stories from the Heartland*

*This post was pre-written before my departure.

I am deep into my Midwestern odyssey right about now, so in my absence, I thought I'd provide you with a few of my favorite socially conscious Middle American novels. 

1.  Babbit (1922) by Sinclair Lewis

I read "Babbit" ages ago and still can't get its hapless protagonist out of my head. Everyone has a Babbit in their lives; he's that annoying combination of ignorance and optimism, the guy who always follows the herd but remains convinced he leads the pack. Funny thing is, you can't help but sympathize with the schmuck. He's an archetypal character, most recently revived (I think) by Ricky Gervais in "The Office." A midlife crisis forces Babbit to confront the pressures of provincial fervor, conformism and materialism head-on, resulting in a personal awakening...or not. 

2. The Magnificent Ambersons (1918) by Booth Tarkington

At its heart, a tale of a prominent Midwestern family in decline, it offers a perspective on the rapid industrial rise of America as seen through the eyes of George Amberson Minafer, a selfish, spoiled heir who is unable -- or unwilling -- to face progress. Yes, the movie is a masterpiece, but I think the book is just as satisfying.

3. Jennie Gerhardt (1911) by Theodore Dreiser

Jennie's life resonated with me; at the time I read this book, I had just moved to Manhattan after college and was working at an ad agency and supporting myself for the first time. I remember feeling anguished over her tragic circumstances and the unfairness of what life was like for a girl my age a mere 80 years earlier. 

4. An American Tragedy (1925) by Theodore Dreiser

So much has been written about this book and I'll just say this: it changed me. Clyde Griffiths is like every American: he wants the girl, the money and the lifestyle to go with it. Unfortunately, he lives in a society that is prejudiced, insular and unfair, making it next to impossible for him to achieve these goals. By the time he commits his great crime, you almost forgive him for it, knowing the struggles and tragedies of his life as intimately as you do. 

Note on Dreiser: 

I know some people are anti-Dreiser because they feel his prose is clunky and mechanical. He has been called "one of the worst greatest writers in America." To me, however, you don't read Dreiser for the prose, you read him because his unerring journalist's eye gives you a searing glimpse into the dark side of human nature at the turn of the 20th century. 

To Babbitland

Today Luca and I fly to Michigan to meet my mother, sisters and a gaggle of offspring at the Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island. Open since 1887, cars are still banned from the island (transportation is via horse and carriage or bicycle) and access is only by ferry boat or plane. 

(Image from here)

I was there once before and the atmosphere of the hotel reminded me of "The Road to Wellville" by T. C. Boyle.

(image from the film adaptation, 1994)

I couldn't help but envision it at the turn of the 20th century when Michigan was a magnet for the health-conscious and well-heeled capitalists flocked to the Grand Hotel to enjoy its cool breezes, socialize with the Middle American elite and stroll along the world's longest front porch -- 660 feet -- known as  "Flirtation Walk."

(The hotel in 1890)

My mother has twice reminded me that I must dress for dinner as evening wear is required in all areas of the hotel. "Dresses or pantsuits for ladies," the website primly asserts. I hope an embroidered silk kurta will pass muster in the dining room. I'm not really a pantsuit kind of gal.

Listen to this astounding fact. During the 2008 summer season, the Grand Hotel served 83,000 pounds of prime rib, 23,500 pounds of ham, 83,500 pounds of potatoes and 6,500 pounds of pecans. 

Oh, and Mackinac Island is famous for its homemade fudge; you can't walk more than ten feet without seeing a "Free Samples" sign. 

My trainer is going to kill me.

My Dutch Afternoon

The light was just right. I was running in and out of the house fixing drinks for friends (iced Lillet, ginger ale, slice of orange) when suddenly a beam landed on the dining room table with an unearthly glow.

I was transported into an Old Master painting. For a few brief moments, I heard nothing and saw nothing but those flowers.

Then the reverie broke, but wanting to remember the moment, I snapped it. 

The particulars: Saturday, 6:30pm, west-facing window, a languid Hollywood sun sinking down over the Capitol Records tower and a vase of peonies and roses taking their final bow, an act I would have completely missed had the sun not drawn attention to it. 

"I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers," remarked Claude Monet.

So inspiring.

On the other hand, Eleanor Roosevelt said, "I once had a rose named after me and I was very flattered. But I was not pleased to read the description in the catalog: "no good in a bed but fine up against a wall."

I think I love that quote even more.

