Happy Daze

You know those mornings where it's almost unbearable to even think of leaving your house? From the moment you first open your eyes, you pray that the mere act of getting out of bed is the most Herculean task that awaits you all day.  You desire nothing more than to relax, read, rest and not once open the front door. 

Monday was one of those days.  

And for once, the world conspired with me.  My husband decided to forego his million mile bike ride and instead take a trip to Whole Foods to purchase provisions for an early supper.  He bustled about the kitchen, humming and cooking...

...and whipped up some mussels meuniere, a dish at which he's becoming remarkably adept. I know I've posted about mussels before, but I just can't get enough of them. Thank goodness we were alone. My ladylike graces went straight out the window and I devoured them with the grim intensity of a sumo wrestler preparing for battle.

Peace prevailed in other areas as well.  My son spent most of the afternoon with his nose stuck in a book, instead of as a blurry object racing from room to room.  

I had to keep peeking my head around the kitchen door to make sure I wasn't dreaming. But there he was, motionless, enmeshed in the continuing adventures of "Bone." Ardent bibliophile that I am, I felt I could die happy knowing my passion for reading may possibly continue on in him.  

Lastly, even the creatures great and small in our household behaved themselves.

Fellini, the unrepentant sensualist who has to be front and center of everything, remained front and center.

Twiglet, the cat with the personality of a skittish mouse/anxious vicar/stammering wallflower, stopped long enough to pose before rushing off to the comfort of a dark corner.

And despite my entreaties to partake of the sunshine, Percy the wonder sheep stayed indoors, although I did open the dutch door so he could get some fresh air.  

Toby...or not Toby?

I think I am developing a unhealthy predilection for Toby jugs, those vintage ceramic jugs in the form of a seated person.  I love them.  In the last month, I've bought three and my desire for them shows no sign of abating. 

(Curious as to why they're called "Toby jugs"?  So was I.  Wikipedia states that they're named after Toby, the jovial drunkard from Shakespeare's "Twelfth Night.")

It all started shortly after I realized I needed to add a touch of Englishness to my kitchen windowsill.  It held the requisite plants and chic porcelain cachepots, but it still lacked oomph.  What could I find that would be traditional-with-a-twist, satisfy my obsession with "that sceptered isle" and not be totally ubiquitous in a month?

I stumbled upon them during an Ebay search.  I was looking for Winston Churchill mementos, per usuelle, and all of a sudden, there it was.  Or rather, there HE was.  

I love the way he's sitting here, bemused smile on his face, cigar firmly planted in cheek.  I wanted him so badly I didn't even wait for the auction to end. One "Buy it Now" click later and Sir Winnie was all mine.  He arrived ten days later via the Royal Mail and has been beaming contentedly at me ever since.

My next acquisition was Mr. Pickwick, sitting here in his yellow waistcoat, his buttons strained to breaking point after one of his many merry feasts.

Buying him was a no-brainer. "The Pickwick Papers" was the novel that turned me into a raging Dickens-ophile and, even twenty years later, remains one of the funniest books I have read. Upon finishing it, I was so reluctant to part with its brilliance that I filled up a small book with my favorite passages from the novel and proceeded to memorize them one by one.  (I know, I know...can you say N-E-R-D?)

Following shortly on Pickwick's heels came Mr. Pecksniff, the oily moralist and hypocrite extraordinaire from "Martin Chuzzlewit", another one of my favorite Dickens novels.  When I gaze at him, I remind myself that if I do exactly the opposite of everything he would, I will lead a blameless life.

All three of my Toby jugs were produced by Royal Douton and date from around the 1940's-1950's.  I have several friends who collect those vintage doll head vases and to me, Toby jugs are the masculine counterpart of those. Ebay has a great selection of them, but do a thorough check because I found the same jugs listed for various (and hugely disparate) prices. 

As traditional as they are, they feel somewhat edgy and humorous to me. Placed against a stark backdrop, they take on a modern slant and remind me a bit of those porcelain Nymphenberg statuettes they sell at Moss (but for about one-hundredth of the price).  

I say they're ripe for a comeback.  What do you think?

Give Me Liberty

If you've never been to Liberty and Co., the luxury department store in London tailormade for modern-day eccentrics like you and me, call British Airways now.  I just purchased a roundtrip ticket from LA to London in March for the crazy low fare of $499.  At a price like that, I bought one for The Little Prince, too.  Since the Divine Italian's going to be there on business, I figure Luca and I will crash his hotel room and live it up for a couple of days.

I have it all planned out: once onboard, Luca will be granted unlimited use of his Nintendo DS (my restrictions on it ease up during air travel, especially transatlantic legs), thus guaranteeing me near silence for the duration of the flight.  As for me, I'll load up on my favorite podcasts, "The Bowery Boys" and Arun Krishnan's "Learn Hindi from Bollywood Movies", wrap a cashmere travel blanket around my shoulders, pop a Skittle, close my eyes and dream of what awaits me.

Where to begin?  Founded in 1875, Liberty and Co. began by selling an eclectic mix of objets and fabrics from the Far East, but went on to develop its own distinct aesthetic style linked to Art Nouveau.  After they began to produce their own fabrics for clothing and furnishings, their store soon became the most elegant emporium in London, catering to a wealthy and exotic clientele.  It remains so today, and half the fun in going is rubbing shoulders with the outrageous assortment of chic London mummies, dandyish "heirs and spares", and newly-hatched Bright Young Things.

Being inside the Tudor Revival building is like being in a Grade I-listed museum; in fact, its very timbers were taken from two British naval ships, the HMS Impregnable and the HMS Hindustan.  The interior is arranged around a huge wooden 5-story atrium, with open balconies at each level, dripping with gorgeous antique rugs.

Feeling peckish?  There is a tea room...

a cafe...

and a Champagne and oyster bar.  (Ooh, yes please.)

Fingers crossed that The Little Prince allows me some shopping time.  The last time we were there, it was a late November afternoon and he was in a black mood.  He demonstrated this by lying prostrate on the ground directly in front of the massive revolving door and refusing to budge, despite my desperate pleas and a tsunami wave of approaching boots.  Ah, the unpredictability of children. Let's just say that although the English are by nature unfailingly polite, my son had them at breaking point.  

Anyway, Liberty is a marvel of a place.  If you've been, you know what I mean. And if you haven't, I promise if you ever have a chance to go, you won't be disappointed.  Usually, by the time I manage to drag myself out of there, night is falling and the store looks prettier than ever.

On the occasions I exit clutching one of their instantly recognizable purple shopping bags, I consider myself a very lucky girl indeed.

Here are a few of my favorite purchases over the last couple of years...

A leather-bound blank book imprinted in Liberty's iconic "Ianthe" pattern, which I haven't been brave enough to write in yet (what could merit such importance?)...

...a velvet peacock feather pillow...

...some assorted pocket handkerchiefs and scented sachets, all in various Liberty prints...

...and my favorite toiletry bag ever, which sadly has been discontinued.

I'm counting down the days.

The Art of the Quotidien

Part of my ethos in creating "A Bloomsbury Life" is to find artfulness in the everyday. Some of the most memorable images to me aren't expensive bibelots, million dollar vistas or posed groupings, but the humble details and spontaneous moments of daily life.  There can be beauty and meaning in everything.

Here are a few personal favorites:

A front hall littered with muddy wellies and cast-off clothing from a country walk...

Two tea towels hanging exhaustedly on an Aga after a vigorous Sunday washing up...

An impromptu dinner on a homemade blanket...

A jubilant pot of mussels in Brussels...

A friend who's not afraid to wear a tea cozy on her head...

Lovingly folded washcloths in a orphanage in Tibet...

An approaching train and the sudden exodus of pigeons overhead...

A hedge with well-rounded aspirations of grandeur...

My son's ever-expanding catalogue of monsters...

