She’s the Colour Curator of Farrow and Ball. There’s my dream job sorted. She doesn’t tell you what colors to use – she invents them. A friend recently asked me the color of my bathroom walls…uh…I dunno. I had 3 partial gallons of leftover paint and I mixed them until I got something I sorta liked. I will often do that. Not because I think I’m going to come up with anything better than I could buy, but because I hate wasting paint. Never mind the environmental damage of disposing of it. I go through a lot of paint. Are you familiar with Fordite?! Fordite (or Detroit agate) is what was created in the Ford Motor Company painting facilities when the many layers of automobile paint would build up thickly on the factory walls. Now they “mine” it – chip it off the walls and make jewelry from it. My house is going to be like that soon. Years ago another friend once commented that I would be losing square footage if I kept repainting. It’s what I do…I make no excuses for it.
Joa Studholme tells us that color will “completely change the spirit of a home.” Did you know your house has a spirit all it’s own? It does. Here Joa walks us through her own home, where she takes her inspiration from the countryside around her. The color of the cows were the choice for the window frames. I love it. She wanted it to be a treat; job done.
Like in her kitchen, painting the inside of a window jamb a sunny gold or yellow is an age-old design trick that will brighten any room on a gloomy day. Who says it can’t be a different color than the room? Wasn’t me. We are artists, people! What color will you treat yourself with in your home this week? Paint a fun stripe somewhere, or even just a door. Go ahead, try it. I dare you.
“Not knowing when the dawn will come, I open every door.” – Emily Dickinson
Baptized Mary Katherine Crawford, my maternal grandmother Mimi was born in Little Rock, Arkansas. She lived most of her adult life in Michigan after marrying my grandfather, but she never lost her southern accent. Or charm. Or that great cooking gene that I did not inherit. When you came to her house she was not happy unless you were eating. Breakfast always included biscuits and gravy. From scratch. You smelled the pies cooling coming up the street.
In grade school I wrote her a book of poetry. I remember tying together the pieces of paper into a hand made tome and penciling the title on the cover: Mimi Beanie Bellie-Beenie (chocolate cake or ice cream-eenie?). Dear woman, she was never not kind. We children absolutely adored her. As the first grandchild on both sides…well, let’s just say I was a little spoiled. I credit having had four grandparents around as my salvation. Hind sight being what it is, I have no doubt they all did their best to be a positive influence. They had to be watching my parents descent into addiction with horror. And they didn’t see the half of it.
When you are my age and you discuss your lifelong depression with your doctor at your yearly Medicare physical (they have to ask), they recommend therapy. And so, I gratefully have a weekly session via Zoom. I love my “care manager.” I’ve always said that I have to be in therapy to cope with all the people in my life who aren’t in therapy. Long ago I’d confide my frustrations to Mimi more than anyone else in my young life. She would say, “you’re alright, kid. The world’s all wrong.” Hooo boy, she was not just whistlin’ dixie…
She had a funny way of talking that I attributed to being from the south. If you asked her a question and she didn’t know the answer she would respond, “I am not knowing.” I was still in grade school when she was diagnosed with uterine cancer and told she had about six months to live. I certainly don’t remember any of that ordeal. I know she went through surgery, chemo and radiation, but I was entirely unaware of her suffering. She lived another lifetime again, into her 80’s – before the cancer would finally take her. When asked about it, she would simply state that she would rather die than go through that treatment again. I’ve heard that said by almost everyone I’ve loved now, myself being one of the lucky few who hasn’t had to face that demon.
What makes one person luckier than the others around them? Of the seven members of my biological family I am the only one to escape the long evil tendrils of substance addiction, of cancer or heart failure, of crushing depression. At 70 I haven’t had cancer or heart problems, knock on wood. In spite of scoring 8 out of 10 on the Adverse Childhood Experiences test (no to #6), I manage depression, I am functional, and sane. I am fairly happy most of the time. The simple pleasures of my days far outweigh the occasional difficulties. I am truly blessed and highly favored. But I do look back and long for a deeper life, a more authentic connection. I wish I’d known more of what I didn’t know, at least how to ask the questions I wish I’d known to ask. What was that like for you, Dad? What do you really want, Mimi? What would you do differently now, Mom?