Naked Penguins

The world's most venerated paperback company has introduced design-it-yourself book covers. (Well, they've been out for a while...am I the only one who hasn't seen this?)

Knowing how highly I value a well-designed cover (see my post on Megan Wilson), I was initially taken aback. I prize vintage Penguins and have collected a stack over the years. But with good old self-deprecating charm, they actually address this very issue on their blog (yes, Penguin has a blog. Blogs are the new black.)

In their words:

According to consumer research conducted on what factors matter to people when they decide whether or not to pick up a book in a bookshop, the cover design comes out as most important. So this might be the stupidest thing we've ever done. 

According to the website, "the covers are art-quality paper and hold ink, paint, pencil and glue and come shrink-wrapped so the paper doesn't get dirty."

Apparently, it's all the rage with rock bands.

Beck drew a cover for "The Lost Estate" by Henri-Alain Fournier...

Ryan Adams painted Bram Stoker's "Dracula."

Dragonette illustrated "Alice in Wonderland" by Lewis Carroll.

And Razorlight scribbled F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" (it's a scribbled betting slip from a horse race in Tokyo.)

My initial hesitancy was soothed by the fact that Penguin clearly realizes their idea is slightly heretical, as evidenced by the following tongue-in-cheek comment: "Frame it, read it, give it as a gift or hide it away on a shelf at home" (italics mine). 

You can buy them here.

Yes, no or maybe so?

Portrait of a Lady

Yesterday morning I was presented with this gorgeous surprise via email.

It's my house and it was created for me by blogger/artiste extraordinaire Patricia Von Essche of PVE Design. (Check out her profile photo. It's Rembrandt meets Avedon.) To say I was beside myself grossly understates my reaction.

Readers, she has captured its very soul. As all of you know, every home has a distinct personality. Whether you live in an achingly hip loft in Manhattan, a mews house in London or an English Tudor in Ohio, all you have to do is look and listen and its nature will be revealed. 

(As an example, my uncle Otto lives on the coast of Norway in a funny little peaked-roof cottage built centuries ago by a very short sea captain -- as evidenced by the forehead-bruising thresholds. Over the years, the floorboards have warped so that walking from room to room feels like a rough sea crossing. Coincidence? I think not.)

I've only lived in my house for a mere 18 months, but that's been more than enough to get to know its singular persona. 

Here are the stats: 

1. Undeniably female. Matronly. 

2. Short and plump (she prefers the term "well-nourished").

3. Overly fond of candied marzipan, princess cake and Dubonnet (not in that order).

4. Keen bridge player.

5. Prone to splurging on peonies.

5. Treasures her privacy.

6. Enjoys light gossip,  theosophy lectures and a good Easter parade.

I see all of this when I look at Patricia's artwork. I really do. Thank you, Patricia, for your shining talent and your generosity of spirit. I shall smile every time I gaze at it.

Now that you know about my dwelling, I should very much like to know about yours.  Come on, don't be shy.

Home Alone

This Saturday, something momentous occurred. The Divine Italian left for a week in Europe and The Little Prince had a 24 hour sleepover, which meant: empty house! Don't get me wrong, of course I pined for them horribly, but I haven't had a night to myself in I can't remember how long.

Darlings, it was heavenly.

Lest you think there was any "Risky Business" sliding around in socks and underwear, let me emphatically assure you there was not. 

But it did get quite wild.

1. I put in my favorite Noel Coward CD and brazenly turned up the volume.

2. I resolutely attacked the dreaded kitchen junk drawer. And won.

3. I willfully threw away a stack of old magazines that I had sworn I would read.

4. I rearranged my scarves.

5. I sauntered from room to room, dithered, vacillated and stared at nothing in particular. 

(I know, I know, you've gone positively weak in the knees, haven't you?)

But the undisputed highlight of the evening was watching "Women in Love", Ken Russell's 1969 adaptation of D. H. Lawrence's 1920 classic novel. I've been waiting to unleash it from its little Netflix envelope for practically ever, but it's not The Divine Italian's oeuvre. (He still hasn't forgiven me for making him sit through "Howard's End.")

Have you seen it? If not, I highly recommend that you do. Not only does Russell visually capture the lush lyricism of Lawrence's prose, the film is gorgeous and sexy and bohemian and a must for anyone who appreciates color and design. 

Some personal highlights follow.

Jennie Linden's outfit reminded me of Sonia Delaunay's paintings in the 1920's, which were noted for their geometric abstractions.

