diptyque

Wide-eyed and innocent I walked slap-bang into the middle of the London fashion scene that eventful January day in 1990. I had landed myself a plum job, had a rather dashing brand spanking new boyfriend to go with it, and would remain there (with the job) for more or less 7 years (the boyfriend has lasted longer, he's still here). How fantastic that felt, my own office, my own little department, even my own clothing allowance... oh baby, it couldn't get any better than that, surely? They were formative years, I was so young and impressionable and when anyone said "Jump!" I would reply without blinking "How high?". Never anything wrong with my work ethic, I can tell you (thank you, dad). So yes, fashion darling. The 90's, Katharine Hamnett - KH. She was a force of nature. She inspired me so much with her British, rather posh background and her solid as hell environmental beliefs (the first designer of them all to champion and fight for organic cotton and ban the use of PVC in her collections). The lady who in 1984 went to 10 Downing Street to meet Maggie Thatcher wearing one of her infamous t-shirts bearing the slogan "58% DON'T WANT PERSHING" (note the leggings - SUCH a good look - we've come full-circle once again). The woman really is mythical and hugely interesting so I urge you to leaf through her website and find out more about her work today.

By now you'll be asking: "And what does any of this have to do with the picture above or Diptyque?" Everything actually. Katharine was the one who introduced me (and everyone else in the studio, I'm sure) to the wonder that is a Diptyque candle. One of her personal favourites was 'Baies' if my memory serves me well. They were as much part of her style as her John Smedley jumpers and her black shiny skinny trousers. Over the years, my own absolute favourite has become "Tubereuse". Once I had been promoted a few levels and was able to attend the glamour that is Paris fashion week, a stop at the shop on the Boulevard Saint Germain was always on the agenda, no matter what. The excuse tended to be "Well, Katharine needs one so I simply HAVE TO go!". Now of course you can buy the candles and scents in select department stores and other exclusive boutiques, but there's nothing like visiting the charming shop in all it's old Parisian glory. I still love the packaging (the paper bag is simply wonderful and another fine example of how right you can get it when you use the perfect font). These candles really are in a league of their own, you can't just call them a 'scented' or even 'perfumed' candle - whether lit or not, their scent wraps you in a state of bliss while looking drop dead gorgeous just stood on your dresser - I defy any other candle to look and smell this good. I am totally biased of course; as I'm sure you'll know, scent is one of those senses that plays havoc with your memory. Nothing takes you back 20 years with quite such force, emotion and ease as a familiar smell (although Dr Who does a pretty good job too, I'm told). So leave me here, reminiscing and smelling my little treasure which was brought to me by my very kind angel and roving ambassador (merci encore, ma chère).

Editor at large

I have a roving ambassador - an angel travelling to places I cannot reach, my very own VIP. Next stop Paris. She will return with a style treasure that you will LOVE... I simply cannot wait! The above picture is but a mere hint, I bet you can't guess what it is that she will bring to me...

camping it up

Moving within the spirit of the times, respecting the current economic climate, we have discarded the usual frills, pomp and circumstance in favour of a more natural and simple (don't you LOVE those two words?) summer holiday. Yes, we are going to brave the campsite and get down and dirty, right back to basics and finally use those 2 massive (brand) new tents that have never seen the light of the moon let alone a mosquito and go camping. Not for a weekend, not for a week - heck, no! We're totally insane and going it for three...whole...weeks. I'm playing it cool at the moment. So overwhelmed by the mere fact that very soon we'll be back in lovely Sardinia, I won't allow my joy to be overrun by dark thoughts regarding the impossibility of sandfree clothes storage, dirty feet (I have a bit of a thing about those), having to wash dishes by hand and then of course not having en-suite facilities.... Like I said, I will not let myself be overcome by all that negativity.

