Sweet Oblivion

Languorous and slow, today has been an endless preamble to god knows whatever is coming tomorrow --



Will I be living in a Turner for the next 48 hours?









At least the closing on our new (very old, nearly waterside) house is Wednesday, instead of a couple of weeks ago on the 15th, as originally planned. I just hope it makes it through unscathed! It's survived 230 years in one piece, and hopefully it will continue to do so.

My life looks like this:

And how silly are these labels? Seriously, what type a ridiculous person I must be.





Moving bums me out, even though I've excited by where we're going.

What a Pleasure to See Something You Love in a New Way

Posted nearly two years ago, and discovered in live action here.



So ... it's been quiet around here, and I have a few excuses -- one being that I was in Europe for the last 3 weeks, and now am in the final stages of buying a house and packing and all of that, and also prepping for a career shift, maybe ... so things are nutty (or at least nuttier than usual) here at Nick Haus. But I'm so glad you're still here, and I'll tell you all about everything as I grab a spare moment.

In the meantime, develop a crush on Frank O'Hara and think about who you want to get a Coke with and go to the Frick in these waning days of summer.

Things That Might Have Been: Cy Twombly Edition

Did I ever tell you about the time I didn't go to Cy Twombly's flat in Rome? No? So this is how it goes.



Once I lived for a year in Rome, and each day in the morning I would walk a few miles through the city center, going whichever direction seemed most appealing. I'd usually buy some roasted hazelnuts along the way or whatever was in season.



For most of the daylight hours, Romans open the large doors to their interior courtyards, many of which are jewel boxes of unimagined richness.



Most you could wander into without harassment, gaze upon sarcophagi-cum-fountains, stroke rare ferns and catch oblique, glancing views of magnificent rooms high above on the piano nobile, windows thrown open and revealing a bit of fresco, gilding, tapestry,



Some were not so easy (Palazzo Taverna comes to mind, several others on Via Giulia), and required some negotiations with mostly good-natured gatekeepers.



My Italiano was abysmal, but I knew one line quite well: "Scusi, posso vedere il cortile? Sono un studente di architettura," (flaws are all over this, but it means something like, "Excuse me, is it possible to see the courtyard? I'm a student of architecure.") and typically the gatekeepers were more than accommodating. I smiled a lot, and sometimes, left a tip.




One day I encountered a palazzo with a courtyard of such beauty that I was quite moved. The gatekeeper was also quite proud of it, and guided me through the space, chattering on in deeply accented Italian that completely mystified me, plucking an orange from a tree, peeling and eating it as we walked over the perfectly raked gravel.



Later, I spoke with the director of the program where I studied about the experience, and she asked where it was -- she knew immediately the palazzo I had described. "That's where the Twombly's live. Why don't you talk to [random other acquaintance who writes for Art Forum who I didn't know well at all] about visiting? She's great friends with Alessandro."



Of course I did no such thing. For some reason it was no problem asking someone who I'd never met to see their courtyard, but I could not muster such forwardness with the random art critic, and I have kicked myself ever since.





All images stolen from here and here.

You'll shoot your eye out, kid!

A worthy maxim for both Christmas and the 4th.

Certain Things I Stalk: Dagobert Peche

There are certain objects I stalk without reason, salivating over items in auction catalogs whose estimates are far, far beyond my means. Ah well. Among the things I follow closely are objects associated to the Wiener Werkstätte, and particularly Dagobert Peche.

This vase in the upcoming LAMA auction has me in raptures --



Textiles (in this case, used by Poirret for a gown) --



Laces (sample book from a Wright auction of early this year) --



And museum pieces that I would take up cat burglary to call my own:





Look at these strawberries!



And of course my favorite Adelphi paper, which is heavily influenced by Pesce's work.

Sigh. Will I ever have some Pesce to call my own?

The Masculine Jelly

A summer necessity?



Perhaps, yes.

Grandma's Arthur Umanoff Chairs

As often occurs, yesterday I learned something from one of my readers who commented a few weeks ago, and a longstanding mystery (which I should have looked into more carefully years ago, because it's not THAT obscure at all) has been solved. The designer and maker of the chairs from my grandmother's breakfast room has been determined. Here, an identical set from Rago Arts a few years ago, which failed to sell:



They're by Raymor and designed by Arthur Umanoff, and most likely came from whatever retailer my grandparents used when they bought all their Dunbar. Not particularly valuable or precious, they are nonetheless very comfortable and presently in storage at the family house in Chicago. I have 6, I think (or maybe weirdly 5), and now I think I need a pair of these to head and foot a table, with the 6 I have around the table:



I don't know if I would ever choose these chairs if they hadn't been given to me, but some of the happiest times of my life were spent in that room, and I'll never forget my grandma late at night sitting at the breakfast table, playing solitaire. They sat around a massive heavily carved table in exceptionally dark wood, 17th century Spanish in style if not provenance. The top was covered in deep scrollwork carvings that reminded me of cowboy leatherwork that I saw in Jackson. This carving destabilized anything placed on the table, and I remember many a spilt bowl of cereal or glass of orange juice. We did not keep the table. Pretty, and quite striking with the spindly legs of the chairs, but a bitch to clean pools of milk out of.

