We all know and love Rembrandt.

He is the world’s most acclaimed Old Master painter. But did you know that he was a notorious, some would say reckless, collector? Unlike some other great artists, Rembrandt enjoyed fame and fortune during his lifetime, but he didn’t hang onto his riches. He declared bankruptcy in 1656 and struggled with his finances until he died thirteen years later, at age 63.

It’s not widely known (except among scholars) that his collecting played a large role in his financial demise. His wife Saskia’s family accused him of siphoning off her riches to fuel his compulsive buying habits, and he regularly bid record prices at auction, a practice that continued from time to time, even after his bankruptcy. His is a cautionary tale for all of us who can’t stay away from thrift shops and flea markets, or find ourselves clicking “Add to Cart” in the wee hours of the night!

How do we know about the great artist’s collecting obsession? An inventory, known as the desolate boedel, or “insolvent estate,” was compiled in 1656 by his creditors to catalog everything Rembrandt owned before liquidating it.

Rembrandt had quite the good eye, no? On the list are many items prized by tastemakers today, including large specimens of coral, shells, and minerals, Chinese porcelain, Venetian glass, Japanese helmets and other armor, as well as old master prints by Raphael, Mantegna and Lucas van Leyden, among many other items.

The public can get a feel for his collecting taste by visiting the Rembrandt House Museum, located in the large house Rembrandt purchased on what’s now Jodenbreestraat in Amsterdam.

Rembrandt bought the house in 1639 when he was at the height of his career as Amsterdam’s leading portraitist for what was then a princely sum of 13,000 guilders, about 26 times the cost of a small, ordinary house back then. He financed most of the purchase with a mortgage that he never fully paid off. Rembrandt lived and worked there for almost two decades.

The exterior of the Rembrandt House Museum is original, but the interior has been re-created using the bankruptcy inventory as a guide, including a room dedicated to displaying many of the objects Rembrandt collected. That room, known as a Kunstkamer in Dutch, is akin to the “cabinet of curiosities” that British aristocrats filled with objects collected during their Grand Tours. The bankruptcy inventory was quite precise, down to details like to what Rembrandt hung on the walls and where he placed things on shelves, so visitors today can be assured that what they see is very similar to how Rembrandt actually lived.

The breadth and depth of the collection in the Kunstkamer is remarkable. Roman busts and classical figures mingle with natural specimens, unusual glass and the prints. There is even a crocodile hanging from the ceiling! But, unlike the spoils collected by British aristocrats, Rembrandt’s Kunstkamer wasn’t merely a display of wealth and prestige. He regularly used the objects for study and inspiration. Many were props in his compositions. For example, the same helmet appears multiple times in Rembrandt’s works, and his only known still-life print is of a large shell like the ones in his collection.

In that sense, the Kunstkamer survives not only as evidence of Rembrandt’s debt from collecting, but to provide insights into the great artist’s curious mind and level of connoisseurship as well.

To be fair, while Rembrandt’s collecting compulsion was a significant factor contributing to his impoverishment, it was not the only one. Overall, he was a poor financial manager. In addition to paying for art and objects often at prices that were beyond prudent, he overpaid for his house and could not pay the mortgage. As I mentioned earlier, his wife’s relatives also alleged that he mismanaged her estate, leading to legal problems for him. General economic conditions in the Netherlands also declined in the mid 1600s. Finally, Rembrandt’s painting style changed and became darker, looser and more expressive later in his career, and while we prize these later works today, back then his evolving style was not always in sync with prevailing tastes. Accordingly his commissions, once a steady source of income, declined. Taken together, it all got to be too much. Rembrandt simply lived beyond his means until he couldn’t keep up anymore.

After the bankruptcy, Rembrandt moved to a smaller, rented house in a more modest, working class part of town with his common-law partner Hendrickje Stoffels (his housekeeper, and mother of his daughter Cornelia) and his son Titus from his marriage to Saskia. He lived there for the rest of his life, roughly another nine years.

Hendrickje and Titus appeared to have taken some control over the family’s finances, setting up an art dealership in 1660, where Rembrandt worked as an employee (!). This allowed them to sell his works without the money or paintings being immediately seized by creditors, quite a clever workaround.

Rembrandt continued to paint throughout this period, creating some of his most beloved paintings, but tragedy dogged the family. Hendrickje died in 1663 , likely from the plague, and Titus followed in 1668 shortly after he married, also probably from the plague. Rembrandt lived for one year after Titus’ death, leaving only his daughter Cornelia. (Historians believe he perished of natural causes, not the plague). At the time of his death, Rembrandt owned almost nothing, a far cry from the man who once filled the Kunstkamer with treasures from around the world.

Of course, Rembrandt's real “treasures” were his paintings. The art and artifacts he collected contributed to the fantastic imagination behind those great works, so maybe his money troubles were all worthwhile, at least for us! Time to check out.

Bon voyage,

Lynn Byrne

“With fondest love from Yasmin & Brandolino 21.3.51”, the inscription identified the handsome young couple, holding hands and gazing adoringly at each other in the charming black and white photograph. The woman appears young, calm and serene, unsullied with life’s challenges, and the man looked just like the large oil portrait of his great-grandfather with a youngster, that hung in the same room.

I came across the photo and portrait when I was avidly exploring Villa Casagrande, an incredible palazzo in the Veneto region of Italy, not far from Venice, hoping to feret out the story behind the place. I was spending the week there as part of a culinary tour.

There wasn’t much online about the home or the people who still owned it and lived there. It seems that the gorgeous complex had never before been published in a shelter magazine. Since Yasmin’s art was hung all over the villa, I thought the photograph might be a good clue.

Back home in Queens just over a week later, and after days of research with a helping hand from Google Translate, I discovered that Yasmin, a young painter born in 1929 to British parents in South Africa, met a dashing and rich count while she was studying art history in Venice in the late 1940s and they fell in love.

Yasmin and Brandolino married in South Africa in 1951, the year on the photo. The couple had two sons, Annibale, the current owner of Villa Casagrande and Sebastiano, an architect in Milan. They spent their early marriage mostly in Milan but moved to the Villa Casagrande full time in 1987.

They were soulmates —-Yasmin’s obituary described their love as “overwhelming,” — and they often collaborated in their work.1

My deep research showed that Brandolino wasn’t just an aristocrat marrying a pretty English-speaking artist. He was a writer and poet who, over the course of his lifetime, published a play and at least seven books of poetry, in addition to anthologies of Italian, English, French, and Spanish poetry, for which he also translated. 2 Italian composers Franco Donatoni and Corrado Pasquotti even set some of his verse to music.

You may recognize the count’s surname: Brandolini D’Adda.

Many of you have surely run into the name of the recently deceased socialite Cristiana Brandolini d’Adda, neé Agnelli of Fiat fame, and her progeny? Cristiana, photographed by Cecil Beaton, named to the International Best Dressed Hall of Fame in 1975, and often featured in Vogue, gave the great architect and designer Renzo Mongiardino his earliest commissions when she hired him to design her homes. In addition to Cristiana, there’s Coco, the fashion designer and Marcantonio, the Murano glass artist , both her grandchildren, as well as a daughter-in-law, Muriel Brandolini, the AD100 interior designer, who married one of Cristiana’s sons.

The Brandolino that Yasmin married was a cousin of the notable Brandolino that Cristiana married, but the Cison di Valmarino branch (Yasmin’s) is a bit more low profile.

The Brandolini D’Adda dynasty descended from feudal lords who ruled over the Valmareno valley in the Veneto for more than 550 years, a system that wasn’t fully dismantled until the middle of the last century. A castle known as the CastelBrando perched in the foothills of the Dolomites, looms over the pretty village of Cison di Valmarino, where Villa Casagrande is located. It was the clan’s home until it was sold in 1959. Villa Casagrande had been the administrative hub of the estate, but after the castle’s sale, it became and remains a private residence.

The history of the Brandolini D’Adda lordship is detailed on Wikipedia, but surprisingly Yasmin and “our” Brandolino aren’t even mentioned there, even though Brandolino was mayor of Cison di Valmarino from 1990-1995, serving as a civic leader in the region as had his ancestors across centuries. Finding either of them on the web is difficult unless you know what to search. I couldn’t even turn up an obituary for Brandolino, despite calling upon Claude and ChatGpt.

But I am getting ahead of the story—You need to see the house! A few days before I discovered the couple’s photograph, I arrived jet-lagged to the Villa Casagrande, and initially didn’t think much of the outside. The red-shuttered, exterior facade, while big, is rather plain, and it blends in with the other buildings on the piazza around it, giving no hint of the splendor that lies just beyond its massive front door.

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So when I first stepped inside the fortress-like entry, I was gobsmacked by the elegant interiors, a graceful mix of centuries-old architectural detail, antiques, modern furniture, family memorabilia and contemporary art. The whole place had an atmosphere so idyllic that it brought to my mind the villa captured so beautifully in the film, Call Me By Your Name.

The stone-floored entrance hall gave more than a wiff of nobility and history. Before me rose a double staircase framed by a row of columns beneath a neoclassical entablature. A heraldic standard was hanging in the hall along with large ceremonial swords. The room was furnished with pieces obviously accumulated over a long period of time. A cane-backed settee that looked to be from the Venetian rococo period (mid-1700s) sat beneath a fine pastoral tapestry probably fabricated even earlier. The center of the room was dominated by a table in walnut so large that it appeared to have been made for the spot. Its cabriole legs and a foliate-decorated apron suggesting to me that it was from the mid to late 18th century. Holding pride of place on top of the table was a bronze equestrian statuette of legendary Italian warrior and Brandolini D’Adda ancestor, Gattamelata, which according to the Villa Casagrande website , is by Donatello.

As my bedroom was on the other side of the villa, I was quickly led, luggage in tow, through a stunning living room cast in a classic Venetian palette of green and pink. The floor was laid in a chevron parquet of warm fruitwood. A pair of comfortable sofas and a modern coffee table were centered on the fireplace and surrounded by beautiful Rococo stucco work, all set among more antiques.

I passed through the living room to the dining room, where I caught a glimpse of an interesting abstract painting with a moonlike-shape hanging above a sideboard. Finally after whizzing by a state-of-the art kitchen that had been carved out of a large loggia lined with 15th century marble columns, I arrived at the wing where I would be sleeping.

Villa Casagrande is a U-shaped structure with the loggia connecting the main house and a separate wing that was once the workplace for the estate’s carpenters, the whole embracing two acres of gardens. Renovated to provide additional guest rooms, the carpenters’ wing is furnished with contemporary design classics—think a Saarinen dining table and Hans Wegner wishbone chairs among squishy upholstery — and surrounded throughout by abstract art, creating a captivating counterpoint to the ancient wood beams that crisscross its ceilings.

When I finally made it to my bedroom on that a first day, I quickly pulled away the pillows to look for a signature on the canvas slashed with jagged shapes in a vibrant blue and cream palette that hung above the headboard. It was signed “Yasmin,” my first introduction to the artist’s name. Later, when I had the opportunity to really study the works of art throughout the house, I found that she painted most of them.

Indeed, I found that it was Yasmin’s artwork that lent a certain energy to the entire villa by creating a dramatic contrast to the original architecture and electrifying the antiques. It is not just the walls of the carpenters’ wing, but her abstract art populates the main house and kitchen as well. None of it would be quite the same without her.

Later in the week, I found an exhibition catalogue of Yasmin’s work from 1980-1980 on the living room coffee table with an introductory essay by a prominent art historian, Flavio Caroli praising her art. He wrote that he hoped her “story” would be “infinite” and mentioned that some of her abstracted shapes and colors were influenced by the landscape—”Titian’s mountains,” Caroli called them— around Cison di Valmarino. 3

The book also contained photographs of a series of intriguing large-scale installations by Yasmin set in historic Renaissance locations, like the Palazzo dei Diamanti in Ferrera and Andrea Mantegna’s house in Mantova, where she explored the essence of fresco painting via her ephemeral, abstract works on paper.

Although I assumed I would find more images of Yasmin’s work online, including the transformation of those iconic Renaissance venues, the exhibition catalog proved to be the only record of them. Caroli’s expressed hope that Yasmin’s reputation would last turned out not the case, despite the fact that Yasmin exhibited internationally in Italy, France, South Africa and the United States. Apart from a website and Instagram page maintained by her son Sebastiano, she has been largely forgotten.

Brandolino has an even smaller digital footprint than Yasmin. A post on Yasmin’s Instagram page first tipped me off that he was a poet. That reference led me to a listing of his books on Abebooks and a short biography by an Italian literary and art critic. After that, I hit a dead end.

Piecing together the little bits of information I uncovered, I learned that that Yasmin was a figurative painter when she first met Brandolino. After they married, she took a two-decade hiatus to raise her two sons and to recover from a serious illness.

When she returned to her art in the 1970s, her work underwent a huge aesthetic transformation, as she embraced abstraction. In addition to her paintings and large-scale installations to be found at historic venues, her explorations of the interaction between music, literature, and art are profound. She created collages and small notebooks, working with writers, poets and composers. She even illustrated some of Brandolino’s poetry books, including a cover.

Brandolino also made strides creatively in the early seventies just like his wife, publishing his first book of poetry in 1973. One of Brandolino’s poetry books is entitled Quattro Castelli a Cison or Four Castles in Cison. Evidently, he was just as inspired by his surroundings as Yasmin.

After discovering their creative passions, it was a short step for a romantic like me to imagine the two at Villa Casagrande, busily working side by side in deep conversation about their projects.

The already dreamy atmosphere of the Villa Casagrande took on an extra dimension. Wouldn’t a movie about their lives and work, with some scenes shot there, be transporting?

I think so. And the pair is certainly due for rediscovery. In my opinion, their quiet elegance and creative accomplishments made them every bit as chic as their buzzy cousins.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Post Scriptum

• The well-known Cristiana Brandolini D’Adda died on June 23, 2026, just a few days ago, at age 99. Cabana did a nice profile on her in March 2023. Here is a peek at her country estate Visorta, her palazzo on Venice’s Grand Canal and her apartment in Paris.

• I found the photograph of Yasmin and Brandolino in the principal room on the piano nobile (Italian for “noble floor”). Now designed for comfort and recreation, it must have once been the most spectacular room in the house. Only the massive bronze chandelier with Murano glass flowers remains. Just through the doors lies a frescoed bedroom which hints at its earlier grandeur.

