The Vegetable House

(My mother and siblings, 1970's.

I'm the one in back on the left.)

When I lived in England as a child, my parents bought a house outside London called "Hutton Mount", which was a perfectly lovely name for a Tudor-ish dwelling except for the fact that it didn't mean anything to our family. It didn't resonate. My parents had just moved to the UK from Stockholm with five young children in tow and they wanted a house name that felt personal and relevant to their new lives. After a bit of deliberation, they decided to rename it "Brussels Sprouts", because my four brothers and sisters and I were all born in Brussels, Belgium and, well, we were all little "sprouts." Well, as you can imagine, this created quite a stir. No sooner had the name gone up than there was a knock at the door: the news had reached some journalists from the London papers and they trooped out with Hasselblads in hand. Within days, various articles appeared in the broadsheets and tabloids. Of course, they had a field day with the headlines: "Americans Name House After Vegetable" and so on. I have the clippings in an album somewhere; if there's any interest, I'll see if I can dig them out and scan them for you.

This little backstory gives you a bit of insight into why when we moved into our new house in 2008, one of the first things I wanted to do was to name it. Piero and I tossed around an endless variety of monikers, but we kept coming back to "The Kenmore Arms." It expressed just what I wanted to convey: that our home would be a modern-day coaching inn where our friends and neighbors would always feel free to stop by for a pint or a cuppa.

I found a little company in Cornwall, England to fashion a slate sign for us and when it arrived in the mail, I felt a pang of panic that it might be too much for our little refuge to live up to, but my fears were short-lived. Whether our house has grown to fit the name or whether the name has changed our perceptions of the house, I don't know. But I can't imagine it being called anything else.

Does your house have a name?

If it doesn't, what would it be? And why?

Revelations in Thread

I shall speak the truth: I don't much like my daughter sewing.

When she reads, she returns all bewildered and with flaming cheeks from the island where the chestful of precious stones is hidden, from the dismal castle where a poor orphan child is persecuted.

If she colors pictures, a semi-articulate song issues from her, increasing as the hum of bees around the privet.

But my daughter is silent when she sews, silent for hours on end, with her mouth firmly closed. She is silent, and she -- why not write down the word that frightens me -- she is thinking.

-- From Colette, "Earthly Paradise: An Autobiography of Colette Drawn From Her Lifetime Writings"

I've been on my hands and knees these last few days. Stitching, stitching stitching. Something very exciting is on the horizon for 2010 which I am not privy to talk about yet but will reveal in good time...and you will all be invited.

But I can tell you this: 1) I will need to be highly disciplined for the next five months, and 2) for the last three days, I have been cross-stitching words like these:

The piece I'm working on now is so large -- three by four feet, so far -- that the only way I can figure out how to sew it is to crouch over it. (Alternative suggestions would be roundly welcomed as my lower back is not amused.)

(My work space)

I have made out a very detailed work schedule for myself based on how much I need to stitch every day (minus weekends and vacations) and if my calculations are right, I am looking at a good 4-6 hours every day between now and April.

That's why there's only been one blog post this week, my darlings. Because I needed to take some time to plan, design, map out, calculate and, of course, count.

I will be back on Monday with a fabulous post about a fearless woman I met recently who I hope will inspire you as much as she has inspired me.

Now I must go. There's a row of hypodermic syringes waiting to be sewn up...

In Praise Of A Cluttered Mind

My brain is like a rambling old wood-panelled library crammed with a life's worth of images, references and words that have seeped in and left their mark on my soul. There's no claim to any principle of organization in this strange room of collections -- the memory of a candlelit party in Brooklyn is firmly lodged next to a favorite passage from George Eliot which, in turn, is stacked on top of a vision of a midsummer's night in Iceland -- but the haphazard arrangement of all these memories is what makes it so delightful.

Random connections proliferate.

Curious relationships form.

And every impression tattooed on my mind's eye gives me an opportunity to glimpse my world through an extra rose-colored layer of meaning.

Thus, the bracing memory of an August afternoon on a Scottish field...

(Outside Stirling, Scotland, 2008)

...inspired me to tell Luca and his friend Ethan, "So what if the badminton net is broken. Who needs a net as a divider when you have a sheep?"

(Summer, Hollywood, 2009)

The vibrant image of a suzani tablecloth paired with green curtains in an old Elle Decor...

