The first chair we ever bought was a Finn Juhl upholstered in a tangerine microsuede. When we moved from Kensington Market to Robert St., with not much furniture, the Finn Juhl more than held its own in an otherwise empty living room. But then came the Eames lounge chair in a well-worn butter-soft brown leather to keep it company. That chair we got for a steal from an antique dealer from Casablanca who used to have a shop on King Street. It was through Roberto that we also acquired our next chair –– a dainty occasional chair with fine brass bones and a Dijon yellow chenille seat cushion. When Iole was born, we moved away from the mid century silhouette, to a more traditional, English looking armchair for her room, refashioned by the creative folks at Anthropolgie in a faded parrot print fabric. For our next chair, an orange wrought iron garden chair, I had a seat cushion made out of some Josef Frank fabric we received as a wedding gift. If I had to choose a favourite, that might be it. But then there’s our most recent chair, a wing-back upholstered in pink and yellow ikat with jaunty wooden legs that we’re all potty about. The truth is, I adore each one for its uniqueness and for the story woven into its seat cushion. So many bottoms, so many tales. Plus, our chairs are shining proof of my design credo –– surround yourself with things that you love, and it will all come together.

“The house is beautiful,” says Pamela Ruiz of the social hotbed that she shares with her artist husband, Damian Aquiles. “But it’s what goes on inside the house that’s important.” Artists flock to the couple’s villa in Havana’s Vedado neighbourhood to feast on ideas and paella, drink cocktails and dance the night away. The parties are legendary. This room here, with its melon pink mid-century chairs and faded wallpaper that predates the revolution, takes my breath away. I can’t imagine how many cultural luminaries have flopped into those chairs.

The Australia edition of Vogue Living is an indulgence of mine. This cover is so rich in texture and colour, it practically leapt off the shelf. I love the mismatched vases filled with jewel-toned blooms that look like they’ve been picked from an English garden. I have plenty of ‘proper’ vases, but these days, flowers always end up in mason jars or in Jason’s crystal whiskey tumblers. I like the look of a bougainvillea vine cut short into a white milk jug, or a blue hydrangea flopping out of a tall green bottle. If I ever muster the energy to throw a dinner party, I’ll pour all my talents into the decor and leave dinner to the delivery man.