Until yesterday morning, set upon my Federal period card table, lost to all but the clearest eyed amongst the manifold accessories of a bar, was a boxed compass. It was placed there not as an admonition for guests to be mindful of their own moral compass while imbibing ( As a good deal of my social friends are Episcopalians or Roman Catholic I've a one of a kind.printing block of the Virgin Mary set there for that purpose, the coo-coo clock above it reminds the rest) but more as a EUREKA you have found it end point!
I purchased it two or three year's ago as a makeup joke present after my dearest friend and I had a row during a night of heavy drinking. The evening ended with said friend attempting to walk the 70 miles home in flip flops. A choice logical only to someone well marinated in top shelf French vodka. I drove him home and after a day or two purchased the boxed compass from the Gumps catalog. My desire was to aide any future early morning travels by friend felt compelled to make. Being a very handsome and fit former U.S.N. sailor I was very certain he'd never have a long wait to hitch a ride but that in the glow of bottled French potato juice, he might head south rather than north and find himself planted amongst the garlic fields of Gilroy rather the sweet smell of the northern Redwoods.
The rows became more frequent, the jokes became harsher, edged with a deeply sad bitterness that comes when a loving friendship goes wrong. Our lives moved on and apart. The compass, left behind in the hurried train wreck of that was the end of the friendship, took on a new meaning as a conversation starting jest shared amongst the guests making use of a rather well stocked bar in a well appointed and sober home. It also silently reminded me of that dear lost friendship. Time as told by the coo-coo clock upon the wall and measured by my eternally silent Dutch friend Jacobius, the mid 19th-century portrait of whom blesses all guests who gather in his corner, has a reassuring way of moving on. Time which may indeed fly has also in that flight the magical ability to heal. It cures us of many an arrogant folly and does heal all of even the deepest wounds.
So it was than to me in the regaining of the lost only to us two friendship. I was able to return the compass to its owner, my dearest friend, yesterday afternoon. It guided me 50 miles north and more importantly had kept me company for the intervening two years with very happy memories of the wonderful times shared with one of the best men I've ever known. It also helped us find a quiet country lane where in the fullness of the moment we were able to enjoy the private moments of reunion and the fruits of forgiveness. All told a very good purchase.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
The real deal or the overpriced poorly made copy? Enlightenment or DREK?
One of life's greatest pleasure, for me as great as fall morning tete-a-tete with my 91 year old mom in a Venetian cafe and solitary hikes in the remaining wilds of the bay area, are hours spent in auction houses. The local Bonham's has taken a good deal more of my money than I care to relate publicly but I've been rewarded with lovely pieces of mid-18th century furniture, silver, etchings as well as a painting or two. The flowering of the reign of the House of Hanover is gloriously celebrated in my house both by one of a kind hallmarked silver, tables, chairs, tall caseclocks, each and every piece as chic and strong 260 years on, as the day they first decorated a Georgian home, but also in stylish 20th and 21st century copies.
The discipline I exercise in collecting is simple. Once the real deal item is found, bid upon, won, shipped and set-up, the copy is removed to a bedroom or secondary sitting room. That time honored route, hall, drawing, dining room to bedroom, back parlor. attic or junior family member, play's out with good copies too. As long as the "of the style" piece is well made and still serviceable it's use is encouraged. Inexpensive has never been a bar to style. Much like a perfect literary salon, a cleverly edited and resulting delightful mix of pedigree's and provenance is a superbly effortless way of showing each in a flattering light. Think of homespun Mr. Franklin besting many an elegantly silken clad noble, his foil, both verbal and sartorial set against and within the bursting decadent splendor that was ancien regime Paris. That deliberate plain foil carried the rightness of the American rebels cause, to to the hearts of salon society restive under the never ending personal rule of Bourbons.
