tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80445415806332943482024-03-15T15:16:55.722-04:00Reggie DarlingThe View From Darlington HouseReggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.comBlogger396125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-40967813524031512932015-05-20T17:36:00.000-04:002015-05-22T11:42:27.002-04:00Reggie's ReturnHello Dear Reader. After a one year and one month absence, I am pleased to return to the Blogosphere, and to pick up with you where I left off. It has been an event-filled period in my life, with both ups and downs. I am older and wiser and better for it, I believe. I genuinely thank the many of you who contacted me during my absence to let me know that you have been thinking about me, hoping that I'm all right, and encouraging me to return here. It means a lot to me.<br />
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This past weekend we attended the splendid <a href="http://tradesecretsct.com/">Trade Secrets Rare Plant and Garden Show</a>, held annually in Sharon, Connecticut, which I've written about <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/05/trade-secrets.html">here several</a> <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/search/label/gardening">times before</a>. The photograph I'm showing is of yours truly carrying a marvelous tree fern up the walkway at <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2009/12/darlington-house.html">Darlington</a>. We bought the fern at the show from the good people of <a href="http://www.snugharborfarm.com/">Snug Harbor Farm</a>, of Kennebunk, Maine. The fern is destined for our screened porch, where it will take pride of place I am sure. I look forward to enjoying its company in the ensuing months.</div>
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Late spring is one of my favorite times of year, Dear Reader. It is a time of rebirth and renewal, where the world comes deliciously alive here in the Hudson River Valley. I love it for many reasons, including the prospect it heralds of growth and for beauty unfolding.<br />
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It's nice to come home.<br />
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Reggie<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">photograph by Boy Fenwick </span></i><br />
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<br />Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com76tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-16396325245540546862014-04-19T16:24:00.000-04:002014-04-27T08:35:55.455-04:00The Great Marmalade ExchangeI grew up in a house where marmalade was a staple of the table. My <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/03/my-mama-was-coal-miners-daughter.html">mother, MD</a>, was <i>mad</i> for marmalade, and she would heap it on hot buttered toast at breakfast or at afternoon tea, or on crackers during cocktail hour. She loved marmalade so much that she would dip a spoon into a jar and eat it straight, licking the spoon clean.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Two precious jars of Reggie's</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Kumquat Marmie</span></td></tr>
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It turns out the apple—or, rather the <i>orange—</i>didn't fall all that far from the tree, as Reggie is intensely fond of marmalade, too.<br />
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And he has been on a bit of a marmalade journey of late . . .</div>
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Until recently the only marmalade I ate or cared for was James Keiller & Son Ltd.'s Dundee Orange Marmalade, the world's first commercially made marmalade, which has been in continuous production since the company's founding in 1797. Thick, intensely flavored, full of rind, and verging on bitter, Keiller's Dundee Orange Marmalade has always been the marmalade I reach for when stocking my pantry.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Oh dear, bought marmalade. Dear me, I call that very feeble."</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Shepperton Studios</span></i></div>
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When I was a boy Keiller's Dundee Marmalade was sold in stoneware crocks that we saved when emptied of their delicious contents. We used the crocks to hold pencils and pens, which I still do to this day. By the time I went to college, though, Keiller & Son had dispensed with their handsome crocks and substituted the far less aesthetically pleasing milk-glass jars that are still found today on the shelves in supermarkets the world over. Keiller's old stoneware marmalade crocks are now considered to be collectibles and can be found for sale in Group Shoppes and on <a href="http://www.ebay.com/sch/i.html?_odkw=james+keiller+sons+dundee+marmalade+crock&_osacat=0&_from=R40&_trksid=p2045573.m570.l1313.TR1.TRC0.A0.H0.Xjames+keiller+sons+dundee+marmalade&_nkw=james+keiller+sons+dundee+marmalade&_sacat=0">eBay</a>.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Two of Reggie's Keiller & Son Ltd.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dundee Marmalade stoneware crocks</span></td></tr>
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Although I've tried other commercially available marmalades over the years, including small-batch artisinal alternatives, none have inspired me to forsake the familiar embrace of my old standby, Keiller & Son Ltd. Dundee Orange Marmalade.</div>
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That is, until I discovered the surpassing pleasures of <i>homemade</i> marmalade. Once I had tasted it for the first time I vividly understood why the Countess of Trentham character—as brilliantly played by Dame Maggie Smith in <i>Gosford Park—</i>sat in her bed and sniffed "Oh dear" when confronted by a pot of "bought" marmalade on her breakfast tray.</div>
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It turns out Lady Trentham knew of what she spoke.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">My friend Katherine's</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> homemade</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">marmalade, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">liberally spread on </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">English</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">muffins </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">in our kitchen at Darlington</span></td></tr>
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I found out exactly how sublime homemade marmalade is shortly before Christmas, when I received a jar of it in the mail. It was a thank-you gift from my childhood friend Katherine, who had recently stayed with us at Darlington. Katherine had made a batch of marmalade, her first ever. Tasting Katherine's marmalade was a revelation! Gorgeously orange in color, deliciously flavorful, packed with rind, and just sweet enough, it was <i>infinitely</i> better than my dear old Keiller's of Dundee. I polished off Katherine's marmalade <i>tout de suite</i>. And yes, Dear Reader, I even ate some of it with a spoon, <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-downs-and-ups-of-mummys-cooking.html">just as MD used to do</a> all those years ago.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">One does so adore receiving a brown-</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">paper</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">package tied up with string, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">particularly</span><br />
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Fast forward to the New Year. In early February I was perusing one of my favorite new blogs, <a href="http://chronicadomus.blogspot.com/">Chronica Domus</a>, where I was delighted to read of the writer's fondness for marmalade and her experience in <a href="http://chronicadomus.blogspot.com/2014/02/the-annual-marmalade-making-adventure.html#comment-form">making batches of it annually with her husband</a>. I commented that I, too, adore marmalade. We exchanged emails, and the next thing I knew a package containing several jars of Chronica Domus' homemade marmalade was delivered to my door.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">What treasures can these be,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">nestled </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">in</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> excelsior?</span></td></tr>
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As I was about to leave for <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2014/03/remembrances-of-things-past.html">a week's holiday</a>, and the package was delivered to my city apartment, I placed it in the refrigerator to preserve it while I was away. I wanted to open it at Darlington and make a record of it to post here for your reading pleasure, Dear Reader.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Three jars of homemade marmalade! What Heaven!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Blood orange, Seville orange, and grapefruit bergamot!</span></td></tr>
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Coincidentally, I had been considering making my own batch of marmalade. But I wanted to make it with <i>kumquats</i> instead of oranges, as we have a little kumquat tree at Darlington that bears fruit every January and February, and it had just produced a bumper crop of its tasty, zesty fruit. Last year I preserved our kumquat harvest in syrup, but this year I wanted to do something else. Having just received a jar of marmalade from my childhood friend Katherine, and now several more from Chronica Domus, I was inspired to try my hand at making kumquat marmalade. "Eureka!"<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Chronica Domus' three jars of marmalade,</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">appearing like stained glass windows in sunlight</span></td></tr>
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So, in the days leading up to our leaving on holiday, Reggie made a batch of kumquat marmalade. But he decided that he wouldn't call it <i>marmalade</i>, Dear Reader. No, he decided to call it <i>marmie, </i>the same way our brethren down under in Australia refer to a barbecue as a <i>barbie</i>. You get the idea . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxftg7WUD7vvIS0zC-r0bIxCxQGzt0LnGCDNFTTWKLbr786dUfnCNjiGYTABX2Ld1UvUE7Zw8yIXsfxiB-eVAJ-QFjlxSme3QtKuTNmge-pEeJ2hG1RglZgLnzr2XwR9bEFBYoka5x-8/s1600/IMG_8325.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxftg7WUD7vvIS0zC-r0bIxCxQGzt0LnGCDNFTTWKLbr786dUfnCNjiGYTABX2Ld1UvUE7Zw8yIXsfxiB-eVAJ-QFjlxSme3QtKuTNmge-pEeJ2hG1RglZgLnzr2XwR9bEFBYoka5x-8/s1600/IMG_8325.jpg" height="400" width="291" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Chronicus Domus' blood orange marmie</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">spooned atop crème fraîche on a cracker.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">It's even better than caviar!</span></td></tr>
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Since I had never made marmalade before, or jams or jellies for that matter, I had <i>no idea</i> how much work it would be to make my kumquat marmie, nor what a tiny amount of the treasured jam would result from all my labors.<br />
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I found the <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/2014/02/kumquat-marmalade-recipe/">recipe for my kumquat marmie</a> on David Lebovitz's marvelous blog about living and cooking and eating in Paris. I've been <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/">following his blog</a> for some time now, and I enjoyed reading his book <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/asin/076792889X/davidleboviswebs">The Sweet Life in Paris</a></i>. In making my batch of kumquat marmie I fiddled with his recipe a bit. I had more kumquats than the recipe called for (our little tree is quite the producer of fruit), and I used a bit less sugar.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu03atN8MAkjJ9FziGJPSFfj7wmSlVS3K8QUjEyRg-EPMSk7wZuaFS12DgNKCjqdum9Cea_W778wGla9WJzqgAzaqElth9s0wrK58OvPwqfiIg9UAuCZ8u0pEtxDLJhSzbXijPMojGrmk/s1600/IMG_8183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu03atN8MAkjJ9FziGJPSFfj7wmSlVS3K8QUjEyRg-EPMSk7wZuaFS12DgNKCjqdum9Cea_W778wGla9WJzqgAzaqElth9s0wrK58OvPwqfiIg9UAuCZ8u0pEtxDLJhSzbXijPMojGrmk/s1600/IMG_8183.jpg" height="320" width="290" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Reggie's kumquat marmie, with his potted<br />kumquat tree in the background</span></td></tr>
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Being a complete neophyte at making preserves, Reggie was surprised to learn what a considerable undertaking it is to make a batch of marmalade. It took him several days and many, many hours spent slicing, de-seeding, and cooking the mixture of kumquats, lemons, and sugar the recipe called for in order to produce his kumquat marmie. It was hardly what I'd call drudgery, though, as I enjoyed the project from beginning to end, and making the marmie filled our city apartment (I made it during the week over several evenings after work) with a wonderful citrusy scent. The resulting marmalade is marvelously tangy, tart, and puckery—much like a sourball candy. Spreading it on a hot toasted and buttered English muffin, or on a cracker with cream cheese, one truly appreciates what the expression "food of the gods" means!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdc9Xb5y-6dTCfJENux7Jxr-qMrC3KS-tQz9tAfVCcoifPkiqqcvgMnjzjlcIWuJlUqvmECOguLScUSExXzFYYIugOYTaFASnp7cpXaJbtlA4OvOHiI6CrgDiqKOolbkYCWtLNr-3S758/s1600/IMG_8280.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdc9Xb5y-6dTCfJENux7Jxr-qMrC3KS-tQz9tAfVCcoifPkiqqcvgMnjzjlcIWuJlUqvmECOguLScUSExXzFYYIugOYTaFASnp7cpXaJbtlA4OvOHiI6CrgDiqKOolbkYCWtLNr-3S758/s1600/IMG_8280.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Reggie's kumquat marmie</span></td></tr>
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My second surprise when making my kumquat marmie was how <i>little of it</i> all my efforts produced—just three diminutive six-ounce jars! I had assumed that I'd have at least four or five jars of it, but sadly that was not the case. Given all the time and labor involved, I consider those three jars to be as precious as if I had made them from platinum instead of kumquats!</div>
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Actually, there are now only two jars of it left. I've already consumed one of them.<br />
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This weekend I am going to mail the two remaining jars of my kumquat marmie to my friends Katherine and Chronica Domus, returning the favor of their thoughtful gifts to me of their homemade marmalade, thus completing the Great Marmalade Exchange.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u4shhQtiWvmlo2ID6RQtMDH3Sg4ADpw5WArRhNARBCrkBPwm2MLs6FGRNTlkvVKTyb9zna-v4MuVpPydcI9kG602BwUmvPd6FcvXhMN-EJlJk_dRw5sju9IjpzEP7pIKyYXy7dq3Fm0/s1600/IMG_8477.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1u4shhQtiWvmlo2ID6RQtMDH3Sg4ADpw5WArRhNARBCrkBPwm2MLs6FGRNTlkvVKTyb9zna-v4MuVpPydcI9kG602BwUmvPd6FcvXhMN-EJlJk_dRw5sju9IjpzEP7pIKyYXy7dq3Fm0/s1600/IMG_8477.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tissued, bowed, and ready to mail</span></td></tr>
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By the way, next year I plan on making a larger batch of kumquat marmie as I have others I'd like to send it to as well. The first and foremost on my list is Ms. Meg Fielding of <a href="http://pigtown-design.blogspot.com/">Pigtown Design blog fame</a>, who has given Reggie two jars of her <a href="http://pigtown-design.blogspot.com/2013/09/the-jam.html">delicious homemade jams</a> in the last year and who was <i>supposed</i> to get one of his kumquat marmies . . . at least when he assumed that he'd produce more than <i>only three little jars of it</i>.<br />
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Oh, and what about the marmalade I received from Chronica Domus? So far I've only opened one of the three jars she sent, of blood orange marmalade, and it is absolutely out-of-this-world delicious! I look forward to trying the the two other marmalades she sent, too, one made with Seville oranges and the other with grapefruit and bergamot. <br />
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Now that I'm officially smitten with homemade marmalade, I'm afraid that I'll never be able to look at dear old Keiller's Dundee with quite the same ardor as I had before . . .<br />
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Tell me, Dear Reader, do you like marmalade, too? Have you ever made it?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs by Boy Fenwick and Reggie Darling</span></i></div>
Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com113tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-62022966052503284612014-04-11T12:40:00.002-04:002014-04-13T22:47:07.527-04:00Reggie Out & About: Maureen Footer's George Stacey Book Signing Party at Brunschwig & FilsAs many readers of this blog well know, Reggie has a penchant for attending book signing parties, particularly ones that celebrate the authors of beautiful design books.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThypo9MH2hE1KM-J4OhSZJJSMTaWzM6B5T1mQOIoILSkNFLEfPcA36G_bLTa_WFXxZi-cetsmzVNMb8uaweM2yDItFvSoh6fe8s6VFL14ifQVjYbhX0ehXsG73haIxL5sfvIa-BO8iE/s1600/IMG_4174.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmThypo9MH2hE1KM-J4OhSZJJSMTaWzM6B5T1mQOIoILSkNFLEfPcA36G_bLTa_WFXxZi-cetsmzVNMb8uaweM2yDItFvSoh6fe8s6VFL14ifQVjYbhX0ehXsG73haIxL5sfvIa-BO8iE/s1600/IMG_4174.jpg" height="400" width="373" /></a></div>
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Last night he attended one in honor of Ms. Maureen Footer and her just-published book, <i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_37aGNIKlnPyKbO3fGzhlbk-8YlIcGx8pSGTDPVQ7AsQkiRHYbk99Crg2MrJcPJi5_NU-BvhbFXgMSW26tqaZQeiDxcmqR1iK0Wd5hnVsTElHCCgTPhwOaf6la1ZLhvSC6hUEvfB8WY/s1600/IMG_4090.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA_37aGNIKlnPyKbO3fGzhlbk-8YlIcGx8pSGTDPVQ7AsQkiRHYbk99Crg2MrJcPJi5_NU-BvhbFXgMSW26tqaZQeiDxcmqR1iK0Wd5hnVsTElHCCgTPhwOaf6la1ZLhvSC6hUEvfB8WY/s1600/IMG_4090.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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The party was held at New York's D&D Building . . .<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9n2aoHr_ynAtUMjPAcLVNVnSWXWjZ_IILxtJRrtfaZ5kH4w_9TLL4KtRA3iPRF4JdRvAWz-dmIsdTYgOHUv1w35YlDG9th7JeT4dhhggCrJA5gp1Ql7geKGDl5T8VaLa8u64gWj8YPc/s1600/IMG_4091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF9n2aoHr_ynAtUMjPAcLVNVnSWXWjZ_IILxtJRrtfaZ5kH4w_9TLL4KtRA3iPRF4JdRvAWz-dmIsdTYgOHUv1w35YlDG9th7JeT4dhhggCrJA5gp1Ql7geKGDl5T8VaLa8u64gWj8YPc/s1600/IMG_4091.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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. . . in the gorgeous new showrooms of <a href="http://www.brunschwig.com/">Brunschwig & Fils</a>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3x521Gj5JGojCtVb00AkvlZ9RIGn5DnTE8yqtN9SwGSk-z5lypu1VJqP2T7Ia158NKSkceIHGCUw2B9QJiScIMpF5tWJ5NHc77VCR91zZVofA1EW_x23gw3mYz_s694kGRvhjRSGZbg/s1600/IMG_4109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt3x521Gj5JGojCtVb00AkvlZ9RIGn5DnTE8yqtN9SwGSk-z5lypu1VJqP2T7Ia158NKSkceIHGCUw2B9QJiScIMpF5tWJ5NHc77VCR91zZVofA1EW_x23gw3mYz_s694kGRvhjRSGZbg/s1600/IMG_4109.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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The party was very well attended by members of the design communities and friends of the author.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLkYrVs0WJt2Wfj_sZaJZOYUm9d34lChyphenhyphenTcaLlYaTq9oc-k2FyWqheMjseWTMGfmGK99dT9y5XJsjmDUfkZqueP5emRQKXhc4-ynVFFGP4fmLcJqYaSkH5IOvezQPdHZLdbQ9oQ7x3I0/s1600/IMG_4094.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizLkYrVs0WJt2Wfj_sZaJZOYUm9d34lChyphenhyphenTcaLlYaTq9oc-k2FyWqheMjseWTMGfmGK99dT9y5XJsjmDUfkZqueP5emRQKXhc4-ynVFFGP4fmLcJqYaSkH5IOvezQPdHZLdbQ9oQ7x3I0/s1600/IMG_4094.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Ms. Footer is one of the most cultured and lovely people I know.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLVWsFUTT7YDGfL7tehApcpsmqc8LJBkhClemROYFxMGY4CaK6ibBGxdy4N2S8Ti1suQboA55Kl5wqx3SaxjG0l5KF52mw5A6xU8Xg9AWjsTgDKdu4TGV8AYbylQsIDasEg_t_rl-Wn8/s1600/IMG_4114.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGLVWsFUTT7YDGfL7tehApcpsmqc8LJBkhClemROYFxMGY4CaK6ibBGxdy4N2S8Ti1suQboA55Kl5wqx3SaxjG0l5KF52mw5A6xU8Xg9AWjsTgDKdu4TGV8AYbylQsIDasEg_t_rl-Wn8/s1600/IMG_4114.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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She was exquisitely turned out for the party, beautifully coiffed and bejeweled.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxk34oDi3yQpR_lvlgKdzqj_it_z033ww9kEDfdGYIXtRheSohXIubhFLLZ805d_BX3vrTbz7zr7pFg6QahB4KLp9SwCpjcXh2PyZgLABr-siqafiWHyMp6eiiyVx2o8UigLeV9QNzyTc/s1600/IMG_4115.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxk34oDi3yQpR_lvlgKdzqj_it_z033ww9kEDfdGYIXtRheSohXIubhFLLZ805d_BX3vrTbz7zr7pFg6QahB4KLp9SwCpjcXh2PyZgLABr-siqafiWHyMp6eiiyVx2o8UigLeV9QNzyTc/s1600/IMG_4115.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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She is one of the nicest people in New York, where she sits at the helm of her eponymously named decorating firm, <a href="http://maureenfooterdesign.com/">Maureen Footer Design</a>. She's clever, amusing, and elegance personified. And yes, Dear Reader, she is very <i>chic</i>.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO78hwwoHj3TUbDQKfqrerC7RC7TGeH7PvTYVj6dIf08-XJGbD7wI7PTBEwMErPFK3x9xg_1bb80Kxj6lW1wf5gQi4JxrRxYdByOuLb1FDA4ECuqA395y_cjjPRk6YD7JR-4pfVQ-FQwA/s1600/IMG_4129.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO78hwwoHj3TUbDQKfqrerC7RC7TGeH7PvTYVj6dIf08-XJGbD7wI7PTBEwMErPFK3x9xg_1bb80Kxj6lW1wf5gQi4JxrRxYdByOuLb1FDA4ECuqA395y_cjjPRk6YD7JR-4pfVQ-FQwA/s1600/IMG_4129.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
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Furthermore, Ms. Footer is highly intelligent, classically educated (she is a graduate of Wellesley College and holds advanced degrees from Columbia University and École du Louvre), and has an engaged and curious mind. While she is firmly rooted in a rarefied world of beauty and refinement, her boundaries stretch far and wide, and she is eager to take in new experiences and explore new places and ideas. I feel supremely fortunate to count her as a friend.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0WstPOvI5IRi1ZrITP50Ce3JiYYXxh3apVvqAG2WSnP7SvckMrDqRQfpfHSPYwWddYCZLbBMvWBRzTGG8f7ArfpqqcrHqWK5crwMvKw612LDxYL7d_1f0G5hGhA9gHGKThrGsH4TQFE/s1600/IMG_4178.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI0WstPOvI5IRi1ZrITP50Ce3JiYYXxh3apVvqAG2WSnP7SvckMrDqRQfpfHSPYwWddYCZLbBMvWBRzTGG8f7ArfpqqcrHqWK5crwMvKw612LDxYL7d_1f0G5hGhA9gHGKThrGsH4TQFE/s1600/IMG_4178.JPG" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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She is, in a word, <i>divine</i>.</div>
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Joining Ms. Footer at the party was His Eminence, Mr. Mario Buatta. He wrote the foreword to her book. They have been friends for many years. I like Mr. Buatta, and I find his droll company amusing and thought-provoking. They broke the mold on that one, Dear Reader.<br />
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Reggie is very pleased to have had his copy of <i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i> inscribed by both Ms. Footer and Mr. Buatta.<br />
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After paying his respects to Lady Footer and His Eminence, Reggie went on a search for a drink and to check out the Brunschwig & Fils showroom, and also to see who else was at the party. He is happy to report that the event was well supplied with wine as well as tables laden with cheese, delicious cured meats, and tasty nibbles. Everyone appeared to be having a delightful time.<br />
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Two of the first people Reggie came across that he knew were Ms. Dolly Lewis and Ms. Amanda Walker, Boy Fenwick's talented and fun assistant designers. Reggie is very fond of them both.<br />
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In touring the Brunschwig & Fils showroom, which takes up a large portion of one of the floors in the D&D Building, Reggie came across a delicious tented room that caught his fancy. He learned that the tables in it had been piled high with copies of <i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i>. They flew off them during the party. The young woman sitting on the banquette was there to take orders for copies to be sent later by Potterton Books. You can order one for yourself, Dear Reader, from <a href="http://www.rizzoliusa.com/book.php?isbn=9780847842452">Rizzoli USA</a>, the publisher of the book.<br />
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I've had my copy of <i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i> for over a week now. It is beautiful to look at and chock full of marvelous photographs and drawings of Mr. Stacey's chic interiors and their aristocratic inhabitants. But it is much more than a pretty coffee-table book. Unlike so many decorator books that are rolling off the presses these days, Ms. Footer's treatise on George Stacey's work is a scholarly, deeply researched, and thoughtful exploration of the designer, his importance to the field, and his influence on subsequent generations of decorators to this very day. With the publication of Ms. Footer's book, George Stacey is finally getting his due, and his estimable place in the world of modern-day decorating is now realized. I expect <i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i> will become an influential source of inspiration for those in the field for many years to come. It certainly deserves to be. <br />
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I highly recommend that you add a copy of Ms. Footer's book to your library, Dear Reader. I am confident that you will find yourself returning to it again and again, as I have done in the short time I've owned it.<br />
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Turning around I was pleased to find and speak briefly with Mr. Mitch Owens before he slipped out the door for another obligation. I am delighted to know him and will always owe him a debt of gratitude for the marvelous story he wrote about our house <a href="http://www.architecturaldigest.com/decor/2013-06/bruce-shostak-hudson-valley-new-york-house-article">when it was featured in <i>Architectural Digest</i></a>, where he is the Decorative Arts & Antiques Editor.<br />
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And who should I come across next, but Mr. James Andrew, of <a href="http://www.whatisjameswearing.com/">What Is James Wearing?</a> fame. I often see him at such parties, and I always enjoy stopping and speaking with him. He is very amusing and a pleasure to talk with.<br />
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I am happy to report that the new Brunschwig & Fils showroom stays true to its origins, with much of the fabrics on display colorful and patterned. The place was flowing with chintzes, toiles, and printed fabrics, each one of them more beautiful than the next. Thank goodness the new owners of Brunschwig have not turned the venerable fabric house into yet another promoter of beige boringness. </div>
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Reggie throughly agrees with what the Miss Prescott character in the movie musical <i>Funny Face</i> famously instructed her magazine's readers to do, which is to "Banish the beige!!"</div>
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Of course I had to take a photograph of this gilt Louis XVI-style fauteuil, covered in Brunschwig's iconic tiger-patterned silk velvet. Scrumptious!<br />
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And another snap of a rainbow of velvets. It is such a relief to see color after a long winter!<br />
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I next came across Ms. Laurie Scovotti, who used to work for Boy Fenwick as an assistant designer before moving to Chicago. I'm glad to report that she has moved back to New York. It was fun catching up with her at the party.</div>
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I also enjoyed meeting and chatting with Mr. Jeff Petre of McKinnon and Harris. If you are not familiar with the company's estate, garden, and yacht furniture, I suggest you <a href="http://www.mckinnonharris.com/index.html">check out their website</a>. I first came across McKinnon and Harris' outdoor furniture more than twenty years ago and have aspired to owning it ever since. It is exquisite.</div>
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There were any number of people that I stopped to speak with at the party but did not photograph. Reggie is not, after all, a professional photographer or recorder of such events, Dear Reader, but rather a happy-go-lucky participant in the fun of the social swirl. I was pleased to run into Mr. Brian Sawyer at the party. I first met him many years ago shortly after he arrived in the city when he was an associate at Robert A. M. Stern. He has since gone on to become a celebrated architect and landscape designer. </div>
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Everywhere one turned at Brunschwig there was something to delight the eye. I loved the Venetian blown-glass chandelier in the preceding photograph.<br />
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I next stopped and spoke with Ms. Ashleigh Rich and Mr. Jonathan Tait, shown above. I initiated the conversation because I was wearing what was virtually the same outfit as Mr. Tait, of an orange Hermes tie, a blue-and-white checked shirt, and a navy blazer. Ms. Rich works for Kravet, the parent of Brunschwig & Fils, and Mr. Tait works at Scully & Scully. I enjoyed meeting them, and found them charming and fun.<br />
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Here's another shot of happy revelers milling about in the impossibly pretty Brunschwig showroom.<br />
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The showroom is arranged as an enfilade of rooms, each one more elegant than the other.<br />
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Peeking my head into one of them, whom should I come across again but Ms. Dolly Lewis, Ms. Amanda Walker, and Ms. Laurie Scovotti, Boy Fenwick's current and former assistants!<br />
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Mr. Boy Fenwick himself soon arrived, and the four of them started flipping through the wings of lovely fabrics on display.<br />
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Caught in the act!<br />
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The five of us then decided that dinner was most defintely in order, so we retired to the nearby <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/restaurants/1002207984515/canaletto/details.html">Canaletto Restaurant</a>, on East 60th Street, where we had a jolly time of it indeed.<br />
<br />
Ah, what a wonderful few hours I had last night, and how fortunate I am to have such an accomplished friend as Ms. Maureen Footer to celebrate and a bevy of others to join me in doing so!<br />
<br />
<i>George Stacey and the Creation of American Chic</i><br />
by Maureen Footer with a foreword by Mario Buatta<br />