  

• In 1977, Villa Casagrande served as the set for the movie “Moglieamante”, an Italian film starring Marcello Mastroianni and Laura Antonelli. I haven’t seen it, but it is available on Amazon Prime.

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Sometimes I leap before I look in my search for connection and travel companions. Such is the case with the culinary tour I booked in Italy’s Veneto region. Late last summer, I wired transferred a nonrefundable deposit in the thousands to a tour company I hadn’t researched at all, based solely on an influencer’s pitch. Real money. This wasn’t just the odd blouse that I added to cart after spotting an alluring Instagram ad.

Crazy, yes, and even more so when you consider that I know firsthand that the hype often doesn’t match the reality. For those who don’t know, I help others become influencers for a living as a strategic digital content creator and social media manager in the design industry and, for a time, I was one myself traveling all over the world on sponsored design-related trips. (For the record, this trip was not sponsored.)

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But I had a hunch this excursion would be great and, quite frankly, now that I am home, I am patting myself on the back for trusting my gut and taking the risk. My tour with Stirred Travel to Italy’s Veneto region was one of the most relaxing and indulgent vacations I have ever had. It was so much more than learning cooking techniques from a celebrity chef, although that did happen daily.

Now, if you are someone who thinks that spending a week in the kitchen is drudgery, I urge you to read on. A culinary tour with Stirred Travel may well be for you anyway.

But let me back up and introduce you to said influencer. The glue that bound the ten other people on this journey together is food content creator Stacey Caron. I “met” her through the algorithm one night during my bedtime scroll of cooking videos. You can find her @staceysnacks on Instagram.

I could tell Stacey was a damn good cook, far better than me, simply based on the food she prepares and shares on her Instagram Stories. Although my friends and family gobble every morsel I put in front of them, the truth is, I lack professional-kitchen skills, and unlike me, Stacey generally doesn’t follow recipes; she creates them.

I have never encountered anyone more proficient than Stacey who could scrounge a fridge, use up the lowliest of ingredients (even restaurant leftovers), and concoct something (delectable) from nothing. Stacey has a book in the works, although she will have to come up with a different title since Alison Roman used Something from Nothing for her latest bestseller.

Not only that, you can tell just from her social media posts, that Stacey was fun. She likes farmers’ markets, her garden, antiques (She is also an antiques dealer!), and dining at yummy restaurants in Manhattan.

Now, that sounds like someone. But whom? Oh yes, it’s yours truly. So my feeling that I would enjoy any trip she plugged was not totally out of the blue.

The instant I met my other travel colleagues I knew my instincts were correct. I came upon them all hugging each other in Venice’s Marco Polo Airport as we waited for the transfer to our destination in the Veneto. Next thing I knew, I was getting hugs too!

Turns out almost every person had been on several culinary tours with Stacey and Stirred Travel before— but, instead of feeling left out, I felt scooped into the mix. Apparently, foodies have an in-born welcoming sensibility. And, frankly, a repeat customer is an automatic recommendation; so I was suddenly and completely at ease.

After these greetings were exchanged, Patrick Obert, founder of Stirred Travel showed up with a wide, benevolent smile to carry us away to the quaint village of Cison di Valmarino located in the foothills of the Dolomites. From that point on, I didn’t have a care in the world. Every logistic of the rest of my trip was delicately managed for the duration of my stay. Unless you buy something (raising my hand, at any given moment, for fine Italian linen and some wine), you need not spend another dime beyond your flights and tour price on a Stirred Travel trip.

Patrick launched Stirred Travel in 2014, and today the company offers tours in Italy, France, Portugal and Spain. It was easy to see why Condé Nast has recognized the company as one of the World’s Top Travel Specialists.

I was jet-lagged so I don’t remember much of the hour-long ride from Venice, but soon we pulled into a pretty piazza and parked in front of a substantial, but somewhat austere, red-shuttered building. The august facade gave no hint of the wonderland behind the gargantuan front door.

Villa Casagrande, our home for the week, is a gorgeous 15th century villa privately owned by the aristocratic Brandolini D’adda family. ((My next newsletter will be a deep dive into the family and their home’s interiors). Frescos, stucco detailing, antiques and contemporary art had my eyes bouncing from room to room. Stirred Travel nailed the accommodations.

I was led to my room through a loggia, part of which housed the giant state-of-the-art kitchen that would become our headquarters, to another wing where I would sleep. This wing, once used as the stable, now has been sensitively renovated to provide additional guest space, while retaining all the attractive, original wood beams from the barn. The grounds were stunning as well, with multiple patios demarcated by containers of lemon-laden trees, a 30-meter pool and a walled garden. The whole complex is sheltered by a grove of ancient trees.

Food and wine were positively Bacchanalian throughout the trip, and this spree started my first evening. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I joined my fellow travelers in the loggia for an apertivo. A glass of Prosecco magically appeared in my hand, accompanied by exquisite appetizers, then followed by a delicious dinner centered on a prawn and Calabrian chili lasagna, all prepared by our chef and instructor for the week, Ixta Belfrage.

Ixta, a cookbook author who penned the bestselling Flavour together with Yotam Ottolenghi, among several other books, likes to deploy a panoply of spices and ingredients that I never encountered before. There were “exotica” like black limes, hibiscus flowers, and so many different chilis that I lost count. You might not think apricot jam and pomegranate molasses would work in meatballs made to be served with whipped ricotta and roasted cherry tomatoes, but believe me, they do, and they lend a deliciously subtle Middle Eastern flair to the traditional Italian dish.

The next morning, we snapped on our crisp aprons emblazoned with the Stirred logo and dove in for some lessons. At first, it was a bit tricky for me to get accustomed to weighing ingredients as they do in Europe—as opposed to measuring them out with cups—but by the end of the week the scales were (almost) second nature.

For 3 out of our 5 mornings, Ixta instructed us as we prepared our lunch and a few courses for dinner. Each evening, we were invited into the kitchen with our cocktails in tow to watch and learn—and help if we wanted to—while Ixta fashioned our evening repast. The ease and comfort with which she cooked food for 11 people, while chatting graciously with us, was as impressive as the world class cuisine itself.

I came away from the tour confident that I would and could replicate a number of dishes. Favorites included spelt flour crostada (savory and sweet)., a porcini mushroom ragu,, a yummy melon and mozzarella salad with crispy basil and pickled onions (enhancements I would never have considered before—I mean, frying the basil?), heirloom tomatoes stuffed with sticky rice, porcini mushrooms and chestnuts, chewy hazelnut cookies and sheet pan chicken cutlets in a curry butter sauce with roasted cherry tomatoes. Stirred Travel and Ixta sent us home with a cookbook with recipes for most of the meals we consumed, and I am not letting it out of my apartment.

Was it all about cooking? No way. Stirred Travel curates a full-on experience! One day we traveled to the nearby canal city of Treviso. What a discovery! One of the wealthiest towns in Italy, Treviso has all of the charm of Venice and none of the crowds.

Who knew that Treviso invented tiramisu? After exploring the outdoor food and flea market, historic Church of St. Francis, frescos, medieval walls and city center, and then indulging in a bit of shopping, we enjoyed a traditional Italian lunch al fresco alongside one of the canals that was capped with the famous local dessert.

Another morning we hiked the Prosecco hills (a UNESCO World Heritage landscape) to a splendiferous spot adjacent to the grapevines there, for a lunch of locally made Italian meats and cheeses, and some bubbly. One beautiful evening was spent outdoors at a winery, replete with an Italian-style barbeque for dinner.

Most days after lunch, we were left to our own devices. At the beginning of the week, I scurried out during our free afternoons to explore Cison di Valmarino, a “I Borghi più Belli d’Italia,” literally translated “as one of the most beautiful villages of Italy.” I took the funicular up to the CastelBrando, a fortress dating from Roman times, then owned by the Brandolinis until 1959. It looms over the village and now operates as a luxury hotel, spa and museum, with spectacular views. The village also offers pretty chapels, an abandoned mill and water way, and just next door, another hotel with marvelous frescos. True to form, I found my way to the only boutique in town and bought a pretty Italian linen dress.

We also had plenty of time to explore the large villa, and rummage through an ample assemblage of coffee table books and family memorabilia. I discovered some surprising information about its occupants that I look forward to sharing in my next post. Finally, by the end of the week, I succumbed to the Italian siesta and relaxed by the pool with my full belly. It was all so insanely restorative.

I have been to Italy many times before this trip, but it was only at the Villa Casagrande with Stirred Travel that I came to fully grasp the concept of la dolce vita. It is so much more than a Fellini movie! The dolce vita philosophy, which centers on good food, human connection and a nice, easy pace, is the essence of Italy. Stirred Travel curates an experience where it thrives.

Sure, improving kitchen skills is part of any trip with Stirred Travel, but not in my view, the most central. All you need to bring on your journey is a desire to try something new and a healthy appetite. Tough road to climb, right? Communal meals, along with fine regional wines, foment deep conversation, silly jokes, some occasional post-prandial dancing, and new friends. That is it, in a nutshell.

Will I do another culinary tour with them? The company’s other venues certainly sound intriguing.

Elizabeth Gilbert was on to something when she wrote in Eat, Pray, Love: “Cocktails? Dancing? Piles of pork? Of course, I’ll come.”

If all this sounds grand, you might want to look into a trip with Stirred Travel yourself. Let me know, and I will be among those who greet you with a hug at the airport.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

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The appeal of being tucked away, snuggling beneath a pile of pillows and a good book, in a plush, well-padded bed nook is never greater than during a long, rainy weekend. If you spent some time during this drippy Memorial Day Weekend catching up on your decorating magazines or design books, you very likely came across a bed nook to drool over—designers love fashioning the enticing cozy spots. Or maybe you are one of the lucky few who actually has an inviting bed nook to crawl into. If so, I am jealous. For those of us who relish what my Irish friends like to call a “soft” (aka wet and foggy) day, they are incredibly seductive.

It’s a fantasy that has been realized for centuries.

People across Western Europe, in places like Scandinavia, France (especially Brittany), Scotland, England, Germany and the Netherlands, have been sleeping in beds built into alcoves or cupboards at least since medieval times. Thomas Jefferson helped bring the practice to America, installing alcove-style bed nooks at Monticello.

In a historical context, bed nooks or alcove beds are known by different names depending on region, with box beds, close beds, closet beds, closed beds or shut-beds among the most popular terms. Early box beds were surrounded by wood panels that could be closed off with a door or curtain. Often a large trunk was placed in front of the bed that provided storage and seating as well as serving as a step into the bed.

Box beds came about for practical reasons. In rooms heated by a single hearth, the beds not only provided protection from drafts, they trapped in body heat thereby generating more warmth for the occupant. Early houses were cold (!) and box beds helped. They also added a touch of much-needed privacy when shared living quarters were the norm and rooms were multi-functional. In some cases, box beds were used to protect people from domestic farm animals like pigs and hens that could wander into the house.

Additionally, box beds—essentially a room-within-a-room—were one of the earliest spaced-maximizing techniques in design. Shut the curtain or cupboard door and suddenly you have two rooms. Sometimes to achieve this affect, the beds were constructed as a freestanding piece of furniture as opposed to a built-in. There were even double decker box beds—an early prototype for today’s bunk beds —for additional miniature bedrooms.

The inside of box beds from the 16th and 17th centuries are shallower than standard beds today, but they were not built that way to save space. Rather, people believed back then that lying flat could lead to death, so they slept sitting up.

When I peeked inside one such bed at Rembrandt’s house in Amsterdam last March, I found it quite claustrophobic. Have a look.

Box beds appeared in all manner of homes, and, in some cases, were quite lavish and expensive to create, featuring elaborate wood carving and sumptuous textiles.

As construction improved and homes became better heated, box beds became increasingly associated with poverty and lower class country life. Gradually, they fell out of favor, and by the middle of the 20th century, they were rare.

Today, however, the box bed, now dubbed the bed nook, has made a strong comeback with the advent of “cottage-core” decor and concepts of hygge. Surprisingly, some of today’s interpretations can look much like the box beds of yore.

The concept is also a great design solution for a studio apartment. While a wooden structure might be impractical for a renter, one could easily gain separate sleeping quarters in a small space by creating a bed nook with curtains hung from the ceiling, as Charlotte Parker (author of the Substack, Charlotte’s Web ) did for her 350 square foot apartment in Brooklyn.

So do you think the bed nook is a cozy cocoon or a sleeping-coffin?

One would transport me straight to dreamland.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Hi everyone,

Recently, Abby King, author of the Substack, Interestingly Enough, did a marvelous Reel on Instagram (find her @aekinteriors) about her visit to Taliesin West, Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home and architecture school in the desert outside of Scottsdale, Arizona. In her Reel, she focuses on FLW’s architectural and design theories and soon we were messaging each other about them. (Do check out her Reel). I mentioned to her that I wrote a photo-heavy article about my visit there a few years back, focusing on the fun, more personal, trivia I learned from the tour guide about life at Taliesin West.

Abby encouraged me to share that article on Substack, so after some minor edits and updates, I am republishing it here with one big caveat: I did not independently verify every single anecdote my guide shared. The article was written when I was naive about a strange disease one encounters when visiting historic house museums, “docent-itis.” Don’t worry, it’s not contagious, but some tour guides clearly have the same genetic material as Paul Bunyan, embellishing facts to entertain their guests. So Wright scholars, please don’t @ me. I did address some of the more flagrant tall tales in this update. Consider this post an opportunity for you to share in my pleasant afternoon as if you were with me on-site with all of the enjoyment I had on that nice, sunny day in February.

xx L.

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After almost dying of pneumonia during a harsh Wisconsin winter, Frank Lloyd Wright began to think about building Taliesin West. It was that, and the high winter heating bills that he often complained about, that led him to explore the Phoenix/Scottsdayle area, a place he became acquainted with when he served as a consultant on Phoneix’s Biltmore Hotel. Eventually, he found 640 acres that he purchased in 1937 for a song at $3.50/acre. That land became the site of his western headquarters.

Since he was escaping the dreary cold, snow and ice, Wright embraced natural light and warm air when he designed his new home. Many spaces have soft filtered light and are easily opened to the outdoors.

Frank Lloyd Wright’s Studio

Wright’s studio is one example of the open air concept. Wright was able to work all day in his studio without any artificial lighting. In his time, the ceiling was covered with canvas (it didn’t hold up well, and was later replaced by plastic). The space just between the roof and stone walls originally was left open so that cooling breezes could circulate. I loved the room’s wonderfully soft, diffuse aura. It was here that Frank Lloyd Wright designed the Guggenheim Museum.

