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.