I. Nearly. Died.

"You're staring again," said the Celt. "I am," I said, "but it's all right - I'm too old to be visible." If I was staring it was inadvertent because actually I was listening to a young man, sitting at the counter of a New York coffee shop where coffee beans flew through tubes across the ceiling down to machines and baristas supplying inexplicably baroque concoctions of coffee, who was talking, futilely, it seemed to me, to his companion who was busy watching another man at the other end of the counter who, in his turn was watching .... well, you get the idea. But what had caught my ear was the phrase "the rise of the novel" - not a phrase one expects to hear early on a Saturday morning anywhere.

Used as I am to being met with dismay and bewilderment when I suggest to students that they might pick up a book and read, I settled in, cup in hand, eyes safely averted in the direction of the famous-but-whose-name-escapes-me person walking his dog, for what I hoped was going to be an interesting few minutes. Well, it wasn't, but the speaker's voice having that rising inflection that makes all sentences sound like a question, kept me eavesdropping a few minutes longer until he really grabbed my attention by stating very dramatically "I. Nearly. Died."At which point the Celt, fixing me with a don't-dare-argue stare, said "We. Need. To leave."

We meandered on through streets virtually empty - so unexpected for Manhattan - until we climbed the steps to the High Line and realized it was no wonder the streets were empty, everyone was here and they were walking in clots very, very slowly along the pathway taking in all the wonders than a camera phone can bring.

Later, we sat for a while, that weekend after Thanksgiving, in the sunshine on a stone bench in Washington Square, talking about our plans for our winter vacation and how near our departure was; about how neither of us wanted to shop in the city, except perhaps, for curiosity's sake, a visit to the new Uniqlo on Fifth Avenue (for me, because of its crowds and noise, hell on earth); about where we would eat lunch; about how we hadn't any real interest in visiting museums ... just talking.

I mentioned an article I'd read in the Design and Decorating section of the Wall Street Journal, entitled 10 Odd, Yet Essential Elements of Style and it seemed to me nothing more than trite advice about a formula for decorating a house. Which of course it is, but after I'd gone through the list, the Celt asked me if I'd checked around our place recently to see how many of these odd yet essential elements we actually owned. "Nonsense", I said, poo-pooing the very idea. "When we're home again take a look," he said.

And here, dear reader, is what I observed. Ms Needleman's first essential is A little animal ... people like cute things and animals are cute - it is so nice to have a small creature in figurine form in your house. A funny stuffed animal on a nicely made bed, a white porcelain monkey ... Well, I'm not sure if a Meiji bronze crab counts, but if it does, then I guess check! But, I must say, neither of us likes cute (unless, that is, it sports six-pack abs).

Next up: Jollifiers ... sentimental things that spread a little joy every time you cast your eye upon them. Goodness, we have not just one, but one each. For the Celt, a framed Hermès scarf and for me a Delft tulpenpot, a souvenir of times in Amsterdam.

Third on Ms Needleman's list are Mollifiers, which she defines as ... the stuff that you allow into your home because awful as it may be, it makes someone else happy. We appear to have none of these. Of course, this may have something to do with the fact that almost all our relatives live on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean so there's little need to appease or to be prepared for the unexpected visit.

While an odd chair is useful, it is not used primarily for sitting. It is desirable primarily for its amusing demeanor, making it more like a piece of sculpture in the shape of a chair... We certainly have one of these, in the form of a flea-market 19th century French Modern chair we had recovered in a Timney Fowler silk we bought thirty years ago. We had never found a use for the fabric, with its sketchy drawings of the Three Graces, but eventually it revealed itself as the perfect complement for this dumpy little chair. And the fact that we bought this fabric on a whim without knowing quite how we were going to use it brings to mind another of Ms Needleman's pieces of advice: when love strikes, buy it. You can figure out what to do with it later.

An inordinate number of geometrically-cut Murano and sommerso glass bowls that send off all sorts of scintillations probably come under the heading of shiny object, and are certainly, as Ms Needleman describes .... completely useless items whose only purpose is to sit around looking attractive....  


Ethnic textiles are pretty scarce chez Blue, with the notable exception of a pair of pillows made from vintage Japanese kimono silk. Bought on Etsy on one of the numerous whims to which the Celt is subject. Thank the lord for return policies!

Not too much brown furniture ... too many brown pieces in a room is the surest way to suck the life of it. Ever seen a room and wondered why it looked like a hotel lobby? Brown! Not too much, just a smidgen, in each of our rooms - a dining table, a side table in the living room and bedside tables in the bedroom.

Decorative mirrors ... a big mirror over a fireplace or in a dining room can toss daylight around the room and multiply the light of a chandelier or the glimmer of candles set in its path. That, and it is a big beautiful object that can create the kind of drama that grounds a room. A highly functional decorative object if ever there was one. Yup, got two of those! One a large Venetian that indeed tosses light dramatically around the guest bathroom; the other a gilded, apparently Gustavian treasure that, amazingly, is in fact a gem from IKEA's all-too-short-lived series of reproductions of Swedish classics. We often ask first-time guests who admire it to guess its true provenance. No-one ever does.