The Exterior

The exterior of Taliesin West reflects Wright’s general philosophy that local, native materials should be used for construction. It’s made from a combination of desert rocks, wood and concrete known as desert masonry. He deviated from his “local is best” philosophy to kindly add a strip of grass to provide his students’ children with a soft play area. The kids also dipped into the adjoining pool to wade.

At this point in the tour, I was told that Wright was surprisingly thoughtful when it came to children and that he created the iconic toy, Lincoln Logs. Equally surprising was learning that Wright named the toy after himself and not Abraham Lincoln. Wright was baptized Frank Lincoln Wright, but later changed his name.

Not entirely true actually. Although, Wright’s original middle name was Lincoln, the rest of the story is a clear case of the docent telling tales. Lincoln Logs were not invented by Frank, bur rather his son John Lloyd Wright, who indeed named the toy after the president as a marketing ploy. The name similarity is coincidental.

Wright’s Study

When he wasn’t in his studio, Wright’s students would sometimes find him in his small study. If he was napping on the left side of the divider, his students were not to disturb him. If they found him on the side you see below, it was ok to stop in.

His Wife’s Retreat

Next door, Wright’s wife had her own study. It was my favorite room in the complex because I loved the large Asian inspired mural.

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The Dining Room

At first, Wright and his students dined in the front of the complex to take in the lovely desert view. However, Wright was furious when power lines were installed during the Truman administration and mangled his vista, so much so that he built a new dining room on the opposite side of the house. A bell called his students for dinner.

The Front Door

Wright considered this small, short door ( Wright was only 5’7”) to be the front door of his home. The door’s design was inspired by Native American petroglyphs discovered onsite during construction. Wright used that geometric symbol as a motif throughout Taliesin West—you also can see it above at the base of the bell tower.

Did you know, that Wright “signed” his houses? He considered them to be art, and figured why not? At Taliesin West, he installed this red tile next to the front door and it bears his signature.

Next to the front door is one of many interesting sculptures installed on the property. Wright, unable to afford the costly Asian porcelain that he desired, ultimately bought broken pieces and had his students assemble them into a new creation.

Sculptor Heloise Crista

Also installed throughout the property are works by Heloise Crista, who came to Taliesiin West not to become an architect, but to be in “the atmosphere of such ideas and such people as Mr. and Mrs. Wright and the community of apprentices.” She delighted in the creative atmosphere and her first work, a bust of Wright, remains proudly on display in the large living room. I was personally more drawn to her romantic depiction of lovers, Romeo and Juliet, that I spied outside on the grounds.

The Living Room

The living room is the first room you enter from the front door. Here Wright, his wife and students would sometimes gather in the evenings to engage in the lively conversation that drew Crista to the community. The chair in the rear is known as Wright’s origami chair, and the room, also known, as the Garden Room, overlooks Wright’s favorite garden.

The Kiva Room

Named after subterranean cermonial chambers used by Pueblo Native Americans, Wright designed this underground space as a respite from the hot desert temperatures. It served many purposes including use as a film screening room and Wright designed a slot in the stone wall for a projector. I heard that Wright often indulged in Westerns and that he loved John Wayne movies! What do you think? Is this another case of “docent-itis?” Ha! An AI search says this one is apparently true and the Frank Lloyd Wright Foundation has a log of all the films Wright viewed.

The Dragon

A large dragon is prominently displayed outside the Kiva Room . Originally, the dragon was installed in a nearby fountain, but Wright’s wife declared that no self-respecting dragon lived in the water! Wright promptly moved the dragon and installed a gas line allowing it to actually breathe fire on special nights. It has a charred finish from years of use.

The Music Pavilion and Caberet Theatre

Slightly separate from the residence, studio and classrooms is a building housing an acoustically perfect music pavilion for concerts and a caberet theatre for small productions. In addition to architecture, Wright required his students to either act, sing or play an instrument as entertainment at Taliesin West, because he believed they should be well-rounded. I especially loved the Asian door hardware on the door of the structure.

Conclusion

Frank Lloyd Wright spent about half the year at Taliesin West beginning in 1937 until his death at age 91 in 1959. Today, the site (a National Historic Landmark) remains in complete harmony with its surroundings ready for visits by anyone interested in architecture and design.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Back in the dark days of the pandemic, when I was isolated and seeking shelter during the plague, it was Ben Reynaert’s warm and character-inundated apartment that provided me solace.

We didn’t know each other well, having only met once, briefly, at a design event. Yet, I trolled his Instagram daily (He can be found @aspoonfulofbenjamin) to catch a glimpse of his morning coffee perched upon a table laden with fabric swatches and tear sheets or, if I hit the jackpot, a glance at his ever-changing, always-astonishing, crib. Ben was regularly fine tuning how he displayed his beloved objects and art, and he often told his followers the story behind each item. The place was filled with books, pictures and all sorts of memorabilia from his life, and he arranged them ‘just so.’

When Ben began to tag his posts “Jackson Heights Historic District,” it was a revelation to me. Before Ben (should we called it B.B. ?), I thought Queens was solely for its airports and the occasional game of tennis if I was lucky enough to score a ticket to the U.S. Open.

Suddenly, here was a new location for serious real estate exploration, because, if Jackson Heights had a single apartment (Ben’s) large enough to accommodate “stuff,” I figured there must be another one. It was a crucial discovery for me, as I had been ready to abandon New York City, where I had lived most of my adult life. My search for affordable accommodations, for my things, and with room enough for occasional overnight visits from my sons and other out-of-town guests, had thus far turned up nothing. It was Ben who instigated my move to Jackson Heights and I should have told him how grateful I am long ago.

When Ben sent me a copy of his wonderful new book, THE LAYERED HOME, I encountered an entire crop of like-minded souls featured in it who I wished would move to Jackson Heights too. No one in this crowd would sniff at the volume of dish ware and and design books in my apartment! (I live alone together with my 4 complete sets of china, other random porcelain, and countless tomes.) (Ok, my lovely, but slightly jealous, boyfriend (and early reader), insists that I mention that he stays with me a lot too. Ha!)

Ben told me that he is “most inspired by individuals who celebrate a creative, exuberant life,” adding that such folk live in places that are “chock full of objects and ephemera that help define who [they] are.”

These are the people and homes that you will find inside Ben’s book. These are my people too.

None of this will surprise any of Ben’s 131K followers on Instagram because it’s how Ben himself lives, and if you enjoy his posts, you will love THE LAYERED HOME. It is that simple.

It can be a challenge to live with a lot of stuff without it looking like a cluttered, helter-skelter mess. To avoid that problem, Ben told me that he always “starts with the main big piece” when he tackles a room. “For a living room, that may be a sofa. It’s the larger pieces that take up a lot of visual space that I find important to get right.” Yes! I couldn’t agree more.

Fortunately, THE LAYERED HOME is packed with many such tips and compelling images that show you how a layered look is done with style, no matter what you collect. The book features more than 17 homes spanning locations from California to Paris.

Almost anyone, save the most dedicated minimalist, will find the book a useful source of ideas when it comes to choosing color, fabrics, or arranging artful displays of objects, art and books.

For example and as pictured here— from Butter Wakefield’s London home and Nathan Turner and Eric Hughes’ house in Ojai, CA—we learn that lovers of pattern and color can check the potential for chaos by looking for fabrics and hues that carry the same intensity and saturation.

Ben uses Ambrice Miller’s home, below, to make the point that it can be ok to ‘unmatch’ because that way everything matches. Ambrice Miller calls it “the foundation of the quintessential ‘British cottagecore’ aesthetic.”

Another brainstorm comes from James Coviello’s home in upstate New York. If you are a fan of gallery walls like I am, think about arranging your art with some type of theme. Coviello went by subject matter, installing a group of Hudson Valley landscape paintings in his sitting room.

You could use color too. I united an otherwise disparate group of pictures for a kitchen gallery wall because they came together with a touch of red each had in common.

My personal nemesis when it comes to decorating a home is incorporating travel treasures. Somehow my apartment seems to shrink when I have been visiting Europe and return to Queens with jammed-packed suitcases. So I took particular note of how Sean McNanney and Sinan Tuncay focused on functional souvenirs from their world travels. The couple uses a series of small rugs they brought back from trips to Mongolia, Nepal and Turkey to break up the linear feel of their railroad-style Brooklyn apartment.

I also appreciated seeing Ajiri Aki’s Parisian dining room because, like mine, it doubles as a library. As I see it, the dining/library combination is the quintessential small space hack, so it is worth zeroing in on any examples that turn up. In this case, a picture says umpteen thousand words!

But perhaps the best decorating lesson to be gleaned from THE LAYERED HOME is to take your time.

RELAX! (Well, maybe without the caps).

A residence does not need to be furnished all at once, and, in fact, it just might be better if it isn’t. First-rate decor tends to modulate and improve over time. As with life, let things come and go in your home, developing and changing as you do. An old adage comes to mind: Buy what you love and it will all come together because you love it. Nothing illustrates this more than flipping through the pages of Ben’s book. It is a journey to savor.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Credits: All photos from THE LAYERED HOME, except as noted.

Imagine erstwhile researcher Alice McEwan ensconced at Shaw’s Corner, the country home of George Bernard Shaw, painstakingly sifting through a pile of greeting cards once saved by the august playwright, searching for clues to his soul. McEwan was in the midst of a three-year deep dive into Shaw’s artifacts to gain insights on how his belongings shaped and reflected his identity.

Suddenly, pay dirt!

There it was. A beautiful, hand-painted Valentine featuring Pre-Raphaelite maidens worshipping at Shaw’s shrine, the playwright’s visage depicted in profile on a banner that stretched above some trees across the top. A witty poem at the center showed deep affection and tenderly poked a bit of fun at the writer: “Even your very crotchets form no bar/ To our affection; just the minimum/Of kindness – one brief note! One little line/is all we ask.” Shaw had noted the date of receipt on the back of the card.

McEwan quickly cross-checked Shaw’s diary and found an entry for February 14, 1886, where he wrote “Got a handsome Valentine,” but he made no mention then of the sender. And the card itself was unsigned. So who sent the carefully composed and crafted love note?

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When I moderated a panel at New York City’s D&D (Design and Decoration) building back in 2019 on key women who made the interior design industry what it is today, the discussion included the usual suspects: Candace Wheeler, Elsie de Wolfe, Dorothy Draper and Eleanor McMillen. But when May Morris came up, many in the audience had never heard of William Morris’ daughter. What did she do?

Turns out, a lot. It can be a blessing and a curse to be born to famous parents, and May shows why. You can have so many privileges—education, financial security, a place in society and exposure to incredible ideas— but there’s no guarantee that these privileges render serenity in terms of who one is, what one does, or for that matter, how one lives.

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May was born in 1862 at Red House, William and Jane Morris’ home in Kent designed by his colleague Phillip Webb, one year before William Morris founded with some others the company that would eventually become Morris & Co.

She literally grew up with the business. When May was around three the family moved to an apartment located above the company’s premises. Her mother Jane, the muse, model and sometimes lover of Pre-Raphaelite painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti, taught May to embroider at an early age. May and her older sister Jenny stitched simple projects like kettle warmers beside their mother and aunt who were busy making more complicated items like bed covers, fire screens and cushions for the firm.

Her parents encouraged creativity. When her dad was testing silk and woolen dyes for Morris & Co., May and Jenny were given some dyes to experiment (aka “play”) with leading May to later recall with amusement “the distressing messes we made with them, ” yet emphasizing that this hands-on approach, “was all fine workshop training for a young artist.” 1Although May was largely home schooled in her early years, she went on to formally study design, with a specialization in embroidery, at the predecessor school to the Royal School of Art.

After graduation, May demonstrated such skill and talent that William put her in charge of the embroidery department when she was only 23 years old. There, she continued to design and embroider, as well as manage a production team, a position she held for 11 years, quite unorthodox in those days.

May also designed several of Morris & Co.’s most popular wallpapers, including the beloved Honeysuckle pattern which is still in production. For almost a century, her wallpaper patterns, including Honeysuckle, were attributed to her father. The confusion was not uncommon or unexpected. At the time, all products were sold under the Morris & Co. brand, and it was assumed that work designed by William would achieve better prices, so precise authorship was generally left unmentioned. But later, in life May began to correct the attribution.

After her father died in 1896, May Morris left Morris & Co to concentrate on her own pursuits, including all sorts of artisanal activities including the making of tapestry, costumes, jewelry and, of course, embroidery. She also taught embroidery and wrote a book about her techniques. In recent years, May, both a talented designer and an extraordinary seamstress, has been credited for establishing embroidery as an art form. As Mary Lobb, May’s companion later in her life, said, “William Morris could design embroideries but he could not embroider, anyway not well… Mrs. Morris (Jane) could embroider but couldn’t design, Miss Morris (May) could and did both.”2

In addition to her artistic endeavors, May was an avid socialist and became a champion of working rights, especially women’s. In 1907, May established the first Women’s Guild of Arts in Britain—no existing guild at the time would admit women. For the first time, decorative arts made by women were given professional recognition, all due to May.

By the time I was strolling down the pretty lanes of the Cotswold village of Kelmscott, fantasizing about living in one of the gorgeous, sand-colored stone houses that marked the approach to Kelmscott Manor (This was six years after my panel), I thought I was well-grounded in all things May. Yet, as I walked to Kelmscott Manor, I considered it William Morris’ summer residence, not his daughter’s home. Soon, however, I discovered that William never owned the place—he only rented — but May did own it for many years. It was purchased in trust after her father died and in which May inherited after her mother’s passing. May went on to live there more permanently than either of her parents.

Significantly, it is May Morris who is largely responsible for how Kelmscott Manor is presented today. She bequeathed the house to the University of Oxford as a memorial to her father and selected all of the objects and furnishings, combining significant pieces from several other Morris residences, and decided where and how they should be shown.

May, who died in 1938, planned the bequest for more than a decade, even penning a “memorandum of contents” in 1926 that recorded the provenance of family furnishings and artworks and specified which would eventually pass to the Ashmolean in Oxford and the Tate in London and what would remain. Everything that she determined wasn’t an important part of her father’s legacy was auctioned off in 1939, a year after her death. Today she is recognized as the house museum’s first curator and the memorandum remains a valuable resource for conservators and curators.

