High Point

I am heading to High Point on Sunday and went shopping for shoes today.  This is what I came home with.  “Do you think these are too high for me?” I asked my eldest.  I’m a little over 5’8″ and the heels are six inches.  “They’re not that high and they’re wedges, so they should be o.k.”  “How do you know they’re ‘wedges’?”  “I do know girls.”  “And you talk about shoes?”  “No, they talk about shoes around me.”  “Oh.  Well, since they have a platform, they’re really comfortable.”  “Yeah.  I know.”  “You’re kidding right?” And he ducked his head, shaking it from side to side and looked up from under raised his eyebrows, “Not kidding.”  He seems as mystified as I about his baptism into the world of women.

It’s my first trip to High Point and even I know these are not the shoes for working, but might be good shoes for playing.  I plan on doing plenty of both.  If I’m posting next week it will be a miracle.  If I’m not on crutches next week, that might be a miracle as well.  If you think you see me at Market, please say, “hi.”

rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Hand in Glove

I was at Dolphin Gallery last week and noticed a card for Ellen Greene’s work which had been at Birdie’s.  Greene collects vintage gloves and uses them as her canvas.  Seeing gloves as a symbol of a past ideal of femininity, of protection and restraint, she marries them with images of tattoos, the art of which is rooted in a male tradition.  I did have my eyelids done and while I’m happy with the results, I can’t quite shake the niggling feeling that I have capitulated to two forces: personal vanity and some sort of larger mystical pressure that stresses physical beauty as ideal.   I’m not torturing myself over it (in fact, I bought eye shadow for the first time in years) but it’s bugging me.  Greene’s pieces hit me when I may be most vulnerable to them.  You can find them here.

Image, “Omi Wise” via artbyellengreene.com.

rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

A Happy Marriage

When I met Mitch Owens a few years ago in the offices at Elle Decor I did not know that he was the author of the esteemed design blog, An Aesthete’s Lament.  I did not find out until a few months later when another blogger casually mentioned it in an email.  It immediately made sense that this blog, which reflected a near encyclopedic knowledge of design, was the work of a seasoned and talented interior design writer. Mitch is currently Special Projects Editor at Architectural Digest and Ms. Russell has made an honest man of him.  No more clandestine meetings on the blogspot – Mitch is blogging as The Aesthete on Daily AD.  And, in case you’re worried that I’ve outed him, I have not; he casually steps from behind the curtain in his first post.  I will be looking forward to more.

rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Behind the Curtain

Last night I stayed out a bit too late for a school night as I had the chance to see a truly remarkable Bruce Goff house here in Kansas City (and some pretty remarkable people, too.)  It filled my head with fantasy. While I regroup (and get ready for the opening of Inventing the Modern World at the Nelson), click over to Architectural Digest where Miles Redd and I are chatting about sheer curtains.  (AD has revamped their site and it is looking pretty swish.)

Image, Architectural Digest, December 2011, room designed by Roberto Peregalli and Laura Sartori Rimini; photography, Oberto Gili.

rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail

Spring Fever

You may remember that I had a mature and established peony hedge in my old house.  As is common in the neighborhood, these shrubs divided our yard and our neighbor’s.  Slightly less common might have been my boys’ using it as hurtle, or maybe that is the role it played for generations, accustomed to the shush of the leaves as bare feet grazed its tops.

It was plentiful and generous and the blooms filled my home for weeks.  Large bunches spilled from vases on the mantle; smaller handfuls cheered the morning cook.

Last fall, nearly winter, on perhaps the last possible weekend, I had a fit of peony separation anxiety and we filled the back of my car with young and tender shrubs.

They are so small and so spindly.  I almost fear the day that they begin to bloom as the stems will surely give way, collapsing head first like a young girl in despair.

But we must start somewhere.  So now we wait.

Images, all mine.  The top three from the Dream House – the rest from the House with No Name.

rssrss      FacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwitterpinterestlinkedinmail