The Decoration of Houses

So, it transpires that everyone to whom I've verbally recommended Edith Wharton's The Decoration of Houses already knew about it, they just hadn't told me.  Anyway, I've been reading it, and it's brilliant, and occasionally hilarious.  It contains such helpful suggestions as the correct number of doors to have leading into one's ballroom, for instance, which is perhaps not as relevant today as it was in Wharton's time, and, more specifically, in Wharton's milieu (incidentally, she prefers two sets of well-proportioned doors to one over-large opening, she finds it both more aesthetically pleasing and better for the flow of guests).  Below is a picture of The Mount, the house that she lived and wrote in.  As you can see, there's room for any number of doors.

My friend Simon pointed out that the fact that she wrote this book should come as no surprise to me, considering Lily Bart's dreams of redesigning her aunt's house in the House of Mirth, once she'd inherited it, not to mention the general obsession with decorating in Custom of the Country.  I always loved the description of Countess Olenska's rooms in The Age of Innocence; reading The Decoration of Houses, I am now learning where a door should be positioned in relation the the hearth, and realising that Countess Olenska's rooms perfectly complied with Wharton's ideals.  (Oh, and while we're on The Age of Innocence,  if anyone has not yet read Francesca Segal's The Innocents, a contemporary re-working set in North West London's Jewish society, it was absolutely one of my favourite books of last year.)

Moving on:  one of Wharton's strongest beliefs when it comes to the interior design of a house is that the architect and the decorator should be, if not one and the same, at least from the same school of thought and able to work together.

The Modernist architect Erno Goldfinger's house at 2 Willow Road, NW3, adheres perfectly to this canon - he designed the house, and all the furniture.  (Yes, the Bond villain Goldfinger was named after the architect, who sued Ian Flemming; they settled out of court.  But how cool to have a Shirley Bassey song about you, even if it isn't actually you?)

2 Willow Road is amazing - both the design and the contents, which includes several important pieces of art (Henry Moore etc.) as so many of the Hampstead-based artists of the 1930s were good friends of theirs.  (Wouldn't you have loved to have lived in Hampstead in the 1930s?  After you'd lived in Paris in the 1920s, that is?  The great and the good, or rather, the creative and interesting, of 20s Paris are currently hanging in the Man Ray exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery; Erno Goldfinger met his wife Ursula in Paris at that time - he was studying at the Beaux Arts - so there's another 20s Man Ray at 2 Willow Road, of Ursula.)

Obviously, I now want to redecorate our house (flat, actually, but it has two floors so I call it a house) from top to bottom, both in accordance with Edith Wharton's edicts, and with Goldfinger's Modernist principles (though they don't always coincide - sliding doors being a prime example:  Goldfinger makes much use of them, Wharton declares that she doesn't see the necessity of sliding doors as, if the proportions of the rooms and the doors are correct, there should be no need to want for space . . . .  I think, living in just under 1000 square feet in London, I might follow Goldfinger's lead on this one.)

In the mean time, I will content myself with watching umpteen episodes of Grand Designs, and watching for flats that come up for sale in the Goldfinger-designed Trellick Tower (which is also Sholto's favourite building.  He spends much time trying to recreate it in Lego.)  Oh, and pouring over the photographs in Edith Wharton at Home by Richard Guy Wilson and John Arthur, the review of which in March's World of Interiors being what led me to discover her book on decorating in the first place, and thus inspired the trip to 2 Willow Road.


2 Willow Road is owned by the National Trust, and tours are led around the house at 11am, 12am and 1pm every day.  Open viewing is between 3pm and 5pm.  (Top tip: it's freezing.  The National Trust don't appear to heat it.  Wear a LOT of clothes.)

George Bellows at the Royal Academy

Stag at Sharkey's, George Bellows, 1909

Boxing was banned in New York at the time the American Realist painter George Bellows painted the above, which shows an illicit fight taking place at the bar opposite Bellows' studio.  I love the sense of movement and dynamism in the painting, as well as the way that the paint on the two fighting figures has that melty effect that Francis Bacon uses  in his work - the flesh really seems to be feeling the impact of the blows.   It also has a hint of Futurism about it; that same year it was painted Marinetti was writing the Futurist Manifesto in Italy.

