issue no. 12: on home
Spaces with heartbeats.
The second volume of Love and Other Rugs is presented by Kaiyo.
apartment tours and world tours.
When I can’t date, I travel. And when I can’t write, which is apparent given the tardiness of this monthly newsletter, I go to a wine bar called Anaïs that also serves tea. I drink a pot of Earl Gray until the clock strikes a socially acceptable time to have wine. Or until my friend Joseph saunters in for his shift and pours me a splash of something he loves. It's a far enough walk from my home that I can’t go back to nap, and sometimes Ethan Hawke is there which is never not totally romantic.
It's a perfect size: In the day, the space is bright and airy with cafe chairs in front all facing out to the street like in Europe. At night, the windows fog up from body heat and people trying to fall in love. In between the bottles with prices scribbled on in white chalk are stacks of books—sex, romance, art as the through line. The cafe was named for erotic writer Anaïs Nin—whose home tour in T Magazine I keep pulled up on my computer.
Her color palette very much inspired my current paint choices. NYT writer Kurt Soller describes the Silverlake shrine to the now deceased writer, whose home was published after her death, saying,“…its purplish-brown hue complementing the mauve carpeting and the pinkish-gray concrete bricks to create a distinctive, unlikely palette that makes one feel as if they’re hibernating inside a dusty, cracked-open geode — or better, in the spirit of Nin, a womb.”
It's how I feel about my own space. At under 600 sq. ft it's a cozy cave. At the entrance, shelves lined with family photographs are brightened by a warm mauve. It somehow even on the grayest of days, glows. The bedroom, which has no windows, is a dark, almost eggplant purple. It had been images of design firm Ash’s Hotel Ulysses and a bedroom that Colin King designed that pushed me to go with these hues.
But it took almost 10 different layouts to get there. I had drawn out this final arrangement on the plane home from Japan last November. It all was very clear in my head. I decided that the couch would go against the wall of books, the dining table would live under the large Gucci poster with a dinosaur on it. I would keep both dining tables—one for dining, one for my office. The art would shift from wall to wall, the chairs multiplied like bunnies. There was almost no such thing as too many.
In January, the apartment was finally done or done enough to shoot not one but two home tours in quick succession.
As soon as the space was shot, I left for two weeks in Los Angeles. I wrote about lighting. Then the inspiration dried up again. Not for a lack of trying, I have four half-written issues that couldn’t find their endings. There’s so much I still want to tell you about Japan, and Frieze in LA, and Europe. But how could I write about love when I had been definitively not dating and I was a little tired of rehashing the past?
6 weeks later, I left again—this time to Joshua Tree and Northern California quickly followed by three weeks across Europe. Are you ever coming back? Friends would DM me. I would always come back. Something about my own abandonment issues made me fiercely loyal to home.
But I also loved to leave. Could I do both?
I heard myself explain this very notion as I spoke of my recent travels to someone I had met at a party. She nodded her head and told me it was important to leave New York, just as powerful as coming back. New York was kind of like Groundhog Day, so you never really missed out on anything. Another new restaurant would be opening, a friend would have a themed party or a 30th, 40th, 50th birthday, another act of nature would send us all into the same tizzy, the trains would have messed up schedules on the weekends. New York was unchanging.
What happens to your place when you leave town? She asked. I explained that while I didn’t have roommates per se, I didn’t live alone either. In fact, I joked that really the apartment was actually my cat Milo’s, he was in it more than I was. Ah, she said, the space still has a heartbeat.
She was right for more reasons than she knew, but I wasn’t going to launch into the fact that my apartment had become a shrine to my deceased mother, housing her art and her clothing that I had saved after her death.
I immediately thought about being on Teshima, one of a pair of islands dedicated entirely to art, in the south of Japan last year. In a blackened wood structure on the beach was an installation called Les Archives du Cœur that “permanently houses recordings of the heartbeats of people throughout the world.” You could not only listen to the heartbeats of others but record your own heart and add it to the archive, so we did. Alone in a room you’d remove the layers of clothing you put on for the day and place a microphone that looked like a stethoscope up to your chest. They would hand you a CD in a beautifully packaged box as a keepsake.
Next to the recording room, in a dark hallway with only a single light bulb, heartbeats from the archive would play one at a time—the light would flicker to the beat of the heart. I sobbed and excused myself to a log on the beach. The drama. It was hard not to think of my mother or my own mortality.
It was a nice reminder that places can have heartbeats. Even when I was gone, my space was very much alive.
When I got home last week, I b-lined to Anaïs to try to write. I picked Self Portrait by visual artist Man Ray —an autobiography the famed photographer wrote in the early 60s. I cracked the book open and landed on a chapter called New York Again. I loved signs like this.