Instead I choose to open my mind to the possibility that this really could be a pleasurable adventure beyond compare and that with a little bit of organisation and a huge pinch of the 'chill' factor, we can all enjoy an unforgettable, uncomplicated time together. My husband will make me sign a contract in which I swear not to become 'unreasonable' about grains of sand in the tent and that if I utter the words 'I have nothing to wear!' he has perfectly good grounds for divorce. I have promised to take a leaf out of all of my friends' books who have been camping practically every year of their lives, and focus on the essentials of campsite living but make those essentials as beautiful as they can possibly be. So, I just need a few accessories to 'brighten up' our pitch and personalise it by giving it a bit of a style injection. I will start by looking a bit more closely at the Cath Kidston website and I have already noticed with great pleasure, that Swiss retailers take their camping sections very seriously indeed and I wouldn't be at all surprised if I found the bulk of my camping 'style fodder' on my doorstep at either Migros or Coop. And another thing: all that stuff we get fed by women's magazines about 'how to pack the bare essentials' or 'how to make one single garment work a 100 ways' would be fantastic for my camping dilemma IF IT WERE TRUE! It's total nonsense of course and unless you were born around 1941 and therefore frugality is an indelible part of your genetic make-up, you will know that packing the 'bare essentials' means stuffing at least 48 to 54 garments into your suitcase. So in order to make this experience work for me I'm going to:

• plan out my pitch meticulously, logically and stylishly (I will allow husband to help with this)
• buy an inordinate amount of tealights and little glasses that will contain them
• inject a dose of glamour even into campsite life by never looking anything less than effortlessly chic (see pictures above)
• not get hysterical at the sight of dust-covered sons, in fact I will learn to embrace them in their new, natural state (I use the word embrace not in its physical, but spiritual sense)
• last but not least, I absolutely promise that I will chillax
  
  Should be great!
  

Whilst I do realise that this post contains a ridiculous amount of pictures compared to my usual select few, I really wanted to bring TOAST to your attention once again. Their style and their photography lends itself incredibly well to my camping fantasy! Do browse their current catalogue here and especially here...

All of the above photographs are taken from the current S/S 09 TOAST catalogues (DAYWEAR and HOUSE & HOME)

California

There is something about listening to the Beach Boys (oh go on then, Dave Lee Roth!) that just makes me wanna pack a bag and take off on a jet plane headed for California. That's America to me (well, that and New York) but California is slightly addictive once you've experienced its laid-back, hippy ways. I spent three pivotal years there and boy, they were good years. Boy! Boys! Beach Boys! Bleached sandy hair, tanned legs 365 days a year, surfboards, frozen jogurt, marine biology, my first CAR: a gold VW beetle (chosen in favour of a 1968 Mustang - my father and especially Mr R have never forgiven me for this faux pas). And yet some demon inside me told me to leave this sunny paradise and head across the water back to London Town. Totally inexplicable now, but at the time and with the maturity of all my 19 years behind me, it was London or certain death. These days I unashamedly spend hours trying desperately to remember what it felt like to watch the sunset over Del Mar beach or walking into the Pannikin coffee/bookstore and smelling the roasted coffee beans and freshly baked muffins. It would be interesting if I were to endeavour in a spell of time travel and be transported in my current state, to those heady days of 1986 - I would probably keel over and die with emotion. Life in southern California is, in a way, even more remote than it is here in Ticino. You are so (pleasantly) removed from what is real (I don't mean in an artificial L.A./Hollywood kind of way, no sir!) that there really is nothing else but the abovementioned ingredients (Dave Lee Roth, frozen yogurt, surfers, hippies, beetles, pot, marine biology etc). It's its own special little universe where you just live for your immediate surroundings. Sounds shallow to you? It shouldn't. Pure nature all around you, the most fantastic marine life, incredible universities where you can study till you're 90, great music culture, and the knowledge that Mexico lies at your feet. If you get bored just rent a Mustang (not a Beetle) and head north along highway 101. I often ask myself what devil inside me made me leave this place?
A few more haunts: La Jolla and Jake's and finally, for all you academics or parents with kids looking for a superb university, look not further than UCSD.

sisters

Today was a hectic but good day - busy but hugely inspirational. You know, when you're just walking or in my case driving along and your mind (nevermind the car) is speeding at 180 km/h (that's approximately 111.84 mph) productively coming up with one fantastic whopper of an idea after another. I was on fire. Even the radio station kept playing ONLY fantastic songs, and that makes all the difference. Inspiration and optimism in spades just rushing through the brain. Great stuff. I started thinking about my sister, whom I absolutely adore beyond reason, and immediately realised that the next post had to be about her. It was obvious that I would write about her at some stage, but today it all took shape and crystallised into this perfect image and story which I will now try to coherently present before you.

