An Aesthete's Lament

Well Said: Karl Lagerfeld

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 03 Sep 2008 22:40:00 +0000

"I have no sense of possession. But to have no sense of possession is easier if you have owned a lot".

So said the fashion designer and megacollector Karl Lagerfeld (1933—), in the new issue of Art + Auction.

Well Said: Edna Woolman Chase

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 10:00:00 +0000

Edna Woolman Chase, editor in chief of "Vogue", out on the town in London in the 1930s with "Vogue" writer John McMullin. Photograph from "Always in Vogue" by Edna Woolman Chase and Ilka Chase (Doubleday, 1954).

Whilst watching the Democratic National Convention a couple of days ago I found myself thumbing through a book I have not read in years, at least during the dead spots of the program: Always in Vogue by Edna Woolman Chase and her actress daughter, Ilka Chase (Doubleday, 1954). Editor in chief of that fashion magazine from 1914 until 1952, Chase lived interestingly, wrote perceptively, and had uncommon intellect and hardnosed commonsense. Her advice for being a well-dressed woman still rings true, barring a couple of archaic bits. There are 12 commandments of fashion in her autobiography, so bear with her. I've highlighted some of Chase's lapidary phrases. Pay attention, everyone—yes, everyone. Some of her advice pertains equally well to the male of the species.

Point #1: Study yourself with the unblinking eye of your meanest enemy. Could that throat, so like a swan to your lover, perhaps be considered a long, skinny neck, thrust forward at a cranelike angle, by one who cares for you less? Or could that short neck and submissive little chin, which makes you so cuddlesome, could they, with the years, develop into a thick, indeterminate oneness, with that middle-aged hump at the back? Are your legs or upper arms too thin or too fat? Do you have pretty hands and nails, so that you can permit yourself eye-attracting gestures and jewelry, or are they large and capable, profiting from a decent anonymity? And your hair? Is it sexy or serviceable? This questionnaire could go on interminably but its point, I think, is clear. Your person is the material you have to work with. Study yourself with dispassionate eye and in a three-ply mirror. It is a grueling ordeal, but it pays off. Remember your enemy, the rival who sees you always in 3-D. Make sure you are at least as well informed as she.

Point #2: This does not have to do with clothes; it does have to do with good grooming, a vital part of fashion, and I think it is valid. Set your dressing table in front of a window, so that the uncompromising light of day will fall evenly upon your face when you are making up. If, because of architectural reasons, this is impossible, place it so the light, day or artificial, comes equally from both sides. This will help you to achieve a well-blended make-up and to do your hair becomingly. Also always have your hand mirror within reach, that you may see yourself from the side and back as well as from the front.

Point #3: Choose for yourself clothes that play up your good points and subdue your bad. Have you pretty legs, but a thick middle? Perhaps your hips depress you, but from the waist up you are a Tanagra figurine? Or have you the lean, lithe flanks of a Diana yet are overly emphasized above? For this silhouette the French have an apt expression: Beaucoup de monde au balcon—a lot of people in the balcony. These are the assets and defects you must be aware of. Know thyself and dress accordingly is the great fashion edict. Certain cliché warnings on the whole are probably sound; if you are partridge-plump a print of cabbage roses may not be for you. On the other hand, if you are small and slim the dictum that you should wear only "dainty" jewelry is groundless. If you yearn for chunks, go ahead. A massive bracelet makes a slender wrist more fragile. There are times when the truly chic woman achieves style and individuality through breaking with tradition, but remember! Revolution takes experience. It can take money as well, which brings us to:

Point #4: In fashion do not have the courage of your mistakes. Since you are human you will make them, yet if you want a reputation for elegance hide them. They are expensive, yes, which is one reason you should read Vogue, so that you will make fewer of them, but you must be brave. If you've pulled a fearful boner, pitch it out. Give it to some dear relation or send it to the thrift shop; don't wear it. To be considered well dressed, you must be it: continuously. Not in fits and starts.

Point #5: Select clothes appropriate to the life you lead. The wildly inappropriate garment is usually the mistake of youth, before the discipline of taste and budget has had time to sink in. Although the temptation may be strong, even in maturity, to purchase the dress that would be a knockout for a unique occasion and completely out of key the rest of the time, unless you're rich, don't succumb. Compromise. Obviously, if you sense that a certain ravishing garment will cause him to pop the question don't be a fool. Buy it.

Point #6: The allotment of the budget. There are certain articles in one's wardrobe on which one not only may, but should, splurge. Within reason, of course. Remember this is a Quaker speaking. A good cashmere sweater will last for years. Your winter coat should be the very best you can afford. It is meant to survive for several seasons, keep you warm, and be worn every day. The same is true of your tailored suit. It should be of good fabric and well cut. Also your street shoes should be the best. Smart, comfortable, and with a medium heel. For walking the city streets they should not have open toes and heels. This misbegotten fashion I have already dwelt on at length. Keep your shoes in good repair; you prolong their life indefinitely. Economize on evening slippers. They are fragile and unless you are a debutante the wear you exact from them will probably be limited. If you are a debutante you will want several pairs, but they need not be expensive.

Point #7: Don't buy too much. There is nothing to sap the morale and dull the appearance like a closet full of half-worn, no-longer-at-their-peak clothes. With the exception of the aforementioned staples—coats, suits, and street shoes, which should last several seasons—buy only what you need at the time, make it serve you well, and get rid of it.

Point #8: In your wardrobe consider colour carefully. If you use restraint you will find it makes both for elegance and economy. This does not mean you have to be drab and monotonous; if your clothes are interchangeable, shoes and accessories doing double duty with several dresses and suits instead of only one, you will achieve greater variety at less cost. Don't get a blue hat and a red bag and a brown coat and black shoes, each good in itself but as incompatible as whiskey and wine. Plan your wardrobe as a whole. Don't just buy it; compose it.

Point #9: Consider colour; don't get set in concrete as to what colours you can and cannot wear. To be adamant on the subject of black or brown, shrimp pink or almond green is nonsense. Quite possibly with the right shades of rouge, lipstick, and powder we can wear them. Another thing to remember is that as we grow older we can frequently change our color spectrum with flattering results.

Point #10: (A) Dress your age. A hat that really belongs above a mature, thoughtful face is far more flattering, and incidentally in better taste, than a cute pixie cap. Clothes that are too young paradoxically make their wearer look older. Remember that the interesting men of the world like women who appear youthful but who are not pathetic carbon copies of the girls they were. On the other hand, clothes that are too sophisticated do not imbue the youthful wearer with the femme fatale look she longs to achieve but tend, on the contrary, to give her a comically childlike appearance.

