The Biannual Task

I love living in an old house, but I have to admit that there are a few inconveniences, one of which is the decided lack of closet space. This necessitates a twice yearly ritual that I both look forward to and dread in equal measures. The switching of the closets. You see, I keep the current season’s wardrobe in my main closet and the other season in another. So twice a year, sometime during the first real week during which I can feel the change in the weather, I switch them around. Inevitably this results in the unearthing of garments I’d forgotten, so I spend the day trying everything on, discarding some things and rediscovering others. It’s best to do this on a free day, nothing pending and no distractions, which is why I chose the task for this week when the Songwriter was out of town. The chosen day dawned cool and crisp and, after breakfast, I began. I turned Billie Holliday up to a pleasing level, poured myself some really good coffee, opened the windows so the early autumn breezes could blow through and soon, as happens every time, I found myself clad in the most outrageous combinations of various and sundry ensembles .
“Oh, there’s that vintage dress that I love! .... Ooh, those velvet trousers are so very Emma Peel!..... I wonder if those ancient riding boots still fit?...... Look Edward, a Muff! ..... Well gee, I didn’t realize I owned a tam o’shanter!
Soon I am wearing all of these at once, which is a sartorial risk best left to the professionals. But really, it’s so much fun. Music up loud, dogs running in and out, and me in my own private changing room of my own private store where everything is free. It's a bit of a chore, sure, but a wonderful way to see one's seasonal wardrobe in a new light. And the best part is, at the end of the day, I have a perfectly clean, bright, folded and sorted closet and I’m all set for the brand new weather!
Now, could anyone out there use a Tam o'shanter?

A Wee Bit Of Happiness

All throughout my life I have occasionally experienced a feeling I could only describe as a rush of unexpected happiness. Driving down the road, walking Edward, or just drifting along a crowded street, devoid of thought, it comes over me like a sea breeze, and I suddenly feel ...happy. I used to analyze it. What specifically am I happy about? Why did this feeling show itself at this particular moment? Did I do, or think, something to conjure it? No more. Now I just close my eyes, take a breath, and drink it in. I have learned to accept it as a gift. A blessing. Perhaps a brush of an angel’s wing. Or God’s own gaze turned my way.

The colors of September always entice me into my poetry books and I recognized a bit of this happy feeling I have attempted to describe here within the verses of this picturesque poem by Raymond Carver.

Happiness

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Nocturnal

There are times, and oh, this is one of them, when my schedule has become just a little later with each passing day, minute by minute, more and more nocturnal, until eventually I find myself keeping the hours of a raccoon. Never really being a morning person, I have often found I get a real boost of creativity when the sun goes to bed. If that second inspirational wind chances to blow in my door around ten in the evening, then I can stay up till all hours of the night, happy as a clam, working away at whatever project currently has my attention. To be certain, there are less distractions to be found inside the darkness, no jangling telephones, no harsh raps on my door, but it’s something more than that. I just love the nighttime. The soft curiosity of the moon’s light as he peeks in my window, traversing my table, offering his gentle help with my task. His sunny sister is often so assertive as to require a pulled curtain or two during the day, but the moonlight is always a welcome helpmate. Taking a break, I glance outside at the darkened magnolia tree knowing that it shelters scores of mauve grey doves as they sleep with their peaceful, perfect heads tucked safely in the stillness of their wings. I listen to the old ebony clock by the fireplace, like the steady, sweet heartbeat of the quiet house, and I feel blessed in my work. This would not be a problem if the rest of the world saw fit to follow my lead on these revised hours of operation. However, I have found that this is simply not the case. I am supposed to be up and at it each morning with the rest of the early risers. This of course pleases Edward immensely as it usually means I will need some sort of a naptime in the afternoon, which is his idea of pure sybaritic bliss.
I will gradually wean myself off of this schedule to better fit in with the rest of the workaday world, but for now... I am pleased to say,
it’s just me and the hoot owls.

Not to sleep
A Poem by Robert Graves

Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
Counting no sheep and careless of chimes
Welcoming the dawn confabulation
Of birds, her children, who discuss idly
Fanciful details of the promised coming -
Will she be wearing red, or russet, or blue,
Or pure white? - whatever she wears, glorious:
Not to sleep all the night long, for pure joy,
This is given to few but at last to me,
So that when I laugh and stretch and leap from bed
I shall glide downstairs, my feet brushing the carpet
In courtesy to civilized progression,
Though, did I wish, I could soar through the open window
And perch on a branch above, acceptable ally
Of the birds still alert, grumbling gently together.