The boxing paintings are my favourite of Bellows' canvases hanging at the Royal Academy, and that's not just because I've recently started having weekly boxing lessons myself in an attempt to lose the Esmeralda-weight.  (I've taken to asking any female celebrities I interview how pregnancy affected their bodies.  Can you believe that Daphne Guinness put on over sixty pounds, and took a year to lose it each time?  It makes me feel slightly better, but still . . . However I love my boxing lessons; I love learning something new, and it requires so much concentration, ducking and weaving and remembering sequences, that I almost forget I have children.  My vague aim is to get good enough to join a proper boxing gym, such as the All Stars Boxing on the Harrow Road.  I picture myself as Hilary Swank in Million Dollar Baby, though obviously my story will have a different end.  I want to be strong as well as thin.  Strong like a Pussycat Doll.)

Anyway, back to Bellows, and the Royal Academy.  What's interesting - at least to me - is that they've got Manet hanging downstairs, so it's American realism v. French realism,  and one can see just how much the one owes the other.

A Day in June, George Bellows

Les Jardins Tuileries, Edouard Manet

Although that Manet isn't actually hanging at the Royal Academy at the moment, as that particular exhibition is entirely devoted to portraits.

The Bellows is more general, with several works from each of his 'themes' - aside from boxing, he painted cityscapes, snowscapes, views of the Hudson and East River, the New York docks, family portraits, and a series of brilliant but horrific war scenes, much influenced by Goya.  Then there are some drawings: more boxing matches, an evangelical preacher, an execution, and a dance in a mad house.  But the boxing ones are the best.  Some of the others seem a little frozen, as if his natural energy has been wrongly contained in a too-still life.

Bellows died young, aged 43, from appendicitis.  He was considered at the time to be one of America's greatest artists. A quote closes the exhibition:

Try everything that can be done.

Be deliberate.  Be spontaneous.

Be thoughtful and painstaking.

Be abandoned and impulsive.

Learn your own possibilities. 

George Bellows:  Modern American Life is at the Royal Academy from this coming weekend until the 9th June.

The Chevron Stripe

This week's interest in American Indian life led to my thinking about Navajo rugs (and how much I'd like one, or several), when it occurred to me that my natural aesthetic has been tending that way for a while, anyway, insofar as I've become utterly obsessed by the chevron stripe.  Take this image:

Doesn't it just scream youth, joy, vitality and happiness?  (Not to mention endless hot summers in rather glamorous locations?)  Obviously, it's from the Missoni archive - nobody does a chevron stripe better.

Missoni was founded by husband and wife Ottavio and Rosita (potentially interesting aside: they met at the London Olympic Games of 1948; he was a runner and responsible for the Italian team's uniforms.)  Many of the original designs were inspired by their collection of art, which included pieces by the Russian artist Sonia Delaunay (who herself combined art and fashion when she opened her own dress shop on the Pont Neuf in Paris; Perry Ellis produced a collection inspired by her in 1983), and the Italian Futurists Giacomo Balla and Gino Severini.  The minute one looks at a painting by any one of those artists, the connection becomes obvious:

Swifts:  Paths of Movement and Dynamic Sequences by Giacomo Balla

Simultaniety of Centrifugal and Centripedal Groups (Woman at a Window) by Gino Severini

Sonia Delaunay Swatch

So, in feeding my obsession, I acquired a Missoni jacket.  I probably didn't need to prove the direct link to some of my husband's favourite artists in order to do so, but I figure it might help when it comes to explaining how, actually, it's an heirloom for Esmeralda.  (Thank GOD our second child was a girl, otherwise that excuse just wouldn't wash.)  

However, that still wasn't enough. . . . 

I had been looking for a lampshade for our bedroom for a while.  It was, in my opinion, worth finding a good one, as I actually spend a lot of time in bed - I work, read, hang out with the children etc. - basically, there is a lot of opportunity for me to look at the bedroom lampshade.  So if one applies the cost per wear ratio that one does with clothing, but turns it into a cost per glance ratio, well, I figured I could justify spending metaphorical millions.  

There were some false starts.  Prior to chevrons, there was a lengthy ikat interlude - think whole days spent pouring over Rifat Ozbek's website - and about six months ago I traipsed the whole way to Brunschwig et Fils at the Chelsea Design Centre to track down something exquisite I'd spotted in US Vogue.  It wasn't there - though they offered to make me one, bespoke, for a smallish King's ransom.  

But to cut a long story short, this is what is now hanging in my bedroom: 

It is the Bell Moth lampshade, in pink, by the Glasgow design studio Timorous Beasties. The fabric was initially designed for Liberty, and I never tire of looking at it.  And so pink is the pink silk lining that when the light is on the entire room glows.  It's amazing.  The children love it, and so do I.  They do cushions, too, in the same fabric, but I'm rather aware that, technically, I don't actually need any more cushions at the moment.  (In fact, I have spares.)

