La Vie Francaise

La belle France has been on my mind the last few days. I finally watched "Coco Before Chanel" on Netflix this past weekend, The Style Saloniste is visiting Paris right now and my friend Belinda Carlisle called me yesterday from New York in the middle of her press tour for her new memoir, Lips Unsealed.

Belinda has made her home in the South of France for the last 12 years and after my son Luca was born, I would take a solo trip every year to stay with her for a week and relax, unwind and catch up that most precious of commodities for a new mother: sleep.

(My guest room at Belinda's home, South of France)

I haven't been back there in about three years and I miss it. There is such a distinctive style to the French Riviera. Life there is so intimately connected with the outdoors, especially in summer, when the fertile seductiveness of the landscape and soft caresses of the sun bathe everything in an intoxicating charm. The word "langour" is derived from Old French, for obvious reasons. You just want to sit outside under an orange tree, feel the warm marine wind on your body and sip something iced and nectar-y.

(Belinda and me by her pool, circa 2004?

I had just arrived, hence my NYC pallor.)

Belinda and her husband and son have lived in a variety of houses in the South of France and now happily reside in the hills of Provence. Here's a photo I took of their downstairs salon on one of my trips there.

To me, it's a perfect example of Riviera Style. A massive sleigh daybed festooned with silk pillows anchors the center of the room and local flea market treasures rub shoulders with family heirlooms: the vintage hand-painted screen in the back (it's hard to see, but the style is very Ludwig Bemelsman), the Venetian mirror, the harp, and the wonderfully odd blue, green and white multi-lanterned lamp reveal Belinda's passion for color, history and the dolce vita lifestyle. Vivid pieces like the yellow armchair, the vintage 1950's painting overhead and all those jewel-toned pillows (silkscreened with the faces of French aristocrats) make it both personal and approachable.

In every house she lives in, there is always a leopard print somewhere (note the armchair). Her son James was about ten here and heading off to school; now he's a lovely and self-possessed 17 year old (and 6 feet tall!) and heading off to college in the fall.

(James Mason, 2003)

During my stays there, we would hike, explore local towns, spend a beachy afternoon at the Belles Rives Hotel at Juan-les-Pins, do some shopping...

(Belinda in the markets of Vieux Nice, 2007)

...and spend a lot of time discussing what we were going to eat. We would visit the local farmer's markets in the morning and stock up on all the incredible fruits and vegetables...

...and then go back home where Belinda would waltz around the kitchen, barefoot and braceleted, with Bird, her parrot, offering vociferous comments from his safe perch on her shoulder. Afterwards we'd sit at the table and chew over the usual subjects: friends, books, travel and trying to live a meaningful life.

(Belinda with Bird, her beloved parrot, and dog Bingo)

Even taking a trip to to the local Géant supermarket was fun: it's so enormous that the sales staff wear roller skates! I wish I had taken a picture of the cheese aisle -- it's the length of a football field. I will next time.

Belinda is an intrepid road warrior, so my visits usually included a girls' road trip somewhere. One year, we both became fascinated with the Knights Templar and went on a three day trip to Languedoc-Roussillon to explore a few of history's unsolved mysteries.

(Somewhere on the way to Carcassonne)

Okay, we also went to some fun parties. I took the photo below at Johnny Pigozzi's yearly luncheon during the Cannes Film Festival. We were all aflutter because Bono had just arrived. Even Belinda was moved to strike a pose.

(View from Cap d'Antibes)

But no stay chez Carlisle/Mason was complete without a trip to the most enchanting restaurant on earth, La Columbe d'Or.

Situated in the crazy charming medieval village of St. Paul de Vence...

(photo via here)

...La Columbe d'Or combines traditional gastronomy with a glamorous history, wonderful service and chic people-watching in one of the most romantic locales ever.

Every artist, movie star and luminary from the last sixty years has eaten here. It's also a small luxury hotel; in fact, Picasso and Matisse lived here for a time and settled their bills in paintings (that worked out well for the owners, as you can imagine). As a result of this barter agreement, the artwork everywhere is astounding.

(Simone Signoret and Yves Montand at the Columbe d'Or, via their website)

(Picasso at the Columbe d'Or, via their website)

I scanned a brochure from the restaurant to show you because the photographs do a wonderful job of capturing the magical feel of the place.

Last night, dipping into Dirk Bogarde's book of letters, "Ever Dirk", which has a permanent spot on my nightstand, I came across this memory of La Columbe d'Or. It says it all.

From a letter dated February 15, 1970:

Angela and Robin Fox [parents of English actors James and Edward Fox] came down to the Columbe d'Or with us...and at lunch on the terrace, the sun blazing, the mimosa great golden plumes, the almond blossom drifting in the soft wind...and the doves scattering in an arc of blue sky, Antonia said, "I think this is as near as I will ever get to Heaven." Which was rather nice.

Here we are, all dressed up and on our way to one of our dinners there.

(Belinda and yours truly)

(Morgan and James Mason)

Birth of a Home

This past weekend, while trying to edit down some of the 20,000 photos on my hard drive (which make my computer zip along at glacial speed), I stumbled across some photos of our house as it looked when we purchased it in 2008, and was slightly startled to see the extent of the transformation that's taken place.