My grandfathers were building railroad tracks in Detroit and across the country during the boom of the automobile industry, and my father inherited that business. But he was a frustrated artist. When my parents 27 year marriage broke up after raising 5 children together, my father would come out to us all and confide that he had always been living a double life as a gay man. He never had a choice back then. Neither did he have the choice to be a musician instead of a contractor. It wasn’t gonna pay the bills. My mother’s choices were even fewer.
Like most middle class parents in the 1950’s post war economic boom, they sheltered we children from any hardships we accidentally caught glimpses of. We didn’t watch the news. We watched Ed Sullivan; he had a really big shoe. They made up stories about where people and pets had gone when we were confused by their absence. If Mimi had bad days during cancer treatment we certainly didn’t see them.
Our every physical whim was met with all the food and comfort and luxury my parents could possibly provide. Music and merriment were abundant. Holidays were exaggerated celebrations always full of people and gifts and singing and dancing and games. I remember asking why we needed so many televisions and record players; there was one in almost every room. Some nights they were all going at once. Our house was full and loud and chaotic. We had a somewhat tongue-in-cheek saying in our household: “life is a party.”
But some precious opportunity was lost in my parents’ utopia. Something is always lost in any falsely contrived utopia. It manages to keep life humming along quite superficially, and it tends to create the side effect of anxiety. Especially when eventually faced with any challenge and realizing that reality wasn’t so real. There’s a reason they say ignorance is bliss, and it’s because awareness is painful. Growing up is hard to do.
That said, it’s the only dance in town. There is no way out but through. If there is any more meaningful reason for being here, now, well…I am not knowing.
The truth is that I don’t know where to begin…I bought this house for my beloved two little rescue dogs. Hariat was five years old when we adopted her from the Lakeshore Pembroke Welsh Corgi Rescue. I said we because I was married at the time, and we drove almost five hours south to pick her up from the farm where she was being fostered. Down and back in one day. When we arrived home that evening our sweet corgi Oliver was waiting with my brother and Dad, who lived with us at the time. We lifted Ariat, as she was named then, out to the driveway to meet Oliver at nose level. Oliver was the second corgi we had adopted a few years prior. They smelled one another and did a runner around the yard. Our mouths dropped open; they acted like they recognized each other and were the oldest of friends getting reacquainted. They were genuinely glad to see each other. Adjustment time = zero days.
Several months prior we had lost my darling Christie, or Arborglenn Pastel of Christie as she was registered with the AKA. Her mother had been US Champion of Breed, and she was the first corgi I had ever known. She was the canine love of my life and 15 years was far too short a time together. I was devastated losing her and had no intention of ever opening my heart to another dog again. At that time Oliver had been with us a few years. He was devastated, too. But during a routine checkup for Oliver the vet asked how we were getting along without Christie and I burst into tears. The vet admonished me and insisted I consider adopting another dog. A few months later we were blessed to find Ariat.
Ariat had been a working dog on a horse farm, named after a brand of equestrian gear. But her name was difficult for the three curmudgeon men of the house. And so she and I discussed the issue and agreed we would add an H to the beginning of her name. Problem solved. She would teach me that I could open my heart again. She was an angel in a dog suit.
We lived in a beautiful saltbox colonial in the lovely wooded suburb of Shorter Lake Woods. I not-so-affectionately called it the snub-division of Stepford Lake Woods. I loved the house itself, not the snooty neighborhood or the ridiculous homeowners association.
We had three neighbors, each a half acre away, including the HOA president next door. The homes on either side were barely visible through the mature pine trees unless you were actually outside in one of the side yards. The house across the road was visible through the western living room window. But it seems they could see us, and we were in constant non-compliance to one of the many rules.
