My favourite colour is pink, Schiaperalli pink, to be precise. In my eyes, pink goes with every colour in the rainbow. Orange and pink is a winning combination, and more recently, I’ve been swooning over chartreuse and pink. Life is too short for tepid colour combinations like greiges and taupes. When I was about eight I had a pair of pink leather bowed slip-ons. Despite them being awfully uncomfortable, I wore them all the time. They were my most beautiful shoes. I loved them. Even then, I knew, this is my colour.

One of the many things I love about our rental apartment is that it’s got a working fireplace. We sparked it up last week for the first time, and we’ve lit three fires since. It’s messy, and requires stoking and caring for, but the warmth, scent and atmosphere of a roaring fire is worth the effort. I really like the carvings in this marble one, and this cast iron, art nouveau one is beautiful, too. And look at the Kolkhose –– truly stunning.

The Bombardier beetle’s chemical spray can kill most insects and burn the human flesh. Roses have sharp thorns that dig into animals when they get too close. The boxer crab uses sea anemones as venomous boxing gloves. Nature is genius. Humans too, are equipped with sophisticated systems of self defense. But what about emotional security? Does a rainbow trout, like human beings, have to develop coping mechanisms to deal with the life’s great challenges? Charles Darwin once wrote in his book The Expression of Emotions in Man and Animals that insects “express anger, terror, jealousy and love.” It’s hard to imagine a beetle falling in love, or a spider lamenting the loss of a loved one. And if they do, I would hazard that their version of grief or love sickness or social insecurity isn’t quite as complicated as ours. As bonkers as it sounds, in times of distress I sometimes think, “right, what would a bear do?” “How would a dragonfly navigate this?” Somehow, I feel a little lighter imagining myself as an insect, or a burly mammal. And in that moment, I feel more equipped with the emotional and physical intelligence I need.

I watch a lot of documentaries, and Jay Myself is one of the best I’ve seen. The story –– legendary New York photographer, Jay Maisel moves out of his home of 50 years –– is told through the eyes of fellow photographer and friend, Stephen Wilkes. You feel their friendship throughout. The home, is a 35-000 square foot disused bank in lower Manhattan, filled to the brim with five decades worth of bric-a-brac. To Maisel, even the mundanest of objects –– a battery, spatula, a machine part, or glass bottle –– is a thing of beauty and curiosity. It’s not about purpose, it’s about play, he says, and about learning to look at things in a different way. “You have to really look in order to see.” Unable to afford the maintenance costs –– $300,000 a year –– Maisel is forced to sell the building. The transaction –– 55 million dollars –– is said to be the greatest New York City real estate deal in history. Much of the film focuses on the artist and his team sorting through and packing up six stories of things. Maisel speaks movingly about his collection, his career, art. “Objects are there only if you really see them,” he says.  “And art is trying to make others see what you see.” Most of his collection now lives in storage –– he and his wife, Linda moved into a 10,000 square foot coach house in Brooklyn –– and I wonder what will become of it. I suspect it brings him some comfort to know that it still exists, and that he can visit it at any time. 

Every  year, on Halloween, I wear a long, black ruffled ballgown that belonged to my Mum. If witches wore decadent, designer gowns, this dress would fit the bill. She bought it in the late 70s from a shop called Spaghetti that drew young socialites with a flare for the bohemian. The owner, Nadia La Valle spend time in both Morocco and Bombay, and this was reflected in her rich and opulent designs. Never would my Mum have imagined that her daughter would one day make it her signature spooky time costume, and wear it to trick-or-treat through Toronto’s streets. I don’t think she minds at all, in fact, she loves that I wear it at all. And if truth be told, I’m rarely on the streets, but mostly indoors, sipping wine and scaring small children with my cackle.

I stumbled upon Florence Boniface’s Instagram feed today. Flo is from London, and is currently adventuring around the world with her boyfriend and sharing stories as she goes. They’ve spent a year in South & Central America and are now on a working visa in Auckland, New Zealand.  I’m always inspired when I read about people’s around-the-globe adventures. I know it’s never as romantic as it looks, and that travel comes with challenges, and that real life follows us wherever we go, but there’s something so gutsy and grateful about those who try. This photo was taken in Wanaka, New Zealand.

Piling pumpkins on the porch isn’t my thing. I’m not a fab of gourds, even on-trend millennial pink ones. But this image –– such a decadent display –– snapped by a London photographer stopped me in my tracks. The giant one looks like it went to Cinderella’s ball last night.

“We’re always trying to find somebody whose broken pieces fit with our broken pieces, and something whole emerges,” croons Bruce Springsteen in his latest project, Western Stars. In the concert film, Springsteen transforms an old old barn into a music hall, and in the company of family and friends, performs thirteen tracks off his new album of the same name. In between songs, we catch glimpses of his life through photos and old video footage, while Springsteen (who wrote and co-directed the film) shares details of the journey that brought him to each song. I wanted more storytelling –– his voice is hypnotic –– and more of his wife, Patti Scialfa to whom the film was a “love letter.” But the music blew me away. A 30-piece orchestra accompanied each song, creating a sound that is classic Bruce, and utterly new.