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.

Tattered Love

On a few occasions, I have been privileged to vacation in homes which have been standing for centuries and which richly reflect the patina of their years. One of them, in a little village near Stirling, Scotland, I've rented with friends three times. Even now, I am saving my pennies to get back there for yet another stay.

What is it about this house? It haunts me in the same way that Ashcombe haunted Cecil Beaton and Brideshead possessed Charles Ryder. Standing tall in the middle of a great swath of open countryside, it presents a forbidding facade to approaching visitors.

Once inside, however, the interiors are more welcoming, much like a crusty old uncle with a nougaty center. Colorful rugs lay across sloping floorboards and the walls are brightly painted in an effort to soften the brittle rays of the cold Scottish sun.

The front entry is painted the color of sunshine itself. And everywhere, in every room, those rugs. Tattered, worn, threadbare and absolutely perfect.

In a house this large, some rooms can't help being held captive to a gloomy northern exposure. But there's always a design remedy. Here, the library rug acts as the visual equivalent of a fireplace, giving the room a vibrant heart and warming up the entire space.

No corridor is deemed too unimportant for a precious remnant.

This is just a long way of saying that last weekend I bought two small area rugs for my house. It's been fiercely hot here in Hollywood and my remedy for coping with heat is to resolutely ignore it. I consequently decided that since I couldn't go to Scotland for some cold comfort, Scotland would come to me.

Here's the first one. I love it not in spite of its condition, but because of it.

You can tell from the photo that it's seen better days. In fact, it's just a piece of an old runner, but I don't mind. It's my own piece of history, over 100 years old, and bearing the ghostly markings of all the feet which have trodden upon it.

The second rug is pictured below. Again, it's faded, slightly threadbare and worn in just the right places.

(Yes, I realize there's a cat in the center of the frame. Fellini was insistent on having his portrait taken, and it felt churlish to refuse him.)

Until the temperatures drop (which will probably happen sometime around October), I'll be confining my reading material to novels set in bitter, inclement climes, and drinking copious pots of hot tea in a supreme effort to convince myself that it's not actually 98 degrees outside.

When the heat's on, one does what one must to survive.

Looking for Hobbits

I'm so envious of the joyous abandon that children have when they run.  They race for the pure thrill of it and for no other reason than because they can.  Me?  I can barely muster up the energy to go out for a jog anymore.  When I do, I move at a turtle's pace, anticipating every ache and twinge, my face a grim mask of determination.  I'm so NOT in the moment.  Maybe if I stopped counting the minutes and the calories and just chased my son to the nearest tree, I'd discover it's not too late to enjoy a simple pleasure.  (Then again, maybe not.)

Mental reminder after looking at these pictures:  Cleanliness may be next to godliness, but griminess is definitely the next best thing to heaven.

(Photo credits:  Gargunnock, Scotland, August 2007)