Anywhere I Lay My Head
Dreamy home inspiration for the nomad that I am.
As as kid, I read a piece on the late New York socialite, Nan Kemper and her fabulous Sunday night spaghetti dinners. I like to think that hosting all those people cross-legged on the floor of my apartment was a little hat tip to that. Small giddy-headed gatherings of the fashion press variety before Kinfolk and artisanal coffees became A Thing.
We’d take off our Prada heels and pull out some crazy vintage champagne someone had given us as a gift that week and eat pizza on the floor.
That life is slowly coming to an end. Soon, and I shudder at the thought – I may have to leave my Neverland and get a microwave and do all those grown up adult things like buy a dining table (it’s funny, this house is packed to the rafters with books and art, perfumes and essential oils, clothes, decorative tchotchkes – everything it seems but a microwave and dining table. It’s like the modern girl’s opium den, really. I literally lose myself for hours here on the weekends).
I don’t know what the future has in store but until then, all my shelter mags have been put aside because it’s torture to read them. Still, there is a spark and if I had to hazard a wish, I’d want something Joseph Dirand inspired. In love with his aesthetic.