Speaking of John Robshaw, (we were, Monday – do try to keep up) I’ve gone back to look at the paint color in his bedroom several times. (In Elle Decor, not in Mr. Robshaw’s actual bedroom, but I’m sure you got that.)  It’s not dissimilar to the color in his showroom the last time I was there.  (And, perhaps, now, though I can’t say for sure.)

I’ve been looking for a peacocky concoction.  I keep kicking it around for my powder room, which is ridiculously large at a staggering 7’x7′.  It could be a bedroom if you don’t reach your hands over your head when you stretch.  I first spied the image that the paint is atop on Little Augury and have carried it around in both mental and paper form since.  I truly do, in every way, want to paint a Greek key dado somewhere, someway, somehow.

So that below, rich summer night sky above (ceiling, too.)  Originally, I was a little worried about a color that deep in a space that large.  Then there was Robshaw and his bedroom (see, I brought it back around) which seem quite happily clad.

I’d jump right in, but that pattern is going to require a little math.  You know how I am about math.  It may have to wait until after the holiday.

Image, Vogue, May, 2007; photography by Steven Meisel, produced by Grace Coddington, set design Mary Howard and panels by Sarah Oliphant, whom I wish I knew so she could help me measure.


Robshaw’s bedroom is Benjamin Moore Kensington Blue.  The paint, above, is highly evolved Benjamin Moore Galapagos Turquoise.

I am, finally, making some more decisions about the (as yet still unnamed) house.  I suppose we can call this Phase II, which seems unambitious as we have been here a year and a half.

I was going back through my files, paper, you know.  They are slick, ruffled with jagged edges and a crease or two.  I was looking for a particular Brunschwig & Fils fabric.  (Discontinued, natch.)

Still, as each folder lay open on my lap a theme began to emerge.

So many of my older images I relinquished to the trash.  Too ruffled, too trimmed, too much.

But what was left was a series of tiny bronze knobs supporting a cushion, the most perfect upholstered chair, three shades of paint that made one room sing, striped grosgrain gracing a love seat and a cord atop a tape upon a pattern with nailhead punctuation, just to show that “more” sometimes is just enough.  Broad strokes are something, but it all boils down to the details.

From top, design Suzanne Lovell, AD some time ago, I did not note the photo credit; I believe this design is by Barbara Barry, Veranda? photography Dominique Vorillon; Suzanne Rheinstein, Southern Accents September, 2007; Domino, Sheila Bridges; Lee Jofa ad, Diamond and Baratta Collection, 2005.

 We are re-finishing the basement.  It had been finished and had some now-eradicated mold issues and needed to be sheet rocked again.  Bother.  As with basements everywhere, I am less interested (read: not interested at all) and Bill and the boys are very interested.  Mr. B has asked me a million questions, to which my standard reply has been, “I don’t care, do what you want, I’m never going down there.”  And I meant it.  But now it’s time to paint.

I was intrigued by the palettes which came with Phoebe Howard’s book.  I did want something neutral but not nothing.  There is no way to tell this, but Cream Fleece and Winter Wheat are both very nice Ben Moore neutrals that look like nothing here, but they are not.  Once the swatches were up I asked the middle, “Which one do you like best?”

“What’s going in here?”

“What do you mean?”

“What other furniture?  What colors?  What’s going in here?”

“I don’t know.”

“How can I tell you what I like better when I don’t know what’s going to be in the rest of the room?”

“That’s a good question.”  The right question.  The only question.  To which I have no answer.  “Now, go do your homework.”

My only real input to date is on keeping the window.  The other opinions ranged from indifferent to “definitely not,” and these included my four men and a variety of mold-removal and drywall guys.

There remains a hand-painted mural from the original “bar” that was in the basement.  I think basements have mostly been ruled by men and I feel some kindred spirit to the woman who commissioned this.

Did she yearn to live on an urban, cobblestone street?

To buy flowers from a street vendor and walk her dog on a cool, crisp morning?

Did she say, “What are you looking at?” to her husband as he peered over his shoulder at the hottie in the black hat?  We won’t know.  But it does seem that she was trying to instill a bit of something in her bottom dwellers and I refuse to give it up without a fight.  I mean, they made me go to Nebraska Furniture Mart.  I think I deserve this.

Paint color card available with The Joy of Decorating when you order from her site here and enter code MBJOD.

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.