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En Plein Air

As the weather segues from the harsh chill of winter towards the warmth of summer I find myself eager to be outdoors - carrying my coffee into the spring sunshine like a moth to a flame. Now that the blossom has scattered, the vivid green buds and small bursts of leaves on the plum tree outside the kitchen window are beckoning and promising shade. A congregation of wax eyes flutter amongst the branches, joyfully announcing spring. The Burgundian iron table beneath the plum tree has sat abandoned throughout winter, its skeletal legs like tendrils cutting through the icy cold air to the frigid ground -  forlorn and redundant, apart from providing a launching pad for our “ 8 o’clock possum ”. The possum lands with a sonic thud on our roof every evening, precisely at 8 o’clock and embarks on several laps of the roof, at speed; his weighty furriness causing an otherworldly commotion as he skitters and slides across the corrugated iron with an infectious, marsupial joie de vivre. The table has changed hue over the past months as a gossamer thin layer of moss crept over the surface through the frost and rain, like a chameleon it is now blending beautifully with the acanthus backdrop - a festival of garden green.  

The sun is now arriving earlier and I have been enjoying breakfast en plein air whenever possible, nestled in my favourite chair next to the herb garden I sip my tea and crunch my toast with the spiky leaves of the potted lemon threatening to scratch or impale me. In order to benefit from maximum morning sun the chair has been positioned far too close to the lemon tree - why I have never shifted the lemon I have no idea, it has been this way for years, perhaps there is something invigorating about starting the day in sun drenched combat with a citrus tree.

While outdoor breakfast has thus far been successful, dining beneath the plum tree has not yet eventuated. During the winter we arrange the settee to face the fire which sadly barricades the French doors leading to the terrace under the tree. At the moment, the journey to the table whilst holding plates of food with the pepper grinder clenched firmly under one arm and wine glasses dangling precariously from various fingers involves a circuitous route past my drawing table in the back room to the other French doors where a challenging obstacle course awaits. You are forced to manoeuvre your way through inconveniently placed plant pots with the garden hose weaving across your path like a comatose serpent, the broken grate from a blocked drain lies in wait as you turn the corner of the house and prepare to stumble as the ragged edge of the concrete turns into mown tufts of twitch which we optimistically think of as a lawn. Finally you reach the table, as you sit on the weathered cafe chair there is the tell tale creak of yet another wooden slat giving way and you realise that you have forgotten the salt. The weather, the food or both need to be particularly spectacular to induce you to undertake this interseasonal pilgrimage.

Every year we enjoy the ritual of rearranging the living room to create what Simon describes, tongue in cheek, as our indoor outdoor flow. Somehow heaving the settee out of the way, turning the coffee table around and throwing open those doors for the first time definitively heralds the advent of summer. We will cheerily put on some summery bossa nova to set the scene and march in and out of the doors demonstrating the aforementioned “ flow “. We grab whatever is dinner that evening and resolutely eat outdoors. The upbeat, South American tunes dance through the air, the large leafed greenery adds an imagined Brazilian vibe to our southern hemisphere patio and the possum is too afraid to approach the table. We are filled with the laissez faire buoyancy of dining outdoors and blithely pretend that perhaps this summer, the easterly wind might magically fail to arrive.

Now is that time - it is time for us to move the furniture and clean the winter weathered table. It is time to think about the garden, to dream up new areas to accommodate garden tables, to strategically place a garden bench in a favourite sunny spot - time to plan and furnish the garden ready for an entire summer of dining and gathering outdoors.

We have a great selection of French antique outdoor furniture at Haunt - each piece redolent with the fine French art of dining en plein air.

 

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antique garden furniture

A Quiet Place

As this petty pace creeps from day to day - it does so with much commotion and chaos, especially in a city. Life is loud and hectic and can be overwhelming.

 

Quite recently we visited the city of Melbourne. Our accommodation was a small, sunny studio in South Yarra. Evergreen trees stretched skyward past our 2nd floor balcony and exotic birds chirped and flitted amongst the branches. We were delighted by the dappled morning light filtering through the leafy vista onto our breakfast table … and then the roadworks began. Abruptly our mornings of toast and tranquility were replaced by bone shaking heavy machinery, the screech of drilling, and the shouting of workers. The howling strains of a Viking Metal anthem emanated from one of the dust coated, tool filled vans adding to the general cacophony and suddenly leaving the apartment felt like stepping into Valhalla rather than a gentrified Melburnian morning. Each day we navigated the mayhem and picked our way along the dug up road laced with trenches and safety cones, buoyed by the promise of espresso and propelled by the need to escape the noise. Soon we reached the bustle of Toorak Road where trams screeched past with an almost dental whine cutting through the incessant thrum of cars. We finally arrived at our chosen coffee destination, a symphony of conversation bounced off the polished concrete floors while the coffee machine wheezed and clattered and the obscured vocals of a modish, shoe gaze artist ricocheted between the pot plants and the walls. I sat very still and sipped my coffee in a misguided attempt to compose myself with caffeine.

 

On Saturday morning, after visiting a surprisingly quiet music shop on an errand for my son we entered the fray of the South Melbourne Market. The noise and abundance were astonishing - like an enormous Jackson Pollock painting of culinary stimulation that your brain is tasked to disentangle whilst being urgently distracted by a rising sense of hunger and the irrational desire to buy and taste everything. We bought French Comté cheese and interesting seeded crackers, we sampled oysters from Sydney and tasted fig gelato. It was delicious and exhausting.

 

 After the market we took the tram to St Kilda and a moment of whimsy found me standing in line for the ghost train at Luna Park. I had never been on a ghost train and I liked the idea of righting a childhood wrong where many years ago, my one and only attempt at riding the ghost train had been unfairly thwarted by a disciplinary father. A revenge ride so many decades later seemed to make perfect psychological sense. The wait was long and the ride was short - the little carriage plummeted through the darkness, clanged around corners, dodged scuttling rats and levitating skeletons and shuddered its way back out into the daylight, all in a matter of minutes. As I sat there, gripping the cold steely rail in front of me, listening to the metallic shriek of the rails, feeling the vertigo of speed in the dark and the spirit whipped wind blow through my hair it occurred to me that the ghost train was perhaps an analogy of daily life. That in fact, I felt like this most days. Hurtling through each day towards the future requires some grit and tenacity. Life is fast and unpredictable, it is noisy, it can be frightening and also thrilling, we are sometimes left in the dark and often we would quite like to pull the emergency cord and slow the whole thing down.

 

But thankfully, unlike the ghost train, we are able to pause. I so often need to find a quiet place, somewhere calm to rest and restore. At home I have a chaise longue not dissimilar to the one featured here, a couple of hours on a sunday afternoon with a book, maybe some music or alone with my thoughts is the tonic I need to feel ready to reboard that train. I hope that this beautiful French, 19th century chaise longue may become somebody else’s treasured, quiet place. The necessary calm within the storm.

 

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chaise longue

Counter Argument

When I imagine the perfect kitchen it has nothing to do with a vast expanse of clinical melamine and self closing drawers. It is always a collage of all the simple, rustic kitchens that the best meals have appeared from over the years - the functional, time worn kitchens that exude warmth and hospitality, that reflect their owner’s authentic love of food and their delight in sharing their cooking with friends and family.

When I was a child, my stepfather who was born in India, would spend hours creating elaborate Indian feasts in our small, dark kitchen in Lyttelton. The view from the kitchen window was a towering cement retaining wall peppered with ambitious fern seedlings and criss crossed with glassy tracks from the enormous native slugs who would come out at night and embark on vertical journeys, like nocturnal cartographers tracing a map for others to follow.  Moths would gently pelt against the window panes covered in condensation from the busy stove as my stepdad fried chapatis, stirred dahl and baked curry.  Limes would have been left to dry for days on an upturned wooden boat on the lawn and the resulting chutney would simmer on the back element billowing sour, citrus steam. There was a simple, water stained wooden bench, some cupboards, a stove and a fridge - the workspace was narrow and challenging as it also served as a thoroughfare to the bathroom which was absurdly placed at one end of the kitchen. A parade of exotic and delicious dishes would appear like some sort of culinary alchemy from this humble kitchen - friends would gather, laughter would peel through the spice infused night and I learned unequivocally that great food is not dependent on a glossy kitchen island with a negative detail and a Zaha Hadid tap.  

Life has continued to provide countless examples of unforgettable meals produced by formidable cooks in modest surroundings. Every visit to Paris means catching up with some dear friends and an inimitable pizza night at their charming apartment. Channeling his Neapolitan heritage, our amazing friend disappears into their tiny, cupboard sized kitchen and a flurry of miraculous, inventive and delicious pizzas appear rivaling any exalted Italian contenders - the absolute highlight of every trip. Sadly this treasured pizza ritual was curtailed by Covid last time so we are already looking forward to the next time - no pressure you know who ...

