NICK HAUS

I couldn't have said it better myself.

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Tue, 08 May 2012 15:15:00 +0000

"Mr. Sendak was at his finest a shtetl Blake, portraying a luminous world, at once lovely and dreadful, suspended between wakefulness and dreaming. In so doing, he was able to convey both the propulsive abandon and the pervasive melancholy of children’s interior lives." here

Glorious Weeds

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Fri, 04 May 2012 14:00:00 +0000

I hemmed and hawed and finally pulled about 50 thistles from the lawn, but got lazy and left the ones nearest to the fence for another day; this morning, they looked like this: Shit. NOT thistles, but poppies. Glorious, weird, opiate poppies. Honestly, nothing has the right to be this absurdly beautiful. I half hate myself for my weeding zeal -- I've run out of dandelions and prickly lettuce and buckhorn plantain, and I moved on to the "thistles" that had managed to escape the purge of other weeds. Sigh.

R.I.P. Agnes Heywood, Dear Grandmother.

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 05:43:00 +0000

My dear grandmother, Agnes Kathryn Heywood nee Weiler, died Tuesday at noon. In infancy she survived a bomb blast intended to kill her entire family in Cheyenne, Wyoming, but was ultimately taken down by age. She was 97.

Her first memory was of the train-side fanfare surrounding the return of troop from World War I. Until very recently, her mind was sharp and almost terrifyingly complete -- she could recall with perfect clarity the guests at dinner parties she attended in the 1940s. Her love of conversation and genuine interest in people was boundless. Well into her 90s, any event I attended with her ended only after she had made the acquaintance of everyone in the room, learning their circumstances and picking up intuitively on what topics of conversation might interest each, along with what would make them most comfortable. All anyone wanted to talk about after meeting her was how lovely and fascinating my grandmother was. She was a true social animal.

The time we had together was some of the happiest of my childhood. I was lucky enough to spend a few summers with her and my grandfather. My grandmother would send me out to cut flowers from the gardens which we would then spend hours arranging; we would carefully go through all the jewelry in her dressing room, pulling everything from the safe and the secret compartment hidden in the bathroom cabinetry; she would insist I bathe in the sunken tub in her bathroom, using an antique ewer to play with the water; we would polish the silver together, a task I still enjoy because it reminds me of her.

We would visit her friends and on the drive over she would say, "Nicky, compliment Bethy on her ring and she'll show you the rest of her jewels. She has the best diamonds in Omaha," or "On the way to the bathroom, look in the atrium -- she keeps a Della Robbia out there." There was always the feeling of conspiracy to our conversations, and I loved her very dearly.

Her favorite places were beautiful and far away -- Rome and the surrounding countryside, which she used to explore with her driver and good friend Bruno (I still have the pasta maker and Etruscan head he gave her in the 1950s), Los Angeles, which she knew most in the 1930s (before smog, still awash in stars and orange groves), as it was the last stop on the railroad she was a stewardess for prior to marriage, and New York, where she went often with my Grandfather for medical conferences. I never visited any of these places with her, but my own experience in each started with the memories she imparted to me, and it is in these places that I imagine her now.

In some ways I am like her, but not enough.

I did pass ...

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Wed, 22 Feb 2012 14:50:00 +0000

and now, since we're not worried about looking capable, I think I need red lacquered shoes:

The key, I think, is to wear them with an otherwise completely prosaic outfit. They remind me of these ammmmmmmaaaaaaaaaazzzzzzzing Dr. Martens (which, despite their recent resurgence, I almost entirely despise) that were vividly colored in primary hues (plus green), everything in one bright color: sole in matching colored rubber, eyelets enameled, laces DTM. They were in some English store or other, on sale, and I didn't buy them. Never to be seen again. Wait, I've found an image:

They were called "Dr Martens Primary Pascal 8 Eye" and I still want a pair. But those more subtle reds depicted at the top of the post are just as good, and certainly more wearable. Found here, care of Todd Snyder.

My Most Capable Looking Outfit

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 15:02:00 +0000

Believe it or not, my driving test is today, after 13 years of putting it off. I've always lived in urban areas and never bothered to learn how to drive, not to mention that I much prefer various forms of public transit (ferries, trains, buses, in descending order of preference).

So: what is my most capable looking outfit? Will I pass? And will I end up with Paul Rudd after a series of comic mishaps? Boring blue shirt and jean, maybe, and probably not. Only time will tell...