I'm lucky enough to have gone from being an only child (albeit a happy one, I must admit) to becoming, at the age of 12, a sister to a sister. I never dreamt that I would ever have a sibling and when she was born, it was incredible. It was just the timing of her arrival that was not so good for me; I was at the cusp of becoming the worst teenager ever to walk this earth and spent the following 4 years struggling with my very own industrial sized hormonal tornado ripping its way very impressively through my emotions. So I always felt like I wasn't really there for her, and in fact I wasn't. I left home very early and had a patchy (yet very loving) long-distance relationship with my little sister. We are and always have been incredibly close, an unspoken invisible bond that is just there, no matter what. Now that we finally live in the same country again, I feel much more complete and get an incredible sense of fulfilment knowing that if I wanted to, I could see her at a moment's notice. She inspires me and makes me so proud, my sister. A determined young woman with an amazing heart and huge talent which is so brilliantly put to use in her current career.

So, that's the basics sorted now let me find the style thread... Ah, yes, there it is: The Force is strong in this one.
Apart from being blessed with an amazing physique, she truly knows what works on her and what doesn't. Never putting a foot wrong, she has a very personal and unique style which is first and foremost modern, young, subtle but edgy and incredibly pleasing to the eye. I wish Mr Sartorialist would browse 'round Zurich more so he'd get a shot of her. Her chosen colour palette is warm, earthy and never garish, complemented of course without fail by the most cutting edge hairstyle as well as (and this is obviously a family thing that our mother started in 1972) the biggest sunglasses she can get her hands on. All this is delivered effortlessly which makes it even more powerful and beautiful. How much I love looking at her, absorbing her radiance, her warmth and also her style. You couldn't copy it if you tried.

nip me!

I remember last summer, lazing on our local beach by the river Melezza. Heaven on Earth as far as I'm concerned. Here, this location, this little village, these people, you see we are so blessed that it can bring tears to my eyes. So many special components make this place unique and very lovely. In the summer it just beggars belief for me. School's out in say, mid-June, and from then on depending on everyone's holiday schedules, we tend to congregate at our very own village beach. The beach is located beyond the football fields and the tennis courts (so if you have sporty kids you can just send them up for footy training or to the tennis coach while you continue working on your tan) and last summer we spent practically every day down by the river with the locals. It's so funny. In the winter and the autumn months you bump into neighbours and local friends at the post office, the bakery, the deli or the bar but in the summer you're lying half naked next to yes, you guessed it: your neighbour and your local friends. It's great. I love it. Sometimes an exotic fish comes along. Like last summer. A friend of a friend appeared, in a white two-piece looking like some sort of mythical goddess. I had never seen anything like this before. Sure, she was maybe a few years younger than me (5 at most) but she was something to behold. Not a single ounce of fat on her, not a rake either though. Toned perfection. No cellulite, skin the colour of honey and as soft as silk, jet black hair all luscious waves and those curves. And she's got 2 daughters under the age of 6! Oh my God. If I was a guy I would have drooled. Being a girl I just pretended not to notice (so glad Mr R wasn't there). Did I mention her breasts? The most perfect things I've ever come across in my life - insanely lovely. I had to really concentrate in order to continue pretending that I hadn't noticed anything at all (one doesn't want to appear rude, it just won't do), especially when she came over to say hello. I felt even more prune-like than normal. A few weeks later I found out that all this beauty was not of natural origin, but reconstructed and the result of several cosmetic surgery procedures. I felt first and foremost relieved and then reassured of course and a bit smug. I'm one of those weirdos that confidently (for now...!) says: Accept your wrinkles, love them, they are part of you - you can look good with them, glamorous, sexy, whatever! Of course never say never but knowing myself as I do, I'm pretty sure I won't be going down the nip/tuck route. Ever. Amazing though, what a surgeon's knife can do. I have since reclaimed my status as a nature girl and proudly picked up my style thread where I'd bloody well left it. That was after temporarily losing my head by agreeing to have a few no obligation consultations with dishy Dr Christian. Relax, all is where it was and where it should be and I have since found my way again, naturally.