Paris involves many rituals it seems as you get older, visiting cherished places to enjoy them once more or simply to check that they are still in existence - our last trip was no exception. There is a particular little café where we have enjoyed countless first lunches in Paris - it became our routine.  Sadly, it had been quite some years since our last visit but we set off armed with nostalgia and optimism to rekindle our past. To our delight this small, unobtrusive cafe was still clinging to its corner in the Marais like a defiant limpet on a precarious rock, as the tide of time, epidemics and progress battered against its door it has somehow remained intact and unchanged. The same bespectacled gentleman greeted us from behind the zinc clad bar, his hair greyer now but suitably tousled in an Einstein caught in a mistral kind of way which worked perfectly with his buttoned blue waistcoat and the bottle of chilled Sancerre clasped in his hand. Our tartes aux poireaux et chèvre were cooked and delivered by the same elderly lady, surely too elderly to still be working - but here she was. As the kitchen door swung back and forth it revealed glimpses of the small kitchen preserved in 1940’s simplicity - functional, unadorned and thankfully still delivering the same seasonal and delectable menu du jour.

I am always spellbound whenever I find myself in front of a delicious meal created with sincerity in simple surroundings. Long may these honest and unassuming kitchen wonders continue as a charming and authentic alternative to the pervasive modern, homogenised dining experience.

When I imagine the perfect kitchen I see a beautiful wooden bench, patinated by years of use, sturdy wooden drawers, a marble surface perhaps, for pastry or hot plates and the charm of a past history, a story to tell. I imagine this wonderful early 20th century, English counter - functional and fabulous, the perfect centre piece for the enduring kitchen of a devoted cook.

 

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English Laboratory counter

Rustic And Royal

Indecision has always been a failing of mine. So often I can see the benefits or downfalls of multiple options when given a choice, I remain frozen in the flurry of complexity and grey areas, completely unable to make a firm decision. The final act of making the decision can feel more like the toss of a coin rather than a deliberate preference as I am forced to choose from the depths of overwhelm with crowds of competing and viable possibilities. Preparing this newsletter was one of those moments and I have decided to trial a novel solution and use both options.

Perhaps a choice is often influenced by mood rather than a singular abiding conviction. I find that I am drawn to both rusticity and refinement when choosing pieces for Haunt and home. Some days I am completely charmed by the primitive, honest lines and craft of a rustic table or chair, the simplicity, imperfection and natural warmth of the wood somehow adding up to a curious and comforting perfection - a lesson in sublimity lying in simplicity.  At other times my head will be turned and my imagination ignited by the exquisite detailing, luxury materials and exemplary workmanship of a prestige piece.  It’s magnificence reminds us of the hours spent and the remarkable skill employed to create such a piece - it’s existence and safe passage through time is a tribute to the astonishing splendour and creativity of human endeavour and expresses our collective yearning for beauty.

I am reminded of the Hameau de la Reine at Versailles, Marie Antoinette’s rustic, pastoral retreat where she wore simple clothes, tended animals and entertained close friends - a treasured refuge from her gilt encrusted and responsibility laden existence at the palace of Versailles. Even a queen it seems, can wake up in a velvet draped, feather plumped bed with the morning sunlight dancing on the gilded mirrors, delicate boiserie and rosewood commodes surrounded by courtiers ready to tend to her every whim and know that she needs an antidote - the scrunch of mud, the bleat of a sheep, the simple, grubby earthiness of it all that reassures us that we are indeed alive.

I am sure that I will spend my life oscillating between both rustic and refined, finding an idiosyncratic way of combining the two - like the Yin and Yang of interiors, two very different styles but together they form an aesthetic harmony which satisfies the dichotomy inherent in my own predilection. A conflict that I suspect, is not that uncommon.
So, I choose not to choose and I have featured both an elegant French, bureau plat and a humble housekeeper’s cupboard.

This beautiful desk exhibits formidable 19th century workmanship - the desk sits lightly on Louis 15 style serpentine legs, it is finished in ebony veneer and decorated with excellent quality ormolu. The desk top is inlaid with original tooled leather in a jewel like aquamarine colouring and there is a secret drawer in which to hide one’s billets doux. Working at this desk you would be constantly reminded of the lofty ideals of the past which would perhaps gently influence any contemporary project or pursuit.

The provenance of the 19th century housekeeper’s cupboard is in Lyon. It came from a school where it was used by the housekeeper - his or her timetable is still pinned to an inside door. The terracotta painted finish provides a superb palette to play with colour in a modern interior - the paint is time worn and charming.  Utilitarian, honest and beautiful - a wonderfully useable and decorative storage solution for a kitchen, dining room, studio or study.Indecision has always been a failing of mine. So often I can see the benefits or downfalls of multiple options when given a choice, I remain frozen in the flurry of complexity and grey areas, completely unable to make a firm decision. The final act of making the decision can feel more like the toss of a coin rather than a deliberate preference as I am forced to choose from the depths of overwhelm with crowds of competing and viable possibilities. Preparing this newsletter was one of those moments and I have decided to trial a novel solution and use both options.

Perhaps a choice is often influenced by mood rather than a singular abiding conviction. I find that I am drawn to both rusticity and refinement when choosing pieces for Haunt and home. Some days I am completely charmed by the primitive, honest lines and craft of a rustic table or chair, the simplicity, imperfection and natural warmth of the wood somehow adding up to a curious and comforting perfection - a lesson in sublimity lying in simplicity.  At other times my head will be turned and my imagination ignited by the exquisite detailing, luxury materials and exemplary workmanship of a prestige piece.  It’s magnificence reminds us of the hours spent and the remarkable skill employed to create such a piece - it’s existence and safe passage through time is a tribute to the astonishing splendour and creativity of human endeavour and expresses our collective yearning for beauty.

I am reminded of the Hameau de la Reine at Versailles, Marie Antoinette’s rustic, pastoral retreat where she wore simple clothes, tended animals and entertained close friends - a treasured refuge from her gilt encrusted and responsibility laden existence at the palace of Versailles. Even a queen it seems, can wake up in a velvet draped, feather plumped bed with the morning sunlight dancing on the gilded mirrors, delicate boiserie and rosewood commodes surrounded by courtiers ready to tend to her every whim and know that she needs an antidote - the scrunch of mud, the bleat of a sheep, the simple, grubby earthiness of it all that reassures us that we are indeed alive.

I am sure that I will spend my life oscillating between both rustic and refined, finding an idiosyncratic way of combining the two - like the Yin and Yang of interiors, two very different styles but together they form an aesthetic harmony which satisfies the dichotomy inherent in my own predilection. A conflict that I suspect, is not that uncommon.
So, I choose not to choose and I have featured both an elegant French, bureau plat and a humble housekeeper’s cupboard.

This beautiful desk exhibits formidable 19th century workmanship - the desk sits lightly on Louis 15 style serpentine legs, it is finished in ebony veneer and decorated with excellent quality ormolu. The desk top is inlaid with original tooled leather in a jewel like aquamarine colouring and there is a secret drawer in which to hide one’s billets doux. Working at this desk you would be constantly reminded of the lofty ideals of the past which would perhaps gently influence any contemporary project or pursuit.

The provenance of the 19th century housekeeper’s cupboard is in Lyon. It came from a school where it was used by the housekeeper - his or her timetable is still pinned to an inside door. The terracotta painted finish provides a superb palette to play with colour in a modern interior - the paint is time worn and charming.  Utilitarian, honest and beautiful - a wonderfully useable and decorative storage solution for a kitchen, dining room, studio or study.

To read the full version of the newsletter Rustic And Royal please follow this link https://mailchi.mp/7a5f8ce07a7d/rustic-and-royal

French bureau plat

A Summer Palette

The week started in a sweltering way, the sun ferocious in the blue sky above us, the evenings warm, tranquil and long but all of a sudden summer was cancelled - the temperature fell and the rain plummeted. Today I am sitting at work watching a cluster of soggy and bedraggled pigeons huddle on the roof opposite as a nimble and chilly breeze seeps through the louvered windows and prompts me to reach for the heat pump controller. My heart sinks as I am reminded that winter is just around the corner.

As the warm days slip away into the archive of summers past they bring to mind joyful memories of other summers lived and loved. When I think of summer, I think of Provence, and in particular a succession of heavenly days spent at the most exquisite chambre d’hôte - Villa St Louis. This rambling stone house occupied a corner on the outer fringes of a village in the Luberon. The discreet entrance was a small wooden door which led directly onto the cobbled street. Once inside, you were ushered by a narrow and tenebrous hallway either upstairs towards a rabbit warren of charming rooms or onward through a vaulted stone cellar to the expansive, walled garden hidden on the other side of the house. Yellow and green was the palette of the perfect summer - the exterior of the house was coated with a crumbling, ochre plaster finish which glowed in the provencale sun as the towering plane trees cast cooling shadows across the lawn and scattered garden chairs encouraged reading and dreaming. Breakfast was served on a vine clad balcony as cicadas began to thrum in the morning warmth.

Our gracious and inimitable hostess, Bernadette, was summer personified - a dynamo of a woman d’un certain age, armed with a bicycle, a small car and a zest for life. She welcomed us, she welcomed gatherings of friends, she sped on her bicycle around the village sprinkling joie de vivre and jumped in her little car to drive an hour to the beach when the mood took her - she inspired and awed me and to this day is the blueprint of the older woman I hope to become.

