Designing Thoughts

I have an unabashed love of exuberant rooms; those creative and colourful interiors that speak such engrossing volumes about the individuals who live within them. To me, there is nothing more enticing than a home filled to pop with books, collections, patterns, textures, antiques, paintings, flowers and dogs... rooms artfully arranged - a bit dramatic, and eminently comfortable. The English Country House style, although admittedly fictionalized a bit, has always made my heart sing and it is a style certainly reflected in my own home. This of course does not mean that I cannot appreciate other avenues and other approaches to design. Indeed, one of the more enjoyable challenges of my profession are the projects that require a jump or two outside my personal taste and total immersion in another. I have created many varied interiors for my clients, from all white romantic country to sleek sophisticated urban, but no one could ever call me a minimalist. The straight lines and stark colours of the minimalist style leave me a bit chilled. It appears I have a kindred spirit in the British furniture designer, Mark Wilkinson. Known best for his gorgeous kitchens, Mr. Wilkinson has a rollicking interview in the latest issue of The English Home; an interview that left me nodding and chuckling a bit. Here is his quote on the reason why he is not a fan of minimalism. While I would not express myself quite as stridently as he on the subject - especially in that first sentence - I do think he has a wonderful philosophy on the importance of interior design as the vital art form that I feel it is.

“...Minimalism is a kind of emotional bankruptcy...a refuge for those who do not understand the grammar of ornamentation or the symbolism of colour. I can see and make an argument for design being the most profound and enlightening of art forms. A play or piece of literature by Shakespeare is very effective, a painting by Monet or Van Gogh especially is shudderingly expressive, a piece of music by Rachmaninoff, by Elgar, by John Lee Hooker, whomever, can be very effective, but you don’t live with the piece of music playing in your ear. The voice of design is softer. It doesn’t have the same volume of other artistic mediums but it is all-powerful and all-persuasive by virtue of the fact that it is there subliminally all the time that your eyes are open. If we put people in surroundings of wonder, they express that sense of wonder, of beauty, of joy and that’s what you should be doing with design. Why create an environment that says, “I’m not here to look nice cluttered.” I want to walk into an environment that says, “hello mate, been working hard all day? Take off your shoes, that’s ok...”

The photo above is of the famed Yellow Room of Nancy Lancaster and is often referenced as the definitive example of English Country House Style.

A Warm Day

It was a gift unexpected, but a gift to be sure. It arrived on our doorstep unwrapped but so welcome that, to our eyes, it appeared swathed in a gossamer silk, festooned with a garland of pearl. After the four coldest days of the winter, a tiny, sweet gift of Spring. Adorned with a cloudless azure sky , it was warm and still - a hint, a mere glimmer, of May. No matter our plans for the day, it was a gift we could not wait to open, for who knew when it would come again? We threw down the usual and made for the trees, where we spent the afternoon roaming though forests and meadows still deep in their winter sleep, still robed in cloaks of muted grey, for they were wise enough to know this gift was only meant for one day. The winter air which had only yesterday slapped our cheeks with icy fingers, now floated placidly round us as we walked, too tame to trouble even the tiniest leaf left on the tiniest tree. There were no flowers, no green, no fragrance of Spring, and the light that sliced through the bare oaks all around us still bore the sharp slant of a February sun. No matter. For just when we had begun to think that Mother Nature had abandoned colour and warmth for good, she bestowed a gift of a few warm winter hours to let us know that, no, she has not forgotten Spring. Her gift was but a sweet reminder that no matter how frozen the world around us might appear, warm days will soon arrive. So, we ran and we ran, and Edward was difficult to hold back as he tugged at his lead in excitement and pulled me along through the fair afternoon.
It was a delightful gift, and how happy were we to open it.

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing robin, sing:
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

Christina Rossetti

Crystal Clear Memories

A client once told me that I had “a photogenic memory”. This declaration was made funnier by the fact that she was totally unaware of her slip of the tongue. I do possess, I suppose, I bit of a photographic memory, which makes me a bit wary of the things I choose to watch or read. For instance, gossipy television shows can be a nightmare. Who wants to remember the hangdog hearthrob some obscure starlet was pining over months, even years, after the fact? Old bank account numbers, old phone numbers, long discontinued fabric patterns and paint colours... these are rooted in my head like English Ivy, despite my fervent wish that they vacate to make room for higher cogitation. But memory is one thing impossible for me to harness with any degree of success. Indeed, I often ponder the crystal clear memories I have of places that do not exist at all. Let me explain.

For me, one of the most enjoyable aspects of a much longed for holiday is found in the anticipation before the fact. Given my ardent love of houses, where we choose to stay is a seriously vital part of any trip we plan. The time I spend reading and considering the history, the location and decor, of a particular country house or inn is incredibly fun. When I finally light on my choice, and make my reservation, I can “see” the place in my head... down to the last detail of the bouillon fringe on a curtain pelmet or the muted pattern in an inherited Aubusson. I can follow the path of the early morning light as it falls through the diamond patterned windows in my bedroom, see the delicate blush on the loosely arranged garden roses in the blue majolica vase atop the piecrust table - I can hear the tune the wind plays as it breezes through the ancient elms that line the winding drive. The only thing is... these enchanted places do not exist. They are figments, technicolour and photographically detailed to be sure, but pure imaginings created in the paisley patterned maze of my own mind.

Happily, when the anticipation is over and the date of my departure finally rolls around, I arrive at these longed for destinations to find that their realities rarely pale in comparison to my dreamed up versions. I am always quite happy with what I find existing here in the real world. But, funnily enough, my conjured rooms and hallways, my imagined gardens and green-tinged aspects, still remain; vividly so. I can call them to mind at will, even now, like the faces of old friends. This causes me to wonder if, someday, on some other side of a veil, I might, just perhaps, visit one of these places. Perchance, I may one day stroll over a pink-hued hill and gaze down upon a familiar view. It is possible that I may enter through an oft-seen stone archway, climb a well-remembered stair and follow a known hallway into a room I call my very own. And I just might stay awhile. Who knows?

“I shut my eyes in order to see.”
Paul Gauguin