Heaven Can Wait

(In India with Jeannine and Belinda, 2007)

My passage to India in two weeks has been postponed...for a very exciting reason. My travelling companion, Belinda, called me last week with the news that she had been picked to be on the new season of "Dancing With the Stars." I was sworn to secrecy, but the news was announced in the media today and she's on her way out to LA as I type this.  We were going to travel to Rishikesh for a week and attend the International Yoga Festival there, but we can go another time.  She's quite a serious practitioner of yoga, so I have no doubt she'll be able to keep up with all the intense dance training she's going to be doing.    

(Belinda in Udaipur, 2007)

Belinda is one-of-a-kind.  Strong, funny and gloriously eccentric, in the twelve years I've known her she has taught me more about being fearless and embracing opportunities than almost anyone I know. Together we have gone on fairy walks in Ireland, done headstands in the Himalayas, politely turned down horse meat in Kazakhstan, explored creepy cathedrals in the Languedoc, stayed up way too late in London, and meditated at dawn by the Ganges. Whatever she puts her mind to, she usually accomplishes and I have no doubt she will take on this next challenge as enthusiastically as she does all others, with her inimitable grace, style and good humor.  

The last time we were in India together with our friend Jeannine, a blockbuster Bollywood dance movie had just opened called "Om Shanti Om."  It was all anyone was talking about.  We tried to see it several times but it was sold out all over the country, so we ended up settling for the soundtrack, which we played nonstop.  "Om shanti om" means, "Peace within, peace without."  So join me in sending her a blessing of om shanti shanti and a wealth of good karma...and be sure to vote for her!

Cn U Hv Lnch? :)

Last night I was looking through an old book I bought recently, a compilation of letters written by Charles Dickens to his best friend, Thomas Beard. 

I always knew that in Victorian London the postal system was famously efficient, making despatches and deliveries up to seven times a day. (Crazy, huh?  My mail comes once a day, at 6pm.)  But what struck me last night while I was reading Dicken's correspondence was how immediate and informal many of the letters were.  Just take a look:

Monday 12th October 1845

My Dear Beard,

I have a confidential question to ask you.  One that may rather amaze you.  If you can come round to me tonight -- do.

Ever yours,

Charles Dickens

Or this one:

First July 1856

My Dear Beard,

Will you come here tonight at 6 (no party) to eat Turtle and a steak?

Ever heartily, 

Charles Dickens

Or, finally, this:

Friday 11th October 1861

My Dear Beard,

I understand from Letitia you are going to poor Austin's funeral tomorrow.  Let me take you.  I will leave here at 10, and will pick you up at 20 minutes past, at the corner of the Edgeware Road in Oxford Street.  One word to say that this is agreed upon.

Ever affectionately,

Charles Dickens

Do you see what I'm getting at?  They don't sound like lengthy 19th century missives, they sound like...emails.

Each is brief and to the point -- just like an email.  Each not only demands an immediate response, it takes for granted the feasibility of it -- just like an email. Each is part of a to-be-continued conversation -- just like an email.  

Suddenly, my perceptions of a ponderously slow Victorian age came crashing down.  I saw a world just like ours, in which messages were dashed off, delivered and replies immediately sent. Write a letter to someone in the morning to meet you at the pub for lunch, and they'd receive it, RSVP, and be sitting at the bar stool when you walked in. I find it fascinating to think that the way people communicated in the 19th century was so similar to the way we do today. We do it wirelessly, they did it by horse, carriage and fleet-footed mailman. What's old is new again.

And in a corollary to that theme, what's new is old again.  

I recently purchased an iPhone and went on a hapless search for a case that would satisfy my admittedly strict design needs. Those ubiquitous rubberized cases don't do it for me.  In my perfect world, I envisioned something that would resemble nothing so much as an old leather-bound book.  Red, preferably.  (Hey, a girl can dream.)

Well, there is a God.

Introducing the Sena Walletbook Case for iPhone 3G.  Isn't it beautiful?  It's practically identical to one of my favorite leather diaries ever, the Smythson 2009 Bijou Organizer.

See how it opens just like a book?  And the front cover folds back easily so talking on the phone isn't awkward.  Best of all, it's just $49.95.

Here it looks completely at home atop a stack of antique tomes. I love the idea of dressing up a piece of millennium technology in the wrappings of a 19th century journal. 