("Electric Prisms", 1914)

Delaunay also designed clothes, a few sketches of which can be seen here.

I've always been fascinated by Sonia. When I pulled up this photo of her on the Internet, I was struck by the realization that her outfit......is almost identical to the one which Glenda Jackson wears in the film's opening.

In terms of production design, the ramshackle cottage that Alan Bates lives in struck me as very John Derian-like (in the best possible way).

Here's Derian's apartment as featured in Elle Decor in March 2006.

(via Habitually Chic)

The reds and blues of the set design also brought to mind John Robshaw's Kalil bedding which I seriously am coveting. I may have to stop by Living Room, one of my favorite local haunts, because they carry his line.

The homespun furnishings also reminded me of a display I saw recently at Dan Marty's showroom.

When this outfit popped up onscreen (the one in the middle, worn by Eleanor Bron), three words popped into my head: Dries. Van. Noten.

Here are three photos from Van Noten's past runway shows (not sure which season.) The feeling is the same, don't you think?  Lots of vibrant prints, colors, unusual fabrics and layering.

Here, his coat exactly picks up the peacocky hue of the cape in the movie.

Another example of Dries' multilayered, non-matching approach. Not for everyone, I know, but definitely for me. 

In this scene, I was floored by the jolt of color coming from Glenda's mango-colored dress when set against the mauve bricks and green gate. I think the colors are so striking together, another example of the brilliant art direction of the movie.

The palette reminded me of Farrow and Ball's "Rosslyn Papers" wallpaper in the following two colorways.

I must say, I finally understood the appeal of Oliver Reed in this movie. It's those naughty eyes. But in this luncheon scene, it was his jacket which held my gaze.

Isn't it the spitting image of this 19th century French chair upholstered in Peter Dunham's velvet Almont Stripe? Available at 1st Dibs.
Last but not least, there was the legendary naked wrestling scene between Oliver and Alan Bates. When they finally collapsed onto the floor, I gasped, not because of the scene's undeniable homoeroticism, but because...
...that rug was almost the spitting image of the one I snapped on Friday from Fort Street Studios! 

Oh, what a movie. Oh, what a night.

How To Woo a Room

My living room has been in a sulk lately. It's had to sit through one too many NBA playoff games (don't ask) and yesterday I looked at it and I swear it was in a total state of depression. The furniture had lost its sparkle, the artwork looked apathetic and even the books were in a slump.

I sensed it desperately needed to feel like the center of attention again. Playing second fiddle to a bunch of tall men in shorts had really worked a number on its self-esteem. It had so much love to give, but it had fallen prey to a mean case of the blues. 

I needed to go Oprah on it.

I had some friends coming over the next day for tea and had originally planned to hang out in the kitchen with them, but that was before I realized I had a room in crisis.

This morning, I baked a batch of pumpkin bread and while its spicy scent was filling the house, I began my good-karma assault on the living room. I turned on some music, plumped cushions, opened curtains and windows, lit a scented candle, did some rearranging and brought in a vase of fresh flowers. I could almost feel the room stirring back to life.

I put together a tea tray with all the accoutrements, and when I set it down in the living room...

...I swear the red leather wing chair suddenly sat up straighter and the low-slung tufted duo craned their necks forward to get a closer look. The room felt sassy and rife with confidence, just the way I remembered it. 

I had scarcely set the tray down when the doorbell rang and within moments, the room was filled with boisterous chatter about life, kids, husbands and school fundraising (which, FYI, is the Energizer Bunny of topics: it just keeps on going and going and going). It took three hours of drinking, eating and laughing, but by golly, that room was fully back to life when we finally finished the last drop of Earl Grey.

Moral of the story: Most living rooms have a feminine soul. This means they are usually high-maintenance and like to be lavished with attention. Never take them for granted. Live in them, laugh in them, entertain in them and above all, be happy in them and they will repay you tenfold. And if you must watch TV in them, turn on Fox Sports and ESPN at your peril.  

My Saturday Night Fever

Saturday, 7:30 pm

Dusk had fallen on The Kenmore Arms. The cats were gamboling in their playroom (someday to be redecorated and known as "Husband's Office"), the house was fully secured, and Piero and Luca were making ice cream sundaes and getting ready to watch a classic road trip movie starring Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Sid Caesar, Mickey Rooney, Jonathan Winters and countless others.

(Give up? "It's a Mad, Mad, Mad  World." 

Perfect for seven year-olds and everyone else too.)

I was supposed to be joining them. But I couldn't stop obsessing about the troublesome (to me) wall of my dining room. 

For the longest time now, I have been meaning to take down that painting and hang an assemblage of framed photographs on either side of the french doors. You know, something along the lines of this.

(via Style Court)

I wanted it to look artful but not necessarily perfect, because I like things a little bit "laissez-faire." And it needed to look good now, but still allow for space in case I wanted to hang more photos later. (The old "room to grow" scenario.)

In terms of subject matter, I had decided to buck the precept that one doesn't hang personal photos in dining rooms. I was indeed going to do just that because I wanted to eat in a room surrounded by books and friends and stories and laughter and past experiences. I had the books...

...now I just needed to to put up all the others.

I had spent most of the previous day buying an assortment of dark frames and printing out photos. As you can see below, I had arrived at the crucial stage.

Hammering in the first nail was intimidating, I have to admit. It was a freshly-painted wall and all I could think was, "What if I make a mistake?" 

Thank God for this tutorial I found on Apartment Therapy. It saved me. 

Basically, I just started with a "keystone" picture and then hung everything else off of it, either higher or lower. Pretty soon, I was on a roll. I decided not to worry about any extra holes in the walls as I could always bring in my painter to touch up the wall later. 

Ethel Merman was screeching away in the next room...

...but I was deep in concentration and heard nothing but the rat-a-tat of my hammer and nails. When I finally got the last photo up, I couldn't bear to take a full look at my finished work so I turned off the lights and hurried up to bed.

Sunday, 7am

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. If the wall looked terrible, I didn't know if I had the energy to re-do it. So I sent The Divine Italian down first. Sly boy, he refused to comment and said I should see it for myself.

So I steeled myself...and it was actually okay.

(Left side of wall)

I still need to buy some velcro dots to stick onto the undersides of the frames so they don't wobble when the doors are opened and closed (or, God forbid, we have an earthquake), but I'm pretty happy with the results.

(Right side of wall)

Here you can see the full view. I deliberately chose photos with a simple subject matter: a secret hedgerow, some prayer flags, a bowl of flower soup, an ashram sign, some faces near and dear...

...and the effect is exactly what I wanted, a slightly random compilation of images linked together by a common thread -- our lives.

Are You An Eccentric?

(Juliet Bewicke, Northumberland, England, 

photographed by Tim Walker)

I'm willing to bet that you are. At least I hope so. I much prefer people who stray from the flock rather than cling to the status quo, don't you?

Come on, let's find out.

I discovered this quiz on the ever-fascinating Tavarua The Traveler's blog and was immediately enthralled. Apparently if you have five or more of the following characteristics, you qualify. (Yes, yes, I realize that some of the attributes are highly flattering, but try to answer impartially anyway.)

1. Nonconforming attitude

2. Creative

3. Strongly motivated by curiosity

4. Idealistic

5. Happy obsession with a hobby or hobbies

6. Knew very early in their childhood they were different from others

7. Usually the eldest or only child

8. Opinionated and outspoken

9. Noncompetitive; not in need of reassurance or reinforcement from society

10. Unusual living or eating habits

11. Not interested in the opinions or company of others

12. Mischievous sense of humor

13. Highly intelligent

14. Not a good speller

15. Usually single

Did you escape unscathed? Please tell me you didn't.

So many people I wish I could have met -- Edith Sitwell, Cecil Beaton, Ottoline Morrell, Diana Vreeland, Paul Bowles, Winston Churchill and Isabella Blow, to name just a few -- would have run low on ink before they were done checking off everything on this list. 

According to author David Weeks, "Eccentrics live longer and are happier than the rest of us. It's a combination of an optimistic outlook and low stress. Eccentrics don't give a hoot what the rest of the world thinks of them. In fact, eccentrics revel in the fact that they make people laugh. I think we can all learn a lot from them about holding on to the dreams and curiosity we had as children."

Hurray. Weird is good.

(Boat in library, Northumberland, England, 

photographed by Tim Walker)

Are you a black sheep? Were you raised by one? I really, really want to know.

Once Bitten, Twice Smitten

The first time I read an excellent work, it is to me just as if I have gained a new friend; and when I read over a book I have perused before, it is like meeting an old one.

Oliver Goldsmith (1730-1774)

One of the only consolations to finishing an insanely wonderful book is knowing that one day you can re-read it. Of course, your experience the second time around won't be the same. How could it be? You will have changed, your world will have changed and the mystery of not knowing what lies on the next page will be gone. 

