Come on out next Thursday for a little after-hours shopping! We're staying open late and all our proceeds from the evening are being donated to Susan G. Komen for the Cure
Recycling and repurposing is a big deal -now, always, forever. Using objects in ways other than their intended use can be charming, it looks really cool, and it really just makes sense to have a group of objects you can manipulate for several different purposes to suit changing situations and moods- number of books, number of children in household etc; and modular, modern design is an idea that ikea has built an empire on. But I do have a special affinity for things that are created for one purpose and one purpose only. I mean objects that if you found it alone and weren't familiar with its use, you'd have no idea what the heck it was. Like these:
from top to bottom: Book Brush: a dusting brush for books ( i guess you could use it for something else, but it was really created with books in mind) dusting the tops of books and the pages in between; Tea Strainer: lay over mug, pour hot water over loose tea and then it sits on a little tublike saucer for when you want to put it aside and enjoy your tea. Bread Basket Liner: a particularly shaped cloth to cradle and fold over those warm biscuits. This one in linen.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning. After a nice coffee in my friend's courtyard in Savannah, I decided to take a walk to Forsyth Park Farmer's Market with my little girl and her scooter. Every body enjoyed the breezy day, even some drops of rain, but nothing to scare a squirrel.
I was surprised at how friendly the farmers and the customers were. The conversation snow-balled from one person to the next, and while you could not escape it, at the same time you wanted to spend your whole day here, where everybody is so simple and down to earth. I left the market with some beautiful butternut squash, a "botte de radis" (radish) and golden new potatoes.
We did pick up a sandwich, I will say "the best sandwish" at Brighter Day, just because we didn't want to go back home yet! and enjoyed our afternoon at the playground. We came back home, cleaned the radish for the "apperitif", made a butternut squash soup and a "gratin" for dinner.
A good experience gives you good memories. Enjoy your day, thank Mother Earth for everything she gives to you everyday, and recycle!
One of my favorite things to do on rainy days is stay in bed, have coffee, and pour over some good art books. Its Monday, so I had to get my butt to work today, but I did get to pour over the bold and emotionally evocative landscapes of Katherine Sandoz this morning. And delightfully there are echos of all my favorite painters in her work; the emotional tension of an Andrew Wyeth, the color and composition of Gaugin and O'keefe, and the playful, vibrant ease of Diebenkorn.
It's recently surfaced that she may be appearing at Miami Art Basel this year and that we can help her get there via the Art takes Miami people's choice award! You can vote for her here. Easy Peesy. Earning two MFA's at SCAD and working out of her studio in Vernonburg, GA, she is continually inspired by the people and places of coastal Georgia and Savannah. Until December comes, feast your eyes on these luscious landscapes, and let's Send Katherine Sandoz to Miami!
There are many ways to shake off the week and slip into the weekend, but feel free to take a page or two from my personal book of TGIF:
Sometimes you don’t realize how good you have it. I had the normal obfuscations of a suburban childhood – sharing a room with my older sister, an obnoxious amount of hand-me-downs and orthodenture, and as my Mom can attest to, dinners that were sometimes no more than a can of tunafish on an English muffin. (Haha, true.) But I also had the all of the expected and special things of childhood, like ballet lessons!
Greater still, I was afforded the privilege to study under the ballet masters at SUNY Purchase. And greater still - the real unexpected gem - was that we danced to live music every class! Yes! How lucky we all were! We were accompanied most days by our favorite pianist, Joel, who played on the black baby grand in the corner by the door. He was meaty and solid and had dark, fluffy, longish hair. And a great smile. We would all hang off the piano before class started trying to find out more about our Joel –our non-critiquing ami for the duration of the class- but then the clap of hands and we were sent to the barre. We never found out much.