photograph above courtesy of NIP/TUCK (FX) showing Julian McMahon as Christian Troy, Joely Richardson (some impostor actually) as Julia McNamara and Dylan Walsh as Sean McNamara.

the f-word

Since I entered it ceremoniously, this world of the big four-o, I've become more and more aware of a constant feeling of being on the edge - not in a nervy way but in a "teetering on the edge of a very steep precipice" kind of way (think Cathy in Wuthering Heights or the second Mrs de Winter in Rebecca just for that extra, windswept drama effect). Which is a lot more scary and quite a new sensation for me. It doesn't leave me either. Actually it just gets stronger. Things feel decidedly different to me now. Day to day things, they seem much more important, more serious and I have a very definite sense of urgency about me which suggests that I'm watching an imaginary clock ticking away while running at an increasing speed to make things happen. Even my children's comments seem more poignant to me. Probably because I'm referring back to my own childhood when I remember making the conscious and rather stubborn decision to stop counting my parents' ages once either of them had reached 40. When I hit forty I didn't think it would make a blind bit of difference, I laughed at the thought of it: "Bring it on!" I used to shout. I don't shout anymore, now I'm fairly quiet about it. All my determination and nonchalance is nowhere to be found, in its place an overwhelming sense of life and its meaning, and how precious it is and how living for today is paramount and how every second counts. That's what occupies my mind these days. I wonder if all this is normal? Fortunately I am an incorrigible optimist - so while I'm teetering up there on the edge of that precipice, my mantra 'the best is yet to come' is also ringing quite loudly in my ears. Other welcome side effects of being forty (at least for me) are confidence and assertiveness. They make life so much smoother and more enjoyable. Like I said, I wonder whether it's just me...?

true to type

Watching the very talented Mr R working yesterday I couldn't resist snatching this piece of gorgeousness from him (please be sure to click on the picture for a proper, enlarged view). Don't worry I have his consent. There's something about a typeface, about a specific way a word is presented on print that is so beautiful, powerful and to the point. No fuss. No frills. No extras. No sound. Just a word - in most cases put very simply in black on white or vice versa. I suppose it all boils back down to design. And I guess it's graphic design really - but I like to think that it actually goes back further than that. Graphics don't really do it for me, but letters baby, yeah! Typesetting and, more importantly Typography. What genius to beautifully arrange letters to create your very own typeface, Herr Max Miedinger. I do love all those wonderful Harpers Bazaar articles with the iconic serif typeface, but have to admit that it's the sans serifs that I'll go for time and time again. They're just beautiful to me. My favourites from the mood board above are without a doubt the 'Acqua di Parma' logo and the 'Eleven Madison Park'. That's how simple I like it. Whilst doing his reasearch work yesterday, Mr R showed me this website which shows some great examples of a stunning typeface used so effectively on a collection of book covers (albeit rejected ones - I can't imagine why). Mmmm books.... don't get me started on those!

cos

How long am I going to have to wait? With an H&M on practically every corner (yawn, double yawn) is it really too much to ask? It can't be that hard for COS/H&M to realise that there's a market for their sublime products beyond the usual suspects (UK, Germany, France, Belgium, Denmark and the Netherlands). Why no Switzerland and, more importantly, no Italy? Where's the problem? I live in hope...and in Switzerland.

make-up anyone?