Friends

It doesn’t always work out this way but, for me, growing up as an only child was a lovely experience, and one which warmly nurtured my inchoate, but burgeoning, creativity. I never had one imaginary friend. I had lots of them. My imagination was populated with all sorts of characters, some from storybooks, some from movies, some legendary figures known to frequent childhood imaginations for centuries, but most totally original. Gleaming elves and glaring ogres, brave knights, wise wizards, recalcitrant fairies, exuberant dwarves, leafy tree people and sparkly water sprites, scores upon scores of talkative animals. Angels? Possibly. Some peeked in my window in the mornings, some accompanied me to school, a few of the less gregarious types resided in my clothes closet, but most waited for me outside under the trees. In all seasons of the year, my dog and I could be found roaming the woods around our house, me bundled up to the eyeballs in winter, often barefoot in summer, and that’s where the more fascinating individuals of my imagination usually made their appearances. These friends taught me to trust that imagination, helped me to see it as a priceless resource unique to me alone, a storeroom of ideas only I could unlatch, anytime I desired, and for the rest of my life. Perhaps if I had not had a treasured dog to confide in, I would have acquired one single, special imaginary friend instead of many. But I loved the ones I had.
And if I’m quick, I can still sometimes catch them grinning in at my window on an early morning, just as the curtain opens.

Aunt Leaf
by Mary Oliver

Needing one, I invented her - - -
the great-great-aunt dark as hickory
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting-Cloud
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.

Dear aunt, I'd call into the leaves,
and she'd rise up, like an old log in a pool,
and whisper in a language only the two of us knew
the word that meant follow,

and we'd travel
cheerful as birds
out of the dusty town and into the trees
where she would change us both into something quicker - - -
two foxes with black feet,
two snakes green as ribbons,
two shimmering fish - - - and all day we'd travel.

At day's end she'd leave me back at my own door
with the rest of my family,
who were kind, but solid as wood
and rarely wandered. While she,
old twist of feathers and birch bark,
would walk in circles wide as rain and then
float back

scattering the rags of twilight
on fluttering moth wings;

or she'd slouch from the barn like a gray opossum;

or she'd hang in the milky moonlight
burning like a medallion,

this bone dream, this friend I had to have,
this old woman made out of leaves.

Painting above by Edmond Aman-Jean

Ah, Etro

“Fashion is not something that exists in dresses only. Fashion is in the sky, in the street, fashion has to do with ideas, the way we live, what is happening.”
Coco Chanel

In the movie from last summer, The Devil Wears Prada, Meryl Streep’s imperious character, Miranda Priestly, delivers a snarkily brilliant speech that serves to trace the flow of design from the well-spring of originality to the trickle down of commonality. To most interior designers, Ms. Priestly was preaching to the choir. We learned long ago to view runway models of each new fashion season as lithe and fluid fortune tellers, for surely the fabrics, colors and moods they unveil may very well show up as new choices for homes as well as haberdashery. Often, this is a very fortunate thing indeed.

Recently, in the clothing world, it seems I’ve often felt presented with one of two choices. Either dress like Britney, or dress like Barbara Bush. Neither has held much appeal for me. However, while cutting through Neiman Marcus on my way to get my hair trimmed and tamed last week, I was stopped cold by the new fall clothes of the Italian design house, Etro. Such resplendent fabrics, such gorgeous lines, they were a pleasure to see. As the price tags were a tad prohibitive, I chose to view them as though I were on a museum prowl, instead of a shopping spree. It seemed to help quench desire just a bit and some of the Etro creations could certainly stand up to the recharacterization. Such a mood was created with these beautiful frocks, they all whispered autumn in such delicate, atmospheric tones. As usual, I could also see the glorious rooms they could well inspire, so that eventually I wasn’t sure whether I’d want to wear them or upholster a chair with them. Perhaps these clothes signal a renaissance of exquisite, creative sartorial choices for my future, as well as enticing new designs for our homes.
Something to look forward to.

