My mum said nothing about the thick black eye makeup and bleach blond streaks. She said nothing about the chipped Rouge Noir nails and laddered tights. She said nothing when I shaved the underside of my head. But she did insist I never mess with my eyebrows. Barring a short phase of highly stylized brows, I listened. Now, I’m back to where I started with thick, natural brows that I pay very little attention to. Had she badgered me about all the other stuff, I may well have gone rogue with my brows, and who knows what else. A battle well chosen, Mama.
Regular readers know how much thought I give to my dream guest loo. Ditch the tub, and this is just the sort of dizzyingly fun experience I think a visit to the loo should be. With its gorgeous Moroccan tiles and antique fringed hand towels, this is also a gem. And although I’m not usually one for animal print, this subtle take on dalmatian is dynamite.
The only think I like about cats are their eyes. No one does the cat eye like Sophia Loren. Here’s a good little tutorial on how to achieve ones like hers. I kind of love these supersized cat flicks and these ones, too. Also, if I did like cats, I’d have a Russian Blue, and her name would be Begonia.
Here’s a question –– which of Bijou Karman’s painted girls would you most want as your friend? With her sweet bob and fuchsia rosette, this one tops my list. She reminds me of Margot Tenenbaum. I’d hazard that she doesn’t talk much, but has a lot to say. And that she’s brilliantly funny, in a dry, sardonic way. I’d also like to be friends with this bicorne-wearing gal. She looks serious, but I bet she’s hilarious. I also know who I wouldn’t want to be friends with — but that’s not kind to say.
Mustard is a favourite colour of mine. I have a wonderful oversized cardigan, and a pair of Ferragamo Varina’s, both in mustard, that I love. It’s not the prettiest colour on the palette, or as cheerful as other yellows like marigold, but it is regal. Princess moments ask for a Louis XV style sofa in mustard velvet with gold trim, don’t you agree?
I wonder if a cook’s kitchen would get me to cook? I roast the odd parsnip, sauté spinach and stir a risotto, but for the most part, I’m utterly unimaginative in the kitchen. Now, give me a kitchen like this one, and watch the marjoram fly. Hell, I may even bake my own bread and churn my own butter.
Claire Basler‘s world is one that I would love to step into. The French floral artist lives and works in an old schoolhouse in Les Ormes, near Paris and spends her days immersed in beautiful flowers. She creates massive arrangements all over the house, and then photographs and paints them in her sun-drenched studio. Her home, Château de Beauvoir has been featured in many magazines, and is a work of art in itself.
The Eagle Huntress tells the story of a 13-year-old girl who’s father trains her to become the first female eagle hunter. It’s a breathtaking film, with exquisite panoramic shots of Mongolia’s snowy Altai Mountains and a stunning soundtrack (including “Angel by the Wings” by Sia). I’ve read that director, Otto Bell took artistic license in parts, embellishing facts and staging shots, but only a purist would let that get in their way of his enjoyment. A true documentary it may not be, but it’s wildly uplifting and incredibly beautiful, none the less. If you think that your kids can stomach a few sacrificial scenes, take them to see this film. They’ll be awestruck.
At a glance, this girl looks a lot like Stella Stenant –- she has the same aristocratic profile. I love the loose low bun, voluminous coat, large hydrangea print and pretty silk pumps. It’s all so elegant. And to think, this is how women dressed to go to the movies. My grandmother’s rule was no jeans after sundown. Even to an evening film, she would have worn silk slacks and a blouse. I had such a laugh when she called me from New York a few months before she died to tell me that she and a friend had gone out to dinner in the Meatpacking district, “and we wore jeans!”
When I was just a baby, we had a Scottish Terrier named McDuff. For a log time, I believed that all Scottish Terriers were called McDuff. It is a perfect name. It turned out that McDuff did a runner one day, and got hit by a train. Even though I don’t remember him, the story still makes me sad. After McDuff came Magnus the Great Dane. He also did runners ––mostly to visit us in the schoolyard –– but he never got hurt. It’s a shame the two didn’t meet. Magnus & McDuff –– what a pair that would have been.