She spoke often of her adored and departed husband who had been a formidable interior designer of the 1960’s and had filled her house and life with beauty. He had wallpapered walls and ceilings in a medley of patterned papers, scoured antique markets for armoires, chests of drawers, charming side tables and adorable lamps. He had strewn rugs upon the scuffed tomette floors and hung the walls with 18th and 19th century prints and paintings. His improbable partner in achieving the consummate decoration of these rooms was time. As the decades passed they gently honed the wooden surfaces, delicately faded the curtains and upholstery and the rugs became worn with use. Every single item in the house felt as if it was placed exactly where it was meant to be and I always imagined that this enchanting interior would remain eerily preserved, immune to the destructive influences of the modern world.

Villa St Louis was my touchstone, we visited year after year - it reassured me that the inner world that I inhabit can and does exist. Years have passed without visiting France and a quick search on the internet the other night informed us that Villa St Louis is now permanently closed. The news enveloped me like a rainy day and a sadness set in that I am still struggling to shift.

This delightful wrought iron settee reminds me of those provencale summers, resplendent in yellow and green, decorative and uplifting - the perfect summery accent for any home.

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A Book, A Daybed And A Cup Of Coffee

The harsh chill of winter has abruptly arrived. At home the thin sunlight is cruelly rationed by the Lyttelton hills and the now glacial garden does not beckon like it did a few months ago. The frosted shadows linger during these short hibernal days and the bitter wind ushers me indoors where I wander the house with a book in my hand searching for a serendipitous patch of sunshine or the most comfortable chair closest to the fire. Matariki weekend provided the perfect excuse to while away a few hours - cosy and warm and cradled by the velvet cushions on our settee I turned the pages of my book as the skeletal branches of the birch tree cross hatched the steel grey sky.

Finding the perfect reading spot is quite a critical pursuit - the right amount of dappled light, appropriate comfort and temperature, attractive surroundings and risk of interruption all need to be carefully considered and just occasionally all the elements fall into place and we find ourselves in an indulgent bookish bliss.

Our visits to Europe have inevitably involved visiting many English stately manors and French châteaux and I have always noticed with envy the abundant, seemingly perfect reading spots that grace such homes - an exquisite daybed placed perhaps in the bay window of a paneled Renaissance bedroom or a forgotten corner of a resplendent living room with a view across the landscaped park to the woods beyond. These beautiful and covetable daybeds were designed with the specific intention to rest and read and are always positioned in the most magnificent settings - finding the perfect spot to read was perhaps a little less challenging for the nobility of the past.

As I arrange the deconstructed, 19th century, French daybed to be photographed and pile the Victor Hugo books at its side I am aware that I am endeavouring to create yet another perfect spot to read. The afternoon sun will be round soon yet it is chilly, I pause to make a cup of coffee to warm me as I work and a memory imbued with coffee and daybeds crosses my mind - a long ago visit to the beautiful Château de Grignan in the Drôme.

It was autumn and the beginnings of an ice laden Mistral drove us into a small, dimly lit cafe as we walked through the town of Grignan towards the château. Inside the café the pervasive scent of coffee was tinged with a curious pungent smell, woody and dank like the smell of history. As we sat on the deep red, time worn banquettes clasping our steaming coffee and waiting for the warmth to seep through and restore some feeling to our fingers we noticed an elderly man seated at a table next to us with an intriguing sack-like bundle tied up with string. After a short while he was joined by a younger, rugged looking man in dungarees and the bundle was untied revealing a haphazard pile of large and dusty truffles, densely black like nuggets of coal. The musty odour intensified and a small set of brass scales emerged, we watched entranced as the ritual of the truffle transaction proceeded.

The château loomed at the top of the hill partly shrouded in cloud, we arrived after an arctic ascent and wandered the Renaissance interiors through parquet hallways and across cold flagstone floors leading at times into more intimate, beautifully furnished rooms. This imposing château was once the residence of the Comtesse de Grignan, Francoise Marguerite de Sévigné - the daughter of the infamous Madame de Sévigné. Madame Sévigné missed her daughter acutely when she relocated to Grignan and wrote a voluminous amount of letters to her recounting her day to day life in Paris. There are some 1700 surviving letters which remain a valuable archive of 17th century quotidian Parisian life. Scattered throughout the château there were so many beautiful settings just perfect for reading - silk covered bergères and tapestry settees, a daybed strategically positioned before a clear lead light window with an expansive view of the forested Drôme  - the autumnal leaves like a fiery and ephemeral carpet covering the valley below. For the duration of the visit I envisaged the Comtesse de Grignan seated or reclining in myriad rooms leisurely reading the prolific letters from her Maman while the ferocious and unrelenting Mistral whipped around the stone turrets outside.

Our featured daybed was, I am sure, someone’s favourite spot to read in 19th century France and would now be the perfect place to read in a modern interior.  A book, a daybed and a cup of coffee  - the ingredients for the most perfect afternoon.

 

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Daybed and empire dressing table

Against The Grain

How abruptly this summer seems to have ended - I am watching an assembly of grey, rain dense clouds hasten towards me from the southern end of the harbour, the ominous wind that precedes them is chill and clearly announces the advent of Autumn. The lazy, sun baked days of summer are now a distant memory although it is merely a handful of weeks separating then and now. This year, for some reason, I have returned from our indulgent West Coast summer retreat unable to shake the sand from my hair and the feeling of the beach beneath my feet. The administrative urgency of regular life is taking a while to register and a summer induced sloth-ness has accompanied my return to work.

Our little cottage is nestled a few meters from the high tide line, the waves of the Tasman sea break, at times with some ferocity, on the stone strewn beach which is tenuously screened by a barricade of flax. The incessant roar of the sea is the familiar soundtrack to our summer holiday. There is a short pathway which leads down the side of the dilapidated garage beneath the large and incongruous flowering cherry tree. Pohutukawa seedlings defiantly spring up along the sides of the path and there is a cluster of trees, defoliated by the saline onslaught of too many storms, whose bare branches form an intricate and decorative entrance way to the beach.

The beach stretches for kilometres in either direction - excluding the need to navigate the odd river mouth you could walk for hours. Hefty volcanic rocks are scattered here and there along the shore, mussels cling to their surface like an exotic robe and seals bask on one of the largest rocks enjoying their own private lido.  We have a couple of tatty wooden chairs perched precariously amongst the rocks, strategically shaded by the flax. Summer is spent shuffling between the house and the beach with a book, coffee or glass of wine in hand, and on a serendipitous day we will watch a pod of Hector’s dolphins leap through the sparkling waves.

The doors of the cottage stay open from morning to night, the cicadas roar and the gulls squeal. An amiable weka brazenly wanders through the house stealing the cat’s food and the odd morsel from the compost bucket. The clattery scratch of his feet on the floorboards announce his arrival as he goes about his business undeterred by our presence. When it rains you can smell the muskiness of the bush, it is always warm, we eat outdoors, I don’t wear shoes. The candles attract moths and time relaxes.   

Still steeped in the earthiness of a perfect summer I am finding myself drawn to the more rustic pieces in the showroom - simple furniture celebrating the innate beauty of wood. This exceptional English armoire is made from fiddleback oak - it dates to the Arts and Crafts period and it so beautifully illustrates the back to basics ethos of the movement which sprang into being as a reaction to the mechanised production of the industrial revolution. Arts and Crafts decoration is attractive yet sparse and often drawn from Celtic patterns or designs from the Middle Ages. Natural timbers are celebrated and the furniture is hand crafted. This lovely armoire has a later bespoke fitted interior which only adds to its fundamental charm.
The pair of early 20th century oak armchairs have a distinctly Brutalist feel with warmly patinated wood, a beautiful grain and luxe velvet cushions - rustic yet chic.
The beautiful Murano glass pendant lights are handblown in biomorphic forms and add that final touch of organic glamour.

 

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Arts and Crafts armoire

The Tables Are Turned

With Christmas fast approaching and much talk of how many will be at Christmas dinner, the pivotal importance of the humble dining table has suddenly become paramount if not somewhat urgent.

As I sat down to write I realised that I still own nearly every dining table that has accompanied my adult life. I wasn’t particularly aware that I was hoarding tables but evidently I seem to be unable to part with them - each feeling like an irreplaceable reliquary of memories.

In a recent reorganisation of the warehouse I unearthed the little round French, pear wood table that spent a year in the sun filled front window of a long ago Paris apartment. The table was privy to the elaborate lunches I created from produce gleaned from the market in the street below - the many salades de chèvre chaud and my first attempt at an authentic Provençale daube. There were desserts of fresh lychees - we would pour them straight from the paper bag and they would fall across the table top like coral coloured sea urchins. It was at this table that I would sit to write long letters home while my heart ached for New Zealand and the cacophony of Paris continued below.

In another dark corner of the warehouse lurks the large turned leg table with the nifty, high tech, Victorian device of a table top that flips and transforms into a modest billiards table. It is as heavy as a monolith and has been moved several times over the years by a team of heroic furniture movers, notably into and out of a much larger home with a not insignificant flight of stairs. The table hosted large and festive Christmas dinners, unruly children’s parties with pirate cakes and dinosaur biscuits and provided much late night entertainment in the form of billiards tournaments lasting into the early hours of the morning when tiredness rather than defeat would end the game. Now the table patiently waits for another home spacious enough to accommodate it and represents my persistent belief that we will reside in a larger house some day, meanwhile it quietly guards the memories of those wonderful years.