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”
J. R. R. Tolkien

For anyone with an artistic bent and assiduous observational skills, inspiration can be found just about anywhere. For myself, if I have no pressing commitments, there is hardly a better place to spend an hour or two than in the farmer’s market. Approached with passion, cooking can be an art that affords its creator a quite tasty, tempting freedom of expression while at the same time catering to the epicurean delight of others. And if one has the luxury of time and can approach a meal, a dinner party, or even just a new, more adventurous recipe as one would approach a painting, a poem or some other sort of creative endeavor, then the farmer’s market is a living, breathing palette of color, texture and taste.
I am never happier than when in my kitchen, with breezy open windows, good music playing, and dogs dozing on the floor while I fashion tantalizing concoctions like a benevolent enchantress with a wooden spoon for a wand and a floral apron for a star-laden robe. I have always felt that culinary spells and potions are best brewed at this time of the year, which is just another of the myriad of reasons I am so delighted that autumn is here. Fresh apple pies cooling by the window, the entire house redolent with the fragrance of one of James Beard’s best breads, plump chickens roasting with vegetables and wine, the aromatic mingling of flavors in a long simmering soup, all these are joys of the fall season. And the farmer’s market is the autumnal cook’s equivalent to the artist’s most fantastical supply store.
Take my advice, on a perfectly clear, perfectly cool upcoming day, point yourself towards your nearest and best market. Take your time, don’t rush, meander through. Enjoy the infinite variety of pleasures available to the senses. The prismatic aubergine hues of an eggplant, the craggy touch of a fresh brown coconut, the warm perfume of exotic coffee beans - a synthesis of inspiration for delicious tastes to create, and to savor.
And don’t even get me started on the fat orange pumpkins and the sunflowers!

Painting above: The Vegetable Stall by Thomas Heaphy

Edward In His Favorite Chair

Home

When we brought Edward home, almost four years ago now, he sighed a big sigh, and fell fast asleep in front of the fire. As it was just a few days before Christmas, naturally there were lots of errands to run, lots of gifts to deliver, and we took him with us on each little outing. For a few days, every time we put him in the car, his spirits plummeted. I could see him, through the rear view mirror, head drooping, eyes lowered - he looked like he didn’t have a friend in the world. Pulling back into our drive after holiday rounds were done, a remarkable transformation took place in Edward. Smiling his big smile, dancing on his new leash, he could hardly contain his happiness. He would run up the front steps and bounce around at the door waiting to be let in with such happy anticipation. Finally, I understood. With each errand we ran, he thought it was another trip to another home. He’d been on the streets for a while, and shuttled around a good bit after being rescued by the shelter. He was overjoyed when he realized he wasn’t being taken away again, but was coming back to the same place, his place, the place he wanted so badly to call home. Well of course, it broke my heart right into when I realized what was going on.

Home. Just four letters, but such an abundant word that encompasses so much. A place, a feeling, a concept, an idea of belonging. Upon entering the home of a new client for the first time, I often ask them this question, “where do you put the Christmas tree?” An unexpected inquiry, and one that leads them to talk about their house in a different way. Not just as a series of functional rooms, but as a vital part of who they are, a tangible translation of their personalities, their dreams, what they value in life. Anyone can live in a pretty house, but the real joy comes from living in a home that is truly you. Your sanctuary, your haven, your home. A place where one is truly oneself, where the door can literally be closed to the outside world with its clamor and discord.

As Edward now chooses which of his favorite spots to nap when he’s sleepy, gets a drink of water from his own china bowl when he’s thirsty, or hops up in his favorite chair to while away an afternoon, he is at home, and he knows it. His home. His place of belonging. The street outside seems so far away from in here.
It’s a nice feeling, for both of us.

“There is a magic in that little world, home; it is a mystic circle that surrounds comforts and virtues never known beyond its hallowed limits”
Robert Southey

The First of September

A wisp of a warm wind slips through an open window, mischievously lifts a page of the calendar that rests on the uncluttered desk. The page rises, flutters for a moment then falls. And just like that, it’s the first of September. September, the glorious month given the honor of holding open the door for the entrance of autumn, when clear, cloudless skies bequeath infinite possibilities and crisp, chilly nights bestow storybook memories. I fell in love in the autumn, planned my winter wedding in the autumn. And each year, every year, when September dawns once again, those magic feelings of first and forever love return, crystalline and true.
I fall in love all over again.