Point #10: (B) As you grow older, cover up. Aging flesh is not appealing. Whether a Bikini bathing suit on a charming young body is modest or immodest is a matter of the current mode or local morals or good taste; it has nothing to do with aestheticism, but too much revelation of a figure that is too thin, too fat, or too old can be lamentable. For the older women, misty tulle scarves in the evening or little jackets or stoles are pleasant bits of decorative flattery.

Point #11: (A) Stand up when you buy a hat. This may sound daft, but it is rooted in wisdom. Few ladies, we trust, are so foolish as to buy a hat without viewing it from the profile and three-quarter angles as well as from the front, but many a lady fails to realize that her hat must be integrated with the rest of her, that it must be in proportion to her entire body. If you see what you secretly feel to be an enchanting reflection in the milliner's mirror, restrain yourself yet a moment. Stand up, move a few feet away, and view yourself in the altogether. Are you small, so that under a wide brim you look strangely like a gnome under a toadstool? Are you tall, so that too small a hat is reminiscent of a thimble on a broomstick? What looks enchanting in one dimension, sitting down, may be a different story in the round and long.

Point #11: (B) Just as you should stand up when you buy a hat so should you sit down when you buy a dress. It may be all to the good when you are erect, but how does it sit? Is it so full that it lies in puddles on the floor? Does the wrap-around skirt fall open? Is it so tight that it rides above your knees? Sit down in it in front of the mirror, and then walk, enough to make sure it doesn't bind. There is nothing more aggravating than a too narrow skirt on one who likes to stride freely.

Point #12: Pare down the nonessentials. This does not mean to eschew jewels and flowers, scarves and bows and hair ornaments; it does mean to use them with discretion, to integrate them into your costume so that they are a deliberate accent, the perfect finishing touch. The observer, and you, should feel that with whatever you have chosen you are complete. Without it there would be something lacking. This system is infinitely more satisfactory than tossing gewgaws on yourself because they happen to be kicking around the bureau drawer.

Going, Going, Gone!

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 07:00:00 +0000

Auction catalogues are catnip to true aesthetes. When one of those tempting volumes lands in the mailbox, every self-respecting design groupie drops whatever he or she is doing, finds a quiet spot, and, rapt, flips slowly through its pages. I can rarely afford anything I see, but I can dream—and refine my eye.

Today a catalogue from the French auction house Tajan arrived publicizing a sale of more than 165 mostly Chinese and Chinese-inspired objects, both antique and modern. (A few Japanese pieces snuck in.) It takes place on 18 September at Espace Tajan, 37 rue des Mathurins, in Paris. (Go to Tajan's website for more information.)

I won't be able to make the sale but if I could attend, here's what I'd spend my money on.

Carved crystal baluster vase with lapis lazuli and jade flowers. Cartier, 1930s. Expected to bring €150,000—€200,000 ($221,580—$295,440).

Low bookcase with Chinese-style painted panels. Made circa 1880 and attributed to cabinetmaker Alphonse Giroux. Estimated to bring €10,000—€15,000 ($14,772—$22,158).

Chinese-inspired bronze baluster vase. Made by Christofle, circa 1875. Estimated to bring €3,500—€5,000 ($5,171—$7,387).

Faïence baluster vase by Longwy. Estimated to bring €3,800—€4,500 ($5,613—$6,647).

Japanese ceramic vase, 19th century. Estimated to bring €500—€600 ($738—$886).

Candelabra made of a Chinese sang-de-boeuf vase with gilt-bronze mounts in the form of blossoming cherry branches. The candle holders, however, are shaped like lotus buds. Estimated to bring €800—€1,000 ($1,182—$1,477).

One of a pair of Chinese-inspired mahogany side chairs, French, circa 1880. Estimated to bring €800—€1,200 ($1,182—$1,773).

Nineteenth-century writing table in the Chinese style, stamped by French cabinetmaker Gabriel Viardot, who made furniture inspired by Chinese, Japanese, and Vietnamese design. Estimated to bring €2,500—€3,500 ($3,694—$5,172).

One of a pair of polychrome lacquer armoires with flowering-vase decorations. Qing dynasty, made in Shanxi, China. Estimated to bring €3,000—€4,000 ($4,433—$5,911).

Red lacquer table by Bernard Dunand (1908—1998). Made circa 1955. Estimated to bring €12,000—€15,000 ($17,742—$22,178).

Well Said: Lady Diana Cooper

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Fri, 29 Aug 2008 00:58:00 +0000

Lady Diana Cooper, circa 1918.

Shortly before her death in 1986, Lady Diana Cooper—long considered the greatest beauty of her generation—was asked by her son how she had managed to hold jealousy at bay during her long and devoted marriage to his father, Duff Cooper, the onetime British ambassador to France. After all, he observed, his father enjoyed scores of passionate affairs and romances in the course of the couple's 35 years together, most of which his wife knew about and occasionally encouraged.

"Oh, they were all the flowers," Lady Diana replied. "I knew I was the tree."

Cooking with Class: The Duchess of Windsor

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 09:00:00 +0000

The Duke and Duchess of Windsor in New Orleans during Mardi Gras, 1950. Photograph by John Gasquet from the Louisiana Secretary of State.

Whatever else you might say about Bessie Wallis Warfield Spencer Simpson Windsor (1895/96—1986), the king-toppling clotheshorse from Baltimore knew how to hostess. Many of the recipes she served at her houses were specialties handed down by the duchess's mother, Alice, who, when times were tough, took in boarders but never skimped on ingredients. Others came from the duke's former cook at Fort Belvedere, his Danish-born grandmother Queen Alexandra, and various French chefs.

Herewith are a few of my Windsor-cuisine favourites, taken from The Windsor Style by Suzy Menkes (Grafton, 1987):

GLAZED BACON

Halve some good slices of bacon. Lay out on baking sheet, cover with brown sugar, cook in high oven until the top is caramelized and the underneath crisp. Shake and serve very hot.

OYSTER LOAF

(Source: Alice Montague Warfield Rasin, the duchess's mother)

2 cups chopped oysters

1 teaspoon minced green pepper

1 teaspoon chopped onion

2 well-beaten eggs

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/8 teaspoon pepper

1/2 cup each breadcrumbs and oyster liquor

2 teaspoons butter

Combine all ingredients. Mix well. Pour into buttered baking dish. Dot with butter. Set dish in pan of hot water and bake in moderate oven for 30 minutes.