I like to think Charles would approve.

The Princess Awaits

It's a perfect Sunday.  The rain continues to pelt down, turning our haven in Hollywood into a cinematic version of  "Wuthering Heights." It's all about moody glamour today.  The trees droop like sulky supermodels, the rain gutters chatter ceaselessly with plinks and drops, and my two little Heathcliffs (Jr. and Sr.) have gone off to Griffith Park to hit some balls. Everything is damp except my spirits. Why? Because it's 11am and it's dark enough to light candles. Because the house is peaceful. Because I have free license to putter.  And because we had a dinner party last night and sitting in my fridge at this very moment is this:  

A leftover wedge of Sweet Lady Jane's inimitable Princess cake.  Yellow butter cake gently layered with pastry cream and raspberry preserves, cloaked in a dome of marzipan.  It's sunshine on a cloudy day.

Just knowing that the Princess is tucked safely away in the refrigerator is enough for me.  I can eat sparingly now without feeling deprived because I know that later this afternoon, a small slice of decadence awaits me. The anticipation of enjoying it is almost as satisfying as the actual eating. (I said almost.)

But of course, I must keep up a vigilant guard against Piero and Luca, my kitchen ruffians. They will undoubtedly return home starving and on a frenzied hunt for nourishment.  Those two have the appetites of Visigoths sacking Rome.  They don't taste, they merely swallow. If I don't quickly herd them toward a tasty alternative, my precious Princess cake will disappear down their bottomless gullets without a trace.  

On second thought, I think I'll eat my slice now.

Embroidery: The Lord's Prayer

("The Lord's Prayer", embroidery floss on burlap,

38 in. high by 32 in. wide)

*click to enlarge*

As you can no doubt surmise from reading it, I cross-stitched this sampler in the heyday of the 1990's, when dotcom start-ups were sprouting millionaires overnight and our nation's giddy prosperity showed no signs of a slowdown.  (Just writing those words feels like I'm describing a time long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away.)  I was living in London and just about to move to Los Angeles.  The dollar was strong, the pound was weak and the It Bag was the ne plus ultra of accessories.  And as much as it pains me to admit it now, I was a chick obsessed.  We all were a bit, though, weren't we? I was never as bad as Carrie on "Sex and the City" with her $50,000 shoe addiction, but I don't even want to think how far the money I hemorrhaged on designer purses would have gone today in off-setting my recent renovation.

I want to believe I'm not like that anymore.  As much as I still gasp, shake and pine for fabulous design, my covetousness has been somewhat tamed.  I still crave luxury, but whereas before I needed one of each, now one will do.  My maternal grandparents, staunch Quakers the both of them, would be proud.

Of course, having said all that, if the Almighty should find a surplus of Prada couture and deign to send it my way, I think it would be terribly ungracious to refuse.

Samarkand Bliss

It's raining.  A drizzly, implacable London rain making a guest appearance in Hollywood. Fog everywhere, looming over the Kodak Theater and the Capitol Records Tower.  I'm waiting for Ricardo, my wonderful curtain guy, to come over and hang my Peter Dunham "Samarkand" living room curtains. 

I chose the colorway above because my walls are painted Farrow and Ball's "Green Blue" and I wanted them to be a subtle backdrop to the rest of the room.  Goodness knows I have enough going on in there already.

For an entire year now, I've been avoiding photographing the windows.  I either crop them out of frame or have people move away from them whenever I take a picture.  Very occasionally, they make it into a shot.  

See what I mean?  They're big barren spaces of nothingness.  When we moved in a year ago, the previous owner had left some voluminous swagged "Gone with the Wind" curtains that resembled ball gowns from an antebellum Bette Davis movie.  I'm sure they cost a fortune, but they didn't work.  Underneath were the slatted blinds, so we've been living with those ever since. 

Doorbell.  Excuse me.

(One hour later)

Ricardo works fast.  I'm back.  They're up.  I'm ecstatic.  They completely change the whole room, don't you think?