But that doesn't mean the thrill of discovery is over. 

To me, re-reading is like the difference between a whirlwind courtship and a long-term relationship: Once you have graduated from the tyranny of uncertainty, you are free to embark on a search for deeper personal meaning.  A book read again -- and again -- can continue to illuminate, comfort, and remind you why you fell in love with it in the first place. 

What books have you re-read for pleasure or are looking forward to re-reading?

Here are a few I'm ready to dive back into:

Middlemarch by George Eliot

The Woman In White by Wilkie Collins

Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke

Vanity Fair by W. M. Thackaray

Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens

Jigsaw by Sybille Bedford

Beware of Pity by Stefan Zweig

Diary of a Nobody by George Grossmith

And I'd Do It Again by Aimee Crocker

Green Grows the City

We moved into our present home in December of 2007. Built in 1935, it's a style called Monterey Revival (50% Monterey Colonial/50% Colonial Revival), especially popular here in Los Angeles in the 1930's. 

I loved it on sight. It was a demure little house, full of airy rooms and a bearing a confidence that belied its bijou size. It was in perfect condition and full of original details and I instantly felt it was the sort of place a family such as mine should live in.

We embarked on a flurry of projects, the first of which was to add a brick wall surrounding the front of the house to create a private garden, where I could grow flowering privet, a teeny field of lavender and have a little green patch to call my own.

(March 2008)

Work moved fast. Two months later, the wall was up, the lampposts and wooden gate had been installed, the exterior was freshly painted and we had commenced work on the interior. At the time of this photo, landscaping had yet to be planted and the poor little house looks slightly embarrassed to be so exposed. Even now, I can hardly look at it without averting my eyes from its gleaming white nakedosity.

(May 2008)

What a difference a year makes. It's still a work in progress, but the ivy is flourishing, the privet hedge is straining to be seen and the climbing roses are making a run for the balcony. It's becoming clothed in a delightful, disorderly charm.

(May 2009)

Here's the laissez-faire glamour I'm going for, as evidenced by a past visit to Charleston House. 

(Charleston House, Lewes, East Sussex, England, 2007)

I still want to add some more flowering vines to the left side of the house (it's north-facing - any suggestions?) and continue wrapping my roses in a circle around the guest room window, and I must confess that knowing nothing about gardening or horticulture doesn't deter me in the slightest. I'll learn as I go. My gardening hero, Beverley Nichols, said it best:

The greatest service of the amateur in the art of gardening - or, indeed in any of the arts - is that he does things wrong, either from courage, obstinacy or sheer stupidity. He breaks rules right and left, planting things in the wrong soil at the wrong time of the year in the wrong aspect. And usually, we must admit, the result is disastrous. But not always.

Isn't that wonderful?

Cover Girl

Once in a while, you find someone so talented it takes your breath away.  I recently stumbled onto a blog called My Book Covers, a compilation of jacket designs by Random House designer Megan Wilson. I was absolutely gobsmacked by her utterly arresting visual style and had to find out more about her ASAP.

When I contacted her about doing this post, she wrote, "I will be blushing madly if you go ahead with this." (Blush away, Megan.) 

A selection of her book jackets is below. To see her complete collection of covers, click here.

Away we go...

I adore the stark simplicity of these two covers. The triangular motif adds a sharp tension to the delicacy of the artwork. 

(Vintage Classics. Photograph by Katherine Wolkoff.)

(Vintage Classics. Painting by Philip Taaffe.)

What does she add to an unforgettable photo like this? Restraint. Result? Perfection.

(Vintage Books. Photograph by Slim Aarons.)

I own this Beaton book and totally admit that I bought this edition because of the cover. It was a win-win situation as I also fell for the man inside.

(Alfred A. Knopf. Photograph by Cecil Beaton.)

I love how Megan chose to abut the soft, muted portrait up against the dramatic black border. It gives the cover a slight sense of unreality (and if you've read the book, you know that's exactly what the story's about).

(Vintage Books. Painting by Meredith Frampton.)

These next two covers kill me with their elegant fragility, so appropriate for Forster's novels.

(Vintage Classics. Wallpaper design by C. F. A. Voysey.)

(Vintage Classics. Design for woven silk by Anna Maria Garthwaite.)

Her style is wide-ranging... 

(Anchor Books.)

...and not without wit.

Oh, Noel. You're in good hands.

This one I find haunting.

This one feels very "Mad Men." 