Rizzoli International Publications, Inc.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-60657043049335799422014-03-30T14:27:00.001-04:002014-03-30T14:27:31.484-04:00Watch Your Language, Please!I've got to get something off my chest, Dear Reader. I am supremely weary of hearing people drop the F-bomb. It seems that almost every place I go these days I hear someone using it over and over in casual conversations, in restaurants, at work, in stores, <i>everywhere</i>.<br />
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It's almost as prevalent as the mind-numbing use of "like," "uh," and "um" as conversation filler. But it is far worse. While those three words may be grating to listen to when repeated endlessly in conversation, they are but tedious only. Flagrant use of the F-word, on the other hand, is rightly frowned upon by people of refinement and banned from broadcast airwaves (at least for now) for a reason: it is intensely and vividly <i>vulgar</i>. I believe its use should be reserved for situations and circumstances that are either private or where the speaker has been provoked to the point of explosion. And it most certainly shouldn't be used within earshot of children.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, Dear Reader, Reggie is not a prude. He has been known to use the F-word himself, along with other pithy Anglo Saxon expletives. He acknowledges that doing so can at times be very satisfying, indeed. However, he believes the use of the F-bomb in general conversation today has become so prevalent and gratuitous as to have lost its potency, at least in the minds of those he overhears using it repeatedly and unblinkingly in public.<br />
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If they stopped to actually listen to themselves, as Reggie is often forced to against his wishes, he believes they might be surprised to hear how crude and unattractive they sound. And how <i>unimaginative</i>—can't they think of any other words to use? <br />
<br />
Maybe not. At least that's what he concludes when he casts a gimlet eye on many of those he overhears using it in public. <br />
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But that's not always the case, Dear Reader. Reggie is often surprised when he turns to examine who is speaking so fouly to find that it is a person who should <i>know better</i>. They have fallen into the habit of using the F-word unthinkingly, with no comprehension that it does not reflect well upon themselves (to say the least), nor do they have any consideration that others might find it unpleasant—if not offensive—to listen to.<br />
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When I am out in public, Dear Reader, I do not like hearing other people repeatedly use the F-bomb or other rude expletives, particularly <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/06/reggies-rules-for-dining-in-better.html">strangers at other tables in restaurants</a>, in lines at stores, in <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/01/theatuh-theatuh-whats-happened-to_12.html">places of entertainment</a>, or while <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/04/reggies-rules-for-navigating-ones-way.html">walking about the streets of the city</a> in which I live. I find it ugly and intrusive.<br />
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So I make every effort not to drop the F-bomb or use other obscenities in public. Sometimes I slip up, though, because I am far from perfect. But I try to be sensitive to the fact that there are people within listening distance who may find such language offensive, and so I refrain from using it in public whenever possible.<br />
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I think the world would be a better place if more of us did the same, too.<br />
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Tell me, Dear Reader, what do you think?Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com60tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-18055592956128561312014-03-27T21:53:00.002-04:002014-03-27T21:53:38.440-04:00More Barrels of DarlingtonSeveral years ago I wrote a post about <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/01/barrels-of-darlington.html">my affection for barrel-shaped objects</a>. I'm drawn to them, Dear Reader, and have collected them for as long as I can remember. I find objects made in the shape of old-fashioned barrels pleasing, both to look at and as sweet reminders of pre-industrial times.<br />
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All sorts of barrel-shaped vessels are to be found if one keeps one's eyes open for such things. Most that I come across date from before the 1950s, when plastic containers became ubiquitous and, well, ruined everything.<br />
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We recently came across an assortment of little barrel-shaped vessels for sale at <a href="http://www.whitewhalelimited.com/">White Whale Limited</a>, one of our favorite antiques shops in Hudson, New York. Owned and operated by two generations of the Ribar family, White Whale is a required destination of ours in Hudson and a place where we have had great good luck finding wonderful things for Darlington House, ranging from <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/12/mother-lode.html">vintage Christmas ornaments</a> to early <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/10/classical-coincidence.html">neoclassical Staffordshire figures</a>. We rarely come away from a visit to White Whale with nothing in hand.<br />
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Among the numerous little barrels for sale we chose the three small ones shown in this post. Two are made of glazed earthenware and one is made of mixed metals. The green and yellow barrels stand about three inches tall; the larger metal one is approximately five inches tall. All three were made to squirrel away coins. They were fortunate to avoid the fate of many a child's piggy bank: smashed to shards to cash in the treasure within. I believe our little barrels date from the mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth century.<br />
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Aren't they charming?<br />
<br />
White Whale Limited<br />
410 Warren Street<br />
Hudson, New York 12534<br />
Monday - Sunday 11:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.<br />
T: (518) 755-6441<br />
<a href="http://www.whitewhalelimited.com/">www.whitewhalelimited.com</a><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs by Boy Fenwick</span></i><br />
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<br />Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-64763272069605910562014-03-22T10:38:00.002-04:002014-03-23T09:32:53.894-04:00The Old Gray Barn Is Getting a FaceliftOne of the joys (and responsibilities) of Darlington is that it has a number of buildings on the property. Four, to be specific. In addition to the brick and clapboard main house there are two wooden barns—one originally designed to hold a carriage, and the other for farm equipment and livestock. There is also a brick workhouse built for doing laundry and cooking in warmer weather. All the structures on the property date from the first decades of the nineteenth century and are original.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkY7aF9D7YUO5TAFEx9BNF8aWLnbOJ564rOs0FZSwOKGfWXPSph6HyHED1sXeZCLzWpscUoetbIUcnkMJ_LvmFk3INzD_d57tZR-uMSC7HjvQ-XtaDsxtpY7na73vXWC6HbKIJVPMpxaU/s1600/IMG_2445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkY7aF9D7YUO5TAFEx9BNF8aWLnbOJ564rOs0FZSwOKGfWXPSph6HyHED1sXeZCLzWpscUoetbIUcnkMJ_LvmFk3INzD_d57tZR-uMSC7HjvQ-XtaDsxtpY7na73vXWC6HbKIJVPMpxaU/s1600/IMG_2445.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The old gray barn last July, pre-restoration, festooned with<br />
forty-eight star flags in honor of Independence Day</td></tr>
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Since buying Darlington more than fifteen years ago we have done a lot of work to the buildings and grounds. Not only did we want to, Dear Reader, as we believe it is our responsibility to sensitively care for such treasures, but their deteriorating condition required it. As I wrote in my <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2009/12/darlington-house.html">introductory post on Darlington</a>, the condition of the house and property was one of benign neglect when we bought it. The previous owner, Mrs. Proctor, was in her late nineties at the time and had been living in what is euphemistically referred to as "a home" for several years. Darlington had sat empty for five (or more) years, used only occasionally by relatives when visiting the area.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYuQrG-LDNvG1_-wXmvUcjg1n-WewwtwPlOUFaTue_RFd_BXdLr0JX_cChiia5wlHNIdb2Xah9Oymt8vKULR_WoaUMTvYA6MBsyd7TYP4KSj0yiBOiqzJ2c0br310K5nZFhIPnPnrbeQ/s1600/IMG_2679.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaYuQrG-LDNvG1_-wXmvUcjg1n-WewwtwPlOUFaTue_RFd_BXdLr0JX_cChiia5wlHNIdb2Xah9Oymt8vKULR_WoaUMTvYA6MBsyd7TYP4KSj0yiBOiqzJ2c0br310K5nZFhIPnPnrbeQ/s1600/IMG_2679.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The barn one month later. Work has begun.<br />
Note absence of chimney on right hand side of the roof . . .</td></tr>
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During their ownership of Darlington, the Proctors, people of means who appreciated the historic significance of the house and property, took good care of it. However, by the time we bought it from them little had been done to the house or grounds since the 1970s, other than putting up an occasional coat of paint and regularly mowing the lawns. Darlington had become a sleeping, overgrown beauty, drifting into decay . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZJSSgMr1VnsiXvarUL_sUB4L5RbKF2bkaxh-a_dEK4BRy9hhMDPtqUiy2AN1NA2meIUPZ_2Uu8E6XzIr9YL-N3pn14AG16329wh2NrueHEIMQt6F9B_LCdivKKgxJeFamLYfyY6urdE/s1600/IMG_2681.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_ZJSSgMr1VnsiXvarUL_sUB4L5RbKF2bkaxh-a_dEK4BRy9hhMDPtqUiy2AN1NA2meIUPZ_2Uu8E6XzIr9YL-N3pn14AG16329wh2NrueHEIMQt6F9B_LCdivKKgxJeFamLYfyY6urdE/s1600/IMG_2681.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The barn's west elevation. The three windows' sashes have been<br />
removed for restoration and reglazing. The ghost of the roof of a <br />
lean-to that once adjoined this facade can be seen sloping down from<br />
the right. We are going to open the boarded-up window on the<br />
first floor and replace the sliding door to its right with a matching<br />
window that will restore the facade's original two-over-two <br />
symmetrical window placement</td></tr>
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Our first priority was to focus on the main house, which required major and extensive restoration, and also a complete updating of all of its systems. As the urgency of those repairs subsided, we turned our sights to the other buildings on the property. Our next project was a ground-up restoration of the carriage barn, which we have repurposed as a gardening barn, filling it with tools and rakes and enough <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/04/peale-plant-and-pot.html">Guy Wolff clay pots</a> to keep a nursery happy for years. We have also done a substantial amount of restoration to Darlington's work house and hope to have it completed later this year when the fellow who has done the work on it so far frees up from other commitments.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisohTL2ycoYbmjWGs-wsBLmKocb45OPIadTK7WE0QXpArYMdw9agKv2PJiKr9dLx2jYTpLWGkqBYhScyqqjRR17ZdUoHysQ8PqffMnQWvVxfDtUz1PV455sN8umMeB1Niixc3y4hjqLc4/s1600/IMG_2629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisohTL2ycoYbmjWGs-wsBLmKocb45OPIadTK7WE0QXpArYMdw9agKv2PJiKr9dLx2jYTpLWGkqBYhScyqqjRR17ZdUoHysQ8PqffMnQWvVxfDtUz1PV455sN8umMeB1Niixc3y4hjqLc4/s1600/IMG_2629.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our restored carriage barn. We plan on using the same<br />
green paint color on the windows and doors of the large barn</td></tr>
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More recently we have turned our attention to what we call the "large barn" at Darlington. It was built in around 1840 as a working barn and originally held the property's farm machinery and equipment, along with the livestock that was used in managing the 165 acres that Darlington once encompassed. Today it is where we keep our cars, large clay pots in the winter, stacks of firewood, and our refuse and recycling containers. In other words, it functions as a large modern-day garage.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZ1ueDxh6czkqezK16vOCpeUHpRLYRjRNooT7UTGUcwLphqfR3dv6oGel5Ypzjly3Yv-XE0vLRFL8mjOTRzg65594-Pp6SD-ALs3kR5YWvdtEMj_yQ1Rv3xcqgKIVPbz1VKGkswYqacI/s1600/IMG_2683.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYZ1ueDxh6czkqezK16vOCpeUHpRLYRjRNooT7UTGUcwLphqfR3dv6oGel5Ypzjly3Yv-XE0vLRFL8mjOTRzg65594-Pp6SD-ALs3kR5YWvdtEMj_yQ1Rv3xcqgKIVPbz1VKGkswYqacI/s1600/IMG_2683.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The south facade of the barn. We are removing the unfortunate 1960s<br />
garage door and the inappropriate horizontal window, along with the small<br />
sliding door on the right. The rusty tin roof, which dates from the<br />
late-nineteenth century, is in good shape, and will be scraped and painted</td></tr>
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When we bought Darlington the large barn was packed to the rafters with seventy years' of the Procters' accumulated stuff (they were great pack rats) and infested with insect damage. A lean-to addition had been cobbled onto it in the 1940s, and the building's Greek Revival integrity had been further undignified by the addition of inappropriate windows and an ugly 1960s-era garage door. Although we quickly eliminated the lean-to, it took us until last year finally to bite the bullet and begin working on the barn in earnest. (When I write "we" here I must clarify that it is not Boy and I who are the ones actually doing the work to the barn. No, we are fortunate to have others who are skillfully doing it on our behalf under the careful supervision of <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/03/at-long-last-looking-glass.html">Isaiah Cornini</a>, the consultant we have been working with ever since we bought Darlington. Mr. Cornini advises us and designs and manages all of the restoration projects we do on the property.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkle_Vp8WUCuo817wFvw_4bG1sPLCnjHTwxzHdbJZMuGpxffNSSDE_9UBpx2917uYiLD-tvzUSEl-EP0Vh5gE9imC_GQ57PGivqs7CD22b1T9pnDdevKeid3hXV93zXdr8JMWzH8qUjmA/s1600/IMG_2675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkle_Vp8WUCuo817wFvw_4bG1sPLCnjHTwxzHdbJZMuGpxffNSSDE_9UBpx2917uYiLD-tvzUSEl-EP0Vh5gE9imC_GQ57PGivqs7CD22b1T9pnDdevKeid3hXV93zXdr8JMWzH8qUjmA/s1600/IMG_2675.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the barn, showing both the south and east<br />
elevations. We are going to paint the siding and cornice<br />
in a period-appropriate mustard/ochre color; sashes and<br />
doors will be painted the green used on the carriage barn</td></tr>
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So why did we wait so long to tackle the large barn's restoration, you might ask, Dear Reader? There were several reasons. First, the financial crash of 2008 happened, which put the brakes on my interest in taking on such a large project, and second, it took us for ever to decide that we didn't need to do as thorough (and expensive) a restoration to the barn as we have done to the other buildings on the property. Rather, we decided that it was sufficient (and less financially punishing) to do a careful and thoughtful shoring up of the structure, replace its later, less-than-successful remuddlings, and update the building's systems for modern-day requirements. When we are finished we will have returned the barn to a close approximation of what it looked like when it was originally built almost 180 years ago. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhokm2KA90iJIEOUiL99NijiCbB34yQ66lCt_34RAZRiUFDkkLof4Q8PX7tSphzVuUkHHiTaqFTgb39hLRdO2orza6dvPG7tGfHhs_23loqGI2zFq_lxofgsv7K647EEz9dyHhZ797QZno/s1600/IMG_2674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhokm2KA90iJIEOUiL99NijiCbB34yQ66lCt_34RAZRiUFDkkLof4Q8PX7tSphzVuUkHHiTaqFTgb39hLRdO2orza6dvPG7tGfHhs_23loqGI2zFq_lxofgsv7K647EEz9dyHhZ797QZno/s1600/IMG_2674.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the barn's east facade. We have<br />
already removed an unsightly cinder-block chimney that<br />
was added in the 1940s. The boarded-up windows on the<br />
second storey are false ones, added for symmetry<br />
when the barn was built. We will replace the later<br />
horizontal windows with sash windows, restoring the <br />
facade's original two-over-two window symmetry,<br />
similar to the building's west facade</td></tr>
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Over the next several months I plan on posting about the barn's ongoing restoration and updating. I am confident that when the work is completed the barn will, once again, be the handsome and dignified structure it once was and was always meant to be.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYB-UfJbqH0k1AAC7E6-RbyMMh6o-Si8k7S8MmmWTUt7q7eD23jtaMs81j8wy-dZg6HYr-OWxOcr9o-4pJMGa1IthGJUuo74HC0Nc51zdSMdQvcdSAfYDk13_RjNYBUUkzA8oiZx8mxSQ/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYB-UfJbqH0k1AAC7E6-RbyMMh6o-Si8k7S8MmmWTUt7q7eD23jtaMs81j8wy-dZg6HYr-OWxOcr9o-4pJMGa1IthGJUuo74HC0Nc51zdSMdQvcdSAfYDk13_RjNYBUUkzA8oiZx8mxSQ/s1600/IMG_3038.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A later view of the barn's east facade showing the restoration of the<br />
cornice underway where the cinder-block chimney once interrupted it</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Won't you please join me in my journey?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com36tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-28991076312953907792014-03-11T01:10:00.000-04:002014-03-11T23:51:48.424-04:00Remembrances of Things PastHave you ever found yourself in a place, far, far away from home, that reminds you, quite vividly, of another time and place in your life?<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWEaAR8pmqFl44rgQJBE82PvHCotQZ5rDyJLNjo8PEAQjgxa06HqdU93kminkEMHr6nJRfMPDDwpHwO_D5-c0MCqt1NUbJnfviw8FnuwF9d_SYynFCE_e0ATBFbSgX_5ysBHWSxw3qqg/s1600/IMG_2697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJWEaAR8pmqFl44rgQJBE82PvHCotQZ5rDyJLNjo8PEAQjgxa06HqdU93kminkEMHr6nJRfMPDDwpHwO_D5-c0MCqt1NUbJnfviw8FnuwF9d_SYynFCE_e0ATBFbSgX_5ysBHWSxw3qqg/s1600/IMG_2697.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A chartered plane at one's disposal is a most addicting indulgence, I find<br /><i>Photograph by Boy Fenwick</i></span></td></tr>
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It just happened to me, Dear Reader.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmsoNFKnjCHqgr5cbpym-p6XgTgFKDfR6N7iAZuhwzgo6Xe2k9OFFzyvL3Orj-RU7pNhxDa8Iz_ugaSHh0onZylh9H_6tS4AGPVss6c3Ypal-MGP440dtFBl1ARzz5V_PWkVMapmy8Io/s1600/IMG_2691.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzmsoNFKnjCHqgr5cbpym-p6XgTgFKDfR6N7iAZuhwzgo6Xe2k9OFFzyvL3Orj-RU7pNhxDa8Iz_ugaSHh0onZylh9H_6tS4AGPVss6c3Ypal-MGP440dtFBl1ARzz5V_PWkVMapmy8Io/s1600/IMG_2691.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Belgians are the only way to fly, don't you think?<br /><i>Photograph by Boy Fenwick</i></span></td></tr>
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I have recently returned from a week with dear friends on a tiny sand slip of an island way out in the tropic Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by turquoise waters, pale pink beaches, and nights spent dancing in postage stamp sized clubs to the pounding beat and soaring vocals of deep house music.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl-0X47pe7aMZcSdkn3nRAvtP1tEWjWaAIqQxY_BoM3QO4IbX_upadvXlW4JVRYwozHyxJq9kL24ufkJGyEUn3bKajUl6PE8BS3Hnut6-l4OfcU_jElYnwAhZ-iLP2J3wW7D-kPSOwlE/s1600/IMG-20140304-00004.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDl-0X47pe7aMZcSdkn3nRAvtP1tEWjWaAIqQxY_BoM3QO4IbX_upadvXlW4JVRYwozHyxJq9kL24ufkJGyEUn3bKajUl6PE8BS3Hnut6-l4OfcU_jElYnwAhZ-iLP2J3wW7D-kPSOwlE/s1600/IMG-20140304-00004.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The view from the restaurant at the hotel we frequented during our stay<br /><i>Photograph by Reggie Darling</i></span></td></tr>
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It took me back many years, to when I was an habitué of the enormous dance clubs that once littered the downtowns of New York City, Los Angeles, Miami, and San Francisco, where I spent many, many nights dancing and carousing to the light fantastic, mind-bending music of the great, internationally acclaimed deejays of the 1980s and 1990s.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhDH5CwQKsmLnFxPlVc_74N3N5CDn5seHW9qg2qMGYNiq3eKf22JnuXkv7YBFVgrl1BPequZpw8oYRpZAHDHcr2F8EsHQwxZlnBaFyi5Gjqn_5yvKMCqQjN3q0Fzg7GJi-eAE1i-tXEY/s1600/hd_pic_kingstreat-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhDH5CwQKsmLnFxPlVc_74N3N5CDn5seHW9qg2qMGYNiq3eKf22JnuXkv7YBFVgrl1BPequZpw8oYRpZAHDHcr2F8EsHQwxZlnBaFyi5Gjqn_5yvKMCqQjN3q0Fzg7GJi-eAE1i-tXEY/s1600/hd_pic_kingstreat-1.jpg" height="181" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The picturesque house we rented in the island's little town<br /><i>Image courtesy of <a href="http://www.hibiscushillharbourisland.com/">Hibiscus Hill</a></i></span></td></tr>
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I did so then with a close knit group of friends that I no longer see anymore. After a decade of intense and constant interaction with each other we were blown asunder by the winds of change, shifting priorities, and evolving alliances.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNP7HPuEdut9ErzXWFEQqYBM0QxNlr8hDJA7dZFT0PwfJOVBw0-LdQQydLMxwHDZen-TvBG8CbFfQm3eqyaVoxVd9sk4JpOx75o7zF0HvLu2H4y4VuBwFbTTpPgBPpIKC_i7_-5211J2g/s1600/IMG-20140306-00006.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNP7HPuEdut9ErzXWFEQqYBM0QxNlr8hDJA7dZFT0PwfJOVBw0-LdQQydLMxwHDZen-TvBG8CbFfQm3eqyaVoxVd9sk4JpOx75o7zF0HvLu2H4y4VuBwFbTTpPgBPpIKC_i7_-5211J2g/s1600/IMG-20140306-00006.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The languorous piazza where we spent much of our time during our stay<br /><i>Photograph by Reggie Darling</i></span></td></tr>
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I will always look back on my laughter-filled years with my old gang as honeyed and intensely and insanely fun. It was a close group of amusing, clever, and game-for-anything friends. We were young, affluent, and handsome, and the world was ours for the taking. Out all the time, shaking it, shouting with laughter, we were giddy and glad of it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="image" src="https://31.media.tumblr.com/bcddbb86da5aa77b7e5bd19a7febcb91/tumblr_inline_n17oo34PRy1qevbd8.gif" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; height: auto; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0px; max-width: 100%;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I spent many nights at dance parties similar to this one in <i>La Grande Bellezza</i></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Video courtesy of Janus Films</span></i></td></tr>
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I'm no longer friends with that gang, though, with one or two notable exceptions. I upset the apple cart when Lady Destiny raised her hand and tossed me the bewitching Boy Fenwick. One look at him and I was smitten. There was no going back for me. After much hand wringing and with my heart racing I flew the coop and found myself deliriously soaring in the oxygenated air of the suddenly new and unexpected, excitedly and nervously anticipating what would come next, my fingers crossed.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUHMO-DhgJHqzOTKH1FVXCz9jv7E81NwZ8Wp_dl50RqCfa1eF8b7S_mtynw7YjUmbPX3xJDnnehKHSS9Hp2lIOMj2MhZx-IEUNKBISF5n-mDTEwXyoqcD4L1LxN3ihKSb9YIzpz4X_w8/s1600/IMG-20140306-00010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheUHMO-DhgJHqzOTKH1FVXCz9jv7E81NwZ8Wp_dl50RqCfa1eF8b7S_mtynw7YjUmbPX3xJDnnehKHSS9Hp2lIOMj2MhZx-IEUNKBISF5n-mDTEwXyoqcD4L1LxN3ihKSb9YIzpz4X_w8/s1600/IMG-20140306-00010.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Bougainvillea was everywhere on the island<br /><i>Photograph by Reggie Darling</i></span></td></tr>
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I ask you, what does one do when confronted by Destiny? You follow her lead, Dear Reader, because you must. That's why they call it <i>destiny</i>, after all . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaapZkf3PDaE-I_RgWCz85_lHnvS3jUa5igCMq6e91Ik4JkLOkREGYtPCG3fDozNCIAm7law43tJEPlCglMlFMg6Fg-OYmaYI2GZ9kM2hZDzYIMcExmD_1usCekqrlHXXgWwSPq-oSqVg/s1600/The+Great+Beauty+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaapZkf3PDaE-I_RgWCz85_lHnvS3jUa5igCMq6e91Ik4JkLOkREGYtPCG3fDozNCIAm7law43tJEPlCglMlFMg6Fg-OYmaYI2GZ9kM2hZDzYIMcExmD_1usCekqrlHXXgWwSPq-oSqVg/s1600/The+Great+Beauty+2.jpg" height="173" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I identify in certain ways with the character of Jep Gambardella<br />in <i>La Grande Bellezza</i>, as seen here in a still from the film<br /><i>Image courtesy of Janus Films</i></span></td></tr>
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And that's what I found myself reflecting upon as I danced the night away in the tiny nightclubs of the island I visited. There I was, all these years later, laughing and dancing with another very special group of sophisticated, world-traveled style people of wit and good will. My friends. And each and every one of us was ready for the fun and frolic that was there to be had for the asking.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80dMDzzfJDk8eLABt9oRW_SnNZ8LEQ6Gboa-KrJjmlqcXnY1-d1kD49dgE_kuOI63JOX4m9DWcYXNfKTuExEJ7JqFBj6_Z1ZN0yASMdmnMfnaoAEHq3gt8Uyy0UozK9ZjEV4A4fz6tTU/s1600/IMG_6080.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg80dMDzzfJDk8eLABt9oRW_SnNZ8LEQ6Gboa-KrJjmlqcXnY1-d1kD49dgE_kuOI63JOX4m9DWcYXNfKTuExEJ7JqFBj6_Z1ZN0yASMdmnMfnaoAEHq3gt8Uyy0UozK9ZjEV4A4fz6tTU/s1600/IMG_6080.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The view from the window of the plane we chartered to fly us back<br />to where we came from<br /><i>Photograph courtesy of James Littlefield</i></span></td></tr>
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Take it from me, Dear Reader, there is another act. <br />
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I'm the living proof of it.Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com33tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-19267590600723623232014-02-26T17:50:00.001-05:002014-03-01T00:48:33.200-05:00Reggie Out & About: Glenda Ruby Book Signing Party at OlanaNot long before the Holiday Season Madness descended upon us, Boy and I were invited to and attended a book signing party held at <a href="http://www.olana.org/">Olana</a>, the celebrated, exotic fantasy of a stately home built by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Frederic_Edwin_Church">Frederic Edwin Church</a> (1826-1900). As readers of this blog are well aware, Mr. Church was one of our Nation's most revered and talented artists and one of the founders of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hudson_River_School">Hudson River School</a> of landscape painters. In his day he was as famous as a rock star, became rich as Croesus, and built Olana as a trophy of his well-deserved success.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NIHF5iAEr_41DZMJN0WLDMozajtoepaSlcyjM4lcGDjfhD-jzZw6KsOHa206pRyv3aStjuzEosUNpVsf8GD_BD9mCahn1cYGxdRIFDGSaN18YdiGi4PloCfvjAS_RH3KWy5aMJbF9G4/s1600/IMG_3531.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1NIHF5iAEr_41DZMJN0WLDMozajtoepaSlcyjM4lcGDjfhD-jzZw6KsOHa206pRyv3aStjuzEosUNpVsf8GD_BD9mCahn1cYGxdRIFDGSaN18YdiGi4PloCfvjAS_RH3KWy5aMJbF9G4/s1600/IMG_3531.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frederic Church's Olana at twilight</td></tr>
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<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olana_State_Historic_Site">Olana</a> sits on the top of a hill commanding a magnificent view out over the mighty Hudson River. The house, which was designed in collaboration with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Calvert_Vaux">Calvert Vaux</a> (1824-1895), another creative Titan of the nineteenth century (he co-designed New York's Central Park), has been beautifully preserved and restored (with much of its original contents intact), and is open to the public. Olana is one of New York's—no, this <i>country's</i>—historic treasure houses. If you haven't made a pilgrimage to see it yet, Dear Reader, I highly recommend that you do so. But be sure to book your tickets well in advance, as Olana is a popular destination and its tours frequently sell out.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyJpy_bBo-1GzWbfqKFSEs8D-iqF7Ak8JWyyQSh0YlxcfNNlan2SijE58cUL78VKTfGel3HQSoVKCj_Dmmofdk-xBYgsBvnNGYtxGkshqGHMrj1PbRbGhwQJ6gFqT1-WJkPm6f50zRHE/s1600/IMG_3538.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifyJpy_bBo-1GzWbfqKFSEs8D-iqF7Ak8JWyyQSh0YlxcfNNlan2SijE58cUL78VKTfGel3HQSoVKCj_Dmmofdk-xBYgsBvnNGYtxGkshqGHMrj1PbRbGhwQJ6gFqT1-WJkPm6f50zRHE/s1600/IMG_3538.JPG" height="288" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from Olana's piazza, overlooking the Hudson River Valley</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The book signing party was held in Olana's visitors' center, an attractively converted former carriage house on the estate's property.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbMQglYFsljdfAmQ3cmS5GntNsK4dBvoAPsFMoMjWYDBgmy5gZUmNvPaT2lXB45JY5jNO1tXmZwHXLNB-tgVmurbaSby0DHGGUcmZ1JH-dN-MAbVbdCIo6MN3rs0oz5DMaXatv6VFaTE/s1600/IMG_3540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAbMQglYFsljdfAmQ3cmS5GntNsK4dBvoAPsFMoMjWYDBgmy5gZUmNvPaT2lXB45JY5jNO1tXmZwHXLNB-tgVmurbaSby0DHGGUcmZ1JH-dN-MAbVbdCIo6MN3rs0oz5DMaXatv6VFaTE/s1600/IMG_3540.JPG" height="270" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
The featured book was written by a dear friend of ours, Ms. Glenda Ruby, and is a delicious read. It is a murder mystery, titled <i>Death at Olana—</i>which explains why the party was held there (although there is no formal connection between the author and Olana). The book is very clever and amusing, and it marvelously captures the spirit and the doings of those of us who variously inhabit the surrounding Columbia County, an area known for its gorgeous rural scenery, a jumble of city folk and locals, and all the crafty shenanigans that one would expect in an area where such cultures (sometimes) collide.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYCBh_LQFbxfQ5SEA5t8JD0C5D9cCFtOuIjTMMAdrrfRHviQOEP7LzvNjFqI3yQ1G3AQH653aGx9gHXfhrpWGm0Q0kRF_DCvcQjmk98NN2B1rF5lJqi7j6B4pF6I3GaIeRs9-0Y94-uk/s1600/IMG_3566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYCBh_LQFbxfQ5SEA5t8JD0C5D9cCFtOuIjTMMAdrrfRHviQOEP7LzvNjFqI3yQ1G3AQH653aGx9gHXfhrpWGm0Q0kRF_DCvcQjmk98NN2B1rF5lJqi7j6B4pF6I3GaIeRs9-0Y94-uk/s1600/IMG_3566.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One enjoyed a 20% discount in the Olana gift shop!</td></tr>
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<br />