But if a fail, I'll just go back to my public transit ways. Maybe I'll run into charming Jonathon Richman.

Isn't it so fantastic he uses the word swain? When's the last time you heard that one?

Y Bwythyn Bach or Little House

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

In truth, for years I have dreamt of having a little house next to my normal sized house -- I've looked at impractically tiny houses with the thought that perhaps I could do away this a main house altogether, but when it comes down to it, I need my little house to be a retreat. Thus my recent focus on restoring our little outbuilding.

But where did I get this notion, of a little house? There are a few possibilities, a strong contender being Y Bwythyn Bach:

"In March 1932, on the occasion of Princess Elizabeth's sixth birthday, when the Duke and Duchess of York had started work on the grounds of Royal Lodge, a little straw-thatched cottage, 'Y Bwthyn Bach', (The Little House), was presented to Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret in the name of the people of Wales. The gift was received by The Duke and Duchess of York in a ceremony at Cardiff on behalf of the young princesses. It was subsequently re-erected in the gardens of Royal Lodge in April 1932 and was furnished both inside and out. It had its own front garden with scaled down hedges and flower borders. The cottage survives to this day much to the delight of royal children visiting Royal Lodge."

here

I recall hearing about it during a documentary on Queen Elizabeth when I was 6, and ever since I've been smitten.

My Little Shed, With Little Men

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

You only realize how diminutive the scale is when there are figures all over it. Meet Dave, and his assistant Clayton, both of whom worked through all of my absurd concerns:

The ridge of the roof was so very off kilter mainly because the building had no ridge beam, only a series of independent rafters joined at an angle. Charming though this was, it had failed terribly over time, and a ridge beam had to be introduced:

Additionally, collar ties, or horizontal structural members, were added on both sides of each rafter. Though I was repeatedly assured these were unnecessary, I'm a belt and suspenders guy, and I never want to address this problem again.

I'd also like to show this odd little detail that as of yet I haven't mentioned:

This slotted stone is the stoop to the outbuilding (temporarily removed to jack up that side of the building); story goes, a past owner was friends with the caretaker of a cemetery (likely the lovely North Cemetery) who would give him obsolete stones. This stone was the foundation for a state tombstone, which would have been fitted into this slot.

We have several others in the yard, and large slabs of slate and white marble that I need to turn over -- no text is visible on any of them, but doubtless hidden somewhere.

My Little Shed, Naked

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Stripped bare of its roof, the poor thing. This cockeyed roofline was one of many problems needing correction:

I must admit a certain fascination with the interior during all of this -- one of those beautiful moments never to be seen again:

Tableau Vivant

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Alanna's Marat:

After this one:

I can't claim to have witnessed the performance, but I was around for the too-much-champagne, dancing, chair-carrying mess of a fun wedding that led to this late night tableau vivant.

Uh, happy Valentine's Day? No, this story doesn't relate at all, but maybe I thought of it because of the love-fueled gaiety of the wedding that day. Nice bit of post-rationalizing, that.

Lonely She-Wolf

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Lost, and with neither Romulus nor Remus, on the Blvd. Saint Germain:

Oddly, this relief produced in me an acute melancholy. The stance of the she-wolf, tail straight down, ears up and head raised in expectation, longing or searching. It made me think of all the empty nesters, of my parents without me and my brother, of all my friend's parent who now live alone.

Maybe I was in this mood because of the rain, or because I hadn't had lunch, or that the Dries Van Noten shop was closed and we couldn't find Deyrolle. There were a lot of very serious problems at the time.

House Update: Green Painting In Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Soooo behind on posting images of our house, but here are a few of the progress shots from the epic painting of the room with the fireplace -- as always, Steven and I were assisted by Steve Sr., Steven's dad.

The color is less violent than it appears in this image, though it does have some vim and vigor.

It's Cottage Green by California Paints, from their Historic Colors of New England line. We weren't manic about using historic colors, but liked the look of it -- this was the 5th green we tested.

We started out with Seascape Jade, also California paints, as it's the exact color used in the Golden Steps dining Room at Beauport, but that color looked completely insane in our room.

We toned it down quite a bit, and now it's closer to a true verdegris. The white on the walls is a color I mixed myself and had matched -- that seriously took like 8 or 10 tries.

I promise you, I used to make fun of people agonizing over whites, but I get it now.