He liked to have fun too. If tensions were running high in the studio or when the little waltzes and rollicking fox trots were becoming too tedious he might break into music from JAWS between combinations…It could be a long 2 1/2 hours at times. Joel and our teacher Mrs. Jane Hilliard were a good team. I remember her looking over at Joel, with her hands paused in combination planning position, “How about something moodier, Joel”, or “No, no Joel, they need a stronger downbeat for this.” or simply “play this in 3/4ths time please.” Joel would respond with a change in meter or emphasis, perhaps a key change, shuffling his musical repertoire and trying different tunes we hadn’t yet heard. I mean he didn’t just play, he created and customized all this music for us! Sometimes, this back and forth between them could go on for quite a bit, “No, its still not quite right…girls, rest while we figure this out.” We all hung off the bar while Joel would adjust his playing this way or that way until she was satisfied. “YES! That’s it!” she exclaimed, “That’s what I was looking for! Oh, good, I’m so pleased. Girls, we have the right music for this now."
Mrs. Hilliard could grow tired of correcting our lousy technique but if we were off the music, if we weren’t feeling the beat and living the moment, we were missing ballet’s whole raison d’etre and all politesse went out the window.
“Listen to the music, girls! The music will tell you how to dance. Don’t just count. The first time, yes, you count, but then let yourself go and let the music take you there. Stay with the music, hit the beats with your movement; don’t trample over them, for God’s sake. Enjoy it girls, eh? Enjoy the dancing!"
As you know, Paris is our muse, and to celebrate the magic of a very French art form, we bring you more of Paris’own, Edgar Degas:
I don’t know why, but I got it in my head one day to hang bells from the trees in my parent’s backyard. The yard had a Japanese feel to it too, with most of the trees growing out of rocks, and the azaleas and rhododendrons rooted in craggy slopes. It even had a red maple. So I picked up some bells from Canal street in lower Manhattan for cheap and tied them to the two cherry trees and the oak tree in the back. That was almost ten years ago. The last time I was at the house I saw that just one strand of three rusted bells had survived, hanging on by a thread and not really in ringing shape anymore. They were nice to hear when I was recovering from a bout of bad health and working a few hours each day in the garden. I was issuing forth my own mini renovation for the space - making garden benches from bluestone, creating little brick sculptures, moving ferns to shadier spots, finding the best location for a struggling hellebore, hatcheting down a thick root of ivy nestled into the twin honey locusts and trying to get a runner of blue phlox going between plantings. Along with the singing birds, the bells were good company. I haven’t had a tree with low enough branches in my vicinity to do that in awhile. It’s been apartment living for a few years now. But when I saw these bells hanging over our autumn table downstairs it all came back to me...
Ah yes, the hanging bells!
There’s the dinner bell telling you to come eat, the church bell telling you to come pray, and the door bell asking you to answer it; but I have a special affinity for the garden bell, the one that rings whenever the wind moves it to do so. It reminds me that even with schedules and structures and conventions, there is an insistent sacred existing outside of time and place that comes and goes of its own pleasing. There is something dangerous, mysterious and graceful that doesn’t care what our input is or how we feel about it. It simply is. Wind chimes are nice to hear, and they're what I’ll take for now; but there's nothing like the faint sound of the far off bell, hanging from a tree in the garden.
Moving is really a terrible experience. You slowly destroy the old temple, and try to ressurect a new temple in as short of time as possible. If you move on the weekend and have 3 days (like me) you're lucky. But it's still horrible. And in the new space you have all this pressure to create a home that according to Oprah, "should rise to meet you" A lovely thought, but no small task when hubs is off getting a master's degree at SCAD and the cats are trading fleas like baseball cards. (If I tell them I'm going to kick off their "Revolution" with a shot of Capstar they calmy pad into the kitchen and pour themselves a glass of water.)
So, the move out was a move up, a two bedroom, instead of the one with a pocket kitchen we were grooving in for a year. The new apartment has three closets instead of one, and a living room with a separate dining area. Too good to pass up.