(photograph by Simon Upton)

...prompted me to experiment with the same mix of color and pattern outside.

(September, Hollywood, 2009)

The remembrance of a favorite childhood novel in which enchanted brambles were the passageway into another world...

(Original frontispiece, The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett)

...motivated me to create an enchanted forest inside the walls of my house so that my son could feel inspired by the same imagery.

(May, 2009)

Lastly, the haunting image of two young English artists (Mark Gertler and Julian Morrell) "hard at it" in the drawing room of a country house...

(Photograph by Ottoline Morrell, 1923, via here)

...made me see the similarities between a quiet weekend in the English countryside and one in urban Hollywood nearly ninety years later.

(October, 2009)

Embroidery: Purly Wurly Takes a Picture

("Purly Wurly Takes a Picture", 1998,

embroidery floss on linen, 11 inches by 16 inches)

*click to enlarge*

The above embroidery was sewn over a three month period in the late 1990's when Piero and I were living in London. It was a heady time. Tony Blair was riding the wave of "Cool Britannia", a pickled shark had the art world agog, and the bands Piero worked with (Radiohead, Blur, The Verve) ruled the airwaves. On October 3rd we were married in a quickie 15-minute ceremony at the Chelsea Registry Office. When the book was placed in front of me to sign, I was a bit taken aback to see the word "Spinster" emblazoned in huge writing next to my name. Evidently, holding off until the age of 32 to get hitched had consigned me to that rather mortifying appellation. Piero of course had a sexy hand-written "Bachelor" next to his name.

One weekend we were invited by some friends to spend a few days at an ancient manor house in Scotland with a gaggle of their acquaintances. (If you read this blog, you'll know I'm referring to Gargunnock House.) It was our first time meeting most of the other people and you know me, I'm always up for an impromptu adventure. Our fellow houseguests included a Brazilian backup dancer for The Pet Shop Boys and his saintly boyfriend (appropriately named Angel); two PR women from Piero's office at EMI Records; a glamorous vermillion-haired DJ named Princess Julia and her semi-brutish boyfriend (seen at front left of the embroidery) who fought constantly; and a celebrated makeup artist named Purly Wurly who spent the entire time looking for her drug buddy Leonard (the one in the camouflage shirt) who had set up shop in one of the spare bedrooms.

During the dinner pictured above, the feast Piero cooked remained largely uneaten and various people kept disappearing only to return minutes later with a sudden case of the sniffles. Despite the occasional drama, it was a rollicking, laugh-laden weekend, complete with midnight wellie walks, candlelit games of sardines and an actual costume ball. A few weeks after our stay there, I heard that Princess Julia cut up all her boyfriend's clothes and tossed them out the window of her Clerkenwell flat. And sadly, Purly Wurly never overcame her battle with substance abuse. She died a few years after this piece was completed. I look at it now as a woven snapshot of a highly colorful moment in time, when life felt unrestrained and some of us were either unafraid or unconscious of how our actions would affect our futures.

Thank You, C Magazine

I am chuffed to announce that his month's issue of C Magazine has a little article on yours truly in it (page 66). But equally as exciting as seeing my name in print was the fact that best-selling author/editor/bonne vivante Diane Dorrans Saeks penned the piece, and so I had a few phone conversations with her. If her name sounds familiar, it's because you totally know her. She's written dozens of books. Perhaps some of these look familiar:

(I know. Not too shabby, huh?)

Anyway, I feel so lucky to have had the opportunity to meet her through this blog. The woman is remarkable. My conversations with her lasted for hours...not because we were talking about me but because I became so enthralled with her life I couldn't stop asking questions about her! She's lived all over the globe, has read every book ever written and is chic beyond all comprehension. She's so old-school cool that this impromptu paean to her will undoubtedly alarm her, but no matter. She's just going to have to deal with the admiration.

(Diane Dorrans Saeks)

Her blog The Style Saloniste has become one of my favorites because of all the first-hand stories and insider glimpses she reveals about her glamorous, design-filled life. She doesn't just merely discuss Picasso...oh no. She shows you personal photos from when she visited his house in Provence.

(Photograph courtesy of The Style Saloniste)

And when writing about Axel Vervoordt, she doesn't resort to source material. Pshaw. She flies to his castle, interviews the man and cajoles him into getting on his horse so she can snap an impromptu photo.

(photo via The Style Saloniste)

Yes.

I know.

Just click over there now and we'll convene for kvelling later.

Decor Detective: Guess The Homeowner

Yesterday I received an email from a reader named Brenda alerting me to this Montauk property recently mentioned in the Wall Street Journal.

The oceanfront parcel spans six acres and is currently for sale in the mid-twenty millions, although other offers may be tendered (in case you're interested).

But what I would like to know is, can you use your sleuthing powers to investigate the following photos and determine its celebrated owner? (Hint: it's a man.)

I'll stay by your side during your Sherlockian journey to make sure you don't veer too far off the beaten path.

Ready?

The property consists of five ramshackle cottages strewn amid fields of untamed brush and wild grasslands. There was a main house once, but it burned down in 1979 and was never rebuilt. It's charming, but certainly not in any way ostentatious. So I think we can safely cross Valentino, Karl Lagerfeld and Andre Leon Talley off the list of possibilities, don't you?

(Two of the guest cottages)

Here's one of the guest cottages. So pretty. But don't let its bucolic beauty fool you. In the 1970's, this property was known more for being a sybaritic epicenter of cool than for being a Emersonian refuge. Every A-lister of the era partied here.

Here's the interior of one of the cottages. Setting aside the fact that it feels completely Bloomsburyish, what grabs your attention? Look at the furnishings. They're a mixture of antiques and well-worn classics. If I was to translate these attributes to a person, I might envision someone with good bone structure, craggy skin and beaten-up khakis. The owner also harbors a definite fondness for ethnic textiles, I would say. And the room manifests an undeniable confidence that may well indicate a fearless approach to life.

In the photo below, I spy an animal skull, global relics, more artful clutter and more drawings featuring wildlife. And is that a bottle of red paint on the wooden tray? The vase of humble wildflowers could reveal a passion for nature, as opposed to hothouses.

This next photo doesn't show much, but the vibe is definitely sexy, moody and mysterious and you know what they say: si monumentum requiris, circumspice (If you want to know me, look around).

Any guesses yet? If you know the answer already, skip to the comments section. If not, here's another photograph (and clue). The owner allows indigenous wildlife to roam free on his property, not surprising considering his profession.

Most of you are frantically raising your hands now, right?

For those who are still in the dark, this is the absolute last clue. When his biography is written, this titled sylph will feature in it.

Come now, what say you?

Answer to be posted tomorrow.

(Update: I shamefully confess that I woefully underestimated you people. You're a big pack of culturehounds, you are. As everyone guessed from the comments, the owner is Peter Beard. My next "Guess the Owner" quiz will have to be much, much more obscure to have any chance at all of stumping the rarefied likes of you.)

(All photos via here.)

The Giddiness Of Indecision

Sometimes the most memorable adventures arise from not knowing where to turn first. More often than not, this exciting quandary arises when travelling:

"Should we take this treasure-laden passageway in the souk or that other one?"

"Should we keep driving south to San Gimignano or scrap it and head for the Dolomites?"

"Should we be safe and order the chicken kebabs or live on the edge and brave the sheep intestines? After all, when in Istanbul..."

But on the home front, the thrills of equivocation can also loom large, especially when faced with a glossy stack of brand new, untouched, waiting-to-be-pored-over monthlies.

(Sunday lunch, The Kenmore Arms)

Piero and Luca were off doing something testosteroney, the house was quiet and I found myself craving a pulse-quickening dose of paper. I fixed myself my new favorite lunch (wok-sauteéd sugar snap peas with hoisin, grilled chicken burger topped with peanut satay sauce -- cooking time twelve minutes start to finish, including cleaning the pans), I fanned out the magazines and while I ate, deliberated with no inconsiderable gravitas over which one to open first. Each promised lush locales, stylish adventures and a rich reservoir of inspiration.

Would I plunder The World of Interiors and lose myself in some Austrian nobleman's castle retreat? Or leaf through Vogue or W and live vicariously through some indie designer's Corsican getaway? Or drool over Gourmet's Old Master-like spreads of cuisine as fine art?

There were no wrong answers because, just as in travelling, all paths lead to knowledge.

Who says domesticity doesn't still provide the occasional adrenaline rush of blood to the head?