So I waved and kissed our Easter guests goodbye on Saturday and promptly burst into tears. I don't know about you but I've completely given up on maintaining my composure at farewells, it's such hard work plus it just seems a bit, you know, insincere. What's the point in putting on a brave face when your heart is breaking? And with the guests gone I found myself in the middle of town, by myself and in no great rush to get back to an empty house. Instead I made tracks for our only department store where I like to have a little peek now and again at the relatively new and exciting arrival on the ground floor cosmetics department: the Bobbi Brown counter. As far as make-up's concerned this, I feel, is as good as it gets. Feeling just a little bit washed out and blue I didn't offer much resistance when the chirpy male make-up artist (Abdul "on a whistlestop tour of Europe visiting all the Bobbi Brown counters" and working his magic on the likes of me by giving very good face) invited me to take a seat for a "quick make-over" in the latest spring colours. I made a half-hearted attempt at declining but soon decided that it would be kind of cool for once to be professionally worked on like that. I might even learn something. Yeah, so make-up. Where do YOU stand on that one? I've always been fascinated by it, heavily influenced by my mother and all that advertising. Once I got into my teenage years I experimented constantly and looked incredibly scary most of the time, trying desperately to ascertain my look whilst coming to terms with my own 'colouring'. I've not been blessed with perfect skin and so the 'no make-up' option was not for me (not in a million years) - instead I developed my own little life support team of products, without which I'd never show my face in public. Ever. I know exactly what works and what doesn't on my skintone and because I would give anything not to have to wear make-up in order to look halfway decent, I have, over time, tried to perfect that natural, sunkissed look that suggests hardly any make-up at all. Since we moved to this part of the world it soon became obvious to me that there is none of the high-gloss sophistication that I used to encounter on a daily basis in the UK. Instead you have pretty much 2 very defined camps: the I-would-never-dream-of-wearing-a-scrap-of-make-up lot (bless them for they have the courage of their convictions) and the I-think-the-black-lipliner-look-is-a-winner lot... Ok, I lie: there are those of course who fall in between these 2 extremes choosing to wear make-up and looking just great. But there really is very little emphasis on make-up over here - which is a good thing as natural can never be bad, right? Well, sort of. I suppose it's just one of those things, you either do or you don't. And on Saturday, after my little make-over I was glad that I'm one of those that do. Abdul confidently applied his art to my face and made me look like me but better - it was great. Admittedly I wouldn't necessarily wear eyeshadow or lipgloss during the day, but it made a difference to my mood - I felt refreshed and bright and, thanks to Abdul, I learned how to improve my complexion with the clever use of a brush....

so here's to you, Mrs Robinson

Ooooh I can hardly type for excitement! The temperature today hit 23 degrees and all thoughts of winter and cold are suddenly filed away together with silly worries about doom and gloom - at least till November. Now it's the new season (and for me the best season, or as they so poetically call it 'round my parts, La Bella Stagione - wonderful, eh?). I'm making way for positive optimism and renewed confidence and am so looking forward to new beginnings.

Which brings me swiftly to the point of this little story. New beginnings, change, change, and more change... It's that time again. The big question, the big dilemma. Is it time? Can I still pull it off or is this (ie. the sneaky suspicion I may have reached that dreaded state of mutton-dressed-as-lamb) the perfect bloody excuse to go and chop it off once and for all and shut the hell up about the blimmin' hair? Here I am, wafting around as always with my long tresses like some ageing Rapunzel. Of course I've had long hair all my life so it's as much part of my character as my character but I do get to this stage every 3 years (it's like clockwork) where I just have to go through this process - and this time, you're coming through it with me. Were it not for the sheer terror/cold fear of completely losing my identity, I would have done it years ago. It's always the same: I spend weeks lusting after 'my perfect short hairdos' (see above) and it reaches feverpitch till I walk into the salon and every single time without fail some young whippersnapper of a coiffeuse talks me out of it because she, just like me, has absolutely no backbone. Sounds harsh? Well, if only I had a little of the Annie Lennox about me (that divine bonestructure, such angles, such precision) or the soft voluptuousness of Marilyn. But alas no, I am me! And it takes exactly this process (I can feel it, I'm almost through it) to realise that I do really love this long hair thing and that it just suits me and my style perfectly. I will never forget Mr R's words to me almost 20 years ago (and a few more times since), about how he thought older women looked fantastic with long grey, salt and pepper kind of hair....Well, sir, sticking it out with me may just be starting to pay off because it looks like that's gonna be my look pretty soon. Move over Annie and Marilyn, make room for Anne Bancroft.