The public entrance to Kelmscott Manor is through a work yard of sorts surrounded by outbuildings that serve a lecture hall, tea room and gift shop. The house itself is surrounded by a wall, so, at first, only the upper half and roof show. But once you pass through a gate, the bucolic stone charmer, covered in climbing roses, rises before you, with more standard roses guiding you to the front door.

When I was there the garden was in full bloom and it was easy to see why William Morris called it “a heaven on earth” when he first encountered the Elizabethan farmhouse back in 1871.3 As May later recalled, “We were never really town birds: country life was always the natural and happy thing.”4

Once inside, the home is arranged exactly how I imagined William Morris would live. The atmosphere is characterized by comfortable, spare simplicity. His patterns and furniture designs are everywhere. The walls are hung with pastoral landscapes or portraits often painted by the Pre-Raphaelite artists in the Morris family circle who frequently visited the house. And each object that is displayed follows William’s widely-quoted dictum: “Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

The first room one encounters is the Old Hall, so called because it is in the oldest part of the house. The white-walled space has a chamfered beam running along the center of the ceiling and a large hearth at one end with its original stone fireplace surround, from the 1600s, that was revealed during a 1960s restoration. A simple, straight- legged round table that the Morris family used for eating, working and entertaining grounds the room. When I was visited the table was set with colorful crockery. The austere space is softened by faded drapery in the Strawberry Thief pattern—one of William Morris’ most celebrated and recognizable patterns, first printed in 1883. I was told the drapes have hung there since the pattern’s creation.

It is at this point during my tour that a hint of May’s hand at Kelmscott was first revealed. The docent relayed her version of how Strawberry Thief came to be. As May tells it, “Picture my father going out early in the morning and watching the rascally thrushes at work at the fruit-beds and telling the gardener who growls, ‘I’d like to wring their necks!’, that no bird in the garden must touched…” A sign in the garden placed next to a patch of strawberries repeats the tale.

After the Old Hall, we passed through a room hung with early textiles made by William and Jane and other artifacts, and then entered the White Room. Although all of Kelmscott has an air of informality, the Georgian paneled White Room feels the most formal. The fireplace surround is more intricate than others in the house, decorated as it is with vines and a cartouche painted with the coat of arms granted to Thomas Turner, the first owner, in 1665. The blue tiling bordering the fire box compliments William Morris’ blue and white collection of China, Japanese and Dutch plates displayed nearby in a small alcove on shelves specially made by Philip Webb. Like all of the other rooms, the drapery and upholstery are in William Morris patterns. May also brought in an iconic ebonized settle with leather panels first made by Philip Webb for Red House as well as Webb’s Gothic Revival style round table. On the table, holding pride of place, is a paint box used by William. Also commanding attention is Rossetti’s most famous portrait of Jane, the Blue Silk Dress, hanging above a 19th century square piano. Rossetti was a co-tenant with William Morris and lived at Kelmscott Manor for the first three years of the tenancy.

Also in the room are pastel portraits by Rossetti of May and Jenny. The girls, surrounded by their parents’ artist-friends, where accustomed to sitting for them, and May soon began to sketch and paint herself— a habit she would continue throughout her life. She often depicted Kelmscott Manor and its gardens, and the botanical sketches she created sparked many of her designs. Indeed, one of the “tells” that distinguishes May’s work from her father’s is her more precise rendering of flowers compared to his more stylized versions.

In the Green Room, an inner parlor with walls covered in William Morris’ Kennet chintz, May is finally given full representation. Her tapestry loom is set up in front of the wooden sofa where she sat to weave when she lived in the house full-time from 1923-1938 and alongside this is placed a picture of her at work there. Paint analysis revealed that the woodwork was originally a dark green, so in 2021 it was repainted and the over mantle designed by Philip Webb was re-installed (it had been stored in an outbuilding). The tiles are in William Morris patterns, some dating from 1873 and the missing others were installed in the 1960s.

Upstairs May’s work is on full display in William Morris’ bedroom where she designed the bed hangings and coverlet. Her sketched portrait has been hung above the bureau next to the bed as a nod to her efforts.

William Morris’ bedroom also serves as a quirky passage to the Tapestry Room, named after the medieval tapestries hanging on the walls. The Morris family used the light-filled space as a drawing room. I recognized the space from a painting showing May hard at work there compiling the 24 volumes of her father’s literary output she published as William Morris’ Collected Works.5 She spent decades on that project.

But as we walked though William Morris’ bedroom and up the stairs to the Tapestry Room —the only way to get to it—the docent focused on Jane’s love affair with Dante Rossetti. The Tapestry Room was once his bedroom when he lived at Kelmscott Manor. This meant the lovers had to walk through William’s bedroom to reach other, a rather unusual arrangement. There is no mention in history of the details or what it was like for May and her sister to grow up within this love triangle. Funnily enough, if Rossetti crept to Jane, they would be together in the bed where William was born, as that is what she slept in.

Our final stop is the attic where May romped as a child, sparsely furnished with sturdy mortise and tenon pieces by Philip Webb and Ford Maddox Brown. A cot crib coverlet designed by May and embroidered in silk by her mother during May’s engagement to Henry Halliday Sparling is prominently displayed. Although May never had children and the marriage ended in divorce (with the docent alluding to a probable miscarriage), she kept the cot crib her entire life. Nevertheless, it was part of the auction of her belongings that she did not think were central to her father’s legacy and was only recently returned to the museum. We learn more about May’s late life companion Mary Lobb and their travels together, as well as May’s efforts to preserve Kelmscott Manor as a tribute to her father.

Also in the attic is May’s embroidery of flowers from the gardens at Kelmscott Manor hanging next to a window that gives a bird’s eye of the grounds that inspired the stitchery. The docent described a current restoration project for the gardens using May’s sketches, paintings and embroideries to inform the process. I was delighted to learn that May’s personal creative output would be the principal driving force of at least some aspect of Kelmscott Manor—it seems only fair to me. Like her father, May’s work was inspired by Kelmscott Manor and she loved the gardens, spending part of each day with her hands in the dirt.

Two years before she died, May Morris wrote “I’m a remarkable woman, always was, though none of you seemed to think so.” May’s home is a testament, not only to her father, but to how remarkable she truly was.

May’s role in design history has recently gotten more of the attention it deserves. If you are in England and wish to learn more about May, an exhibition in the city of Liverpool at the Lady Lever Art Gallery is opening in April 2026. And don’t leave Kelmscott Manor off your itinerary.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Post Scriptum

• I depart for the Low Countries this Wednesday to explore decorative arts in Amsterdam, Bruges and Brussels. Please follow along in Notes and Instagram.

• May Morris had a crush on George Bernard Shaw and he called their relationship a “mystic betrothal.” Should I tell you more?

• I have discarded all of my nonstick cookware. Can someone please tell me how to prevent scrambled eggs from sticking?

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I sold a Chanel bag and two Chanel jackets so I could afford to travel to the Château de Malmaison. Walking down the flower-lined promenade, gravel crunching beneath my feet, I caught sight of the red, white and blue entrance pavilion fronting the chateau, French flag flapping in the wind, and I immediately revved up with anticipation. That military tent-like structure gave birth to the tented room interiors we find today. I hadn’t even entered the place and I knew it was well worth selling the Chanel to get there.

The Château de Malmaison owns a hallowed spot in the annals of design history. It is considered a quintessential example of the Empire period style, and the root of several other well-known design tropes, besides the tented room. Fabric-draped walls, campaign furniture, black and white checkerboard floors, animal skin rugs—they all can be found inside the chateau along with beautiful Directoire and Empire furnishings and other design archetypes. So I expected to see beautiful rooms.

When I returned home, however, and sat at my desk to pen my newsletter about what I encountered on my trip, I realized that places like the Château de Malmaison deserved much more than a cursory mention as a worthy stop on someone’s itinerary.

The Stories Behind the Spaces

At a minimum they demanded some serious explanation of their relevance to how we decorate today. But there was much more to it beyond how the rooms were arranged.

In addition to a full discussion of decoration and design history, Malmaison warranted an exploration into the lives of the people that led to its creation in the first place. Take the tent-like rooms, for instance. (In addition to the entrance pavilion, there is a red, white and blue striped Council Room inside for Napoleon.) It seems Josephine and her designers, Percier and Fontaine, intentionally evoked the likeness of a military tent because Josephine wanted her husband—who was so often away at war (he seemed to thrive on it)—to feel immediately at home at Malmaison on the rare occasions he could be with her. She even placed his bed on a platform to mimic the more expansive view he had on the battlefield. There is so much we can learn from a close examination of an interior and the personal stories behind its conception.

When I found a Substack Note proclaiming that the tented rooms we see today were inspired by the circus and not Malmaison, I realized this kind of association was part of a larger problem. Not only was no one writing about the chateau’s historical relevance to design, the stories that went beyond the rooms themselves were also left untold.

Suddenly a lightbulb went on for me. An exploration about who made the rooms, under what circumstances, against what cultural pressures, in dialogue with what ideas— could be as or more interesting and more revealing than the rooms themselves. Yet, both the design history as well as these deeper, some may call them more personal, topics have largely been abandoned by American design media. Right then and there, I knew I wanted to work to fill this gap.

The American Design Media Landscape

Once upon a time, American shelter magazines regularly covered serious historical analysis—essays on movements and periods, including discussions of figures and ideas.

Now, however, I find that those types of articles have given way to more commerce-driven trend forecasts, product guides and the featuring of celebrity homes. If there is a historical mention, it tends to get buried in a tiny descriptive note to an aspirational home tour. The reader is left to puzzle out for themselves the contextual elements relating to the small reference.

When I went to Substack looking for greater depth than I was finding in print and on Instagram, I found the same commerce-driven content here with Instagram-like personal-brand promotion, all bundled in the form of lifestyle advice.

Certainly there are exceptions. You can find contextual historical analysis in British publications like The World of Interiors, which is widely available here. That magazine has actively taken a stand against the commerce stampede.

I also try to read everything Mitchell Owens writes. Once the Decorative Arts Editor at Architectural Digest, he went on to become the American editor at The World of Interiors. After he left Architectural Digest, his role there was actually retired. Although he has since departed The World of Interiors, his writing on decorative arts and design history can still be found in their pages as well as in The Magazine Antiques.

Additionally, when it comes to the cultural, more personal “how we live and what that says about who we are” angle, no one beats Wendy Goodman and her “Design Hunting” column for New York Magazine. She regularly unearths mesmerizing people and homes with remarkable backstories, featuring places of today that are often inspired by a quirk or detail in design history. Her historical references, while not central to her stories, provide an adjacent framework for them.

Finally, Frederic occasionally publishes a column devoted to contextual, historical analysis. I wrote one for them on David Mlinaric and his modernization of the English Country style and there have been more of such pieces. Notably that magazine is published by Schumacher, a major textile company, and not one of the “big two,” Condé Nast and Hearst, so it faces different economic pressures than other shelter publications.

Let me be clear. I am not pointing fingers—I fully grasp that the current profit-focused direction in design content is a survival tactic. It’s no secret that most American design media is struggling financially, and many view monetizing Substack and other digital platforms as a way for writers and content creators to make ends meet.

Why It’s a Problem

So, with this mindset, it’s no surprise that the type of content that expands reach, pleases advertisers, and leads to dollars overwhelms thoughtfully contextualized historical content. Nevertheless—and this is key, I would say—it is precisely this lack of depth in the design media we consume that fosters a downward sameness to the rooms being created today.

Many blame it on the algorithmic swamp, but ultimately it comes down to the people who put that stuff out into the world and those who choose to engage with it without seeking alternatives and counterbalances.

Recently, longtime design industry creative consultant, Sean Yashar, Diet Prada founder, Tony Lui and others, have waged a backlash against algorithm-driven interiors and so-called style encouraged by clickbait. I joined the fray to urge greater curiosity and discernment in what we consume. We are not slaves to the infinite scroll, unless we choose to be.

It could get even worse. Jaime Derringer (founder of Design Milk) predicts that “mainstream” (non-professional) people “will decorate their homes increasingly based on AI-generated interiors” because she believes that is all most people will see.

What Emerald City Aims To Do

I write Emerald City to help provide the depth and context lost elsewhere in design writing and to counter these soulless, tech-generated trends. When I looked back at the posts I have written over the past two-plus years, I realized I have been doing that since this newsletter’s inception, without planning or articulating it. Until now.

My on-location investigations of iconic and little-known historic interiors across Europe and America — rooms most readers will never otherwise see, photographed and decoded firsthand by me—are the opposite of design content surfaced by an algorithm or produced by artificial intelligence.

Think of my perspective as a mash-up of my idols Mitchell Owens and Wendy Goodman. Apologies in advance to them. I hope they aren’t bothered by being tossed into my mind’s blender as I ponder what and how to write.

While I have given a few travel tips in the past, and will likely continue to provide guidance to help readers visit something on their own, the essence of my newsletters has always been either on a place’s design and decorative arts, or the people that inhabit or create the place, and what that says about how they (and sometimes we) live. And sometimes, when I can’t stop myself, my newsletters cover both.

For example, one early, place-focused newsletter was on the Georgian plasterwork I saw in Dublin. I titled it “Plastered” because I investigated the best Dublin pubs too. Then there is the post about the journalist who begged Frank Lloyd Wright to build him a jewel box of a home on a tiny budget. I am also interested in exploring lesser-known figures behind a given design influence, so I wrote about Dorothy Rodgers, wife to Richard, the man who composed the Sound of Music. Did you know Dorothy Rodgers was arguably the original Martha Stewart? Regardless of whether the emphasis is on the “place” or on the “person,” I discuss why I think both are relevant to design and how we live.

Why I Can Do It

It helps keep me sane that I don’t care if I win a clickbait competition. Sure I want you to read my posts, as I put a lot of effort into them.

But the truth is, I believe that telling the stories baked into good design is meaningful and should not be lost, whether I gain a mass audience or not. And, yes, those stories tell us so much about design rubrics and how we live, ideas that many of us don’t get to consider and appreciate. I know from my five years working alongside experts in art and antiques at Sotheby’s that knowledge of history and provenance add value, and not just in the monetary sense. Clicks don’t enter the picture.

I also know what I like and couldn’t care less about trends. Rebuilding a circa 1900 Victorian from the ground up after a devastating fire taught me that. Eschewing the trends of the day, I familiarized myself with the house’s roots— the Shingle style, the Aesthetic Movement and the Arts and Crafts period—and then interpreted them in a way that would please me and my young family. It’s the rebuild that led me to swap a legal career for interior design and landed me on the cover of This Old House magazine. The research, design and construction were as enjoyable to me as living in the house itself.

I take that same rigorous approach when I investigate for Emerald City. The advantage (sometimes, the curse) of Substack is that it is a solo operation. But that means as publisher, writer, photographer and editor (well, my beau deserves a hat tip, he reads every post before I hit send, bless him), I can act without constraint.

What does it mean to know what you like? For me, when I mention the elusive concept of taste, it is not about other people’s rules or proclamations on some macro level. Rather, I see taste as personal, the sum total of one’s curiosity and experience. That is why I go to the places, take the photographs, do the research and write the essays.

Great interiors have stories. I find them. I am passionate about finding them. This Emerald City effort is about having you join me on that journey so we all can better appreciate why “home” is so central to the human existence.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

The deeply rich scent of a long-simmering chicken broth wafted in from the kitchen to greet me as I entered one of Mexico City’s most acclaimed residences, Casa Pedregal. Still in private hands, Casa Pedregal is the largest home ever designed by Mexico’s most notable architect, Luis Barragán. It bears all of the hallmarks that the Pritzker prize-winning architect is known for:

• a spare modernist structure warmed by vivid color blocking-Mark Rothko’s canvases come to mind, but in building form,

• ample use of raw materials like water, wood and stone inside and out, and

• a beautiful manipulation inside, of natural and artificial light, creating a profound connection with the outdoor landscape.

All of these qualities were apparent to me the moment I walked in the front door. The entrance, illuminated by a panel of frosted glass, reflects a rainbow of soft pastels created by the diffusion of the home’s vibrant pink exterior and the vehicles of various colors parked outside. Next to the long, rectangular window sits a rough-hewn wooden bowl filled with the brightly-hued glass spheres favored by Barragán (he has them in his own home). Opposite the bowl, is a seating vignette consisting of Barragán-designed furnishings in a pale native Mexican wood known as sabino and a lamp topped with the architect’s signature parchment shade. The pistachio walls of the entry blend nicely with the pale, creamy yellow of the dining room just atop a short flight of steps. The warmth and intimacy that Barragán, who designed not only the structure but the garden and the interior decoration, are established at the outset.

But as I was soaking up this dreamy ambiance, I couldn’t help but wonder—who was minding the chicken soup?

The only information I received from my tour guide about the home’s occupants was that this was their principal residence, and that they took great pains to restore Casa Pedregal to conform to Barragán’s original vision. Obviously real people lived there—I could smell their next meal—but their identity was not revealed. I wanted to know more—I mean, what’s up with that chicken soup? Might I be able to join the owners and partake? (Just kidding)…

Back home in Queens I did some digging. Turns out that Cesár Cervantes, the developer of Tetelán, the restaurant located next door in the former stables of Casa Pedregal (and where I lunched, sans chicken broth, after my tour), lives in the main house with his family. He insists that Casa Pedregal not be treated like a museum even though he considers it a modern masterpiece. “I don’t even believe in museums,” Cervantes said to Wallpaper magazine.1

Evidence of family life in the residence is everywhere. Inflatable toys float in the pool. The large living room bar is well-stocked—with Cervantes assuring Wallpaper that the liquor is not a prop.2 (OK, forget about the soup!) I even uncovered an image of his kids in the family room with their feet propped up on the (Barragán-designed) coffee table. And, of course, they use the charmingly pink- tiled kitchen.

Further research revealed that Cervantes was once considered one of Mexico’s premier contemporary art collectors. Back in 2013, he decided to sell his entire collection, one that took him over two decades to assemble. He poured most of the proceeds into purchasing and restoring Casa Pedregal.

Collecteurs magazine reports that the art world turned its back on Cervantes when he deaccessioned his art, adding that artists, collectors and gallerists felt betrayed by his decision to abandon collecting.3 Cervantes, emphasizing his interest in culture, explains that “I thought it was better to preserve one of the most important architectural works in Mexico, instead of being one more collector.”4

Casa Pedregal began life with a different name. The origins of the house date to 1945 when Barragán eyed an 850-acre tract of land in, otherwise dense, Mexico City known as the Jardin de Pedregal, and thought it ideal for tasteful development. Pedregal, which means “rocky ground” in Spanish, refers to the abundance of volcanic lava rock that proliferates there. Instead of seeing the rock as a hindrance to building, Barragán viewed it as a means to explore his ideas of integrating natural topography into the built environment. Barragán, purchased the property with a partner and he became the master planner for the entire subdivision, envisioning a utopia of elegant modern homes intertwined with native gardens.

For the homes, Barragán pictured residences that evoked what he later outlined in his Pritzker Prize acceptance speech as a more “emotional architecture.”5 Rejecting French modernist’s Le Corbusier’s notion that houses are machines for living, Barragán wanted his structures to have a soul. He believed that, “any architecture that fails to express serenity is mistaken.”6 In other words, the home should be a your private sanctuary. It is Barragán’s use of color, landscape, form and light—those qualities that lend his buildings a sense of magic—that set him apart from the austerity often associated with the modernist style.

Barragán hoped that El Pedregal, the neighborhood he envisioned, would embody his ideals. It didn’t take long for him to recruit a young lawyer Eduardo Prieto López and his wife Esther Sánchez Mejorada de Prieto to commission a house commensurate with this vision. Built between 1947-1949, the residence was owned for more than fifty years by the Prieto-López family and it was named Casa Prieto-López after them for decades.

Cervantes bought the house from the Prieto-López family. According to Cervantes, the house had been on the market for six years and, after suggesting it to others for purchase, he finally decided to buy it himself.7 Cervantes had lived in El Pedregal since he was seven years old and had been involved in its preservation since the early 2000’s. He was concerned that the only surviving home that Barragán designed in the area might eventually be demolished by someone else.8

At first, Cervantes, a devoted renovator of four houses in El Pedregal, thought he would restore the residence before perhaps flipping it.9 He soon recruited his friend Jorge Covarrubias, co-founder of the architecture and design firm, Parque Humano, to help him bring the home back to Barragán’s original design. Together they researched Barragán and approached the project as archaeological. Layers of unwanted additions and inappropriate pieces were remove, and various maintenance issues were fixed. An extensive paint analysis allowed for the restoration of Barragán’s luminous paint colors. Even the landscape, now a private oasis in the crowded Pedregal neighborhood, was restored. At one point over 100 contractors were at the house. Slowly the house was recovered and Barragán’s mystical energy re-emerged.

During the 20-month process, Cervantes fell under the home’s spell and, right now, he has no plans to leave10 Re-christened Casa Pedregal, today the house and garden shine.

When it came time to furnishing Casa Pedregal, not all of the furniture that Barragán (and his consultant, Clara Porset)11 designed for the residence remained in place at the time of Cervantes’ purchase.

Nevertheless, today you would think that it was furnished as Barragán initially intended. Against the soft pastel walls and neutral upholstery, the comfortable-looking leather lounge chairs (known at Butaque chairs) provide a place to relax. You can feel the “soulful serenity” of Barragán’s ideal aesthetic. The dining room showcases a blocky, minimalist table and chairs, as well as a console that appears to be in a very early photo of the space (seen above). Ceramic and glass lamps with Barragán’s signature parchment shades offer artificial light when needed. And colorful glass spheres like the ones in the entry serve as light-catching sculptural accents throughout the house.

My research didn’t uncover anything about Cervantes collecting journey as he went about re-furnishing the house in line with Barragán’s choices. I wish I knew more about that. I wonder if he would consider an interview.

Casa Pedregal is also rife with a number of traditional Mexican handcrafts. When I asked our guide about some of the papier mâché sculptures and beaded masks, I was told that those objects had nothing to do with Barragán but were rather the owner’s personal belongings. Yet they seemed to fit right in, perhaps because both Barragán and Mexican handcrafts are integral the country’s heritage. When justifying his decision to rid himself of his art collection, Cervantes explained that it wasn’t only art he was interested in previously but his country’s culture overall. Cervantes said that with the purchase and restoration, he began to look more closely at his origins and roots, so the beaded masks and papier mâché objects adorning such an important patrimonial property seem consistent with his journey. 12

Many of Barragán’s houses in Mexico City, including his own—a UNESCO World Heritage Site no less—are challenging for the public to gain entry. (Believe me I tried for months before my recent visit.)

Cervantes takes a different approach. Although you must book your tour in advance (it is a home after all), he believes owning Casa Pedregal and sharing it with others has taught him something about the nature of art. Calling Barragán’s Casa Pedregal a “supreme creation,” Cervantes explained that art, “…needs to be visible and public, and not be stored away inside storage spaces or other private conditions.” 13 What an extraordinary example of home as art!

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Post Scriptum

• Since my son’s recent nuptials, I have been sick with a cold that morphed into a lingering sinus infection. Cervantes wasn’t here to make me chicken soup “penicillin,” but it turns out Lasagne Soup made from jarred marinara sauce goes down just as easily and is a snap to prepare.

• The kids’ classic “old New York” wedding was lovely and they are blissfully happy.

  

  

• Do flowers and bold color sound appealing during this dreary winter? Take a peek at last year’s orchid show at the New York Botanical Gardens, created in homage to Luis Barragán. So perfect for the architect who once said that “I don’t divide architecture, landscape and gardening; to me they are one.” You’ll note that Casa Pedregal has a softer palette than this exhibition, but many of Barragán’s other works feature plenty of magenta and purple.

  

It’s a weekend for fairytales. I am thrilled to be the Mother of the Groom this weekend for the nuptials between my son Chris and his lovely bride Megan. The theme is a “Glamorous, Romantic, Old-Style New York City Wedding.” Dress code: black tie, bien sur. Think Great Gatsby with a happy ending and you have the vibe. I expect an event for the ages, and, because the design of this entire celebration is so thoughtful, I hope to be sharing further details afterwards. In the spirit of living happily ever after, a fairytale castle is the subject of today’s post. Although, an earlier version of this post was published a few years back on my website, I have so many new readers now (welcome!), most of you probably never saw it. Even if you did read that old post, it has been updated and the Chateau Nové Město is such a visual delight, the place is worth an encore. Paying subscribers got a teensy teaser when they glimpsed the chateau’s winter garden in a recent post, but that room doesn’t begin to capture the incredible color and pattern found elsewhere in the castle. Enjoy everyone, this post is free for all.

From the outside, the chateau in the small Czech town of Nové Město nad Metují is your standard issue medieval pile. Built in 1501 as a Gothic style fort, it’s tired façade shows its age, and not in the most inviting way.

The grounds leading to the old fort, however, are straight out of a Grimms’ fairytale and provide a hint of the imagination that has transformed the interior. Before you arrive at the front door, you meander through a charming garden guarded by 22 dwarves and cross a wooden, covered bridge that is so quintessential you wouldn’t be surprised if you passed Snow White.

Once inside the Chateau Nové Město nad Metují, the decoration knocks your socks off because it is so completely unexpected compared to the staid front façade. In the early part of the 20th century, leading Czech architects , Dušan Jurkovič and Pavel Janák transformed a derelict interior into a design lover’s dream. They came onboard in 1909 when new owners, Josef and Cyril Bartoň-Dobenin, hired them to modernize the chateau for family living and gussy up the existing medieval decoration and Baroque detailing acquired over the years.

Jurkovič and Janák’s vision turned the old, drab components upside down. They brought in the best artists of the day to execute dazzling pattern-heavy spaces filled with custom ceramics, carpeting, lighting and incredible wall treatments. No surface was spared, even the radiators were gilded silver. It took decades. The restoration was not complete until 1935.

The end result is an exuberant mash up of motifs from all of the important early 20th century design styles. There are elements from the Arts & Crafts movement, Weiner Werkstätte, Art Deco, Art Nouveau and Functionalism layered on top of the existing Baroque and medieval framework. I have never seen anything like it. Have a look at my favorite rooms.

Baroque Bedroom

The “Baroque Bedroom” is dominated by original 17th century frescoes that Jurkovič and Janak restored. The bedroom’s furniture was made in 1912 to match a surviving Baroque bureau. It’s one of the few rooms where original elements command the design.

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Coffer Room

Unlike the Baroque Bedroom, the “Coffer Room” has no original elements. Jurkovič installed a nature-inspired ceiling, textiles, and lighting with a distinct Arts & Crafts feel that recalls medieval times—an appropriate design choice because William Morris, the founder of the Arts & Crafts movement, was inspired by the Middle Ages. The walls are made of embossed leather. Jurkovič added the stucco ribs and painted the ceiling in 1918.

Son’s Bedroom

The son’s fantasy bedroom is another delight, evoking visions of Robin Hood and King Arthur (or their Czech equivalents). The heraldic motifs are perfect for a young knight in shining armor. My own sons would have been thrilled to sleep in a space like this. I am not certain how well I would’ve coped, however, with the constant sword fighting among my three boys this room would have surely inspired. Even as grown men, they would probably still be at it. Ha!

Zodiac Room

This room, used for informal dining, is dubbed the Zodiac Room because its bespoke carpet is modeled after an astrological chart. All of its decoration dates from the first half of the 20th century and Pavel Janák designed the furnishings. As a Leo Sun, Taurus Moon, and Virgo Ascending, I have been known to dip into the popular App Co-Star to guess at my future, so I found this space especially charming with it’s reference to horoscopes.

Bohemian Herbarium

The Bohemian Herbarium, completed in 1918, is so named for its many floral motifs. The wainscot below the painted vaulting is actually a woven tapestry that has been applied to the wall. Helena Johnová, the founder of modern Czech ceramics, was called in to design a massive ceramic stove. She set her kiln up on site for a year during the renovation.

Formal Dining Room

Jurkovič also designed the entire formal dining room. The walls of are covered in parchment inlaid with gold thread and the ceiling features a hand-painted mural at its center. Meissen and Chinese porcelain dot the space. My photo of the Bohemian glass chandelier does not do it justice—the crystals shimmer in person. I have never seen a another tablecloth like the one in this room with its multi-colored tassels.