A Slow Dribble, Please: The Mossy Rocks of Aix

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

I have to admit something ... I don't like fountains. Or really, I should qualify: I don't care for water thrown artificially into the air -- no Jet d'eau or Buckingham Fountain for me, thank you. I do however love a still pool, or water flowing in a stream (a la Villa Lante or the Alhambra). But what I enjoy most is a slow drip, the sort of mossy dampness of a good old grotto.

As far as I'm concerned, these mossy old rocks are perfection:

Lovely. Aix en Provence, August, 2011.

Urban Endangered Species. Also, Mark Hearld.

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Have I told you about they squirrels in our outbuilding? No? Well, they're very cute, and the scamper around a lot, and Aesop the Cat loves watching them, and they chewed three large holes through the roof of my outbuilding. Also, completely stripped about 4 feet of electrical wiring (thank god it was disconnected) -- how much will it cost to fix all this? Let's just say I could visit London for a few months for less. With airfare.

I don't get it -- Squirrels, I have been your champion! As a child, I read an article in National Geographic about how squirrels were the urban endangered species, and ever since I've done everything to support squirrel's rights. I have to say, they look a lot less cute to me now.

Nonetheless, I do find the latest Mark Hearld print offered from St. Jude's quite charming. Less so the actual squirrels in my yard.

More Nautical Melancholy, This Time in Newport

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

The week after Christmas, all of the Chicago Heywoods (plus Steven) trekked out to Newport to look at the seals in the Bay. Out of curiosity, we visited the Seamen's Church Institute of Newport, and I discovered the marvelous little chapel while trying to find the bathroom:

Every surface in the small room is mosaic, terrazzo or fresco -- a jewel box, with the dull grey light off the water; a little bit melancholy, but so beautiful. Little cushions with needlepoint seashells line a low bench of stone set into the walls:

It reminded me of being underwater -- it had that feeling of stillness and filtered light. The frescoes are pretty great, too -- here a very specific dog, certainly a portrait, gives St. Roch (who protects against storms) a biscuit. It is said that St. Roch was nursed through a life threatening illness by a dog:

Oh, Gio

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

I've had a design crush on Gio Ponti for years, but it has gone into overdrive in the last 6 months -- Wright sold an amazing number of objects from the Villa Arreaza in Caracas that had me drooling for days, and I seem to keep running into his works. Late august I spied these marvelous jars in Milan:

The same room had a masterwork portrait by Ribera -- I didn't even bother trying to photograph it, knowing how poorly it would translate. But trust me ...

I'm painting the diagonal brickwork pattern found on these jars in the back of a bookcase built into our upstairs hall ( a la Charleston) -- love it.

This beauty would have looked quite fine on our downstairs mantle; we need nautical crap with an edge. No pleasure craft, this -- try a ghost ship come to get you:

Reminds me of lacquer ... Dunand? Anyway, I want it but can't have it. Sold for 13,750 USD.

Cezanne's Studio in Aix en Provence

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

Not surprisingly, this was one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen. The colors, the quality of light and the proportions of his large studio were pure perfection.

The narrow slit was installed to easily move large canvases into and out of the studio. It reminds me of the ventilation doors at the Carpenter Center at Harvard, by Le Corbusier. One wonders if Le Corbusier ever visited.

And look at the color of light through the leaves:

Stunning.

I would like to thank the distracted youth docents who were making out in the corner -- their negligence made these photos possible.

A Very Unrequited Love

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 15:00:00 +0000

What is the meaning of these images? To find out, and see the posting I wrote for the Etsy blog, click on this link.

So Close to Home

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 15:03:00 +0000

Yesterday's post was from thousands of miles away -- today's is from 5 blocks from my house. Behold, some of the most beautiful Colonial slate carving I've seen:

It almost looks like Dagobert Peche, with that sinuous curve of the willow trunk:

And the fluidity of these lines!

Colombia, Again

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 15:06:00 +0000

Happy 2012! It's been quiet over here, but I'll get you caught up in the next few weeks.

I had the great pleasure to spend the beginning of January in Colombia for my godson's christening -- both the people and the place were as lovely as I recalled. Truly a great trip.

Heliconias sent as a gift from my godson's grandfather, cut straight from the jungle and propped before the entrance to the chapel where he was baptized:

The interior, with Bonnie (surrogate mother) lurking in the flowers:

The view in two directions from the ridge the chapel sits on:

A woman and her family live on the grounds, caring for the chapel and running a small empanada business (we had her make 70 for the reception, and they were stellar), as well as growing these lovely succulents:

I wanted clippings, but thought it might be forward to ask.