The dining table from my first home is a table from a French convent. The table has a painted faux grain finish on the top and chipped cream paint is peeling from the legs - there are four drawers along each side and there are pretty French names scrawled in pencil inside several of the drawers. The legs are too short, we never got around to lengthening them and there is a handle missing. The table now lies upside down like a forlorn cast animal with its feet in the air on top of the monumental Victorian table. I still remember the thrill of excitement when we found this wonderful table - the original paint, it’s provenance, the stories it could tell ! Our stories have been added to those it already held and it now waits in limbo for a time when it will gather some more.

A table is not just a table - it is an extraordinary thing. It anchors a home, bears witness to your life and is spectacularly useful on Christmas Day.

 

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The Tables Are Turned

A Wistful Memory

The months go by and memories of being in France are receding at an alarming rate into the nebulous mists of time. Covid continues its global decimation and extinguishes any hope that we may recover the joyful access to unfettered travel that we once took for granted. With a personal sensibility very much aligned with all things European I am struggling to find the acceptance required to navigate this newly diminished world and I find myself grieving for my once peripatetic past. It is a grief tempered by gratefulness for being in a place of relative safety for now but an acute sense of loss all the same.

I am tormented by an almost crushing nostalgia for Europe and disruptive thoughts of lace-curtained cafés and flying buttresses are unsettling me day and night. I have been immersing myself in local moments of “French-ness”  like a Gallic junkie needing a fix. I watch French movies lest I forget how to speak French, Saturday night galettes have become a staple at home and a recent glass of Côte de Rhone accompanied by a pungent époisses cheese at a small inner city bar was verging on transcendent.  A gorgeous friend has recently gifted me an iris-blue bound 1950’s travel guide to the South of France. This charming book sits next to my bed and I leaf through it folding out the little maps and like a virtual flâneur I wander blissfully around Arles or Aix En Provence and duck into a Romanesque church or Hôtel de Ville via the accompanying descriptions - the perfect dalliance before I go to sleep.

A wistful memory of a winter visit to an 18th century château near Chartres interrupted me the other day as I sat in the showroom deciding what to photograph. The interior of the château was only marginally warmer than the icy walk from the car park, the frosted gravel crunched beneath our feet and our breath billowed into the chilled air like the special effects from Swan Lake. Through the hazy windows of the lofty hallway skeletal forests stood like sentries and the late afternoon sunlight scattered across the parquet floors. Like so many of these anterooms, the specific purpose of the oak clad hallway was not conspicuous but it functioned perfectly as a showcase for a diverse collection of exquisite antique furniture. The dwindling sunlight illuminated the furniture lining the walls and appeared to momentarily animate the history inherent in each piece as we walked the length of the hall passing through centuries.

Work beckoned and I turned my attention to the task at hand and dragged the Dutch Regency commode into position, the floor boards creaked under its weight and the serpentine shaping and lion’s paw feet reminded me of a similar commode in that château hallway. The pair of festively painted Italian side chairs beautifully channelled the 18th century albeit with a Venetian twist and the 19th century Louis 16th style mirror completed the picture. The crisp Christchurch air was glacial and the view finder on my camera misted over with my breath. The low afternoon sunlight stole into the far corner of the showroom and a wandering thought quietly announced that perhaps the distance between here and that enchanting château in Northern France was not quite as far as I thought.

 

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Dutch Regency commode

The Neoclassical Interior

A rare sun baked Christchurch afternoon and I am sitting watching the crowd of seed heads in our prairie like back yard toss and turn in the warm wind that feels disconcertingly artificial as if it has emanated from a meteorological heat pump rather than the icy blue Pacific sky. The potted white pansies are wilting trying to escape the heat and an assertive cactus has stretched its prickled tendrils wide and is sun bathing with impunity and delight.

The uncustomary warmth has kindled memories of past summers and days spent under a similarly scorching sun. A trip to Pompeii springs to mind - we walked for hours in the unrelenting heat, the dry dust clinging to our perspiring yet desiccated bodies and my feet rubbed raw by the new sandals that I had foolishly worn for the expedition. Pompeii is vast and demands commitment particularly in the midst of an Italian summer. It was hot, ridiculously uncomfortable and overwhelmingly moving. We wandered through streets where once vendors sold fast food and the deep ruts worn by chariot wheels were still visible in the ancient flag stones. We ducked into stone houses to find shade and found exquisite frescoes remarkably intact on walls, we stood in living rooms where families had gathered for lunch as Vesuvius erupted and shrouded the city and its people in ash. This rare and intimate communion with lives lived and lost so long ago abruptly dissolved the veil of centuries and this once distant tragedy was suddenly eerily present - the fear and grief quite palpable on that 21st century afternoon.

Sadly this week in New Zealand, we have marked the anniversary of the tragic loss of life on Whakaari. This volcanic disaster was painfully close to home and its memory will be carried tenderly forward in time - a sadness woven into our collective history.

Pompeii was rediscovered in the 18th century by an unsuspecting surveyor and the Western world was suddenly abuzz with a renewed interest in the art and culture of classical antiquity. A generation of art students were similarly moved by visiting Pompeii on their Grand Tours and returned home filled with Greco - Roman ideals. The furore surrounding Pompeii helped to spawn the Neo Classical movement which swept through Europe coinciding with the Age of Enlightenment. The enduring classical qualities of simplicity and symmetry were a timely antidote to the excesses of the Rococo style.
Robert Adam the inimitable Scottish architect, interior designer and furniture designer left to study the art and architecture of classical antiquity on the continent soon after the discovery of Pompeii, he was heavily influenced by the discoveries there and his work superbly exemplifies the Neoclassical style.

The exquisite hand painted sideboard that we have featured this month is very much in the style of Robert Adam and although the sideboard was crafted more than a century later it superbly exhibits the elegance and timelessness of Neoclassicism. A decorative and eternally stylish piece of furniture that I am sure Robert Adam would happily have placed in one of his interiors and would equally grace a modern home.

Neoclassical sideboard

Keeping Things Simple

I am sitting watching the greyness of the clouds billow and melt above the the neighbouring building as I eat a very late lunch after a shamefully inefficient morning - diversions and daydreams, my familiar nemesis.  I have cobbled together a salad of sorts and have solemnly sworn to be more productive this afternoon. I have found my favourite pottery plate and as the glossy green leaves settle onto the deep earthen brown of the glaze I am conscious of how fulfilled this simple plate makes me feel. The plate used to belong to Simon’s parents - it is steeped in the warmth of years spent in a family home and resonates with a very specific domestic history. It is round, flat rimmed and gently speckled like the iris of an eye. It makes a velvety sound as you place it on the table - it doesn’t clatter and the cutlery doesn’t scrape. It is crafted and honest. It is a simple thing and yet so much more.

I find I am increasingly drawn to simplicity and the Arts and Crafts dresser that we have featured this month resonates with a charming modest aesthetic. The Arts and Crafts movement emerged as a reaction to the industrial revolution and harked back to traditional craftsmanship and folk style in an attempt to counteract the mass produced uniformity that was emerging at the time. In our modern world factories continue to churn out throw away fodder and the Arts and Crafts sentiment feels equally relevant today. Resistance to consumerism has become even more imperative as we face the ominous threat of global warming and find the need to foster an interior aesthetic that is pleasing yet sustainable.

This hand crafted dresser is humble, tactile, warm and beautiful - it is sublime in its simplicity

arts and crafts dresser

A Room Of One's Own

Sitting alone at my desk, with the morning mist creeping across the harbour obscuring the familiar view which normally inspires daydreams and encourages procrastination, I am urged to turn to the blank page in front of me and begin to gather some words to accompany this newsletter. I am, like so many others now, working a lot from home. Whilst our home has always been our sanctuary it has become more than ever a cherished refuge. With the enduring threat of Covid in our world the current focus on the home workspace feels appropriate and understandable.
Working from home has long been my favoured modus operandi - to be alone with my thoughts in a space that is personal and makes me feel whole. When my surroundings reflect the peculiarities of my aesthetic self I find I can relax, create, write and draw - there is flow and things get done. I can even log in to the dreaded Xero and do stuff with numbers (only if I have to) but in beautiful surroundings even the most arduous of chores are softened.
The quirks and ornamental details of peoples workspaces are fascinating - Proust would write recumbent in his bed surrounded by cork lined walls to muffle sound and mitigate the allergic effect of dust. Ernest Hemingway preferred to keep a notebook in his pocket and write in cafes surrounded by the hiss of a coffee machine and the bustle of life. Virginia Wolf however, declared in her celebrated essay that "in order to write a woman must have a room of her own". I have spent a lifetime imagining Virginia Wolf’s “room of her own”, this enchanting idea of a private space in which to work or create has motivated much desk arranging and picture hanging - I have always endeavoured to create such a space for myself.
It occurs to me that this exquisitely painted, undeniably feminine Venetian desk would beautify any home office or grace a discerning and uncommon room of one’s own.

Venetian desk

Reconnecting With Home

A tranquil Autumn day and time glides past unfettered, gently like a stream meandering towards a non specific destination. I stand at the kitchen window and watch a pair of fantails flit about in the plum tree like a pair of choreographed avian geisha, their fans darting here and there amongst the leaves. I watch them for a long while, transfixed and grateful to have this day opening up before me with no agenda and no pressing tasks. The coffee machine is warming on the bench behind me and the novel I am reading is waiting perched on the arm of the daybed as the late morning sunshine tracks between the lofty poplars, through the French doors and falls serendipitously where I am intending to sit. Yet another lockdown morning continues to pass in slow motion. It is unusual this luxury of time, it is indeed an unusual time.

