Saturday, January 10, 2015

Nostalgia Patina: Château de Digoine

Images and quotes via Architectural Digest
 I have tried. I have tied to find the beauty in clean lines, simplified prints, the "marriage" between form and function, "pops of color", understated knick-knacks and of course chairs made of unexpected materials which "challenge" our notion of a chair (reminds me of the tedious discussion of Plato's forms from PHI 101, i.e. "so, what is a chair?").  The reason I tried is because I believe, deep down, that things should be practical. In practice however, I rarely have/do something in a strictly practical way. I would pile on examples of unpractical shoes, clothes, hobbies and food but I trust, dear reader, that you have an imagination. There is a great tirade on the issue on Chintz of Darkness. For me though, it isn't just a matter of taste. I think interiors that are not purely practical, more accurately mirror the reality of life, which is seldom purely practical. Therefore, they are in a way, more compatible with day to day life, while purely practical interiors belong to the world of ideals. Personally, I have ideals, but I appreciate the world of things I can see, smell, hear, taste and touch, just as much. That doesn't mean I always prefer antiques either. I am somewhat inspired to do a blog post about great contemporary chairs.
Besides that, you just don't get as many fun stories with Ikea furniture and it's high-end counterparts. It's true that there are stories in the modern furniture from the 1960's and 70's but it's still to recent for them to have acquired that nostalgia patina. If all these things (in these pictures) were assembled merely as an exercise in simple collecting, the argument could be made that it is no trace of practicality here, but, "“All these things are not just to be admired,” Remilleux [the owner and decorator] explains. “You can sit in that chair, and you can place a drink on that table. This is not a museum—it is alive.”" It makes me really happy that the neo-gothic chairs above are actually used for sitting.
"...what rivets the French television producer is the way such pieces bear eloquent witness to a moment in time: how an ormolu mount evidences the touch of a master craftsman’s chisel or how the covered boxes stored inside a centuries-old Chinese-lacquer cartonnier recall the documents a courtier would have kept in them, reflecting a relationship far more refined than that between a modern-day executive and her metal file cabinet."

Someday the executive's file cabinet might come to represent something special, but it just doesn't yet. The file cabinet will not have any traces of the art nouveau-era actress (the muse of Alphonse Mucha), cross-dressing as Napoleon. It is really hard to imagine exactly how the file cabinet will capture the imaginations of our descendants.
"There were a few later amendments made by the aristocratic Chabrillan family, its longtime owners, such as the evocative 1842 private theater where, in 1900, Sarah Bernhardt rehearsed her cross-dressing star turn as Napoléon’s son in the Edmond Rostand play L’Aiglon. But for the most part Digoine was dans son gôut, or in its original state, embodying all the glories of the ancien régime as well as many of its drawbacks."



"One of the rooms in the first-floor enfilade is an apricot chamber devoted to Marie Antoinette, where paintings of the tragic royal—including an Alexandre Kucharsky image of her mourning her guillotined husband—gaze down on signed Jacob chairs and a candy-color Robert Adam demilune cabinet. And in the tower salon looms a 1665 Nicasius Bernaerts portrait of a melancholy mastiff named Tambon, who belonged to a duc de Vendome."
I was curious about the Alexandre Kucharsky Marie Antoinette painting and the room. I think this might be it. I really like the idea of a Marie Antoinette themed "chamber".

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Really, Really Hard to Impress.

Aside from finishing college, I have not really done much lately. My "internet life" has been very quiet and my real life too, I guess. I want to keep this blog going, and I know people read it, but I feel oddly uninspired by everything. It's like there is nothing new or interesting going on. I know somewhere, somehow, something interesting is happening but I sort of don't really care. I don't know what happened but I am really, really hard to impress. It's not like I am a snob. I am just disappointed. I can't even begin to describe what I am disappointed by or why. I don't even want to be impressed, really. What is like being impressed but more... more...? See, I don't know. Why am I supposed to know? I think it is an insult to the word "know" to say you "know what you want" (and also to say you "don't know what you want"). 
Besides the stupid belt, I might want this trench coat, (and leather turtleneck).

Tuesday, September 30, 2014


Sometimes I wish there was a better brand new me underneath. There is not.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

Horrible Photography & What I Wore

Literally What I Wore

These are taken at the Hill-Stead Museum, it has a collection of impressionist paintings, not that I'm a huge fan of them but the grounds feel like an impressionist painting (especially with my horrible photography). I really enjoyed it here and the history of the place is interesting too. I like going to these kinds of places. I'm wearing a Pink Floyd shirt, H&M skirt and Sam Edleman boots (which you can't really see, which is too bad). 

Connecticut River

Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Do you ever tilt your head back while sitting in a chair and wonder if this might happen?