AVOCADOS TAHITI

(Source: Daniel Pinaudier, the chef at Government House, the Bahamas)

Cut the avocados in half, allowing one half per person. Remove pits. Fill center with rum slightly flavoured with brown sugar. Serve on ice.

CHICKEN DUCHESS OF WINDSOR

Have a large chicken cut for frying. Season with salt, pepper, and a dash of paprika. Roll lightly in flour and fry quickly in fat. Remove from skillet to large baking dish with a tight cover. Add 1/4 cup sliced carrot, 3/4 cup milk, 1 teaspoon chopped parsley, a little sage, and a few drops of onion juice. Cover. Bake for 3 to 4 hours until chicken is fork tender. Bake 10 minutes uncovered to brown top. Add additional milk during cooking if necessary.

WELSH RAREBIT SAVOURY

(Source: The Duke of Windsor's cook at Fort Belvedere)

Put into a pan 4 ounces of butter, 1 tablespoon of Parmesan cheese, 1 tablespoon breadcrumbs, 1 tablespoon of cream, a pinch of pepper, salt, mustard, and a very little chutney. Melt and pour over Romary's Wheaten biscuits or some other biscuit. [NOTE: McVitie's digestive wheat biscuits work well as a substitute.] Put on baking sheet and brown in oven.

RØD-GRØD

(Source: Queen Alexandra)

1/2 pound red currants

1/4 pound raspberries

6 ounces loaf sugar

2 pints water

1 stick cinnamon

1 vanilla pod

Boil all ingredients together for a few minutes. Strain through a hair sieve. Return to pan and thicken with 2 ounces Danish sago flour, 1 ounce potato flour, and 1/4 bottle of claret. Boil for a minute or two and pour into china moulds or basins watered and sugared. Keep in a cool place for 24 hours or more. Turn onto a glass or silver dish. Serve milk and cream separately.

SHRIMP AND CORN PIE

(Source: Alice Montague Warfield Rasin)

2 cups uncooked corn

2 well-beaten eggs

2 tablespoons melted fat

2/3 cup milk

1 cup cooked shrimp

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 teaspoon pepper

1/8 teaspoon mace

1 tablespoon onion juice

Baking-powder biscuit dough

Place corn, eggs, fat, milk, shrimps, and seasonings in a bowl and mix well. Pour into a greased baking dish. Cover with biscuit dough and bake in hot oven for 10 minutes. Reduce heat and bake an additional 25 minutes.

Bright Idea: Gloria Vanderbilt

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 16:21:00 +0000

A selection of D. Porthault linens in the Sweet Pea, Violette, Cherry Blossoms, and Heart patterns. Photograph from Sue Fisher King.

In case you have any old D. Porthault sheets laying about, you might consider following artist-designer Gloria Vanderbilt's recycling tip.

She used flowery Porthault linens that had seem better days to line the awning over a terrace and had others made up into parasols to protect her from the sun. Beats turning them into dust rags.

Well Dressed: Mrs William McCormick Blair Jr

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 13:53:00 +0000

Mrs William McCormick Blair Jr. Photograph from New York Social Diary.

One is always gobsmacked to read about best-dressed ladies. You know, the ones who haunt haute-couture salons and rack up hundreds of thousands of dollars in swell gowns and trim suits when the rest of us make do with Ann Taylor. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But since the seasons are about to change, and the social season is on the horizon, might I offer some highly intelligent wardrobe advice from the stylish Mrs William McCormick Blair Jr? Her observations are worth keeping in mind, whether you're being fitted by Ralph Rucci (as the subject of today's post frequently is) or scanning the sale racks at a department store.

In April 1970 a reporter for The New York Times travelled to Washington, DC, for an interview with Mrs Blair, aka Deeda. Ostensibly a lightweight spring style story about a globetrotting Democratic hostess and the 10-bedroom, 1930s Georgian Revival house the Chicago native and her diplomat husband hired Billy Baldwin to decorate, the article actually is enriched with nuggets of inspiration. Particularly about fashion as it is approached by one of the stylish world's smartest swans—today Deeda Blair is a major AIDS activist and biotechnology-research booster. Oh, and as the Times noted, she was 5 feet 7-1/2 inches tall and wore a size 8 or 10.

Evening attire always should be restrained: "I buy simple, undramatic styles so Bill and I won't tire of them".

Get your money's worth: Referring to a black Givenchy gown she purchased the year before, Blair explained, "I've worn it 40 times since last September. I'll wear it nonstop for years to black-tie affairs, the theatre, and other times when it isn't clear whether it's a dress or no".

Eschew trends: "I never have worn miniskirts, except around our swimming pool in summer".

Buy strategically: "I shop twice a year in Paris. At each collection I normally buy a new daytime dress, an evening dress, something for dinner or receptions, and a fantasy piece—pajamas or such. I buy a coat once a year".

A Bit of Baldwin

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 05:05:00 +0000

I was tidying a massive stack of tilting papers in the shed over the week-end when out fluttered a fax sent me in 1992 by a friend. (As for the garter snake that slithered out from under a North African carpet stored out there, I shall say no more.)

The fax offers a sketch, with dimensions, of the daybed Billy Baldwin designed for his gloss-brown apartment in Manhattan in the 1960s.

Budget Conscious

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 27 Aug 2008 00:12:00 +0000

In the living room of Billy Baldwin's apartment on Nantucket, Massachusetts, an 18th-century stool was given an inset marble top and used to display an assortment of black-and-gold objects, including an antique snuffbox and a polished chestnut set on an ivory base. Photographs by Ernest Beadle for "House & Garden", April 1979.

Billy Baldwin's last years lacked the grace of his heyday. Beset by illness and increasingly querulous, a senior citizen in an age of disco bunnies, the dean of American decorating's vaunted charm began to slip away, revealing a surprising bitterness that crept across the pages of his posthumous memoir, Billy Baldwin: An Autobiography (Little, Brown, 1985). The book's waspish tone, sycophantic reveries, and occasionally unpleasant observations about his rich and famous clients dismayed his friends.