It took a while to acclimatise to the rhythm of lockdown and to learn to not dwell too deeply on the global threat of this heinous virus that has driven us all into isolation. Some days have seemed clouded with horrific reports from tragically overwhelmed hospitals in cities that are offshore but close, places we know well - the grief is palpable. Too often an avalanche of statistics would befuddle my already anxious mind and I would try to firmly lead my thoughts away from this viral nightmare that is Covid 19. Eventually I quelled the anxiety and disbelief a little and allowed myself to enjoy this hugely unexpected hiatus from the fray of our usual life. As time slowed I began to notice the beauty in my home and local environment - beauty which is abundant and an uplifting antidote to the current climate of fear and uncertainty.

Reconnecting with home has been the unexpected silver lining to the discipline of self isolation. Now that the daily commotion of normal life is stilled I find myself with the time to appreciate the minutiae of our home. I have had time to pull out the hoard of cookbooks that have sat for decades in the bookcase waiting for the proverbial rainy day, I have read childhood diaries and laughed and cried and contacted sisters to compare memories, I finally cleaned the crowd of antique glass bottles and jars that have sat gathering a velveteen coating of dust on the bathroom table for innumerable months. I have cleaned many treasured objects and each item I touch invokes a recollection of where it was acquired - I have spent hours revisiting my past gently chronicled by possessions. I have rearranged, reexamined and reassessed and feel thoroughly connected to this jumbled, idiosyncratic, non minimalist haven that is our home.

All this interior focused energy is perhaps a peculiar kind of home mindfulness, a rare chance to pause, to truly be in the home environment and to find and feel the poignant meaning behind a lifetime of collecting and culling. The objects that we choose to surround ourselves with paint the unique story of our lives and candidly reflect our soul.

If you are anything like me all this scrutiny will have illuminated a little room for improvement or at least seeded the mood for a few changes. I have bookmarked the page in an issue of The World Of Interiors with a photograph of THE perfect shade of Georgian brown velvet to reupholster our wretched and ragged settee knowing full well that finding something similar will be like finding the Rosetta Stone and that our settee will likely remain threadbare for years to come. I have added the odd lamp and a painted chinoiserie corner cupboard to my wish list and contemplated relegating another chair or two to the hallway to enhance a potential chair vacancy in the living room. However, what is not up for debate, is the permanency of my beloved daybed. The last couple of weeks have galvanised my love for this inanimate four legged friend having spent an extravagant amount of time, reading, sketching, day dreaming and watching Netflix reclined in stylish and outrageous comfort. I am envisaging that this exquisite daybed will carry me off incrementally into old age like some allegorical yet cosy vessel disappearing into the mists of time.

Just before we went into lockdown we added an exceptional 19th century, Italian Empire daybed to the Haunt showroom. This lovely daybed has arrived from the early 19th century in uncommon original condition - it is authentic, graceful and truly a thing of beauty. The daybed is stripped back to a calico covering awaiting a fabric of your choice.

We look forward to welcoming you all back to Haunt again when the time comes but in the meantime stay safe and well and enjoy the sanctuary of your home.

Italian Empire Daybed

A Rustic Christmas

The ubiquitous Canterbury norwester is blowing with fury this afternoon, I have closed the large wooden doors upstairs here at work as they were banging and thrashing with an ominous intensity that was more than a little unsettling. It is stifling hot and the air inside is now still and close, claustrophobic like a tomb. I glance out the window and see the swallows who have been nesting in the porch below clinging defiantly to the power lines as the wind whips around them. Their wings are pointed like the tips of a star and flashes of blue and red are visible as their feathers ruffle and they take flight. Their beauty interrupts the grim concrete backdrop of the buildings that surround us and it occurs to me that the swallows are like early Christmas decorations - a flutter of festivity in a mundane world.
A memory of a glacial Christmas spent in Paris crosses my mind, perhaps to counteract this unbearable heat or simply a welcome visit from the ghost of a Christmas past. When I think of that Christmas I remember the cold - the stark, bone cracking chill of the exhaust laden air as we walked around Paris. On Christmas morning we walked from our apartment in the 18th arrondissement through the quiet streets to Montmartre, ducking into the odd cafe that remained open along the way for a coffee and some much needed warmth. We arrived at Montmartre and found the carousel at the bottom of the steps still operating, the brightly coloured horses spinning around and the fairground music percolating out into the abandoned streetscape, somewhat muffled by the cold. It seemed like the perfect Christmas activity to ride this normally crowded carousel alone. We chose our horses and climbed aboard, our hands stinging as we clasped the cold metal rods and we whirled around with the tears streaming from our eyes forming icy trails down our cheeks. The windows of the old apartment building across the street would reveal a glimpse of a Christmas scene with each rotation like a living nativity calendar. Christmas tree lights were glowing in the depths of shady interiors and people were preparing or eating lunch, their window panes obscured by the condensation of heat and activity. We kept walking to stay warm and continued on past the spectacular Christmas windows at Galeries Lafayette, the delicate layer of ice on the pavement crunching delicately under our feet like caramelised sugar.
The day ended with an impeccable dinner at Boffinger. The comforting clatter of cutlery on plates and hum of conversation greeted us as we entered, brass gleamed and the elaborate Belle Epoque sky light sparkled. A gaggle of white shirted waiters surrounded us like a snow flurry, we were seated and proceeded to enjoy our Christmas dinner par excellence with the precious memories of our perfect Christmas Day continuing to embed in our psyches as the day unfolded.
Most Christmases since have been much less of a fairytale, often unremarkable or cobbled together in haste but always joyful nonetheless. I think some of the charm of Christmas is allowing yourself to revisit that unfettered childhood wonder - it wasn’t really necessary to understand the nuts and bolts of Christmas when were children it was only relevant that it was a day unlike any other for whatever reason and it was simply magic. We didn’t need everything to be perfect, the decorations didn’t need to be exceptional, there was no need for excess - Christmas Day was just not like yesterday, it was a shift in perspective - the magic was in the air. As an adult the magic of Christmas is at times elusive depending on circumstance but I have found that if you allow yourself to tap into the Christmas mood, Christmas is a day when even the most ordinary can seem festive.
This rustic 19th century Scandinavian table and set of Ercol dining chairs celebrate the beauty of a simple Christmas - the perfect setting for a day of fun, frivolity and festivity.

A Rustic Christmas

Barely There

Sitting down to write and contemplating the striking pair of portraits we have recently hung in the showroom at Haunt I am reminded of a visit to Knole house long ago during a year spent in Sussex. I was very keen to visit Knole given that it was the family home of Vita Sackville West - I had been reading voraciously about the Bloomsbury group at the time and was enamoured with the writing of Virginia Woolf and fascinated by her entanglement with Vita. Another long standing fascination of mine is the Knole settee and Knole house is of course, the home of this definitive settee - the original, circa 1660, is on display there housed in a glass box with its original faded red silk velvet upholstery and passementerie miraculously still intact.
I remember crunching over fallen acorns as we made our way from the carpark to the imposing stone structure that is Knole. Knole sits heavily upon the earth - bearing the weight of six centuries of history it endures as a valuable touchstone to the past. The interior is a treasure trove and I was unexpectedly spellbound by the Brown gallery with its astonishing collection of 16th and 17th century portraits. Through the creak and musky scent of English oak a long row of muted Renaissance chairs emerged from the almost crepuscular light, arranged along the wall like an improbable waiting room. A crowd of exquisite portraits lined the panelled walls - an immutable audience from the past quietly observing the present. I moved slowly and self consciously through the gallery and imagined these lives lived so long ago, the intricacies and circumstance long forgotten but the very fact of their existence archived eternally.
Over the following years I have visited countless historic and civic buildings populated by a host of portraits. Painterly eyes follow you as you ascend staircases and wander shadowy hallways - like gilt framed ghosts these individuals from the past continue to inhabit the buildings where they once lived, worked or visited. You get the sense that if you could string them together like a supernatural stop motion animation you could perhaps bring history to life.
The desire to have our existence witnessed and recorded is, I imagine, a touching attempt to preserve our identity and sense of self beyond the confines of mortality. Whilst portraiture was traditionally the domain of the privileged, today “ the selfie“ fulfils a similar yearning in a less refined but more egalitarian spirit I suppose - expressing the hope that our existence might have some small impact that is more far reaching than the frustrating brevity of our allocated life span.
A sense of self can be a confusing and fragile thing and it is helpful if it is reinforced by others. Jean Paul Sartre described the existential gaze - the gaze of others being a device that defines and proves our existence albeit making us feel uncomfortable. A portrait is this significant gaze transferred to canvas and an antique portrait is effectively a decorative and skilfully executed “ kilroy was here ” from the past.
This charming pair of portraits date from 1902 and dignify the existence of an anonymous husband and wife. Graphically pleasing and supremely atmospheric these portraits would grace the walls of any modern interior.
While I am exploring a philosophical theme yet not having previously thought about furniture as being remotely phenomenological, I can’t help but notice the amusing similarity between this elegant pair of 1940’s lucite consoles and Schrodinger’s cat. The consoles are translucent, visually they scarcely occupy any space yet the lucite reflects light and shadow defines their shape. They are sophisticated and beautiful and like the aforementioned and celebrated cat they are both there and not there at all.