The local museums did not disappoint -- 17th century Delft set into baroque frames. I adored this:

Bizarro frescoes:

And views. Everywhere, views:

In Bogota, a doorway that reminds me of both Le Corbusier and Yves Klien:

It sits in the courtyard of the Colonial Art Museum, which I loved on my last tip, but questioned on my second -- why must every museum be infested with touch screen computers these days? Don't you go to a museum for the direct experience? And the color of light is so irritating, esp. on old surfaces! I'm sure I sound old, but it has RUINED the experience.

Greg y Caro's apartment by Gio Ponti:

Okay, ya got me, it's not really a Ponti, though this transom reminded me of him something fierce:

Condor hunting, anyone?

We didn't do any of that, but it was an excellent trip nonetheless.

Living Room 1 Ceiling and Walls, Part 1

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 15:00:00 +0000

Again, what have I been doing with myself? Why, working on plasterwork and painting! Yay! Thankless work, and sadly necessary in nearly every room in the house, but first, Steven had to perform surgery --

It may not have come across in earlier photos, but the ceiling in Living Room 1 was a complete disaster, the structural integrity of which Steven spent all spare time over a three week period to repair. First hundreds of small holes were drilled into the ceiling, following cracks closely.

Then those holes were filled with sizing to prepare the plaster and lathe to respond well to a specialized adhesive. Adhesive was added with a syringe, and the whole thing screwed into tight contact with a flexing, purpose-specific washer to prevent pressure damage.

After several days of carefully monitored drying, all of the hundreds of holes were filled with joint compound, then the entire ceiling meticulously plastered over, effectively covering all sins. Then I spent a stupid number of hours sanding the entire thing by hand so that none of the irregularities created by the repairs would catch the light.

Ceiling primed -- it look even better now with the finish paint, but this is the primer:

Then to cover the appalling red on the walls! This took 3 coats of primer:

This is to be a rich, complex white, which you'll get to see next. But in the image above, note the holly tree through the left window, and the rhododendron in the two right windows. The dead-looking branch in the room is a dormant fig tree.

And that's what we've been doing the last month. Fun, right? I can tell you that the light in this room is downright delicious, and I'm thinking of bringing a lovely grand tour Apollo here from storage in Chicago -- our own private classical wing.

The Floors: Still In Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 29 Sep 2011 13:44:00 +0000

Sanded!

This is an area that our floor guy wanted to rip out, if you can believe it; I love the way it has been patched and pieced together. It's the threshold between the entryway and living room, where a wall used to be:

And mid-progress -- this is a semi-gloss finish in Vermont Natural Coatings, which I'll talk more about in a future post. We did two coats in semi-gloss, and the last coat in satin, which is quite dull.

I was worried that the color was too yellow (and in fact, it reads more yellow in these photos), but they turned out beautifully, irregularities and all.

No sooner were they finished and dry than they were hidden away for who knows how long, while we work on the walls and paint/wallpaper (!):

Oh, these shrouds ...

Greg's House in Colombia: Part 2

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 16:58:00 +0000

Long, long overdue (my fault, not Greg's), this is the next installment of my friend Greg's saga of home ownership in rural Colombia; heavy on words and without pictures, it is a fascinating read that needs no embellishment. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. To check out the preceding posts, go

here
and
here.

Greg begins:

Our contact for the house purchase was one Doña Marta. It seems that her family has long been one of the leading lights of our town, but she is one of only two siblings that remain in Alto Macondo. One brother became the Archbishop of Arauca, on Colombia's hot, wild plains, one left to work in Bogota or Tolima (I'm not sure which), and the remaining brother taught music or something in our city.

None of the siblings had lived in the house for years. Their father died long ago, while their ailing mother held on until 2008 or so, occupying one dark, lonely room of the sprawling house. The horrid new bathroom had been built in the middle of the main patio so it would be nearby and accessible from her bedroom. The mother was attended by a team of nurses of questionable scruples, if Doña Marta is to be believed. The hired nurses had on different occasions left work early and even taken things from the decaying house. It's so hard to find good help these days...

I'm not sure how long the house had been up for sale before we expressed interest. Doña Marta seemed in a hurry to get rid of it, and kept trying to rush us along through the purchase, always claiming to have recently spoken to other very interested buyers.