Tulu: Too Too Fabulous

At my monthly girls' dinner on Tuesday night, my fabulous friend Clare leant in toward me with a cryptic smile. "Tulu," she whispered provocatively. "Too what?" I replied. "Tulu. Check it out. It's this amazing textile company run by an American woman living in Istanbul. You'll kind of freak."

She was right.

What John Robshaw is to India, Elizabeth Hewitt is to Turkey. Talk about an exotic story: Married to a Turk, she's been living in Istanbul for the last five years and has parlayed her background in design and antiques into starting a company that creates original hand-printed textiles, bedding and pillows inspired by motifs from the past. I screen-grabbed some of her gorgeous photos so we could all ooh and aah together.

Refill coffee/cocoa/Campari now. I'll wait.

Ready?

Let's parse.

This entire bedroom works for me. That black wooden headboard is pretty incredible, methinks. It adds a sexy (choose one) Anglo-Indian/Goth/Edwardian/Ottoman Empire vibe to the space that contrasts brilliantly with the beguiling femininity of the bedding. And those Venetian mirrors on the back wall fuel the exotic tension that is rampant in that room already. It's all very "Wilder Shores of Love."

These pillows below are achingly lovely, especially set against that black inlaid mosaic piece. This is a great example of how two completely disparate patterns working together can create a "gestalt" in which the sum is greater than the individual parts, and it's a good mental reminder that soft, muted hues + ornate black accents = Fresh and Modern in 2009. (Whew. Long sentence.)

I'm on a temporary spending freeze due to my spree at the Hollywood at Home and Lucas Studio sale last week, but these gilty (guilty?) pillows have me hankering to click on Tulu's stockist locations.

But umm, can we just talk about that insane antique brass tabletop for a second? I want to buy it and sit on the floor surrounded by Turkish cushions and sip mint tea out of a delicate cup. Of course, in reality, it would become a repository for my son's collection of Lego. No biggie. Disorder = charm = life, right?

Here's a lovely selection of her more ethnic-inspired pillows. It's hard to tell from the photo, but I think those little circles are mirrored.

In case you haven't completely succumbed to her vision, here's Elizabeth's utterly charming company philosophy:

Tulu is cabbages, lotuses, tin cans, turquoise tiles, tulips, alvin ailey,

harold melvin, grandmother's curtains, dusty uzbeks on horses,

pasha's daughters in kandilli, mahatma spinning his khadi, mafouz...

I strongly recommend that should you be in the vicinity of Istanbul, you hop on this...

...and head here.

(All images via Tulu's website)

Strangers At My Table

Saturday

The plan was simple. Dinner for six at our house on Saturday. The menu was set, the flowers were in full bloom and the fridge was stocked with ingredients. Then, that day, an unexpected illness created two empty seats at the table. We were down to four.

I called my neighbor two doors down to invite her and her husband over last-minute, but as fate would have it, they were throwing a dinner party as well.

Suddenly, an impulsive notion hit me. What if we combined our friends and our food and had a spontaneous communal dinner party at our house? They and their guests could dine here and then afterwards, we could repair to their home for al fresco dessert in their sumptuous garden.

My neighbors, being good-natured and fun-loving souls, agreed. Plan B was a go. In three hours, eight people -- four of them total strangers -- would be at our doorstep. As I hung up the phone, a brief twinge of panic coursed through me. Would this really work?

The Divine Italian was galvanized into action. From the kitchen, I heard the opening strains of a culinary orchestra. A lush cacophony of chopping, slicing, dicing, blending, pulsing and grinding filled the air.

I added four more place settings to the table and sent out an urgent bulletin to every chair in the house that I was calling them in for immediate conscription.

Extra champagne glasses were set out, a doppelganger hors d'oeuvres tray was assembled and the house was subjected to an intense primping session.

I had just applied a last lashing of lipstick when, suddenly, the brass bird knocker announced our guests had arrived.

As soon as I opened the door and saw the smiling faces on my doorstep, I knew that this would be a night to remember. The spontaneous nature of the evening had us all in a state of heightened excitement. We ate, we drank, we chattered, we laughed and we toasted to strangers becoming fabulous new friends.

Our menu:

Starter:

Sweet pea soup with mint and creme fraiche

Main courses:

Filet of halibut with salsa verde

Beef tenderloin with carmelized onions

Sides:

Microgreen salad

Sauteed stringbeans

Roasted acorn squash and new potatoes

Toward the end of the meal, I finally remembered to take a photo for posterity.