Surely part of this change in personality was his inexorable decline in circumstances. Tax issues dogged Baldwin throughout the late 1960s, which led to his sudden but aesthetically inspirational move into the small but affordable one-room apartment in the East 60s, the one with the glossy brown walls that became his signature. (One client, Deeda Blair, refused to adopt the colour for her library in Washington, DC, because brown reminded her husband of the hated socks he wore at Groton.) Eventually Baldwin, aged 70, announced his retirement in 1973, a year after the publication of Billy Baldwin Decorates and 21 years after he founded Baldwin & Martin with fellow decorator Edward Martin Jr. By the time of his retirement it had become Baldwin, Martin & Smith, the name change reflecting the addition of associate Arthur E Smith.

Cash-strapped but unbowed, the dapper Baltimore native made a stylish new life in modest but nonetheless picturesque circumstances. After his retirement he took refuge on the Massachusetts isle of Nantucket, where he had long summered. For several seasons he rented a cottage at the Chanticleer Inn in 'Sconset. In 1979, however, Baldwin gave up the cottage and the Manhattan studio, relocating to the town of Nantucket and settling into a duplex apartment in the rear wing of 22 Hussey Street, a gray-shingled historic house owned by the celebrated makeup artist Way Bandy and his novelist/antiques dealer boyfriend, Michael Gardine. (The latter would conduct taped interviews with Baldwin that would become the decorator's autobiography.)

A view of Baldwin's 15-foot-by-16-foot living room in Nantucket.

The same room, other half. The geometric-patterned lining of an Asian coat was transformed into cushions.

Baldwin's living room in recent years, as decorated by later owners. Image from Nantucket Real Estate.

Describing the space as a duplex makes Baldwin's island demesne sound grander than it was. The floor plan was small: a living room measuring 15 feet by 16 feet and a galley kitchen on the ground floor and a slightly smaller bedroom and tiny bath on the floor above, all tucked beneath a peaked roof. On the plus side, the apartment was sunny and had two fireplaces. Baldwin, as an article about his new digs explained in the April 1979 issue of House & Garden, lost no time in putting his stamp on the relatively raw spaces. The brick fireplaces and wainscot were painted white to gather and reflect more sun; the exposed beams and posts, however, were stained dark, giving the effect of Tudor half-timbering. The floor was darkened also, its near-ebony countenance the perfect foil for white cotton summer slipcovers, a finely woven rattan chair, shining brass tent floor lamps by George Hansen, and a handful of antiques, such as a Louis XV black-lacquered table. In winter the slipcovers were removed to reveal tailored upholstery of La Portugaise chintz by Brunschwig & Fils, its broad stripes echoing the dark architectural elements.

The bedroom on the second floor of Baldwin's duplex home.

The bedroom in 2007. Image from Nantucket Real Estate.

The decorator's bedroom was resolutely plain, practically monastic. Against one long wall was a trim daybed upholstered in a tiny geometric cotton print; at its head was a well-stocked drinks tray. Balancing the daybed, across the room, was the long rattan-wrapped writing table that Baldwin used in his Manhattan studio apartment, here unexpectedly paired with a handsome Windsor chair. The overall effect was tidy, chic, and carefully considered.

A Lucite low table held antique bronzes and beach stones.

Luxurious touches were few but choice. There were several poetically spare tablescapes of precious objects plainly arranged, such as an elegant cigarette box clad in mottled tortoiseshell, a bejewelled lizard, a carved Japanese turtle. One table sported a couple of beautifully polished turtle shells; another held a spare arrangement that included a plant in a tôle-peint cachepot and a small oil painting of vegetables.

Nearly 30 years later the only decorative notes that identify the rooms as 1970s creations are a potted false aralia beside the living-room fireplace (it is a weedy plant of no charm whatsoever) and an upholstered ottoman in the bedroom (the fabric-covered bun feet are a dead giveaway).

Obviously House & Garden made no mention of Baldwin's reduced circumstances but no perceptive reader could fail to sense the subtext of penury, however stylish the minimal interiors appeared. That doesn't mean lessons aren't here to be learned.

Baldwin made a great show of personal restraint, expressing his determination not to acquire anything new, except presents from friends, a comment that, if anything, reflects a certain lack of funds rather than a rigorous design philosophy. It is not difficult to imagine the denial it took for Baldwin to state, as he did of the vest-pocket spot that would be his last home, "If you decorate with what really reflects your taste and personality, dimensions cease to be a matter of concern". Whatever the back story behind the statement, the words are well worth considering, especially in this age of straitened budgets. Why yearn for larger rooms when a small space can be fashioned into something beautiful?

Well Said: Nancy Mitford

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Mon, 25 Aug 2008 20:36:00 +0000

"In England the women are elegant until they are ten years old and perfect on grand occasions; in France a few women are entirely elegant always; in American most women are smart and impeccable, but with too much of an accent on immaturity for real elegance. The Latin American woman dressed in Paris is the very height of perfection, however."

So wrote the British novelist Nancy Mitford (1904—1973) in her 1951 Atlantic Monthly essay, Chic—English, French, and American.

One might disagree with the Hon Miss Mitford's observations but her words ... how very perceptive, no?

Cooking With Class

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 19:51:00 +0000

Deep within the cookery book genre are recipe collections that serious cooks (and cooks who take themselves seriously) tend to avoid. These are filled with the favourite dishes of celebrities, socialites, titled individuals, top hostesses, and other fortunate folk not especially noted for their prowess at the stove. The books are not serious explorations of cuisine, fine or otherwise, and very often their directions can be somewhat vague, assuming that the reader understands certain techniques or (more likely) employs a cook who does.

I own more than my fair share, from Charleston Receipts (published by the Junior League of Charleston since 1950) to Food in Vogue by Maxime de La Falaise (1980). And I've a manila folder containing recipes from the rich and famous gleaned from period fashion magazines. Do I actually make them? Yes, depending on my mood and the guest list, because sometimes you want a course or two that is interesting, campy, or just plain oddball.

Martha Mitchell (1918-1976), a.k.a. "The Mouth of the South", wife of John Mitchell, U.S. Attorney General under Richard Nixon. Described as "mercurial, volatile, candid, and outspoken", this Arkansas belle was famous for her late-night telephone calls to journalists during the Watergate scandal. Recipe from "Profiles and Caviar" by Margery Lewis Cox and Norma Frost Hurley (Washington, DC: Andromeda Books, 1972)..