Lacking a fireplace, as we do, might be considered a disadvantage for tenet number nine: log baskets. But as Ms Needleman points out, even if you have no use for split wood, you might still like the rugged texture of a big woven basket in your living room or front hall. It gives you something a little rough and adds a sense of depth to both sleek-modern and refined, antique-filled interiors. And in fact, a rather large log basket does duty in our household as a laundry basket.

The last essential is, apparently, some patina, of which our home has plenty. Indeed, the occupants alone provide a fair measure!

I started skeptically believing my own exquisite taste to be immune to the newspaper article's ten decorating clichés du jour. So imagine my surprise to discover we've committed completed nine out of the ten! Well, my dear, I. Nearly. Died.

Whoever died and wished they had less sex?

I wish I could say the title was mine, but I cannot. I merely extracted a phrase, perhaps one of the most thought-provoking ever to appear on my blog, from an email expressing distaste at Roderick Cameron's treatment in certain sections of the press. If I were writing a biography of Mr Cameron I probably would use the word Discreet in the title for discretion, discernment and consideration are quite clearly conspicuous qualities of both the man and his aesthetic. Later I shall quote more from that correspondence, which as I say expresses distaste at the treatment of a man the writer clearly liked and, perhaps more importantly, respected.

These photographs of Roderick Cameron's last work - he died shortly before it was finished - an apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side for Anne Cox Chambers, the erstwhile Ambassador to Belgium during the 1970s, and a neighbor of Roderick Cameron when he lived at Menerbes, speak for themselves and to the taste and connoisseurship of the man.

All, except for one screen, was chosen by Cameron and though my list is of necessity short, from it you can gauge the quality and variety of what he thought suitable for his client: a painting of Drummond Castle, apparently chosen by Cameron to set the tone for the room; a nineteenth-century French bronze greyhound to stand on the simple coffee table; a Tibetan crystal mask; Queen Anne stools with contemporary needlepoint, Chinoiserie paintings which apparently are Flemish interpretations of engravings made by a Jesuit priest in China; an eighteenth-century bergère; a Regency lacquer bench; a nineteenth-century English glass and lacquer cabinet; a painted Italian commode; an eighteenth-century Chinese silk rug too small for the room but laid over Cogolin raffia matting to give it scale; an Italian cartouche; an eighteenth-century Korean faience deer and an eighteenth-century English giltwood armchair.

"I am quite taken aback by what Taki said about Mr Cameron - not least because he was so very discreet. I was told by a niece before we took the job in France that he was homosexual, but had I not been told, although I might have wondered, I don't think I would have been absolutely sure. (Obviously, if you live in a house in close proximity with someone, you will eventually have some idea of what they are like, but I repeat: Mr Cameron was utterly discreet in his private affairs.) He was certainly not a pansy, and he was always the soul of rectitude when I knew him. Indeed, he had quite a bit to say about guests who did not observe the proprieties - he was most put out by unmarried guests sharing beds without having the foresight to rumple the sheets in both rooms, because as far as he was concerned, this was a breach of manners that would cause the staff embarrassment, as they would surely notice an unslept in bed when they came to do the rooms. (From the point of view of working in the house, I knew when we were expecting "normal" people - that is, the sort of people I was used to - because they were among the few who would share a bedroom. Even married people of Mr Cameron's circle would have a bedroom each, even if they were adjoining.)

"As for his mother being a "terrible snob", just who does this Taki think he is? I don't know anything of Taki's background, but I do know a little of Mr Cameron's mother, who after the death of Mr Cameron's father, married General Cavendish, to whom she was married for about fourteen years, then Lord Furness, and finally the Earl of Kenmare. She certainly lived amongst the aristocracy, and I can't think that she would have any need to "pretend to come from something she didn't come from." I have not thought of Mr Cameron and his circle for some time, but I did a little looking up - there is a picture of her here and here.

"So, a "terrible snob?" I think not. She may well have been naughty and had lots of lovers - I certainly don't know, and obviously it was not something that Mr Cameron would have talked of with his young "help," but if she did, so what? Who ever died and wished they'd had less sex?"

Photography by Karen Radkai for House and Garden's Best in Decoration, Editors of House and Garden, Conde Nast 1987.

Lunch at Fred's again

A Manhattan in Manhattan seemed to be the best way to kick off this
spur-of-the-moment trip. Flight predictably appalling but that's
fading now thanks to Maker's Mark, red vermouth and a very speedy
bartender.

MoMA Bonus

Went to MoMA this morning. The Celt very interested in Tim Burton exhibit, I less so because of crowds and excessive heat. Also took in the Bauhaus exhibition - none of it new, but a superb overview so interesting nonetheless.
This view turned out to be a bonus - seen it before, of course, but it still delighted. It's all there - 19th and 20th century architecture in one lovely vista.
Now in the Algonquin Hotel lobby which one feels is trading on its Round Table days of yesteryear. Manhattans not too bad though.