Here's what the book's dust jacket says:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Most of the charming people and the ne'er-do-wells, the heroes and the villains in this tale, abide in Columbia County. While this is still very much the country, agricultural and rural, about thirty years ago there began a diaspora of New York cognoscenti who chose to spend time in quaint hamlets and villages, rather than amid the haute bourgeois excess of say, Long Island, to choose a random example."</blockquote>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqCsWnBBIAx1KNPI9soz9PjHZqzQyeMd_xNrjgCQy4h9LSwOgsV0x5N9oqmuzGTLX37tUaftKrYUeMZ6BUDkovsY1Y0UWYD89IJW7i9z-3_UH1vbZIpLRVnoVXL4HR_5dhRqpq_xt1PE/s1600/IMG_3546.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsqCsWnBBIAx1KNPI9soz9PjHZqzQyeMd_xNrjgCQy4h9LSwOgsV0x5N9oqmuzGTLX37tUaftKrYUeMZ6BUDkovsY1Y0UWYD89IJW7i9z-3_UH1vbZIpLRVnoVXL4HR_5dhRqpq_xt1PE/s1600/IMG_3546.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The book party's attendees, enjoying themselves</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"And so among the apple, pear, peach, and cherry orchards, the dairy farms, and the good local people who run them, you will increasingly find upper middle, indeed wealthy families, singles, straights and gays, painters, writers, publishers, lawyers, media types, and investment bankers <i>[editor's note: such as Reggie]</i> who have migrated to this historic area. We all believe we live in the most beautiful place in the world.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Some of us are murderers."</blockquote>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAU9eQz-eO4catZ50mhop4kZgXUGvnn6jKgOVsmtEgrrmwqTN10C1KpCo1TOBm5SSfGn0p2F3KNBeXsBiqwk_YSZD1tQFjzts-1chpo2oNeI1LfXxSAwSmxDnUgabnYy353lTMR8h9KA/s1600/IMG_3541.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFAU9eQz-eO4catZ50mhop4kZgXUGvnn6jKgOVsmtEgrrmwqTN10C1KpCo1TOBm5SSfGn0p2F3KNBeXsBiqwk_YSZD1tQFjzts-1chpo2oNeI1LfXxSAwSmxDnUgabnYy353lTMR8h9KA/s1600/IMG_3541.JPG" height="342" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ms. Glenda Ruby</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Christmas at Olana, Frederic Church's Moorish fantasy castle . . . a new Church painting unveiled . . . beside a naked body hanging by a noose.</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"So begins the first of the Hudson Valley Murders, a new series for lovers of mystery and malicious wit."</blockquote>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaDubnIDJVOxystXyLueiAqdUYwJqekPw7eJMDBCsyYN16xeIghdmVyNeQewx4BbVLlaZ4WGeYmnT2-My1KcbKsBvjImLgSPaPdBj3anJp8R-x3cpE1arJGNC-C3r0fStQzNI-RGl9_8/s1600/IMG_4010.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJaDubnIDJVOxystXyLueiAqdUYwJqekPw7eJMDBCsyYN16xeIghdmVyNeQewx4BbVLlaZ4WGeYmnT2-My1KcbKsBvjImLgSPaPdBj3anJp8R-x3cpE1arJGNC-C3r0fStQzNI-RGl9_8/s1600/IMG_4010.jpg" height="320" width="308" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our copy of <i>Death at Olana</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We arrived at the party on the later side after what I understand was a veritable crush of well-wishers and friends of the author. Food and drink was plentiful, and I enjoyed myself immensely. So much so, in fact, that I gleefully bought half a dozen copies of <i>Death at Olana</i> as Christmas presents, and had them inscribed by Ms. Ruby. She gamely complied, I am happy to report.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_b4SuSsPjQv_1LLCquF1C56cvA4_r4AgDQj35C53S-dC7KqG1bKyuUJLA1uApZUsmnYtqru4zlcFNKaP1yorJPPlhfbtRQ4WSzJr_mZDTJa_XIwa5Pk1he636GJxRJq1Vn25munmJ9k/s1600/IMG_3544.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik_b4SuSsPjQv_1LLCquF1C56cvA4_r4AgDQj35C53S-dC7KqG1bKyuUJLA1uApZUsmnYtqru4zlcFNKaP1yorJPPlhfbtRQ4WSzJr_mZDTJa_XIwa5Pk1he636GJxRJq1Vn25munmJ9k/s1600/IMG_3544.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy speaking with a strange bird at the party</td></tr>
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One runs into and meets all sorts of people at parties I find. I had a brief and pleasant conversation there with Mr. Stephen Shadley, the noted interior designer, who is someone I first met thirty or so years ago. Goodness! I find that I am saying things like "more than thirty years ago" more frequently of late than I care to admit! Where <i>does</i> the time go, I ask you?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3ToiB6wAiBVGod6KoVgyc-CTgmnc0sLH4sUuatbYuHslM0LapMGNLZpdFBeL8k9OHHb_nlaACaBVLZG2QpOQyRZXzTXo2usK13yCNTFvlYmt-Yg8cYIMdij5QpeogJzEZ7zBoVw1EwA/s1600/IMG_3560.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD3ToiB6wAiBVGod6KoVgyc-CTgmnc0sLH4sUuatbYuHslM0LapMGNLZpdFBeL8k9OHHb_nlaACaBVLZG2QpOQyRZXzTXo2usK13yCNTFvlYmt-Yg8cYIMdij5QpeogJzEZ7zBoVw1EwA/s1600/IMG_3560.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Boy Fenwick having fun with Ms. Ros Daly</td></tr>
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One of the other guests at the party was the divine Ms. Ros Daly. You can see her in the preceding photograph holding my copies of <i>Death at Olana,</i> which she graciously agreed to hoist while I snapped her picture with the admiring Boy Fenwick at her side.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfG_1cG9rYCjt-bxwpyvYWVctWqyvwKylC3v33ha1_GpzrUQcU4AiViDfx9EdGQE0Db5YJ3OOO1_mbxO_UBbp7cwhUDZ5U12tD_nXAMr9mr7j9iEGz_B74wPhblqDc3fmbFlOCuVDjU3U/s1600/IMG_3555.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfG_1cG9rYCjt-bxwpyvYWVctWqyvwKylC3v33ha1_GpzrUQcU4AiViDfx9EdGQE0Db5YJ3OOO1_mbxO_UBbp7cwhUDZ5U12tD_nXAMr9mr7j9iEGz_B74wPhblqDc3fmbFlOCuVDjU3U/s1600/IMG_3555.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Lady Authoress, hard at work</td></tr>
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</div>
<br />
I am beyond fond of Ms. Ruby, who is a wit, a <i>bon vivant</i>, a <i>raconteur</i>, and makes the best <i>Boeuf Bourguignon</i> that I've ever had the pleasure of eating. Plus, she's a Southerner and has the most marvelous whiskey and cigarettes voice imaginable. She is Heaven! <br />
<br />
Ms. Ruby does a superb (and quite humorous) job of depicting (some would say <i>skewering</i>) the insulated little world we live in during weekends up in Columbia County, among the fields and orchards, and—occasionally as it turns out—naked dead bodies swinging from ropes!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPaOY2WdZMsjdE0h-NuPH2AdQgtY2R7desuSZGsi8YtPZAIqgMAXmA42qcpL8DHhspAu1__FBHOs96ZKrxnCPB34Ov_XfhEI-lwP5MKeeecNmqaVWBi1reOgyZ8i3J216pAmHKsosznjc/s1600/IMG_3558.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPaOY2WdZMsjdE0h-NuPH2AdQgtY2R7desuSZGsi8YtPZAIqgMAXmA42qcpL8DHhspAu1__FBHOs96ZKrxnCPB34Ov_XfhEI-lwP5MKeeecNmqaVWBi1reOgyZ8i3J216pAmHKsosznjc/s1600/IMG_3558.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Oh, hello Reggie, so glad you could come!"</td></tr>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
After reading <i>Death at Olana</i>, I sincerely hope that Ms. Ruby follows through on her threat that it will be the first in a series of Hudson Valley Murder Mysteries. I want more!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6HV4lxuYL94QL6IoYACyu3fkbrhJyJW9tuXAiOWlKrn1gwPj4II59bb1ya9qEpEghcoy0JMkeXR9NEgxnoe72Z62OV1zmzCK9XNlvleNhxojRZM2ysaC_etg_RU_z3AWguMc5Vd8vCY/s1600/IMG_4014.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf6HV4lxuYL94QL6IoYACyu3fkbrhJyJW9tuXAiOWlKrn1gwPj4II59bb1ya9qEpEghcoy0JMkeXR9NEgxnoe72Z62OV1zmzCK9XNlvleNhxojRZM2ysaC_etg_RU_z3AWguMc5Vd8vCY/s1600/IMG_4014.jpg" height="320" width="282" /></a></div>
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If you are interested in a light and entertaining read (and who isn't?) full of colorful characters, amusing situations, and a healthy dose of keenly observed insights into the human condition (at least as it is found two hours north of Manhattan in the county where Reggie spends most of his weekends), then I highly recommend <i>Death at Olana</i>. I assure you, Dear Reader, you will not be disappointed!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOCoaufs-zcR5xSAZSG0QYHnx5bVQuLWkID8sOJVGYu5f9jnU6wxM_F1yuzE7LLwGGnTuzRT6HDp_Olh6dYKBOCzsMF3VKAn4CP7xQkxKB-x2YkCmgmrpofRxzn5viBtr-7mtQaFDakk/s1600/IMG_3536.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzOCoaufs-zcR5xSAZSG0QYHnx5bVQuLWkID8sOJVGYu5f9jnU6wxM_F1yuzE7LLwGGnTuzRT6HDp_Olh6dYKBOCzsMF3VKAn4CP7xQkxKB-x2YkCmgmrpofRxzn5viBtr-7mtQaFDakk/s1600/IMG_3536.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A parting view of Olana</td></tr>
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Oh, and while you're at it, do buy at least several copies of the book to give to your friends and loved ones, too, as I'm sure they'll enjoy it as well!<br />
<br />
You can order copies of <i>Death at Olana</i> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Death-at-Olana-Glenda-Ruby/dp/0615831141/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1393451986&sr=8-1&keywords=death+at+olana">here</a>.<br />
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<i>Please note: Reggie admits that he received a copy of </i>Death at Olana<i> as a gift from Ms. Ruby many months ago. However, he insists that isn't why he wrote this review (or why he bought six copies of it at the party—at full retail price he might add). No, he has written this post solely for the amusement of his readers and to encourage them to buy Ms. Glenda Ruby's book based upon its own many merits.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-90993278306388552502014-02-15T21:41:00.000-05:002014-02-22T11:28:43.192-05:00Ella Fitzgerald Saved My LifeIn my early teens I spent a lot of time by myself, alone.<br />
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As I have written before, as the youngest of four children I was the only one living at home with my parents during the several years leading up to when <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/02/saint-grottlesex-made-me-who-i-am-today.html">I went off to Saint Grottlesex</a>. We had recently moved to Connecticut from Washington, D.C., and into a beautiful, albeit glacial, modernist house at the end of a winding road on the top of a steep hill, with few nearby neighbors. My parents' marriage had taken a serious turn for the worse by then, and they were barely on speaking terms. They were often away, and I spent many evenings and weekends alone in our house. Even when my parents were present physically, more often than not they were not present emotionally. They had other things in their minds, I was later to learn.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvP8uXgunC3i0JL8-Ne8yU4PMIxTMts1R3FG28eyEf-oahAlWBPovlH7sWWCrEUXCu-bunCoGZ0wzcylheBBB-S5VGiCXjX6shr1yuiOYdi-XQvcjbUiY3QkzztJE6GzOFj4vE1nFFmA/s1600/the-ice-storm-poster.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVvP8uXgunC3i0JL8-Ne8yU4PMIxTMts1R3FG28eyEf-oahAlWBPovlH7sWWCrEUXCu-bunCoGZ0wzcylheBBB-S5VGiCXjX6shr1yuiOYdi-XQvcjbUiY3QkzztJE6GzOFj4vE1nFFmA/s1600/the-ice-storm-poster.JPG" height="400" width="298" /></a></div>
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If you've seen the film <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Ice_Storm_(film)">Ice Storm</a></i> you'll have a fairly good idea of what my home life was like at the time.<br />
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At thirteen, then, I found myself rudderless in a strange new world where everything had suddenly gone haywire, and I was in a state of shock. I had been very happy in Washington, where we lived in a <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/05/cleveland-park-boyhood.html">rambling house in a neighborhood</a> full of children my own age, and I had loved the country day school I attended there, where I was popular and had a close knit group of friends. Now I found myself living in a strange modern house with parents who no longer spoke to each other in a strange and remote New England suburb where I knew no one, and I was attending a strange, decidedly mediocre school full of strange people who weren't all that interested in welcoming a newcomer into their ranks. I felt awkward and alien, as if I'd been dropped there from the sky. Given the physical isolation of the house where I lived and the fact that neither of my parents were at all inclined (or available) to shuttle me about to promote my social life, it was challenging for me to make any friends. Besides, it was assumed that I'd be leaving for boarding school in a year or two, so why bother?<br />
<br />
Nonetheless, it was a damnably solitary and lonely existence for Reggie, and he didn't care for it one bit.<br />
<br />
But that's not the point of this story, Dear Reader. No, it is the <i>context</i> for it.<br />
<br />
Reggie is a resourceful chap, and he isn't one to sit around bemoaning his fate, crying into his lukewarm, curdled milk. No, when things don't work out for Reggie as he planned, he finds a way to do something about it. Which is exactly what I did.<br />
<br />
I discovered Ella Fitzgerald.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwJGVBb7HEo8w8ARy5cBKY_uchreAodEIiWBW8du9MDh8yOycGtWhRAypMjuCz2HnbpBQ5U_5VM5mAyOZJWJWJ8N1zTaTsB0t6VJ4Hh9RfhHQ1GYx5hLii5Go2f8msteIlD6gjE2k2_w/s1600/1908421_284335521713638_472417344_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOwJGVBb7HEo8w8ARy5cBKY_uchreAodEIiWBW8du9MDh8yOycGtWhRAypMjuCz2HnbpBQ5U_5VM5mAyOZJWJWJ8N1zTaTsB0t6VJ4Hh9RfhHQ1GYx5hLii5Go2f8msteIlD6gjE2k2_w/s1600/1908421_284335521713638_472417344_n.jpg" height="314" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The album that started it all . . .</span></td></tr>
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One evening when I found myself, yet again, alone at home, I opened the door to the cabinet containing my parents' record collection, to see what I could find to amuse myself. Both my parents were jazz aficionados, and I grew up listening to albums by Dave Brubeck, Thelonious Monk, and John Coltrane, and also Peggy Lee, Anita O'Day, and Miriam Makeba. My father was also a fan of Frank Sinatra's <i>Come Fly With Me</i> era recordings, and he loved Benny Goodman's later, jazz records, too. Flipping through the albums that evening I came across <i>Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Cole Porter Songbook</i>. I didn't recall ever listening to it, and so I put it on the turntable of our KLH stereo sound system to give it a try.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQ5l2XGTNeGFiUxoTXcixBhKl-QIE_UZ9soLXVT-d6pF_ZWk7eXBxDos1jbAsyTf2IC5c5rIa91O1BgggbQM0GzsPTpGP96uV3aBjcVkJ7RKYlKaNFU9mE5_bFs30NUq5CHdjfEbZVXU/s1600/klh-vintage-stereo-4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQ5l2XGTNeGFiUxoTXcixBhKl-QIE_UZ9soLXVT-d6pF_ZWk7eXBxDos1jbAsyTf2IC5c5rIa91O1BgggbQM0GzsPTpGP96uV3aBjcVkJ7RKYlKaNFU9mE5_bFs30NUq5CHdjfEbZVXU/s1600/klh-vintage-stereo-4.jpg" height="238" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It was on a KLH stereo sound system like this one, ca. 1966,<br />
that I played the records that changed my life<br />
<i>Image courtesy of furnishmevintage.com</i></td></tr>
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I've never been the same since.<br />
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I instantly fell in love with Miss Fitzgerald's lovely, rich, crystal clear voice, along with Nelson Riddle's lush arrangements, and I was transfixed. I couldn't get enough of it! I found half a dozen more of her recordings on the cabinet's shelves, and over the next weeks and months I played them over and over until I knew every word of every song, and I could sing along to Ella's marvelous and impeccable phrasing without missing a beat.<br />
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I soon found my way into the bins at record stores searching for more Ella Fitzgerald albums, and I amassed several dozen of them to add to my parents' collection. I bought many of the other Great American Songbook albums that she recorded, including most of what she made under the Verve label, and also earlier albums she recorded under the Decca label.<br />
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While other thirteen year old boys I knew at the time were obsessed with the music of <i>Cream</i> and <i>Jethro Tull</i>, I was swingin' to the musical beat of Miss Fitzgerald, far away in my own little world. I soon broadened my listening to include her peers, including Frank Sinatra, Keely Smith, Julie London, Sarah Vaughan and Dinah Washington, and I also developed an appreciation for the horn-filled Big Band recordings of the great bandleaders of the 1940s. This was the music that came to define my teenage years and that I continue to enjoy today, along with more contemporary fare.<br />
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I consider those few lonely years I spent in Connecticut as a lad as fortunate ones, for it was then that I was introduced to—and took to heart—the sublime music and superb vocal performers of the pre-rock and roll Great American Songbook. Listening to it transported me away from my solitary existence into a sophisticated, grownup world of swell nightclubs, swinging orchestras, vocal champagne, the shimmer of romance, and the glorious singing of the incomparable Miss Ella Fitzgerald, the most talented popular female vocalist of the twentieth century.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1liToCxZfl5MkEcyNu29CwN3WJ9oCiIC8pmsMhug-YJvoNOvXIoeHfRtI1P4q0nRI2QjUy7N1jSZpE1v_kjy8v-mDA3n8M6LH_PfMiorTrkPKUWm-V3S02xnmWVVD3qjDUOQM4wgvh0/s1600/nr_albums_swingsbrightly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1liToCxZfl5MkEcyNu29CwN3WJ9oCiIC8pmsMhug-YJvoNOvXIoeHfRtI1P4q0nRI2QjUy7N1jSZpE1v_kjy8v-mDA3n8M6LH_PfMiorTrkPKUWm-V3S02xnmWVVD3qjDUOQM4wgvh0/s1600/nr_albums_swingsbrightly.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This is my absolute favorite Ella Fitzgerald album.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I play it at least once or twice a month</span></td></tr>
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My love affair with Ella Fitzgerald has been a life-long one, and has continued unabated since I first came across that Cole Porter songbook album more than forty years ago. I was fortunate to see Miss Fitzgerald in concert three or four times, first as an undergraduate at Yale in the nineteen seventies, when she was still relatively in her prime, and last at Carnegie Hall in the nineteen nineties, when she was a very old and fragile lady. I will always treasure the memories of those concerts.<br />
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Thank you, Miss Ella Fitzgerald, for befriending a young Reggie all those years ago, and for giving him so much pleasure then, and ever since. Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com52tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-5776667574229139242014-02-08T17:46:00.001-05:002014-02-12T18:23:47.486-05:00Winning Bid: Reggie Buys a (School of) Duncan Phyfe Games Table<i>In today's post I reveal which of the five school of Duncan Phyfe games tables I bought during the Important Americana auctions held in New York this January. Of the forty-three Dear Readers who responded to my query (both here and on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/reggie.darling.3">my FB page</a>), the vast majority thought I bought either lot 369 (52%) or lot 383 (39%) in the Sotheby's sale. Only two of you (5% of respondents) correctly posited that it was actually lot 410 (the least "gainly" of the ones offered) that I ultimately brought home. </i><br />
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<i>Here is how it happened:</i><br />
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The Sotheby's and Christie's Important Americana sales were held on Friday, January 24th, and Saturday, January 25th, with previews held during the week leading up to the sales. I was determined to make it to the previews, Dear Reader, to examine the school of Duncan Phyfe games tables discussed <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2014/02/duncan-phyfe-games-tables-at-sothebys.html">in my previous post</a>, and I was fortunate to be able to slip away from my office the afternoon of the last day of the previews to do just that.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyhyvg9Owb5ILWA52AuIuC37qPYsJ1JwIQ0qjxnpJaV2neZhbqCDQqi187-JjcT4XJKlkT8pq-YbCK6gG9d9cR_GhfY0EtsLZ8vPSjo78rPFwUdTCt7RrWUs7BtGbjZfYBDpOMVWVSc0/s1600/IMG_3730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiyhyvg9Owb5ILWA52AuIuC37qPYsJ1JwIQ0qjxnpJaV2neZhbqCDQqi187-JjcT4XJKlkT8pq-YbCK6gG9d9cR_GhfY0EtsLZ8vPSjo78rPFwUdTCt7RrWUs7BtGbjZfYBDpOMVWVSc0/s1600/IMG_3730.jpg" height="400" width="297" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Christie's lot 147 "Superior" quality Duncan Phyfe-<br />
attributed games table on which Reggie did not bid</td></tr>
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My first stop, though, was at <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/03/dinner-at-21.html">'21'</a>, where I had a leisurely lunch with an old friend—a most excellent way to start out such an enjoyable outing. I suggested to my friend that we meet at '21' because it is only a stone's throw from Christie's, where the best of the five games tables I was interested in looking at was on display. After bidding my lunching companion <i>adieu</i> I strolled over to Christie's just in time to look the table over, slipping into the exhibition room as the handlers were beginning to break down the preview ahead of the next day's sale. While I concluded the Christie's games table was certainly a very handsome piece, it did not get my juices flowing sufficiently to make me seriously consider leaving a bid for it. Besides, I knew it would sell well above my price range, so why even bother?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Bu68Kike80IZ7r7ijcHBcnihbws0ws4444zfYYI3SvAtJDNPD6XV05k0kNi0GfaX6YknvNdw6znCiiaBVJjLVnca9tDwFmP8XAFHLFSpFzvf73mwSB3PB4fWwwj0IT40jx6kLOxoqw4/s1600/IMG_3762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Bu68Kike80IZ7r7ijcHBcnihbws0ws4444zfYYI3SvAtJDNPD6XV05k0kNi0GfaX6YknvNdw6znCiiaBVJjLVnca9tDwFmP8XAFHLFSpFzvf73mwSB3PB4fWwwj0IT40jx6kLOxoqw4/s1600/IMG_3762.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The main exhibition floor at Sotheby's Important Americana preview</td></tr>
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I then hightailed it over to Sotheby's to take in their preview, which included the four remaining games tables, each with a supposed Duncan Phyfe connection, in which I was interested. As is typical of the Important Americana sales at both auction houses, most of the better furniture on offer at Sotheby's was of the late-eighteenth-century ball-and-claw variety. While I can appreciate the merits of such furniture, it is not of interest to Dear Old Reggie. No, I was there to check out the goods of the first quarter of the nineteenth century, also known as the Federal and Classical eras, which is the sweet spot of our collecting at Darlington.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NOfrxfhcqhowIGErzmhDJggatTa0F6E0K4w6ihqL2MFjJ8TlQUEybV-EnqB02f9ExcMFAdsLr-IJ4bKIIU_br9Z1J52eB7KZm5lV4xFU_0Ck_O4nOvOADnifI3sPz4WRlqgaapob_AY/s1600/IMG_3765.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3NOfrxfhcqhowIGErzmhDJggatTa0F6E0K4w6ihqL2MFjJ8TlQUEybV-EnqB02f9ExcMFAdsLr-IJ4bKIIU_br9Z1J52eB7KZm5lV4xFU_0Ck_O4nOvOADnifI3sPz4WRlqgaapob_AY/s1600/IMG_3765.JPG" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Federal and Classical era section <br />
at Sotheby's Important Americana preview</td></tr>
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Fortunately there was a grouping of furniture and decorations from that period, where—not surprisingly—the four games tables I was interested in examining were to be found.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A not very good photograph of the "Best" quality school<br />
of Duncan Phyfe games tables on display at Sotheby's</td></tr>
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The first table I came to examine was lot 383, the "Best" quality trick-leg table shown in the preceding photograph. While admittedly its form and execution was <i>very fine</i> (in auction parlance), there had been much restoration to the table, with the underside of the top largely rebuilt. That nixed it for me. Besides, we already own two similar form school of Duncan Phyfe tripod tilt-top tables at Darlington, which sit at <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/07/more-of-darlington-house-in-ad.html">either end of our sofa in our drawing room</a>.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMQZfCsg7lyFAD0FbExKDxDl46SO914jcJuF8XokoQTaQr5QSzuFSETJ1c8FmFEEhP_Ib2CJnuHqv7vR7hx-CXVuMGMew8bPC4SS_LGFspnazsdruHmJzcItAH4uwsnieggT1ZJUD4k0/s1600/IMG_3748.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEMQZfCsg7lyFAD0FbExKDxDl46SO914jcJuF8XokoQTaQr5QSzuFSETJ1c8FmFEEhP_Ib2CJnuHqv7vR7hx-CXVuMGMew8bPC4SS_LGFspnazsdruHmJzcItAH4uwsnieggT1ZJUD4k0/s1600/IMG_3748.JPG" height="335" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Better Yet" quality school of Duncan Phyfe<br />
five-legged games table at Sotheby's</td></tr>
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I next looked over lot 369, the five-legged games table on offer, but passed on it, too, because we already have a <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/05/reggie-revealed.html">similar Pembroke-form table</a> that we bought at <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/03/duncan-phyfe-or-equivalent-at.html">Bernard & S. Dean Levy</a> a decade or so ago. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73ErOgp67VGZYmtd4ADbDPVVOAFp0hl_Boc4G5gQjs6S8BimPa-gNXrm4iXFoyZLsRu7sy4FWh0r4DU2ao2wqoaeevXIkW0IpX2Q9HADb8epW_tlsJGbbcJr4pXwan0yKi7HMuodt9Vc/s1600/IMG_3746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg73ErOgp67VGZYmtd4ADbDPVVOAFp0hl_Boc4G5gQjs6S8BimPa-gNXrm4iXFoyZLsRu7sy4FWh0r4DU2ao2wqoaeevXIkW0IpX2Q9HADb8epW_tlsJGbbcJr4pXwan0yKi7HMuodt9Vc/s1600/IMG_3746.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "Better" quality school of Duncan Phyfe<br />
pedestal games table at Sotheby's</td></tr>
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Looking around the room I then noticed lot 410, a table that I had dismissed when looking at Sotheby's online catalogue. Wait a minute, I thought—what about <i>this</i> one?</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgos_u2RV_vzuoAdsvkNzFcA12JfG3qPrsHc8xNvtozsnB0Ov0OiXoGDRTXZJhtxlD5ggXcagxcaljUj6cEgVtR9Cg2v0HbaAVRTHLnL4dkkFvSxzfTS9X7thc1dp6Ot5s-TB2iFYJLwgQ/s1600/IMG_3747.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgos_u2RV_vzuoAdsvkNzFcA12JfG3qPrsHc8xNvtozsnB0Ov0OiXoGDRTXZJhtxlD5ggXcagxcaljUj6cEgVtR9Cg2v0HbaAVRTHLnL4dkkFvSxzfTS9X7thc1dp6Ot5s-TB2iFYJLwgQ/s1600/IMG_3747.JPG" height="343" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Moving in to get a better look . . .</td></tr>
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On closer examination I decided I liked the gutsy form of the pedestal games table with its four turned and carved columns rising out of a four-legged base. It was, admittedly, not as pretty or spare as lots 383 or 369, but it certainly had a lot of impact, and it wasn't in a form that we already owned. Hmmm . . . I wondered—could <i>this</i> be worth considering? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pivoting the table top, we found a concealed compartment<br />
for cards and chips, with remnants of its original green baize lining</td></tr>
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By this time Boy had joined me at the preview. He was as surprised as I was to find that he also liked the pedestal games table, and preferred it to the others on display. After giving it a close once over, we then turned it upside down to examine its innards, as one should always do when considering buying an antique piece of furniture. Other than the replacement of the bottom of its concealed compartment, the games table looked "clean" to us, with the expected age, condition, and color one wants to see in such pieces.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Only one obvious repair was to be found</td></tr>
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We were not all that concerned that the bottom of the compartment had been replaced, Dear Reader, and we were actually heartened that whoever had done so hadn't attempted to give it an unnatural aging, in an attempt to deceive. It was what it was—an obvious repair. But that's the only one we found.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sotheby's Important Americana sale under way</td></tr>
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We left the preview asking ourselves if the columnar pedestal games table would be an appropriate addition to our collection of school of Duncan Phyfe furniture at Darlington, and if so should we bid on it? And how <i>much</i> should we bid? Over cocktails and dinner that evening we decided that it was worth a try, and so we returned to Sotheby's the next day to see whether we might be able to acquire it at a sufficiently reasonable price.<br />
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The table we were interested in was one of the last lots in the sale. We arrived at Sotheby's well before it came up, and so had a lot of time on our hands to wile away before it did. Fortunately, in addition to watching the auction progress through the lots leading up to "our" table, there was a preview exhibition of Old Master paintings on the same floor to examine.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOcNJJSQ5U142SxkInLdNEhd4lWNvaRWlLitJGSU6bkMhBSXN3yJumz6N5m1l-jasVbHdbyMeKGz_WaNY41pNcuWUzMDrs_0MNxbdSsbaZloELa2BuQSTKJcocbcwJta8HBLfoMqcRvA/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLOcNJJSQ5U142SxkInLdNEhd4lWNvaRWlLitJGSU6bkMhBSXN3yJumz6N5m1l-jasVbHdbyMeKGz_WaNY41pNcuWUzMDrs_0MNxbdSsbaZloELa2BuQSTKJcocbcwJta8HBLfoMqcRvA/s1600/IMG_3876.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Working the room for what its worth</td></tr>
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The auctioneer for the Sotheby's Important Americana sale was very professional and personable, and I have to give her a lot of credit for moving along what at times appeared to be a near-moribund room. She had her work cut out for her, Dear Reader. With the exception of a small number of lots that sold well above their estimates, almost everything in the sale either went within or below estimate, and in some cases <i>well below</i> estimate. That is, if it sold at all. A fairly high proportion of the lots on offer failed to meet their reserves and went unsold. While not exactly a blood bath, it was clearly not a great day for the auction house or the sellers it was representing. It was, on the other hand, a very good day for buyers as deals were definitely to be had. I found myself repeatedly amazed at how inexpensively many of the lots were being hammered down—in some cases at prices well below what one might pay for new, far-lesser-quality pieces of furniture.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bitter end</td></tr>
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By the time lot 410 came up the room was largely deserted. We were hopeful that we would be able to get the pedestal table at a good price, and were heartened that two of the games tables in the auction had been hammered down below their estimates (and one had been passed altogether). While we had come prepared to bid into the estimated $5,000-to-$10,000 range for the table, we were pleased to find ourselves in what can only be described as a half-hearted contest with only one other bidder, and we were <i>exhilarated</i> when the final hammer came down at $3,500 and the table was ours.<br />