MARTHA MITCHELL'S SHRIMP SALAD LOAF

2 envelopes unflavoured gelatin

1/2 cup cold water

1 cup finely chopped celery

3 cups cooked shrimp, coarsely chopped (2# uncooked shrimp)

1-1/2 teaspoons salt

1 cup finely chopped green pepper

1/4 cup catsup

2 cups sour cream

1/4 cup lemon juice

1/4 cup horseradish

Soften gelatin in cold water. Dissolve over hot water and cool slightly. Combine shrimp, pepper, and celery in a large bowl. Combine remaining ingredients and dissolved gelatin. Pour into buttered 9" by 5" loaf pan or 8" mold. Chill until firm. Unmold to serve.

Mamie Eisenhower (1896—1979), First Lady of the United States from 1953 to 1961 and devotée of pert bangs and massive skirts. Recipe from "Profiles and Caviar" by Margery Lewis Cox and Norma Frost Hurley (Washington, DC: Andromeda Books, 1972).

MAMIE'S MILLION-DOLLAR FUDGE

4-1/2 cups sugar

2 tablespoons butter

1 tall can evaporated milk

12 oz. semisweet chocolate bits

12 oz. German sweet chocolate

1 pint marshmallow cream

2 cups nut meats

Boil the sugar, salt, butter, and evaporated milk together for 6 minutes. Put chocolate bits and German chocolate, marshmallow cream, and nut meats in a bowl. Pour the boiling syrup over the ingredients and beat until the chocolate is entirely melted; pour in pan. Let stand for a few hours before cutting. Remember, it is better the second day! Store in a tin box.

Nancy Lancaster (1897—1994), owner of Sibyl Colefax & John Fowler, the London decorators. Recipe from "Lady Maclean's Cook Book" by Lady (Valerie) Maclean (London: Collins, 1966). The dish is one created by Lancaster's aunt Irene, the wife of Gibson Girl artist Charles Dana Gibson.

MRS GIBSON'S EGG DISH

Medium-sized baking dish (served in same)

10 hardboiled eggs

15 spring onions fried in butter

Butter

Breadcrumbs

Thin cream

Salt and pepper

Butter baking dish. Separate egg whites and yolks. Put in baking dish a layer of breadcrumbs, a layer of egg whites, a layer of egg yolks, a layer of onions, butter, salt, and pepper, until the dish is full. Add enough cream to fill the dish. Bake in moderate oven until done and brown.

Wife of British artist Sir Oswald Birley, Rhoda Birley (née Lecky Pike, 1898/1900—1980) was an eccentric Irish beauty and talented gardener best known today for her high-profile descendants: her children (club owner Mark Birley, fashion plate Maxime de La Falaise), her grandchildren (Yves Saint Laurent muse Loulou de La Falaise, architect Alexis de La Falaise), and her great-granddaughter (fashion model Lucie de La Falaise). Photograph by Valerie Finnis. Recipe from "Lady Maclean's Cook Book" by Lady (Valerie) Maclean (London: Collins, 1966).

LADY BIRLEY'S PRAWN OR SHRIMP CURRY

4 tablespoons butter

1 large onion, finely chopped

1/2 cup of apple, finely chopped

1/2 cup of celery, finely chopped

1-1/2 cups of water

3# of small prawns or shrimps, boiled and cleaned

2 tablespoons curry powder

1 pint of cream

2 teaspoons honey [reserve]

Salt and pepper to taste

Put the butter in a frying pan. When melted add the onion, apple, and celery. Simmer these, then add the water. Let all simmer gently until the apple and the celery are tender and most of the liquid has cooked away. Stir into the mixture the seasonings. Add the cream and prawns or shrimps. Cook gently until the cream is reduced to a sauce. Serve with rice, slightly curried with the 2 teaspoons of honey added to it. This can also be served with small bowls of chutney, slivered almonds, pine nuts, and pickled peaches or watermelon.

One of the celebrated Mitford girls, the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire (born 1920 and shown at the center of the photograph above, in dark jacket) is an author and lecturer. With her late husband, Andrew Cavendish, the 11th duke, she made the family seat, Chatsworth, into one of England's most popular country-house destinations. Recipe from "Lady Maclean's Cook Book" by Lady (Valerie) Maclean (London: Collins, 1966).

THE DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE'S FISH SOUP

Start with three good-sized haddocks. Lay aside the best parts of two and boil and stock the rest of the fish head, bones, etc, for two hours with an onion and savoury herbs. Skim and strain. Thicken with a very little flour, butter, and cream, and season with pepper and a little cayenne. Add the pieces of fish and boil gently till ready. Just before serving add an egg well beaten.

Daughter and granddaughter of Standard Oil directors and dubbed one of the top 20 socialites of all time by New York magazine, Margaret Wright Bedford (1932—1977) was a significantly well-married member of the international fête set. Her first husband was textile executive and Chase Manhattan banking heir Thomas Bancroft, her second the Prince-Duc d'Arenberg, and her third the Duc d'Uzès, the premier duke of France. Photograph by Slim Aarons from Viewimages. Recipe from "Food in Vogue" by Maxime de La Falaise (Doubleday, 1980).

THE DUCHESS D'UZES'S SOUFFLE DE PAMPLEPOUSSE

Serves 6

3 large grapefruits

1 ounce cornstarch

2 tablespoons milk

7 ounces sugar

3 eggs, separated

3 additional egg whites

Preheat oven to 400 degrees Farenheit. Cut the grapefruits in half and spoon out the pulp without damaging the rinds; set aside the empty rinds. Press all the juice out of the pulp and strain it. Pour the cornstarch into the milk a little at a time and mix well until smooth. Add the grapefruit juice and the sugar and mix. Cook until thickened over a low heat; remove from heat. Beat the egg yolks and mix into the soufflé base. Beat the 6 egg whites until stiff and fold in gently. Fill the grapefruit rinds with the soufflé mixture and set them on a baking sheet. Bake about 15 minutes or until delicately firm and lightly browned. Serve hot.

Make A Splash

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 17:49:00 +0000

A lap pool in Marin County, California. Photograph by Bernard Sklar for "The New York Times".

Recently my spouse and I were talking about one day, someday, installing a pool at our house. We don't need a pool—who actually does?—but being able to sink into cool water on a stifling summer's day is a fantasy that dogs us daily.

The pool each of us has in mind is pretty much the same. A discreet tank, a sheet of water set flush with the surrounding grass, tailored and trim but basically one sophisticated step up from a horse trough. It would, of course, be lined with something dark, stained concrete, perhaps, so it would reflect the passing clouds and seem as unobtrusive as a pond or a sheet of mirror. A sort of rustic American version of the French place d'eau.