But you know, all these nice things come with problems. A gas leak for one, needs to be resolved. It was so slow that we only periodically caught the whiff of sludge and we thought it was just the notorious paper mill belching out more noxiousness; a soggy and puckering ceiling above the shower that needs to be replaced and the cats itching for another dose of revolution. I picked that up this morning. I really like my job anyway, but I was even more excited to get to work today to pick out some items for the new place. And be in a lovely space that wasn't in danger of blowing up. I thought some nice candles, a letter tray, maybe a dresser, - now that I have room for one- (not joking) and let's be honest, a bunch of little goodies for me was just what the doctor ordered. Especially after all the cleaning....omg. The amount of cleaning you have to do when you move into a new apartment is just obnoxious. It's always filthy as hell. Always, Always, Always. I've decided to avail myself to all the good stuff we have here to help me in my ongoing cleaning fantastica: candles that remove the bad odors and soaps to make it all smell nice; and dusters to reach the nasty fans. These would have made a great pre-housewarming gift to myself! oh well.
But WARNING, when in the cleaning trenches its easy to loose your executive functions. You may find yourself growing agitated while discovering new classes of filth- dust bunnies who have created their own villages, scarlet fever germs trying to wedge themselves under your fingernails, perhaps malaria, and any array of bacteriophages you are sure you have just inhaled; you may begin to wonder why the man you married would drag you away from friends and family, to pursue yet another creative degree and what kind of man it is exactly you have married in the first place and so on and so forth. STOP. When cleaning begins to germinate the mens of the mens rhea, that is when you must put the damp cloth down. This is the time to clean yourself up. But wait, did you get a chance to clean the tub yet? No? I didn't think so. That's okay, use your flip flops and some fancy soap and body wash to help erase the reality that you are indeed at this moment a dirty little workhorse. Take a long hot shower and bring back the humanity!
Now that you've showered, tell hubs to take you some place nice to eat, ideally one with Martini specials. Then, go shopping! Here's some of what I have on my list. No matter what, when you move, you always need more lamps. I also want this chest, totally perfect, and the mint julep cups are just cool. A new candle for when I get rid of all the bad smells, and the wrapping paper on the left I'm using to line the kitchen drawers. They could use a pick me up too.
gray linen chest, Tulip Wrapping Paper, Courtland Apple Family Room Candle, Mint Julep Cups, Eiffel Lamp, John Derian Nest Plate,
We have in our possession two beautiful and inspirational books, which exemplify two radically different approaches to "stuff". One is "A Perfectly kept house is the sign of a misspent life" by Mary Randolph Carter; the other is Axel Vervoordt's "Wabi Inspirations"
I suspect most of us are living somewhere in the happy medium gray area. The top picture makes my head spin, but the table at the bottom one isn't even being used! Am I right? Put that table to work!
The designer in me craves simplicity, cleanliness and being able to appreciate the integrity and beauty of the objects I live with unvarnished with "stuff". It's also nice to feel like there is room to move around and the place isn't all "junked up" as my Dad would say. You don't want your things to overtake you, and overpower your psyche; which they can. or to put it another way, You don't want the dress to wear you. Too much stuff can make you feel like your drowning; like you can't breathe and your executive can functions grow somewhat diminished.
But the artist in me likes to leave everything out, mostly so I know what I have to work with; and I like to keep all my pencils and pastels out on the table because I'm never really done using them. And I don't want to be. I want them to be there at the ready for when inspiration strikes. Its too tedious to put everything away and pull everything out time and time again. Pff! Then you become more like a trained animal and less like a creator. "The perfectly kept house..." book features a picture of Alexander Calder's studio/workshop and it's a fabulous shot. He's working away, happily surrounded by a storm of visual ephemera of his own creation.Perhaps the solution is to have two spaces - if you can - dedicate one to keep calm and clean where you can relax and breathe like a human being, and the other to the storm of creative assemblage and destruction where you can breathe like an artist. (and leave everything out!)
ciao,lauren