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Once we got the table into our city apartment and examined it more closely, we asked ourselves why was it that we were able to get it so inexpensively? Were we the late-in-the-sale lucky beneficiaries of a less-than-stellar auction where supply outstripped demand? Or had we bought a compromised, cobbled together mess that no one else wanted? What if the table was not of the first period at all, but rather a later reproduction? Upon closer examination, didn't we think the carving just wasn't crisp enough?<br />
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We then asked ourselves, given the price we paid for the table (which is less than what a run-of-the-mill, cheaply-made one at Ethan Allen might cost), did we even <i>care</i>? And the answer was <i>of course not</i>—<i>it was a bargain!</i><br />
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If I'd paid two or three times what I did for the table I might get all worked up, second guessing myself endlessly on it. But since I didn't, I haven't, and I must say that I'm very pleased with this acquisition. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikU3J32-iMLMifi46hIw7HU4RWpKB6ANU2Crz3D4qTuH6DWDAgxFk8Q6r8s7padb8kgNPTLYV36iQKMCpj3_Z7VGqCTE9CebuPmLTmgMxHiIulJXrCjpqblI82z36gCbS8OVfIrlPmHM/s1600/IMG_8057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikU3J32-iMLMifi46hIw7HU4RWpKB6ANU2Crz3D4qTuH6DWDAgxFk8Q6r8s7padb8kgNPTLYV36iQKMCpj3_Z7VGqCTE9CebuPmLTmgMxHiIulJXrCjpqblI82z36gCbS8OVfIrlPmHM/s1600/IMG_8057.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The table and our dear Basil in our<br />
Snuggery at Darlington House</td></tr>
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I think our school of Duncan Phyfe columnar pedestal games table looks absolutely <i>marvelous</i> in our Snuggery at Darlington, where it fits right in with the other, somewhat bombastic American Classical furniture of the early nineteenth century, as well as some complementary English chairs. In fact, when we put "our" pedestal table against the wall in our Snuggery underneath a Sully-framed portrait and loaded it up with suitable period accessories, we thought it looked <i>perfect</i>, as if it had always been there.<br />
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Which, to my mind, Dear Reader, is the sign of a successful acquisition. Don't you think so?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling and Boy Fenwick</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-87797142786472328302014-02-02T17:11:00.001-05:002014-02-04T23:33:55.658-05:00Duncan Phyfe Games Tables at the Sotheby's and Christie's Important Americana Sales: Better, Better Yet, Better Still, Best, and SuperiorThere are very few known pieces of furniture that carry a label from the workshop of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duncan_Phyfe">Duncan Phyfe</a> (1768-1854), one of the leading cabinet makers in America during the early part of the nineteenth century. Only eight, to be exact. Almost all of the furniture produced in Phyfe's New York City workshop, from 1794 to 1847, is unlabeled. This has been a challenge to collectors, museum curators, and dealers in accurately identifying furniture as having been made by Phyfe's workshop. Compounding that difficulty is the fact that there were a number of cabinetmakers that were active in New York at the same time that produced furniture of similar quality, sometimes shared the same journeyman carvers, and often copied each other's work. Furthermore, there is a fairly large group of excellent reproductions (some of them meant to deceive) that were made during the <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/10/last-chance-colonial-revival-show-at.html">Colonial Revival</a> era.<br />
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Given the difficulty in confidently attributing furniture to Duncan Phyfe's workshop, much of the pieces that could possibly have originated there that come up for auction or sale these days are identified as being of the <i>school</i> of Duncan Phyfe, or made by an <i>equivalent</i> workshop. When a piece has a provenance where there is a documented link between the owner and Duncan Phyfe's workshop—such as a bill of sale—then it can be accurately described as being <i>attributed to</i> Duncan Phyfe. Only when a piece of furniture actually carries a Duncan Phyfe label can it definitively be described as being <i>made by</i> Duncan Phyfe's workshop.<br />
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We collect early-nineteenth-century New York Federal and Classical furniture at Darlington House, and we own half a dozen examples that are considered to be of the school of Duncan Phyfe, or by an equally competent competitor. I have written about our collection of such furniture in a number of posts, <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/03/duncan-phyfe-or-equivalent-at.html">including one here</a>.<br />
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At this January's Important Americana sales at <a href="http://www.sothebys.com/de/auctions/2014/americana-vo-n09100.html#&i=0">Sotheby's</a> and <a href="http://www.christies.com/Important-American-Furniture-Folk-24404.aspx">Christie's</a>, there were five examples of games tables that were catalogued as being either from the <i>school</i> of Duncan Phyfe or <i>attributed</i> to his workshop. Today's post examines those five tables and ranks them based on their quality and condition along the continuum of "Good" to "Masterpiece," as defined by Albert Sack (1912-1999) in his landmark reference book <i>Fine Points of Furniture</i>, first <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Fine-Points-Furniture-Early-American/dp/B000K0CCGA/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1391366359&sr=8-3&keywords=fine+points+of+furniture+albert+sack">published in 1969</a> and revised and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/The-New-Fine-Points-Furniture/dp/051758820X/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1391366359&sr=8-2&keywords=fine+points+of+furniture+albert+sack">expanded in 1993</a>.</div>
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The first games table in the group auctioned this January qualifies as what I would consider to be a "Better" example of the type. (Sotheby's and Christie's—given their lofty standards and clientele—do not, in general, auction goods that are at such a lowly end of the quality continuum as to be considered merely "Good.")<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcWT5UIogjMabDAHCaY3xWKUD_xcc4EwU7y1FSTLHXvvCHbN3uKQHn88ty34UlG9Ix8uWITfvhdX5-xzWFufhyfGZd_zYKfXwHGfFpd46y2tA-9vdDjpfU-fO_Ifts_kC6OkYnHfgpGiw/s1600/529N09100_759VD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcWT5UIogjMabDAHCaY3xWKUD_xcc4EwU7y1FSTLHXvvCHbN3uKQHn88ty34UlG9Ix8uWITfvhdX5-xzWFufhyfGZd_zYKfXwHGfFpd46y2tA-9vdDjpfU-fO_Ifts_kC6OkYnHfgpGiw/s1600/529N09100_759VD.jpg" height="390" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sotheby's lot 410. Fine Classical carved and figured mahogany</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">games table, school of Duncan Phyfe. New York, ca. 1815.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Estimate $5,000-$10,000 USD</span></td></tr>
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The table was in the Sotheby's Important Americana sale, held on January 25th, and is probably the least likely of the group I'm writing about to have been made in the Phyfe workshop. While the form is one that was known to have been produced by Phyfe, upon close examination the table's carving is the least crisp and well-executed of the group at the sales, which leads me to believe it was made by a nearly equivalent workshop, but not Phyfe's. I wonder if the games table may be a later, highly accomplished reproduction piece made in the latter part of the nineteenth century, or even possibly a marriage piece where the base didn't start out with the top. It's hammer price was only $3,500, Dear Reader, and well below its $5,000-$10,000 estimate, indicating that I am not alone in such speculation. Nonetheless, I would still rank this pleasing table's quality as "Better," using Mr. Sack's quality scale.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkMSKOgZhJb6xA7cxWb7G360SCy2RIrMNHls2GsFHfUuN-zIE48JJSiiTkLJzvT1dwLXjc-4Wt6673c3jEwrnBqlKZF6RfSfZA815qwqFB7HydwVKJEvfUquOzNQEMkxHJH7yCrncZ8U/s1600/501N09100_759TX.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdkMSKOgZhJb6xA7cxWb7G360SCy2RIrMNHls2GsFHfUuN-zIE48JJSiiTkLJzvT1dwLXjc-4Wt6673c3jEwrnBqlKZF6RfSfZA815qwqFB7HydwVKJEvfUquOzNQEMkxHJH7yCrncZ8U/s1600/501N09100_759TX.jpg" height="398" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sotheby's lot 369. Fine and rare classical carved and figured mahogany<br />five-legged games table, attributed to the school of Duncan Phyfe,<br />New York, circa 1815. Estimate $5,000-$10,000 USD</span></td></tr>
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The next table, also in the Sotheby's sale, is more likely to have been made in the Phyfe workshop, in my view, or by his equally competent competitors, the brothers <a href="http://www.antiquesandfineart.com/articles/article.cfm?request=300">Michael and Richard Allison</a>. The table's carving is crisp and confident, and its proportions are excellent. I would rank this as a "Better Yet," or one gradation above the first table. I would have ranked it even higher than "Better Yet" if it had one or two more flourishes to its form, or more "oomph." The table sold within its $5,000-$10,000 estimate, at $6,500.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCbIqHA-S6Y6xeSqXEFqbtuWxVcL0i-iKxLwXAHYuDZOGiFfO8-hX-kpDQYBXUNJJe0HKq_EDLCeO_QdURPP6yp7hwS4LayN8HiUWTyN51EUYIfpo-u4UHRcf2ak8tS_Hv_Fly1qBRRs/s1600/1465N09100_76M8Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivCbIqHA-S6Y6xeSqXEFqbtuWxVcL0i-iKxLwXAHYuDZOGiFfO8-hX-kpDQYBXUNJJe0HKq_EDLCeO_QdURPP6yp7hwS4LayN8HiUWTyN51EUYIfpo-u4UHRcf2ak8tS_Hv_Fly1qBRRs/s1600/1465N09100_76M8Z.jpg" height="376" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sotheby's lot 385. Fine Classical carved and figured </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">mahogany</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">trick-leg" games table, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">school of Duncan Phyfe, New York, circa 1815.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Estimate $6,000-$12,000 USD</span></td></tr>
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The third table, also in the Sotheby's sale, was in the much-desired "trick-leg" form, where an ingenious interior mechanism moves two of the table's legs when the top is opened to form a perfect, and stable, tripod base. The carving of this games table's fluting was crisp and well executed, and I have no reason to believe it was not made in the Phyfe workshop. I would rank this as "Better Still," or somewhere between "Better Yet" and "Best." Condition issues, however, limited the desirability of the table (the top had come off and one of the legs was repaired), and it failed to reach its reserve price and was passed at $4,500.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNalXr9ACWKGcCQNsp7MWWqZ8kemi5WLSo8JC6VSpvMZlj_1cKk81FP34bs5Hyz9rBwtl1XkmxtvYl5Nhc9DHQGAkHVdzrA39_ja0pAXyBpLKcwqGWgJalEjix0t1Sf1xuuE_mx-zu38/s1600/642N09100_759V9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjNalXr9ACWKGcCQNsp7MWWqZ8kemi5WLSo8JC6VSpvMZlj_1cKk81FP34bs5Hyz9rBwtl1XkmxtvYl5Nhc9DHQGAkHVdzrA39_ja0pAXyBpLKcwqGWgJalEjix0t1Sf1xuuE_mx-zu38/s1600/642N09100_759V9.jpg" height="386" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Sotheby's lot 383. Very fine and rare Classical carved and figured mahogany</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"trick-leg'' games table, school of Duncan Phyfe, New York, circa 1815.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Estimate $8,000-$12,000 USD</span></td></tr>
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The fourth table, also auctioned by Sotheby's, is almost assuredly a product of the Phyfe workshop. Its carving is more masterful than the previous "Better Still" games table, with more complicated and virtuosic leaf carvings on the legs and the central pedestal (as opposed to mere fluting on the previous example). The quality of the mahogany was also excellent, with a vivid, almost plum pudding top. I would rank this games table as the "Best" in its category. It's got it <i>all</i>. Condition issues, including what appeared to be later repairs to the underside of the table top, meant that it did not achieve the low end of its $8,000-$12,000 estimate, but it it did sell for $5,500.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rqBw-ylZY-MoMXmpnq1p4s5iEJItNqRRITuGRb5kPvZfh16P0ExJMxMIzZqV7UBIhaJxzNf__6hPWecGvnkA5IIXBbCK9i-hA6GfgmeJFJu7wiGONtMFjqLiQVuvo6gT2a_QxnAwus0/s1600/a_federal_mahogany_treble-elliptical_trick-leg_card_table_attributed_t_d5764179h-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3rqBw-ylZY-MoMXmpnq1p4s5iEJItNqRRITuGRb5kPvZfh16P0ExJMxMIzZqV7UBIhaJxzNf__6hPWecGvnkA5IIXBbCK9i-hA6GfgmeJFJu7wiGONtMFjqLiQVuvo6gT2a_QxnAwus0/s1600/a_federal_mahogany_treble-elliptical_trick-leg_card_table_attributed_t_d5764179h-1.jpg" height="388" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Christie's lot 147. A Federal mahogany treble-elliptical "trick-leg"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">card table, attributed to Duncan Phyfe, New York, 1800-1820.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Estimate $12,000-$18,000 USD</span></td></tr>
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The final games tables shown was the only one offered by Christie's and was the best of the lot, by a wide margin. Christie's cataloged it as <i>attributed</i> to Duncan Phyfe's workshop (as opposed to <i>school</i> of), and it had all the bells and whistles one could possibly want in the form: it was a trick-leg, it sported a treble-elliptical top (instead of the more common double-elliptical form), it had a contrasting satinwood apron (vs. none or one of mahogany), it had a beautifully mottled table top, and its legs and central pedestal were decorated with intricate and superbly executed leaf carvings. I would rank this as a "Superior" (as defined by Albert Sack) and the highest ranking of the five tables shown here. It is only one step short of the "Masterpiece" pinnacle of the continuum. Not surprisingly, the Christie's games table realized the highest price of any of the tables offered during the sales, hammered down at $15,000, or right in the middle of its $12,000-$18,000 estimate.<br />
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If I had been feeling particularly flush during the sales, Dear Reader, I might have considered bidding on the Christie's table. I wasn't, however, so I consoled myself with buying one of the other, lesser tables offered, for our Snuggery at Darlington House. I'll divulge which one it is in my next post.<br />
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Tell me, which one of these tables do <i>you</i> like the best? And which one would you <i>buy</i> if price was not a consideration?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs courtesy of Sotheby's and Christie's.</span></i><br />
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<br />Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-46419421259469781502014-01-31T00:18:00.002-05:002014-02-04T23:43:57.298-05:00Antiques Week At Last! The 2014 Winter Antiques Show Opening PartyThis past Thursday Boy and I attended the opening party for the <a href="http://www.winterantiquesshow.com/">Winter Antiques Show</a> ("WAS"), held at New York's <a href="http://www.armoryonpark.org/">Seventh Regiment Armory</a> on Park Avenue on Manhattan's Upper East Side.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifa0RgYzkBamXapI9KrOTc8Mq3xf6LDUCpAev7TGXt-Tzcmz8XeV5jX91lfKZxdXFLTTHFQqBzaEapukqSyt4m6LlqN9jbNr3rH-D4XVKN_IjxyQurrnbDP4UYLJHwm4d3lZZdUhYG8FQ/s1600/IMG_3771.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifa0RgYzkBamXapI9KrOTc8Mq3xf6LDUCpAev7TGXt-Tzcmz8XeV5jX91lfKZxdXFLTTHFQqBzaEapukqSyt4m6LlqN9jbNr3rH-D4XVKN_IjxyQurrnbDP4UYLJHwm4d3lZZdUhYG8FQ/s1600/IMG_3771.jpg" height="400" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A <i>spectacular</i> arrangement of roses<br />at the entry to the Winter Antiques Show</span></td></tr>
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The WAS opening party is one of the highlights of the New York social season and attracts a large crowd of sleek and moneyed New Yorkers. This year marked the show's sixtieth anniversary. It's one of the longest running and most prestigious antiques show in the country, Dear Reader.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifemGBlwC_Cen32fXl6N_pK23puhx6ZFmB_7zUf786hjoPz8J_L9gyfjvjuSMHsNBimS1KN2qvCF9q-S36tcFZWcofbzjYz8vw_1zZyzAQqWblHN7dJEvNt3yL45QnTAPPTww1R5pnc68/s1600/IMG_3772.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifemGBlwC_Cen32fXl6N_pK23puhx6ZFmB_7zUf786hjoPz8J_L9gyfjvjuSMHsNBimS1KN2qvCF9q-S36tcFZWcofbzjYz8vw_1zZyzAQqWblHN7dJEvNt3yL45QnTAPPTww1R5pnc68/s1600/IMG_3772.jpg" height="400" width="298" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Fortunately a full bar was set up right at the entry</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">so Reggie didn't have to wait for a cocktail!</span></td></tr>
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The WAS opening party is a lot of fun. One can spend the entire evening boozing and schmoozing, as there are food and drink stations at every turn, and one runs into <i>all sorts</i> of people one knows—or would like to know better.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTktxL0HIPNvoLq_nDZa1pz8bjKYt2NUtINC04Li-rrKMU15Awd990wuxIVuMNmvHL9gQl9fcI0dxPWyYQ5sVEgcMpN6hzWnJy2TBCzlf9XKZ3J64lvLWGCnzwpvqtfY8Zphm78H_nF_c/s1600/IMG_3773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTktxL0HIPNvoLq_nDZa1pz8bjKYt2NUtINC04Li-rrKMU15Awd990wuxIVuMNmvHL9gQl9fcI0dxPWyYQ5sVEgcMpN6hzWnJy2TBCzlf9XKZ3J64lvLWGCnzwpvqtfY8Zphm78H_nF_c/s1600/IMG_3773.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The crowd entering the show</span></td></tr>
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Every year the WAS hosts a loan exhibition from a noteworthy cultural institution. This year's show features one from the <a href="http://www.pem.org/">Peabody Essex Museum</a> in Salem, Massachusetts, also known as "the PEM." The PEM's exhibition was designed by Mr. Jeff Daly, the former Chief of Design at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, who now has his own <a href="http://www.jeffdalydesign.com/index.php">museum and design consulting company</a>. I was very pleased to meet and speak with Mr. Daly and his partner at the party, both of whom I learned are sometime readers of this blog!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXF7JLkYHNHoIM-M_gVgBLczrbccS_gssf6wijyKWFmoNx3MEu0_OcttStJNVA3ZVFCotIvtbLWiLkruGnWDSgQyKiWVANllZ_mvBdFThfxyCE7ZBuSfkGimJTu1S1JTbIispDRUOcMs/s1600/IMG_3841.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDXF7JLkYHNHoIM-M_gVgBLczrbccS_gssf6wijyKWFmoNx3MEu0_OcttStJNVA3ZVFCotIvtbLWiLkruGnWDSgQyKiWVANllZ_mvBdFThfxyCE7ZBuSfkGimJTu1S1JTbIispDRUOcMs/s1600/IMG_3841.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Peabody Essex Museum loan exhibition at the WAS</span></td></tr>
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The PEM has a number of masterpieces from its collections on display.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIMjwYOqpTjrtVSMTWQ52fLz2oLvpCHvX8dNjZa9aBH5rMvTgsLcYYLc3uLuRpeJDXZX7GSpikLdPIpKRsTDLwcmctwFms2fo47SsTvEs_9AChOJtxbdkT8woovZoXC9Hhqv1gjcx_-o/s1600/IMG_3843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibIMjwYOqpTjrtVSMTWQ52fLz2oLvpCHvX8dNjZa9aBH5rMvTgsLcYYLc3uLuRpeJDXZX7GSpikLdPIpKRsTDLwcmctwFms2fo47SsTvEs_9AChOJtxbdkT8woovZoXC9Hhqv1gjcx_-o/s1600/IMG_3843.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The PEM's Derby Dressing Table, ca. 1800-1810</span></td></tr>
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Prominently (and rightly) featured is this dressing table by the cabinet makers John and Thomas Seymour of Boston, made for Mrs. Elizabeth Derby West, the daughter of the immensely rich Mr. Elias Haskell Derby. Boy and I attended the <a href="http://www.pem.org/sites/luxury/index.html">landmark Seymour exhibition</a> that the PEM mounted ten years ago. I shall never forget it. It was spectacular.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2b1uJdqRn6K4i1LYeyL4lLlnLIgdcrEDgDuaGGWdt_pXXH3xyRoiyDNUNqPgAo6wn5_zAMzZBGXwAuV-FF-ww68MiLKUVMxwexQEGkdFNS5Su-kmkUyY7ORbW9qfFZ3QMOSR8WGFUaE/s1600/IMG_3864.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2b1uJdqRn6K4i1LYeyL4lLlnLIgdcrEDgDuaGGWdt_pXXH3xyRoiyDNUNqPgAo6wn5_zAMzZBGXwAuV-FF-ww68MiLKUVMxwexQEGkdFNS5Su-kmkUyY7ORbW9qfFZ3QMOSR8WGFUaE/s1600/IMG_3864.jpg" height="400" width="327" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The PEM's portrait of Nathaniel Hawthorne, ca. 1840</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Charles Osgood, artist</span></td></tr>
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Also displayed is this portrait of a young and handsome Nathaniel Hawthorne in the PEM's collection. I have a postcard of this portrait, bought at the PEM when we toured the Seymour exhibit, that I have slipped into the frame of a mirror hanging above my chest of drawers at Darlington.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKmz1H8ITJgybT8HiCz0gxAQF5lhZKMwFU64K0p61tT5MXwLWAidTXB7vGGgjPw_pzxc-DYdjZ4QHZ7g6FsDLXaZhX_8jxmiCg_oKfU_iegReuVPsUOCh6YRfbBHhwoSR5Mf9LTrKqTI/s1600/IMG_3776.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVKmz1H8ITJgybT8HiCz0gxAQF5lhZKMwFU64K0p61tT5MXwLWAidTXB7vGGgjPw_pzxc-DYdjZ4QHZ7g6FsDLXaZhX_8jxmiCg_oKfU_iegReuVPsUOCh6YRfbBHhwoSR5Mf9LTrKqTI/s1600/IMG_3776.jpg" height="400" width="317" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. David Patrick Columbia</span></td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
One of the first people I ran into at the show was Mr. David Patrick Columbia, of <a href="http://www.newyorksocialdiary.com/">New York Social Diary</a> fame. I am a <i>devoted</i> reader of and sometime contributor to NYSD, and I owe Mr. Columbia a story that I've been working on for him some time now. We had a pleasant conversation, and the picture he took of us appeared in his next morning's post. Thank you, sir!</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GVHrcmkj7as-JVcn_LA2ZIPxGiAO8owaKoS644jHySFcwIXb4uUki2DWl82Nh1nsLQFkwcEsMhXlqL6E8-TTT1Enjrjb7rfp5B1rp0Hdv2glWwJxNeotf3ztliN9x8-XDiJgiaP3Rwk/s1600/IMG_3783.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6GVHrcmkj7as-JVcn_LA2ZIPxGiAO8owaKoS644jHySFcwIXb4uUki2DWl82Nh1nsLQFkwcEsMhXlqL6E8-TTT1Enjrjb7rfp5B1rp0Hdv2glWwJxNeotf3ztliN9x8-XDiJgiaP3Rwk/s1600/IMG_3783.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Pork, vegetable, chicken or beef?</span></td></tr>
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The food offered at the Winter Antiques Show this year was delicious and varied. The dumpling station shown in the preceding photograph was <i>very</i> popular.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHGS8sufTK8DgIdEsWlmzVGO9HJ58w_wgTTsn8nxvAyU8UxR3tgV0AfLpvMtYgWMd06WYCs3o12IiEDh5uyxVWxVti0FbyEtbz8N8jtRWWaYn4DvW2RlLiElSW9e4Fhyphenhyphen4d5b5thJZoNE/s1600/IMG_3784.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjHGS8sufTK8DgIdEsWlmzVGO9HJ58w_wgTTsn8nxvAyU8UxR3tgV0AfLpvMtYgWMd06WYCs3o12IiEDh5uyxVWxVti0FbyEtbz8N8jtRWWaYn4DvW2RlLiElSW9e4Fhyphenhyphen4d5b5thJZoNE/s1600/IMG_3784.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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I stopped in my tracks when I turned around and noticed this exotic-looking mid-nineteenth-century marble bust of an American Indian.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje61NdF3W_WWL9PgnkUEdd1sRroUhnaUMxbQ-U1lCaHoV6o0yJyf8CSFnlJeCTleg_Rqd_ASNKfn0zFYyWAUEHRJovC2pSMDHNBE-9-OxF16YPJ4KopP8tN6A7RClaPcfVp_R7w_v3Cyc/s1600/IMG_3852.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje61NdF3W_WWL9PgnkUEdd1sRroUhnaUMxbQ-U1lCaHoV6o0yJyf8CSFnlJeCTleg_Rqd_ASNKfn0zFYyWAUEHRJovC2pSMDHNBE-9-OxF16YPJ4KopP8tN6A7RClaPcfVp_R7w_v3Cyc/s1600/IMG_3852.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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And I was also quite taken by this full-length statue of a young Indian by the same sculptor, in the same booth.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeBWG9D7WQ4osIig7JHN9guYMQcaSkajy6TFcUsCH3kU9to4C3-vErdJKmKLc5YEZuU-jA30h55MbIlVNeKjtpbEi2t3CWrGvfG416zK5y7q97JcELxxSPagIxifwoA-3An1hIlsssHI/s1600/IMG_3794.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZeBWG9D7WQ4osIig7JHN9guYMQcaSkajy6TFcUsCH3kU9to4C3-vErdJKmKLc5YEZuU-jA30h55MbIlVNeKjtpbEi2t3CWrGvfG416zK5y7q97JcELxxSPagIxifwoA-3An1hIlsssHI/s1600/IMG_3794.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Peter Pap Oriental Rugs booth</span></td></tr>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
My next stop was to say hello to Mr. Peter Pap, the <a href="http://www.peterpap.com/">San Francisco-based dealer of oriental rugs</a>. Mr. Pap's mother and mine were great pals when we were both lads, and we share a mutual friend in common today in Mr. Guy "Pickles" Gurquin, the noted San Francisco decorator.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1aQWFZpuCW2YmioKhP8hgBYblcTcznZmUGwJVAe7aXzxFNXUcL3t1cZyf7pt5wSswg-W6ordhH_QXSTeTMGqUDSG_hVZ6_XzZTnukq4HlZGPTN_OfEY_ewPRQRNINHa1ozjkwA_9Wok/s1600/IMG_3788.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM1aQWFZpuCW2YmioKhP8hgBYblcTcznZmUGwJVAe7aXzxFNXUcL3t1cZyf7pt5wSswg-W6ordhH_QXSTeTMGqUDSG_hVZ6_XzZTnukq4HlZGPTN_OfEY_ewPRQRNINHa1ozjkwA_9Wok/s1600/IMG_3788.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Son and Father Pap</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mr. Pap was joined at the party by his son, Master Jared Pap, whom I enjoyed meeting. I'm afraid the younger Pap may have thought me one of those "I knew your grandmother . . ." old fogey blowhards, but he seemed pretty game about it.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE45J2v9nXm-e0G5GHCQyJ5MxpjmUYfOH__mpvXJGHdjC2uO4KzcN_PrEOhtrSFRJP9tBjzVMElvGwFOESdouhmGAF4khaNzDh9KI0J63GgE1KHdae56FAVfQMzqJiqj-pitwkTcmhyNc/s1600/IMG_3790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE45J2v9nXm-e0G5GHCQyJ5MxpjmUYfOH__mpvXJGHdjC2uO4KzcN_PrEOhtrSFRJP9tBjzVMElvGwFOESdouhmGAF4khaNzDh9KI0J63GgE1KHdae56FAVfQMzqJiqj-pitwkTcmhyNc/s1600/IMG_3790.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Old Print Shop booth</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We next peeked into the booth of the <a href="http://www.oldprintshop.com/">Old Print Shop</a>, where we admired an early depiction of Alexander Hamilton . . .<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GH_DxeD4A3EZ3s3FYbWe08aPXiqvL2Mp00YU-Mq22xynrmc0nSG8hu9OMzBBQiWLiTS-j5vay2HFHPTjWPMuR9GoDCjY0R4mCqX5Gjd_XcDcITpgXSY8mAGpt8gg_8yLd-lSmUJUuFM/s1600/IMG_3793.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GH_DxeD4A3EZ3s3FYbWe08aPXiqvL2Mp00YU-Mq22xynrmc0nSG8hu9OMzBBQiWLiTS-j5vay2HFHPTjWPMuR9GoDCjY0R4mCqX5Gjd_XcDcITpgXSY8mAGpt8gg_8yLd-lSmUJUuFM/s1600/IMG_3793.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
. . . and then made a beeline to the booth of <a href="http://www.antiquesamplers.com/">Stephen and Carol Huber</a>, America's preeminent dealers in antique schoolgirl needleworks.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWUa2EV_egpvLqMaZzNE28LQJ6arwTw6v5F_so3NwjBzEDx4kK31y-HW52P9g_2C_WyNSKu3KYVLJF7313y-5HpyJPoXSTDL_P6Ld2hgQOoCrJEHQA6jsn44iBN1IXuzFwWJyhDMS5as/s1600/IMG_3791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOWUa2EV_egpvLqMaZzNE28LQJ6arwTw6v5F_so3NwjBzEDx4kK31y-HW52P9g_2C_WyNSKu3KYVLJF7313y-5HpyJPoXSTDL_P6Ld2hgQOoCrJEHQA6jsn44iBN1IXuzFwWJyhDMS5as/s1600/IMG_3791.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Stephen & Carol Huber booth</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I have a weakness for mourning pictures, Dear Reader. Actually I need to clarify that: I have a weakness for almost <i>anything</i> made with a mourning theme in the late 18th and early 19th centuries in America or England. I especially liked the mourning needlework picture on display in the Huber's booth, shown in the following photograph:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtvdlIOPiWp7JZyXTqqsER_zCeB3uUNvZJFCHQxaZn-M13-iR2r7xcwT7aFSpx3tjnjHiUE6Q8qmeYedCC3opt2PhwKKOBQqe-gOHEfgHKhAdTzgyrh_kJmS0cY3iIzOGHKes_CoWlsk/s1600/IMG_3797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTtvdlIOPiWp7JZyXTqqsER_zCeB3uUNvZJFCHQxaZn-M13-iR2r7xcwT7aFSpx3tjnjHiUE6Q8qmeYedCC3opt2PhwKKOBQqe-gOHEfgHKhAdTzgyrh_kJmS0cY3iIzOGHKes_CoWlsk/s1600/IMG_3797.JPG" height="312" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Who should I then run into next but Mr. Michael Henry Adams, man about town and <i>bon vivant</i>!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiea0xa-HoFT3muVpeIr_5BDFOB9yMz1ssDJFFJggJm6nxLI2Av4j2fh3sopMeg0pcElz_hy1zncJoGaTK94xk0DeMDC5SuXBcChEPqQrmjYRt-R_4hjm3Gf5y12yXjx3wL68xFGF6ZelA/s1600/IMG_3798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiea0xa-HoFT3muVpeIr_5BDFOB9yMz1ssDJFFJggJm6nxLI2Av4j2fh3sopMeg0pcElz_hy1zncJoGaTK94xk0DeMDC5SuXBcChEPqQrmjYRt-R_4hjm3Gf5y12yXjx3wL68xFGF6ZelA/s1600/IMG_3798.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Michael Henry Adams</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Mr. Adams has kindly invited me to spend a day with him taking in the noteworthy historical sites in Harlem, and I look forward to doing so soon. Taking my leave of him, I briefly paused to admire this pulchritudinous ancient statue . . .<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WofJQ4CSbSuOBNWcKMo1eEloKQ5a_QeXwR8Qdru3fBHsQqUGaa4QGIJs-x3LS9aIEcoNzznhFQgcuXoR5lTNPxmBI8DvIcIs7NT0FVHMf-Xtfe4TJrQNZd8lleXO488W5k50icpjaFw/s1600/IMG_3786.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8WofJQ4CSbSuOBNWcKMo1eEloKQ5a_QeXwR8Qdru3fBHsQqUGaa4QGIJs-x3LS9aIEcoNzznhFQgcuXoR5lTNPxmBI8DvIcIs7NT0FVHMf-Xtfe4TJrQNZd8lleXO488W5k50icpjaFw/s1600/IMG_3786.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Hello gorgeous!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
. . . on my way to the back bar to replenish my flute of champagne. A number of my Dear Readers may remember another, also pulchritudinous ancient statue, that I featured in my <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/02/antiques-week-2013-at-last-part-v.html">last year's post on the WAS opening party</a>, shot from the—ahem—<i>rear</i>. It was also from the same dealer, <a href="http://www.safani.com/">Safani Gallery</a>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VX6B8oXsyZbsybffjcfW5Kd-JFJ6QSX5svUXJLSZsQjtZ4CPX6FGrqXHRd-VB51vaw3F1OGC7nq_7rnFdb8mYQ3t3MssFliGMHuPFgtQKj70FAEisAe6Qt3aEy5FQLZfwlNLL1OmH4A/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6VX6B8oXsyZbsybffjcfW5Kd-JFJ6QSX5svUXJLSZsQjtZ4CPX6FGrqXHRd-VB51vaw3F1OGC7nq_7rnFdb8mYQ3t3MssFliGMHuPFgtQKj70FAEisAe6Qt3aEy5FQLZfwlNLL1OmH4A/s1600/IMG_3795.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I needed a refreshment of champagne in order to bear the excitement of the prospect of next visiting the booth of Hirschl & Adler, where I found Boy shamelessly flirting with the lovely and fun Ms. Liz Feld.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJg1ZziqogLyhbIrLucnC76dWHYiY2BA8adFPpuHGMZHANWjXHujZOGCN9yKA5SCP-lg90S9ro-VPXSbIr_mZIPxhi1PnAodzItMhczBrKnZuj7MLDSTl-nOFmuVaF5xIRNjZXlQBkCI/s1600/IMG_3800.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJg1ZziqogLyhbIrLucnC76dWHYiY2BA8adFPpuHGMZHANWjXHujZOGCN9yKA5SCP-lg90S9ro-VPXSbIr_mZIPxhi1PnAodzItMhczBrKnZuj7MLDSTl-nOFmuVaF5xIRNjZXlQBkCI/s1600/IMG_3800.jpg" height="400" width="293" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Boy Fenwick and Ms. Liz Feld</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And why not? Ms. Feld is <i>divine</i>, and we like her and her family immensely. The Felds have the most mouthwatering goods on display in the <a href="http://www.hirschlandadler.com/">Hirschl & Adler</a> booth at the WAS, including this spectacular desk attributed to Duncan Phyfe, shown in the following photograph.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBsqYHmzwU9ylQJ3yxUKctP5FNZQkNPDE8r7lufhiPUHowKcS1V1FIZan2evBFe8S6htjDULs3XwZp38tSv3J9F1thcoc1R3WJ9u86RCU-f3vEceb5GgUCOKcXYGeKpWdwe3fkI7ImPE/s1600/IMG_3802.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtBsqYHmzwU9ylQJ3yxUKctP5FNZQkNPDE8r7lufhiPUHowKcS1V1FIZan2evBFe8S6htjDULs3XwZp38tSv3J9F1thcoc1R3WJ9u86RCU-f3vEceb5GgUCOKcXYGeKpWdwe3fkI7ImPE/s1600/IMG_3802.jpg" height="400" width="262" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Hirschl & Adler Duncan Phyfe desk</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">with a George Washington gilt bronze clock</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