Look at these Unamoff benches -- so striking! I need a pair:



I wish I could go back in time and advise my grandmother that she needed the benches to sit in the atrium (which would really have been quite nice) and why not pick up a few more of those charming Dunbar side tables with the Capron tiles? How about a few more with the glass LCT tiles, to use as bedside tables? And maybe let's not use them as plant stands? Because Future-Nick is having trouble finding someone to properly remove the water stains.

Holly Embraces May

... in a perfect May Day ensemble:



Altered Edwardian dress, vintage Givenchy earrings, vintage chandelier fittings used as necklace, mysterious braid of blond human hair (found in an antique box I'd already bought) used as headband.

Trust

Our relations with animals are so weird.



I've been thinking about this a lot the last few weeks, as we've added a new member to the household -- a bad old cat named Aesop (his original name related to unfortunate markings above his upper lip, begins with A, and rhymes with "golf").



Bad in the sense that he sometimes flexes his nails on a cushion and I scream and gesticulate madly, clapping my hands, snapping my fingers, stomping my feet. I look pretty wild myself, and quite reasonably, Aesop looks at me like I'm completely mad.

He may be bad, but Aesop may have a point.

First Cut of the Season

I've never loved the smell of grass all that much, or really cared for lawns in the first place, but my indifference was challenged yesterday morning on a walk to the post office. Passing the statehouse, the smell of the freshly cut green was undeniably pleasurable, even intoxicating, an overpowering reminder of the growth of all things.



I know this lawn well -- many a time I've paused (and even slept) on the ridge leading to this plain. There's nothing more delicious than a nap on the grass on a summer night, especially if you're exhausted and a bit drunk from a bar or dinner downtown, and continuing up the hill seems impossible. I'll even admit I've been awakened by sprinklers a few times, but luckily it's a bit too early in the season for that.

If not inclement, I highly recommend a nap in the sweet-smelling grass today.

I Am Officially Not Over Ikat Yet

I thought I was, but not really:



The one above looks like something Amselm Kiefer would put on his floor, and the one below looks like something Nuryev would wrap about his shoulders, laying on a dais like a deposed king:



As interpreted by Luke Irwin, as seen here.

Those Golden Days

A bleak place transfigured by sunset -- if ever there was an argument for good lighting, this is it. Red rocks in Colorado, as taken by Steven Thompson, Jr.

Margaret Howell's Getaway

It's been all over the place, but I find myself looking at Margaret Howell's cottage from the NYTimes post again every few days -- mostly because it looks so effortless, though of course the place is pure artifice.












Poetic cleaning supplies:



This is the challenge in being a designer: nothing is truly natural. All things are intentioned.

This beachside walk profile shot? Not random.



But yes,

NickHaus is featured on the Etsy blog today

I kept this under my hat, but I was asked to write a guest post on the excellent Etsy blog, and it runs today! I'm not sure what time it's running, but all of the articles are fascinating and worth a look -- go check it out here.

The genesis of my post is this photo of my family in front of our beautiful and decrepit summer house. I'm at far left, circa 1993/94 -- dear Matthias, our hound, is no longer with us, but wasn't he a handsome beast?

AIAI: Ankle deep, he waded through the bluebells ...

His spirit rose and exalted as he breathed in the sun drenched air.









The glorious day was in its last decline -- long shadows lay on the sward -- and from above, the leaves dripped their shimmering drops of gold-green light.



Moths and butterflies swarmed in merry hosts, flittering here, glimmering there.
But hush: Could that be a deer?"

Images and text from one of my favorite films, Howards End, which is vaguely a guilty pleasure, mostly because it seems too pretty to possibly be worthwhile, but I adore it. And how terrible is it that I want desperately to carpet every bare bit of land with hyacinthoides non-scripta (English bluebells), though they are nonnative and spread quickly? I already have a source of seeds all worked out.

On the bluebell:
"The non-scripta or non-scriptum part of the botanical names means 'unlettered' or 'unmarked' and was intended to distinguish this plant from the classical hyacinth of Greek mythology. This mythical flower (which may have been a wild species of Hyacinthus, Iris or other flower) sprang up from the blood of the dying prince Hyacinthus. His lover, the god Apollo, shed tears that marked the new flower's petals with the letters 'AIAI' ('alas') as a sign of his grief."

Sorry for the silence -- I've been busy, and then we had depressing weather and everything I thought of was sad, and then we had resplendent weather and I just wanted to be outside, and none of these are conducive to blogging. But this is an exciting week -- big surprise tomorrow!