Rather like this 80-foot-long lap pool tucked into a meadow in Marin County, California, which resembles an old building foundation filled with water. Designed by garden designer Bernard Trainor, it is featured in Stephen Orr's article about sustainable design in today's New York Times Home section. Read about it here.

He's Ba-a-a-a-ck!

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Thu, 21 Aug 2008 14:56:00 +0000

The little brown cloud from the 8000 block of NW 120th Street in Potwin, Kansas, is back. Using the registered-user name "None". You have been warned.

Cyberbullying. Sigh.

Eye Candy

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Wed, 20 Aug 2008 19:31:00 +0000

Forgive me. I know this photograph of food heartthrob Jamie Deen has nothing to do with design. Unless we're talking intelligent design. (The soul patch, however, has got to go.)

Excuse me while I get a cold compress and lay down for a moment.

Well Said: Alice Roosevelt Longworth

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 21:38:00 +0000

"I have a simple philosophy: Fill what's empty. Empty what's full. Scratch where it itches.”

So said Alice Roosevelt Longworth (1884—1980), eldest daughter of President Theodore Roosevelt, tart-tongued Washington hostess, and civil-rights activist.

But arguably my favourite Longworth quote comes from a story about her being driven to an appointment in New York City in 1965 by her African-American chauffeur, Turner.

In a story reported by her biographer Stacy A Cordery, Mrs Longworth's limousine was sideswiped by a taxi, and the taxi driver shouted at Turner, "Watch where you're going, you black bastard!" Whereupon Mrs Longworth rolled down her window and shouted back, "Shut up, you white son-of-a-bitch!"

Enquiring Minds

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 17:23:00 +0000

Hyde Hall, near Cooperstown, New York, constructed between 1817 and 1834 for George Clarke, an English landowner, by Philip Hooker, an Albany architect.

What's your favourite architectural style? And why?

Though I find much to admire in a variety of buildings, from International Style to High Victorian, I have to admit that neoclassicism and its variations please me no end, especially the stern stone examples.

Neoclassical houses have everything I admire, structurally speaking—rationalism, symmetry, strength, solidity, masculinity, and directness, whether it is a residence built in Scotland or on the shore of an American lake. Something about their severity reminds me of the novels Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights, which I read ceaselessly as a child.

Cairness House, Lonmay, near Fraserburgh, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. Built in the 1780s and remodelled between 1791 and 1797 by James Playfair and Sir John Soane, it is the home of Khalil Hafiz Khairallah and Julio Soriano-Ruíz, who have been restoring the house since they purchased it in 2000.

Well Said: Mitza Bricard

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 00:47:00 +0000

"When a man says he wants to send you flowers, say, My florist is Cartier".

So said Mitza Bricard (1900—1977), mistress to many, muse to Capt. Edward Molyneux and Christian Dior. The latter described her "as one of those rare people for whom elegance is their sole raison d'être".

Whatever Happened To ...?

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Sat, 16 Aug 2008 11:59:00 +0000

Mad scientist Dr Frank N. Furter (Tim Curry, left) and the monster he loved, Rocky Horror (Peter Hinwood, right) in "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" (1975).

Surely you have seen The Rocky Horror Picture Show, a vibrant, campy 1975 movie musical that put a transvestite spin on Mary Shelley's Frankenstein. And if you have seen the film it is unlikely you have forgotten the title character, described as "a muscle man with blond hair and a tan", who was created as a love object by and for the corseted transvestite Dr Frank N. Furter. Portrayed by British model Peter Hinwood, Rocky Horror was sexually confused, endearingly dim, improbably blond, and wore nothing more than gold-lamé undies and a light coating of baby oil.

Now fast-forward 33 years and get yourself to the nearest newsagent. There you will find the September 2008 issue of The World of Interiors. See the cover? An exotic London interior with echoes of Tangier and Turkey and a gobsmacking array of furnishings ranging from Iznik tiles to a gilded Georgian table to a Victorian armchair covered with a brilliant red-and-white-striped slipcover? That is the home of the one-time Rocky Horror, now a senior citizen who hung up his gold-lamé long ago.

Distressed by the attention he got after playing a largely mute sexual plaything, Peter Hinwood abandoned acting to work under-the-radar for the brilliant, influential antiques dealer Christopher Gibbs. "I just hung around in gold swimming trunks all day," he explains of his career change. "I never lived down the image of being stupid. After that I went to work with Christopher in his Bond Street shop and have led a reclusive life ever since."

Today Hinwood, now 62, is an interior decorator of extraordinary verve, and the 12-page article written by The World of Interiors' editor in chief Rupert Thomas and photographed by Fritz von der Schulenburg, is a fine tribute and an invaluable inspiration.

Apartment Therapy

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 20:51:00 +0000

The tented room in the apartment of Charles Demorny, a.k.a. Count Charles de Morny, in Rue de Verneuil, Paris. Oil painting by Eugène Ferdinand Victor Delacroix, circa 1833, in the collection of the Louvre.

So much has been written about the influence of Napoléon Bonaparte on the history of interior decoration. And for good reason. Thanks to the little Corsican's imperial grasp of effective marketing, he legitimized his dynasty through highly effective decors created by Percier and Fontaine, who had previous worked for Marie-Antoinette. Golden bees, symbols of industry, were woven into the emperor's upholstery. The ill-tempered and highly dangerous swan was tamed, aesthetically speaking, to become an emblem of Napoléon's trendsetting first empress, the physically alluring though dentally challenged Joséphine; its arching neck outlined the curves of sleigh beds and its feathered wings, essayed in carved giltwood, embraced elegant armchairs. And where would design history be without the Egyptian-influenced architecture and furniture that followed Bonaparte's invasion of Egypt?

But what of the tastemaking qualities of the other branches of the Bonaparte family tree? The emperor's round-heeled sister Pauline Borghese possessed a certain lascivious chic and was an expert at wearing dresses that exposed impressive amounts of snow-white poitrine. And apparently the only other members of the Italian clan who had any noticeable impact on interior design were Napoléon III, the emperor's namesake nephew, and his Spanish wife, Eugénie, an ill-matched couple whose flashy-tacky reign was characterized by Louis XVI Revival interiors and masses of plump buttontufting.