If you can't quite remember just how fabulous Mrs Robinson looked, go refresh your memory by visiting this week's post on The Women's Room.

new collection

Karin's new spring/summer 2009 collection is ready - check out her website. Here's an exquisite taster of the new batch. Looks just as good lying on your dresser as it does draped over your summer linen tunic.

Sinatra

This post is another one of those that's been waiting for its turn quietly, patiently. I've always known it had to be written, yet even now as I type purposefully, I'm not quite sure where exactly it will go. All I know is that one thing always leads to another and that's what makes writing like this so darn interesting.

My father's voice is just as familiar to me as that of Sinatra. Now there's a sentence I never thought I'd say. But it's true. Ever since I can remember (and my first memories go back to when I was 2 years old - so I remember lots) Ol' Blue Eyes has been our solid companion through thick and thin and I often wonder whether my dad would have been the person he is, had he not been such a lifelong passionate admirer of Sinatra's - in fact I'm sure that Sinatra is as much part of him as we are. And what a wonderful passion to have.

Do you know that by some amazing coincidence, Ava Gardner ended up being our neighbour for all those years when we lived in London's Ennismore Gardens? I think that all these elements: my father's music echoing over the garden square, me in the garden pretending I was Alice in Wonderland complete with my very own Cheshire Cat (his name was Ali and he was in fact a Siamese), Ava and her dogs next door looking down from her first floor balcony, the magnificence of the location (Ennismore Gardens is one of London's most beautiful squares) and the intensely happy times spent there, really make this my most treasured childhood memory. But back to the Man and his Music. I won't even try to describe the quality of Frank's voice as firstly you'll surely know how amazing it is yourself, and secondly it's just downright impossible - to me it's the most perfect singing voice I have ever heard and the effortlessness of his delivery is staggering, song after song after song. So in my quest to recognise my father's huge influence, and to pay tribute to this unique vocalist and perfomer, here is one of my own favourites. Genius, style and elegance all presented to perfection in this rare 1967 footage of Sinatra and Antonio Carlos Jobim. I dare you to listen to this and NOT get goosebumps. When you get to the last song you'll be swaying, I know you will.

For those of you interested in further education there is the official Sinatra site and of course the very informative Wikipedia to consult. What I strongly recommend though is that you simply take some time to listen to The Voice, it'll tell you everything you need to know.

suits you, sir

Recent talk of a new job for Mr R has led to thoughts of the male wardrobe. I do love a shopping spree so when Mr R said that maybe it was about time he invested in a real suit, my eyes lit up. Not being one to hold back, I of course instantly associated the words 'real' and 'suit' with Savile Row. I don't think that was the answer or reaction he was looking for. Where's the problem? There's is nothing purer in terms of tailoring. And anyway, now that we are definitely adults with proper jobs, I think such an investment would be more than justified. And I do love a good tailored look on a man. Did you not watch the recent, mesmerising BBC 4 documentary Savile Row? It was sheer poetry and frankly, after watching one of Henry Poole & Co's customers go through all those fittings, I really didn't think that there was that much wrong with the amount asked in payment for the final glory. Did you not see that suit? It was a work of art - worth every little recession-ridden penny. Mr R remains unmoved. He has not had the last word. On our next visit to London, he'll be dragged to Mayfair where I will have already made appointments at Henry Poole and of course Norton & Sons. Do go and have a peek for yourselves.