"The true beloveds of this world are, in their lover's eyes,
lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child's Sunday, lost voices, one's favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory."
Truman Capote

The Princess

This week, no doubt, a lot of people around the world will remember this lovely lady. I shall be one of them. On the day of her wedding I, like so many others, got up in the middle of the night and sat with my tea and toast to watch the splendor unfold in real time. Newly married myself, the pageantry seemed to me the very essence of fairy tale romance. When I travelled to London for the first time, only six weeks later, the old city still wore the wedding banners and congratulatory signs in its shop windows. In those early halcyon days, no one knew or could have even conceived that her fairy tale was doomed from the beginning. So well I remember that last weekend of August eleven years ago, coming in from a late dinner with friends and standing transfixed in the face of those dreadful words marching cruelly across the television screen announcing to the world, with a horrible, terse finality, that she was gone.
Much has been written and discussed about the feelings expressed during that last painfully sad week, concerning the nature of celebrity, the authenticity of collective mourning, and the stratospheric price of fame. I’ll gladly leave all that to the pundits. No one can dismiss the fact that this was a woman who brought joy into people’s lives, through her spirit, her kindness and yes, her beauty. And as her brother so eloquently stated in his eulogy on that sunny, sorrowful September day, she was taken at her most beautiful. A bright light forever frozen in a shining, bittersweet moment in time.
In her cloudless climes and starry skies, may she rest in peace.

And Then The Rain Came

It came hurtling down, pounding the roof with a purpose, as if determined to erase the long drought in one afternoon. The birds took refuge in the generous magnolia tree, grateful for its leafy harbor, peering out through the fat emerald leaves at the torrent with curiosity, knowing that this was not a rain for splashing about in puddles. This was a rain for hiding away, watching from a safe distance. This was a serious, straight down rain, with worried skies and somber stillness. Even the thunder knew to hold his tongue, the lightning to still her fire. This was the rain’s performance, he ruled the day. On and on it came, as if from the depths of some unfathomable, vast lake high up behind the clouds, a cosmic lake whose dam had burst with its unending supply seemingly set to fall unhindered and relentless on our little garden alone, turning the stone pathways into rivers and bending the fir trees into submission to its drowned and infinite power. We listened, Edward and I, from our cozy spots with our good books and dry feet, cloistered within our softly lit sanctuary, as it poured on into the night, past tea time, past suppertime, past bedtime. We snuggled down a little deeper and were beholden, once again, to the stalwart bricks and mortar, the steadfast stone and wood standing strong and brave around us against the turbulent niagara outside our door. We said a prayer for those not so fortunate as we, and we slept.

Painting above:
"Rain, August in the Lake District 1898"
by Beatrix Potter

Gratitude

It’s happened twice this week. On our evening walk, just as the heavy day was sleepily handing itself over to the soft golden night, on the wind, we could hear them coming. Far off yet, but distinct, the strange, celestial sound of the geese. Getting closer, ever closer, until the leader topped the tallest trees followed by the entire glorious flock in flawless formation, calling lustily to each other with glee. Transfixed by the sight and the sound of them, Edward and I stopped to gaze upward. Edward’s brown eyes watched them fly, appearing to silently recognize a holy affiliation with these wondrous creatures at which I, clad in my wardrobe of human imperfection, could only guess. Not for the first time, I marveled at how truly little we know, how small we really are, and how dark indeed is the glass through which we see. The beautiful mystery that is all around us, seen and unseen, must be infinite.

Edward looked up at me and smiled. We walked on. I felt only gratitude.