Doña Marta was a well-kept woman of about sixty years of age. She had surely been a coveted young lady in the past, and she still maintained an air of elegance and coquetry that corresponded more to her family's good name than to her current profession as a school social worker. Her husband was a gym teacher at the same school, and her daughter was involved in local right-wing politics. During the few months I was in contact with Doña Marta as we finalized the house purchase, we usually met in her large office at one of our town's immense public schools. We were often interrupted by kids tattling on one another, or calls about the supposed electoral fraud in her daughter's party's primaries.

Beyond her elegance and gracious bearing, Doña Marta bore many of the stereotypical cultural quirks of our region, Boyaca. She was not very up-front or direct, despite her frequently calling attention to her trustworthiness and honesty. In one of our very first meetings, before my wife and I had even committed to buying the house, Marta took me aside and told me that the sale price was 90 million pesos, but that she'd appreciate if we officially billed it at 85 million and gave 5 million directly to her, since it was she and not her brothers who was managing the whole affair.

Having grown up in the US, where we insist on an air of formality and expert assessments (even when we're committing massive financial fraud!), I wanted to get an official assessment of the house value, to see if the asking price was appropriate. But I ran into a number of problems. Above all, appraisers here in Colombia are mainly set up to evaluate relatively new houses. For them an old house is just a potential teardown, to make way for new, ugly apartment blocks. The major banks to which most appraisers are attached don't even offer mortgages for purchasing older houses. If we wanted a loan to fix up this regal, Republican-style house, it would have to be at the exorbitant “general investment” interest rate ascribed to commercial projects. The Colombian government has recently instituted some very attractive subsidized loans for people to buy their own house, but these too only apply to new construction.

So in the end, instead of getting an expensive appraisal from someone unqualified to assess or appreciate the value and the problems with old houses, I had a friend look at the house and give me a general idea of what shape it was in. His name is Don Antonio, and he is a constructor specializing in traditional techniques of our region. A few months before he'd built a reproduction of a Muisca hut for the museum my wife works at. His excellent management of mud, rough-hewn wood, braided artisanal rope (no nails were used in the hut), and thatching made me trust him and want him as the chief contractor for our own house project.

Don Antonio thought that the price was right for the house. My mother was obsessed with termites, which are a dealbuster for the typical wood-frame houses of the US. Here in Colombia termites are a perennial problem (in our cool climate a bit less so than in the hot regions), since there's never a killing frost as we have every year in the States. Many people treat their house's wood, both indoor and outdoor, with highly toxic mixes of tar, diesel fuel, and agricultural insecticides. This is illegal in Colombia as in the US, but it's very common anyway. As for our future house, the walls were built of solid adobe, while much of the roof and floor wood had already been destroyed and subsequently abandoned by termites and mold. We would be totally replacing all the wood, and in the process treating it with less-toxic substances, so I wasn't really worried about the termite issue.

My mother had graciously offered to give us money to cover a good part of the house's purchase price, but it wouldn't be arriving until a CD came due in a few months. That is to say that it was February when we started talking with Doña Marta about buying the house, but we wouldn't have the money to do so until May. Marta, in her suspicious Boyaca manner, was afraid that we'd string her along for a few months and then back out of the deal. She wanted guarantees, which normally in Colombia are established through an official document called the Purchase Agreement. Such an agreement consists in a partial payment of the final purchase price, with a schedule established to pay the rest and finalize the sale. But it requires all parties to sign, which in Marta's case meant she'd need notarized powers of attorney in order to sign for her siblings that didn't live in our town. She didn't like this idea much. Couldn't we just settle a bit less formally? It was such a hassle to get her busy brothers to go to the notary in their towns. Didn't we trust her? She'd been very trusting with us, and was hurt that we didn't trust her more. This was the type of logic employed by Colombia's rule-bending, personality cult then-president, Alvaro Uribe. My wife and I kept insisting on going the formal, legal route, and a few hours after a small phone tantrum, Doña Marta called us back to agree. Surely she'd consulted with her husband or someone who made her understand that legal documents are a way of securing guarantees, and not some disrespectful lack of trust.

For a few weeks it seemed like we would repeatedly come to an agreement with Marta about how to proceed with the sale, only to have her call us the next day to renege, always claiming that her brothers weren't comfortable with whatever we'd agreed. It tried my patience and diplomacy, and my wife soon declared herself unable to deal with Doña Marta without punching her in the face, so I became the official negotiator.

Finally the truth came out. Doña Marta's brother had died some months before, so his share in the house was going through the legal inheritance process so as to pass to his two sons. It had still not been resolved, which meant we couldn't close the deal until the house was officially registered in the names of Doña Marta, her two surviving brothers, and the two children of the dead brother. I don't know what Marta had thought she might accomplish with her shady hiding of the situation from us. Did she think we'd go ahead and buy the house with a handshake, and that way avoid the legal paperwork?

