This could be any island home, but I’m going to imagine that with it’s peach walls and surrounding palm trees, we are in Bermuda. The beaches there are nowhere near this rugged, but it is still possible. And it’s one of those days, where the sky is white and gray and cornflower blue and rains hard for five minutes before the sun cracks through the clouds and it turns into a perfectly, beautiful day.
Every morning at the crack of dawn, Luma starts to squawk. Within a few minutes of not being picked up she sounds more like a rooster. When Jason, Iole and I spent three-months in Folegandros, the ki-ki-ri-ki-ki of the roosters was our wake-up call there, too. Only, the sound was far less obnoxious on a far flung island in the Aegean. From our little house in Chora, it was funny and familiar and signaled the start of a bright new day. I can’t say we’re always so chirpie and optimistic, these days, when the bird song begins. But when I finally fold, step into her room, and find a baby girl all dressed in white with crazy wisps of hair in her face and a smile from ear-to-ear, optimism is restored.
Even in a big house with lots of rooms, my brother and I still shared a room. I think room sharing among siblings is fun and endearing, but it’s also a brilliant daily exercise in compromise and negotiation. One wants the lights dimmed, the other wants them off. One wants the door ajar, the other prefers it shut. Some days, I go downstairs and leave Iole and Antimo bickering away (“I want the curtains closed! I want them open!”) only to find them cuddled up in Iole’s single bed when I check on them two-hours later. It warms my heart to see the love between them, and it impresses me that they are able to muddle through their differences. It’s in these situations that their relationship will grow, and that they as individuals will flourish, too. Patience, kindness and knowing when to hold your ground and when to concede. These are just some of the lessons that they will teach one another.
I love the idea of a signature scent. My grandmother wore First by Van Cleef Arpel for years, and to this day, I feel compelled to engage with any woman wearing it. I don’t come across too many, mind you. It’s a dramatic scent, one that few can pull off. Other than brief flirtations with Anais Anais (age 8) Amarige (age 14) and Cristalle (late teens) I have never had a signature scent. I think for it to be your “signature” you need to have worn it for at least a decade. My mother has worn Carolina Herrera for about that long, and it suits her so beautifully. It’s hard to find a scent that is both familiar and unique. And that’s just what it is.
On the weekend, Jason and I walked the sandbanks beach in Prince Edward County. It was cold and windy and the sky was a steel gray. I love being near the water, so it didn’t matter much that the weather was so moody. The kite surfers didn’t seem to mind either. We saw at least four out there, taking each wave with poise and power. I’m always inspired by people committed to a sport –– something that gets them in the water, on the pitch or up a mountain, regardless of the cold. My father swims laps in a lake outside Athens in November and my sister-in-law will run miles through the Toronto winter. “Imagine how invigorating that must feel,” I said to Jason as we looked on from the shell-laced beach. “Imagine how great they’ll feel tonight, warming up by a fire with a large cup of tea.”
“You’re entirely bonkers,” wrote Lewis Caroll. “But I’ll tell you a secret: all the best people are.” I think it’s fair to say that we’re all a little bonkers. Luckily for me, my family and friends are a lot bonkers. And with that comes chaos and challenge and the kind of laughter that makes you feel like someone poured a jug of sunshine into your soul.
The work of Italian artist Mario Merz –– a leading figure of the Arte Povera –– is the subject of a retrospective at the Museum of Cycladic Art right now. It was in the late 60s that Merz started constructing his signature igloos out of metal, clay, wax, glass, burlap and branches with political or literary phrases scribbled upon them in neon. The idea of dedicating oneself to a single motif, exploring it to its seams and reinterpreting it a thousands times over, is so fascinating to me.
I’m a big fan of graphic, monochromatic quilts, but in the right setting, even chintz quilts are charming. At Jan Marriott’s stall at the saturday Brickworks Market, I considered an antique 1920’s quilt covered in hand embroidered Dahlias once, but was very quickly put off by the thought of a million families and their cats curling up inside it. I do have my eye on these colouful, modern versions from A.P.C. though, and these monochromatic beauties are high on the list, too. There’s no curling up in quilts like these. This is art for the wall.
The thing about wearing a hat, is that you need to act like you’re not wearing one. An extravaganza such as this may get in the way of being able to do that . Someone like Carmen Miranda could have pulled it off, but the rest of us should stick to chapeaus that are a tad more wearable. That’s not to say that you cannot be imaginative, whimsical –– witty even –– in your choices. What matters, is regardless of size, colour and level of absurdity, that you are wearing the hat, rather than it’s wearing you.
“Some people need sequins,” said Edith Head. “Others don’t.” I used to need sequins like a ladybird needs her spots. These days, I wear them less, but when a collection this beautiful comes along, it makes me want to snap up every last piece. Delpozo is a dream –– a dream in which I’m wearing tulle and silk and pink sequins the size of loonies to take my children to school on a chilly Wednesday in October.
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