Afterwards, we hiked one hundred feet to the next house, sat outside in a sexy Shangri-La of a garden, feasted on an extravaganza of marzipan cake with raspberries and a whipped cream and fresh fruit tart straight from heaven, and lost ourselves in wee hour conviviality.

Sunday

Oddly enough, feeling slightly on the delicate side this morning. I'm chalking it up to lack of sleep (because it couldn't possibly have been the Prosecco. Or the wine. Or my neighbor's legendary pomegranate martini.) I'm craving something fresh and straight-from-the-fields and check the fridge for some of the pea soup from last night, but it's all gone. In a massively kind act, Piero whips me up a fresh batch from scratch.

That, coupled with "Widow Barnaby" by Mrs. Fanny Trollope (funny! divine! j'adore!), comprises my recipe for a night and a day well-lived.

Old Masters at A New (Low) Price

I just can't let the weekend go by without letting you know that Dutch Touch, the company that offers exquisite hand-painted reproductions of Old Master paintings, is having a two day sale over on One Kings Lane. They sell their works through Ames Ingham here in LA and I can tell you, having been to the shop, that the paintings are absolutely breathtaking; in fact, I bought this little piece last year.

("Still Life with Red Box")

This is not one of those companies that paint by numbers and sell en masse in airport hotels. Everything from the careful attention to texture, detail and lighting to the lush color palettes makes makes these works of art almost undetectable from the real thing. (I know, I know, it's heresy to even think that, but it's kind of true.)

One Kings Lane is pretty fabulous, too. They offer two day sales events with top-notch homewares companies like George Smith, Chelsea Textiles and John Derian and the discounts are always huge. You have to go through the rigamarole of becoming a member, but it's free and really only takes a minute.

Here are a few screen grabs from Dutch Touch's website so you can get a sense of their insane style and sophistication. And it's David Netto-approved, which is always a good thing.

W Magazine, Part Five (The Finale)

A sincere thank you to everyone who has been reading my guest blogging posts for W magazine. They've asked me to come back in January for another gig and I couldn't be more thrilled.

Today's theme is all about wanderlust, a word so evocative of its meaning that, in my experience, it has been known to bring about the inescapable impulse to travel merely by uttering it aloud. Use it carefully.

Click HERE and have brilliant weekends, everyone.

(from "British Watercolors of the Eastern Mediterranean",

currently on display at the Huntington Library)

W Magazine, Part Four

I've long dreamt of owning a bag that evokes animals in Old Master paintings and lately it's been haunting my waking thoughts too.

(Follower of Marmaduke Craddock, c.1660-1717)

I don't know why this is. Maybe because in these uncertain times, the idea of walking around with a bit of art history slung across my body seems strangely grounding. Or maybe because anything old and curious feels very modern right now. (That whole quasi-Edwardian, New Antiquarian thing.) Or maybe it's just because pets have been proven to keep your stress level down.

(W.E. Turner, c. 1870)

Whatever the reasons, I've recently discovered some bags that afflict me with a glassy gaze and labored breathing...in a good way.

They're hand-stitched, made from distressed, overdyed leather and recycled materials and somehow manage to be rough and delicate at the same time, which is an instant sell to me as I devoutly believe that great style is all about oxymorons. (Terrible beauty, ornate monasticism, rough-hewn lushness and all that.)

To discover the designer, click HERE and scroll down.

A Marriage of Art and Nature

This past weekend, I flew to Michigan for my brother's wedding. The ceremony took place at Cranbrook House and Gardens, part of a 319-acre National Historic Landmark campus which includes three schools, two museums, a church and an academy of art. It's one of my favorite places on earth.

(Courtyard of Cranbrook House.

The Little Prince and I are next to the car.)

Designed for George Booth and Ellen Scripps Booth in 1908 by architect Albert Kahn, the house is a glorious example of English Arts and Crafts style.

(The house in 1925)

But even more than the house, it is the gardens which absolutely transport me. Everywhere you turn, there is a hidden corner aching to be photographed...

...a lush fountain nestled in a copse of forest...

...or a crumbling urn marking the way to a secret lawn.

And everywhere, everywhere, art sheathed in the unruliness of nature.

We still have a few minutes before we have to take our seats. Let's pass through this archway at the side of the house. See that black railing on the right? We're going down there.

That path is so calling out to us.

Look, a sunken garden. Despite being in the throes of decay and dormancy, it's still captivating. I'd like to get a closer look at that crest, though.

From this angle, it's getting harder and harder to believe I'm not in England.

And look over to the right: a little gardener's cottage straight from the novels of (take your pick) Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Gaskell or Anthony Trollope.

I think I need to sit down for a moment.

Would you look at those stunning casement windows? Why, oh why, do so many people in period houses replace them with the vacuous deadpan stares of plate glass? To me, gazing out through a framed vista is so much more pleasing.

(Lest you assume -- as I did -- that they don't make flat iron casement windows anymore, I found this one after an exhaustive ten second search.)

(via here)

Come on, one last adventure. Let's walk up the steps and take a look at that stone fountain in the distance.

Am I alone or does anyone else think that the discoloration on it adds to its charm? It gives it a well-earned patina that heralds the years of service those two muscular gentleman have provided. And do you see that bust of Zeus in the background?

Here's a little secret: Stand on a certain brick at its base and you trigger a secret mechanism that makes it "cry."

(Thanks to Amy B. for this photo)

How do I know this? Because I spent many preteen summers attending theater school at Cranbrook and am well-acquainted with this fellow. On performance nights, my friends and I would lead unsuspecting guests along a dark trail to Weeping Zeus. After uttering an incantation, we would surreptitiously press the lever and completely unnerve them. Oh, the glorious gullibility of young minds.

According to the Cranbrook website, no less than The New York Times Magazine called it "the most enchanted and enchanting setting in America."

I can't disagree.

W Magazine, Part Three

Find out why I'm betting that two Welsh words with hardly any vowels will soon be a fixture in your design vocabulary.

(from George Smith's new line)

Hint: It's all about that chair fabric. Click HERE.

Fiercenesse

I was brought up by my parents to smile for the camera. There was no conceivable alternative. Despite what you might feel on the inside, a composed grin was the face you presented to the lens and, by proxy, to the world. As a result, I have developed an undue fascination with portraits of women who refuse to kowtow to convention.

("The Yellow Glove" by James Cowie, 1928)

No bonus points for guessing that Alice Cowie, pictured here, wore the trousers in the family. Fiercely intelligent and socially ambitious, she practically dares the viewer to meet her gaze, her nose tilted ever so slightly in the air. Husband James was by all accounts shy and retiring and was happy to melt into the background while Alice sizzled. And can we just talk about those gloves for a moment? Yellow was the color adopted by bohemian society back then, code for "artistic", "outré" and all-around fabulous.

Feel the need for your own pair? (I do.) Click here.

This next work is the one that ignited my preoccupation with unsmiling visages.

("Sonja" by Christian Schad, 1928)

I first saw this painting about fifteen years ago when I was living in Manhattan and deep in the throes of an all-black phase. I remember being completely struck by her androgynous sexuality and decadent cool. I was burrowing through the works of Christopher Isherwood at the time, and this lovely creature of the night typified the moral degeneracy of post-WWI Berlin that I had been so avidly reading about.

I think this dress aptly channels the slight sinfulness of the one in the painting.

Photography used to be a much more laborious process, and I'm sure that goes a long way toward explaining the impassive countenances of these next two women. One sat and sat waiting for that infernal "click." It must have been mind-numbing. But the eyes don't hide. Vita Sackville-West may have been bored, but she lost none of her fervent intensity in posing for this photo.

(Vita Sackville-West, c. 1920's, photographer unknown)

I think this jacket from Anthropologie is very Vita. Wear it with a wide-brimmed hat and everywhere you traipse will feel like Sissinghurst.

For some reason, I have waited until now to read Katherine Mansfield, and I'm so glad I did because I have been longing to lose my heart to a new author. She writes with luminous intensity about passionate, often beleagered women who struggle to love and love to struggle, and her stories never fail to deliver an emotional punch-in-the-gut that leave me stunned and wanting more.

(Katherine Mansfield, 1904, photographer unknown)

Here's Katherine in her early twenties -- before the illnesses, before the infidelities, before the loneliness and alienation -- still fiery, still indefatiguable, with so much yet inside her waiting to erupt.