“....Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

by Mary Oliver from her poem “Wild Geese”

Little Girls and Horses

What is it about little girls and horses? I had a meeting today with a good friend of mine who spends every spare moment of her time just as she has since she was old enough to walk.... with her horse. Oh, the horses have changed over the years, with names such as Wookie and Dixie Dan, Mr. Mischief and Drumbuie. But, her devotion to each and every one that has cantered through her life has remained complete. They are pictured on her Christmas cards, she is most comfortable with a riding helmet on her head, and her cell phone rings with a whinny. The current love of her life is Walter, a magnificent Hanoverian bay with a white blaze down his noble face and a flowing black mane. He looks for all the world as though he trotted straight off of a Ralph Lauren ad in an October issue of British Vogue. I’ve gone to see her ride at dressage clinics and been transported by the evocative smells of fresh air and horses, sweet hay and polished leather back to my own time as a horse crazy little girl. I do understand the attraction. Growing up, while my other little friends were busy with ballet lessons, I was at riding lessons. I adored my time spent in the saddle. My passion for horses remained, but my devotion to riding became too difficult to maintain so it was placed aside for other more ardent passions and pursuits. My loss, no doubt.

It is such a exceptional thing when one’s childhood passions follow one throughout life. My husband knew what he wanted to do with his whole life from that one visceral moment on a Sunday evening when he was a child and saw The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show for the very first time. No questions, no doubts. It would be music for him. He has been a songwriter and musician his entire life. Such a remarkable, happy achievement. At reunions, I see the wistful looks of the people with whom he grew up when they find out he has been successful in realizing his childhood dreams. I know it’s a rare and precious thing to be allowed to do what you love every day of your life, to truly live out your dreams. It just doesn’t happen that frequently. Dreams must be tended and sometimes sacrifices must be made to tend them well.
I have such admiration for both my friend, and my husband, for they have indeed tended their dreams so well throughout their lives.
Little girls and horses, little boys and guitars.
For some, some things thankfully never change.

The above etching is by Louis Icart and is aptly entitled “Youth”.
It hangs in my home as a happy reminder of one of my own youthful passions.

"I am so honored"
Edward

I was so tickled to receive this beautiful likeness of Edward done by
Patricia van Essche of PVE Design. Doesn't he look handsome?
Thank you so much, Patricia. You made our day!

“I have been a mental traveler”
Isak Dinesen

One of my wishes as a little girl was to sleep in a canopied bed, a wish that was granted after my husband and I built onto our magical cottage two years after we married. He found our bed, a dark wood jewel of a creation with exquisite wooden spider-web fretwork all around and a paneled back just made for leaning against with a fine book on a dark and stormy night. It is draped in a faded floral linen lined with mossy green and it makes me feel like a fairy princess each night when I crawl inside its feathery arms. However, when I do go to bed at night, I don’t always stay put. Sometimes my mind takes me to other favorite bedrooms in which I have been fortunate to sleep, and dream, while on my travels.

If it’s summertime, I may drift off to my favorite beach bedroom, with its wide wooden floors and the lace curtains that billow out from the three tall, open windows, where the sound of the sea is my lullaby. When the moon is full I can lie in this room and drift away to sleep while gazing at a moonlit golden pathway leading out to sea, and beyond. Or perhaps I will choose that fairy tale tower room in the northwest of England, high up in the old manor house, with the casement window that opens out onto the green hills, dotted with sheep, that roll down, down to the misty blue lake. Oh, I do love that room. I have slept there during a howling gale when rain lashed the window like artillery, and then again on crystal clear nights when I could open that old window and look up to see the entire Milky Way shimmering back at me like diamonds in the sky.

That’s the fascinating and valuable thing about travel. The memories are always in your head to call up whenever you choose. Which is, I think, what William Wordsworth, with whom I share a birthday, was thinking about when he wrote of “the bliss of solitude”. Travel gifts me with lovely memories of lovely places and later when I am home once more, I have only to close my eyes and return anywhere my heart desires. And, of course, a wonderful thing about this sort of bedtime mental travel? Edward can sleep at the foot of any bed I choose!

In A New Light

It was subtle, but it was there. Walking past the dining room windows one morning this past weekend, I saw it. Unmistakable. A change in the light. Sharper, clearer, the sun came through the lace in a different way. Not the languid, hazy summer sun that usually drapes the house in August. But the brilliant, incandescent light of autumn. Trying to make it stay, I opened all the windows so the blessed wind could race through the house, from my office in the back where the birds were happily feasting on their breakfast at the blue glass feeder, all the way down the main hallway, through the coffee fragrant kitchen, past the unmade bed, and out past the vases of lilies in the library. It was glorious. Oh, do not question, it is coming! Fall. Cinderella pumpkins and witches hats. Crisp apples and cold mornings. Long and longer walks in the wind. Warm furry dogs on my feet by the fire. Yes, it’s on the way. Already one can see the unscuffed little shoes standing at the bus stops on their way once more to school.