And if the above websites aren't enough to get you going, try this one, it should do it for you.

motoring

It would really seem that I've happened upon my own tailormade little cosmos. Wherever I turn, within say a 5 km radius, I find inspiration wave after wave. The subject of this post? Cars. For which I have a secret passion, one that I tend not to talk about too much as I've always felt it's possibly a little misplaced, me being a woman and all.... But, now that I'm older, more mature and filled to the brim with self-confidence, I know this is total tosh. I love cars, I love cars, I love cars - and more than that, I love driving. As the only female in our household (Miss Marple doesn't qualify as she's a cat and therefore can't drive or cook), I enjoy using the "I'm-the-only-woman-here-and-you-lot-don't-understand-me" argument as well as the other very useful "You-NEVER-let-me-watch-what-I-want-to-watch" card (ie. Poirot, Miss Marple or Jonathan Ross). It really works and thank goodness for that. What they (the men) don't know, is that I love sitting down to endless episodes of Top Gear just as much as they do; Jezzer and James May are my kind of guys, Hammond I'll leave to the younger generations. But let's get back to cars now. As you drive into our little town, on your left you'll see a ramschackle but charming old garage run by Signor Belotti Junior - he took over from his father some time ago and Belotti Senior still keeps a watchful eye on the motors that roll in and out of the renowned workshop. And what motors they are. These are not standard wheels but superb, divine examples of fine motorcars - some really do make your eyes water. Customers come from all over to have Belotti fix their beauties - "Even from England!" the locals keep reminding me. The road through our town just happens to be the final stretch of a spectacular touring route which comes from over the Simplon Pass, via Domodossola down along the narrow bendy roads of the beautiful Centovalli - you'll need your driving gloves and possibly a valium. So while I leave you to drool over the sexy Maserati Ghibli pictured above, I'd also like to draw your attention to a very tasteful blog called MilleMiglia. And by the way, all this is NOT a cunning plan to increase my male readership, it's really just about cars.

vino

Ever since I started The Style Inside, this post has been waiting in the wings. A few weeks ago you may remember that I posted a brief, tantalising entry entitled "beyond these doors...". It's now high time that I showed you just what it is that lies behind them. I've been waiting for a suitably 'soft' day in terms of lighting, as the sun tends to be rather merciless in the brightness that it produces at this time of year. But as it's either glaring sun or dull greyness I decided I couldn't wait a minute longer and just grabbed my camera. In any case as you can see, I opted for black and white rather than colour after all. Also I wanted to take advantage of the kindness and readiness of the winemakers in accomodating my request to photograph their prize bottles...
Where do I start then? Well, you see in our idyllic little town in the southern tip of Ticino, nestled into a gloriously sun drenched valley, there are vineyards a plenty. They stretch along the river and roll gently over the foothills to create a most pleasing view of this fertile land. The wine produced from these grapes is a Merlot, the most popular for this region. There is a rather interesting, important building right in the centre of our village. It is the house of the Caverzasio family. Giovanni Caverzasio has been making his wine here for over 30 years and his cellars have evolved over the years due to the growing success of his production. Giovanni's wife Brigitta, kindly took us on a tour of the impressive cellars and also showed us round their historical building, explaining the various stages of the winemaking process. Their wine is not only beautifully packaged, it has also earned itself a well-deserved place amongst the most refined Merlots produced in this region. It's a winning recipe backed up by years and years of experience and a deep love of this land. Whilst you can easily buy a bottle of Tre Terre (the name stems from the 3 communities or 'lands' that form this beautiful area at the foothills of the Centovalli) or the sophisticated Rompidèe in many of the stores here, nothing quite compares to ringing the doorbell at casa Caverzasio in Verscio to be welcomed by Brigitta's smile and shown into the 'store room' for an informal and wonderfully authentic and charming transaction.

pottering

We're not quite there yet. It's definitely in the air and we have a gloriously warm Sunday afternoon to prove it. From what I've been seeing and hearing, everyone in the neighbourhood has spent the last two days not on the slopes, but outdoors casting a critical eye on terraces, patios and the general state of their gardens. As in England, it's a very serious business, but here we can rest safe in the knowledge that the seasons actually do come to a very abrupt end rather than bleeding seamlessly into one long undefinable 'period'. It's very reassuring and does wonders for your state of mind. When it comes to the weather, the locals here are very amusing, actually getting a bit cross if the rain doesn't stop after say, 2 days.

