London: The Days of Cool Britannia

In 1996, we moved to the sceptr'ed isle. Piero flew over first and started looking for places immediately. One night he called to tell me he had found a rose-colored carriage house in a mews in Notting Hill.

Piero: You're going to love it. It's totally you. The woman who lived there before -- Camilla something, the owner said she works for British Vogue -- painted everything this amazing mottled pink and cream. It's like a hippy sponge cake. Even the --

Me: (interrupting) Stop! You need to concentrate. Is it Camilla Nickerson? Because she is my total style icon.

Piero: Yeah, that's her.

Me: (trembling) Oh my God. Do whatever you have to. Just get it.

He did. Unfortunately, in an overzealous quest to please their new tenants, the owners had painted every surface white by the time I arrived. (Oh, the loss, the loss.)

(Our former house in Wilby Mews, London, 1996-1999)

But despite its shiny new coat of paint, the house still heaved with character. A lacy licorice-colored staircase soared through the middle of each floor from the ground level up to the third floor attic.

The centuries-old floorboards were stained a golden honeycomb color and, like a battered leather satchel, gleamed with a patina of character that only a long march of years can provide.

(Upstairs salon)

Design-wise, I was in the throes of what I now refer to as my "Hogarthian" phase: out with the new, in with the ancient. I haunted Portobello Road for cheap second-hand treasures and then set about giving them a new life, hand-sewing cushions, embroidering pillow covers and even reupholstering them (hello, staple gun). Tea, bourbon biscuits and Radio 4 kept me going. At night, when friends came over and the candles were lit, the house did radiate an enticing shabby grandeur.

(William Hogarth, The Distressed Poet, 1736)

The bedroom was on the ground floor of the house, and in an inspired renovation decision, the owners had left the stable stall up which bisected the room in two. The bed fit perfectly on one side and on the other, I created a little reading area. One late night I heard a noise and looked up to see a feral-looking silhouette in the window above my head. "Most likely a town fox," my neighbor said. "Absolute rascals, they are." Town fox. The words reverberated in my head for days.

(Bedroom, London)

The kitchen was a tiny galley area on the second floor and completely unassuming in design, but I loved it. Everything was delightfully within arm's reach, the floorboards uttered a comment whenever you took a step and despite the rain, the fog or the sleet, the light was inexplicably always golden. And from that little window on the world...

(Kitchen)

...I was afforded a rose-colored glimpse onto the lush, private gardens of the massive town houses that faced Ladbroke Grove. It was a fantastic wonderland of 19th century conservatories and Victorian follies and deliriously unbridled foliage. If I squinted, there was almost no clue that the 20th century (or even the 19th) had arrived.

(View onto back garden)

It was during this time that I found my beloved WWII-era horseshoe bench (just visible behind the dining table). I had gone to Bermondsey Market at 5am and spotted it there in the pre-dawn darkness. For £60, it was mine. The painting is by E. L. Blumenschein (1874-1960), one of the famous Taos Painters, although I think it was painted during his Hudson Valley years, before he headed West.

(Dining area)

Up on the top of the house was a half-floor that we turned into a tiny (and I mean tiny) lounge. Outside was our very own private garden. Piero cobbled together some wooden planters and we grew an aromatic variety of herbs and encouraged the ivy to fulfill its long-held ambition of becoming a wall-to-wall carpet. Sometimes at dusk, we'd eat our dinner up there, surrounded by smudgy clouds and blue-grey slate rooftops and a ragtag assortment of Victorian chimneys.

(Mews attic)

This is us as we were then. Eagle-eyed viewers will spot my friend Jane in the background.

(Wedding day, Chelsea Registry Office)

Update: A few of you have asked if I still keep in touch with Jane and Mary from my last post. I do. Mary has moved back to England but Jane still lives in Brooklyn and both are busy raising families and pursuing artistic ventures. Two years ago, we all rented a house in Yorkshire and it was wonderful beyond words to see our children galloping across heathery moors, rolling down hills and scoffing sweets together like there was no tomorrow.