I have always felt that the powers that be made a dreadful mistake when they declared January as the start of a new year. Oh, it should be September, shouldn’t it? Forever, that has seemed the month of new beginnings to me. My heart beats a happier rhythm whenever I see the rows of new school supplies lining store shelves. All those unwritten pages, all those still-sharp pencils. All those fresh starts.

Oh, I know there’s yet a bit of summer left. I will experience a few more heavy, humid days. But, I cannot be fooled. It’s coming. Just like in Mary Poppins, one morning, very soon, the wind will change. It will blow the weathervane around to a completely different direction and I will rise to a luminous, unspoiled beginning, with new roads to take, new pages to turn. In preparation, I’m off to buy a sparkling handfull of brand-new colored pencils.


Begin
by Brendan Kennelly.

Begin again to the summoning birds
to the sight of light at the window,
begin to the roar of morning traffic
all along Pembroke Road.
Every beginning is a promise
born in light and dying in dark
determination and exaltation of springtime
flowering the way to work.
Begin to the pageant of queuing girls
the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal
bridges linking the past and the future
old friends passing though with us still.
Begin to the loneliness that cannot end
since it perhaps is what makes us begin,
begin to wonder at unknown faces
at crying birds in the sudden rain
at branches stark in the willing sunlight
at seagulls foraging for bread
at couples sharing a sunny secret
alone together while making good.
Though we live in a world that dreams of ending
that always seems about to give in
something that will not acknowledge conclusion
insists that we forever begin.

Painting above : Autumn Light by Martin Decent

Lyoobov by Rima Staines

Talent Abounds

Since I started this little blog adventure, I have frequently been amazed at all the talent out there in the air. I’ve loved seeing Gretel Parker's charming illustrations and delightful toy creatures over at Middle of Nowhere and I visit there regularly to be inspired by her latest creations. Sandra’s artworks found at her blog Sandra Evertson are wonderful,
Patricia van Essche's illustrations at PVE Design are so lovely and Constance Muller at Rochambeau makes the most exquisite things.

Occasionally I meet someone that, like the above artists I’ve mentioned, I feel compelled to share. I am a trifle late to the party, as some of you already know about her, but I simply could not resist featuring Rima Staines and her captivatingly original artwork . Rima can be found at
The Hermitage and you owe it to yourself to pay her a visit. Rarely, an artist lives their work in such a way as to erase away any distinction between artist and art. I feel Rima is such a person and it is such a privilege for me to be allowed, through her magically imaginative blog, just a teeny glimpse into the world that she inhabits. Through her wonderful writings and photos of her work I understand a little more about the demands and the joys of the creative process. And of course, Rima dwells in Scotland which is, to me, the most enchanted place on the planet. She recently began fashioning beautiful, bewitching clocks that are truly a delight for the senses and, with the holidays closer than we think, I can imagine no better Christmas gift than one of Rima’s creations. Wander around her site and see if you don’t agree.

Too Many Hats

Stress. If you’re human, you have some. But how do we know when we’ve got too much of it? By way of personal example, here’s a clue. Once after leaving a home that I was working on, I was driving down the road with my mind a crowded muddle when I suddenly had this panicky feeling that I had misplaced an important item. I called my painter back at the house in progress and asked him, probably a bit shrilly....

”Did I leave my car keys anywhere around there??”.
He responded, all too calmly I thought, with a rather amused, “Pamela, where are you?”
“Well, I’m about a mile down the road, although I don’t see why that matters”.
Again, oozing serenity, which was really irritating me no end.....”Are you driving?’
“Well, I’m not on my broom, if that’s what you mean, of course, I'm driving...uh, I'm drive....ing, oh, gee...never mind."

Sigh. Too much stress. When one is worried that one has left one’s car keys behind, and one is driving down the road at the time, one can safely bet one is under just a wee bit of stress.