I'm all for, in fact rather celebrate the look of a reasonably priced, exclusive to Gump's 2007, copy of an 18th century japonesque red/gold/black tin tea table in my living room. It stands slightly to the left of a pristine Chippendale ladder back chair circa. 1787, London, both set in front of a handcrafted white damask 6 pillow sofa circa 1984, North Carolina the sofa and chair have a half dozen silk cover down filled pillows The color of the striped silk contrasts with the custom made silk tablecloth on the round end table which poodles in over abundant decadence on the floor . The resulting look is charming, expensive and unpretentious.
My love affair with Christies, Sotheby's, Bonham's, Dortheum's rooms devoted to the Hanoverian period (i.e. George One through Sailor Bill Four) is very 21st century, in that all of my bidding and the majority of time spent reviewing the pieces is done online. It's simply an unbeatable way of maintaining a pokerface and sticking to budget. The end reward of a winning bid is the glory of stewarding for future owners magnificent antiques from the triumphant age of Revolution and Empire. Stewarding for my lifetime one of kind items, handmade centuries ago by long dead artisians, sold to long gone gentry and nobles leads to a delightful guessing game of who has owned the items, what houses did they decorate, are the houses still in existence? It's a great deal of fun. It is also, relative to the purchase of a like item in antique stores, a value. The how you use it, the colors, materials, type and amount of art, is the mix up which gives a room unique spin, its timeless chic. As point of contrast, what I call barbarian design, that attempt so pathetic, a failed effort to copy the rare is vulgarity akin to calling a garden gnome a folly.
Mass produced, massive sized assaults on the worlds carbon footprint, barbarian design! Huge bad copies of "found' treasures. The utter sadness of it all. My GOD the fun of found treasures is in the hunt, mixing it up, of placing a worn Edwardian leather sofa in a room with a massive spotlight from a Hollywood sound-stage, played off a French train station sign is the story's about the journey, the find. the hagaling and the arrival. The timing, the time, the work of the hunt, the fun of discovery and the resulting triumphant feeling of having created a one of a kind look, is for me, the whole point of it. It needs to be authentic. These massive fakes, poorly made, expensive as only a fraud, or a clap free, uptown hooker at a sailor's bar would dare be, are like said hooker, attempting to roll the client. They are too deadingly dreadful to look at let alone own. The absurdity in its essence is that the real pieces are on market at same price or less. This season's current attempt at a LOOK is, now follow along, is grey beige, expensive, poorly made and as result rendered uninteresting, dreadful copies pieces found in British or Irish stately home attic's, mixed with fake left bank cafe, mixed with made lat week in Vietnam inter war European train station, mixed with, Hollywood sound stage. The real deal of those pieces would be delightful. As reference,I think of the superbly curated items recently auctioned off by Christies at The Althrop Attic sale. They were joyous in variety and age.
The saddest thing occurs when, if you happen to observe it is the sad look on crest fallen faces reading price sheets left on the barbarian design copies. Sadness? Causing sadness.in what should be frivolous fun is barbarian design's mortal sin. Ownership of this stuff, real deal or poorly made crap, is not a requirement to live a full, happy, loving life and so the empathetic let down one feels watching gay payotes covet this horribly made, poorly designed, absurdly overpriced, destined for 21st century landfills, DREK, than realizing they can't afford it, is a very sobering moment not for the weak of heart.
I suppose the drek merchants serve a purpose, they do siphon off the fools with money who might otherwise inflate bidding for the devotee's of other ages. It's the madness of buying a poorly made copy when the original is available that is so profoundly disturbing, but than barbarians and drek are a niche market unto themselves.
The discipline I exercise in collecting is simple. Once the real deal item is found, bid upon, won, shipped and set-up, the copy is removed to a bedroom or secondary sitting room. That time honored route, hall, drawing, dining room to bedroom, back parlor. attic or junior family member, play's out with good copies too. As long as the "of the style" piece is well made and still serviceable it's use is encouraged. Inexpensive has never been a bar to style. Much like a perfect literary salon, a cleverly edited and resulting delightful mix of pedigree's and provenance is a superbly effortless way of showing each in a flattering light. Think of homespun Mr. Franklin besting many an elegantly silken clad noble, his foil, both verbal and sartorial set against and within the bursting decadent splendor that was ancien regime Paris. That deliberate plain foil carried the rightness of the American rebels cause, to to the hearts of salon society restive under the never ending personal rule of Bourbons.
I'm all for, in fact rather celebrate the look of a reasonably priced, exclusive to Gump's 2007, copy of an 18th century japonesque red/gold/black tin tea table in my living room. It stands slightly to the left of a pristine Chippendale ladder back chair circa. 1787, London, both set in front of a handcrafted white damask 6 pillow sofa circa 1984, North Carolina the sofa and chair have a half dozen silk cover down filled pillows The color of the striped silk contrasts with the custom made silk tablecloth on the round end table which poodles in over abundant decadence on the floor . The resulting look is charming, expensive and unpretentious.
My love affair with Christies, Sotheby's, Bonham's, Dortheum's rooms devoted to the Hanoverian period (i.e. George One through Sailor Bill Four) is very 21st century, in that all of my bidding and the majority of time spent reviewing the pieces is done online. It's simply an unbeatable way of maintaining a pokerface and sticking to budget. The end reward of a winning bid is the glory of stewarding for future owners magnificent antiques from the triumphant age of Revolution and Empire. Stewarding for my lifetime one of kind items, handmade centuries ago by long dead artisians, sold to long gone gentry and nobles leads to a delightful guessing game of who has owned the items, what houses did they decorate, are the houses still in existence? It's a great deal of fun. It is also, relative to the purchase of a like item in antique stores, a value. The how you use it, the colors, materials, type and amount of art, is the mix up which gives a room unique spin, its timeless chic. As point of contrast, what I call barbarian design, that attempt so pathetic, a failed effort to copy the rare is vulgarity akin to calling a garden gnome a folly.
Mass produced, massive sized assaults on the worlds carbon footprint, barbarian design! Huge bad copies of "found' treasures. The utter sadness of it all. My GOD the fun of found treasures is in the hunt, mixing it up, of placing a worn Edwardian leather sofa in a room with a massive spotlight from a Hollywood sound-stage, played off a French train station sign is the story's about the journey, the find. the hagaling and the arrival. The timing, the time, the work of the hunt, the fun of discovery and the resulting triumphant feeling of having created a one of a kind look, is for me, the whole point of it. It needs to be authentic. These massive fakes, poorly made, expensive as only a fraud, or a clap free, uptown hooker at a sailor's bar would dare be, are like said hooker, attempting to roll the client. They are too deadingly dreadful to look at let alone own. The absurdity in its essence is that the real pieces are on market at same price or less. This season's current attempt at a LOOK is, now follow along, is grey beige, expensive, poorly made and as result rendered uninteresting, dreadful copies pieces found in British or Irish stately home attic's, mixed with fake left bank cafe, mixed with made lat week in Vietnam inter war European train station, mixed with, Hollywood sound stage. The real deal of those pieces would be delightful. As reference,I think of the superbly curated items recently auctioned off by Christies at The Althrop Attic sale. They were joyous in variety and age.
The saddest thing occurs when, if you happen to observe it is the sad look on crest fallen faces reading price sheets left on the barbarian design copies. Sadness? Causing sadness.in what should be frivolous fun is barbarian design's mortal sin. Ownership of this stuff, real deal or poorly made crap, is not a requirement to live a full, happy, loving life and so the empathetic let down one feels watching gay payotes covet this horribly made, poorly designed, absurdly overpriced, destined for 21st century landfills, DREK, than realizing they can't afford it, is a very sobering moment not for the weak of heart.
I suppose the drek merchants serve a purpose, they do siphon off the fools with money who might otherwise inflate bidding for the devotee's of other ages. It's the madness of buying a poorly made copy when the original is available that is so profoundly disturbing, but than barbarians and drek are a niche market unto themselves.
Monday, May 16, 2011
The fashionable Princesses of York or How I've endured the disappointment of the Obama Administration
If fashion, for this article fashion being defined as couture, is justified by nothing else other than providing historians with artifacts of past ages, it pay's for its salt. It puts flesh, so to speak, on the bones of past lives. The great joy in ambling about in the palaces, stately homes and estates so abundant throughout all of the British Isles, is in viewing in situ the fullness of the artifacts of aristocratic life housed within family collections. The sheer depth of the collecting of a long seated family is breathtaking in scope. The sartorial collection may well run the gamut of class from the maids aprons to the Duchess of Devonshire's ballgowns. The art will include everything from the etchings on the nursery floor to the Van Dycks in the great Hall, it all serves to encompass a civilization's cultural heritage. Despite the near confiscatory death rates post-world war two and pre-Thatcher, a wide variety of those estates survive either intact and privately held or owned wholly by the National Trust or English Heritage into the 21st century. They all reflect the culture made possible by the islands not having been invaded by anyone but the invited Dutch in-laws and an Empire of both cheap labor and raw resources. It's the longevity of constant buffing that gives it the polish.
The Fashion Divine Wintour, her decisions on couture, style and taste having all the more gravitas for the lady having been to the fashion manner born as only a descendant of the noted 18th century lady of wit, beauty, politics and fashion, the Duchess of Devonshire could be. While not a job requirement, it gives the lady a depth others lack. Add to that innate talent, a keen eye for style and a work ethic that many a politician could benefit by adopting, completes the mix of the very rare F.D.W. That eye and work ethic or more precisely the lack of same may explain the fashions guardian angels feeling puckish towards and playing a joke upon two other descendant's of the Duchess of Devonshire, the very frumpy scion's of the House of Fergie. a.k.a. the dutch, who clearly prefer the Army and Navy stores clearance day's to following the rites and rituals of beauty. While disregarding the idea that THAT HAT was a terrorist act, it is however clear that left to less sure eyes the young ladies fall into fashion wickedness of the irredeemable gauche sinner.left to fend for themselves on clearance day's. If the wedding was a fairytale, The Princesses York played out the wrong story. What is to be done with the two Yorks? Time and prayer will tell.
Saint Marina of Kent, Saint Wallis Warfield Windsor, Blessed Margaret of Snowdon, save the Princesses of York from the curse of cake and Dame Edna. Ashes of Rose, Dust of Elizabeth Arden, Remember Max Factor and your Grandmother, free the Princesses York, turn the Royal Tweedledum and Tweedledee from frogs to sleek Cartier panthers.
The Fashion Divine Wintour, her decisions on couture, style and taste having all the more gravitas for the lady having been to the fashion manner born as only a descendant of the noted 18th century lady of wit, beauty, politics and fashion, the Duchess of Devonshire could be. While not a job requirement, it gives the lady a depth others lack. Add to that innate talent, a keen eye for style and a work ethic that many a politician could benefit by adopting, completes the mix of the very rare F.D.W. That eye and work ethic or more precisely the lack of same may explain the fashions guardian angels feeling puckish towards and playing a joke upon two other descendant's of the Duchess of Devonshire, the very frumpy scion's of the House of Fergie. a.k.a. the dutch, who clearly prefer the Army and Navy stores clearance day's to following the rites and rituals of beauty. While disregarding the idea that THAT HAT was a terrorist act, it is however clear that left to less sure eyes the young ladies fall into fashion wickedness of the irredeemable gauche sinner.left to fend for themselves on clearance day's. If the wedding was a fairytale, The Princesses York played out the wrong story. What is to be done with the two Yorks? Time and prayer will tell.
Saint Marina of Kent, Saint Wallis Warfield Windsor, Blessed Margaret of Snowdon, save the Princesses of York from the curse of cake and Dame Edna. Ashes of Rose, Dust of Elizabeth Arden, Remember Max Factor and your Grandmother, free the Princesses York, turn the Royal Tweedledum and Tweedledee from frogs to sleek Cartier panthers.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)