They also had—not one, but <i>two—</i>George Washington clocks on display. It almost made me faint!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGAed9kG_1rAg29P7JJTLBY7VRMm7QMvxse0B3HTac0cLqX464OPUESAxhQO5fAvpDw_s6slZ6ovZTwFEsNUgEQ0uPoiZl4oRYkMTyFzJfcg_iPgKIP5mKB3fUXYZ-EOzxoqgvTC8eVg/s1600/IMG_3799.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkGAed9kG_1rAg29P7JJTLBY7VRMm7QMvxse0B3HTac0cLqX464OPUESAxhQO5fAvpDw_s6slZ6ovZTwFEsNUgEQ0uPoiZl4oRYkMTyFzJfcg_iPgKIP5mKB3fUXYZ-EOzxoqgvTC8eVg/s1600/IMG_3799.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Another</i> gilt bronze George Washington clock!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I immediately needed another glass of champagne in order to collect myself. Fortunately there was a bar set up close at hand for just such an emergency.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkVhXw59IfKiOHuqkXhA4vjnv4RGPjywM1Nlyt0P_m12xg69NAmXxQGPeKkAAOD7KDaCAWPPJSUttiTSxiaI37Xh9Oqhsne3C4kMfFXeIeOb0opUQqvf59KW74w2ABlL6w5VhoQO2cVg/s1600/IMG_3803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOkVhXw59IfKiOHuqkXhA4vjnv4RGPjywM1Nlyt0P_m12xg69NAmXxQGPeKkAAOD7KDaCAWPPJSUttiTSxiaI37Xh9Oqhsne3C4kMfFXeIeOb0opUQqvf59KW74w2ABlL6w5VhoQO2cVg/s1600/IMG_3803.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Boy at the Bar</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Our next stop was the booth of <a href="http://www.tillouantiques.com/">Jeffrey Tillou Antiques</a>, of Litchfield, Connecticut. We have been customers of Mr. Tillou, both at the WAS and his Litchfield shop, ever since we bought Darlington.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTO_NlcwGfUMY46pUrEymVrEFTn6jyaoqlSmQ5AEvG0odAbC97NRdamRMC_gHdGPDmLjCk1HnkRLluaRwhgiMIeW8MuUmA1No40826MHUNL3tapb0pvWmyPRKPfV-g0dvbWFekyVozCzA/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTO_NlcwGfUMY46pUrEymVrEFTn6jyaoqlSmQ5AEvG0odAbC97NRdamRMC_gHdGPDmLjCk1HnkRLluaRwhgiMIeW8MuUmA1No40826MHUNL3tapb0pvWmyPRKPfV-g0dvbWFekyVozCzA/s1600/IMG_3805.JPG" height="371" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I was quite taken by this large, early-nineteenth-century still life painting in the Tillou booth.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukLmUbSKHiwIuexptzhur-9yOnOBBct26ejKf4G8LLs7i2mORZcWxevysufoZDvuKEgLURvTzp1w-Ceqy_vvdZMa4hvuUpFhoUqmrHiEgu1gM1O0p9Be-JvU6Y5YL6oGy_oMV8UJycTw/s1600/IMG_3812.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgukLmUbSKHiwIuexptzhur-9yOnOBBct26ejKf4G8LLs7i2mORZcWxevysufoZDvuKEgLURvTzp1w-Ceqy_vvdZMa4hvuUpFhoUqmrHiEgu1gM1O0p9Be-JvU6Y5YL6oGy_oMV8UJycTw/s1600/IMG_3812.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Let me tell you about where I found this painting . . . "</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Boy briefly considered this small landscape.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3L2Do-IYJJIn1PIhew6VefuP31y_Q1RIhvyphxaulktFKa4QfAdD1g200U7h7c8-2gsAV6b0HnhOP7kF2s8QmUZGERPyNfZO6cm0yRRjaiHyenhQrFGot2j6zZpc9O4S95GM_7jU_Ro/s1600/IMG_3808.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj3L2Do-IYJJIn1PIhew6VefuP31y_Q1RIhvyphxaulktFKa4QfAdD1g200U7h7c8-2gsAV6b0HnhOP7kF2s8QmUZGERPyNfZO6cm0yRRjaiHyenhQrFGot2j6zZpc9O4S95GM_7jU_Ro/s1600/IMG_3808.jpg" height="400" width="302" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I suspect that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
And we both liked this Ammi Phillips portrait in the Tillou booth of a rather haughty young gentleman. I thought it one of the better portraits by the artist that I've seen in recent years. It was already—not surprisingly—sold.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6AsIULoIcpW9Ki5mFKsb8SpM_0gFBSR2G0-Kpa9PQTJ3oMaG2uaRWolY18M8ujZgE6LoSxpfcDxNyvq6Tz6m784NQO6egrOsLn4Sor5eB-wcOAuePDPxn7-EJAmgMpIs4X02YoNtF7U/s1600/IMG_3807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6AsIULoIcpW9Ki5mFKsb8SpM_0gFBSR2G0-Kpa9PQTJ3oMaG2uaRWolY18M8ujZgE6LoSxpfcDxNyvq6Tz6m784NQO6egrOsLn4Sor5eB-wcOAuePDPxn7-EJAmgMpIs4X02YoNtF7U/s1600/IMG_3807.jpg" height="400" width="280" /></a></div>
<br />
Leaving the Tillou booth we stopped and chatted with Ms. Mary Dohne, seen on the right of the preceding photograph. Ms. Dohne works at Liz O'Brien, a dealer in exquisite, sophisticated, bench-made mid-century furniture of the Maison Jansen/Samuel Marx/Francis Elkins school(s). Ms. Dohne is really rather jolly. I <i>loved</i> the outfit she was wearing at the party.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDW66f_iReUHaa84oXtHkq3uApcvoSF7qZ9WM4Xp9wJeHi8Cq75RyWq4X65TQDzEvDo3GPqHDBsYnTM2hD20VnhOlMJTjaVqJY1CZKjnkeaMqlYaEZrQxSEFKGsPnXMO3VwsqgyVrWifE/s1600/IMG_3815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDW66f_iReUHaa84oXtHkq3uApcvoSF7qZ9WM4Xp9wJeHi8Cq75RyWq4X65TQDzEvDo3GPqHDBsYnTM2hD20VnhOlMJTjaVqJY1CZKjnkeaMqlYaEZrQxSEFKGsPnXMO3VwsqgyVrWifE/s1600/IMG_3815.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ms. Liz O'Brien</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We then made our way to the <a href="http://www.lizobrien.com/">Liz O'Brien</a> booth, where we stopped and chatted with the charming and gracious Ms. O'Brien. I've admired Ms. O'Brien's eye for many years, starting from when she first had a shop in SoHo. Ms. O'Brien is shown in the preceding photograph standing next to a commode made by Maison Jansen for the Duchess of Windsor. It was exquisite. I am tickled pink that Ms. O'Brien and I are now Facebook friends.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblv9_RqZuaQQCjXitUi2g3nKsksud7WjFDzDcorN2en3VDHmhU1j2Uln0QUyZr5xH4tWEaKZY9xaHO6PZMkmP_HRrNanv4qVYgqgffsWeIE5ZlS_1gIh_9TxyXGXRQNWQ_hLkQqQGMGs/s1600/IMG_3836.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgblv9_RqZuaQQCjXitUi2g3nKsksud7WjFDzDcorN2en3VDHmhU1j2Uln0QUyZr5xH4tWEaKZY9xaHO6PZMkmP_HRrNanv4qVYgqgffsWeIE5ZlS_1gIh_9TxyXGXRQNWQ_hLkQqQGMGs/s1600/IMG_3836.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I'll have one of everything, please!</span></td></tr>
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<br />
Taking a break from the visual overload, I fortified myself with several helpings of tasty Peking Duck rolls at the nearby food station.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONQVTWC7CYZuSWtbmOjxIm90V-eqQB840po2d-H5TyQOwWn8OsyVvy0sVfJRXXF9hEk81zDQzDNBcKG2ZEdh5qodPxMRxuJWxtEniV42t1kUeUlGmO_hAYuCZG6GXn3yyHX-m_wAQ7gY/s1600/IMG_3818.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiONQVTWC7CYZuSWtbmOjxIm90V-eqQB840po2d-H5TyQOwWn8OsyVvy0sVfJRXXF9hEk81zDQzDNBcKG2ZEdh5qodPxMRxuJWxtEniV42t1kUeUlGmO_hAYuCZG6GXn3yyHX-m_wAQ7gY/s1600/IMG_3818.jpg" height="400" width="332" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Will Motley with the Dyckman punch bowl</span></td></tr>
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<br />
I next stopped into the booth of <a href="http://www.cohenandcohen.co.uk/">Cohen and Cohen</a> of Reigate, England, to admire their <i>magnificent</i> offerings of (positively) <i>ducal</i> Chinese export porcelain. Mr. Will Motley was kind enough to show me the heart-stopping punch bowl Cohen and Cohen had on display that was (thought to be) commissioned by States Morris Dyckman (1755-1806), ca. 1805, for his house, <a href="http://www.boscobel.org/">Boscobel</a>, in the Hudson River Valley.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN68A9fbQGnvAkSqk7Y-K4EzHiMyWCIfopb3z2LJXVcpvOBjKztJ93rFmsao2KdBXDE0tzKANkBCEzhrbR0Nz1WUvkOe0gnQxSiM6RqpgUlkJ7_vKKbiqCfMW0SfjA0vN97XJmYUbOEg4/s1600/IMG_3821.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN68A9fbQGnvAkSqk7Y-K4EzHiMyWCIfopb3z2LJXVcpvOBjKztJ93rFmsao2KdBXDE0tzKANkBCEzhrbR0Nz1WUvkOe0gnQxSiM6RqpgUlkJ7_vKKbiqCfMW0SfjA0vN97XJmYUbOEg4/s1600/IMG_3821.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Unlike the rather foul-humored dealer at the Ceramics Fair who wouldn't give Reggie the time of day, Mr. Motley was more than pleased to let me examine a truly <i>superb</i> Chinese export punch bowl, ca. 1800, decorated with Masonic emblems. It was large enough to bathe an infant!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhufVURGMkdQ048j6ZFL33WL3rfpahtMgPpIRh5djBukgErnaoWPmfThv4x2LM8qXaYhyvFCWhFlqX8UFzjvKc_v-ACr5q0jFcO5rDZaxDQuFoK-xmQiFnT0MpsOBNWBbBtUKje9XNVLA/s1600/IMG_3834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhufVURGMkdQ048j6ZFL33WL3rfpahtMgPpIRh5djBukgErnaoWPmfThv4x2LM8qXaYhyvFCWhFlqX8UFzjvKc_v-ACr5q0jFcO5rDZaxDQuFoK-xmQiFnT0MpsOBNWBbBtUKje9XNVLA/s1600/IMG_3834.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Cove Landing booth</span></td></tr>
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Our next stop was to visit the <i>extremely popular</i> Cove Landing booth. I did <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/10/reggie-out-about-cocktail-preview-party.html">a post about attending an exhibition sale at Cove Landing</a> this past fall. We've become rather <i>addicted</i> to Cove Landings' exquisite offerings, Dear Reader.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldAMbEtUCUgw9Xaze4sUbddHqfe6mfKe2xe5aNU9jzUm2fPYdoeuWa2BxQzJlggmr2SeBaQLhMLtLZL2BTOEBRWZ7m2-7lQUrtSueO6d79G-8Q5JK08XxeWxTXV1C_wdWk4dvR08Dz6c/s1600/IMG_3851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjldAMbEtUCUgw9Xaze4sUbddHqfe6mfKe2xe5aNU9jzUm2fPYdoeuWa2BxQzJlggmr2SeBaQLhMLtLZL2BTOEBRWZ7m2-7lQUrtSueO6d79G-8Q5JK08XxeWxTXV1C_wdWk4dvR08Dz6c/s1600/IMG_3851.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Across the aisle from Cove Landing, I was entranced by this impressive suite of watercolors of the stages of operations of a silk factory in China, from the early nineteenth century.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpq7210XK0fKvtWWQJc8iPdpA0I52O6tdzcCf7RKj6vqJF-9Zxh5MrhhMdB5HbpxjZ10brYcXExsC2WL1erqduP7rgco8U1ihqhqo7KEVYiUMrszkLpUC_jUaIFIeLv_bU7_C2ohnrpw/s1600/IMG_3792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcpq7210XK0fKvtWWQJc8iPdpA0I52O6tdzcCf7RKj6vqJF-9Zxh5MrhhMdB5HbpxjZ10brYcXExsC2WL1erqduP7rgco8U1ihqhqo7KEVYiUMrszkLpUC_jUaIFIeLv_bU7_C2ohnrpw/s1600/IMG_3792.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Moderne Gallery booth</span></td></tr>
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Not everything at the WAS dates from pre-1900. The dealer's booth shown in the preceding photograph was positively <i>brimming</i> with the wildly collectible, wildly expensive mid-century furniture made by the Japanese-American cabinetmaker and architect George Nakashima (1905-1990).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvOQnhMxzZqp8UkkxeXdD1eSk-Zr3oJFzP7k7b6VrN7dHm_4xS_buiWBCgabd3FY7NIGEvhJjHM7Jpgbaj7eQtrPpUexc-AfO8mqZo-hzxcQjTPNYEfv8J4oVeJCl6G-lxebVQa6B9WQ/s1600/IMG_3814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFvOQnhMxzZqp8UkkxeXdD1eSk-Zr3oJFzP7k7b6VrN7dHm_4xS_buiWBCgabd3FY7NIGEvhJjHM7Jpgbaj7eQtrPpUexc-AfO8mqZo-hzxcQjTPNYEfv8J4oVeJCl6G-lxebVQa6B9WQ/s1600/IMG_3814.jpg" height="400" width="330" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Betty Grable, eat your heart out!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Not all the "nudies" at the WAS were from the Ancient era, Dear Reader. I was quite taken by this early-nineteenth-century pinup in all her unclothed glory.<br />
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Which inspired Reggie with <i>yet more</i> of an appetite for the party's tasty finger food.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAV_rYYCFV6wgr4-FI6nyxAhPRS_eGKRBz0kcgpsuvK2A5TnDrP99_XvLAn03nQuNptmitdwe5aA1Bg4QISrw7_yz2p-NkKwOdJzZSiYs6nfVcXKZRSkiNIaXuaTjl73DJkPaFawcPlw/s1600/IMG_3828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAV_rYYCFV6wgr4-FI6nyxAhPRS_eGKRBz0kcgpsuvK2A5TnDrP99_XvLAn03nQuNptmitdwe5aA1Bg4QISrw7_yz2p-NkKwOdJzZSiYs6nfVcXKZRSkiNIaXuaTjl73DJkPaFawcPlw/s1600/IMG_3828.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Carlton Hobbs booth</span></td></tr>
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I always make sure to stop at the <a href="http://carltonhobbs.com/">Carlton Hobbs</a> booth at the WAS. He has magnificent things to ogle, including this show's truly fantastical pair of <i>enormous</i> Adam-style mirrors (although I suspect the English Mr. Hobbs prefers to call them "looking glasses").<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ibM9fpj67cAmdNDXMDo0rYUVM__Vfa8XHg-yqXdVI_CtsUcvA_zMNkbYB32O1F5MspRSs-CRfFIYoHER0frVn_NxI2fpTC1FPTK6XAkuhViXhzJY31NslVZJfPBvk5vohACTyGFmBGk/s1600/IMG_3844.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9ibM9fpj67cAmdNDXMDo0rYUVM__Vfa8XHg-yqXdVI_CtsUcvA_zMNkbYB32O1F5MspRSs-CRfFIYoHER0frVn_NxI2fpTC1FPTK6XAkuhViXhzJY31NslVZJfPBvk5vohACTyGFmBGk/s1600/IMG_3844.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"What are you looking at?"</span></td></tr>
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Yet more food was to be had.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUcCz573YLqs_TPBFpV9ffVBopnYQlcVMC2FncbKKlsKq5jzNt5pcqmpdMSVJkHpqfUTVRt3aa8SDjp74N4RmPEI_ETht3DbHrmkkdDrEs_InZHj0bs5gaFn5NBbA7JsgLJW01CncAp7g/s1600/IMG_3848.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUcCz573YLqs_TPBFpV9ffVBopnYQlcVMC2FncbKKlsKq5jzNt5pcqmpdMSVJkHpqfUTVRt3aa8SDjp74N4RmPEI_ETht3DbHrmkkdDrEs_InZHj0bs5gaFn5NBbA7JsgLJW01CncAp7g/s1600/IMG_3848.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I believe the toothy fellow in the yellow tie was on a reality show</span></td></tr>
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And yet another photograph of another beautiful booth at the show.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhYhIKQu1KNfFV73gn5ylAEvqQLfPlpjSSfawlzXWOOldZGw6ZHKRNB2tkUI6FzeEQHSa5y0uwDXrJ0RXO98zu2Oij58r28F9lV1wI-iKp7PrZovv5kJ0RKXevx0INICw6NI0lbPT8xc/s1600/IMG_3846.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixhYhIKQu1KNfFV73gn5ylAEvqQLfPlpjSSfawlzXWOOldZGw6ZHKRNB2tkUI6FzeEQHSa5y0uwDXrJ0RXO98zu2Oij58r28F9lV1wI-iKp7PrZovv5kJ0RKXevx0INICw6NI0lbPT8xc/s1600/IMG_3846.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Be it ever so humble . . . "</span></td></tr>
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I thought the grisaille wallpaper at <a href="http://www.kentshire.com/">Kentshire Galleries</a>, seen in the preceding photograph, was <i>beyond</i> sublime.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe-ODG8Q9kx3JT_CXae-2UrqDdx7JhtV9lLFPrdYF-Wv1K9cVQBvz8WZ1EYv6KpOnMkEjaYQx-E-njXluS9Hf-h0Sf4Q9EPrgKQi8zdWTQ2ar1WBMBIkBYwLBC_8nYSqJXlblnW29Uqw/s1600/IMG_3854.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYe-ODG8Q9kx3JT_CXae-2UrqDdx7JhtV9lLFPrdYF-Wv1K9cVQBvz8WZ1EYv6KpOnMkEjaYQx-E-njXluS9Hf-h0Sf4Q9EPrgKQi8zdWTQ2ar1WBMBIkBYwLBC_8nYSqJXlblnW29Uqw/s1600/IMG_3854.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Another photograph snapped of yet more benefitters milling about the drinks station at the center of the Armory.<br />
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And another!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE302OVYMKzAZXVrFVMD5YI0Ab46qLb-CtqphQq04FVjiz0vWtSwrX0jgL8ejxlUEtG0tfAGL3qRpGryRJUIrVnK2kC0m7tdGlEyIkXmvoafGGKcZOl6QKpSAN4fvtvr9HSBZrfBSur7E/s1600/IMG_3859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE302OVYMKzAZXVrFVMD5YI0Ab46qLb-CtqphQq04FVjiz0vWtSwrX0jgL8ejxlUEtG0tfAGL3qRpGryRJUIrVnK2kC0m7tdGlEyIkXmvoafGGKcZOl6QKpSAN4fvtvr9HSBZrfBSur7E/s1600/IMG_3859.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Is that Miss Miller Gaffney I see in the Maison Gerard booth?</span></td></tr>
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The <a href="http://maisongerard.com/">Maison Gerard</a> booth was very chic, I thought.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Carswell Rush Berlin booth</span></td></tr>
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And the <a href="http://www.american-antiques.net/enter.htm">Carswell Rush Berlin</a> booth of American Classical furniture was <i>definitely</i> worth a gander!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGAdGkGwcoq4-mUYtD-3Lzoz_bz3BTuSD7sgNtERIwHMRxeUFZPVbVYG8N_ZRYo61LVnwb-C6bPFmwZgYURyC3vvNiuiu7yiXL2ZEF8BH_0JmjsFuQv6yW7SP3RPzR_L26kv819t6XR0/s1600/IMG_3830.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSGAdGkGwcoq4-mUYtD-3Lzoz_bz3BTuSD7sgNtERIwHMRxeUFZPVbVYG8N_ZRYo61LVnwb-C6bPFmwZgYURyC3vvNiuiu7yiXL2ZEF8BH_0JmjsFuQv6yW7SP3RPzR_L26kv819t6XR0/s1600/IMG_3830.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I wanted everything!</span></td></tr>
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I particularly liked the bookcase along the wall. I wish I had a place for it at Darlington House.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWii1EupNWaOUCXfhtbMrnFaEwClEEtzehWzHbtzaxTtoa-LIwYYDVfDncnMF7xebVbXgwtsss9zOR5UdbO1zd-wJ9e3imdN3owZtKGSxAVfjrCmzY2JkBAMzVKxSgW0rWNrDzsXx893I/s1600/IMG_3862.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWii1EupNWaOUCXfhtbMrnFaEwClEEtzehWzHbtzaxTtoa-LIwYYDVfDncnMF7xebVbXgwtsss9zOR5UdbO1zd-wJ9e3imdN3owZtKGSxAVfjrCmzY2JkBAMzVKxSgW0rWNrDzsXx893I/s1600/IMG_3862.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Elle Shushan's booth</span></td></tr>
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Our final stop at the show was the always-marvelous booth of <a href="http://www.portraitminiatures.com/home.htm">Elle Shushan</a>, the best American dealer in fine antique miniature portraits.<br />
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Every year she and her friend, the designer <a href="http://www.ralphharvard.com/welcome.html">Ralph Harvard</a>, come up with a different inspiration for her booth's design. I think this year it may have been the Egyptian-revival architecture of Henry Austin (1804-1891), but I could be mistaken.<br />
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With dinner plans beckoning us at the nearby <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/search?q=l%27absinthe">L'Absinthe Brasserie</a>, and the delightful company of <a href="http://maureenfooterdesign.com/">Ms. Maureen Footer</a> and <a href="http://emilyevanseerdmans.blogspot.com/">Ms. Emily Evans Eerdmans</a> to look forward to, Boy and I then retrieved our coats and made our way out the main door of the Armory and into the chilly January night. And just like that, we were gone!<br />
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<i>Next: Reggie goes shopping for Duncan Phyfe games tables at Sotheby's and Christie's</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-50691669405468825652014-01-23T02:11:00.000-05:002014-02-01T01:51:39.587-05:00Antiques Week At Last! The 2014 New York Ceramics FairTuesday evening marked the official beginning of the 2014 New York Antiques Week with the opening party of <a href="http://www.caskeylees.com/NY_Ceramics/NY_Ceramics.html">the New York Ceramics Fair</a> and the arrival of a massive snowstorm that brought the city to a standstill.<br />
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Not an auspicious start for Antiques Week or the Ceramics Fair, I would posit, as the show's dealers and the opening's attendees both struggled to navigate the city's treacherous streets, with weather forecasters predicting up to a foot of snow in Manhattan overnight.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwSTAs2_YokiFYbXZvX3fD3qgti3-U1Geyt_iOWxSPhki1Pva01spntQ4_d_o-fexORZ868FBtTenfDPul9eSTuFgjYSS0aRPC2BY-d8YytelfZrJG2Lax2ji_Bvj-PpuQl13D0nxTWI/s1600/IMG_3639.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwSTAs2_YokiFYbXZvX3fD3qgti3-U1Geyt_iOWxSPhki1Pva01spntQ4_d_o-fexORZ868FBtTenfDPul9eSTuFgjYSS0aRPC2BY-d8YytelfZrJG2Lax2ji_Bvj-PpuQl13D0nxTWI/s1600/IMG_3639.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Bohemian National Hall on Manhattan's UES</span></td></tr>
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By the time I made it to the Bohemian National Hall on 73rd Street, the venue for the New York Ceramics Fair, there was already a heavy blanket of snow on the ground, and the temperature had dropped into the mid-teens, and was heading further south.<br />
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A little bit of snow was not <i>about</i> to keep Reggie from attending the Ceramics Fair's opening party, Dear Reader. Not on your tin-type! Reggie wouldn't miss the Ceramics Fair (one of the highlights of Antiques Week, in his view) for the world.<br />
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After depositing my coat and hat with the coat check, my first destination was the party's open bar, where I fortified myself with a glass of champagne and marched into the Bohemian Hall's concert hall, where the dealers were set up.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZs6qGaPtDfQ-3yPn0SS-pGmk0Ut16ZDhVciCVO3FkDR9ThbPT2iYLr3Gt_l0vhVAE5zFvtoWgjwwGFa2RH5Z54xmN4vUYpr1uz2Gq2H-0KG9dA0QUuiZ85o06w5Oc97Y9EAIrWvav1I/s1600/IMG_3650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAZs6qGaPtDfQ-3yPn0SS-pGmk0Ut16ZDhVciCVO3FkDR9ThbPT2iYLr3Gt_l0vhVAE5zFvtoWgjwwGFa2RH5Z54xmN4vUYpr1uz2Gq2H-0KG9dA0QUuiZ85o06w5Oc97Y9EAIrWvav1I/s1600/IMG_3650.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. and Mrs. Paul Vandekar</span></td></tr>
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I made a bee-line to the booth of <a href="http://www.vandekar.com/">Earle D. Vandekar of Knightsbridge</a>, where I thanked Mr. and Mrs. Paul Vandekar, shown in the preceding photograph, for inviting Boy and me to the opening party, as their guests.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhquGuKMfqnXcK0Jp7UUlbU1fblRUhVKsgZyFJwyvAyr9j-j3n7b7jBvH2w8roRqm6KZdEfzpPRXx8Lcw6qdie1zwFog2qiq7uVYqPw2LOe-X_ch_IgPKMSHcR1KnM4tQkcF2MSxp6xGRI/s1600/IMG_3652.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhquGuKMfqnXcK0Jp7UUlbU1fblRUhVKsgZyFJwyvAyr9j-j3n7b7jBvH2w8roRqm6KZdEfzpPRXx8Lcw6qdie1zwFog2qiq7uVYqPw2LOe-X_ch_IgPKMSHcR1KnM4tQkcF2MSxp6xGRI/s1600/IMG_3652.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Earle D. Vandekar booth</span></td></tr>
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The Vandekar's always have a tasty selection of pretty porcelains and ceramics on display, and we've bought pieces from the over the years for our collection at Darlington House.<br />
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I was quite taken with this early pearlware Staffordshire pair of recumbent figures of Cleopatra and Anthony, ca. 1815. I've admired similar examples of this pair before, and hope to eventually own a set one day.<br />
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I also took a fancy to this lidded pearlware sugar bowl (at least that's what I think it is) in the form of an artichoke, made in the first quarter of the nineteenth century.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ms. Myrna Schkolne, the Laughing Lady, and Mr. John Howard</span></td></tr>
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My next stop was the booth of <a href="http://www.antiquepottery.co.uk/">John Howard, of Woodstock England</a>, where I was warmly greeted by Mr. Howard and his friend <a href="http://www.mystaffordshirefigures.com/">Ms. Myrna Schkolne</a>, a noted expert on early English ceramics. I didn't catch the name of the Laughing Lady between them, but I believe she may have come up to New York from Baltimore for the shows. We've <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-york-antiques-week-part-ii.html">bought numerous pieces</a> from Mr. Howard over the years.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A view of the John Howard booth</span></td></tr>
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The Laughing Lady was at the Ceramics Fair with Mr. Stiles Colwill, seen in the green jacket in the above photograph, who kindly introduced himself to me when he overheard me discussing Reggie Darling with Mr. Howard. I have heard many <a href="http://pigtown-design.blogspot.com/2009/12/halcyon-for-holidays.html">nice things about Mr. Colwill</a> from our mutual friend, Ms. Meg Fielding, a fellow Baltimorean and the writer of the charming blog <a href="http://pigtown-design.blogspot.com/">Pigtown Design</a>. It was a pleasure to finally meet Mr. Colwill.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyc0sK1PjCYsfR-HIDGcnPyOawNlzrhwxcMr1feMlMXsTssjG_FNACPXmNKZKm77QU3ZN7IxscN-xtmL-j4qCkgbmPJe7ARPFsOtgO3NpQ6-z82-yYG3dywJ-5RAU8ZOKEJDNo-bJPDjs/s1600/IMG_3684.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyc0sK1PjCYsfR-HIDGcnPyOawNlzrhwxcMr1feMlMXsTssjG_FNACPXmNKZKm77QU3ZN7IxscN-xtmL-j4qCkgbmPJe7ARPFsOtgO3NpQ6-z82-yYG3dywJ-5RAU8ZOKEJDNo-bJPDjs/s1600/IMG_3684.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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In John Howard's booth I was crazy about this green glazed creamware bow pot, shaped like a sarcophagus, ca. 1800.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXxeRBNa1ik4VTRlCgID66pV1edauLhR58blSVhn2ZkhCDp1CJfg1vP92EhvvonB-f1ARK48y3rOOimkZYQ-p-oI4ABdnc24Hh83gC8tJeaUpG4-PNxuSiPb0W9OCiiv8xVKkPSO2DWw/s1600/IMG_3693.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipXxeRBNa1ik4VTRlCgID66pV1edauLhR58blSVhn2ZkhCDp1CJfg1vP92EhvvonB-f1ARK48y3rOOimkZYQ-p-oI4ABdnc24Hh83gC8tJeaUpG4-PNxuSiPb0W9OCiiv8xVKkPSO2DWw/s1600/IMG_3693.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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I was also overjoyed to see a Staffordshire figure of Jumbo the elephant, ca. 1850, similar to one in our own collection that we bought from a different dealer at the Ceramics Fair several years before. You can learn about this marvelous pachyderm in the post I wrote about <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/02/new-york-antiques-week-part-iii.html">buying ours here</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMml0dweO02tBo-o_dwJ1ppWGZ3WGpMlZJu1MTdvL_rbtMQ7VAK8TGNdbhk5hb_vumkya6bfkd-bDDrBMqxerKzEyMAMlLOBtnZsrByYfwFwfE-qBPnvnU5pkS8DpxaC1qfsPi5f0rCg/s1600/IMG_3687.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaMml0dweO02tBo-o_dwJ1ppWGZ3WGpMlZJu1MTdvL_rbtMQ7VAK8TGNdbhk5hb_vumkya6bfkd-bDDrBMqxerKzEyMAMlLOBtnZsrByYfwFwfE-qBPnvnU5pkS8DpxaC1qfsPi5f0rCg/s1600/IMG_3687.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Santos booth</span></td></tr>
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Turning from John Howard's booth I strolled into that of Santos, of London England. I was attracted by the group of large Chinese export porcelain punch bowls on display, sitting on top of the glass display cases.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioX-ZeWPq7iE4J2alrTkF4fEbwrYQdRRPOsVibfUSzAC6Th5AtzW0DIsMJuy0o9rhhVf4NpIVfza3guHrKB7nb3HiRBO2JlS8I0ZM_lRWihnYCxgY7WrOXASLDvG5C0qMhEHx9xjNZbLY/s1600/IMG_3689.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioX-ZeWPq7iE4J2alrTkF4fEbwrYQdRRPOsVibfUSzAC6Th5AtzW0DIsMJuy0o9rhhVf4NpIVfza3guHrKB7nb3HiRBO2JlS8I0ZM_lRWihnYCxgY7WrOXASLDvG5C0qMhEHx9xjNZbLY/s1600/IMG_3689.JPG" height="285" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The punch bowl that got me into trouble</span></td></tr>
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I was particularly drawn to the one shown in the preceding photograph, ca. 1800, painted with Masonic emblems. Although I am not a Free Mason, I love their symbolic decorations, and have always admired Chinese export porcelains painted with them. Alas, this bowl was not to be added to my collection of export punch bowls as the proprietor of the booth was in no mood to speak with me, and became visibly irritated when I asked him if it would be okay if I took a photograph of the bowl he had on display. Ah well—I hope he will be in a better humor when the Ceramics Fair opens to the general public.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluAp1lyzcFl_JQSgt-3WxaMuwP-apHIKFUlMllN88g48BnQjh2mzz5PdGvn6IPnqS5lF-tO5D47HGAxRP0fW208XC9_qhc0XSzuG-_UMtxAUUUosdQ7dbqxc_CZJnTcFqxbAQ03OvMzc/s1600/IMG_3690.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiluAp1lyzcFl_JQSgt-3WxaMuwP-apHIKFUlMllN88g48BnQjh2mzz5PdGvn6IPnqS5lF-tO5D47HGAxRP0fW208XC9_qhc0XSzuG-_UMtxAUUUosdQ7dbqxc_CZJnTcFqxbAQ03OvMzc/s1600/IMG_3690.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A general view of the main floor of the Ceramics Fair</span></td></tr>
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Turning from the Santos booth I made my way back onto the main floor of the hall to see what else was on offer.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMNaOrct5HlWGvXL5Z9zHYMeKD7am33jVWxWc4UX-ujYWDbteSoF71taWSlFrCZDegBYIqAOUYeAQjgYbqBRRrNExs8ZiuCxQswf1BPnjvmngAxOGnhGqZU9qFJ-LYh8E9fumd0YVIsI/s1600/IMG_3666.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPMNaOrct5HlWGvXL5Z9zHYMeKD7am33jVWxWc4UX-ujYWDbteSoF71taWSlFrCZDegBYIqAOUYeAQjgYbqBRRrNExs8ZiuCxQswf1BPnjvmngAxOGnhGqZU9qFJ-LYh8E9fumd0YVIsI/s1600/IMG_3666.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"First in war, first in peace, and first in the</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">hearts of his countrymen"</span></td></tr>
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I was intrigued by this early nineteenth-century pearlware bust of George Washington, stamped 1818, from the pottery works of <a href="http://www.thepotteries.org/walks/burslem/n.htm">Enoch Wood</a>. I already have a similar one in my own collection, but I believe mine is later, from a strike done in the 1880s or so.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIsUbx6l6w-SZRxzL1qhg3vSABKVaGfmGqGJIE8z-cY6I0YhPbAIXIaiCsUJAIKnvWWVROTLCed7ttZKhmpyj_-MoV-GzZ9QS6MD3apI2RO0FWlYaoOL24mm3oX7qmK7eE2HGRQLAp_Y/s1600/IMG_3698.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJIsUbx6l6w-SZRxzL1qhg3vSABKVaGfmGqGJIE8z-cY6I0YhPbAIXIaiCsUJAIKnvWWVROTLCed7ttZKhmpyj_-MoV-GzZ9QS6MD3apI2RO0FWlYaoOL24mm3oX7qmK7eE2HGRQLAp_Y/s1600/IMG_3698.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ms. Jacqueline Smelkinson and Ms. Marcia Moylan</span></td></tr>