(Yorkshire, 2006)

Maybe up next: Thrills in the Hollywood Hills (if I can locate the photos...)

Also, it's Friday, which means my new column is up at W Magazine. Click HERE to read it, but not before I wish a wonderful Valentine's weekend to everyone.

Beauty and Decay in Brooklyn

Williamsburg, Brooklyn, 1991

My friend Brad knew two sisters in Brooklyn who were looking for a roommate. "They're English," he said. "A little odd..." he said, then added, "...you know, like you." They lived in a Civil War-era house in Williamsburg and the rent would be $300 a month for my own bedroom. It sounded too good to be true.

Out I went on the rumbling L train to Bedford Avenue. A short walk later, I reached 154 North 9th Street. In front of me stood an unprepossessing tenement building. The buzzers all indicated various apartments except for one that had a piece of paper taped above it that read "Rear House." I buzzed it and the door clicked open, revealing a long hall that completely bypassed the building and led out back to a small private yard.

What I saw took my breath away.

In front of me was an enchanting two-story Lilliputian carriage house that looked as if it had just escaped from the pages of "Alice in Wonderland." The small yard was hugged tightly on three sides by wooden trellises which were profuse with climbing roses. Wanton roses. Fearless roses. Roses that had refused to have their ambitions clipped by pollution or city stress. As for the house, it was covered in so much ivy that it was clearly in the midst of a grudge match with the flowers for "Best of Show."

Of course I moved in immediately.

(Front door of carriage house, Williamsburg, 1991-ish)

My two roommates, Jane and Mary, soon became my best friends and co-conspirators in style. Mary was a self-employed couturier and Jane was a music promoter/Jill of all trades. They were Pre-Raphaelite beauties with a thrilling ability to create glamour, drama and humor out of the most quotidien details. In our house, the heels were high, the lipstick was red and the books were Virago (the pre-Persephone Persephone). Oh, and every night we drank a tipple of amontillado sherry "purely for medicinal purposes."

I still dream about our kitchen table. The top was covered with two huge slate slabs that Mary had discovered in the earthen basement and then painted with coats of shiny shellac. It was rough and uneven and where the middles met, she planted a row of live moss from end to end. (Yes, we watered it.) You had to be slightly careful about where you set your coffee cup so it wouldn't tip over, but other than that, it was a eco-surrealist fantasy.

(Mary in the kitchen. Note the slate table.)

The house definitely had its quirks. When it rained, you needed to use an umbrella in the bathroom. In winter, the wind blew through the paper-thin walls with such ferocity that we would regularly wear winter coats inside. The floorboards sloped, the staircase was wonky and it was the most vocal house -- creaks, groans, moans, you name it -- I've ever lived in. But we loved it in spite of its weaknesses. It was blowsy with personality, that house. It was a Civil War dame who had long outlived all her contemporaries, but who was seeking with every nail and joist and length of timber in her body to remain upright for as long as she could.

In the upstairs salon, Mary and Jane had draped velvet remnants over the threadbare sofas for a bit of rough luxe glamour and stippled the walls a Venetian gold.

(Me in the upstairs salon. Note the nearby coat.)

Our dining room was painted many times, depending on our boredom level. In the incarnation below, it was "Oscar Wilde Green." On the right, you can see a mannequin draped with one of Mary's dress designs. She made me two neo-Edwardian fitted suits that I still own today. Both had accentuated shoulders, a nipped-in waist and a slight bustle effect in the back that made me feel like a post-punk Wharton heroine. I'm wearing one of them in the photo below.

(Me after a lengthy repast, circa 1991-ish.)

There was never a dull moment. One day I came home from work and discovered that Mary had planted more moss on the fireplace and was growing flowers out of it. You can see them on the left side of the mantel. She and Jane sewed damask slip covers for the wooden chairs they found on the street so we could "entertain properly."