Winter Garden

Downstairs is the Winter Garden. This room was a small part of a recent post that included many other extraordinary spaces where nature is brought indoors. I am showing it again here for context. Compared to the bold colors and pattern in the rest of the chateau, the Winter Garden’s white palette and natural materials—the mosiacs are made from pebbles from the nearby river Metuje—are much quieter. The room is notable for its Wiener Werstätte style. The swirly pattern on the walls is much like the spirals seen in Gustav Klimt’s mural at the Palais Stoclet, an icon of the look. Additionally, the rectilinear white chairs remind me of Charles Rennie Mackintosh, a Scottish designer whose work is simpatico with the Wiener Werkstätte.

Current Owners

The abundance of pattern and color in this chateau are truly remarkable but how the current owners came to possess it is also somewhat of a fairytale. After Cyril and Josef Bartoň-Dobenin underwent this extraordinary renovation, Josef and his wife lost the chateau to the communists in 1948. Their son and the rest of their family fled to Canada but, given the couple’s advanced age, Josef and his wife remained. The state permitted them live in the chateau under state rule until they died.

Their son never again discussed Czechoslovakia, not dreaming that his own son would one day own his former family home.

But back in 1991, that son, Josef Marian Bartoň-Dobenin (named after his grandfather), awoke one day to learn that he was the proprietor of both the chateau and all of his family’s former textile business. At the time he was working in airlines and his wife was a legal secretary. Apparently that’s how property restitution works in the Czech Republic. 1 Suddenly you are a chatelain and chatelaine. Reminds me of winning the lotto. But that’s another story…

Bon voyage,

Lynn

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The Bergl Rooms are at the pinnacle when it comes to hand-painted mural decoration and bringing the outside in.

Anyone seriously interested in design history and decorating needs to know the Bergl Rooms and the story behind them because they have inspired interior designers for several centuries now. Although there are many other fabulous examples of bringing nature inside, the Bergl Rooms, a suite of rooms at Vienna’s Schönbrunn Palace are so fantastical that it is hard to believe someone actually lived in them.

That someone was the Austrian Empress Maria Theresa (mother of Marie Antoinette), who spent the last ten years of her life calling the Bergl Rooms home during the warmer months.

In her later years, Maria Theresa found that she hated the summer heat. To find relief, she decided to escape the royal apartments on the palace’s piano nobile to move to a sequence of four rooms located on the ground floor. Not only were the first floor rooms cooler than those upstairs, but they also had direct access to the palace gardens. Wouldn’t it be great to gaze out at the lovely scenery while protected from the harsh sun, all the while cocooned in an exotic environment that recalled something almost akin to the Garden of Eden?

Apparently the answer is yes, because, in 1769, the empress commissioned Bohemian muralist Johann Wenzel Bergl to paint her an indoor garden. What emerged from his brush are among the most lush landscape murals ever created. While I was utterly charmed by the hand-painted murals that I saw at Long Hill, in my opinion, nothing beats the Bergl Rooms.

Bergl covered the rooms’ walls with charming flora and fauna which unfolds room by room, from an untouched, exotic environment in an antechamber to the depiction of a formal Baroque garden in Maria Theresa’s bedchamber which resembles the garden planted just outside the palace.

Bergl ingeniously extended his artwork onto the curves of the vaulted ceilings, thereby dissolving the boundary between wall and ceiling, and thus creating an early immersive environment. In some of the rooms, he painted garden trellises—then not commonly seen indoors—possibly drawing upon the Schönbrunn’s own garden pavilions as his inspiration according to the palace’s website.

Today, of course, trelliage and trellis motifs are frequently used inside with Elsie de Wolfe’s dining room at the Colony Club often lauded as one of the first examples. I wonder whether she got the idea from the Bergl Rooms?

I got to see the Bergl Rooms first hand, but was not allowed to take my own photographs. (Drat. That always distresses me, and why pray tell? Google is a click away with plenty).

To see the rooms, you need to book a special tour through a private tour company or the Schönbrunn as part of their Maria Theresa tour. The Bergl rooms are not included in the general palace entry ticket.

The Bergl rooms offer an enchanting look, but most of us don’t have an empress’ budget to commission hand-painted murals for our walls. Wallpaper is a somewhat more affordable option but even that can be a pricey endeavor.

Cost, however, won’t stop me from picturing a room in my fantasy upstate cottage covered with a landscape mural. Schumacher (often a well-priced source) carries a wallpaper line from Iksel that has some nice options.

Digital printing can also help with budget.

In any event, dreams are free and my head is in the clouds over this one.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

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ICYMI:

And a little more on Elsie:

Being a homebody and loving to travel are not oxymoronic. As far as I am concerned nothing beats watching the snow softly blanket the ground of the tree-filled garden outside my bedroom window, in my opinion, a sight best observed from my bed under a pile of quilts. That is, nothing other than a flight to Rome, Paris or London.

I call my bedroom the “garden” room but not just because of its view. References to nature abound in my bedroom décor because I find that I enjoy nature whether I am actually outside in it or not. Natural light, houseplants, and yes lots of flora and fauna motifs in my art and objects are a balm to my soul.

I will never forget a terrible early apartment that I leased, out of sheer desperation, not long after law school. It looked out onto an internal air shaft, so it had no natural light (the NYC rental market can be so cruel). Certainly that apartment was the most unpleasant place I have ever lived. I require nature in my home and, over the years, I have found that there are many ways to get it.

History shows that I am not the only one.

Humans have been bringing aspects of nature into our built environments ever since ancient times, stretching at least as far back as the Hanging Gardens of Babylon commissioned by King Nebuchandnezzar in 600 BC. Lush flowering plants dripped from the tall, columned façade of Babylon’s royal palace to bring cheer to the King’s wife who was homesick for her verdant native land. When we add aspects of nature to our homes-elements like natural light, plants, water features, natural materials and motifs, even showcasing a nice view—we simply feel better, end of story. Our affinity for nature is innate and has been going on forever.

Biophilic Design

Although incorporating nature into our homes is not a new idea, the concept got a fancy name and plenty of academic study relatively recently. In the 1980s, a professor of social ecology at Yale, Stephen Kellert dubbed it “biophilic design,” after biophilia, a concept describing humans’ inborn love of the natural world. Put (very) simply, biophilic design can be grouped into two categories, direct and indirect experiences of nature. Plants and natural light are obvious direct experiences while décor using natural materials, colors and motifs that evoke nature are indirect experiences.

I have come across some amazing examples of how we bring nature indoors (whatever you call it) that span locations and time, so settle in for a healthy dose—bundling up not necessary.

Castle Lednice

No matter the weather—it was a cloudy and chilly October day when I visited— the inside of the glass house attached to the Castle Lednice feels like a tamed rainforest, warm with humidity and dense with towering palm trees, small koi ponds and running streams. Pretty benches are set throughout alongside ceramic Chinese garden stools, offering you a place to rest your beverage as you drink in the naturalistic environment. I was wowed both by the architecture and the plant life.

The glass and steel structure, built in 1842 by Prince Alois II of Lichtenstein, is 92 meters long, with ceilings that soar over twenty feet. Supporting columns, made from cast iron, mimic bamboo trees with green leaves leading up to a flowering capital. Prince Alois II originally planned for continuous blooms in his glass house, and it is still maintained that way today. If one of the castle’s salons wasn’t visible through a window in the structure it would be almost impossible to imagine that the huge building was merely just another room in a private (albeit, royal) residence, and not part of a public botanical garden. My goodness, the wealth and wonder of the prince’s life!

Once upon a time, the Empress Josephine (Napoleon’s wife) had a similar— but much smaller—glass house on the grounds of the Chateau Malmaison but it no longer survives. (But the pavilion that adjoined it is extant and has been converted into a private residence where I had lunch). To help prevent the Castle Lednice, located not in France but near the Czech-Austrian border, from suffering a similar fate, UNESCO has designated it World Heritage Site.

Some people still live today like Prince Alois II once did.

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Killruddery

Over in Ireland, descendants of the original family continue to reside at Killruddery, a castle-like estate with a large stunning conservatory attached to the stately home’s dining room. The sunny space, built in 1852 and capped by a grand glass dome, is filled with sculpture and plants grown in containers. The homeowners often share it with the public for concerts and other community events.

Long Hill

Bringing nature indoors doesn’t have to be as grand an effort as the structures at Castle Lednice and Killruddery. The interiors of Long Hill, the summer residence in Beverly, MA that Ellery Sedgwick, a former editor of the Atlantic Monthly, and his wife Mabel Cabot Sedgwick built in 1925, are filled with references to the garden. Although Long Hill is perhaps better known for incorporating architectural woodwork salvaged from a federal mansion in Charleston, SC, Mabel, a horticulturist and the author of the 1907 book The Garden Month by Month (a tome still relevant today), also filled her colonial-revival home with indirect references to the grounds she so lovingly tended just outside through color, textiles and wall treatments.

For example, Mabel selected Chinese botanical wallpaper to line the walls of the entry and stair hall of the mansion. Just outdoors is a Chinese-inspired pagoda that Ellery himself painted red, in what Mabel called one of her “garden rooms. ”1 It seems biophilic design can go both ways.

In addition, according to the docent on my private tour of the whole house (only the first floor is open to the general public), the home’s color palette was drawn from a color chart documenting the hues of flowers that is part of Mabel Sedgwick’s 1907 book. Today, a copy of the chart hangs above a fireplace in a room used to house her horticultural library.

But the real charmer, a delightful hand-painted mural that covers all four walls of a small sitting room, is hidden upstairs in a part of Long Hill that most people don’t get to see.

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Christmas can be rough. At least for me it’s been that way lately. Today, as a single woman living alone in Queens NY, my life (and Christmas) is nothing like the holiday I enjoyed just a few years ago, and I struggle to adapt to the Yule season in my changed circumstances. Let’s just say it has been some time since I sent out seasonal cards showcasing the perfect family.

Back in my “old life” raising three boys in lower Westchester County, I produced a full-on “Martha” Christmas.

Let me paint the picture.

Our 7-bedroom Victorian was fully adorned with a nine-foot tree in the parlor and another on the wraparound porch. A lush garland wound its way up the grand center staircase. Wreaths hung on the front, back and side doors. Santas of all shapes and sizes were clustered on both fireplace mantels and spilled over onto to the bookshelves. My full collection tops 75 of the jolly old man. Baking commenced mid-month since my Eastern …

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Now is a good time to become a paying subscriber. Readers who upgrade to paid before my next post will be grandfathered in at my existing $30/yr. annual subscription rate. Existing paid subscribers are grandfathered at the $30/yr. rate too. When I publish my next post, the annual subscription rate will rise to $60.

As a gift to paid subscribers, I will drop in Chat an insider’s list of Mexico City’s top fashion and design shops assembled by one of Mexico’s leading art and design curators.

Thank you to all my readers.

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As promised in my last post, this is the guide you need so you can make smart choices about your itinerary if you dream of going to Mexico City. CDMX (Ciudad de México, Spanish for Mexico City), is as multi-layered— in its own unique way—as New York City, with an even bigger landmass and population. So it is simply impossible to see everything it has to offer on one short trip. To help winnow down the options, here are ten places I think you must see, what I could have skipped and what I won’t miss next time. Significant details about my accommodations, dining and shopping are included too. This post only includes sites that are accessible to the public. Deep dives into my exclusive private stops will be on view soon.

Where to Go

1. Casa Azul

Casa Azul is a popular tourist excursion that, in my opinion, is 100% worth it. This is Frida Kahlo’s lifelong home—where she was born, where she recovered after her tragic bus accident, her marital home with Diego Rivera and where she returned in her finals days after divorcing Rivera. A visit reveals her essential DNA, even her clothing and undergarments are on display. (And don’t miss these intimate items shown in a building next to the house and courtyard—they tell us much about traditional Mexican garments, Kahlo’s personal struggles and her enduring influence on fashion.) Regardless of whether you are a fan of the female artist whose work has recently achieved the highest price ever paid at auction, Frida Kahlo is an integral part of Mexico’s soul. See stop #2 below for my recommendation as to how to secure the hard-to-get entry tickets.

2. Coyoacán

One of Mexico City’s oldest and most historic neighborhoods, Coyoacán is a must-see, whether by yourself or on a guided tour. I booked a walking tour of the area because it came with entry tickets to Casa Azul. The experience was a surprising delight. Coyoacán is a fascinating conglomeration of pre-Hispanic, Colonial and Modernist influences. Once Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera’s home base, the neighborhood has a lively, bohemian atmosphere enhanced by building façades in a rainbow of hues, street food vendors, live music and some of the best outdoor markets I encountered during my 5-day trip to CDMX.

3. Museo Anahuacalli

Diego Rivera commissioned this museum to house his impressive collection of pre-Hispanic objects, hiring functionalist architect Juan O’Gorman to design a temple inspired by Mayan, Toltec and Aztec structures. Located on the perimeter of the Coyoacán neighborhood, the architecture of the monumental building, together with its surrounding ecologically pristine native garden, by themselves make a visit worthwhile. Rivera himself executed many of the museum’s intricate mosaic ceilings. The collections on view are fascinating too. In addition to Rivera’s early artifacts, the museum exhibits his sketches for some of his most famous artworks, including the large one he created for the mural he designed for Rockefeller Center (which was later destroyed). The museum gift shop is a small jewel with many unique items. Also onsite is an intriguing outdoor market filled with traditional Mexican handcrafts.

4. Museo Franz Mayer

Go here for Latin America’s largest collection of decorative arts, including Mexican furniture, silver and ceramics. The Museo Franz Mayer is located in a former monastery that dates from the 16th century and is organized around a large central courtyard. Be sure to grab a coffee in the cute café in the cloisters and listen to the water pleasantly trickling from the large fountain in the courtyard’s center. You can walk through Alameda Central, Mexico City’s version of NYC’s Central Park, to get there.

5. Museo de Arte Popular

This place is an eye popper of a sight for color lovers. Leave plenty of time to let the bright hues warm your soul, as you wander through Mexico City’s foremost destination for folk art. Located in a converted firehouse, the Museo de Arte Popular is packed with glasswork, textiles, piñatas, pottery and alebrijes—the brightly colored folk art sculptures of fantastical creatures made from papier-mâché or wood. On my visit, a Volkswagen Beetle covered in traditional beadwork was parked in the lobby (see it in my Notes and on Instagram). The museum store sells high-quality handcrafted goods but, warning, the prices are high. Be sure you really love whatever you decide to buy.