My painter proceeded to tell me that, in his opinion, I was wearing too many hats at the moment and that perhaps I should remove one or two for the evening. How right he was, and is. In my closet, figuratively speaking, there’s the business woman hat - most likely some sort of chic hunter green fedora, perhaps with a feather in the brim. There’s the artist hat - a chartreuse beret, no doubt. The wife and doggie-mother hat - which is, oh, something akin to a wizard’s hat, soft and bejeweled, with embroidered stars, a pom-pom and the magical ability to light up unexpectedly. The running of the household hat - more like a helmet really, bright silver, only slightly tarnished. The appealingly horned Brunhilde hat, straight out of Wagner, just the thing for facing down recalcitrant clients and wearisome workmen. Then there’s the sun hat for gardening, the chef’s hat for cooking, the visor for running,... you get the idea. I know full well, when I attempt to wear all these at once, I’ve got to look a sight. It’s a balancing act that’s hard to maintain. That’s why, after these recent days when so many ideas have been banging round through my mind like bumper cars, and because like all good boys, Edward has had his prayers for cooler weather answered, I am taking off some of these blasted hats for the entire weekend.

Nothing but that wizard hat till Monday. It’s my favorite one anyway.

"I don't like it when it's hot.
When is summer over?"

Edward

Enigmatic Inspiration

A guest visited my home for the first time last week and as she wandered around she suddenly stopped, turned to me and asked, “where on earth do you get your ideas?”. Her question brought me up rather short. Where DO I find ideas? Where exactly do ideas come from? This set me to pondering that most elusive of enigmas... inspiration.

Everyone knows the old chestnut about creativity being one part inspiration and nine parts perspiration, and I suppose that is somewhat true. I would certainly never negate the necessity of that ninety percent. But, how about the mysterious ten percent? Obviously, minus the idea, all the perspiration in the world will not create a work of art. For all that I do not know about inspiration, there is one thing I do know. One cannot demand its appearance. No scrunching up the face, stamping the foot, and commanding it to materialize. It wafts in the window when one is not waiting for it. Open eyes, open mind, and open heart seem to help, however. Over the years I’ve learned that the excitement of starting a new project for a client lies partly in the knowledge that, at the outset, I am completely oblivious to just what will be the inspiration for this new creation. Will it be a lovely piece of fabric, an evocative painting, the color of the setting sunlight as it slowly slides down the bedroom wall, the varied shades of garnet worn by a tree seen from the study window in autumn? I have often thought how lovely a room would be done all in the champagne colors of Edward’s glossy fur. Soft whites, taupes, warm browns... I can just see it. There will always be a jumping off point for each new project, but it will be a hidden secret awaiting my discovery. That’s what makes it fun.

There is currently a buzz in the air around the new movie Mamma Mia. Understandably, people seem to be besotted with the sun-drenched Grecian setting. The whitewashed walls, pure sea blues, and happy bright colors will no doubt all be catalysts for innovative rooms and fashions in the months to come. Art direction in film is often so gorgeously inventive and can be a wondrous addition to the bubbling cauldron of one’s ideas. I once designed a favorite dining room for a client only to discover when I finished that its concept had obviously been born when I saw the dining room in the film, Gosford Park, the colors were so similar. From the Griffindor common room at Hogwarts to the boreal ice palace in Dr. Zhivago, film feeds the artistic imagination. And for me, other exceptional wonder boxes of inspiration are the atmospheric old inns in which I love to stay when on holiday . I never know when a notion I’ve unconsciously tucked away while rambling around one of these magnificent places will suddenly swim to the forefront of my mind just when it needs to. And books, of course, offer a marvelous well from which to draw, providing technicolor mental pictures that are unique to each reader. Pure inspiration.

Considering my visitor’s question eventually led me to believe that I know of no firm answer. Inspiration, ideas, visions, are like fireflies. They are out there, in the night, one catches a glimpse every now and then. But they make themselves seen in their own good time. I just keep my eyes open, for like the astonished lady in the Arthur Rackham painting above, I never know when the next door I prise open may release true magic.

The House of Edward in High Summer

"Our house was not insentient matter - it had a heart and a soul, and eyes to see with; and approvals and solicitudes and deep sympathies; it was of us, and we were in its confidence and lived in its grace and in the peace of its benedictions. We never came home from an absence that its face did not light up and speak out in eloquent welcome - and we could not enter it unmoved."

Quotation by Samuel Clemens
Painting by Kevin Nichols