My eldest child has a uniform of leggings, more leggings, tanks tops and sweat shirts. If for a day I could dress her, I may choose a darling handmade blouse from Rairai –– something like this –– paired with a Bobo Choses skirt. Maybe in a decade or two, she may come to appreciate embroidered collars and printed skirts. After she’s had enough of slashed fishnets and barely there dresses.
It was this Gucci ad that drew me to her work, and now that I’ve discovered Ruby Barber’s floral artistry, I’m hooked. Based in Berlin, Barber is one half of the creative team behind Mary Lennox. The name of the floral studio references the heroine of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s classic novel, The Secret Garden. Barber’s work spans from floral styling and set decoration to huge-scale installations. She’s partnered with Gucci, Asics and Zara Home, to name a few. Wild, decadent and ethereal, it’s hard not to skip a breath when you see Barber’s creations. One writer described them quite perfectly as “perishable artworks.” That they only last a week or two, a month at most, is part of what makes them so exquisite.
My brain is blancmange today, but I dd want to share this image, only because bookshelves like these are a bit of a fantasy, (Tom Wolfe is the only author I can make out) as is a sofa pink like the pinkest June peony.
While you salivate over them peaches and that ice cream, all I’m thinking about is the plate. What a pretty, pretty thing. I think I’d always choose white plates, but this one is so unique. Even a floret of broccoli would look beautiful on this one.
In preparation for our move, I’ve spent weeks and weeks culling our possessions, in the hopes of lightening our load. And yet, we’ve still managed to fill two 24-foot trucks. Even as the movers were loading the truck this morning, I was taking things from their hands to plonk on the curb. “Free vintage Italian posters, please take one.” The idea of living as minimalists for a year, with only our bare essentials held a certain appeal, until we found an apartment large enough that we didn’t have to. What drew me to the space was that I could see our life in it. And that included all the crazy papier-mâché , paintings, textiles, glass and ceramics we’ve collected over two decades. The editing experience has been a good one, in that I now know what we own. Duplicates of photographs were discarded. Almost all the kid’s art, too. Clothes, toys, books and shoes, all tossed or re-homed. I’m a maximalist, and I’m sentimental, so while I wouldn’t make it into the William Morris school of design, his words helped me as I packed. Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.
Last suppers make great dinner time conversation. What would your last meal be? Some people imagine something rich and decadent –– linguine with lobster –– while others opt for a simple boiled egg. My default answer is always bread a butter. A fresh-out-of-the-oven baguette, with hand-churned salty butter. And if there’s a lovely marmalade or a delightfully creamy brie sitting around, I’d throw that on, too. Why not? I’m off, anyway.
It’s always amazing to me that a city as grey as Toronto ever turns green. But it does. Every year. A garden that’s looked dead for months, suddenly comes to life. This is the time of year, when surprises spring up in our garden. Dormant fritillaria and hidden Irises. Today, a red tulip appeared that I’ve never seen before. Alongside everything else that’s starting to bloom, these flowers feel like gifts. Close to my children’s school, there’s a tree planted with a plaque that reads, “where the grey light meets the green air.” It’s dedicated to Dianthus & Bear. In my mind, it conjures hope and possibility. Much like Spring.
When I was a little girl I used to scribble my name on everything. The urge to leave a mark on a wall, in the sand or on on the radiators, as I once I did, is so instinctively human. At least, that’s what I say to my Mum every time the incident comes up. It wasn’t the inky scribble that made her mad though. It was that I refused to admit to it. And that I was willing to let my brother carry the weight of my actions. Little sneak. Not along ago, she was setting the table for a dinner party, and she found Iole’s name written in ink on her white table cloth. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she wrote in a text. I recognized Antimo’s penmanship, immediately. Little sneak. For the past month or so, I’ve encouraged the children to paint, draw and scribble all over the walls. The walls are their canvas, until they all come down. Everywhere I look now, I see ice creams and flowers, two-headed creatures, trees and sunbeams and hockey sticks. It’s quite magical. Hopefully, some of that urge to leave a mark is being satisfied. Although I foresee many more scribbles on radiators and linens in our future.
There are so many parts of the world I want to explore, that going back to the same place twice, (like reading the same book twice) seems extravagant. But there’s a time and a place for certain destinations, and there are many towns that I feel I’d appreciate differently today. If I went back to San Miguel Allende, I’d take half a dozen classes and I’d immerse myself in the town’s artistic community. My friend, Stephanie and I, (we travelled to San Miguel Allende together) used to joke about the country house we’d one day fill with treasures from our travels. Now that we both have homes, (she even has a country house) I’d snap up many more textiles and ceramics. And I wouldn’t bother with duffel bags. I’d ship the whole lot home. We stayed in a lovely hacienda, I’d stay there again, unless of course designer, Michelle Nussbaumer invited me to her eclectic San Miguel getaway. That would be awfully grown-up.
John Mayer is the soundtrack to our life. I’m always a little sheepish to admit that. His songs play in coffee shops and dentist’s offices. His talent was, and maybe still is, overshadowed by prickish comments about girls he’s dated. His music likely classifies as easy listening, and easy isn’t complicated, nuanced or edgy. But we love it. We love him. And maybe it’s because he’s so damn easy to listen to. And maybe it’s because his lyrics, simple and honest, resonate with us. Jason appreciates his insane skill –– I gather he’s astounding with strings –– and I really like his lyrics, and how each album reflects a chapter in our lives. Your Body is Wonderland was our early years, before we had children. When we spent three-months in Greece, with a then one-year-old Iole, I used to run daily in the hills listening to Say What You Need To Say. Songs like Gravity, Daughters, and In Repair (Jason’s favourite) played on repeat. When our son, Antimo was born, I listened to the Born and Raised album a lot. Speak for Me is my favourite song on that album. Paradise Valley is home to Dear Marie, a song I’ve listened to over 1000 times, and which feels like a bit of an anthem. Heart of Life was the beginnings of Luma. And the Search for Everything album is us as a family of five as we drove through the Catskills a few summers ago. Needless to say, we’ve listened to I Guess I Just Feel Like a lot lately, and we’re waiting for John’s next track.
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