One summer weekend I had a friend visit from downstate, a Michigan State University graduate with a degree in landscape design. She commented that the trees were past their maturity and in dire need of attention. I had no idea! And what do I do about that? “Well, she responded, we can do some trimming right now for starters.” And she was up and out, grabbing her very impressive lopers from the trunk of her car. And she and I worked all day trimming lower branches, her teaching me why this was good for the health of the tree and how it would benefit the canopy. We transplanted perennials I didn’t even realize would flower in some sun. We made mulch out of gathered pine needles. I hadn’t worked that hard in years. I would get a letter three days later from Mr. President informing me that I was not allowed to trim trees. It must be done by a professional arborist.
It hadn’t been long before that when old Christie had been laying out on the front lawn one day. She was quite lame by this time, and deaf and blind. Oliver had been an abused puppy before we adopted him, always timid and terrified of strangers. So he lay on the front porch well behind Christie. I returned home from work and turned in my drive behind a strange white truck. The county animal control. Seems they had received three complaints about our dogs. The officer got out of his truck and approached the house and neither dog moved. Maybe they attempted a muffled insincere bark. He asked if we could speak inside. He informed me that he had received three complaints, one from each of our barely visible adjacent neighbors. All on the same day. One at 11 a.m. The next one at noon. And – yep, you guessed it – the third at 1 p.m. Apparently the complaint was that our two small elderly dogs had been using their yards as bathrooms. There were dogs who did do that. They were large unattended dogs. One I recognized from a few doors down; most of the time I did not know them. I was always picking up after those dogs also. But even the county police officer acknowledged that we had a problem here with a bored out of work HOA president. He laughed about it. I didn’t see the humor. But I did know what this was about, and which husband was behind it (namely mine) and the political argument that had instigated the disdain.
Fast forward a couple of years and everything had changed. Christie was gone. Dad was gone. Now Oliver was deaf and blind and Hariat his constant protector. I was divorced, traumatized, and lived alone with both dogs. No living parents to appease, my brother now refused to speak to me. I had gone no contact with one sister. I had moved away from Manville. Yep. That house which I never named became known to me as Manville, after a horrible nightmare one night where I was stranded in a town of that name, fearing for my life.
Intuitively I have always felt a connection to every house I’ve ever lived in. I believe that, like a marriage, a third entity is created when these bonds are formed. It has a life all it’s own. We enter into a contract of care, and the commitment is not to be taken lightly. The home requires and deserves our attention and respect. It depends on us and in return it protects us. Treat it well and it will nurture our spirit.
A house becomes a home when we interact with it, when we feel safe there. When we express our gratitude for it. If we allow, it becomes a “thin place” where the veil between worlds is thin. I’ve moved twice in the dozen years since Manville. I cannot voice my gratitude without tears. I’ve since lost Oliver and Hariat and my brother. In my previous home I adopted a miniature beagle named Odie from the Kent County Animal Shelter, and I’ve since lost him. We agreed to take care of a Maine Coon cat named Chewy for a couple of months a couple of years ago. For over a year he and Odie were inseparable, and now it’s just me and Chewster. This house has enveloped us all, and a grieving adult son. This house deserves an affectionate moniker. This is the bright home in which I live.
Renowned American architect and best selling author Gil Shafer takes us along to his vacation retreat in Maine. Shafer is known for his reverence to the historical beauty of traditional east coast style. I grew up in a Cape Cod cottage on water, and it would be decades before I acknowledged it’s profound effect on my psyche. I agree with Gil Shafer when he says, “you live differently in different places.”
Here he took the existing building, which he bought for the setting itself, and worked with it’s less than ideal structure by embracing it’s strengths. I relate to this approach as I, too, live in a mid-century cottage which I bought because of it’s location and setting. Mid-mod, as it’s called for short, is my least favorite style of architecture. It’s right up there in my book with overhead lighting and open concept floor plans – which is to say that I have absolutely no use for it at all. In my book of architecture it’s in the chapter titled What Were They Thinking?
Mid-Mod is experiencing a huge revival. But then, ya know, America is simultaneously experiencing the dumbing down of our culture and the fall of our empire. I’ll leave you to draw the obvious parallels. You might have heard me say “meanwhile, back at the ranch…” because, let’s face it, mid-mod IS a form of ranch, neither offering much architectural interest. They sprung up in the building boom of post war industrial America for a reason, mainly that it was fast and cheap to build. Think plywood. That’s one of the reasons it was popular in the deserts of the southwest – it’s termite resistant. Then all of a sudden some opportunist decided it’s a “style” and set about convincing us that it’s desirable.
That said, my little home is well built. It was constructed of brick and concrete in the year 1955. The scoundrel I bought it from (NOT Gil Shafer) was in the process of flipping it, and buying it unfinished made it affordable to me. However, he had purchased it from the estate of the builder’s deceased wife and proceeded to gut it, taking out most of the original features. Now it’s a sad no-style-at-all house. And I absolutely love it, albeit primarily for the views. Though much smaller and humbler than the home in the video I do appreciate that my home has large picture windows from which to enjoy nature. I have coyotes and wild turkeys peering in at me from the deck, as if to say, “whatcha got to eat?” An occasional bobcat racing through the backyard, a meandering bear, huge flocks of birds migrating up the coastline, and of course, families of deer all year round. I’ve been intimidated right backwards in the door by a startled buck huffing and stomping it’s hooves, and been eyeballed too closely by a pair of hunting bald eagles on the roof.
My roofline also extends out further at the top, mimicking the look of a ship’s prow. Although almost a mile from a port town and the water, I am perched high on a hill near the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. And almost completely surrounded by water that includes Lake Michigan, inland Crystal Lake, and Betsie Bay. I live between two historic lighthouses. The summers are heaven on earth and the winters are…daunting. But quiet. Thankfully my sturdy cottage is a formidable fortress against the elements. I can adapt the architecture. The 45 degree driveway pitch, not so much…you’ll need 4 wheel drive to visit.
Watching this video gives me so many new ideas. I’ll be going out for a can of paint tomorrow. But I especially love the suggestion of writing my house a love letter. How about you? Let’s write love letters to our homes, and let’s begin with gratitude.
Gil Shafer is one of my favorite design authors. His books, gorgeously published by Rizzoli, are available here through my Amazon Affiliate link: Home At Last, https://amzn.to/3B5PUZw; The Great American House, https://amzn.to/4gtBMd4; A Place to Call Home, https://amzn.to/3XCej1K
And here are some budget friendly ideas taken from Gil Shafer’s inspiration in this video. How about those bed curtains? For a fraction of the price of curtains, I would make them from painter’s dropcloths: https://amzn.to/4gftrJR. I love the sisal rugs throughout this home. Here is one example in a 4′ X 6′ size: https://amzn.to/3TqDqSH. I have an antique bottle that I’m making into a lamp, but it isn’t costing much less than this beauty: https://amzn.to/4d4Phge. But I am smitten with the mercury glass lamp we see in the bedroom. Here is a similar lamp I’m coveting:https://amzn.to/3Tob5wt. And you can never have too many wooden trays: https://amzn.to/3zkBfcr, or storage baskets: https://amzn.to/3MEXqx4. Have fun!
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Still stuck in that 80’s opposite sketch…I’m fall cleaning. I know, I know, most people spring clean. I do some of that, but I’m much more prone to deep clean in the fall. I know what’s coming: six months of long, dark winter days with the house sealed up as tightly as possible. I won’t want to go out (even less than I don’t want to go out all summer) and the furnace will run almost constantly. All the outdoor potted plants have to come in and find floor space, along with the windowsills being pressed into service to house any herbs or kitchen plants we might want to nurse along…I prepare myself as best I can.
There are some very welcome adjustments, too. My writing desk can go back in the eastern bedroom window after the air conditioner comes out. I have hot water heat and that means radiators. Unlike forced air heating, there is no fan blowing around the cat hair and dust mites to aggravate my allergies. It’s clean, consistent, and radiant. However central air is not an option (no ductwork), so we sacrifice the use of two windows for the summer to accommodate big window units, and I am grateful to have them.
The end of September the professional window washer will come and wipe away the summer dust and grime so my view is clear. I can watch the heavy wet snow in the hurricane force wind as it splats and sticks to the windows like gigantic white moths on a speeding windshield…who has more fun, I ask you?! I can sit, warm and comfy, and observe the large picture glass ripple in the wind like the surface of the lake in summer…and practice praying.
And although that is not an exaggeration, my little house sits high on a hill, just inland of the bluffs along the western shore of Michigan. It is equipped with hurricane windows and has held it’s own against the elements for near as many years as I have been alive. I do feel safe here. Once the leaves are blown off the deciduous trees I catch glimpses of light off the water when the sky allows. Most days I feel like I’m living in a shoe box and God forgot to take the lid off. Like much of the midwest in winter, the ground and the sky are the same cloudless flat grey, day in and day out and day in and day out, week after week for months on end. The sun is a rare sight. So I prepare myself as best I can.
Yes, I dust off the daylight lamps, the “happy lights,” as therapists call them. Make sure I’m stocked up on light bulbs and candles and firewood and all the blankets and fuzzy slippers are at the ready. Each of my three doors will have a container of snow melt pellets and a snow shovel within arms reach at all times. You never know when you might have to shovel your way out. I live within a mile of the grocery store, library and post office, and there will be days that trek is not possible.
All that said, I choose to live here. There are small things I would certainly do differently were I house hunting today, but it is a fabulous place to live. The views are beautiful. The quiet of a snowy winters’ day is as peaceful as it gets. It is an environment entirely suited to an introverted writer and artist. In truth, I don’t understand why anyone would live anywhere else. One of the best things about winter is that most of the tourists leave and my town becomes a sleepy hamlet again. Not as traffical.
My favorite view is toward the east, which is the direction the front of my house faces. My favorite time of day is early morning. My favorite drink is coffee. These three factors alone lend themselves to a lifestyle that I love. Just thinking about it now makes me warm and fuzzy inside…
Scottish artist Jane Lindsay exemplifies what I have talked about in recent posts – making your home uniquely yours, and that it doesn’t need to cost much at all. Look at her beautiful things that delight and amuse her, even when broken and glued together. Maybe moreso broken and glued together, because as she says, she loves things that mean something.
Never mind Jane obviously won the lottery in heaven when they were passing out good skin. She talks about when she turned 50 during her children’s teen years, and now they’re grown…she defies age. Does living the life of an artist in the Scottish countryside have something to do with that? As I’ve been following her for a few short months now, I know that she, too, lives with chronic disease. She sure doesn’t show it. She is gracious and delightful.
Her home is chock full of creative ideas. I’m going to steal some of her quirky sign ideas and make my own. And yes, Jane…we will “s’cuse the mess.”
I went to Amazon and was able to custom order a vintage-style metal sign like the one on her wall. Link here: https://amzn.to/3A91liS Remember that as an affiliate I may earn a small commission on anything you purchase through my blog, and thank you. Here is the book Jane references, The Not So Big House: https://amzn.to/3YueVax If you’re nearby, I’d be glad to lend you my copy. I’ve referenced it for years. I love the bright yellow reading lamp she has in her alcove. I couldn’t find us a yellow one, but I did find a great one with coppery accents, here: https://amzn.to/4d4KhZL. And last but not least, how about those stick on letters under paint with a favorite song or poem line?! https://amzn.to/46ve7UQ Thanks for the inspiration, Jane!