Little, however, has been written about the personal style of the emperor's nephew Charles Demorny. The one known image of his apartment in Paris, in rue de Verneuil, depicts a room that I could move into without hesitation and change nothing. Painted by Demorny's friend the artist Eugène Delacroix and obviously influenced by Napoléon's campaign-style decors of 30 years earlier, the room (it appears to be a bedroom/study) is decorated in the manner of a tent, the walls and ceiling covered in blue-and-white-striped fabric. Furthering the on-the-march atmosphere is a rich red fabric that has been draped from carved poles to create an alcove for a bed. Hugging the carpeted floor is a plumply cushioned platform for lounging that recalls traditional Turkish or North African banquettes—Demorny, barely 21, had recently served with the French army in Algeria, which might have been the inspiration for this piece of furniture—and alongside it is a leopard skin. The walls are hung with portraits and landscapes, and various bits of military paraphernalia are on display, from a French horn to a sheathed sword to a curved dagger. A plum-and-ruby-colored paisley coverlet dresses the bed, which is probably mahogany.

Charles Auguste Louis Joseph Demorny, created 1st Duc de Morny in 1862.

Esteemed as "gay without levity, well-read without pedantry, and good-looking without vanity", Demorny had a complicated identity. His birth certificate identified him as the son of a planter from the French colony of Saint-Domingue, but the Switzerland-born bon vivant and diplomat (1811—1862) actually was the bastard son of Napoléon Bonaparte's stepdaughter/sister-in-law, Hortense, Queen of Holland, and her lover, Charles, Comte de Flahaut de La Billarderie. Everyone knew his parentage but didn't know quite what to call him; after all, the son of a deposed queen surely required more than a mere Monsieur before his surname.

Polite society's solution was to call this semi-Bonaparte sprig the Comte de Morny, a spurious title with no basis in fact but which provided cover and cachet for most of his life. Demorny eventually became an authentic nobleman in 1862—five years after he married a Russian princess, which upped his social ante in a major way—when his half-brother Napoléon III made him the 1st Duc de Morny. He expired just three years later, after having made various marks in the business world, from making a fortune in beet-sugar refining to becoming a pioneer of French horse racing.

In his youth the so-called count fell under the spell of North Africa, where he served with the French army in Algeria. And that passion mightily influenced his friend the artist Eugène Delacroix, who toured Morocco with Demorny from January to July 1831 and found his head turned by the country's brilliant colors and desert landscapes. Dazzled, he began painting Orientalist landscapes and interiors, works that were some of the most exciting of his career. Delacroix also visited a harem on the trip, an experience that so discombobulated the painter that he was served cold sorbets to calm down.

Also painted by Delacroix in 1833, a watercolor of the same room.

Delacroix's images of Demorny's room illustrate a space that is pretty timeless. All it needs is a couple of lamps to bring it into the present century. I am going to be closely studying the painting's details as I work on a small room in our apartment. For several months it has been used as a guest room and inhabited by one of my spouse's cousins, a recent college graduate. Now said relative has found a job on a newspaper in Oklahoma and will be packing up. Which means I can begin planning a home office imbued, I hope, with a bit of Demorny drama.

A Fitting End

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Fri, 08 Aug 2008 15:04:00 +0000

Today's post on The Peak of Chic is about dinners à deux, and she includes a delicious sour-cream soufflé recipe from the late, great American fashion designer Bill Blass. Last night, curiously enough, I was going to post a dessert recipe that I find particularly toothsome, so in the spirit of blogging camaraderie, as well as acknowledging that great minds think alike, here it is, from the August/September issue of Vogue Entertaining + Travel.

The recipe is what graces the cover, which is shown above. I plan on making it this week-end, so have converted the UK measurements via Convert Units and Gourmet Sleuth.

LEMON MOUSSE WITH CITRUS CURD

Serves 6

1 pink grapefruit

2 oranges

1 lemon

1 lime

Amaretti biscuits, to serve

Citrus Curd

175g (3/4 cup) caster or superfine sugar

3 eggs, lightly beaten

125g (1/2 cup) unsalted butter, chopped

Juice of 3 lemons

Lemon Mousse

180ml lemon juice (6 fluid ounces, about 3 lemons)

150g (a little less than 3/4 cup) caster or superfine sugar

2 x 5g titanium-strength gelatine leaves (equals 1/2 teaspoon granulated)

300ml (1-1/4 cups) pouring cream (the US substitute would be a single cream with no less than 18% butterfat)

Directions

For citrus curd, whisk all ingredients continuously in a heatproof bowl over a saucepan of simmering water until thick and glossy. Spoon into an airtight container and refrigerate until chilled. Makes about 1-3/4 cups.

For lemon mousse, place lemon juice, sugar, and 250ml (1 cup) water in a saucepan and bring to the boil, stirring to dissolve sugar.

Soak gelatine leaves (or granulated gelatine) in cold water for 2 to 3 minutes to soften, then stir into the lemon mixture until dissolved. Place the mixture over a bowl of iced water and stir occasionally until cold. This step is important; otherwise, when the cream is folded in, the two mixtures will separate into two layers. Using an electric mixer, whisk cream just to soft peaks, then gently fold into the lemon mixture until combined. The mixture will be quite loose.

Spoon citrus curd among 6 x 300ml glasses—you can use double old-fashioned glasses if you like or anything clear-glass container that will hold around 10 fluid ounces—and top with mousse. Refrigerate for 4 hours, or overnight, until set.

To serve, cut the peel and the pith from the citrus fruits. Holding each fruit over a bowl, cut between membranes and fruits to release segments and collect juices. Spoon some of the fruit segments and juices over each mousse and serve with amaretti biscuits.

Well Spent: Oak-Tree Chandelier

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Thu, 07 Aug 2008 15:12:00 +0000

Fantasy is a good thing. But when fantasy is allied with craftsmanship exceptional things happen. Among them is the Oak Tree chandelier, a contemporary custom-made metal light fixture by Charles Saunders Antiques, a shop on Fulham Road in London.

So many romantic things come to mind when I look at this—Ludwig of Bavaria's castles, an 18th-century fête champêtre, little Swedish girls dressed as Santa Lucia, Druid gatherings, hermitages, and the heirloom crystal chandelier of a friend, who threads it with curious branches.

Where to hang this arboreal lovely, you ask? Why not three down a long hall or one above a dining table or in an entrance hall?

Measuring 48 inches high by 48 inches in diameter, the Oak-Tree chandelier costs £8,850, which is approximately US $17,210. I know it's pricey, but isn't it ravishing?

Well worth gutting one's 401K, I think.

Well Said: Billy Baldwin

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 22:26:00 +0000

A must-have for any self-respecting aesthete: "Billy Baldwin Decorates" (Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1973).

"The word that almost makes me throw up is satin".