6. Casa Pedregal and Tetetlán

It takes effort to see the venues in Mexico City designed by acclaimed Mexican architect, Luis Barragán. Try as I might, I could not get tickets to tour his personal residence. Believe me—I would have extended my trip to see it! In any case, Barragán’s Casa Pedregal is an excellent substitute, especially if you combine your visit with a meal at the visually striking restaurant Tetetlán that he also designed just outside the house grounds. The home remains occupied by a private family and, inside, it is lovingly embellished with furniture designed by the architect and the homeowners’ personal collections. The house is surrounded by a marvelous garden that serves as an oasis in the densely populated neighborhood.

Casa Pedregal is open to the public by guided tour only and it must be booked in advance. The Decorative Arts Trust arranged my outing, but google turns up a variety of options. (As a member of the Decorative Arts Trust, I have access to special trips that I pay for like this one to CDMX, which included visits to many of the sites in this post. All opinions expressed here are my own).

Next door is Tetetlán and it’s perfect for a meal following your tour. Located in old stables originally designed by Barragán for the adjacent Casa Pedregal, the architect’s aesthetic is stunningly revealed in the light-filled, two-story atrium, accented in Barragán’s signature pink. Re-imagined by art collector César Cervantes, Tetetlán is more than just a restaurant. It also serves as a library, wellness center, art gallery, and a shop, which you should explore after you eat the delectable, top-flight Mexican cuisine.

More on Luis Barragán, including exclusive photos of Case Pedegral and other Barragán-influenced design, will be coming soon to Emerald City. Stay tuned!

7. Casa Guillermo Tovar de Teresa

This townhouse, converted into a museum in 2018, was the home of Guillermo Tovar de Teresa, a historian and life-long defender of historic and artistic Mexican heritage. De Teresa began advising presidents at age 13, if you can believe it! Once the official chronicler of Mexico City, he assiduously collected paintings, books and furnishings throughout his life, specializing in the Spanish/Mexican colonial period. He renovated every room in the home in 19th century style to showcase his collections. If you want to experience a traditional house museum with Mexican flair, this is the one to see.

8. Museo Nacional de Antropologia

As Mexico’s largest museum, you can’t overlook the Museo Nacional de Antropologia. It would be like skipping the Uffizi in Florence or the Louvre in Paris. Instead of the Mona Lisa, the gem here is the famous Stone of the Sun. There is plenty more to see on your mandatory visit, but be sure not to bypass the building itself with its strikingly modern Brutalist architecture and the gardens and courtyard.

Fun fact: the reconstructions of colorful ancient temples inside the museum are made of foam core! How do I know this? As I was on a private evening tour arranged by the Decorative Arts Trust, I was permitted to tap one to prove it. (I don’t recommend trying this test on a regular public visit).

9. Gran Hotel Ciudad de México

Everyone strolls Mexico City’s Centro Históric, a UNESCO world heritage site, but don’t skim past the Gran Hotel Ciudad de México. Located just off the district’s central plaza (the Zócala), the hotel’s typical Neocolonial facade sports the standard waving flags and a bellhop outside. But step in and ascend the stairs to find an astonishing lobby that retains its original Art Nouveau details including a spectacular stained glass ceiling, designed by a founder of the School of Nancy with over 20,000 pieces of glass. This is a worthwhile visit and only takes five minutes.

10. Teotihuacan

The pre-Aztec city of Teotihuacan is 30 miles outside of Mexico City but it’s essential you make time for it. Its mystical atmosphere is multi-sensory and a photo or two just can’t do it justice. The main thoroughfare, known as the Avenue of the Dead, is ringed by a number of monumental structures, including two massive pyramids. Screeching sounds that could be the whistling wind, howling animals, or if you give yourself up to the experience, an angry deity determined to pierce your ears, erupt periodically. The ruins allow for an amplification of sound in certain spots, making it easy to forget that nearby street vendors are selling the noise-making devices as souvenirs. At certain times of the day, the structures cast light and shadows that allow you to tell time or decipher direction. Many say the experience is unique in the Western Hemisphere.

Don’t miss the accompanying museum, the Museo do Murales Beatriz de la Fuente. Inside are fragments of frescos that retain their bold original colors and show the true splendor of the ancient city, as well as a re-creation of an early residence in a symphony of pattern and color. I recommend you book a guided tour (as opposed to going solo), because it will enhance your appreciation and understanding of the ruins.

What to Skip

Ok, admittedly, skip is a harsh-sounding bit of slang. None of the following venues are “bad” per se but hard choices are an inevitable part of every journey. So if you are looking to squeeze in a bit more from my “wish I had seen it” list below, or otherwise pare down your sightseeing, here are some places that could be cut.

1. Museo Casa Estudio Diego Rivera y Frida Kahlo.

   Despite the name, this museum is an homage to Diego Rivera. His large studio remains as he occupied it, although you will not see any of his murals here. Frida Kahlo’s rooms, meanwhile, stand empty. She only lived in the house for only six years and I was told by our docent that she hated it. I think the most interesting part of this museum is the exterior —a fine piece of functional architecture by Juan O’Gorman with a very cool cactus fence. The building next door is by O’Gorman too. You can see all that on a drive-by while you are in Coyoacán.

   

2. Museo Casa del Risco. This house museum has one notable object: a massive Baroque fountain just beyond the entry that’s covered in a painstakingly arranged grouping of Talavera pottery. If you happen to find yourself nearby, pop in to see it, but the museum does not merit a special visit otherwise.

   

3. Templo Mayor. While the ancient ruins in Mexico City’s historic center are obviously worthwhile to see, if you intend to make the trip to Teotihuacan, I suggest not devoting to much time to exploring the ruins in the city.

4. Palacio de Bellas Artes. By no means should you skip this entirely, but you can edit your visit. Take in the murals in the lobby, including some by Diego Rivera, and the stunning Art Deco architecture. To see Tiffany Studio’s magnificent stained glass curtain inside the National Theater, you must book (and sit through) a 30-minute lecture in Spanish. It’s a 22-ton masterpiece, but you really don’t need 30 minutes to take it in.

   

For My Next Trip

1. National Autonomous University of Mexico. This UNESCO world heritage site is filled with Modernist buildings that are covered in murals. I am still weeping about not having time to go there while I was in Coyoacán.

2. More Luis Barragán. Casa Pedregal was great, but I would love to tour the architect’s own home and any other Barragán sites I can get into.

3. More Condessa and Roma. Sometimes you simply need to walk around to really get the vibe of a place. Considered to be two of the chicest neighborhoods in CDMX, Roma and Condessa are like that and they are adjacent to one another. If only there had been more time!

4. Explore the Insider’s list of Design and Fashion Shops. I haven’t been to any of the insider shops I mention in the Chat. My pocketbook is happy, but I am not.

Essentials:

• Stay: I stayed at the Hotel Andaz in Condessa and I would go back. The breakfast buffet at their Pórtico restaurant was exceptional.

• Savor: My top three meals were at Propio, Casa Virginia and Caracol de Mar. Prior to my trip, many many people recommended Pujol. I didn’t have time to book the 2-star Michelin venue, but next time I will.

• Shop: I have sprinkled shopping tips throughout this post, but my general advice is don’t sleep on whether to buy something you’ve come across that you love. It’s best to grab it right then and there because you might not stumble upon it again. A lot of the best items are one-of-a-kind creations that are not repeated.

One last tip. Everyone says not to drink the water (and don’t forget that means ice). I agree. But another risk is found beneath your feet. Mexico City is so awash in colorful façades, sophisticated architecture, verdant greenery and diverse cultural influences that your eyes will be darting everywhere except where you’re walking. That’s dangerous because the sinking city has uneven sidewalks pockmarked with treacherous pot holes. So remember to literally watch your step as you take in the many wonders.

Finally, since the vast majority of you said you “wanted it all” in response to the Mexico City poll in my last post, there will be more dispatches on my experiences there from time to time on Emerald City. Of course, these will be interspersed with other topics as I am constantly exploring everywhere. Consider this newsletter the CDMX basics.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

Post Scriptum

• Looking for an affordable luxury gift? Everyone loves something in an orange box. I picked up Hermès nail polish for an important young woman.

• Forget an English Christmas or a Ralph Lauren Christmas for your holiday decor. Now’s the perfect time to do a Williamsburg Christmas!

• Anything I can make in the slow cooker for dinner works for me right now, and a bowl of this will leave you toasty warm and full.

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Hi everyone,

Happy Thanksgiving! Seems the perfect time to tell you how much I appreciate you. Thank you so much for your support.

Now let’s talk turkey about what you want to read about on Emerald City. My head is swimming from the odyssey of design I saw last week in Mexico City and surrounding environs. It would help to know what you are most interested in. I even got fancy—there is a poll! Or you could click over to the App and leave a comment after you read this brief summary.

The breadth of my exploration was incredibly extensive. I went from ancient pyramids all the way to the pinnacle of contemporary design, including a private visit with architect and sculptor Pedro Reyes and his wife, renowned fashion designer Carla Fernández at their Brutalist-style home. Stops along the way included a private residence designed by color-blocking architect Luis Barragán, dazzling interiors with Tiffany-era stained glass and Art Deco motifs, and historic houses and museums packed with Mexican viceregal (read OLD, Spanish colonial) furnishings, Mexican folk art and traditional Talavera ceramics.

For lovers of handcraft, my studio visit to one of the nine Talavera workshops certified by a Mexican regulatory council (much like fine wine is controlled in France) revealed the exacting care and skill artisans use to craft the acclaimed pottery, as well as some tips on how to spot the many fakes on the market. On the contemporary side, AD100 designer Rodman Primack of AGO Interiors gave my group a tour of his gallery filled with new objects that blur the boundaries between fine and decorative art.

And, naturally, no visit to Mexico City is complete without learning more about Diego and Frida.

Design aside, I shopped and ate. A lot. It was all good. That is, after I recovered from an inauspicious flight from New York City. After a 4:30 AM departure from my apartment, I didn’t receive my first drop of caffeine until 2:30 PM. Truly brutal. Don’t forget I live in Queens, the airport borough. It should have been easier.

I want to write about all of this, but who knows if you want to read it? I could easily send a dispatch from sunny Mexico every time there is an Artic blast. There are worse ways (for both of us) to pass the dreary, cold grey days of winter. Of course, posts on my adventures north of our Southern border will be interspersed.

Maybe the photos will help define the focus. Have a look and then talk to me. :)

1. Itinerary

• Travel Planning. The goods: where to I stayed, shopped and ate, plus what to see for a design-centric adventure in CDMX. More details than this post but still a summary.

2. Frida and Diego

• Frida Kahlo. Her life and home, Casa Azul, including her dresses(!).

• Diego Rivera. His studio and the museum he built inspired by Mayan, Toltec and Aztec temples, including a sneak peek at behind-the-scenes museum storage and a wonderful native garden. These are stunning buildings.

3. Old Stuff

• Talavera Ceramics. Here is your deep dive, including a visit to a certified workshop, two collectors’ homes, and an incredible church adorned in Talavera tiles.

• Puebla. In addition to being the home to Talavera ceramics, Puebla is Mexico’s fourth largest city. Although its historic center is a UNESCO World Heritage Site, this rainbow-colored city is not a tourist mecca, so you may not see it otherwise.

• Mexican antiques and folk art. A look at viceregal furniture, traditional Mexican folk art and furniture. and Mexican silver (not just tea sets, but the jewelry too!). Did you know there is a difference between Mexican lacquer and Chinese lacquer?

• Teotihuacan. The wonder of visiting pre-Aztec ruins becomes even more palpable when you learn they were once all in technicolor.

4. Modern Marvels

• Between Ancient and Modern. Art Nouveau and Art Deco in Mexico City.

  

• Luis Barragán Post, Who is this need-to-know, modern architect? I will tell you plus you’ll get my photos of a private home (still lived in today!) that he designed as well as the recent orchid show at the New York Botanical Gardens inspired by Barragán’s work. The private home has such great interiors—most of the furnishings were designed by Barragán—that it merits a follow-up Aesthetic Template column.

• Pedro Reyes and Carla Fernández. I enjoyed a personal visit with them in their incredible home (great exclusive photos!). This one also deserves a companion Aesthetic Template post, this time on Brutalism.

• Contemporary Artisans. What’s old is new again, with a myriad of innovative mutations.

I saw all of this in FIVE days! The itinerary was so crushing, the trip could have easily been a week. Everything was magnificent, so let me know…

Mercifully Montezuma and his revenge stayed away, but nevertheless, it still took me a week to recover from my journey (as we say in design, my eyeballs were bleeding).

Many thanks to the Decorative Arts Trust—they arranged everything except my visit to Casa Azul, Frida Kahlo’s house. If you are participating in DAT’s CDMX tour two in December, here is your cue to book Casa Azul now. It sells out fast and you shouldn’t miss it.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

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Post Scriptum

• This week all I can think about is cooking and food. This is the stuffing my sons demand annually. We double the recipe.

• Except, that is, when I am thinking about my table. We are very casual on Turkey Day over here, so this year I am using a kantha quilt from Amazon as the base for my blue and white transfer ware to create the perfectly relaxed, boho vibe. Super affordable.

• Banana Republic has discounted their cashmere by 40% this week. Excellent quality for the price, IMHO. Run don’t walk.

All Photographs by Lynn Byrne.

If you happen to buy anything I recommend, I may get a small commission but it doesn’t cost you a penny.

What makes batik different from other fabrics like chintz, suzanis or ikats? It primarily comes down to the genius of the way it’s made. If you ever used a little wax crayon to make designs on an Easter egg before dipping it into the dye. you used the process called wax-resist dyeing, which has much in common with batik textile crafting. Tastemakers have prized batik fabric for centuries. Today, batik is celebrated by interior designers everywhere, who have been inspired in part by Inger McCabe Elliott, founder of the global textile brand China Seas in 1972 . Elliott’s company scaled up the importation of batik fabric for interiors. (In case you missed my profile on Elliott, a photojournalist turned designer who was the real-life inspiration for the play and film, Six Degrees of Separation, you can read about her here.)

Here’s what you need to know about chic batik.

History

• For over 2000 years, many countries and cultures have used wax-resist dyeing techniques to produce textiles. But, the Indonesian island of Java is at the heart of batik production, where the most refined examples are produced and the fabric has great cultural significance. It has a UNESCO heritage designation to prove it.