He speaks about the years he returned to the city to refine his art practice. He bounced from apartment to apartment, meeting and losing friends, showing new work. The chapter ends with a celebration with friends on MacDougal Street, the same street where my first friend in the city lived. This took place over a hundred years ago. Can you imagine 1920 on MacDougal Street? Maybe they were at Dante, it did open in 1915 after all. New York hasn’t changed a bit.
I had landed a few days prior from a long weekend in Paris. It was the last leg of a three week trip in Europe. Unlike the rest of my trip, Paris had no agenda, which was absolutely essential after living out of a human-sized Away suitcase for almost a month. I drank too much wine, I bought a leather blazer and a sequin gown, and began to feel a bit like myself again.
I, even, for a brief moment, remembered what it was like to fall in love (not with vintage clothing, or a pét nat, but a living human french man).
On our last night, we went to my friend’s favorite restaurant. A two-top became four became six. A magnum bottle of wine was ordered. And I fell head over heels in love with our server, a tall Parisian man who somehow looked like he was from the Midwest. We were there for four hours, just enough for light flirtations but not enough time for me to build the confidence to express that, for him, I’d move to Paris so we could start a life together.
It turned out it was his birthday. Kismet. His friend had shown up for dessert right as the restaurant neared close. He looked familiar, somehow. We started chatting, the friend and I. He was a Champagne importer who had lived in New York for 15 years. He gave me his name and we said goodnight. We had to leave for our flight at 6am.
I regretted not leaving my number, so I did what any normal person would do and searched for my new boyfriend on instagram. I quickly found his friend, recognizing his profile picture from having matched on Raya many years ago, I never forget a face. I messaged him something like, I couldn’t find your handsome friend on IG but I hope he has the best birthday. LOL.
He replied right as the sun came up and we were en route to the airport—He doesn’t have Instagram, but you know where to find him. Hot. I’d certainly go back. He continued, give my city a kiss for me, I’ll be back in June, we should catch up then.
Perfect, I said.
It wasn’t perfect. But it was something. A heartbeat, maybe.
home goods.
A quick guide to shopping my apartment.
Bertoia chairs—mine are hand-me-downs from my mother and rusting at the bases but they has been formative in my apartment color story.
Glassware from Porta—I love everything Porta does and have a few of their small vessels for entertaining.
Flora Rug—if you know me, you know this rug from my cousins at Forsyth. I had coveted it for a while and the shoot pushed me to finally commit.
Velvet pillows—a little secret from etsy, I ordered these to play with the red wire chairs.
Metal shelves—Lichen makes these slim shelves. I use them for art/mood boarding in my “office”.
Body Pressure—my Bruce Naumman poster has travelled from apartment to apartment but now lives happily in my bedroom.
Man of the house—this chair was the finishing touch to my apartment, a sturdy yet airy addition to my living room.
Magazine rack—this is one of those rolling racks that people use to tell you about god on the subway. I use it to showcase my friends’ publications and covers I love.
Mohair throws—a Schoolhouse classic that adds texture and ties in the mauve entry to my living space.
sloppy secondhand.
Each issue I’ll pick a favorite vintage spot & a local watering hole—maybe you’ll find a new-to-you sofa or a new-to-you man. All I can promise is perhaps some promiscuity and a little credit card debt.
I’ve talked about how much I love Alex Tieghi-Walker’s studio in the past but after going back for a handful of events this spring it deserves another shout. With rotating shows, hosted events, and ever changing decor, Tiwa is a giant source of inspiration. Lindsey Adelman’s show just opened and runs for the month of May.
Just last week, I had a delicious meal and wine at Penny—its a new concept from the team at Claud AND my friend Forrest is the CDC. Go say hi and then order the ice box and the stuffed squid and the mousse. In other news, Montague Diner from the team at Margot has landed and has the best mozzarella sticks I’ve had in recent memory.
shop girl.
I shop more than I date, here is everything I bought or saw recently:
a PERFECT vintage lamp from Paris.
Jil Sander shoes I’m dying for.
The BEST thing I saw at Frieze LA from Studio Heron (who alerted me to the fact she is a LAOR reader! Hi Dee!)
A poster at Normal NYC fair—my aunt suggested I go to Willi’s Wine Bar in Paris and couldn’t remember why I remembered the name. This CHIC poster was why.
A summer bag from Zara.
A new gown from Paris that I picked up at Thanx God I’m a V.I.P., a suggestion from friend of the house, Kelly Mittendorf.
Vintage Agnes B leather jacket magic also from Pari!
Listen, I’ve smoked a bong once and I kissed my best guy friend in the process. For those that DO smoke regularly however, Old Donna is for you!
BIG NIGHT makes a book, I love everything Katherine touches. Her new book out in June is sure to be a hit.
Okay ta-ta. Missed you—more soon!!
so much good stuff!!!!