So the cotton-loving American interior decorator Billy Baldwin (1903—1983) told The New York Times in 1975. He followed that up by noting damask actually did make him vomit.

Nota bene: Thanks to The Peak of Chic for posting today about Baldwin and inspiring me to find something sassy uttered by the tastemaker we all revere.

One More For the Road

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 16:35:00 +0000

A rendering of the Bar Mark at The Mark hotel in New York City. The space is being remodelled by French designer Count Guy de Rougemont.

A friend and I once vowed to spend every Friday night after work at a different hotel bar—sipping martinis, nibbling cashews, trading banter, experiencing another part of town. We managed to do this only three or four times before realizing that our schedules, family commitments, and week-end plans made such regular gatherings difficult if not impossible. But I still dream of incorporating into my life a civilized hour, once a week, metaphorically bellying up to a stylish bar and indulging in an apéritif before heading home.

I have had many crushes on hotel bars, those spaces I think of as a city's public living rooms, open to all who mind their manners and have an appreciation for a grown-up experience. As for their decors, I think they should be straight out of a John Cheever short story: shadowy and on the quiet side, with lots of darkly polished wood and some mirrors to lighten the gloom, a bit of crystal here and there. Splashy, sexy, loud bars don't do it for me nor do the sort of people who frequent them. I want to be able to talk, not shout.

For a long time I was a devoté of the Oak Bar at The Plaza in New York City, where the martinis were smooth, the view of Central Park was picturesque, and the waiters middle-aged and a bit gruff, which only made the experience seem a throwback to grey-flannel-suit days. It has been closed for a while but is expected to reopen at an unspecified date this fall.

I also had a soft spot for the bar at The Mark, a hotel in New York City. The Mark's bar was a vest-pocket retreat, with comfortable flowered chairs and loveseats nestled into mirrored walls, a place where one could imagine one's self rich, carefree, and seductive—the room was rather dimly lit, which made everyone seem alluring. The hotel, however, has been revamped by Jacques Grange, the great French interior decorator, and the bar has been coolly rechristened Bar Mark and is being reimagined by Count Guy de Rougemont, a French designer whose cloud-shaped Nuage cocktail table was all the rage in the late 1960s. That all sounds a bit groovy for me. So I've begun my search for the perfect cocktail perch once more.

Recently I've found myself visiting the sky-high MObar at the Mandarin Oriental, which is especially fine if you are seated facing a window that offers a German Expressionist-style overlapping of various neighboring buildings, from mirror-faced to stone-clad. But I'm not in love with it yet. It's just a bit loud, which my spouse and I discovered when we met friends from Sweden there, and the design of the space is underwhelming.

So tell me, wherever you may live: What is the hotel bar to which you gravitate? And why?

Brand Identity

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 05:31:00 +0000

The bookplate of a friend's grandfather, made in the 1930s and pasted into each volume of his library of contemporary murder mysteries.

During the long week-end that my family and I spent at the lake house of friends I had a lot of time to dig through its bookcases. Reading is arguably my primary joy in life—the day my eyesight goes is the day I go into an uncorrectable funk—so whilst everybody was tubing or fishing or lounging on a very secluded private beach, I parked myself indoors in a large rattan armchair, with a stack of books and a gin-and-tonic to one side and a firm pillow tucked into the small of my back.

One particular genre with which our friends' house is fully equipped is murder mysteries. You name a thriller author, and they likely have it: Agatha Christie, E. Phillips Oppenheim, Ngaio Marsh, Raymond Chandler, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle—the parade of classic writers go on and on. Nearly all the mysteries are first editions bearing pristine book jackets with 1920s and 1930s fonts and evocative illustrations of ladies in cloches and period motor cars and the like. And almost all bear the bookplate of our host's grandfather, and it is a very unusual one indeed. The printed image is a stern, forceful sketch of said ancestor, firm of jaw and wearing a coat and tie; it is an appealing departure from the norm.

If you could have a bookplate made to your taste, what image would it display? (And if you do have an unusual custom-made bookplate, tell us about it.) Mine would be a sketch of a spiky thistle, a plant that blooms all over our property and which occasionally—just occasionally, mind you—reflects the prickly side of my personality.

Floor Show

noreply@blogger.com (An Aesthete's Lament) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 13:34:00 +0000

A custom-made rag rug in a house decorated by William Diamond and Anthony Baratta. Photograph from Diamond Baratta Design.

For years I never understood the appeal of rag rugs and their homespun brethren, hooked rugs. My mother's passion for these eluded me as a child, but my father thought them beyond the pale, just the sort of thing he—a rancher's son anxious to make a sophsticated mark in a wider world—was trying to jettison from his life. The rugs' craftsmanship was easy to appreciate, of course, but the actual objects, at least those around our house, were fusty, countrified, and quite unexciting (and I was too young to have known the colorful ones Sister Parish made popular with clients in the 1960s). I wanted everything new and fresh and modern and wow. Rag and hooked rugs had none of those attributes.

Handwoven rag rugs made of cotton and clothing scraps from Shaker Workshops.

One’s taste changes as one ages, of course. A dozen years ago rag rugs got a bright future thanks to the designers William Diamond and Anthony Baratta. The majestically-sized, modern-minded versions they have made for clients are woven in bold colours and with stronger contrasts than the earth-tone variety I remember covered my family’s floors in the mid 1970s. I have recently found equally bold rag rugs made near me, in the country, by Amish women, and I have bought a few for our house out in the middle of nowhere.

Hooked rugs, however, have taken me more time to appreciate. There is something spongy about their texture that always feels odd underfoot; their weight and thickness also are offputting. But the designs are nearly always delightful, especially the folk-arty variety. My mother-in-law has brought several into our house, and their naïvete is strangely seductive.

Detail of a 1920s album-style hooked rug, with motifs ranging from Japanese lanterns to pansies to pine trees.

Friends of ours own a lake house that has been in the husband's family for three generations. Since the late 1920s the wives have scattered a delightful range of handmade hooked rugs across its pine and ash plank floors. (All of them were handmade by others, mind you.) My spouse and I spent a long week-end there recently, and since I had the digital camera, I snapped a pictures of some of my favourite designs. This week-end I bought a rag-rug pattern on eBay and plan to make it as a Christmas gift for our friends. It has a pattern of bluebirds, which the couple will like, I think, since they are major birdwatchers.

A larger view of the 1920s album-style hooked rug, which is actually about 6 feet long by 4 feet wide.