 

 

 

 

Italian lucite console tables

Green With Envy

For as long as I can remember I have been mysteriously drawn to all things green. I remember purchasing my first bicycle and the overwhelming flush of excitement being more about the fact that it happened to be the perfect shade of green rather than having the bicycle itself - the serendipitous colour somehow made my happiness complete. I have spent my professional life either buying or trying to restrain myself from buying antique pieces that are painted or upholstered in an irresistible green. Like a moth to a flame I will be drawn to anything green at an antique fair which proves to be somewhat of a distraction from the job at hand - a peculiar addiction perhaps, but as the French say, c’est plus fort que moi.
 Long ago during a year spent in Paris, we would often spend an afternoon browsing the antique dealers on the left bank - mostly admiring shop windows filled with idiosyncratically curated displays. Quirky 18th century pieces would be paired with taxidermy, Venetian chandeliers, a hint of gilt and perhaps some tribal art. We would marvel at the fact that in Paris there were actually customers who would purchase such extraordinary eccentricities and imagine one day being the proprietors of a similar retail wunderkammer, defiantly ignoring the challenges of our home market in order to entertain the dream.
At the corner of Rue Jacob and Rue Bonaparte was a boutique with its facade painted a deep and funereal black. The shop was never open and the windows were partially obscured but through the brittle curtains we could make out an ethereal wonderland of antiques arranged as if it were somebody’s home. Neoclassical pieces were mixed with ebonised Napoleon III furniture and tasseled ottomans. Intricate wicker Victorian chairs and tables were scattered throughout as if plucked from a jardin d’hiver. In the depths of the rooms small corridors led to mysterious destinations and long extinguished lamps sat patiently in shadowy corners. The palette of the interior was predominantly black, powder blue and garden green and I was entirely captivated.
This was of course the gallery owned by the legendary Parisian interior designer / antique dealer Madeleine Castaing. We stumbled across the boutique at what must have been the end of her life and it remained in a peculiar kind of suspended animation for a long while giving the privileged passerby a last glimpse of her world - her unique and exquisite style precariously frozen in time.
That initial discovery of her charming boutique led to an unerring admiration and fascination for the work of Madeleine Castaing. She was a diva of design and an inimitable antique dealer.
Her style was classically based with a current of irreverence and whimsy. She would pair museum quality antiques with amusing flea market finds and even plastic flowers - “ sometimes you need a bit of bad taste “ she would declare. She was inspired by French 19th century novelists such as Proust and Balzac and endeavoured to create rooms that felt lived in and authentic. She understood the perfection in imperfection and was known to turn the vacuum cleaner on reverse and spray freshly painted walls with a fine coating of dust. Ignoring conventional taste at the time she relied on her own eye to combine unexpected antique pieces and create a singular and modern style.
This latest setting at Haunt indulges my own love for the colour green and is in a small way an homage to Madeleine Castaing. A nod to classical antiquity, the pairing of black and green and a hint of jardin d’hiver - I am sure that she would approve.

Empire Strikes Back

Napoleon Bonaparte reportedly stated that he simply found the crown of France in the gutter and picked it up … I wonder whether he also found his honed aesthetic sensibilities and appreciation for classical beauty in the same gutter. Possibly to recognise the crown of France abandoned in a gutter you need to possess an exceptionally good eye. Napoleon, despite his megalomania and war mongering did in fact display an admirable liberal spirit and inimitable good taste.
The French Empire style referenced the ancient Roman republic and was intended to idealise Napoleon’s leadership and the French state. It is formal, assertive and sumptuous. It adheres to classical ideals of form, beauty and harmony and is just as resonant in our modern world as it was in early 19th century France.
One of the loveliest functioning period Empire interiors that I have visited is the Brasserie Deux Garçons on the Cours Mirabeau in Aix en Provence.
This unassuming brasserie is nestled amongst the usual pharmacies, shoe shops and gaudy modern takeaway joints. Miraculously the period Empire boiseries and mirrored glass walls of this divine interior remain intact. You sit in the bustling cafe surrounded by crisp white table cloths and the delicate green gold sheen of the painted and gilt walls. Corinthian capitals and caryatids populate your peripheral vision and your steaming demitasse of black coffee feels like a dark and esoteric potion that has mysteriously transported you back in time - two hundred years disappear with every sip. The waiters are suitably surly according the respect this establishment deserves and you feel privileged to be dining amid such uncommon beauty. The dream is cruelly interrupted however, by a visit to the bathrooms which are disappointingly but inevitably modern and once I attempted an exploration of the bar upstairs which looked like it had been renovated by a couple of cyber decorators suggesting all things futuristic with sparkly finishes and plastic wood. Their modern vision felt more like a tawdry 1980’s late night dive masquerading as avant-garde and should not exist in the same hemisphere as Les Deux Garçons, let alone right above and attached to it. To this day it is one of the things I wish I had never seen. Hopefully Les Deux Garçons downstairs has an iron clad restraining order on any well intentioned, modernising decorators and it will remain blissfully intact for decades to come.
I suspect that much of Napoleon’s success came from introducing some formality and order to a bewildered and chaotic post revolutionary France. His Napoleonic code still influences the French legal system and those further afield even today. The flux and demands of modern life often leave us feeling overwhelmed and there is something very reassuring about walking into a formal interior where the decor feels beautiful, confident yet tranquil and the abiding classical elegance of centuries surrounds you. You draw a breath, the mind settles and you are able to navigate your day.

This 19th century French Empire buffet is an exquisite example of the Empire style, mahogany with a deep emerald marble top, columns and ormolu mounts. Swans were the favoured motif of the Empress Josephine and here they are crafted into elegant handles. The interior of the buffet is fully lined in a green taffeta.
The gorgeous pair of armchairs are Italian Empire, late 19th century with original paint, ormolu mounts and are unexpectedly comfortable.
The Empire sconces date from the mid 20th century, carved wood and gilded metal - they are more Hollywood glamour than period Empire, a decorative and stylish accent.
The portrait of a gentleman dates from the early 19th century and is Empire period.

Empire strikes back

The Line Of Beauty

Hidden at the end of an extraordinarily long avenue of plane trees on the outskirts of St Rémy, there is an 18th century château that has functioned as a hotel since the 1950’s. We were lucky enough to stumble across this sublime establishment many years ago and have repeatedly stayed there whenever possible.
The long approach to the château provides ample opportunity to contemplate the beauty of the gracious 18th century facade. We usually arrive at the end of the day and the shuttered windows are bathed in the late afternoon Provençale light as if the entire building has been lit for a private and mysterious theatre production. The stone balustrades throw serpentine shadows across the terrace and glacial white swans float nonchalantly on the canal that leads out across the park. The setting is verdant and history abounds. The crunch of gravel announces our arrival as we park in front of the stables and hurriedly unpack our luggage, eager to settle in to our favourite room once again.
The absolute charm of this hotel lies in the haphazard way in which it is run. The service is casual to say the least and maintenance has merely been a vague idea deferred to some time in the unknowable future. The result of this very fortuitous laissez faire is a château which has remained in absolutely original condition save a few rudimentary 1950’s plumbing additions to provide basic ensuites for the bedrooms. The terracotta tiles move under our feet as we ascend the curving staircase to reach the bedrooms.The painted shutters are faded and open with a familiar creak as we let light into the room. The soft yellows and greens of the wall colours were applied in the 19th century I suspect but are entirely correct and beautifully weathered. The gloomy hallway outside our door leads to a spacious and once opulent sitting room where a large 19th century billiard table lurks in a corner like a four legged beast. The furniture is sparse and worn but a delightful mix of different styles and periods -  flotsam and jetsam discarded by time.
An early evening ritual upon arriving is a walk through the rambling and similarly unkempt gardens to the centuries old stone pool where enormous and prehistoric looking carp break the surface of the black water and disappear again into the mossy and murky depths. An uninhabited dove cote leans into the undergrowth beyond the bamboo and a wild and thorny rose has nearly engulfed the park bench where we always sit.
Several years ago we arrived at this treasured haven to find that it had been sold, redecorated and ruined. The knowledge that the indefinable beauty of this remarkable place had been disfigured by modernisation and an over enthusiastic decorator with chintz cushions, fresh paint and brightly coloured plant pots was heart breaking. Although we no longer physically visit this adored château I am very grateful to be able to visit the memories of it as it once was, dishevelled but unequivocally beautiful - an eternal beauty somehow captured by the perfect imperfection.
This beautiful 19th century Louis 15 style console struck me in a similar way when I stumbled across it in an antique shop full of glittering gilt and polished chandeliers. It stood alone against a white wall with spellbinding restrained elegance. The graceful lines of the Louis 15 legs are poised and beautiful yet it is unassuming at the same time with its humble painted finish and wooden top. The paint is peeling in places exposing the wonderful carving beneath and the few marks on the wooden marquetry surface tell its story. Nobody has tried to refresh the paint or replace its top - its integrity is intact. It is simple, authentic and utterly beautiful.

