Month: October 2014

I wrapped up my trip to London with a visit to the Soane Museum. Back in my days at architecture school, this was the gold standard, a pilgrimage destination. You did modern buildings  for money and then, if you were really lucky, you went home to something like this. Oh yeah.

They don’t let you take photos, which is why I’m sharing this postcard, with a reproduction of a Joseph Gandy painting behind. Look at that room! All the primary colors! No surface left undecorated! Not nearly enough light! It has it all, in a way that only Soane could carry off.

I actually lived in a tiny house that was filled with bits and pieces of artifacts from our travels: miniature buildings,  tons of books, cool old stuff everywhere you looked. It even had a little room in the back with dark walls — in my case, forest green. In the divorce I got the house — hey, it was mine to begin with — and he got most of the contents. You know what? I never missed a bit of it. Valuable lesson.

Now here I am with my own big house. True, it lacks the squirrelly floor plan. I probably won’t ask Stuart to add any column – free arches. But still, big, and more or less contemporaneous with Soane’s house. Now that I can have them, do I want red, blue and yellow, filling up my very own living room? No way.

It was a funny feeling, standing in the shop of a house I once wanted to move into, flipping through a book by an old friend and a video where they interviewed people I used to take classes from and work with. There was a time when this was all really important to me. And today? I just wanted to get away from all but the friend. Interesting stuff, but not for my house. Another valuable lesson.

I thought I’d run over to the V&A, the museum for the decorative arts, though it is actually a bit more of a grab bag than that. I am looking everywhere for ideas for the house and that seemed like an obvious source. I wandered into the exhibition of photographs by Horst and stumbled out, dazed, about three hours later.

What wonderful work he did. I learned a lot about dramatic lighting. I was reminded that I care nothing about fashion, though I love the guy’s photographs. I was relieved to see that his travel photos were only average. His photos of interiors reminded me not to overdo it; the one place with white walls was a huge relief. So in an odd way, I think I found quite a bit of inspiration.

What else, what else? At Covent Garden I saw Placido Domingo in a Verdi opera,  I Due Foscari, a tragedy that put my little headaches into perspective. Basically the central character loses three of his sons to the plague only to lose the fourth to political chicanery. The music was beautiful and the cast superb but I don’t see rushing out to catch it again.

So I am no closer to resolving anything but I feel more balanced and there are now a lot more ideas in the hopper. That in itself is good.

I took myself to lunch at the National Portrait Gallery. Roughly $30 for two apps and a small bottle of water, ouch, but as a dear, departed friend used to say, what you are really paying for is the real estate. This was the view from my table. Nelson’s column, Big Ben, not bad.

What a great reminder that a space isn’t all about the paint color or the floor finish. Sometimes it’s about what drew you up there in the first place.

There they are, coming at you, Christmas decorations! And to think it’s not even Halloween.

I’m in London, staying at an apartment near Covent Garden, where this photo was taken. Covent Garden was a bit of a pit for a while, just the lowest form of tourist tat. Half of it, the half you see here, still is. However the other half is positioned opposite a huge Apple store. The managers must have used that to upgrade the tenant base. We don’t need another Dior outlet — we don’t! Stop whining! — but it is nice to see a cafe run by Jamie Oliver and other upscale local purveyors of whatever. I might head back there for lunch tomorrow.

I stopped in here today on my way to Neal’s Yard for some bread and cheese. Yesterday I had the great good fortune to join friends for dinner at Frenchie, possibly the hippest restaurant in Paris. Today I started to wonder whether I could define what distinguishes terrific French food from terrific English food. It was Frenchie and Grand Vefour vs. Neal’s Yard and Rules, I guess. So far I am testing the hypothesis that French food is more about subtlety,  transformation and balance. English food is more about a more assertive use of a principal ingredient, building a dish around it and enhancing it. Further exploration will be necessary. Fellow explorers welcome.

This house, it’s a whole different thing than I am used to seeing, a whole different sensibility.  My Victorian was only five years newer than this house, yet I instantly understood how it was organized and how to make it happy. This house, I don’t know.

So maybe the house itself nudged me to dig through my California boxes and open the one marked DVDs. Inside that box, at the top of the pile, was not a DVD but a translation of a French book written in about 1800: The Genius of Architecture; the Analogy of that Art with our Sensations.” Nicolas Le Camus de Mézières is about to explain the theory behind the design of my house. He does not shy from commenting on its decoration, oh no. Room by room, he spells it out.

I will never have a Workroom for Confectionary or the Ninth Room, for the Under Pantryman. But I will never again have to wonder what this room is doing in that place. Gravel floor or no, I believe I now have solid theoretical ground beneath my feet. I believe I am, in 21st century terms, good to go.

As I read on, I will keep you posted.

No, I didn’t buy it, but only because I have my eye on something better.

I’m back in Paris. Today I went to look at some furniture, lovely modern designer stuff, that will be auctioned off tomorrow. The auctioneer’s showroom was in the haut Marais, a neighborhood of narrow streets and medieval buildings that is quickly filling with galleries and fancy restaurants. Well, I have no problem with gentrification and the more time I spend in the Marais, the better I like it. So, why not, I looked through the furniture, registered for the auction and went for a stroll.

Some 20 minutes later, I hit the jackpot: a brocante in the Village Saint Paul area. The area is well known for its antique shops. They were all open and the courtyards were filled with temporary dealer setups.

I was surprised by how little interest I had in the very decent items on display. Back in my San Francisco life I loved the Hillsborough show. The only downside to moving in with Robert was giving up my Victorian flat for a midcentury modern house. After all, why would anyone want anything made after WW2? Now that I’m here in the land of great old stuff, I just want Tom Dixon and Arne Jacobsen.

In terms of furnishing my house, it remains to be seen how things will play out. In terms of my life, if my little house in the Marais Poitevin is eventually bookended by an apartment in the Marais de Paris, haut or otherwise, don’t be surprised.