Incidentally Sholto seems to have caught chevron-itis from me.  I keep finding him practicing his drawing of zigzags.  

Mississippi Dreaming

Few things make me feel as alive, or as inspired, as going to an art exhibition that leaves me wanting more.  I can't necessarily predict which exhibitions are going to thrill me before I go - for instance, yesterday I went to the Man Ray at the National Portrait Gallery, which I thought wonderful, but which I knew I would as I am so familiar with his work.  And ultimately, it wasn't the Man Ray that I was most excited by, but a chance meander into the American Indian exhibition.  There I found a collection of over fifty portraits by the Pennsylvanian-born artist George Catlin, which, quite simply, blew me away. This is the first time that they've been seen, all together, outside of the United States in over fifty years, and it's an incredibly powerful exhibition, and deeply evocative of an era about which I know very little.

I think sometimes one's experience of an exhibition or a piece of art can be heightened by what could really only be termed coincidence.  In this instance, I came to the works having literally just finished Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn, one of the most gripping novels I've read in a long time (even Priya Tanna, the Editor-in-Chief of Vogue India and mother of a very small child - i.e. she has somewhat finite time resources - admits to not having been able to put it down, and to having finished it in two sittings).  The bulk of the book is set in Missouri, and the Mississippi plays a large part - rather as it does in many of the paintings in the exhibition.  Suddenly I find myself struck by a desire to sail down that wonderfully-named river, re-reading Mark Twain in between taking the time to learn the difference between the various American Indian tribes (beyond being able to spot a Navajo-inspired jacket on the catwalk, or identifying the vague influence behind the fabric I covered Sholto's tent in, that is . . . )

In the mean time, I can not recommend the George Catlin: American Indian Portraits highly enough.  It's on until the 23rd June, and free.  I will definitely be going back.

The Art of Handmade Living

Part of my reason for this blog was to inspire people to do things that are perfectly within their reach - I want to write about exhibitions and films that anyone can go and see, ways of entertaining children that don't cost the earth, and simply to alert people to things of beauty.

One of the things that brings me the most pleasure is making improvements to my home - after all, my home is where I spend the most amount of time, and I want it to look beautiful.  A friend of mine, Willow Crossley - we used to work together at Vogue Russia - recently had her first book published:  The Art of Handmade Living, which is all about making one's home look prettier, in a simple and easily attainable fashion.  There is strictly no professional equipment required!  (She also has a very good blog if you wanted to check it out:  willowroseboutique.blogspot.co.uk)

Inspired by Willow, I decided to make my own home a little prettier.  I started small:  Sholto's tent.  Sholto LOVES his tent, but I was rather uninspired by the plain blue fabric with orange edges.  Here is a picture of him sitting outside it on his second birthday:

It blatantly needed help.  My first choice of covering was the exquisitely beautiful Moondog fabric designed by my friend Jenny Simpson and Kit Kemp for Chelsea Textiles.

Seriously, did you ever see anything so adorable, while at the same time being incredibly chic? I have literally been dreaming about it ever since I first laid eyes on it. However, it is hand embroidered, and I spent all this year's Chelsea Textiles budget on yet more cushions and some heavenly fabric for new sitting room blinds.

So instead I used the Nursery Window's Blackfoot Star fabric - a bargain at £6 a meter in the sale.  I stapled it all into place (gratifyingly quick and easy) and then covered the staples with a pretty blue ribbon that I bought in Temptation Alley at the top of the Portobello Road (one of my absolutely all time favourite shops), and where I also found a fabulous gimp and some pompoms.  Now, the tent looks like this:

Which I think you'd have to agree is ever so slightly more aesthetically pleasing.  The sheepskin lining it is from the market in Masham, North Yorkshire, but my favourite bit is something that only Sholto can see (because he is the only person allowed in his tent.)  My friend Jenny very kindly sent me a sample of Moondog, which I've framed with some braid and have stuck up inside the tent, so Sholto's house has artwork hanging.  (And maybe next year I'll buy some Moondog cushions. Unless my husband wins the lottery in which case I'm covering the whole room in it, literally.)

Frieze

There was a time when I used to go to all the shows at London Fashion Week.  It sounded glamorous, but was utterly exhausting, involving spending ludicrous amounts of time criss-crossing London, never having time to eat properly, and staying out too late every night downing champagne/ passion fruit martinis/ vodka redbull*.  The only thing that inspired me to carry on to the next show was that there were always a few - most usually Erdem, or Giles Deacon, or Christopher Kane - that were so beautiful that I would fall in love with fashion all over again.

Frieze week is not dissimilar - only it is about art, and there is less opportunity to sit down . . .

But, as ever, there are certain shows, or artworks, that remind me why I love what I do.  Either because they're beautiful, or fascinating, or just plain fun.

For beautiful, I can recommend Kandasamy Project's inaugural show:  JAMESPLUMB's 'To Have & to Hold' at the House of Saint Barnabas.  The exhibition reflects the artists' core ethos, which is to look again at the overlooked.  With a desire to treat each piece preciously, they marry apparently disparate fragments into new, and always exquisite, assemblages.  The House of Saint Barnabas was once a women's refuge, and the show encompasses the seldom seen and utterly stunning on-site chapel.  I went to the opening, and the entire space was scented with dozens and dozens of Diptique Feu de Bois candles, making it not only the most beautiful but also the chicest exhibition I've been to all week.

For fascinating, I suggest Lazarides Gallery's collaboration with Old Vic Tunnels on 'Bedlam', which sets out to explore the well intended beginnings, final disgrace and reform of the legendary mental institution.

And for fun, please go and experience Ed Fornieles's Character Date, at Frieze itself.  Ed is the boyfriend of the brilliant Sundance award-winning actress Felicity Jones, star of the entirely improvised Like Crazy - which I mention because Felicity's work on that film was, Ed tells me, a significant inspiration for Character Date.  I was Candace, a poor little rich girl with a serious Daddy fixation, and was sent on a (fake) date with a (fake) Norwegian oil engineer.  We spent an hour wandering around the fair, in character, discussing what we might (fake) buy and discovering whether or not there was any (fake) chemistry between our characters, before being filmed disassembling it all, Cilla Black style.  While it is hilariously funny, there is a well-intentioned subtext to it all, which is that it encourages one to look at art with a fresh eye.  Making this year's Frieze rather refreshing . . . .

*Delete as appropriate, depending on seasonal trend/ level of exhaustion

The Fly is Free

Ilya Kabakov is the father of Moscow conceptualism, and, without doubt, Russia's most famous living artist.  One of the first artists to leave after Perestroika, his works have been exhibited across the globe, from the Centre Georges Pompidou to the Hermitage, via the Serpentine, the Garage Centre for Contemporary Culture . . . You get the picture. I have been fortunate enough to interview him and his wife, Emilia - they co-sign all their works - more than once, both for AD Russia and Vogue Russia.  The former consisted of meeting them at the Venice Biennale, before spending a whole day at their house on Long Island a month later, being shown around the studio, and swimming in the sea from the jetty at the end of their garden.  (And yet still it took until we had breakfast in London a couple of months later for Ilya to speak to me in English, which, incidentally, he speaks perfectly - we'd been struggling in German up until that point, and I had deliberately taken a German photographer to the Long Island house . . . )  Anyway, that interview is still probably the highlight of my career to date, and Emilia even gave me a goody bag to take home:  pretty much every book ever written concerning their artistic output.

They are less well known as jewellery designers, mainly because it's a recent venture, and the pieces sold are very limited.  Also, they never really intended this to happen.  Ilya designed the set for Emilia for her birthday in 1995, she put the drawings into a drawer and didn't really think much further about them.  For fifteen years.  They only finally got made because the wife of the owner of their London gallery (Elisabetta Cipriani, and the gallery is Sprovieri on Heddon Street) started selling artist-made jewellery, and suggested to them that they should get the pieces made.  The initial designs were for a ring and a bracelet; a necklace and earrings have just been added and been unveiled at PAD (the Pavilion of Art and Design, taking place now in Berkeley Square.)

The whole set is called 'The Fly'; these are the earrings.

Beautiful, no?  The flies themselves are brilliant-cut diamonds and enamel, the leaves pear-cut emeralds and enamel, and all is set in 18 carat gold.  And as for the reasoning behind the fly?  In the words of Emilia, "She is for us a symbol of freedom.  She can go anywhere, be everywhere and we don't even notice her presence, because  she is so insignificant.  Nobody can control the fly.  Even in a totalitarian state, where everybody's life and movements can be limited and controlled, the fly is free."

If my husband's lottery tickets every yield the much longed-for win, Heddon Street will be my first stop.