Outrageous Fortune

I have been stealthily guarding this astonishing armoire for several years now and have imagined it nonchalantly lurking at the back of our future kitchen in all it’s Baroque splendour - solving our kitchen storage issues with incomparable beauty and grace. It has taken me a long while to even consider parting with “the pantry” but the time has come and as we assembled this beautiful piece in the Haunt showroom I found myself contemplating the extraordinary good luck that led to it’s discovery.
It was late autumn in France the day we bought the pantry. I remember waiting before the gates of the antique fair in the early morning, the frosted air was thick with cigarette smoke, diesel fumes and anticipation. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other trying to maintain some feeling in my toes. Finally the gates opened and the global throng of dealers entered like a tsunami - streams of antique dealers heading towards the various hangar sized buildings where the antiques are displayed. This is the moment of chance - that split second choice of direction which leads to a lucky find or not and the ability to purchase it before another dealer gets there first.
That particular day Simon and I had agreed to initially go in separate directions to cover more ground with a rendezvous arranged at the central café in an hour’s time in the hope that there would still be some pain aux raisins left at 8.30am to accompany a much needed coffee. It was nearly time to head back to our meeting after my first lap of the fair and I could see the crowds building around the café. Like a formula one pit stop, the dealers shift gear, pull in and lean on the bar to drink their coffee and swallow a pastry before heading back out into the fray - always moving quickly, eyes darting back and forth scouring for treasure. I ignored my gnawing stomach and the beckoning aroma of coffee and decided to check the most distant building before I returned to meet Simon.   
In the shadows at the very back of this last building I glimpsed some heavenly serpentine paintwork. I assumed that whatever this beautiful object was it had already been sold but I wandered over to satisfy my curiosity and addiction to beauty. The alluring painted doors belonged to a majestic late 17th century, Venetian garde manger and I stood in wonderment as the ghosts of a Baroque Italian kitchen populated my imagination. Hazy figures scurrying back and forth, climbing ladders to reach the serving vessels from the highest shelves - I could hear the clatter of porcelain plates, the tinkle of ethereal Venetian glass and detect the savoury scent of roasted pheasant accented, perhaps, with peaches.
 I was transfixed, transported and very quickly transacted - to my surprise, this astonishing cupboard was not yet sold. I wallowed in the pleasant sensation of having been blessed by such outrageous good fortune and simultaneously felt a little overwhelmed by the responsibility of such a purchase … shouldn’t this be in a museum ?
The success of each and every buying trip we make ultimately relies on chance and every antique fair we visit is another roll of the dice. The purchase of this sublime cupboard was an unexpected stroke of good luck that I could happily accommodate for a lifetime.

17th century painted Venetian armoire

Gothic Beauty

I have often imagined what it might be like to lead a cloistered life and find myself quietly attracted to the idea. Secluded and tranquil days spent amongst beautiful buildings and abundant gardens with time for contemplation and a comforting sense of purpose - it seems like the perfect existence. I am however, devoid of any such vocation and have over the years satisfied my yearning for an ascetic life by visiting numerous cathedrals, churches, abbeys and monasteries in order to soak up the atmosphere, admire the architecture and to reassure myself that somewhere in the world there are indeed spaces that feel eternally calm.  

Gothic architecture illustrates the wonder of human endeavour and aspiration. The style arose from the reverent desire of the faithful to have their churches and cathedrals reach further and further towards the heavens and it relied on it’s ribbed vaults, flying buttresses and pointed arches to provide the required engineering to defy the inconvenience of gravity and steer these soaring edifices close to Paradise. The pointed arches, bent with such load bearing grace remain one of the most practical and beautiful architectural motifs in existence.

One of my earliest memories of the beauty of Gothic architecture is a visit to the seminal cathedral of St Denis on a winter’s day sometime in my now distant youth. St Denis was built in 1144 and is the first cathedral to display all the elements of the Gothic style. A metallic ride on the Paris metro delivered us to the suburb of St Denis beyond the périphérique, tenement blocks towered in the background and graffitied walls led us in the direction of the famed cathedral. Inside there was silence and the air was aqueous, cold and redolent with the scent of history. The celebrated rose windows transformed the grey, urban light of modern day St Denis into an eerie radiance  - an alchemic refraction of light that obscured the screeching of the world beyond and encouraged peacefulness. Time stood still and so did I with the kings and queens of France buried beneath my feet.

At a similar time my partner and I discovered the Romanesque abbey of Fontevraud during a meandering trip through the Loire. It was late in the afternoon but the kindly and solitary elderly woman selling tickets let us enter. We heaved open a weighty wooden door and wandered alone amongst cloisters draped with ivy and flagstones carpeted with moss. The gardens were overgrown, a tangle of vegetation guarding secrets. The thick stone walls bore the patina of centuries and the shadows whispered psalms - the devotion of the monks who inhabited this enchanting place was palpable. I had naively assumed the serenity of Fontevraud would remain inviolable but sadly a more recent visit revealed the abbey to be an over restored, heavily touristed and wholly antiseptic shell of it’s former self. The hallowed charm of Fontevraud had proven no match for the modern plague of progress.

There is a crusade of zealous restoration happening in France at the moment and numerous historic buildings and monuments are unfortunately being relieved of their soul - the gentle traces of history that provided the magic have been irreversibly scrubbed clean. The intent is noble and the preservation of the buildings is paramount, but it is heart wrenching to witness the loss of character which will undoubtedly allow the architecture to endure. It is now a rare thing to encounter an interior that is unspoilt, where you feel transported and enfolded by the past - when they are found they must be cherished and committed to memory before they are gone.

My latest obsession at Haunt is a pair of elegant Gothic mirrors that are crafted from early 19th century window frames salvaged from an abbey in Moissac. Undoubtedly victims of insensitive restoration these exquisite architectural elements have thankfully found another application. The mirrors may be purchased singly - the perfect Gothic feature to add timeless monastic beauty to your home.

Gothic Beauty

Console Yourself

 I can remember no examples of resplendent gilt-wood consoles from my New Zealand childhood - the decorative console is not a fundamental ingredient of the kiwi furnishing vernacular it seems. I imagine it was considered superfluous and ostentatious somehow and simply didn’t gel with the egalitarian grit that commonly pervaded the colonial home. It wasn’t until I traveled to Europe in my youth that I was introduced to the elegance of the console table.
Trying eagerly to absorb European culture by osmosis my partner and I visited numerous stately homes and noble residences where I was enthralled by the glamour and beauty of the ubiquitous console table. The shadowy recesses of an English manor unveiled an exquisite Robert Adam console, abandoned by history as throngs of tourists filed past failing to notice it’s magnificence. I was transfixed. The royal apartments of French chateaux revealed an astonishing procession of consoles, waiting patiently against the walls as the centuries seeped by, the corners sometimes scuffed and the gilt slightly chipped as the everyday movements of generations left their mark and the swags of rose-red satin ropes that forbade proximity to these precious tables prevented us from doing the same. The late 17th century and 18th century were the glory days of the console and every notable interior was furnished abundantly with these fabulous tables - their role was decorative and they were the hallmark of affluence, good taste and social standing.
The console exists in many different styles ranging from the lavish scrolls and foliate carving of the baroque to the minimal aesthetic of modernism and it is not exclusively the domain of affluent households. The purity of a simple wooden console or side table is as dignified as the furniture of kings. The rustic console is functional - it exists as a place to store or display things and was often created to address spacial limitations. A 19th century wooden side table would hold serving platters when space was tight and the dining table too small. A rugged oak console might be the receptacle for game birds after a hunt or hold prayer books in the vestibule of a monastery. The console is not purely decorative but is in fact very useful.
Today the console table is just as much at home in a modern interior as it was in the parquet floored enfilade of an 18th century palace and modern life has a knack of making every console functional which is a pleasing adaptation. One of my best loved consoles is a grand, 19th century console in the baroque style, possibly of Italian provenance, with an enchanting original painted finish - faded storm blue and dusty like the wings of a moth. The fluid lines of the marble follow the shape of the base like the foam tinged edges of a wave arriving on the beach and the exuberant flourishes of the carving echo the sweeping gestures of a conductor in front of a symphony orchestra. The console should be on a stage but it is in the busy and breezy living room of our favourite chambre d’hôte in the Luberon. It is the room you walk through to access the stone terrace shaded by plane trees where breakfast is waiting. It is on this table that you leave the key to your room. A laptop casually balances on a pile of magazines at one end and it is crammed with books, office ephemera and family photographs. It sits modestly there in all it’s unassuming glory, it is well used and it feels just right.

