I’m drawn to ceramics that have a sense of humour, and Kelly Jessiman’s classic Hellenic shapes are brimming with it. It’s her handles –– wonky, lopsided, elongated –– that bring the whimsy. Her surface decoration has a painterly quality, as though each vessel is a canvas. It was a dear artist friend that first introduced me to Jessiman’s work. A friend who brings great humour to her own work. All the eccentricity, colour and contradiction that make a vessel (person) interesting are present in these vases. Jessiman fires her work in a shed in her garden, which is the dream.
It wasn’t until a few years ago when a neighbour’s daughter watched me bring a giant conifer into the living room that it dawned on me what a strange tradition it is. “There’s a tree next to your couch,” said the little girl. Her family is Jewish and this was her first time decorating a Christmas tree. In recent years, I’ve suggested alternatives to my family –– amaryllis in clay pots, a plug-in olive tree, or how about some twinkly branches? –– all met with varying levels of conniption. The year I doused a three-foot Balsam Fir in lights will forever be the year Mama Stole Christmas. I get it. Had my Mum proposed juniper berry branches in slender glass vases as an alternative to the plump, jolly green confection I was used to, I would have probably lobbed a mince pie at the wall. Christmas overwhelms me. It overwhelms most of us. The lights, the music, the excess. The cloudburst of needles. The heightened expectations. It is a lot. Bringing a ten-foot tree into a skinny Victorian and stationing it next to your couch for a month, is a lot. But we do it because we know that our children love the tradition. And because we loved it when we were young. And because, despite the bickering and breaking of baubles and untangling of wires and NEEDLES EVERYWHERE –– not to mention the sheer bizarreness of it all –– a tree covered in lights and sparkle really is a sight to behold.
A few weeks ago, I brought home a piece of pottery from an artist whose work I’ve long admired. it’s a little blob of a chalice with rough edges and a gloopy glaze that makes it look like it was sculpted from melted marshmallow. “I’m a sloppy potter,” Paula said as I tuned over the vase to reveal an unfinished join and moon face base. “My work lacks integrity,” she added in a way that made zero apology for her lumpy rim and lopsided base. For someone who works painstakingly to smooth her joins, lumps and bumps, Paula’s attitude both inspires and infuriates me. My nine-year-old daughter brings home more polished work. And there it is. The child. That’s what I see. That’s what I am drawn to in Paula Grief‘s work and what I connect to in most art I like. A childlike sense of play and freedom and imagination. Clean joins and finished edges mean nothing in the absence of these key elements. Not caring about what other people think is the game changer. Paula doesn’t give a toss about appealing to a wide audience. “I make things that I think my friends will like.” Sounds like creative integrity to me.
It’s a beautiful idea to take relics from different cultures and time periods and re-imagine them as contemporary sculptures. French artist, Nicolas Lefebvre does exactly this. A background in antiques informs his work. As does his extensive travel. Imagine an antique Amazonian headdress and Nigerian coins, or a Khmer mirror and a Berber tent peg. Each one of his “objets montés” are a delicate balance of colour, texture and scale. As is often the case with collections such as these, choosing just one is impossible. I want them all.
In a contest between polka dots and stripes, I’d choose the latter. As teenagers, my best friend, Stephanie and I had amassed so many stripe-y t-shirts (many of them matching) we could have run a shop on the green outside our school. Stripes for Sale! Two for a tenner! Anytime I see a stripe, I get excited. These striped cups, coasters, dishes and bowls from ceramic artist, Amy Kraus are terrifically cool. A background in graphic design informs her approach to surface decoration. “Picking a simple pattern like stripes is great because it’s simple, and I can’t get overwhelmed by the possibilities of different patterns and graphics,” she says. There’s something about the stripe that’s bold, fresh and classic. Hello, Audrey sur plage! “The only rules are that I have to use stripes, and there has to be two colours in the piece,” adds Kraus. “Within that framework, I am able to explore different colour combinations and variations of stripe patterns, and I am pushed to see what colours I can make work together. The best results usually come from combinations I wasn’t expecting to work well.”
I’ve been making tulipieres for weeks now, in my head, at least. They’re an ornate vessel with multiple spouts that date back to the 1600’s. They were originally conceived as a a vase in which to grow tulips, a single bloom emerging from each spout. These days, the tulipiere offers endless possibilities for arranging any cut flower. The one I’m crafting in my head looks somewhat like the vintage one below, only it stands on a dainty pedestal and is painted in my signature blue stripes. I’ve made enough things in my mind to know they rarely look the same in real life. Eight small spouts? We shall see.
Over two decades, we’ve amassed a collection of glasses that ranges from tiny vintage tumblers to hand-blown goblets to dainty champagne coupes in every colour of the rainbow. We’ve attempted to buy glasses in sets, but they rarely stay as such, and so our dinner table is a mish mash of all the above. What I love about Drew Spanenberg’s stemware is that it works both as a set and as a one of a kind piece. This peach cup –– as perfect for prosecco as it is for lemonade –– is just dreamy. They’re all hand blown and limited edition. Wash by hand and keep away from buttery fingers.
We so rarely see sink skirts anymore and I don’t know why because they’re charming. Okay, so there’s the obvious impracticality of spilling mouth wash all over your vintage Guatemalan textile, but really, who doesn’t love to floss over a bustle of fancy fabric? I’d brush my teeth all day at this marble sink, and this candy cane fabric brings the circus to a country kitchen. My favourite is this gorgeous stripe; I love it so much that I wish it was an actual skirt!
Long time readers know about my penchant for fancy powder rooms so it’ll come as no surprise that when we finally renovated our home it was the loo that got the most attention. “Must we have a toilet,” I half joked to the contractor. Even the chicest potties are an eyesore. And don’t get me started on the flush plates. Designers go to great lengths to disguise the toilet. Nicky Haslam has a bespoke commode in the guest loo of his London flat and Maria Speake’s of Retrouvius uses elaborate wallpapers to distract us from from the toilet bowl. We opted for one of those floating designs, and in a moment of madness I considered a black model –– so 80’s –– so that it would blend into the midnight blue walls. I came to my senses, and in the end, I barely notice the loo anymore. That is, unless I’m scouring it. But if I ever design another one, I’m splashing out on a Delfts blue Victorian loo with a mahogany seat. Because, why not?
Elisa Uberti‘s anthropomorphic sculptures are simple and soft and tactile and remind me of what a child might make if you handed her a lump of moulding putty. Only the little girl would paint her two-legged dog pink and green and cover it in sequins and sticky feathers. These are utterly restrained, and stunning in their simplicity. Uberti’s lamps look like creatures from another planet, and her chairs are thrones for aliens.