This high-necked blouse would contain your physicality without suppressing your emotional ardor.

So tell me. When it comes to smiling in photos, do you always?

W Magazine, Part Two

Oh, and don't forget to pop over to W today and read my second installment of fall picks. The one pictured below has me praying for rain.

Curious? Click HERE.

Do You Believe In Reincarnation?

The spirit of Domino magazine lives again. This time it's free, it's online and its name is Lonny.

Hallelujah.

First of all, thank you to everyone who replied to my last post. Piero's family is beyond touched at all your heartfelt words of condolence. They keep logging online to read all the wonderful comments and it has made a difference to them at this difficult time. I always tell my husband that I have the kindest, most interesting and considerate readers in the world, and you've proved me right yet again.

As I will be away for the next few days, I wanted to let you know that W Magazine contacted me recently to do a little guest blogging for them over the next few weeks, and of course I said yes (and then promptly dropped my iPhone). The first post is up today (click HERE to read it) and subsequent ones will appear on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Thank you to senior editor Jenny Comita who is the most delightful point person ever.

I'll be back in full force on Monday.

Uno Bello Uomo

The Divine Italian's father passed away unexpectedly this past weekend.

(Francesco Giramonti, 1932-2009)

We just saw him in August when he came down from San Francisco to visit us and we spent a wonderful two days with him. When he left, I wrote up a blog post about his stay with us, but never published it and I'm so sorry I didn't, because I know he would have been tickled. I do so now.

(Written August 8th)

The one and only Francesco ("Nino" to his legions of friends) paid us the honor of a visit to Hollywood this past weekend. We were thrilled. The man transports a bit of "la dolce vita" with him everywhere he goes.

Nino is in firm possession of his birthright: inimitable Veronese style. Piero and I have always considered him to be 50% Rossano Brazzi, 50% Marcello Mastroianni.

(Nino with sons Roberto (l.) and Piero (r.), 1970's)

Here he is holding Piero at his christening. Look at the cut of that suit. The Sartorialist would approve, don't you think? Piero's mother Adriana is the one stifling a giggle on his immediate right.

(San Francisco, 1964)

In the photo below, a dapper Nino is trying to coax a rebellious Piero back into the car where he will presumably roll around unharnessed on the back seat. (Remember those days?) I love the bold red scarf with the classic trench coat and of course, the over-the-shoulder camera/man bag is beyond.

(Piero and Nino, late 1960's)

Like a true Italian, Nino always cut a "bella figura" no matter what decade it was. Here he is in the 1970's, deep into a "Streets-of-San-Francisco-meets-Casino" style.

(Nino, 1970's)

I love this next photo of a garden party in Rome at Piero's aunt's house because it exemplifies everything I adore about my in-laws' chic, informal style. Nino is the one walking away from the camera, in the white jeans and green Lacoste.

(Roman holiday, 1970's)

Ti amiamo, Nino!

(Nino and Luca, 2008)

(Written September 27th)

When Nino was 49, he underwent a quadruple bypass and nearly didn't survive. After his recovery, he stopped smoking, rededicated himself to exercise and spent his last decades living with renewed zeal and energy. He did everything con passione, whether it was playing competitive tennis, mountainbiking on Mount Tamalpais, preparing a six-course feast, or debating the fine points of any and all subjects. Even loading the dishwasher became a task he raised to an art form -- he had his own highly choreographed method and tolerated no renegade volunteers. Food was the stuff of life to him. He was always there to pick us up at the airport and, after a courteous inquiry about our flight, would spend the remainder of the drive back to his house discussing what he would cook for us.

Everywhere he went, people looked at Nino twice. He was old-school cool, the kind that's in short supply these days. He had a gorgeous capuccino brown 1984 Mercedes 500SL that I drove for a spell and whenever I was behind that wheel, let me tell you, I felt like the star in my own private Fellini movie. From him I learned that while dressing well is important, real elegance comes from within, that a tidy kitchen is the key to a well-run life, and that a commitment to healthy eating shouldn't forgo having a little ice cream in the freezer.

We will miss him tremendously.

Thank You, Courtney

A massive helping of gratitude to Courtney over at Style Court who mentioned my home in her list of "Ten Good Things" for Canadian House and Home. I am humbled to be included among such luminaries and remain ever appreciative of all the incredible people I have been privileged to meet through this blog.