In the predictable fashion of all home renovations, ours inched forward in fits, starts and the occasional halt and although it continued to slowly metamorphosize before our eyes, it wasn't until I compared the "before" and "after" shots that I really was able to see the change in character our house has undergone.

(Kitchen, before)

(Kitchen, after)

It's not so much about the design or the wallpaper or the furnishings we chose, but how the sum of our decisions seem to have brought the house to life.

(Dining room, mid-renovation)

It feels like a living, breathing organism now. It has a definite personality and I like who it's become.

(Dining room, after)

When we moved in, although in tip-top condition, it was suffering from a prolonged case of insecurity. It had wonderful bone structure, but it hadn't dressed up or worn a speck of makeup in years.

(Upstairs hall, before)

(Upstairs hall, after)

There's no reversing the aging process (and who wants to anyway?), but I knew that given a good makeover...

(Front hall, before)

(Front hall, after)

...this Monterey Colonial Revival could become a confident, sexy English Auntie Mame.

(Living room, before, with a startled Piero)

(Living room, after)

I swear it's made a difference to the soul of the house. It's a happy place now. Like an eccentric maiden aunt, it's staunch, dependable and prone to occasional flights of fancy. Best of all, after a year of reparations, we've established a reservoir of mutual trust with each other: in return for our pledge to treat it with love and respect, it has become the protectorate of our hopes and dreams.

In The Footsteps of Dame Helen

(Photograph by Lord Snowden for Vanity Fair)

On Sunday I had the pleasure of attending an intimate lunch at Helen Mirren's estate in the hills of Old Hollywood. She wasn't there. Two good friends of ours have been leasing her house for the last year and, on the cusp of their departure to the East Coast for an end-of-summer idyll, had a few friends over to enjoy the afternoon.

I can offer no photos of the house or of my hosts as they treasure their privacy, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if I try to paint in words some of the images emblazoned in my head.

The house sits in the midst of what must be acres of land. You pass through a series of impressive security gates into an endlessly long and curving drive and become momentarily disoriented: the city falls away and you could swear you've suddenly been transported to Antibes or Juans-les-Pins. Luca, of course, was agog at the lushness of the landscape. He asked if it was the LA Zoo.

After a winding climb, we passed a 19th century hunting lodge on the grounds and parked in front of the main house, which is large and honey-colored with wooden shutters painted dark teal. Built in the early 1900's, it has the Jazz Age elegance of the grand villas in the south of France. The front door was open and we walked into a cool dark entry hall with ebony stained floors and white walls. A wrought-iron balustrade gracefully wrapped its way up to the second floor. As my friends are in the process of moving to another permanent home, most of the furniture had already been removed and the rooms were bare except for a few pieces of Helen's carefully tucked into corners. In the grand salon-cum-living room, a framed portrait of her hung on the wall, her eyes imperturbably fixed on the jetliner views of Hollywood. 

A simple, delicious buffet was laid out for us by the house staff on a long center table in the living room. We loaded up our plates and ate alfresco in the shade of the stone terrace under a small grove of trees. Far below us, the vague lilac mass of the city vibrated and rumbled. Dogs and children roamed freely about, babies napped and occasionally, a nanny's voice could be heard corralling her charges. After lunch, platters of fresh berries, butterscotch brownies and homemade tarte tatins were offered round. Luca was in absolute heaven.

We spent the afternoon there in total contentment, as you can imagine. I tried to imprint the loveliness of the house on my brain as it was the last time I'll probably ever go there (my friends are moving out imminently). If you don't know Los Angeles, it may sound surprising that houses like this still exist here...but they do. There are hundreds and hundreds of them, architectural grande dames that bore witness to the Golden Age of Hollywood and now have become historical landmarks in their own right. It's part of why I fell in love with this town; the glamour of years gone by is still such an indelible part of daily life here.

My Top Five Old Hollywood Haunts...

1 .  Chateau Marmont Hotel and Restaurant, opened in 1927

2. Musso and Frank Grill, opened in 1919

3. Beverly Hills Hotel, opened in 1912

4. Tower Bar, opened in 1931

5. Pacific Dining Car, opened in 1921

Order + Disorder = Charm

My husband just returned from a business trip to London and took this photo of his hotel room at the Kensington Gore.  I love it.  The rumpled cushions, the golden afternoon light, the detritus on the table, it perfectly illustrates my new theory of "order plus disorder equals charm."

Too perfect is beyond boring.  You know how a certain glossy interiors magazine features endless spreads of million dollar rooms, usually bloomless and overlit, where you could swear no bawdy joke has ever reverberated, no mud has ever been tracked across the threshold and (perish the thought) no meal has ever been cooked?  I'm SO over it. Perfection is the most overrated quality in existence.  It's soulless.  Personality comes from quirks.  Houses with charm have scuff marks on the floor, rumpled cushions, unironed napkins and flowers that are just a bit wilty.  They're charming not in spite of their disorder, but because of it.  There's nothing as off-putting as a spotless house to make a guest feel ill at ease.  "Where do I put the drink?  Do I need a coaster?  Where can I sit?" he or she wonders.  Who wants to make someone feel like that?  They'd be much more comfortable scooching a pillow to the side and plopping down on your couch while you trundle off to open a bottle of Prosecco.