Can I Live Here Please?

One of the things I love most when I travel are the invitations I sometimes get to visit people's homes. On my recent lecture trip to Cincinnati, I was given that opportunity by the lovely and talented Deborah Ginocchio (I wrote about her HERE).

Deborah: I don't know what your schedule is like tomorrow, but if you have any free time, I'd love to have you over.

Me: What the heck YES!

And do you know what it means when I'm invited?

You're invited.

So top up your coffee and let's go.

(Editor's Note: A huge thanks to Deborah for allowing me photograph her rooms sans fluffing or styling. This is real life, gloriously and seductively imperfect.)

* * * * *

First impression: Don't you just love a house that instantly lets you know it welcomes all creatures great and small?

Here's a corner of the eat-in kitchen.

The colors and textures remind me of an Old Master painting. Note the rustic linen towel draped over the wooden school chair, the puddled curtains spilling onto the floor and the antique Jacobean style flame-stitched sofa in the background -- it all makes for a room crackling with warmth and character.

Next to the sink is a pottery bowl filled with time-honored cleaning instruments. The twig-like dishwashing brush is one I happen to own as well (both purchased from Ancient Industries HERE.)

I make a mental note to paint the wooden mullions in my bedroom black. There is an indefinable poetry that comes from gazing at the world through a dark-colored frame. Colors appear more kinetic. The mood intensifies.

My husband has big dreams of someday owning a house with a fireplace in the kitchen. This little hearth is big on style and adds a layer of wit to the gleaming appliances next to it.

Help me. I've wandered into the library and am trying to fight off the compulsion to sink down onto that sofa with a copy of "Moll Flanders." I especially love the rush matting on the floor, don't you? (Pottery Barn sells a similar one HERE.) The easy-going unaffected elegance of everything in this house just kills me. And does the profile on that dog look familiar?

Atop a vibrant chair I spot a Duncan Grant pillow made with fabric purchased from the Charleston House shop (available HERE), former home to the Bloomsbury Group. No wonder I feel so at home.

Every room is brimming with mementos and artifacts of a family life well-lived.

Wit abounds. In a corner, I accidentally interrupt three gentlemen deep in conversation.

An upstairs bedroom is home to a Directoire-inspired resting place, a much-loved collection of vintage textiles and a familiar furry sentinel. And just look at that light. It's ethereal. Vermeer would plotz.

Colorful linens piled on a table offer a glimpse into what dinner parties are like here.

When exploring a house, I always try to find one item that reflects, as nearly as possible, the personality of the home. It's the Miss Marple in me. With this little box, I think my search is over. It's Deborah's style distilled.

Last but not least, four feet times two.

Why Pack When You Can Procrastinate?

Oh, the best-laid plans.

I deliberately set aside today to figure out what Luca and I were going to pack for London and Marrakech. (Piero's already in Europe waiting for us.) Two radically different destinations, two distinct climates, two completely unrelated wardrobes.

(London, March 2009)

(Marrakech, April 2007)

No biggie. It was 9am. I had all day to figure it out. How long could it take?

(Note to the Judge: Let me state for the record, Your Honor, that everything started out according to schedule.)

The first few items flew into the suitcase with the rapidity of a meteor shower.

Plug adaptors, check.

Toiletries, check.

Reading material, check.

But then the territory became murkier.

Pink kurta and felted Edelweiss jacket?

Tartan skirt and vintage kaftan?

Down jacket and gold gladiator stilettos?

Wellies and sunscreen?

My head was beginning to hurt.

Wintry London and sultry Morocco?

What were we thinking?

I decided to take a break and focus on something of equal import, like the fact that my desk was in the midst of a massive styling crisis. I slid the bronze Thai hand slightly to the right and moved my new One Kings Lane candle on top of the Paul Smith notebook. Much better.

After that important decision, I set about making sure everything on my inspiration board was securely attached. Whew.

I had just begun to arrange the pens in my desk drawer by color and size (so vital!) when my elbow knocked this book onto the floor.

Leafing through it, I came to a full stop at the painting Duncan Grant did of James Strachey in 1910. The patterned rug, the low reading chair, the Japanese screen in the background and of course James himself sitting there looking like a young Colin Firth -- it felt so immediate.

I looked over at my iPhone. It was only 11am. Plenty of time to pack later. What I obviously needed to do right this minute was to challenge myself to create a modern interpretation of the painting.

I moved the little French chair into the office, dragged the rug over and grabbed a stack of books to fan out on the floor. Yes, this is clearly what I should be doing.

I sat there for a bit, legs lazily crossed, imagining myself in a Marlene Dietrich-inspired suit and crisp white shirt. I picked up the book on the little stool that just arrived yesterday via Amazon. "Bright Young People" by D.J. Taylor.

A few moments may have passed.

Suddenly, I realized I was hungry and that it was almost 1pm. I could hardly pack my suitcase on an empty stomach, could I? Plainly, the sensible thing to do would be to make myself a quick lunch.

The teapot looked so pretty that I couldn't not photograph it.

And then I felt obliged to take a picture of the woodpecker teapot too so he wouldn't feel slighted.

I knew things were getting slightly out of hand, but I couldn't help myself. I just kept taking pictures.

After the kitchen, I moved into the dining room...

...and the hall...

...and made my way through the rest of the house, recording more and more vignettes for posterity. At one point, I realized it was nearly 4:30, time to pick up Luca from school and buy fresh flowers for the couple who is housesitting for us.

Suffice it to say, it's now 11:47pm (past that, actually) and I'm writing this post and I'm still not packed.

But as soon as I finish writing this, I will. (Although I could just set the alarm and get up really early.)

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.

Stealing Beauty

Last Sunday morning we awoke with the birds, thanks to Bernardo, our gardener, who was tapping gently on our front door to remind us that it was tree-trimming day for our Pittosporum. Despite knowing it had to be done (the grass beneath it was performing the death scene from "Camille"), I had been postponing this moment for weeks as my aesthetic runs more to "overgrown Arcadia" than to the plucked, denuded look that always reminds me of a Brazilian wax job. 

Our beautiful Japanese magnolia, newly in flower, also needed a slight haircut to prevent it from forming too close an attachment to the wires. 

I didn't want one branch more than necessary to be lopped off so I stood vigil outside, sipping my latte and praying that the carnage would end quickly.

As Bernardo gathered the big bunches of foliage in his arms and began to haul them away, I suddenly realized that I had before me an amazing floral design opportunity.  Yes, my backyard Arcadia was a little less robust, but because of that, green anarchy could exist inside the Kenmore Arms today.

Using gesticulations and pidgeon Spanish to inform Bernardo of my plan, I relieved him of his bundle, donned my green wellies and went quickly to work.  I chose the lushest and shapeliest branches, trimmed them with my clippers and set about arranging them into vases. 

There are probably some people who will deem these 'poor man's bouquets', but I am drawn to their unadorned simplicity, their zen modesty and their guilelessness.  

In a way, they're a perfect example of wabi-sabi, the Japanese art of finding beauty in things imperfect, impermanent and incomplete. Wabi-sabi embraces the profundity of nature and its inevitable cycle of growth, decay and death.

Bernardo took especial care to hand the magnolia stems to me after snipping them in order to keep the blossoms in one piece.  I think they look quite pretty in the foyer -- they are a poetic echo of the wallpaper.

The table by the window accommodates arrangements nicely and these were no exception. It felt right to honor these branches which had provided our family with shade and flower for the past year.

Afterwards, I returned my wellies to the watchful gaze of our trusty house mole and went inside to enjoy my indoor arboretum.