I specifically chose cornices over curtain rods because I wanted to add some height and drama to the room.  Plus, I like the feeling of traditional coziness they provide.  When the curtains are closed, you can see the lovely border along the inside edge which emphasizes their verticality.

I think the pattern's large scale works as an effective backdrop to the room: expansive enough to add texture but subtle enough not fight with the other patterns.  I couldn't be happier. We're having a dinner party on Saturday. Maybe we can eat in the living room.

For those of you who may be heading to LA soon, do yourself a favor and stop by Peter's beautiful store, Hollywood at Home.  It's one of my favorite places in the world, and is such a wonderful showcase for the brilliant interior and fabric design that Peter does so well.  The vibe is glamorous, aristo-bohemian, globe-trotting chic.  (Think Jackie Onassis in Jaipur or Jemima Khan in St. Tropez.)  If you're lucky enough to see him there, be sure to say hello, as he and his welcoming staff are as kind a set of people as you're ever likely to meet. 

Sexy Beasts

There they are in all their primitive elegance, my two favorite pieces of jewelry. Look at them, trying to shy away from my camera.  My hare, looking coyly downward.  And my steely-eyed owl resolutely ignoring me, like a celebrity who's spotted a paparazzo.  That's all right.  I'm secure.  I know they love me.

They were designed by cult New York designer, Gerard Tully.  Made of 18 carat gold with black diamond eyes, they're like two little gilded pieces of taxidermy.   

Chic, shiny and slightly macabre, they touch all the right buttons for me.

The rings are part of his genius "Predator/Prey" series and in my set, the owl is the predator and the hare is the prey.  (Other pairings include snake and field mouse, buzzard and egg, and frog and fly.  Lest you be absolutely horrified, there are also pacifist options, such as bunny and carrot, squirrel and acorn, and zebra and blade of grass.) 

When I wear them, I am acutely aware that it's either eat or be eaten. When I wear them, I suffer fools gladly.  When I wear them, I feel invincible.  When I wear them, I am ready to brave the school carpool lane and Sunday afternoon at Costco. 

Not to put to fine a point on it, but when I have armored my fingers with these two sexy little beasts, I feel not unlike a pagan goddess in Hollywood.  And if I squint very hard, the skyscrapers in downtown LA almost look like Stonehenge.

A Fine Balance

This past Saturday night, The Little Prince invited one of his friends to sleep over.  All day long, Luca tried to contain his excitement and failed miserably.  

"Mom, what time is it now?" 

"1oam.  He'll be here in six hours."  

"Okay."  

Ten seconds pass.  

"Mom, what time is it now?"

Tick.  Tick.  Tick.

At long last, the brass woodpecker on the front door heralded an arrival and Augie came whirling in. Suddenly, chaos was in blissful reign at The Kenmore Arms.  They dashed up to his bedroom and proceeded to methodically take it apart.  Bangs and thuds, punctuated by bursts of laughter, filled the air. I affected an air of nonchalance and tried to hum over it.

After dinner, I was informed there was an impromptu performance I needed to attend. Amps were plugged in. Windows were shut. Fingers were crossed that no neighbor was turning in early.  

After they brought down the house, it was time to make popcorn and engage in a vigorous discussion of where we would choose to travel if our beds were equipped with magic knobs.  

Then it was time to take a very close look at the whole situation.  

Then it was time to leap on the furniture, chase the cats, race each other upstairs, jump on the bed, not brush teeth, wriggle around under the covers, announce a dozen times they were going to stay awake all night, and then promptly fall asleep.  Then, all too soon, silence.  

It was 9:30 pm. 

The Divine Italian had gone on a grueling bicycle ride that morning and was snug in bed already. The night was mine.

As I settled in to read this book (which I'm obsessed with)...

...I thought to myself how apt the title was, as life was indeed just that, a fine balance. For most of my life, I've been convinced that happiness is self-determined, a result of reaching goals and keeping commitments.  Now I'm equally convinced that happiness lies in anarchy.  The more I relinquish my expectations, the more I open the door to experiencing something truly wonderful, like, say, the unholy screechings of two electric guitars.