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I then stopped by the booth of <a href="http://www.spareroomantiques.com/">Moylan-Smelkinson</a> of Baltimore, Maryland (do I notice a trend of Baltimoreans here?) to say hello to the two lovely ladies, but forgot to take photographs of their booth in my excitement in seeing and speaking with them.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_CHZLorppVbok6gRSaVxBlPoE2weXt0N9YvcwhC9UPawCdY3QLIFd6V1EwSPnNqZPHT5yAr1lrjoMSTFIO_8QxEvPMdKhA7MQ-ASBfyoxb-3Z90g8c9ybT_MTyOTc9YQWxITniDoV34/s1600/IMG_3669.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_CHZLorppVbok6gRSaVxBlPoE2weXt0N9YvcwhC9UPawCdY3QLIFd6V1EwSPnNqZPHT5yAr1lrjoMSTFIO_8QxEvPMdKhA7MQ-ASBfyoxb-3Z90g8c9ybT_MTyOTc9YQWxITniDoV34/s1600/IMG_3669.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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By this time I had made a full circle of the main floor of the Ceramics Fair, and so I made my way upstairs to the mezzanine level, where I was delighted to find another bar set up and a ready replenishment of my empty champagne flute.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5JgDCPXAGl7MmqvWCK2eQHhyphenhyphen8DT8L9fpPaF1EYcpKJKqtwUIydgKRuQh2ngeaCqdYMPftVN2MCSP46kGQlXb-lMeT6_yxFOI5YieIbXc_UhgHnZBCUy3C3Prs7OCZDkFQJtRS0qGbMs/s1600/IMG_3680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEid5JgDCPXAGl7MmqvWCK2eQHhyphenhyphen8DT8L9fpPaF1EYcpKJKqtwUIydgKRuQh2ngeaCqdYMPftVN2MCSP46kGQlXb-lMeT6_yxFOI5YieIbXc_UhgHnZBCUy3C3Prs7OCZDkFQJtRS0qGbMs/s1600/IMG_3680.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Looking down on the main floor of the hall</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">from the mezzanine level</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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My mission in going to the mezzanine level was to stop in the booth of <a href="http://www.lyndawillauerantiques.com/">Lynda Willauer Antiques</a> of Nantucket, Massachusetts. Boy and I are regular customers of Ms. Willauer's, both at shows in New York and at her charming shop on Nantucket.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizcVcqHbFaOs2DhjptpVB-E6wnnic1QX5BWAuu2otXuAqbG02K2fxiCUVjZ7GgT7-xLxypUPhJEU1tlKp0mmU3qcugxHPKePMWLRN1FyqTMN0J3TxoMHvqRcWjg1bUyvrOwA9q-ZoO4D4/s1600/IMG_3709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizcVcqHbFaOs2DhjptpVB-E6wnnic1QX5BWAuu2otXuAqbG02K2fxiCUVjZ7GgT7-xLxypUPhJEU1tlKp0mmU3qcugxHPKePMWLRN1FyqTMN0J3TxoMHvqRcWjg1bUyvrOwA9q-ZoO4D4/s1600/IMG_3709.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A view of the booth of Lynda Willauer Antiques</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It was in Ms. Willauer's booth that I found my <i>can't-live-without</i> purchase of two majolica garden stools in the form of tree trunks, made in Sweden ca. 1880. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnxbLGKd7PJ0oXjnIGhzofOoOmpgHA2Xa0nEK0ycK4sWHaPg-yuUZeUYOtIHqeCxxw6YJh9xDRh0EW9xx5WUHmlAZ-0ZtzATD8nLwhmVQK74qVIwdPJfEhKQf78yM1CdisNliZ82P7eE/s1600/IMG_3672.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnxbLGKd7PJ0oXjnIGhzofOoOmpgHA2Xa0nEK0ycK4sWHaPg-yuUZeUYOtIHqeCxxw6YJh9xDRh0EW9xx5WUHmlAZ-0ZtzATD8nLwhmVQK74qVIwdPJfEhKQf78yM1CdisNliZ82P7eE/s1600/IMG_3672.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A near-pair of majolica garden stools</span></td></tr>
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Boy and I have been under bidders on similar tree trunk-shaped garden stools at auctions in the past, and we have had our eyes out for one ever since to use on our screen porch during the summer, as an occasional table.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBFchkTEO6aMxnpIg7rNXWjkqhTluTgw4WcN6qzTrCREue9I47Za8ReP2zKu6rSHFsb2kuaphIq4xfKw41IVkmBsHrsuKo4PbltBhX5zylEs0nf3DvmarGkJ-jD2em5yirKPBOI3RZkY/s1600/IMG_3676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnBFchkTEO6aMxnpIg7rNXWjkqhTluTgw4WcN6qzTrCREue9I47Za8ReP2zKu6rSHFsb2kuaphIq4xfKw41IVkmBsHrsuKo4PbltBhX5zylEs0nf3DvmarGkJ-jD2em5yirKPBOI3RZkY/s1600/IMG_3676.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Boy examining one of the garden stools</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We quickly determined that we <i>had</i> to have them, and came to an agreement with Ms. Willauer to buy them from her. While I wasn't expecting to come away with two of them, they were sold as a pair and I am now the proud owner of not one, but two of these marvelous garden stools.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5OeKiWEVebB85Y0NiAQ5kng31IXVF-jSbV9Vwttc1j5Ls6fL1gFov_fvm-8AXANyPTCBHmYtRR_rHrzY7rVt9iV4VhTfWN4HL7vnBJRr_lD6ZOVRH-17jy2oYlEfrlk4ldiu2XKOmj0w/s1600/IMG_3697.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5OeKiWEVebB85Y0NiAQ5kng31IXVF-jSbV9Vwttc1j5Ls6fL1gFov_fvm-8AXANyPTCBHmYtRR_rHrzY7rVt9iV4VhTfWN4HL7vnBJRr_lD6ZOVRH-17jy2oYlEfrlk4ldiu2XKOmj0w/s1600/IMG_3697.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Warren's booth</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Our final stop at the Ceramics Fair was the booth of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MariaandPeterWarrenAntiques">Maria and Peter Warren Antiques</a> of Wilton, Connecticut, where Boy had spied an attractive, early nineteenth century black basalt covered sugar bowl earlier during the show. He is now the happy owner of the basalt sugar bowl, seen in the following photograph, which will join our burgeoning collection of basalt when we return to Darlington House this weekend.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCU7LSAWxdXB0dNe3Tg8r9FZr-xSsM_uOXRPhykqPQCmYO9EssnFur6BVCkF8OPpaYSMXoxrHDY5qvaTJQxOgIlwzcgmIs_G73CKzwcqgbhEasKZHMYG8KMxoYSg2ud1WwvQ2g3jW7Ec/s1600/IMG_3695.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglCU7LSAWxdXB0dNe3Tg8r9FZr-xSsM_uOXRPhykqPQCmYO9EssnFur6BVCkF8OPpaYSMXoxrHDY5qvaTJQxOgIlwzcgmIs_G73CKzwcqgbhEasKZHMYG8KMxoYSg2ud1WwvQ2g3jW7Ec/s1600/IMG_3695.jpg" height="400" width="353" /></a></div>
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Boy also acquired a small green feather edged creamware plate from Maria and Peter Warren Antiques, ca. 1820, to add to his collection of green feather edge plates and serving pieces.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IrqNx_mAiJPbKU8Z1_SrkSkEyF9rlPItq_LdC_7mkNxTM-k7gPB9_dBZmJbR2JUGkLsqSJBMChdSBnRNUL8wof0k_inZhLq4E2oQkvZmj82TZ5sk0QkSSsuMTb9YNlMayafXGLLExQ8/s1600/IMG_3701.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5IrqNx_mAiJPbKU8Z1_SrkSkEyF9rlPItq_LdC_7mkNxTM-k7gPB9_dBZmJbR2JUGkLsqSJBMChdSBnRNUL8wof0k_inZhLq4E2oQkvZmj82TZ5sk0QkSSsuMTb9YNlMayafXGLLExQ8/s1600/IMG_3701.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I'll take it!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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With our purchases completed, we bid the Ceramics Fair <i>adieu</i> and headed out the door for a quick bite of dinner at the nearby cheap-n-cheerful Finnegan's Wake Irish pub.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKjcKNuaRZByH5tOBZiX7ymE9MzBE943BeIsNVHl30nXP0tsF7mB_DyQara9QLL9wV02B-semlxWfUHlUI_EFfaDBVvFL00i6Yh7-bIu380Dhqik5q2TS20GROQjGeMqrVImM5_bepBA/s1600/IMG_3712.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixKjcKNuaRZByH5tOBZiX7ymE9MzBE943BeIsNVHl30nXP0tsF7mB_DyQara9QLL9wV02B-semlxWfUHlUI_EFfaDBVvFL00i6Yh7-bIu380Dhqik5q2TS20GROQjGeMqrVImM5_bepBA/s1600/IMG_3712.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The main dining room at Finnegan's Wake</span></td></tr>
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Well fortified with ceramics, drink, and food, we then braved the snowy night and walked the several blocks to our apartment building and to our dear Basil, who was snoozing away on his pillow waiting for us.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElZ_XLuc1UPCs1AlsZBtUp3iZTsZzR33ZdvFlGAm0zYAettZYvbx4HDeTcDrwRl5Vn4mdZsHQ6SOMbKYpLTdxjxwrn5NC-YDGf2go0YOd5OLAEZ_dIipnntUqp-uhJ2_y-jJcp-NO9Ls/s1600/IMG_3720.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjElZ_XLuc1UPCs1AlsZBtUp3iZTsZzR33ZdvFlGAm0zYAettZYvbx4HDeTcDrwRl5Vn4mdZsHQ6SOMbKYpLTdxjxwrn5NC-YDGf2go0YOd5OLAEZ_dIipnntUqp-uhJ2_y-jJcp-NO9Ls/s1600/IMG_3720.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Baby it's cold outside!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And with that, Dear Reader, Reggie's completes his reportage on this year's New York Ceramics Fair.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.caskeylees.com/NY_Ceramics/NY_Ceramics.html">The New York Ceramics Fair</a><br />
Bohemian National Hall<br />
321 East 73rd Street<br />
Between 1st and 2nd Avenues<br />
January 22-26, 2014<br />
<br />
<i>Next: Reggie Attends the Winter Antiques Show Opening Party</i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-20172762474351045462014-01-22T09:02:00.000-05:002014-01-22T19:35:01.146-05:00Reggie Is Having Fun Over At PrivilegeReggie is thrilled (and tickled pink) to have collaborated with LPC, the writer of the marvelous blog Privilege, on a post analyzing and discussing the sartorial style of the East Coast Grande Dame. For those of my readers who aren't familiar with LPC's Privilege blog, I whole-heartedly recommend that you click on over to it and <a href="http://amidprivilege.com/">give it a gander</a>. I am sure that you will become as hooked as I am.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_6DT34u3kupiUMP94LZohE8sM897PE9ke43RL-0t9iXm-FhF_7tHwWW1nsDrt_vNsLk-RJ2snfDTY5bHYSRiaN5II1kZdXwf2ittMZaxSNGl1v90a-2jfBVliuGRP1tfHlXvs6q_Eag/s1600/Grande-Dame-Icons-Reggie-Darling-Style.v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH_6DT34u3kupiUMP94LZohE8sM897PE9ke43RL-0t9iXm-FhF_7tHwWW1nsDrt_vNsLk-RJ2snfDTY5bHYSRiaN5II1kZdXwf2ittMZaxSNGl1v90a-2jfBVliuGRP1tfHlXvs6q_Eag/s1600/Grande-Dame-Icons-Reggie-Darling-Style.v2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Style Icons of the East Coast Grande Dame<br />as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege<br /><i>Image courtesy of same</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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I first became aware of LPC's Privilege blog shortly after I started my own, and we have since become fast friends, transitioning from an initial electronic acquaintance discussing our shared High WASP backgrounds into a live, "Let's have dinner when you are in town" one. Several years ago we guest-posted on each other's blogs about attending our twenty fifth college reunions at the Ivy League schools we went to, in her case Princeton and mine Yale. You can link to her post about it <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/06/guest-post-lisa-of-privilege-on-her.html">on my blog here</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cf6d2PXFHEsHjsoy7DcUIrmTye9RSWc9YB-15lMNini63dCT9Q16y1mrcP_8lBuUe_aoroYCv7pYskaC9UGWLw1po3KFtOGgUnFdNGnfH3gtPYWrV5TmV1e-4xgmiaQ87xXoWND7jY8/s1600/Grande-Dame-Accessories-Reggie-Darling-Style.v2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6cf6d2PXFHEsHjsoy7DcUIrmTye9RSWc9YB-15lMNini63dCT9Q16y1mrcP_8lBuUe_aoroYCv7pYskaC9UGWLw1po3KFtOGgUnFdNGnfH3gtPYWrV5TmV1e-4xgmiaQ87xXoWND7jY8/s1600/Grande-Dame-Accessories-Reggie-Darling-Style.v2.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The East Coast Grande Dame's favored accessories<br />
as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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On her own blog, LPC frequently discusses the sartorial equipage of three types of WASP women: the "Sturdy Gal," the "Artsy Cousin," and the "Grande Dame," each of which she cleverly defines and analyzes for her devoted readers. A month or two ago LPC did a post about Grande Dame style where Reggie commented and which prompted LPC to invite him to collaborate with her on a piece about the style of the East Coast Grande Dame, a subset to her broader Grande Dame category. LPC sought Reggie's input because she is a life-long Californian (her parents decamped there from their East Coast High WASP origins before she was born), and felt that I could provide a window into the style of the East Coast Grande Dame from "the inside" (so to speak), as a New Yorker.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBv7wXMlSbL73efX4UxHY8GBP81RgUHrJat4IpOacZdQ-DqX4P4dfx9lRH8ek-zhGt7_u2AhKTujB773dMLs2J7G9Ubg_I1jsx-CplHoSSG_nXcD_FRWps1NTBDMPWDzCahmW2Xdg4yA/s1600/The-Modern-Grande-Dame-Reggie-Darling-Style.v3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBv7wXMlSbL73efX4UxHY8GBP81RgUHrJat4IpOacZdQ-DqX4P4dfx9lRH8ek-zhGt7_u2AhKTujB773dMLs2J7G9Ubg_I1jsx-CplHoSSG_nXcD_FRWps1NTBDMPWDzCahmW2Xdg4yA/s1600/The-Modern-Grande-Dame-Reggie-Darling-Style.v3.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Modern Day East Coast Grande Dames<br />
as selected by Reggie Darling for Privilege<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I had much fun collaborating with LPC on her post, peppering her with images and suggestions, and I think the result is absolutely swell. I am honored that she asked me to contribute to it, and I encourage you, Dear Reader, to click on over and <a href="http://amidprivilege.com/2014/01/east-coast-grande-dame-oracle-reggie-darling/">read the piece here</a>.<br />
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I hope you like it!<br />
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Many thanks, LPC, for giving Dear Old Reggie the opportunity to have fun with you on our collaboration. You are a treasure.Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-5835908615753794082014-01-19T22:41:00.002-05:002014-02-15T07:50:44.850-05:00A Round Hill Reverie<i>Now that the madness of the Christmas season is over, Dear Reader, I'm planning on posting a series of essays that have been in my queue for some time. Today's post, a review of one of the Caribbean's most storied resorts, is the first in the line up.</i><br />
<br />
This past October Boy and I visited <a href="http://www.roundhill.com/">Round Hill</a> in Jamaica, to celebrate a milestone birthday for Boy.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40ZaompzY_llZAwJ9EaqCTPe2QHPvwL_UGhOudzPp00a3RCs0qFcN7DfwmzCKGyqzgfl2McQ3HLlQUgQ4BpiJnva0I9Tp5oCsJrsC_Ypt-ptCD2TBaxGhTRt3_O_9LEcJHPt-Nk1jC_8/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40ZaompzY_llZAwJ9EaqCTPe2QHPvwL_UGhOudzPp00a3RCs0qFcN7DfwmzCKGyqzgfl2McQ3HLlQUgQ4BpiJnva0I9Tp5oCsJrsC_Ypt-ptCD2TBaxGhTRt3_O_9LEcJHPt-Nk1jC_8/s1600/IMG_0034.JPG" height="237" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Main Lodge at Round Hill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Round Hill is one of the fabled Caribbean resorts, and one that I've always wanted to visit. This was my first—and I'm confident will not be my last—stay at the Queen of Jamaica's resorts.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Fz5WfNUrJXGFpiTuNsClCYOv_XRa9aKSZxXcv7LvG8vLC8oiCVsNO8SNpsvb0X1EAcPLeKytn4eobrhJ6ONkcpYM1UX_Ae7BS1BEz9QzC413Ls0zPjb9vLQSB-VAtSBfcLo8Czm7-hc/s1600/Unknown-26.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Fz5WfNUrJXGFpiTuNsClCYOv_XRa9aKSZxXcv7LvG8vLC8oiCVsNO8SNpsvb0X1EAcPLeKytn4eobrhJ6ONkcpYM1UX_Ae7BS1BEz9QzC413Ls0zPjb9vLQSB-VAtSBfcLo8Czm7-hc/s1600/Unknown-26.jpeg" height="216" width="400" /></a></div>
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Situated on a secluded, 100+ acre peninsula near Montego Bay, Jamaica, Round Hill has virtually nothing in common with the enormous all-inclusive resorts the island is known for. Round Hill is, in contrast, very discreet, quiet, small, and exclusive.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlmziki13R702dMlhbI6pR702A5qqUG7rcwlgOD41kyLLflu6OgKe5B0P7aO-PAQivtpsmmFqOaWZCE_p7BEkvvcTak-gT4DvUa_aI2XUbUqo0tOvgMlAEnwawWm7lGkkuPi5qeAjKG0/s1600/home_img1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlmziki13R702dMlhbI6pR702A5qqUG7rcwlgOD41kyLLflu6OgKe5B0P7aO-PAQivtpsmmFqOaWZCE_p7BEkvvcTak-gT4DvUa_aI2XUbUqo0tOvgMlAEnwawWm7lGkkuPi5qeAjKG0/s1600/home_img1.jpg" height="212" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">An aerial view of Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
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Long celebrated for its exquisite location, luxurious amenities, splendid service, and rigid door policies (no tourists allowed, thank you), Round Hill has long been a favored tropical destination for those born with golden spoons in their mouths, captains of industry, international socialites, Wall Street heavyweights, and Hollywood icons of the old school.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QwO4fKkk49zpfgZZ8dU5LbilPzyH5K6QmAzWsAPEMEP-TeGgEms9ZdyS7tHI1u660-Fnh_eQJhfzArAqgB2FlUZ3TCTKcC_ERba3edqUsilDsr61auCIxSqya9lbIpZ97jYMbB3TF4Q/s1600/17-1.+babe+paley+by+slim+aarons+1959.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5QwO4fKkk49zpfgZZ8dU5LbilPzyH5K6QmAzWsAPEMEP-TeGgEms9ZdyS7tHI1u660-Fnh_eQJhfzArAqgB2FlUZ3TCTKcC_ERba3edqUsilDsr61auCIxSqya9lbIpZ97jYMbB3TF4Q/s1600/17-1.+babe+paley+by+slim+aarons+1959.jpg" height="390" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Babe Paley and her husband, William Paley<br />
at their villa in Round Hill, photographed by Slim Aarons</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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For example, Mrs. and Mrs. William Paley were once among Round Hill's most famous residents.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRH616cXNCp2Rxv5RljQd6FnmGriyXDtkIgvSssUt-mgvCn-Y8NfKzjNkYOuzXcD_rBSoJ2naEH1k5XvHSlI6LeRLZXiBELY8bQvpqv518hcNVUZPdkVdcAMVAJoXsg_ShWIrCoKWkJY/s1600/011a7e1a10fb56de0b6d56921095a1a2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLRH616cXNCp2Rxv5RljQd6FnmGriyXDtkIgvSssUt-mgvCn-Y8NfKzjNkYOuzXcD_rBSoJ2naEH1k5XvHSlI6LeRLZXiBELY8bQvpqv518hcNVUZPdkVdcAMVAJoXsg_ShWIrCoKWkJY/s1600/011a7e1a10fb56de0b6d56921095a1a2.jpg" height="400" width="307" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Lauren at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of Architectural Digest</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Today their villa at Round Hill is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Lauren.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOljJ0v2XBnL3RJ2VEceVu5wV4oM14lljY4kz2RqvY7IUZwsSJWUBlidA14ukIoBgOIXbv-5vjq5jR5CU4KMlhBxgy2PVmM4HEEatdAPrV1PSCRpy6T7mqGz8TVuHOdfAoEyT88pGSwnM/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOljJ0v2XBnL3RJ2VEceVu5wV4oM14lljY4kz2RqvY7IUZwsSJWUBlidA14ukIoBgOIXbv-5vjq5jR5CU4KMlhBxgy2PVmM4HEEatdAPrV1PSCRpy6T7mqGz8TVuHOdfAoEyT88pGSwnM/s1600/IMG_0040.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the veranda at Round Hill's main lodge</td></tr>
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Round Hill sits on a lovely, sheltered bay, far from the hubbub and madness of Montego Bay.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKe1zqqGpQ3aFHDAB5YDGzOgMhzOMRURs82pcbjaTFnAmfu_aMCXTBMZgZbRrZQdHQA85cSvtgf9n0j6bkz_T5pZywwVBV_UkT8ISiPvNLJvhNaoGdRa5WVJGVQok0qEuiv0z3cbzHR0/s1600/21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRKe1zqqGpQ3aFHDAB5YDGzOgMhzOMRURs82pcbjaTFnAmfu_aMCXTBMZgZbRrZQdHQA85cSvtgf9n0j6bkz_T5pZywwVBV_UkT8ISiPvNLJvhNaoGdRa5WVJGVQok0qEuiv0z3cbzHR0/s1600/21.jpg" height="400" width="210" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">President John F. Kennedy at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of Round Hill</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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President and Mrs. Kennedy were regular visitors at Round Hill, drawn to it for its exclusivity and firm policy of protecting the privacy of its guests.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ3fpm6zfPPy3nCcdGFymDP1mAdpo4V85XaI5ji8ltCVz-rN4BdHsTHDM0lMQJRbHwuhyYfWcUJvImnT5z5vLg44sP1FFcFtkOfqJsY1HYDAtbBrNOsi1R_fJEIkzP5mu2TaV9FNM4n8/s1600/Elevated_Infinity_Pool_Photo_I.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ3fpm6zfPPy3nCcdGFymDP1mAdpo4V85XaI5ji8ltCVz-rN4BdHsTHDM0lMQJRbHwuhyYfWcUJvImnT5z5vLg44sP1FFcFtkOfqJsY1HYDAtbBrNOsi1R_fJEIkzP5mu2TaV9FNM4n8/s1600/Elevated_Infinity_Pool_Photo_I.jpg" height="362" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The pools at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The resort has all of the amenities that one could possibly wish for: a protected beach, pools, a spa, several bars, luxurious dining pavilions, and more. The staff couldn't be nicer, or more accommodating.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16RjpuRayScKuiENB0OpHHRO8w7-TaMai_1GDEVi92lgylMTM_TeXtyuSE7oUGTAJ5UJgYH-oquL0pWO6we_Mwlhzxik3cY-cXpcI0_gZ53eNZwJbBBBrBxFMQVEnTFu0ft4AofdIm4Y/s1600/grace_kelly_jamaica_1955_by_howell_conant_4ZAbZxZ.sized.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh16RjpuRayScKuiENB0OpHHRO8w7-TaMai_1GDEVi92lgylMTM_TeXtyuSE7oUGTAJ5UJgYH-oquL0pWO6we_Mwlhzxik3cY-cXpcI0_gZ53eNZwJbBBBrBxFMQVEnTFu0ft4AofdIm4Y/s1600/grace_kelly_jamaica_1955_by_howell_conant_4ZAbZxZ.sized.jpg" height="400" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Grace Kelly, relaxing on the beach at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Grace Kelly was a regular visitor at Round Hill, both before and after her marriage to Prince Ranier of Monaco.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzdyLKhSjlaqVVbiuyetpQqUoksrWI7OSegPWX395k5dSCPOfuuALQqVVAyicF7kPtaYKYokE_Ih2rXLc1PSbtC-3UhX5aMyzvAdw4HP1QHJ6temT-H1h09AmOGJKFeQqJmYr8VruAXU/s1600/Screen-Shot-2013-02-27-at-2.35.29-PM-e1361994236813-690x490.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzzdyLKhSjlaqVVbiuyetpQqUoksrWI7OSegPWX395k5dSCPOfuuALQqVVAyicF7kPtaYKYokE_Ih2rXLc1PSbtC-3UhX5aMyzvAdw4HP1QHJ6temT-H1h09AmOGJKFeQqJmYr8VruAXU/s1600/Screen-Shot-2013-02-27-at-2.35.29-PM-e1361994236813-690x490.png" height="320" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mr. Clark Gable and Mrs. John Pringle at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Clark Gable was also an habitué of Round Hill.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1PwWcsoI3sSLuA_ID7wQ0TBdpi0YiH-nh_3Hcp_zZqmRp8Mu88KUT-k8_O8EmBr9mpbusxC7sCKlgTzZMh52GQ_yB2ktDWjcBTvoKlVcViLT-vgKy1yP1C1QRq7M20-V8xW9tYw7Rbo/s1600/article-1339608-0C81CC34000005DC-171_306x423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC1PwWcsoI3sSLuA_ID7wQ0TBdpi0YiH-nh_3Hcp_zZqmRp8Mu88KUT-k8_O8EmBr9mpbusxC7sCKlgTzZMh52GQ_yB2ktDWjcBTvoKlVcViLT-vgKy1yP1C1QRq7M20-V8xW9tYw7Rbo/s1600/article-1339608-0C81CC34000005DC-171_306x423.jpg" height="400" width="288" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Mary Martin and Sir Noël Coward at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The playwright and composer Sir Noël Coward once owned a villa at Round Hill, where he regularly entertained the stars of Broadway and London's West End.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGgaf1kKCQYjSzfrCQg7u0QDiMYmf-nqQhHwblJCz3EavJjiqWyG6b1Wj4_T9wUhNyD7iLHN7Jr3Qh9xvHzef26qNtCXG8GaAopV6FrhyphenhyphenspCQJE9ZxS1wk74FbGXIsdtV_ytSwk8d3zk/s1600/Screen-Shot-2013-02-27-at-2.35.15-PM-e1361994382621-690x490.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibGgaf1kKCQYjSzfrCQg7u0QDiMYmf-nqQhHwblJCz3EavJjiqWyG6b1Wj4_T9wUhNyD7iLHN7Jr3Qh9xvHzef26qNtCXG8GaAopV6FrhyphenhyphenspCQJE9ZxS1wk74FbGXIsdtV_ytSwk8d3zk/s1600/Screen-Shot-2013-02-27-at-2.35.15-PM-e1361994382621-690x490.png" height="400" width="366" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miss Joanne Woodward and Mr. Paul Newman having<br />
fun at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Joanne Woodward and her husband Paul Newman were no strangers to Round Hill.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bud-QoB54ifs9CVSjkUgmHE2PgoPYBFpHteCwQQ4JpDHRpzwL1QsJlZkSkgRIqpqoNuGIUqt3mG2rfKpx6VX3XoNHbfAPXCb0HkM-l40C-uUf5L1sqerHd61pPgvSetEczIdbd3qtXI/s1600/24-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bud-QoB54ifs9CVSjkUgmHE2PgoPYBFpHteCwQQ4JpDHRpzwL1QsJlZkSkgRIqpqoNuGIUqt3mG2rfKpx6VX3XoNHbfAPXCb0HkM-l40C-uUf5L1sqerHd61pPgvSetEczIdbd3qtXI/s1600/24-1.jpg" height="310" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sir Paul McCartney and friends at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
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More recently Sir Paul McCartney and his family have been frequent visitors to Round Hill.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUs_WR_vd1sjmRTXaVp8DWboEJZzzGCihqmge3eqwdlpj8fiSU7HVDTAERfXVo0fwkmYm6WoNgc_ikTWgdYSKlmp6hKyvK6tFmE2f3sCzblhW8AtsvCczGTc0m_B5ewnAatXxqa7TLzs/s1600/IMG_0042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjUs_WR_vd1sjmRTXaVp8DWboEJZzzGCihqmge3eqwdlpj8fiSU7HVDTAERfXVo0fwkmYm6WoNgc_ikTWgdYSKlmp6hKyvK6tFmE2f3sCzblhW8AtsvCczGTc0m_B5ewnAatXxqa7TLzs/s1600/IMG_0042.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The villa we stayed in at Round Hill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
While Round Hill's storied history was a plus for us, it was the sybaritic luxury of the resort that attracted us to it.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsdBS8SfeFhNO1xt3bXxhZl0HC5r3RzkNfBHCmJLJiLdjY8jNRulDShOhkmrvNMLxwUYQwvlJJO_sPkyFdhT8A1jgHA0G0LKoNxu1IczikxcYGbE47AwLwUwBCVGj-80uiUO5RkPQasM/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwsdBS8SfeFhNO1xt3bXxhZl0HC5r3RzkNfBHCmJLJiLdjY8jNRulDShOhkmrvNMLxwUYQwvlJJO_sPkyFdhT8A1jgHA0G0LKoNxu1IczikxcYGbE47AwLwUwBCVGj-80uiUO5RkPQasM/s1600/IMG_0065.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A night time view of the villa</td></tr>
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We stayed in a private villa during our visit there, owned by a major U.S. media mogul.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcm2KQpw1__-2gQQLXc2IxwxxJG2Y3YGp2VXzbq0JVORLP7eea86VfyvLHzslQ0HCaFBI5T7n9SNyxJgeVdxBwieSuRvqiShJKbbFR1ErIi2m-HzO7yyoLrDPjnjWgt2HbU3eIPP2RYMc/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcm2KQpw1__-2gQQLXc2IxwxxJG2Y3YGp2VXzbq0JVORLP7eea86VfyvLHzslQ0HCaFBI5T7n9SNyxJgeVdxBwieSuRvqiShJKbbFR1ErIi2m-HzO7yyoLrDPjnjWgt2HbU3eIPP2RYMc/s1600/IMG_0046.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The outdoor living room at our villa at Round Hill</td></tr>
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The villa was beautifully appointed, with both outdoor and indoor living rooms to lounge about in.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQq-lU6ZVJ6cflopsoljJlttZBE9T5iI7i9JZqNo6ZAN2541vBFtUDzFvh93dDqn6Y8j-fZHFPy8f1_vXDtNIN8VL5scWwRj6KRFt5CbIHGFLAK3jlJjI3vVyUCtYHDn0k16xWkg-cebw/s1600/IMG_0018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQq-lU6ZVJ6cflopsoljJlttZBE9T5iI7i9JZqNo6ZAN2541vBFtUDzFvh93dDqn6Y8j-fZHFPy8f1_vXDtNIN8VL5scWwRj6KRFt5CbIHGFLAK3jlJjI3vVyUCtYHDn0k16xWkg-cebw/s1600/IMG_0018.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The lovely, charming, and sweet Angela,<br />
the Major Domo of our villa at Round Hill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We were beautifully attended to during our stay by a housekeeper/cook, two maids, and a gardner/poolman. The staff cooked breakfast for us at our villa every morning, and served us lunch, too.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nUFGdOVtAdDOygW7eWymU8WIQU_0Tct5hWg_dy4fw5yVZdfhniZMqlQ21cGHQ9plWTlLBiSNXStyODNvJlTux6d1eKhVrjNonkWu8xlaXXmTC3-cA4FoIwJLY6OdYSW8QHaM71kwVX0/s1600/IMG_0093.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8nUFGdOVtAdDOygW7eWymU8WIQU_0Tct5hWg_dy4fw5yVZdfhniZMqlQ21cGHQ9plWTlLBiSNXStyODNvJlTux6d1eKhVrjNonkWu8xlaXXmTC3-cA4FoIwJLY6OdYSW8QHaM71kwVX0/s1600/IMG_0093.JPG" height="221" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "English taste" method of arranging pillows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We found the accommodations pleasant and exceedingly comfortable. After only a minor amount of rearranging . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSu3JwRL80Lg6Kbmgup3A-c_Bwp9gmcPcOvKKibhwSw6EPoDs4EaIFJvcRPOnUQc9DhBfMOeZR3oIPA5nCHpn7N-vRw3ZnyvyEY-QAzs_B5xVh0aRpO-fO_IfyjndEVZfMugn5AKt81pQ/s1600/IMG_0108.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSu3JwRL80Lg6Kbmgup3A-c_Bwp9gmcPcOvKKibhwSw6EPoDs4EaIFJvcRPOnUQc9DhBfMOeZR3oIPA5nCHpn7N-vRw3ZnyvyEY-QAzs_B5xVh0aRpO-fO_IfyjndEVZfMugn5AKt81pQ/s1600/IMG_0108.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The "American taste" method of (re) arranging pillows</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
. . . the pillows in the villa's indoor living room were perfect, at least for the requirements of Boy, the Fancy New York Decorator.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlYRVrLJx1mlm40KClEyr-c2lEK8nS8jxMwYHl7kZFmBD2ztgAUJWnsb6N2IE3U6HWkFMbDtuqBWlexTKOsOC4_is0QedTLZwx09MXkLDK8-E3iUWwegqXk-P-D4vorNgMDLyAZVIXjY/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlYRVrLJx1mlm40KClEyr-c2lEK8nS8jxMwYHl7kZFmBD2ztgAUJWnsb6N2IE3U6HWkFMbDtuqBWlexTKOsOC4_is0QedTLZwx09MXkLDK8-E3iUWwegqXk-P-D4vorNgMDLyAZVIXjY/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another view of the pool at our villa at Round Hill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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We hardly left the grounds of our villa during our stay at Round Hill. Why should we, when we were so beautifully attended to? We ate breakfast and lunch at our villa every day, and we only ventured out in the evening for drinks and dinner at the resort's handsome bar and dining pavilion. It was all very cushy, and very private, Dear Reader.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSPbgOiGXXSrsWl0-2Aw_0QrWlCnygucvROe0LW31C58CQAFbPITc-Kk1iPFn1d_yycthrFJW8R6NVxPFFTxmF3R7unWpytP98F8umtLseC6v9AbIs4H530VFjtqW3McI-l9NQjlXzMw/s1600/IMG_0123.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSPbgOiGXXSrsWl0-2Aw_0QrWlCnygucvROe0LW31C58CQAFbPITc-Kk1iPFn1d_yycthrFJW8R6NVxPFFTxmF3R7unWpytP98F8umtLseC6v9AbIs4H530VFjtqW3McI-l9NQjlXzMw/s1600/IMG_0123.jpg" height="400" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boy swimming in his birthday suit<br />
at our villa at Round Hill</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
We spent most of our time at Round Hill lazing about our villa and swimming in its private pool.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mAe1mz-6s7ZO_ywHKOtNt6paB2EtAe00bePizOgsRut4e24Zceb-3c1HfXvx74SW9xhyToiSvuv2Fx8oTgNxOD3XsBw6-_KExEH3e-g2nCUE3lL4puekzva1UiTd267NY7SIZQyV9Bk/s1600/IMG_0109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7mAe1mz-6s7ZO_ywHKOtNt6paB2EtAe00bePizOgsRut4e24Zceb-3c1HfXvx74SW9xhyToiSvuv2Fx8oTgNxOD3XsBw6-_KExEH3e-g2nCUE3lL4puekzva1UiTd267NY7SIZQyV9Bk/s1600/IMG_0109.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So, who needs a Speedo?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Bathing suits were largely superfluous, we found.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lta6BZuGUnvtQkWsZAv1zPgetFoJaBxzaLWJUvLENCOX95fKaQMmb2mN530uF9HpL1h-LRBWm6D9kGH8X-DuLp6rzr1cGl29b42mGsVSrHcozAnrU8fnvwpRtIBZCKf6Wkb4dXvy3Sc/s1600/IMG_0160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9lta6BZuGUnvtQkWsZAv1zPgetFoJaBxzaLWJUvLENCOX95fKaQMmb2mN530uF9HpL1h-LRBWm6D9kGH8X-DuLp6rzr1cGl29b42mGsVSrHcozAnrU8fnvwpRtIBZCKf6Wkb4dXvy3Sc/s1600/IMG_0160.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One does, of course <i>need</i> white wine!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Wine and cocktails, snacks, and meals were but a phone call away . . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9gjCNVpNLIT9kMfP8NOvoBIXPmkr7D3aak2_MvlggLH4DDnBAupRlHEOwRixpGj_aqW9wHQDNXmwFJPZZnoEOUAeo-5WFkxW8qso8IF67NE-WaerebEpTEjij9_90SKti0QKtRS4ObE/s1600/30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO9gjCNVpNLIT9kMfP8NOvoBIXPmkr7D3aak2_MvlggLH4DDnBAupRlHEOwRixpGj_aqW9wHQDNXmwFJPZZnoEOUAeo-5WFkxW8qso8IF67NE-WaerebEpTEjij9_90SKti0QKtRS4ObE/s1600/30.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The splendid evening sky at Round Hill<br />
<i>Image courtesy of same</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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It was a lovely, low-key holiday, and a welcome respite from the madness of Manhattan and one's more mundane daily responsibilities. I look forward to returning to Round Hill again sooner rather than later. I highly recommend it to you, Dear Reader, as the perfect getaway from one's winter cares . . .<br />
<br />
Round Hill Hotel and Villas<br />
John Pringle Drive<br />
Montego Bay, Jamaica<br />
(800) 972-2159<br />
<a href="http://www.roundhill.com/">www.roundhill.com</a><br />
<br />
<i>Please note: Reggie has received nothing in return for writing this review of Round Hill in Jamaica, nor does he expect to. He has written this review solely for the enjoyment of his readers, which is why he writes this blog.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs, except where noted, by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-41569171644712714222014-01-05T11:08:00.000-05:002014-01-08T22:38:11.355-05:00It Is All Rather a Blur . . .Christmas came somewhat late to Darlington this year. Not after the fact, mind you, as we observed the appropriate dates as they occurred on the calendar. No, I'm talking about when the psychology of Christmas finally wrapped its arms around me and said "Now!"<br />