The pink here reminds me of a Laduree macaroon.

(Vintage Books. Photograph by Cecil Beaton.)

I own this book in its plain gray Persephone cover; when I saw this new edition a few months ago, I almost bought it again just for that portrait. The colors! (But I didn't. Did you read my last post?)

(Persephone Books, London. Painting by Sir James Gunn.)

Megan also has another blog called Ancient Industries, of which I'm a huge fan. If you don't know it, you are in for a treat. (And it appears that her online shop is nearly up. Yippee.) 

The book covers whetted my appetite, but I still hankered to know about the woman behind the designs. Fortunately, Megan agreed to give me a bit of dish. It follows.

Megan, can you tell us a little about yourself? Start from the beginning.

If I can talk in terms of pop culture, my father was Don Draper, a Madison Avenue ad exec in the early 1960's...

...and by the time my (identical) twin and I came along in 1965, my mother was stuck in the suburbs with four children, crashing her station wagon into trees with us kids rolling around in the back. We had an old English sheepdog and all sorts of long-haired animals and my mother had a pash for decorating (cue "Please Don't Eat The Daisies.")

This then evolved into "The Ice Storm"...

...and my mother, in a fit of pique, looked at the NY Times real estate section and found two houses for rent far, far away. One was in Seville, Spain; the other in a little village near Henley-on-Thames, England.

How fabulous! Which one did she choose?

Well, she decided that learning a new language on top of everything else might be the final straw so she chose England. Because it was 1972 and you could move to a foreign country with four kids in tow and no visible means of support, she did just that.

Where did you live?

We moved to Holland Park which was still very shabby and bohemian. The houses in our square were pink, purple, orange, lime green, several abandoned, some lived in by squatters. I have strong memories of the dark insides of these houses and their overgrown gardens.

At this point, the story becomes more like "Hideous Kinky"...

...as my enterprising mother illegally sublet our house (with sheepdog thrown in) and took us off to Menorca, Spain for the entire summer, every summer. She was still young enough to enjoy herself, and we twins remember being dumped with strange non-English-speaking Catalans in the evenings, and hitchhiking to the beach during the day. 

Megan, that's quite an eccentric childhood!  I think you have enough material to fill up a book, not just the cover. Tell me some more. 

Well, my mother somehow managed to send us to quite posh schools (Putney High, followed by Godolphin and Latimer) all against the backdrop of imminent deportation and expulsion due to late fees. Occasionally, packages would arrive from Don Draper back in the States. Eventually, she managed to become much wealthier than my father by buying houses, getting them into glossy mags and then flogging them, but this was before the really big real estate money began. After that, I went to Chelsea, then St. Martins School of Art which was seriously good fun. The soundtrack to those days would be The Specials, The Smiths, Madonna and your friend Belinda.

And now you live in New York City.

After three years designing book covers -- my office was in the Michelin Building on Fulham Road (very nice) -- I came here to New York for two to five years...and that was back in 1991. Hence the constant harking back to England, where my twin still is as well as various family members. 

Any last words?

No, I don't draw the pictures (you'd be amazed how many people ask this) and yes, one should judge the book by its cover.

The Art of Shrinkage

We are slowly, slowly emerging from an Age of Extravagance in which a relentless quest for status and perfection ruled supreme. 

(Las Vegas Strip, 2009)

McMansions. Hummers. "It" bags. Truffle burgers. Gold-flecked cocktails. Super-sized everything. Many of us lived beyond our means in one way or another. It was a glamorous rollercoaster ride and we rode it until it all came to a crashing halt.

And halt it did.

So here's what I've been wondering lately...

Can we learn to be happy with less?

(Monk making soup, Lhasa, Tibet, 2007)

Can we go back to keeping it simple?

(Grilled acorn squash, olive oil, salt. End of story.)

Can we remember to inhale the moment?

(My uncle Johan and aunt Kirsten, Norway, 2008)

Can we not be so hard on ourselves?

(Yosemite, 2008)

Can we honor the beauty of the ephemeral?

(Rishikesh, India, 2007)

Can we be happy in our skins?

(My dad, 77 years young, Alaska, 2006)

Can we teach our children to find pleasure in non-Wii-related pursuits?

(Luca's tower of fun, 2009)

Can we spend time together instead of money?

(Home, 2009)

Can we aim for one moment of joy in every day?

(Last day of school, 2008)

I'm ready to give it a try. Who's in?

(If you want to learn more about walking the walk, click HERE.)