They say the truth will set you free, and indeed, once we knew the real situation with the house title, we made a deal with Marta that was amenable to all parties. Basically we would pay rent for three months to have access to the house. That way Marta's family could get its administrative ducks in a row, and we could start planning our architectural intervention, without committing to buying just yet. If in three months their title issues were worked out, we'd go ahead with the purchase. If not, we'd back out, no worse for the wear save the million pesos we'd paid in rent.

I naively thought that in these three months we could get all our design plans worked out and even start on the teardown process. Because the house was in a historical landmark zone, the city planning office demanded certain things to grant us permission to rehab. We would have to present a historical summary of the house, an expert assessment of the state of preservation of the wood and adobe, a set of drawings of the house as is, and a design plan respecting the original structure and materials. I started to track down past sales documents in our city's historical archives. In the end these old deeds only went back to 1938 or so, not nearly to the house's construction date, but it was fun trying to track down the house's history.

The city archives are in a restored ex-monastery that now serves as library, grammar school, and regional offices. It's said the old place is haunted by a headless monk. It's always a pleasure to go there and look at the stonework, the frescoes of St. Augustine, the lovely cloistered garden. One can also check out the thick-walled, cramped cells from when the monastery served as a prison. When my wife was a kid, a girl disappeared from the adjacent school. She went to school one day, and simply disappeared. After a few weeks, she was found alive. She had been locked in a cell by a demented security guard, and I presume no one heard her cries. During the day she'd be drowned out by screaming schoolchildren, and at night perhaps her wails were mistaken for the moaning of the headless monk!

Anyway, after a few months of frequent, ambiguous visits to Dona Marta, it seemed like the deal would never go through. But finally all the inheritance and power-of-attorney issues got worked out, and we went one day in May to the notary office to sign everything and pay Dona Marta and her siblings (she got her 5 million pesos on the side, in cash).

The house was now ours! But what were we going to do with it?

To be continued (more punctually, I promise).

The Floors: Before and in Progress

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 14:00:00 +0000

Activity has been a blur here at Nick Haus -- ripping up the woebegone carpets throughout the house was one of the first things we did when we took possession. We discovered that the padding had disintegrated into a mush with the thick glue that had been directly applied to the wide-board pine, all of it in a sickly color looking like snot. Our floors were covered in snot.

Here Steven's father scrapes the noxious stuff at the foot of the stairs; you will remember this image from an earlier post:

Until finally, the floor were mostly free of the goop (worst name ever for a website, Gwyneth Paltro), and only the color remained. Also, remember this border and dropped ceiling?

Or for that matter the unlovely chandelier?

Gone:

And the original plaster of the house had never been painted beneath the drop ceiling, implying that for all 230 years of this rooms life, it had been wallpapered:

Here, a close up of the floors showing early paint surfaces discovered under the goop:

It appears to be a layer of deep red, and under that an inky blue green. In the interest of history, we have left these paints undisturbed in the pantry, where they are in finer condition anyway.

Next, we'll get to see the sanded floors, and maybe I'll talk about my depressing meeting with the chimney man or the fun of getting quotes to replace the foundation of the outbuilding. Fun!

Family Houses

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Thu, 15 Sep 2011 14:02:00 +0000

My Godfather's family has such beautiful houses all over the place. I loved all of them. Observe, and join me in rankest jealousy.

Lunch laid on the terrace in Marseilles:

and your view of gardens, to the right:

From the terrace in Nans le Pins:

And one villa too many -- this house outside Pisa sits empty; there are too many other houses to visit, but they've owned this one for hundreds of years, and are reluctant to let it go. Beautifully overgrown gardens:

Shields in effigy, hung in a room that looked like it hadn't been opened in years:

I could be a house stowaway, hopping covertly from one to the next as they decamp for the season elsewhere -- they'll never catch me ...

Toil vs. Play

noreply@blogger.com (Nick Heywood) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 13:38:00 +0000

Steven scrapes:

Steve Sr. scrapes:

I scrape (though they did most the scraping):

(Appearances to the contrary, on the Ruskinian scale of scrapist to anti-scrapist, I fall well on the side of anti-scrapist.)

Junk men pick up the fruit of our labors:

And to think, only 2 weeks ago, my life looked more like this:

And here, visiting Roger Williams overseas: