Part of the impetus for starting Mrs. Blandings was to let folks know that there was a lot of great stuff going on in Kansas City.

In the last seven years, there’s been significant growth and coverage of our creative community.  This makes me happy.

But I’ve found that recently, I have started to travel the same paths and frequent the same joints.  Last week, I decided to get out a little more.

After my noodling around about drawing on lampshades instead of walls for a change, Temo Callahan emailed to say, “You must see the painted shades done by that kid George Venson. Divine!”

If you’re smart, you’ll unwrap your PB&J and have your lunch there.  If you have a little more flexibility, you can find George Venson and his wonderful products at Maison & Objet in Miami through tomorrow (Hall C 327) or at ICFF in New York May 16-19 (Level 1, 0959.) He’s on-line here (I signed up for the newsletter; what joy to receive an email filling me in on his latest adventures.) And you can see his collaboration with Printworks here.

I have a few peony bushes on the east side of my house.  Last year they didn’t bloom.  They are in the shade of an entirely unappealing tree that is skinny and tall and drops fuzzy pods in the spring. It is also too close to the house.  The peonies do not like the tree and neither do I.  It does, however, have a thing going with the hydrangeas.

This year the peony bush that is furthest north and receives the afternoon sun has offered a few blooms in appreciation. Saturday I cut them all and brought them in just minutes before a charming pink truck delivered flowers to my door.  The white bouquet and the peonies did not acknowledge one another.  I think they were both a little threatened, so I spoke to each pleasantly, but did not expect them to become friends.

Monday morning as I was reading the paper, I heard a sound behind me.  It was as if someone had tipped a box of new leather gloves onto the floor.  Soft, but distinct, like fingers drumming without a rhythm. I turned to see a pile of petals in a heap on the table.  The bloom had held them as long as she could and finally had to let go; she seemed a little relieved. As I turned back to the paper I thought that if I had made my coffee five minutes later, even two, I would have missed that magical sound and would have only seen a mess as I came into the room.

Doing an interview last month I visited a local designer’s home. In the bunk room for her grandchildren hangs a large board featuring each member of the family’s name; all visitors to the house are encouraged to sign. What more significant gesture of welcome than to have your hostess invite you to draw on something of hers in permanent marker? It is as if you become part of the house.

It reminded me of Cecil Beaton’s powder room with its clever handprints. (I’m especially fond of the women who drew in their bracelets.)

I like drawing on walls, as maybe you’ve noticed, but the idea of doodling on lampshades has come up before.  (I’m quite taken with Temo Callahan’s home and his bedside lampshade decorated by his friend James Shearron, which was featured in House Beautiful.

Which leads me back to Nicky Haslam’s new book and its applicable inspiration.

 A few of Haslam’s rooms feature these exquisite lampshades with highly detailed illustration.  It’s the sort of thing that makes a room undeniably personal.

Lacking Mr. Haslam’s skills, I’m mashing together all of these ideas and ordering a paper shade for the entry lamp that my friends can sign or doodle on their way in or out.  (The current shade came on a yard sale find and, until this picture, was still dusty from the basement when I shifted the lamp downstairs. I worry that she thinks she’s living there, and am avoiding telling her that it’s only temporary.) That is, I’m ordering the shade just as soon as I finish painting the interiors of the dining room built-ins, a project that I had not planned that has turned that space upside down.  How do these things happen?

Inspiration, it seems, comes when it comes.

For those who asked, the paint of the dining room that you can see just beyond the stairs is Benjamin Moore Queen Anne Pink.  The interior of the cabinets is – almost – Goldfield.

Or books. But in this case I snuggled up with Nicky Haslam and read his words and his clippings and slid my finger over the thicker end of the post-it note marking pages.  Mr. Haslam likes iron railings.  I sometimes like iron railings, like the one in the Musee Rodin.  But I very much do not like the iron railing in my house.