(Dining room, circa 1991-ish)

Another time I walked in the door to find my roommates, in high heels and lipstick, sawing up one of our four salvaged dining chairs to use as kindling. There was a winter storm raging, the furnace was broken and the inside temperature had reached crisis levels. When you live in a homestead, sometimes you have to make tough choices.

(Upstairs fireplace, Christmas time, 1992-ish)

I wish I had a photo of my bedroom, but I don't. It faced a Polish sausage casing factory, not the most scenic of views, so I transformed it into a Moroccan fantasy with dark tangerine walls and a navy-blue ceiling that I swirled with celadon to conjure up an approaching storm. I hung a mosquito net over the bed and decorated the room with vintage fabrics and cushions. It was very "Sheltering Sky."

We had two blissful years together before love and career opportunities pulled us in separate directions. But our experiences together in that house, as well as our friendships, remain vivid to this day.

(Three thrill-seekers on a barnacle-laden barge on the Hudson River, 1992-ish)

From Mary and Jane, I learned first-hand that great personal style isn't about money, it's about attitude, wit and a dash of devil-may-care. Somehow on the tiniest of budgets we managed not only to live with elegance but also to entertain with flair. Countless friends from Manhattan trooped out to see us, the eccentric adventuresses living in a tumbledown house on the wrong side of the river and having the time of our lives.

We welcomed them with glasses of amontillado sherry, of course.

(Side note: One of my readers, Daniel Halifax with the compelling blog, has a scandalous story to tell regarding one of his ancestors and this very house. Perhaps he'll comment....)

Up next: Cool Britannia, 1996

Have Bag, Will Travel

Going somewhere? This wash bag makes a stylish companion, whether you're venturing across the ocean or just across town for a sexy sleepover.

Click HERE to read my latest column in W Magazine and find out what else I'm recommending to expand your horizons.

Bloomsbury Beginnings: New York City

Manhattan, 1989

My very first apartment was in a huge renovated warehouse on Horatio Street in the West Village. I had been offered a copywriting job at a big New York ad agency and given two weeks to relocate from Chicago. The rent for my studio was a stratospheric $1225/month, much more than I had any sense paying given my new salary, but I had promised my mother I would live in a doorman building and besides, everything else was right. The streets on that side of town were still paved with cobblestones, the historic meat market was across the street and I'd be able to see the sun sink over the Hudson River every night if I stuck my head really far out the window. What could be more perfect?

(My first New York apartment, 1989)

The only photo I still have shows a section of the wall that ran along one side of the apartment. Having zero decorating budget, I hung my mother's vintage zebra-print Abercrombie and Fitch raincoat on a hook -- instant art! -- and propped a print of the Mona Lisa on the ground (I taped some sunglasses to her eyes and felt awfully clever). The rest of the apartment hewed closely to "Bright Lights, Big City": a futon couch, a glass-topped trestle table, a Truffaut poster and two black steel-and-leather Wassily chairs that I had been coveting since high school. After paying the first month's rent, I was so low on funds that I survived on fried rice, frozen grapes and popcorn until my next paycheck, supplemented by nearby restaurants that offered free food during happy hour.

Although this apartment is not at all my aesthetic now, I still consider it an important marker in helping to shape my future personal style. For the first time ever, I was living completely on my own and had total rein to express myself. This space reflected exactly who I was at the time: a platinum-blonde with a closet full of black clothes and a passion for Andy Warhol, Edie Sedgwick, The The and everything Bauhaus.

I didn't live there long. A few months later, I met some friendly girls down the hall with a 2,000 square foot loft and an empty bedroom for $800/month. I moved in, loved the feeling of having spare change in my pocket and over the next three years embarked on four more moves, always on a quest to keep lowering my rent. Along the way, my style kept metamorphosing. It wasn't until I ventured across the East River that I found the most space for the least price and met two people who would awaken in me the first sparks of a Bloomsbury life.