Italian Empire Console Table

Enduring style - The English Country Home

This morning I could hear the wind making the house creak before I opened my eyes and large droplets of rain were tapping against the windowpane like morse code for stay in bed. I retrieved my laptop from the kitchen, made a cup of tea and quickly scurried back under the covers for an extra half hour of warmth. With my feline secretary by my side I checked my emails, glanced at the world news and inevitably yet tentatively opened Instagram.
Internet platforms such as Instagram provide us with a visual avalanche of covetable interiors. An inexorable parade of the homes of others which appear so much more appealing and inspired than our own. Every day a new image catches your eye and prompts you to spend the next 24 hours reimagining your own house decorated in a similar style. You spend the day ruminating on the perfect shade of emerald green for the tiles that will transform your small south facing bathroom into that plant and light filled Rajasthani bathhouse that you saw on Instagram at breakfast and the following morning the next great decorating idea arrives on your screen.
Whilst this digital river of images is exciting and inspiring I find it equally unsettling and discouraging - I often feel that I am drowning in a raging current of aesthetic flux. Increasingly I am finding myself drawn to the classical and enduring styles of the past - tried and true interiors that do not fall in and out of vogue but remain relevant because they address and satisfy the essential human needs of everyday life without losing sight of beauty.
The English country home is a great example of an interior style that is just as relevant today as it was in the past. It is a style crafted by the passage of centuries and influenced by man’s relationship to the farmland and forests surrounding him. Large Chinese export porcelain lamps brighten the gloom of the living room, the fringed yellow silk cushions strewn across the feather filled settee scream Colefax and Fowler, the oak of the time worn Chippendale dresser glows in the soft light and the collection of family photographs is displayed higgledy piggledy on the Georgian loo table in the corner. Muddied wellingtons sit in a line by the front door and damp dogs are warming themselves beside the fire.
The style of the English country home blends grandeur with rusticity and speaks of a continuum of lives lived over generations, it taps into a domesticity that feels eternal and creates a home that is familiar, nurturing and meaningful. It suggests a permanence that is dependable which the capricious and fleeting nature of contemporary fashion does not.
This beautiful, turn of the century Chippendale style dresser epitomises the timeless chic of the English Country home.

English Chippendale style dresser

An Arrangement Of Summer Greens

An arrangement of summer greens. This pretty table was once used in a florist shop in the Loire valley and must have looked gorgeous crowded with a colourful array of flowers and foliage. There are remnants of it's original grass green, painted finish on the front giving it a playful, decorative appeal. Fun and functional - it would make a characterful dining table and it looks equally stunning placed against a wall to display treasures and complement artwork.
The large and glorious opaque green glass bottles are a ubiquitous accessory at Haunt. They are wine or vinegar bottles dating from the 19th century. Their hand blown charm and idiosyncratic appeal make them an alluring accent for any interior. The painting is "stylist's own " I'm afraid.

Florist's table

The Holiday Is Over

Haunt will resume normal opening hours this Saturday February 10th, 11am - 4pm.
We were unable to open last week due to storm damage at our bach and we apologise for any inconvenience caused. 
Haunt will now be open every Saturday as usual from 11am - 4pm and by appointment during the week at a time to suit you. We look forward to seeing you soon.

The Holiday Is Over

Merry Christmas From Haunt

Wishing you a Merry Christmas, a relaxing and restorative summer break and a Happy New Year.

This coming Saturday is our last opening day before Christmas - Haunt will not be open Saturday 23 December and will be closed throughout January.

Thank you very much for your interest and support over the past year and we look forward to seeing you again at Haunt in 2018.

Lisa and Simon

 

Silent Night

Works On Paper

My favourite pastime has always been to draw and dream - to record beauty and capture thoughts with a pencil as I meander through life. I have recently been encouraged to make prints of my drawings.
The Brevity Series is a contemplation of the fleeting nature of beauty and is the beginning of what I hope to be an ever expanding selection of illustrative works.
Sublime beauty is exclusively found in a moment - it is not constant, it cannot be captured and held. Beauty is precious because of its finitude and there is a sense of perfection hidden somewhere in the simple fact that it ends.
A moment of beauty is a Vanitas of sorts - it reminds us that all is transient including our own lives and it prompts us to pause and appreciate the beauty in our world before it is gone.

The Brevity Series

Forest Dwelling

Spring appears to have winter firmly grafted to it this year - like a frosty hitchhiker who is refusing to end it’s journey. Occasionally we glimpse a brief taste of spring with a warm breeze and sunshine lifting our spirits for a day or two and then we are thrown back into the chill of a winter we would dearly love to see the back of.
I am sitting at home on a wind whipped day with shrouds of grey drizzle crawling up the harbour and a fire glowing and creaking in the wood burner next to me. I am watching the greyness engulf the grass green hills of Banks Peninsula and the wind sculpt the water into the jagged and leathery texture of parched clay - as if water was something solid rather than an hydrous and uncooperative liquid. The mirror opposite the table where I am working has a similarly ragged appearance as blackened veins of cracked silvering track their way from the edges of the glass towards the centre. A delicate process that has taken a century to achieve unlike a brazen southerly wind that can churn a harbour in moments.
Despite the cold, I know that it is spring because the window reflected in the mirror frames a cascade of fluttering blossom - as if a swarm of albino moths has alighted on the bowed branches of our plum tree. The absinthe green of new spring growth pushes it's way through the petals and the whole seasonal array graciously obscures the jaunty angles, aluminium joinery and the more orange than cream wall of the neighbouring house. What a beautiful backdrop is nature.
With the wintry weather inhibiting the full appreciation of spring’s beauty, I find myself on gloved and coat clad walks furtively snapping little twigs of blossom and other specimens of spring’s abundance to bring home and balance in the delicate vase on the bathroom windowsill or gather bouquet like in the glass jug on the dining table. This year I am needing to bring spring indoors.
 At Haunt we are continuing the theme of bringing nature indoors with armfuls of leaves and blossom being dragged through the showroom and crowded into containers - petals strewn across the floor like floral feathers. Last week we hung this glorious French tapestry on the back wall. It is an early 20th century copy of an 18th century “ verdure “ tapestry in the celebrated “ rustique “ style of Aubusson - once again nature provides a decorative and exquisite backdrop.
Let the weather do what it may - we now have flowers on the tables and an entire forest on the wall.
Spring has arrived.

The Colour Of Coffee

The dense cold of this winter has crept through every crack in our arthritic old house and seeped into my bones. It is the sort of cold that waits outside the door like an adversary demanding that you steel yourself as you intrepidly make your way to work. The mornings have been sharp with frost or shrouded in icy mist and the hills across the harbour often tinged with snow. We have had rain that has arrived like a stampede - it has swollen rivers and flooded houses. The days have been leaden, the winds bitter and the cold infinite.
This winter has reminded me of a winter spent in Paris many years ago. The cold is familiar - cold that is as incisive as a surgeon’s knife, raw and pervasive. I remember days spent walking Paris streets like an arctic flâneur. Every coat I owned was worn at once, my hands were gloved and as many layers of socks that would fit inside my boots were protecting my feet, my long scarf wound snugly around my neck like a thermal boa constrictor and still it was cold.
The beauty of Paris beckoned beyond the dusky chill and we would set off undeterred on our museum encrusted excursions. Like any explorer we had a survival strategy. When the cold became unbearable, usually when we could no longer feel our noses and the only sensation reaching our brains from our feet was pain, we would deviate towards a café. A radiant heater located discreetly above the door would brush us with warmth as we entered. It would take a moment for our eyes to adjust to the caramel light and the rich and roasted smell of coffee would rehabilitate us immediately. We would find a leathery corner exuding warmth and wait for our coffees or chocolat chauds to arrive. The brass rimmed tables would be filled with like minded others sheltering from the cold, bulky coats stuffed under chairs like sleeping pets and hands clasped eagerly around steaming cups and bowls. The interior was timeless and the atmosphere was hospitable and history tinged - I would imagine writers and poets of years gone by escaping their frozen garrets to find refuge in a local café. A place of warmth to write and sketch, to eat, drink and philosophise - a haven in the harsh world of winter.
The latest addition to the showroom at Haunt is this lovely late 19th century counter. The original painted finish is the colour of coffee and crackled like a crocodile. It feels as if it could have been plucked from a small corner café in Paris or from the pages of a Hemingway memoir. This charming counter would be a distinctive and characterful addition to any kitchen, cafe or store.

French café counter

La Toilette

The bathroom is a nurturing space and every detail is reassuringly familiar. The bathroom is where we arrange our hair, our face our clothes and our thoughts - it is the green room to the theatre of each day.
There is an element of ritual to our daily toilette and the washstand is a domestic altar of sorts. It bears witness to our intimate moments. As we pause for reflection in front of the mirror it frames our reveries, hopes and dreams.
The washstand should be beautiful - we should feel uplifted each morning as the gentle sunlight washes across the timeless marble and we reach for the comforting shroud of a fresh white towel. It is adorned with treasured objects - a favourite perfume nestles on the shelf and when the crystal stopper is removed the heady scent permeates the bathroom like an olfactory genie. The washstand is not only functional but it is also capable of soothing and reviving with it’s tranquil charm.
The latest addition to the Haunt showroom is this alluring French, Belle Epoque washstand. It dates from the late 19th century and hails from the South of France.
The raw glamour of this washstand has a distinctly Ralph Lauren quality to it. It makes me think of rustic yet luxurious weekends of perfection tucked away somewhere amongst rustling Monterey pines with a cherished partner, an exceptional Zinfandel and a view of a lake. It equally brings to mind those exquisite, intimate and velvety pastels by Degas capturing women bathing, alone with their thoughts and depicted in subtle hues - this washstand would not be out of place in such a setting.
Images of beauty and contentment inevitably spring to mind - this would be the perfect washstand to begin the perfect day.

Belle Epoque washstand

Nothing's Perfect

We thought we had our summer hours organised but now due to a change of circumstances Haunt will be closed for the last two Saturdays in January.
Haunt will be open again usual hours from Saturday 4th February.
We apologise for any inconvenience but please be in touch if you have any enquiries in the meantime.
[email protected]    021 328896

Nothing's Perfect

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