Let’s go to school with color expert, designer and self-proclaimed hoarder Patrick O’Donnell. Here he shows us his enchanting home, a “typical 70’s ranch” he transformed into a country retreat with paint and wallpaper. He walks us through his 10 Design Rules, including essentials like How to Hide Your Jackie Collins. And Perk Up Your Pelmet. Betcha didn’t know you needed this!
Let’s recreate some of these design elements on a budget! I will be finding a place in my home for this beautiful peel & stick wallpaper: https://amzn.to/4cfIoYV Remember, as an Amazon Affiliate I may earn a small commission at no extra cost to you. And Thank you for using the links here. Now let’s hang this green majolica leaf plate (my favorite) on that wallpaper: https://amzn.to/4fwLdYO. I’ve also hung paper plates and even used them in the back of a shelf to highlight the dishes in front of them. My new favorite are these Caspari paper placemat hung on the wall: https://amzn.to/3YuvBif, layered under white cabbage ware plates: https://amzn.to/4fvhwr2. Now we’re getting there!
Wheat Sheaf, the style of chandelier he has, was popular during the 70’s and usually paired with Duncan Fife or Colonial style furnishings. I’d actually prefer this in our room: https://amzn.to/4d6n35G. That will get us a big impact for a modest investment. If you don’t have an upholstered headboard, treat yourself. They’re great for sitting up in bed reading, which I love to do. And they’ve become much more affordable, like this one: https://amzn.to/4c8gNZW. Again, a great deal of comfort and style for a reasonable investment. And now, you can easily change out your look seasonally with the new stretchy slipcovers: https://amzn.to/3LL1Kuq. We need a good reading lamp and we’re ready for guests. I have this one and I love it: https://amzn.to/46uExpK…Paddy, your room is ready!
sometimes, quite literally. Why are we so afraid to express ourselves? I’ve always been a maximalist. Really, from the time I was a little kid. I was in grade school or junior high when my best friend nicknamed me “the perpetual arranger.” Keep rearranging it until it relaxes you and tickles your fancy.
I have also never had any budget for decoration. I’ve been the thrift queen since high school, shopping at St. Vincent de Paul, garage sales, and the Goodwill for clothes and jewelry and lamps and rugs and cute little chairs. And when I am not wearing the green velvet jacket I don’t hang it in the closet. What a waste that would be. I drape it over the shoulders of a chair. I hang necklaces on a lamp, I pin found feathers and postcards from friends to the lampshade. I’ll drop today’s beach stone finds in the bathroom sink. A friend once asked me how I clean the sink with the stones in the way…and don’t they get toothpaste on them? I responded “they love it.” Who told you the rules?
Hutton Wilkinson says the worst thing a house can be is boring. I couldn’t agree more. Design mentor Alexandra Stoddard calls taupe boring, “…the insidious, evil, creeping taupe.” Taupe. Who needs it? Just say no. Let your house express you. Don’t you want to walk out to your kitchen in the morning and be delighted? Come home from your yearly physical and feel renewed? Let your soul play and sing here – here – where it is for you. One of my life goals is to become increasingly brave and eccentric – and embellish everything. Stand right there a minute…
Today I feel about 150 years old. It’s summer time here in Michigan, in the little beach town where I live. I’m less than a mile from the beach, and just a mile or two from the national park, Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. It is magnificently beautiful. And…what is that new buzz phrase? Um…overtouristed. But many relatives and friends come this time of year to visit, because – let’s be honest – it’s a bear in the winter.
So this morning relatives staying in a nearby resort called and suggested we meet at the beach. I hesitated…but I said okay. Not a resounding yes, but okay. We are old. We are in our seventies. WHO goes to the beach in their 70’s? Turns out, people from Florida. They are READY! Wow. They have the fancy beach chairs in the spiffy carrying bag and the cooler with the sparkling water and the big umbrella with the spike that goes in the sand…I didn’t even know these things existed until this morning. I’m as ready for a day at the beach as I am for the slopes in January. Which is to say: not.