Up next: Beauty and Decay in Brooklyn

Rabbit Food, Eccentrics and Sunshine

After sewing for six hours on Saturday, I woke up Sunday morning craving sunshine, fresh air and a focal point that wasn't six inches in front of my face. I needed a day of mental health.

I drove into Beverly Hills and visited my friend Amanda Eliasch at her Hal Levitt-designed aerie on the top of Mulholland. Photographer, author and fashion editor-at-large for Genlux magazine, she was in town from London for a few weeks to start work on a new play with her co-writer Lyall Watson and to take advantage of the California weather (although the recent deluge had her thinking she was still in England).

(Amanda in Hollywood, 2009)

Both clad in black, we lay on Balinese chaises overlooking a glistening view that stretched to the ocean and caught up on each other's lives. The Grammy Awards were that night, although neither of us were going this year. "Darling, you know pop music just isn't my raison d'etre," she said emphatically.

(Photo: Amanda Eliasch)

Bathed in sunny light, I closed my eyes and tried to soak up all the lovely energy that was surrounding me. I wanted to fully absorb the joy of just doing nothing. Around us, palm trees swayed, birds gossiped and every now and then a muffled reminder of civilization would waft lazily up to us from the distant canyons.

We spoke about writing (Amanda has a fascinating personal blog), travelling and at one point, tried in vain to remember an artist known for his wallpaper who was a contemporary of Eric Ravilious. It was too much effort to sift through our memory banks for his name, so we let it go and allowed our thoughts to drift, bob and meander at will.

For this trip to California, she had flown in a highly-touted chef from Brazil to put her and Lyall on a strict cleansing diet: no coffee, alcohol, starch, sugar, dairy or red meat. They were ten days into the thick -- err, thin -- of it and were looking chic and svelte, as was the chef, who was a virtual doppelganger of Penelope Cruz. I wanted in.

Lunch was equal parts intimidating and delicious.

(High-protein black rice with zucchini-squash rillettes;

photo courtesy of Amanda Eliasch)

Driving home down the winding roads, I felt emotionally refreshed, physically nourished and totally in command of my senses, proof of which was that the name of the artist I blanked on suddenly popped into my head: Edward Bawden. Love him. Another famed English eccentric, his graphic linocut designs feel just as fresh and modern today.

(Pigeon and Clocktower Wallpaper, 1927)

(Hare and Tortoise linocut, 1970)

(Design for wrapping paper, "Deer and Trees", 1960)

(Kew Gardens, 1936)

Wit, warmth and a recipe for weight loss...not a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

Jane Birkin, Meet Rupert Birkin

When is a classic white shirt more than a classic white shirt? When it dates from the 19th century, evokes the rustic/sexy sensibility of both D. H. Lawrence and a gap-toothed French style icon and promises to just keep getting better and better over time.

Click HERE to read my latest column in W and become a woman (or man) in love.

Armor Amour

(Mail byrnie, c. 12th century, Museum of Bayeux)

I have a long-standing fixation with medieval armor. Chain mail, to be specific. It's difficult to pinpoint the source of my fascination. Perhaps, in a previous life, I was a footsoldier in Boadicea's all-woman army.

Or perhaps my brain is still haunted by gripping visions of Dark Age tumult and turmoil from this much-loved book.

Or perhaps this by-now-iconic image of Alexander McQueen and the late, great Isabella Blow from a 1996 Vogue spread stoked my passion to uncontrollable heights.

(Photograph by David LaChapelle)

Yes, I realize there's no actual chain mail in the photo, but I suppose all the elements present cause my mind to make the connection anyway: "Castle + fire + damsel in distress + mayhem equals....ah, yes...chain mail."