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I was very rushed approaching the Christmas holiday this year. Work was all-consuming and unrelenting, as were the more pleasant demands of the New York social season, and I found myself galloping head forward during the weeks leading up to Christmas with a list of "to-dos" a mile long and the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel a long, long, way away. Somehow I got through what I needed to by the time I had to do it, and I bolted from my office on the Friday before Christmas shouting with glee that I was finally done with working for the year and that was that!<br />
<br />
A full two weeks at Darlington beckoned to me most pleasingly. <br />
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Stocked up with comestibles and presents, and fortified by a delicious holiday luncheon at Swifty's with Boy and his two charming assistants, we loaded the family jalopy and drove up to the house that very afternoon, not scheduled to return to the city until the first full week of January.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvy_9mw2Kw3H2PIekNG32F-rkO3LuqYpfygAvdJ18M-P2GIfl__MKrSFvvXk9TGXs-2cGiI8i6y2B70kIsp_WU0dXvahV5qWRGxGyosStQGvYuMuiLsdKl61QAAyXoOKuJDNTurGw4b4/s1600/IMG_7811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvvy_9mw2Kw3H2PIekNG32F-rkO3LuqYpfygAvdJ18M-P2GIfl__MKrSFvvXk9TGXs-2cGiI8i6y2B70kIsp_WU0dXvahV5qWRGxGyosStQGvYuMuiLsdKl61QAAyXoOKuJDNTurGw4b4/s400/IMG_7811.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Darlington's 2013 Christmas Tree</span></td></tr>
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I can't remember the last time we had two entire weeks of uninterrupted residence at Darlington House. It's been at least several years. Although we usually spend Christmas and New Year's at Darlington, we often break up our stay with a trip to Boston for a night or two, for a change of pace. This year we decided to spend the entire break at Darlington.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A Chinese covered jar was inspiration for<br />the tree's color scheme this year . . .</span></td></tr>
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It's all been rather a blur, really. A blur of afternoons spent cooking and fiddling about, playing backgammon, listening to music, and reading. A blur of evenings largely devoted to the joys of the table and bottle, and catching up on movies we've wanted to see (or rewatching old favorites). It has been a blur of parties, too. A blur of trips to the grocer or wine merchant, or to Agway for bird seed and dog biscuits. A blur of attending services at the Episcopal church I go to. A blur of drinking egg nog and eating tasty treats, promising myself (and Boy) that it would all come to an end in the New Year (but hasn't quite, yet). A blur of sleeping in as long as I like, wakened not by an alarm clock blaring at me but rather by my darling Basil licking my face, asking to be taken out and fed his breakfast. <br />
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It's been an absolutely lovely blur, Dear Reader.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">. . . as was our collection of early English<br />Staffordshire pearlware figures . . .</span></td></tr>
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I've purposely not overburdened myself this break with chores and projects. I have a tendency to keep myself busy with such time consuming obligations, even while on vacation. Not this Christmas. While I did keep a "to do" list (it would be <i>impossible</i> for me not to), I kept it short and have not kicked myself because some of the chores listed upon it must wait to be completed another day. Although I've had a number of calls with the office while away, they haven't been burdensome or overly time-consuming.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEe-qPShOZMmXpnHJPRiShZgLowsyWuWv-sUpR1pFxfiUXrb1VWmnlTvoEJTV0iVDqDN5KybSR8a2xouqr2pHd8pQ5wRZAAwW2lGFRPh3T_1CS7hLfzP6UP1lJzieVf6CVVEvWLAO0iI/s1600/IMG_7889.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEe-qPShOZMmXpnHJPRiShZgLowsyWuWv-sUpR1pFxfiUXrb1VWmnlTvoEJTV0iVDqDN5KybSR8a2xouqr2pHd8pQ5wRZAAwW2lGFRPh3T_1CS7hLfzP6UP1lJzieVf6CVVEvWLAO0iI/s400/IMG_7889.jpg" height="400" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">. . . and a pretty pearlware dish</span></td></tr>
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"So, where is this going?" you might ask, Dear Reader. It is an explanation of why your Dear Old Reggie hasn't posted photographs of our Christmas tree this year, at least until today. Boy put our tree up and decorated it ahead of Christmas day, but we didn't get around to photographing it until afterwards, completing doing so only yesterday. The pictures shown in this post were taken over a one week span, seeking to capture the tree at its best advantage, and under the best light conditions.<br />
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This Christmas we placed our tree in Darlington's drawing room, for the first time in many years. Its theme was inspired by the color scheme of the room, and by the English and Chinese ceramics we have placed about it.<br />
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In particular, the color scheme was inspired by the painted decorations on our early nineteenth Staffordshire pearlware figures of classical deities and virtues. We've collected them for years and I've written about them before, <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/10/classical-coincidence.html">here</a> and <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/01/new-york-antiques-week-part-ii.html">here</a>.<br />
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The pearlware figures are decorated with pretty painted pastel colors in pinks, blues, yellows, lavenders, and greens. Boy drew from their palette when decorating the drawing room's tree.<br />
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The result is very different from the woodsy <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/12/christmas-tree-wishes-to-you-and-yours.html">Winter Wonderland themed trees</a> that Boy has put up in previous years in our dining room. Our drawing room Christmas tree is very, very pretty. And very pink, too.<br />
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In addition to being inspired by the pastel colors of our Staffordshire figures, we wanted to give our drawing room an old-fashioned Christmasy look, from the 1940s. I festooned the mantel and mirror with vintage pink lametta garlands that Boy gave to me many years ago. He found them while on a photo shoot, back before he became a Fancy New York Decorator, and he haggled with the woman who owned them until she sold them to him. I'm really rather fond of them.<br />
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I particularly like this year's Christmas tree. It is so pretty and sweet that it almost makes my teeth hurt, but in a good way. It makes me think of the children's board game, Candy Land, which was a favorite of mine when I was very little. Until, that is, I figured out that the game did not involve the receipt of actual candy, a distinct disappointment to me at the time.<br />
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Now that I'm a grown man and have developed a taste for treats other than candy, I can admire the loveliness of our tree unfettered by anything but pure pleasure in its prettiness.<br />
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I am writing this post sitting at my dining room table at Darlington. The table is covered with the white damask cloth we laid for a luncheon party several weeks ago, and it is a pleasant and snowy-white pedestal for tapping away on my laptop, writing this essay. A footed dish of <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2009/12/my-darling-clementines.html">clementines</a> is but a short reach away.<br />
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I will leave Darlington House fortified by a lazy, indulgent two weeks of leisure and relaxation. I can confidently say, Dear Reader, that this is the first time in years that I have ended a vacation truly rested and ready for what waits for me upon my return.<br />
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Happy New Year!<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Boy Fenwick</span></i><br />
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<br />Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com32tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-39192545871886758302013-12-21T22:40:00.002-05:002013-12-25T14:36:53.051-05:00Christmas Traditions at DarlingtonEvery family, however you define it, has its own Christmas traditions. At least those families who observe Christmas, which we do at Darlington House. I celebrate Christmas for the enjoyment of the holiday, and also for the spiritual message that inspires it, and me.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Christmas just wouldn't be the same<br />without pots of paperwhites about the house</span></td></tr>
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There are a number of Christmas traditions that we observe at Darlington that I brought with me from my birth family, and there are ones of a more recent vintage that we have made our own.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">FD, Camilla, and MD<br />Christmas 1947</span></td></tr>
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As I have <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/12/wreaths-of-darlington-part-ii.html">written before</a>, one tradition that I observe at Christmas is to adorn the grill of our Rover with a wreath. My mother, MD, decorated her cars with a wreath when I was a boy. I loved it then, and I love it still. This year we ordered our Rover's wreath from <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/12/paperwhite-narcissilocally-grown-and.html">the good ladies of Cedar Farm</a>. I think they did a lovely job of it (they also made the wreath shown in the background, hanging on a door of one of our barns).<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUBJDja7toowBwb908bTY5AnkC5EFuakrq_yCQTulz4XrdjRRkiiutnmIT43Cd0j3lfc9PzvlSIPL3v31kea9UtD58BmbWDTm4VYsEU29p-QZL4wUv4nK3eTLXWTe1cAyd9Pd10kuxxg/s1600/IMG_7600.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDUBJDja7toowBwb908bTY5AnkC5EFuakrq_yCQTulz4XrdjRRkiiutnmIT43Cd0j3lfc9PzvlSIPL3v31kea9UtD58BmbWDTm4VYsEU29p-QZL4wUv4nK3eTLXWTe1cAyd9Pd10kuxxg/s400/IMG_7600.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This year's Rover Wreath</span></td></tr>
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Another Christmas tradition I observe is to set out a crèche. MD was mad for crèches, and collected more than a dozen of them over the years. The one we have at Darlington is a dime store crèche made in Italy in the 1950s that I bought at a Groupe Shoppe years ago. I've been adding figures to it ever since. If you look closely at the photograph you'll see that there is a little pug, given to me by my sister Camilla, among the adoring throng.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcliJ9JSrdOB8qD4nbQoqdE21Tx2Ph3hNhKLmt9E7DFhLQPk25Xq-upeYIi5ARnVg6YJgjt38SYt5TJWVV5g-iPFfMC79Y8b-Ne8le5kadkDtVggOX2MnGCyyXO7uX_ncPX4VMag83wyQ/s1600/IMG_6902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcliJ9JSrdOB8qD4nbQoqdE21Tx2Ph3hNhKLmt9E7DFhLQPk25Xq-upeYIi5ARnVg6YJgjt38SYt5TJWVV5g-iPFfMC79Y8b-Ne8le5kadkDtVggOX2MnGCyyXO7uX_ncPX4VMag83wyQ/s320/IMG_6902.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Our not entirely tasteful Christmas crèche</span></td></tr>
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I also have a collection of Black Forest bears that I put out at Christmas. I inherited the nucleus of the collection from my mother, who inherited it from her father. I've added to it over the years, and I put the bears on the mantel in our Snuggery, along with half a dozen or so little Steiff toy animals that I played with as a child. I've had some of them for almost fifty years.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAyCQ_pUme3WOCK2jc3pXmaGNfioYxVAL7Ws8xZVFE5vb0Hi_gPoIrZNvy5iIP2zmaS5H_iKzl20N6UjBm2pzw2I0xXbpbfEuTC7h9vW3RIs5eysEEiFTrw9YNXlLxNV9mym5pKIM45o/s1600/IMG_6892.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAyCQ_pUme3WOCK2jc3pXmaGNfioYxVAL7Ws8xZVFE5vb0Hi_gPoIrZNvy5iIP2zmaS5H_iKzl20N6UjBm2pzw2I0xXbpbfEuTC7h9vW3RIs5eysEEiFTrw9YNXlLxNV9mym5pKIM45o/s400/IMG_6892.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The mantel in our Snuggery, decorated for Christmas</span></td></tr>
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When it comes to food and drink we have a number of traditions at Darlington. I always make sure to have a box of <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2009/12/my-darling-clementines.html"><i>Darling</i> clementines</a> on hand at Christmas.<br />
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Every Christmas Eve, before attending the evening festival service at the Episcopal church in the nearby town (assuming I can stay awake—and sober enough—to attend it), I make a simple oyster stew, a dish that my sister Hermione introduced me to as a Christmas Eve tradition many years ago.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBdnxPyLNDGXV59vnpWOiY4XNURIOCMdKRJNR4OMyWHNtNb1kI0XWit-PF_DWR-aTt42Kc0F6CvE1O3MYQzq9VxJx-VbcZQbT7Pe_F53DGrJzN_D-3y-R4DUiLdqS7KpKbmoNB0hLhbs/s1600/hbx-oyster-stew-alex-hitz-0213-xln.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhBdnxPyLNDGXV59vnpWOiY4XNURIOCMdKRJNR4OMyWHNtNb1kI0XWit-PF_DWR-aTt42Kc0F6CvE1O3MYQzq9VxJx-VbcZQbT7Pe_F53DGrJzN_D-3y-R4DUiLdqS7KpKbmoNB0hLhbs/s320/hbx-oyster-stew-alex-hitz-0213-xln.jpg" width="278" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I think I may try Alex Hitz's recipe for<br />oyster stew this year<br /><i>Image courtesy of House Beautiful</i></span></td></tr>
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On Christmas day we tuck into an old-fashioned English dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding (<a href="http://lindaraxa.blogspot.com/2010/12/strip-loin-roast-with-yorkshire-pudding.html">recipes courtesy of my dear friend Lindaraxa</a>), followed by Stilton cheese and Christmas pudding with hard sauce. MD <i>adored</i> hard sauce.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Lindaraxa's English roast beef and Yorkshire pudding<br /><i>Image courtesy of same</i></span></td></tr>
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In years past, when Fauchon still had an outpost in Manhattan, we used to put in a store of their sublime pâtes de fruit and marron glacé to eat over the Christmas break. Now we console ourselves with chocolates and other treats, including blinis heaped with caviar or salmon roe and crème fraîche. Champagne is usually within easy reach.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzo6m2PZ8wZx23yOuOqRhamRryWe4Lfy2ccPEEaNZ6pkl9Z5Ni5eggip7RN8eeO1owsoe31Wn4-HLpSwU_H0UIMBTDFY97Y3-TgORQY3UNro1DG5ams7c5hovV0QC-sBN48yAl2DvVtP8/s1600/1009930_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzo6m2PZ8wZx23yOuOqRhamRryWe4Lfy2ccPEEaNZ6pkl9Z5Ni5eggip7RN8eeO1owsoe31Wn4-HLpSwU_H0UIMBTDFY97Y3-TgORQY3UNro1DG5ams7c5hovV0QC-sBN48yAl2DvVtP8/s320/1009930_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A Darlington tradition of Christmases past<br /><i>Image courtesy of Fauchon</i></span></td></tr>
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Another tradition of ours during the Christmas break is to drive to Albany, New York State's capitol, and have a festive lunch at the city's venerable <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/08/lunch-at-jacks-oyster-house.html">Jack's Oyster House</a>. It's been an Albany institution for one hundred years now. Jack's is usually packed this time of year with tables of happy revelers out for a holiday lunch. We heading there for ours today, in fact.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4p3zdKGc7x8RMo5zPGzJ-9Rb98_imSrqfppxPhvD_XYNQgznNk1rBK17cdVMO6H79EvTKdQNXXyG2f4ghvL7TLNqq_XcPBFwafZ47mhZytqC3Bb6ejTZusuHmQRM5rLl-UXD0xcOsGxc/s1600/IMG_3480.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4p3zdKGc7x8RMo5zPGzJ-9Rb98_imSrqfppxPhvD_XYNQgznNk1rBK17cdVMO6H79EvTKdQNXXyG2f4ghvL7TLNqq_XcPBFwafZ47mhZytqC3Bb6ejTZusuHmQRM5rLl-UXD0xcOsGxc/s400/IMG_3480.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Jack's Oyster House's card</span></td></tr>
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A more recent Christmas tradition that we've added to our repertoire at Darlington is dipping into the most delicious egg nog imaginable, made by our friend Ted Greenwood. Ted makes a large batch of it from an old family recipe every year and distributes it on Christmas Eve to his lucky friends in Ball jars. He calls it Ted Nog. It is beyond yummy, particularly when adorned with a bourbon or rum floater on top. Needless to say, Ted is <i>very</i> popular with his fortunate friends this time of year!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Our friend Ted "Nog" Greenwood at a<br />Darlington dinner party several years ago</span></td></tr>
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Another tradition I look forward to every Christmas is listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols sung by the choir of King's College Cambridge, and broadcast on our local public radio station on Christmas Eve.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitW5qiFbuFDWBczJatwRG6796aLQwxEV08qEaptXtq6tRNYMQVWvibHnMa56iZlGP0eAK9JB9vqxDJKprg69Af55i4LxE_pqYtGHrZd7b-F_vfGZMqHI8-noHI-fhE8Za03l0gg54O8aA/s1600/Kings+College+Choir+Rehearse+Festival+Nine+LMoPJVOwcFtl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitW5qiFbuFDWBczJatwRG6796aLQwxEV08qEaptXtq6tRNYMQVWvibHnMa56iZlGP0eAK9JB9vqxDJKprg69Af55i4LxE_pqYtGHrZd7b-F_vfGZMqHI8-noHI-fhE8Za03l0gg54O8aA/s400/Kings+College+Choir+Rehearse+Festival+Nine+LMoPJVOwcFtl.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The choir of King's College Cambridge<br /><i>Image courtesy of Zimbio</i></span></td></tr>
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Of course we hang garlands and wreaths and put up a tree at Darlington, and we decorate the house festively for Christmas. But, then, that's the subject of another post, soon to follow. . .<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejad0uGVKDFR4ItVO0HoYpmuN_LRyzEWWTh2HUMbzC-SPJ8mjabKjlZewH8JWj2ZVDM8IN93HAGa4WlFoM5UWtBiRZG4O4fU0HZ4pQ_rvZS_vq1ilG69XA_Uh5Wo1BiNvuTfCsPTfwOo/s1600/IMG_6843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhejad0uGVKDFR4ItVO0HoYpmuN_LRyzEWWTh2HUMbzC-SPJ8mjabKjlZewH8JWj2ZVDM8IN93HAGa4WlFoM5UWtBiRZG4O4fU0HZ4pQ_rvZS_vq1ilG69XA_Uh5Wo1BiNvuTfCsPTfwOo/s320/IMG_6843.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I found these little German wooden candles in<br />a hospital thrift store ten years ago.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I've put them out at Christmastime ever since</span></td></tr>
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Tell me, Dear Reader, what are some of <i>your</i> Christmas traditions?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs, unless noted, by Boy Fenwick or Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com55tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-41286345067458577662013-12-15T09:54:00.003-05:002013-12-22T07:35:15.251-05:00Reggie Recommends, Again: Agraria's Bitter Orange Potpourri<i>I received a package the other day, Dear Reader, containing an unexpected and thoughtful gift from the owners of Agraria, a home fragrance company based in San Francisco. It was a box of their Bitter Orange potpourri, which I have been a devotee of for thirty years. I first wrote about my love affair with Bitter Orange potpourri two years ago, which is how I came to the attention of the folks at Agraria. They have been kind to send me a present of a box of their Bitter Orange potpourri each Christmas since then, much to my surprised pleasure.</i><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Agraria's <i>Bitter Orange</i> potpourri benefits from<br />being decanted into a large bowl, so its<br />heavenly scent can waft through one's rooms</span></td></tr>
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<i>I have never done a paid endorsement of a product here on Reggie, Dear Reader, and I don't expect to start doing ones any time soon, either. In this case, because the gift from Agraria was sent to me as a "thank you" for an unsolicited review and not in exchange for it, I am happy to recommend Agraria's Bitter Orange potpourri to you. If you are anything like Reggie is, he is confident that you will also fall in love with Bitter Orange's marvelous, can't-live-without, heady scent. That is, if you haven't already. . .</i></div>
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<i>Here's a repeat of <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/12/reggie-recommends-agrarias-bitter.html">the post that I published in December 2011</a>, in which I shared how I first learned of Bitter Orange and why I have loved it ever since:</i></div>
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I'm not, in general, a fan of potpourri. Most of what is available today is vile, made of things like artificial peach scented cedar shavings. No wonder it has such a bad reputation.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">One of our Chinese export punch bowls, ca. 1800,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">filled with Bitter Orange potpourri</span></div>
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However, there is one potpourri out there that I love, and which I make a point of buying every year when the weather turns cold and the heating season begins. It is called <i>Bitter Orange</i>, and it is made by a company called Agraria. I recommend it to you, Dear Reader.</div>
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It is the most marvelous potpourri there is.</div>
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Agraria makes its Bitter Orange potpourri in small batches of fragrant dried flowers and orange slices, cinnamon sticks, cloves, lavender, natural oils, and other exotic organic ingredients. Bitter Orange is lovely—citrusy, floral, spicy, and woodsy. I fill an antique Chinese export bowl with it every year at this time and place it in our drawing room at Darlington House, where its scent deliciously pervades the room.</div>
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I first learned of Bitter Orange back in the early 1980s, shortly after it became available in New York. I vividly recall my introduction to it, in the living room of a large apartment on the Upper East Side that belonged to the parents of a classmate of mine from Yale. I remember sitting in a chair in the room and wondering "What is that marvelous scent, and where is it coming from?" and my then delight in learning that it was a potpourri called Bitter Orange from a small company named Agraria, based in San Francisco. The mother of my friend had just bought it at Henri Bendel, the only store in the city that stocked it at the time, and she was quite pleased with herself for having done so.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A freshly opened box of Bitter Orange,</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">revealing the treasures inside</span></div>
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At the time I had never seen or smelled potpourri before. It seemed rarefied and exquisite to me, and I was entranced by it. This was long before potpourri had become a degraded mass-market commodity found in every gift-shoppe, drug store, and big box retailer in America. It was very special, then. Bitter Orange created a <i>sensation</i> in New York when it was introduced to the city in the mid-1970s, where it became known as "the Park Avenue potpourri," as it was immediately popular among the city's uptown smart set.</div>
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I <i>had</i> to have it. I went to Bendels at the next opportunity I had and bought myself a box of it. I was shocked at how expensive it was, but that didn't deter me. I simply <i>had</i> to have it.</div>
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And I've been buying it ever since.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Agraria's handsome box</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">for its Bittersweet potpourri</span></div>
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Agraria's Bitter Orange has spawned many imitators over the years, but none have succeeded in replicating its signature scent or quality. It is unique. Bitter Orange was the foundation of Agraria's subsequent success, and today the company's products are widely distributed, a testament to its vision and the integrity of its offerings. I'm pleased that they have been so successful.</div>
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If you are not already a fan of Agraria's Bitter Orange potpourri, Dear Reader, I recommend that you get some, because I trust that you will love it, as I do. But be forewarned: it is addicting.</div>
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<i>Agraria's website, which features not only their Bitter Orange potpourri and related products, but also a host of other gorgeously-scented irresistibles, can be found <a href="http://www.agrariahome.com/">here</a>.</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs by Boy Fenwick</span></i></div>
Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com37tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-80163773341602675472013-12-08T17:11:00.002-05:002013-12-08T17:11:52.232-05:00Basil's First Darlington Christmas Begins . . .Boy tells me that I am wasting too much time and too many images by posting on my <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/search?q=facebook">Facebook page</a> instead of here at Reggie. He thinks I've been neglecting you, Dear Reader.<br />
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So I'm going to do something about that. I plan on adding more short-and-sweet mini posts here to augment the longer, wordier, image-filled posts I've been doing for most of this past year. The migration of my shorter posts to FB is one of the reasons I've been posting less frequently here at Reggie.<br />
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Today's post follows through on my resolution. It features a photograph of our sweet little Basil sitting on the floor of one of our barns at Darlington, with our newly cut Christmas tree—an <i><a href="http://www.hrt.msu.edu/assets/pagepdfs/bert-cregg/concolor-fir-w-cover.pdf">Abies concolor</a></i>, commonly known as a Concolor Fir—waiting in the background. Boy cut the tree down this morning at a nearby Christmas tree farm with the assistance of our wonderful handyman/groundsman/all-around-helper/godsend Rich (<a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/12/a-christmas-tree-for-darlington.html">just as he did last year, too</a>). <br />
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We plan on putting the tree up in <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/search/label/Darlington">our drawing room</a> next weekend, with the assistance of darling Basil, of course. Given what Boy has told me about his plans to decorate this year's tree, I am sure it will be one of the most beautiful we've ever had.<br />
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Needless to say, Basil is <i>beside himself</i> with excitement!<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photograph by Boy Fenwick</span></i><br />
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<br />Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-73666545422111034272013-12-07T17:59:00.001-05:002013-12-08T07:15:25.498-05:00Brussels Sprouts ReduxToday at the Farmers Market in the nearby town to Darlington I was pleased to find that fresh Brussels sprouts were still available, even though there is now a dusting of snow on the ground in the Hudson River Valley. As I've <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/11/brussel-sprouts.html">written before</a>, Dear Reader, Brussels sprouts are one of my favorite vegetables.<br />
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It was only as an adult that I learned that the little darlings grow on a stalk. As a child I knew them only from the frozen packages that MD bought at our local supermarket. By the time I entered college I learned they were also available in an unfrozen state, usually packaged in little paper buckets sealed with cellophane.<br />
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Today I prefer whenever possible to buy Brussels sprouts on the stalk, as I know they will be the freshest of all. Fortunately one can find them that way at our local Farmers Market in late autumn, when they are in peak season.<br />
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We like to roast or sautée Brussels sprouts at Darlington, preferring these methods of cooking to steaming them or, as MD did, boiling them in water. As I've written before, <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-downs-and-ups-of-mummys-cooking.html">MD was an uninspired cook</a>, and her Brussels sprouts (along with most of the vegetables she cooked) were a soggy, sodden affair.<br />
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I'm sure that MD would approve of the way we cook Brussels sprouts today at Darlington, which is to toss them with olive oil, liberally season them with ground pepper and salt, and (often) combine them with other winter vegetables (I'm showing them here with shallots). Roasted in a hot oven until caramelized and tender, they are positively ambrosial.<br />
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Heaven!<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Photographs by Boy Fenwick</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-50911203401065842142013-12-01T18:39:00.002-05:002013-12-07T08:43:27.719-05:00A Reggie Roadtrip: Atlanta, Part IIToday's post is the second part of my two-part series on Reggie and Boy's whirlwind visit to Atlanta, the Biggest, Boomingest City of the South. You can read the first part <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-reggie-roadtrip-atlanta-part-i.html">here</a>.<br />
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After an evening spent engaged in imbibulous shenanigans at Reggie's Bloggers & Bankers cocktail party, your sainted author was feeling a bit the worse for wear the next morning and needed to ease back into the land of the living. And what better antidote is there for such an overindulgence than a Four Seasons room-service breakfast wheeled into one's chamber?<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Ahh! Breakfast.</span></div>
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Fortified by our delicious breakfast (and several aspirin) we headed out the door to take in Atlanta's sights. As we often do when on a Reggie Roadtrip, we began our day by visiting a number of the city's antiques stores. Exploring such emporia is a requirement for us, not only because of our insatiable collecting instincts, but also because Boy's profession as a Fancy New York Decorator demands it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Just one of the many aisles filled with antiques and accessories<br />at Atlanta's 14th Street Antiques Market</span></td></tr>
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While Reggie came away from our antiques shopping expedition empty handed, Boy found a much sought-after object for a client's Park Avenue apartment, so our visit to the Atlanta's antiques district was not only entertaining, but also profitable.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Atlanta <strike>Historical Society</strike> History Center</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of ATL Intown Living</span></i></td></tr>