• It’s in Indonesia, especially on Java, where Chinese, Arab, Indian and European traders converged to buy and sell textiles, including batik, introducing and spreading the use of the fabric in the rest of the world. The textile is first mentioned in a cargo bill in the mid-17th century.

• Holland tried to imitate the fabric in 1835 with copper rollers and resin resist, but the Javanese refused to buy it, preferring their own locally produced goods. The Dutch then brought the cloth they produced to to West Africa, inducing that region to develop its own textile traditions subtly influenced by batik designs. Artisans in West Africa continue to produce these fabrics today, where they’re called “waxprint.”

• Batik was once used just for clothing, both for ceremonial and everyday wear.

• Batik’s geometric, flora and fauna patterns aren’t just pretty. Sometimes, they can mean something.

• For example, a scrolling, S-shaped pattern that resembles a knife, known as a parang, is reserved for royalty, and a celestial pattern known as truntum signifies unwavering love and is often worn at weddings.

• Batik was introduced to interior decoration in 1890 in Amsterdam. This led to a trend throughout Europe and America that peaked between 1918-1925, with European artists and craftspeople practicing the art of batik.

• Western use of batik surged again in the 1960s and early 1970s when tastemakers like David Hicks and the Baroness Marie-Hélène de Rothschild championed the fabric.

• Inger McCabe Elliott helped further mainstream the fabric’s use in interiors when she founded her company China Seas, now owned by Quadrille. Elliott’s work with batik remains celebrated today in fashion and interior design.

How It’s Made

• First, batik refers to both the process of creating the textile, and the finished product, the textile itself.

• Wax is either painted or poured on undyed fabric, with a variety of tools.

• When the fabric is dyed, the wax is either scraped or boiled off and the pattern is revealed (just like that Easter egg).

• The process can be repeated multiple times to layer in different colors and patterns.

• A copper device that looks like a fountain pen, called a canting, is used by artisans to hand-draw highly intricate patterns. It is sometimes called “batik writing.” This time-consuming method requires great skill and was an especially popular technique in the 19th century.

• Sometimes a brush is also used to apply the wax.

• In the 20th century, the Javanese modified block printing to make it suitable for hot wax by inventing a copper device known as a cap to stamp patterns on the fabric. This technique sped up production, and is less costly than canting and hand-painting, although all these various methods continue to be practiced today.

  

Batik At Home

Where To Find It

Head straight to Etsy, search terms like “vintage batik”, “Java batik” and “Indonesian batik” for starters. The mood board below shows you some of the treasures that I discovered and should get you started. Wear a batik wrap as a sarong or shawl, or use it for crafts or on your table. The bolt of 4.5 yards is probably enough for two flat roman shades. The rest is self-explanatory. :)

Sources, left to right.

• Hand-stamped with cap brown pillow cover

• Shawl

• Vintage cocktail napkins

• Javanese pillow cover

• Set of 6 vintage Indonesian batik napkins

• batik (suitable for tablecloth, throw or wall hanging)

• Fabric bolt, 4.5 yards

• Pillow covers

• Sarong

À bientôt,

Lynn

Post Scriptum

I am headed to Mexico City next week for some design exploration. Follow along in Substack’s Notes, or on my Instagram, @lynnbyrnenyc for “boots-on-the-ground” coverage.

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Entrepreneur and artist, Inger McCabe Elliott pioneered the import of Indonesian batik fabrics, captured culture through her camera lens for magazine’s like Vogue, Newsweek, Esquire and Time, and founded the global textile brand China Seas in the 1970s, whose designs still hold sway today. By weaving her creativity throughout every chapter in her life, Inger built a multi-faceted career that is a study in reinvention and artistic drive. But it has been overshadowed by one single night that cemented the pop culture notion that we are all separated by six degrees.

When the New York Times reported Elliott’s death in 2024 at age 90, it headlined with her role as the inspiration for John Guare’s smash Broadway play (and, later, film), Six Degrees of Separation. 1 But note this. Her professional accomplishments were buried at the bottom of its story.

The scam that sparked the play and film was an episode that lasted less than 48 hours and cost Elliott a mere $50. I think the rest of her life merits closer attention and I am in a unique position to give it to you.

How many degrees am I away from Elliott? Three, as it turns out. My boyfriend Christopher Foss (who I have mentioned here and there) and his mother Cornelia, have been friends with the Mcabe Elliott clan for decades. Both Christopher and Cornelia have fond memories of the family and the fabulous parties Inger Elliott held in her boldly-hued, art-filled apartment on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

Cornelia began her friendship with Inger Abrahamsen—Elliott’s maiden name—in 1955 when Cornelia was a 24 year old young mother in Los Angeles. The two women had a lot in common because both fled Europe as Jewish refugees from the Nazi regime when they were little girls, Cornelia from Germany and Elliott from Norway where she was born.

Photojournalism

Back in the early years of their friendship, Elliott was pursuing a career in photojournalism. Her assignments ranged from covering war-torn Vietnam to shooting the Bolshoi Ballet and celebrities like Marlon Brando. Cornelia recently told me at dinner that she once tried to persuade Elliott to stay away from Vietnam when Elliot was expecting her son Alec. Apparently, Cornelia’s efforts failed because Elliott, eight months pregnant, shot the war zone from a helicopter.

In her later years, Elliott created a book cataloging her artful photography with Massimo Vignelli, the man who designed the New York subway map among other things. Unfortunately, the book went unpublished because Vignelli died shortly before it was finished.

Elliott, who was educated in history at Cornell and Radcliffe and began her career as a middle school teacher, said on her website that her childhood as a refugee led her to photojournalism. Since she “traipsed from country to country…”, she struggled with unfamiliar local languages, calling her struggle “a precursor” to her “nonverbal world of photography” where she could tell a story visually.2

Visual stimulus seems to have followed Elliott throughout her life in one form or another. “Inger was… a person with a wonderful visual sensibility.” said Cornelia, a renowned artist in her own right, whose works are in multiple museums and currently on view at the gallery Hirshl & Adler in New York City. Although Elliott began her professional life in the black and white world of photojournalism, she didn’t stop there.

Batik

One seminal day, black and white “exploded into glorious color” for Inger Elliott when she wandered into a small shop in Hong Kong, as she recounted in her book Batik. Fabled Cloth of Java. She had moved to Hong Kong in the early 1960s with her first husband Robert McCabe, a fellow journalist, who went there to become that city’s bureau chief at Newsweek.

The rainbow of batik fabrics she encountered in the little shop evoked an “epiphany of sorts” that inspired her to “unravel the mystery of batik. ” Soon after, Elliott traveled the northern coast of Java (the Indonesian island at the heart of the world’s batik production) to study the handcrafted textile. Before long, she encouraged local artisans to re-work old patterns and develop new designs and mix colors never before used in batik. She also demonstrated to them how they could weave the cloth in much longer lengths suitable for both fashion and upholstery.

Ultimately Elliott became an expert in the textile and her book, Batik, served as the catalog for a major exhibition at the Cooper Hewitt. It became, as Diane von Furstenberg said on its cover, a “must” for textile lovers. The book had three editions and five printings.

Fashion

When Elliott and her first husband returned to New York City in the early seventies, she turned “her love of fabrics into…a business” wrote the New York Times in 1971, producing clothing from imported textiles that were sold at Bonwit Teller and Henri Bendel.3

Cornelia smiled when she described how Elliott dressed. She “invented beautiful costumes for herself, a kind of beautiful mixture of folk designs as well as elegance,” said Cornelia when she spoke at Elliott’s memorial service.

China Seas

Initially, Elliott hoped to combine her fashion income with photojournalism, according to the New York Times. The chic Elliott offered sage advice back then. “I don’t think it matters much what you wear as long as you have a style of your own,” she said.4

But then Elliott’s friend, Françoise de la Renta (Oscar’s wife), suggested she go into interior design and use the textiles for home goods like pillows, curtains, napkins and other table linens, according to the New York Times5 and D2 , a Norwegian publication which profiled Elliott six years before she died.6 In 1972 Elliott founded her textile company China Seas, opening new markets for batik in Europe, Asia and the Americas.

John Knott, whose company Quadrille purchased China Seas from Elliott in the late 1990s and still produces some of her designs, said in D2 that China Seas fabrics were “all over Park Avenue and in country houses everywhere, ” adding that they were used by the likes of Britain’s legendary jet set designer, David Hicks, and the Baroness Marie-Hélène de Rothschild for her country house. He credits Elliott for setting the tone for the “chic, ethnic” fabric back then.

Jacqueline Onassis was also a regular customer according to D2. Cornelia said with some pride that her friend’s fabrics were a favorite of the former first lady. Apparently Elliott made batik, the peak of chic.

Today’s top designers now regularly use the textile— like in this particularly memorable bedroom by Summer Thorton swathed in China Seas batik.

Of course, Cornelia has her own collection of China Seas home goods from her friend Inger Elliott, and Christopher proudly wears the China Seas neckties he inherited from his father, Lukas Foss. I will never forget the first time I opened a drawer in Cornelia’s kitchen, foraging for napkins to help the 94 year-old set the table, only to find it packed with a deliciously colorful (and covetable) array of batik napkins. At the time, I had no idea that the linens came from Cornelia’s old friend. I just wanted them.

At Home With Inger McCabe Elliott

Both Christopher and Cornelia regaled me with Inger Elliott stories. Entering the Upper East Side pre-war apartment that Inger and Osborne Elliott shared with their blended family of 8 children was like diving into a crayon box. “Long before it became fashionable, she would paint every room in her apartment a different eye-popping color. No beiges or greys. One room was a startling bright orange, the next an intense blue, and so on,” said Cornelia.

Cornelia told me that Elliott hung a painting of Chairman Mao by Li Shan above a sofa in reference to Elliott’s years spent in Hong Kong during Mao’s Cultural Revolution. Christopher remembers the north-facing room painted in flame orange that served as her work space. Art by top flight artists such as William de Kooning and Picasso hung throughout the space alongside photos taken by Elliott and other family mementos, they recalled. Elliott’s beloved collection of batik was also sprinkled everywhere. Later in life she donated some 700 pieces of her antique textiles to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art, and they became the subject of yet another museum exhibition.

Christmas Eve with the Elliotts

Cornelia and Christopher’s favorite memories were of Inger Elliott’s parties, where she often amassed a coterie of New York’s political and cultural elite, especially her legendary Christmas Eve. party. For years, the Foss family didn’t miss it and joined the likes of former Ambassador Richard Holbrooke, Morley Safer and the playwright John Guare.

Cornelia’s husband, Lukas Foss, a classical music composer, concert pianist and conductor of the Brooklyn and Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestras, would sit down at the Elliotts’ grand piano to play Handel’s Messiah from memory, often sparking an impromptu sing-along among the other guests.

Every year, the highlight of the holiday evening came after dinner when the lights were dimmed, so the guests could experience a traditional Scandinavian Christmas custom. Cornelia recalled that her friend was very proud of her heritage. A parade of young girls entered the dining room to process among the guests, singing a hymn to Saint Lucia. They were dressed all in white, each with a glowing evergreen wreath alight with candles on their heads. Cornelia said it was a magnificent homage to Elliott’s childhood roots, and marveled how none of the young “angels” ever suffered a burn from the real candles. But somehow nothing untoward ever happened.

Six Degrees

When Christopher and I watched the movie Six Degrees of Separation last weekend, he said the socialite played by Stockard Channing, supposedly inspired by Inger Elliott, was nothing like the actual person, who was far more nuanced, independent and innovative. Apparently, the film’s set is a bit closer to the truth. Like Elliott’s home, the film’s apartment is boldly colored, packed with world class art and showed the same view of the Central Park resevoir that Christopher recalled seeing from Elliott’s real apartment windows.

The real story of the scam has been endlessly covered in the media, so have a google if you want all the details. In short, one evening a 19 year-old man telephoned the Elliotts’ apartment asking for help, claiming he was a friend of Inger Elliott’s daughter and the son of Sidney Poitier. He said he had been mugged in Central Park so he was without money or identification and needed a place to sleep. After meeting the teenager, the Elliotts let him spend the night in their home, giving him some clothes and $50. They tried but failed to reach Inger’s daughter for verification (before cell phones, it was harder to track your kids down). When they found the teenager in bed the next morning with another man, they kicked him out of the apartment. Eventually they told the story to their longtime friend John Guare and six years later he wrote the play. Inger Elliott said in her D2 profile that she “hated” that they were involved.

Who can blame her? Although Guare’s play on social connections is now lodged in our cultural zeitgeist, the strange, incident seems to have dogged Elliott’s life ever since it occurred. Instead of watching the movie, I would have much rather been a “plus one” at one of those Christmas parties, and met the creative force myself.

Bon voyage,

Lynn

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Post Scriptum

• Substack is changing rapidly. Read this to keep up with the times.

• Deeply disturbed by this book and wondering what other historians think of it.

• Try this for dinner, if you want a new way with chicken that you can prepare mostly in advance and pop in the oven for a full meal. Just add salad.

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Hello! Emerald City is a newsletter for everyone who likes to decorate. Welcome to my column “The Aesthetic Template,” where I provide a visual guide to a certain design style or trend relating to one of my posts. You loved the first edition, so I came back for round two.

If you think there is no place like home, then you’re in the right place. Please subscribe. My newsletter is free for now, but paid subscriptions (at half the usual Substack rate) are available for those who choose to support my work. I am grateful for all my readers.

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There is no getting around it. The barn aesthetic depends heavily on architecture. You can’t conjure extra high ceilings, super-sized windows and exposed beams with simple decorating. But, and that is a big but, anyone can achieve the rustic/luxe combination often associated with barn living for their decor, no matter their home’s architectural style. Check out the work by designer Lauren Liess if the look appeals to you. She excels at it no matter …

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Hello and welcome! Emerald City is a newsletter for everyone who dreams about living in the country at least part time, loves a good rustic/luxe decor and sometimes thinks a slower life sounds great. Please subscribe. My newsletter is free for now, but paid subscriptions (at half the usual Substack rate) are available for those who choose to support my work. I am grateful for all my readers.

Subscribe now

Owning the barn in the first place was almost an accident. Laura Heeger was casually perusing the real estate pages to assuage her dream of someday having a place in the country. She and her husband weren’t actively in the market when a listing for a barn from the late 1800s converted to a home caught her eye. In addition to the barn conversion, the property came with an un-renovated carriage house and attached greenhouse from the same era, adding to the overall appeal. Visions of a country compound she could call her own began to dance in her hea…

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