Look at this ceremonial shirt from the 16th century. Over five hundred years old and it still feels modern. Even the decorative fastenings and jeweled brooches are in style. What would it feel like to wear? Heavy, certainly. But I can't help but think you would feel protected not only physically but emotionally.

(Image via wornthrough.com)

I can envision the product description: "Elegant, slim fit. Offers 100% impermeability in the battlefield (arrows, swords) and in court (betrayals, backstabbings, snarkiness). Dry clean only."

I've always thought of chain mail in terms of fashion, so I was rendered temporarily mute when I visited my friend Maria on Saturday and saw this stunning four-legged creature.

(Burlap and chain mail chair. Design by Maria Sarno.)

"Wha....?" I tried again. "Hwaaah...?" She took pity on me. "It's just a salvaged chair," she said. "I need to have it recovered. But do you like the chain mail I attached to the head rest?"

(Chain mail chair, detail)

Umm, yes. I love everything about it. I love the threadbare linen, the tattered seams and the way you've transformed it into the anthropomorphic embodiment of a medieval knight.

If fashion is considered the armor we clothe ourselves in, then surely we can upholster ourselves in it, too.

Pour Moi, Le Deluge

On Saturday, the torrential rains finally stopped...and I'm not altogether happy about it.

(Sunset over Hollywood, 1/22/10)

For six days, we had taken blissful refuge at home and reveled in the exotic weather.

Soups simmered.

Scones were baked.

Books were devoured.

Blazing fires went head-to-head with the fierce crescendo of midday thunderstorms.

Life became infinitely simple.

I knew at some point the sun would come out and we would all have to go outside and enjoy it, but until then, we remained happily indoors. Cooking was pure pleasure. During mealtimes, we lit candles and cranked open the kitchen windows to let the smell of fresh rain mix with the aromas being stirred to life on the Aga.

If there was a recurring theme to our meals, it was that they be largely composed of steaming liquids. One particular seafood stew called "Cioppino" made so many repeat appearances at our house this past week that I was almost afraid it would start asking for royalties. (This is Hollywood, after all). We served it at a dinner party last week, ate the leftovers the following day and I still can't get enough of it. Hearty, fresh and not heavy at all, it's my new favorite winter meal.*

Saturday night's rendition was ladled generously into big bowls, each serving plentiful with of chunks of fresh cod, mussels and scallops. For a grace note, we sprinkled it with fresh chopped parsley. Earth meets sea.

(Cioppino stew, Saturday, 1/23/10)

Sunday morning, Piero caught glimpse of the fresh snowy peaks of the San Gabriel Mountains and decided it was going to be a ski day. For breakfast, he added some linguini to the cioppino and transformed it into a stick-to-your-ribs mountaineering meal. Suitably fortified, he and Luca were out the door 25 minutes later.

(Cioppino and pasta, 1/24/10)

Now the house is quiet, the tea is brewing and I have time to write, sew and think. If it was just raining outside, it would be a perfect day.

P.S. My friend Maryam from "My Marrakech" is a finalist in the Bloggies for "Best African Blog." If you've ever been on her site, then you know how deserving she is of the award. Her stirring prose and soulful photos not only transport her readers to the furthest reaches of the globe, they are a poetic sanctuary from hectic times. Please click HERE to vote for her (and scroll to the right to see the categories). Thank you.

*Note: Unfortunately, I don't have a recipe for the cioppino because Piero is an improvisateur and never writes anything down. But I'll ask him again....

W Magazine, Revisited

To my great delight, I've been asked to do another guest stint for W Magazine. The first post is up today and subsequent ones will run every Friday (there will be five in all).

Today's topic deals with organization or, as it's usually referred to in my house, "turning shambolic into sexy."

Click HERE and find out why my pick below will save you on those mornings when not even your hair is on your side.

I Blame it on Bonhams

My name is Lisa and I think I'm an auctionaholic.