Time for true confessions. I’m an indoorsey kinda gal. Nature terrifies me. Never mind the ticks are trying to kill me, it’s HUMID PEOPLE!!! The sun is so bright. Is that really necessary?! There are people everywhere. Bugs. Poison ivy. Alewives. Eeeewwwwww….it’s mighty uncomfortable for starters. And it stinks. I just don’t get it.
Humans invented air conditioning for a reason. Do you have any little IDEA?! how COMFORTABLE my BED IS?! Why would I ever want to go to a beach?!
I don’t belong here. I am a city girl. Born and raised in the suburbs of Detroit. And I loved it there. The architecture is some of the best in the country. The Detroit Institute of Arts is truly one of the premiere museums in the world. Before I could drive I used to skip school and hitchhike downtown to spend the day in the museum. Or on the 13th floor of the J.L. Hudson building, the furniture floor, moving from vignette to vignette, imagining how I would change the room if it were mine. In junior high and high school I worked downtown for Saks and walked the tunnel under Second Avenue to the Fisher Building for lunch and a manicure. I was in my element.
But life had other plans for me. For reasons I won’t bore you with today, I moved to my “2nd home,” up north, when my son was young. So he grew up here, and he loves it here. And so, here we are. And I do love it here, too. I probably would not choose this rural location if I were deciding today, but I’m here now. In an ideal outdoor playground. They call it Pure Michigan for a reason.
So off I go to meet people at the beach. We didn’t go to any of several close beaches, we drove to an isolated beach miles down a dirt road through the woods, attempting to avoid the crowds. At the mouth of the path from the road’s end down to the water stood a wooden board announcing that you must have a park pass to continue. I had not realized before that this was within the boundaries of the National Park. I don’t have a pass. But I can scan the Q-code with my smarter-than-me phone and buy one online. Except I can’t. It requires you register an account using your email. Okay. But then connect to the purchase app via email. Well, no. I don’t have email on my phone! It’s on my computer at home – WHERE I SHOULD HAVE STAYED. And does the park let you buy a day pass? No. Pay as a guest? No. It seems to me that nothing is user friendly for we old folks who are electronically disadvantaged. And fear federal prison.
Anyway, I’m back home now. I am never going to leave again. I do not want to meet you at the beach. I do not want to go for a hike. Outdoors isoverrated. Neither do I want to go to a crowded concert venue, or a movie theater, a loud bar, or the symphony. Been there, enjoyed that. Decades and decades and…decades of that. I’m tired. I like to remind my friends that not all of us here are on vacation.
You are aware, I trust, that they make fabrics now that feel like bunny fur? You can buy slippers and you can also wrap yourself up in it’s goodness in the form of a blanket. And stay warm. In your icy, air-conditioned room with a QUEEN SIZED bed, and a tv with a REMOTE!
It’s the weekend; let’s lighten up. Here are two of my very most favorite designers, Alexandra Tolstoy and Butter Wakefield. They each have a unique style and a lot in common to my eye. They have an unapologetic love of color. And they insist on comfort. Those are my two priorities…oh, and how happy their homes are. Happy, exuberant, whimsical and personal style. Dare we say dopamine style? Our homes should delight us first thing in the morning, last thing at night, and especially after an outing, long or short. If you don’t walk in your front door and feel your shoulders lower, let’s talk.
Now both of these women are decidedly maximalists. As am I. Full disclosure, I cannot understand anything else. Everyone I share my enthusiasm with often responds with something similar to “well there’s…just…so…much…stuff.” Well, yeah. Hence the genre called maximalism. I call it a good start. But truthfully, it absolutely tickles my fancy.
I dream in maximalism. I actually dream of walking around inside strangers houses and taking note of the paintings on the wall and the patterns on the fabrics. It’s my idea of a good time. But don’t be fooled – it’s not an easy style to pull off. I work at it and never seem to get the relaxed result these two women have achieved. I have a theory about that, but I’ll save that for another day. I will tell you this: I have watched countless hours of maximalist house tours and not a one of those homeowners is glum. They seem genuinely chuffed.