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Poem No. 3

Quest for Truth

I was asked to post the following message where people might see it:

We want to talk to you if you have had the following experience.
You were alone in a public place and you were approached by a woman wearing black.
You remember immediately that you had seen her before.
She makes some jokes or small talk.
She has an accent that is hard to identify.
Then she offers to play a game which involves numbers.
You agree.
She tells you to think of a number.
You do.
Then she writes it down.
She asks you to do it again and to think of her face when you do it.
She tells you she will leave and come back.
She leaves.
For some reason you comply with her request, but her face is hard to visualize.
She returns after some time.
She writes down the number.
Next she asks you to think of a phrase.
She writes it down.
The game takes a strange turn.
The game continues.
Eventually, she seems satisfied.
She asks you if her face is hard to visualize.
You admit that it is.
She gives you a ring she is wearing, it has something written on it.
The ring is silver and looks well made.
She tells you that it is the “emergency system”
Then she leaves, and you don’t see her again.
Then it happens, it’s different for different people, but the “emergency” happens.
You forgot about her, but you remember her, when it happens.
You start to play the game you had played before, like she taught you.
You might have doubts but you also have no other hope.
Remarkably she comes.
She tells you some things but they don’t make sense.
She asks to have her ring back.
You give it to her.
She tells you not to betray her.
She leaves.
We are like you, and we are trying to make sense of what she said.
Contact us.
What does it say on the ring?

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

Poem No.2

Odd Dream

It’s an old trick
Start by finding a doll or a statue.
Position yourself comfortably before it.
It will take you there.
Look into its eyes.
Nothing will happen at first.
Your legs might cramp up but don’t move them.
Don’t move anything. Allow yourself to become fixed.
Fixed in time and space.
Don’t feel. Stop Feeling.
Several hours should have passed by now.
The light has changed.
Let the light keep changing.
Two eyes merge into one.
The third eye is not located on the forehead but between the two eyes.
Beginner’s mistake.
Now look into it.
All thought has ceased, by now.
You can’t feel but you can sense.
You are being turned inside out.
The skin falls away.
Everything falls away.
There is only darkness.
You are not you any longer, “you” were left behind with the skin.
Back there.
A long time ago.
You are free finally, free from “you”.
You realize what a burden “you” are.
How heavy “you” are.
When you breathe the breath fills every part of you, each and every time.
It feels like being repeatedly submerged in cool refreshing water.
You are cleaner ever time.
Even this ceases eventually.
And you become vast.
You become dispersed.
You become bigger than reality.
You swallow up reality.
At this point the beginner will believe they have reached the place.
Another mistake.
You are not alone, now.
The vast old ones blow by in the distance.
The distances are so colossal that if you moved, you would not be moving.
You sense other beings.
Compared to them you are totally insignificant.
Fear overtakes the beginner.
They are unable to notice you, you are so inconsequential.
Your smallness terrifies you.
Not just the smallness, but the bareness.
You are fully and completely exposed.
You try to hide and the place you turn, when that happens, is the place.
It has something like a smell.
Like smoke.
You know where you are.
There is something like sound.
To the beginner it sounds like screams but that is not what that is.
It is what the truth sounds like.
The sound like thing is piercing you.
The beginner will want to quit at this point.
At this point you feel yourself being destroyed.
You feel like you are being shredded alive.
Then the burning comes.
You never sensed pain this sharp.
At this point you are really beginning to break.
All the remaining barriers are being twisted and pulled apart, as they are being incinerated.
You never sensed hurt this deep.
The energy that time gives off is combusting.
At this point you sense the truth is near.
It is not what you thought.
It demands greater sacrifice.
You have not even sacrificed the tiniest drop of what it demands.
Yet, your obliteration is so total and so complete.
You are nothing.
You are less than nothing, now.
You turn into the nothingness that you are, crushed by the magnitude of your failure.
Then you realize there is a whole additional vast reserve of yourself you never knew you had.
A monstrous landscape had been hidden from you, before.
You can spend the rest of eternity exploring it, without having seen a speck of it.
The truth demands all this and much, much more.
You hate the truth.
Never have you felt such violent hatred.
The violence of your own hatred makes you forget everything.
The hatred shatters all your memories.
All your hopes and desires splinter away.
It tears apart your aspirations, and wants and all that is good in you.
The hatred destroys your capacity to want anything, including the truth.
You are finally starting to see.
You didn’t come here to find the truth, you fool.
The truth is one of the smallest things here.

Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Amongst Saints

Photographer: Henrique Gendre, Model Gigi Hadid, for Lita Mortari campaign Fall 2014 source

I love editorials that remind me of those old horror movies, the ones that weren't really scary, the kind no one makes any more. I guess audiences got tired of them. I don't think I can get tired of them. Good thing so many of them were made. 
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