So yes spring, as I said, we're not quite there yet. Gardens are still a bit bare but you do see buds everywhere you look and that's enough to fill you with giddy anticipation. This weekend, then, to start the season off I've been de-misting the terrace and blowing old leaves and cobwebs off my favourite pots. I have two very special ones that I found in France a few summers ago, they're tiny but perfectly suited for now, when you just want to put a little colour here and there while you're waiting for the colour riot to really get going.

denim

Heavily influenced (try haunted to distraction) by a post on The Sartorialist, which showed a rather superb denim-clad girl in New York (see Saturday, 21 February), I went off today in search of my own denim nirvana. You may yawn but it's a deep-rooted quest in me that I thought I might have satisfied by now, but, if I'm totally honest, I know will stay with me forever. I have denim in the blood and I need it like you need water. Any attempt to ignore it just increases the need tenfold. And anyway, I kind of like my obsession. So here it is, my first pair for 2009 (late I know as it's March already, but there is a recession going on).
And so I decided, not unlike the New York girl, to get me 'the boyfriend'. So-called because you (the girlfriend) have allegedly raided his (the boyfriend's) wardrobe and claimed his pair as your own. No more tight-as-hell-skinny-minx-second-skins, but a rather more loose fit (yes ladies, the bigger the better) that literally just hangs off your curves - the key of course is to know how to wear them (rolled up and heels for me but I'd be really interested in hearing how YOU like to wear yours/his). Then a funny thought occurred to me on the way home: I don't have a boyfriend. Whose boyfriend should my jeans therefore have belonged to? I do have a husband though. And whilst he is gorgeous, somehow 'the husband' doesn't quite have the same rock 'n roll ring to it, does it?

carnival

Here in our part of the world 'carnevale' is taken rather seriously. Astonishingly, not just by the young. Adults too enjoy this pre-Lent tradition with great abandon. To the point where I have to ask: "Is it absolutely necessary?". Do you really have to wear Pippy Longstocking plaits or walk around dressed like a cow at the age of 48? Personally, I don't quite understand it, one obviously has to be born and bred here to really 'feel it' - which I do not. And yet, in spite of my non-appreciation of this local custom, I did come across a rather fabulous pirate the other day. He was so fabulous in fact that I felt he would be well placed here. He has it, this one. Style in buckets. If I looked this good 'in costume', I would probably also be tempted to participate.

mothers and daughters

I will be honest, when I have moments like these, when I gently, lovingly rummage 'round my memories and remember unbearably precious and magical times with my mother, then I really do wish that I too had had a daughter. No matter how difficult the relationship is or was, and let's face it, some memories really should be banished forever, a mother does tend to achieve icon-status during the course of any daughter's adult life.
There is, I believe, a subtle difference between having personal style and being stylish. I love personal style more because it's just so natural and cannot be mimicked (as hard as I may try, Mama, I just cannot be you!) - but that's the beauty of it. Personal style is perfectly achievable as it does not really conform to any rules, it's pure you. I delight in spotting people with great personal style; first and foremost because they radiate confidence and secondly it's as if they are carrying a closely guarded secret which they can never reveal. It's wonderful, don't you think?
So today, in a house that is dominated by all things male, I decided to retreat and go wondering down memory lane where I came across some beautiful photos of Barbara, my mum. From laid-back beach lounging, to high-gloss airport lounges, she pulls off all the looks that I love. And here is where I pay tribute to her and her own very personal style. There is absolutely no doubt that I owe my mother everything in the style stakes - she's always been my sole inspiration (circa 1972 onwards, especially the Manhattan and London eras) and I will always keep trying to look even just a bit as good as her. Maybe a little has rubbed off, because I think that it's a daughter's privilege - to carry her mother's style torch through the generations. You see how lovely it would have been, to have also had a daughter?