Stage One: Exposure

It began last October when I met my friends Sherri and Kathy at Bonhams and Butterfields auction house for a preview sale. Walking into the venerated Sunset Boulevard building was exciting, but being surrounded by such gorgeous paintings, rugs, furniture and decorative arts sent my heartrate into overdrive. My whole life I had assumed I shouldn't ever set foot in those places because the prices would be ruinous, but I was dead wrong.

I became so alarmed by my unmufflered giddiness that I consciously refrained from placing any bids. There will be other auctions, I told myself. This is just a "research trip." (What, what, what was I thinking?)

This lovely Old Master-ish portrait called "Lady in Blue" would have looked wonderful in my foyer. Her serene gaze would have calmed me on crazy carpool mornings, I just know it.

(English school, 18th century, oil on canvas.

Sold for $610 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09.)

This full-lipped fellow would have added some fiery intensity to the upstairs hall. I'm a sucker for disheveled glamour, especially at that price.

(English school, 19th century, oil on canvas.

Sold for $366 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09.)

On my way out, I spotted this Napoleonic chaise from Hollywood at Home. I had been salivating over it for months in the shop. Why I didn't bid on it will haunt me to my dying day, considering it sold for a fraction of the retail cost.

(French campaign folding chaise lounge.

Sold for $793 inclusive of buyer's premium, 10/25/09)

Stage Two: Intoxication

This past weekend, there was another sale. This time, I went to the auction determined not to repeat my previous mistakes.

After receiving my paddle, I took a seat in the main gallery. The auctioneer took charge like a nobleman in combat, controlling the audience with a fierce elegance. Some items provoked intense paddle battles and sold for large sums, but other hammer prices were insanely -- and reassuringly -- low.

My friend Sherri had fallen in love with this Kathryn Ireland-ish set of antique chairs for her "imaginary house in Santa Barbara." I should have bought them for her as the price was imaginary as well.

(Four painted wood and rush armchairs.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyer's premium, 1/17/10.)

This stunning 19th century trunk went for a steal...

(English mahogany brass bound campaign trunk.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyers premium, 1/17/10.)

...as did this tole chandelier with a fabled Hollywood history -- it used to hang at Falconcrest, home of Rudolph Valentino.

(Large Rococo style painted tole chandelier.

Sold for $122 inclusive of buyer's premium, 1/17/10.)

These incredible bargains were killing me, but I whispered to myself, "Save your money for what you're here for."

At long last, my tall, curvy George IV style wingback chair on wheels came up for bid.

With a pre-sale estimate of $250-$350, I hoped it wouldn't go for too much more.

Auctioneer:

We've received a few telephone bids on this item, so we're starting the bidding at $350. Do I have $350?

Up went my lone paddle.

Auctioneer (glancing at me):

I have $350.

My Inner Voice:

This chair is so mine.

Auctioneer:

Do I have $400?

There was a pause and then -- I swear to you -- every paddle in the room shot up. Within moments, the bids were flying north of $600, $700, $800 and climbing. It was bedlam. I think my mouth must have fallen open. The hammer finally slammed down at $1600 ($1952 with the buyer's premium).

So here's why I think I'm addicted...

Because not winning the chair didn't even matter.

Just sitting there in the midst of all that auction action was crazy exciting. I loved knowing that at any moment I could thrust my paddle into the air and "be in the game." I knew there would be another chaise, another Old Master painting, another campaign chest. And I knew that victory would be all the sweeter if the price was right for my budget. So I would do my research, I would keep coming back and one day, I would win.

Stage Three: Obsession

There's an auction in San Francisco this weekend and I've done a little poring through the online catalog...

(Atttributed to John Greenhill, 1644-1676, London,

A portrait of a lady, oil on canvas, 36x28 in)

(Attributed to Henry Harlow, London 1787-1819,

oil on canvas, 30 x 25 in.)

(After Sir Thomas Lawrence, A Portrait of George IV,

oil on canvas laid down on board, 36 x 28in.)

And so it grows....