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With obligatory antiquing behind us, we then turned to what brought us to Atlanta in the first place: to visit the city's museums and historic houses. Our first stop was the <a href="http://www.atlantahistorycenter.com/">Atlanta History Center</a>, the home of the <a href="http://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/atlanta/swa.htm">Swan House</a>. The Atlanta History Center is a handsome Art Moderne building in the swanky Buckhead district. Reggie only learned afterwards, when researching this post, that it was originally known as the Atlanta Historical Society. What is it, I ask, with this madness for renaming venerable cultural institutions with more modern, non-elite names? I still <i>wince</i> whenever I see references to Historic New England, which I shall always consider to be more appropriately named the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities, its official name until its board of directors misguidedly decided to rename it, blandly, in an effort to make it sound more "relevant."<br />
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But I digress . . . </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The main house of the Smith Family Farm</span></td></tr>
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After touring the <strike>Historical Society's</strike> History Center's lively exhibitions we made our way to see the two historic houses located on the <strike>Society's</strike> Center's grounds. <br />
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The first site we visited, a compound of buildings, was the Smith Family Farm, built in the 1840s by a slave-owning farming family that was moved to the <strike>Society's</strike> Center's property in the 1970s. The Smith Farm is a fascinating window into the way the majority of slave-owning rural southerners lived in the days leading up to the Civil War and a helpful reminder that not all of the South's agricultural plantations were Spanish-moss-dripping, be-columned mansions.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">This gives me ideas for when we finish renovating our</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">summer kitchen/work house at Darlington</span></div>
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I particularly liked the Smith Farm's separate kitchen building, kitted out in authentic period trappings. We have a summer kitchen/work house at Darlington, ca. 1820, that we are slowly restoring. One day I hope to be able to use it for something other than what we use it for today, which is to store large clay pots and our gas grill during the winter months.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Swan House</span></div>
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In stark contrast to the Smith Family Farm stands the grand and justifiably celebrated Swan House, designed by <a href="http://architecturetourist.blogspot.com/p/philip-trammell-shutze.html">Phillip Trammel Schutze</a> (1890-1982), Atlanta's greatest architect of the twentieth century. Built in 1928 for the Inman family, the house has been in the <strike>Society's</strike> Center's collection since 1966, and is maintained by the <strike>Society</strike> Center as it looked in the 1930s, complete with original furnishings and period-dressed interpreters.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The main hall at the Swan House</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of <a href="http://tdclassicist.blogspot.com/">the Devoted Classicist</a></span></i></td></tr>
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I first toured the Swan House in the 1980s, but this was Boy's inaugural visit. Decorated by the venerable <a href="http://tdclassicist.blogspot.com/2011/08/ruby-ross-wood.html">Ruby Ross Wood</a> in the grand English taste favored by the upper classes of the East Coast of America during the first half of the twentieth century, the Swan House is as interesting a window into its occupants as the Smith Family Farm is, albeit at a very different level and under very different circumstances.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A vintage postcard view of the Swan House's dining room</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Passion For Postcards</span></i></td></tr>
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Even though the Swan House was well attended by other visitors the day we toured it, I suspect that its attendance would be dwarfed by the crowds that would flock to Tara, should it actually exist, except in the mind of Margaret Mitchell, the authoress of <i>Gone With the Wind</i>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Tara!</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Selznick International Pictures/MGM</span></i></div>
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Atlanta (and other cities throughout the South) has more than its fair share of houses built to resemble the film-set version of Scarlett O'Hara's girlhood home that stood (in the book, at least) only twenty-five miles from downtown Atlanta.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A first-edition copy of <i>Gone With the Wind<br />Image courtesy of The Everyday and Beyond</i></span></td></tr>
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Speaking of <i>Gone With the Wind</i>, I reread it before, during, and after my visit to the city Scarlett moved to during the war. I first read Mrs. Mitchell's best-selling novel in my twenties, and I remembered it as being a rip-snortin', can't-put-it-down, hefty page turner. I'm happy to report, Dear Reader, that it still is, thirty years later. Mrs. Mitchell is a marvelous storyteller, and her characters are vivid and memorable. And funny, too. Although <i>Gone With the Wind</i> deals with weighty subjects, it is at times very amusing. I highly recommend it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"I ain't noticed Mist' Ashley askin' for to marry <i>you</i>!"</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Selznick International Pictures/MGM</span></i></td></tr>
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With our tour of the Swan House complete, our thoughts turned to lunch. My friend Elizabeth Tallmadge recommended that we try the <strike>Society's</strike> Center's <a href="http://www.nps.gov/nr/travel/atlanta/swa.htm">Swan Coach House</a> restaurant for its old-fashioned, ladylike Southern fare. After we stopped by it, though, Boy and I decided that we couldn't bring ourselves to go inside, as we were practically trampled by an avalanche of bridal-shower-attending girls and ladies tumbling out of the restaurant, flowers and gift bags in hand. We decided that something a bit more, uh, <i>manly</i> was in order.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Swan Coach House restaurant</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of Tales of Bloggeritaville</span></i></td></tr>
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After driving around Buckhead (in the pouring rain, which continued all day) we finally settled on a <a href="http://www.hillstone.com/#/restaurants/houstons/">Houston's</a> restaurant, closer into town, mainly because it had ample parking right in front of its entrance, a decided plus in a downpour. I had never been to a Houston's before (it is a popular chain, I understand), and I was pleasantly impressed by the one we visited. The food there was quite tasty, the surroundings suitable, and the service very good. The young woman who waited on us couldn't have been nicer or more professional.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The welcoming man-cave interior of Houston's Restaurant</span></div>
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Another one of our reasons for visiting Atlanta was to spend an afternoon at the <a href="http://www.high.org/">High Museum of Art</a>. Neither Boy nor I had ever been to it. I was curious to see it, both for its celebrated architecture and its noteworthy collection of art.<br />
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Our first attempt to visit the High Museum was not successful, however, as the museum's parking garage was full and the wait to get into nearby parking lots was long. That's because the High Museum was hosting a traveling exhibition of Vermeer's paintings that was attracting record crowds. So we decided to drive around Atlanta for a while to see what we could of the city through our rain-splattered car windows.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">I loved the ceilings of the High Museum's<br />modern art galleries</span></td></tr>
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Returning to the museum, we were fortunate to gain entry to its parking garage and tour its collections. We opted not to see the blockbuster Vermeer show, bypassing its crowds and lines. As I've <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2011/06/reggie-road-trip-houston.html">written in other posts</a>, when visiting regional museums I generally prefer to skip traveling exhibitions and concentrate my viewing on the permanent collections.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A gallery full of Alex Katz's serene landscapes was most pleasing</span></td></tr>
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Navigating one's way through the High Museum of Art can be somewhat challenging, as the architecture of the complex takes center stage, relegating the art on display to a secondary note. The galleries containing modern art are the most successful, in my view. The spaces displaying the museum's excellent collection of pre-twentieth century art and decorative arts? Less so. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Looking down upon an artists' drawing event </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">hosted </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">by the museum the day of our visit</span></td></tr>
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Don't get me wrong, Dear Reader. I enjoyed visiting the High Museum of Art. And so did the thousands of other people who did so the day we were there. The place was hopping!<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The two little girls in pink playing hide and seek were adorable</span></div>
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With the "closing-time" gong ringing, Boy and I took our leave of the High Museum and headed out the door with a few hours to kill before meeting up with friends for dinner. So what did we do? We went <i>back</i> to <a href="http://www.sidmashburn.com/">Sid Mashburn</a> so that Boy could buy a pair of double monk-strap shoes that had caught his fancy the previous day.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Get thee behind me, Satan!"</span></div>
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Needless to say, Boy found one or two more must-haves to add to his shopping bag during our second visit at Sid Mashburn . . .<br />
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Reggie is most grateful, Dear Reader, that there is not (yet) an outpost of Mr. Mashburn's divine men's clothing store in Manhattan, as he is sure it would hasten the financial ruin of the Darlington household. Albeit a very well-dressed household!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Iberian Pig restaurant in trendy Decatur</span></div>
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Dinner that evening was at the very popular <a href="http://www.theiberianpigatl.com/index">Iberian Pig</a> in downtown Decatur. Organized by our friend Paula Mueller, a group of us gathered there to dig into the restaurant's signature pork-inspired offerings. "The Pig," as it is known by its regulars, attracts a diverse group of Atlantans, ranging from young professionals to the more-pierced-than-thou crowd. The night we ate at the Pig it was absolutely packed and the noise level positively ear-splitting.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The happening scene at the Iberian Pig</span></div>
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While I enjoyed the Iberian Pig's delicious, hearty fare, I could barely hear my dinner companions, what with the shrieks and shouting of the surrounding tables of revelers that brought our own table's conversation to a virtual standstill. Nonetheless, I am glad I ate there, as I am fond of the people with whom I shared our table, and the food was quite tasty. <br />
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Even though we left the restaurant after midnight, I was surprised to find ourselves (yet again) stuck in parking-lot-like traffic all the way back to our hotel. The congestion was due, in part, to crowds of hipsters leaving a huge music festival that took place during the weekend of our visit. While sitting in our idling car, stuck in traffic, it was most entertaining to watch the antics of the music festival's departing attendees, many of whom were lurching about the streets and crosswalks, visibly bombed.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Stuck in jammed traffic, again!</span></div>
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The next morning, our last in Atlanta, we decided to explore the city's downtown. We had spent the bulk of our visit in newer parts of the city and wanted to see what we could find of Atlanta's older, original business and shopping districts. Where it all began, so to speak.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Downtown Atlanta in the 1940s<br /><i>Image courtesy of Pat Sabin</i></span></td></tr>
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The business district of old downtown Atlanta is largely comprised of office, municipal, and government buildings, a smattering of hotels, and remnants of what had once been a thriving retail district.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Downtown Atlanta today</span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Image courtesy of dayka robinson design</span></i></td></tr>
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As is unfortunately the case with many American cities these days, downtown Atlanta is rather gritty and somewhat forlorn, as are many of the people one sees on its streets on a Sunday morning. One is not inclined to get out of one's car and stroll around in downtown Atlanta, taking in the sights.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A vintage postcard of the Georgia State Capitol<br /><i>Image courtesy of Playle</i></span></td></tr>
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That is particularly so in the blocks immediately surrounding the city's majestic Georgia State Capitol, an area sadly hit with blight, bisected by immense highways and scarred by misguided urban "renewal" in the mid-twentieth century. I would love to have seen this part of Atlanta in the 1930s and 1940s, when it was still in all its City Beautiful glory. I'm sorry that much of it is lost to us today except in photographs and old postcards, such as the ones I am showing here.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">"Would you make that a double, please?"</span></div>
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Somewhat sobered by our last few hours touring downtown Atlanta we drove our Cadillac ATS rental car back to the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to catch our flight to New York. Over preflight cocktails in the Delta Sky Lounge we agreed that we had thoroughly enjoyed our all-too-brief visit to Atlanta, a sprawling, complex, vibrant, and ever-changing metropolis with all the attractions and challenges that large cities in America have today. I look forward to returning to the capitol of the Peach Tree State again and seeing more of what this wonderful city has to offer.<br />
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Tell me, Dear Reader, do you have any particular favorite places or things to do in Atlanta that you might recommend?<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs, unless noted, by Reggie Darling</span></i><br />
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Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-80330756339442797712013-11-28T08:56:00.001-05:002013-11-28T08:56:43.897-05:00Thanksgiving at Darlington HouseI have much to be thankful for, Dear Reader. Every moment of every day.<br />
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Sometimes in the rushed and frenzied world of obligations and deadlines that I live in, though, I forget to take a moment to pause and ponder just how fortunate and blessed I am, and to be grateful for it.<br />
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Today I shall endeavour to do so, throughout the day.<br />
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I've never been to a Thanksgiving service at the church I sometimes attend, but I'm planning on going today. One of the things I enjoy about our little congregation is that it draws people from all walks of life, some of whom live in very different circumstances than my own. I have much to learn from them. Attending services there helps me keep things in perspective, and I am thankful for that.<br />
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A tradition I observe at every Thanksgiving meal I attend, whether in my own house or another's, is to ask each person at the table to share what it is they are most thankful for this year. I'm always intrigued with the window this provides into my table companions' lives. More often than not, what people share provokes murmurs of agreement from those of us at the table. Sometimes we respond with laughter, and sometimes we respond with tears.<br />
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So, what am I most thankful for this year, you may ask? That my dear sister Camilla, who has lived in pain for many years, is now mending. I am grateful that modern healthcare is making that possible for her. I do so love my darling Sister.<br />
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This year it is just the two of us at Darlington for Thanksgiving, by choice. I've been on a mad dash for much of the autumn, and the prospect of four days of quiet home life is something I have looked forward to, if not yearned for.<br />
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Times of unhurried reflection are some of the most regenerative and nourishing ones, I find.<br />
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Happy Thanksgiving, Dear Reader.<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">photograph by Boy Fenwick</span></i><br />
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Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-27294127475018392902013-11-24T16:18:00.001-05:002013-11-25T00:43:37.092-05:00Reggie Throws a Dinner Party, Part I<i>Today's post, the first of two, discusses the planning and preparations for a dinner party that Boy and I hosted at Darlington House last weekend. I thought it might be of interest—at least to one or two of my Dear Readers—for me to share just how we do it here at Darlington.</i><br />
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One afternoon a month or so ago I said to Boy that I was itching to have a dinner party to celebrate the arrival of autumn, and to entertain a group of friends—some of whom we knew well and others we'd like to know better—to an evening of pleasant conversation, flowing libations, and delicious, hearty fare of the season.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Boy and Basil at the Hudson Farmers Market in Hudson, N.Y., the week<br />before our party, to meet with our beloved caterer and also our flower lady</span></td></tr>
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Throwing a successful party, in Reggie's view, requires planning, forethought, teamwork, and effort. Although a party can be a casual affair, where guests freely mingle and help themselves to drink and food laid out at a buffet, one must never confuse "casual" with "effortless." The term "effortless entertaining" is a particular pet peeve of Reggie's, and it sets his jaw on edge whenever he all too frequently comes across it in magazines breathlessly describing the entertaining styles of certain social animals. Believe me, Dear Reader, "effortless entertaining" is a fantasy concept, indeed. For a party worth attending doesn't just happen. It requires <i>work</i>. And why shouldn't it? Anything worthwhile requires effort to achieve. Fortunately Reggie enjoys all the preparations and planning that go into a creating a successful party. He finds it <i>fun</i>.<br />
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One's enjoyment in undertaking such efforts is helped, though, when one is able to share said labors with others, at minimum with one's spouse, and—when possible—with one or more professionals employed to assist in making said event a well-run affair.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Christine Jones of the Red Barn<br />at her stand at the Hudson Farmers Market<br />Baker, caterer, restaurateur, and friend</span></td></tr>
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When Boy and I entertain at Darlington House, we gauge the level of assistance we require by the number of guests invited and the type of entertainment provided. When we have another couple over for cozy supper of four, we take care of it entirely by ourselves, setting the table, cooking and serving the meal, and washing up afterwards. When there are six of us, though, we hire someone to help us out with the final food preparations in the kitchen, serve at table, and clean up afterwards. When there are eight or more we surrender the cooking entirely to a chef, who is usually supported by an assistant and where the guests are attended to by at least one, and sometimes more, servers.<br />
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That way we get to <i>enjoy</i> our own party, rather than be <i>enslaved</i> by it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The Cedar Farm stand at the Hudson Farmers Market<br />I ask you, who needs Manhattan's flower district when the good ladies<br />of Cedar Farm are so close to home?</span></td></tr>
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Since we determined that there would be a total of ten of us at table for this dinner party, our first step was to contact our beloved caterers, Christine Jones and Bert Goldfinger of <a href="http://www.redbarnfood.com/">the Red Barn</a>, who've helped us out with many parties, to see if they were available (and willing) to cook for us. Once we determined that they were (Hooray!), we enlisted the help of a woman who helps us serving at parties, to see if she was available to attend to our guests, and were delighted that she was.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTLlTwUos2Wt7x1zFzyysl1xx8PXyzK8qFoOeZ39l3OTtgpWohUemoAvRPRSnnxL9MozfOT2_0GdwN6Hg-bDl43H7E8RfCeerntbgLdPLTus13nCDPk9HN0HJcxnvUbgThFWbn-9fURo/s1600/IMG_3295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyTLlTwUos2Wt7x1zFzyysl1xx8PXyzK8qFoOeZ39l3OTtgpWohUemoAvRPRSnnxL9MozfOT2_0GdwN6Hg-bDl43H7E8RfCeerntbgLdPLTus13nCDPk9HN0HJcxnvUbgThFWbn-9fURo/s400/IMG_3295.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Marilyn Cederoth of Cedar Farm Wholesale<br />Plants-woman extraordinaire</span></td></tr>
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Once we had the staffing of the evening in hand, we turned to assembling our guest list. We invited a number of people who had entertained us who we liked and wished to return the favor to (see <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/02/reggies-rules-of-social-reciprocity.html">Reggie's Rules of Social Reciprocity</a>), and we also invited some people we had never entertained before (two recent arrivals in the area, one of whom I first met twenty or more years ago), with the end result being a mix of singles and couples. <br />
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With guest list in hand, I picked up the telephone and started calling my hoped-for guests to invite them. Please note, Dear Reader, I did not impersonally email or text my invitations, I <i>telephoned</i> them. For when throwing a dinner party one should <i>always</i> strive to invite one's guests telephonically, in order to personalize said invitation. Of course when throwing larger parties, say cocktails for fifty, it is understood that one sends out invitations via the post office (or, increasingly these days, by Paperless Post).<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://oldehudson.com/">Olde Hudson</a> on Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y.,<br />is a regular stop for us for specialty foods, and<br />where we stocked up on last-minute treats for our party</span></td></tr>
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Once our guests had accepted, I then sent them reminder cards (in the mail) one week ahead of the party with the requested arrival time noted, as well as the dress. For this dinner party we asked the men to wear jacket and tie. It seemed a bit too early in the season to <strike>force</strike> ask our guests to haul out their <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/11/autumn-black-tie-dinner-at-darlington.html">formal wear for a country dinner party</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj0crbwpG_bqRZiePzZ62NzYv_HiP_D-1YBM0S606rzcdybdiXtXO7UgxmvT521i0GqkDAyMkEVUjhJY7fk2I-1u1ViMvtkX4w8UXyzqmKCx78dTOTLnYItkUuAKpiGWNgPMCMOswGio/s1600/IMG_3307.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj0crbwpG_bqRZiePzZ62NzYv_HiP_D-1YBM0S606rzcdybdiXtXO7UgxmvT521i0GqkDAyMkEVUjhJY7fk2I-1u1ViMvtkX4w8UXyzqmKCx78dTOTLnYItkUuAKpiGWNgPMCMOswGio/s400/IMG_3307.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The marvelous Hudson Wine Merchants<br />on Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y., <br />was the source of all of our party potables</span></td></tr>
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On a parallel path with assembling our guest list we met with and had any number of telephone and email exchanges with our caterer to come up with a menu for the evening that was appropriately autumnal, and decidedly delicious. As I've written elsewhere, Boy and I are of the school of entertainers who shy away from serving over-handled and fancified food at dinner parties. We and our friends eat out in restaurants all the time, to the point that it really isn't all that special. But it <i>is</i> special to be invited into someone's home for a dinner party these days, since so few people have them anymore (or at least invite us to them when they do!). When I either give or go to a dinner party, what I really want to eat is what has come to be known as "comfort food." And that's what we serve at Darlington House dinner parties—unfussified "home-style" cooking made with care and from the best available (ideally local) ingredients. Not one's mother's plain, everyday get-it-on-the-table cooking, mind you, Dear Reader, but rather <i>dressed up</i> comfort food.<br />
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While we were planning the menu with our caterers we also contacted Marilyn Cederoth of <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cedar-Farm-Wholesale/325748397446777">Cedar Farm Wholesale</a>. Marilyn helps us with flowers at Darlington House. We arranged for her to come by the house the day of the party to fill the Chinese urns in our drawing room with autumnal branches and to provide arrangements for the dining room table and the table in our entry.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/12/reggie-recommends-rural-residence.html">Rural Residence</a> on Warren Street in Hudson, N.Y., is an<br />invaluable source for candles for parties, among other things</span></td></tr>
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The day before the party our groundsman/handyman/all-around godsend, <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/12/a-christmas-tree-for-darlington.html">Rich</a>, brought in a crew and did a thorough leaf clean up and tidying of the property, so it would be in tip-top, manicured shape for the party. We also contacted our favorite wine merchant in the area, Michael Albin of <a href="http://www.hudsonwinemerchants.com/index.html">Hudson Wine Merchants</a>, to put aside cases of white and red wine, and also one of champagne, and a replenishment of the bottled liquor we like to have on hand at parties. Reggie also stopped by a specialty food court near his office in midtown Manhattan to pick up some before-and-after-dinner treats to augment the already planned food and drink.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Cases of champagne and wine, delivered and ready to be chilled for the party</span></td></tr>
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With these and other advanced arrangements taken care of, we then drove up to Darlington from the city on Friday night, ready to embark on the preparations the next morning in order to be ready for our guests when they arrived on Saturday evening.<br />
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Next: It's Show Time!<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-75475553201681009262013-11-08T10:08:00.001-05:002013-11-09T15:40:17.290-05:00Reggie Out & About: Brian McCarthy Book Signing Party and the Irish Georgian Society DinnerReggie is a social animal. He likes gadding about town and country, meeting up with friends and making new acquaintances. He finds it stimulating and, more often than not, amusing. And it is a pleasing diversion from the more mundane daily rhythm of one's workaday life. "All work and no play . . ." as the old saying goes.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">New York's Fuller Building, lit up at night</span></td></tr>
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We have been on rather a whirlwind of social activity of late. It is now the "season" here in Manhattan, and there are parties, openings, and benefits galore every evening of the week. We generally try to limit our running about to no more than two nights during the week, and certainly never more than three. For, Dear Reader, a too-steady diet of parties and dinners out can be like anything else when overindulged—too much of a good thing. Several quiet evenings a week at home with the company of a good book or a little bit of television is a requirement of mine for recharging my batteries.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The crowd at the Brian McCarthy<br />book-signing party</span></td></tr>
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This week is one of those out-three-nights-of-the-week weeks that we rarely find ourselves indulging in. But we had compelling reasons to agree to such a frenzied social schedule, Dear Reader, including the wish to celebrate friends' accomplishments and also meet up with out-of-town pals visiting the city. On Tuesday we attended two parties, and I took my trusty Canon point-and-shoot camera along with me to snap some pictures for this post.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Brian J. McCarthy, hard at work</span></td></tr>
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Our first stop was the city's magnificent Art Deco Fuller Building where <a href="http://beauvaiscarpets.com/">Beauvais Carpets</a> was hosting a book-signing party for Mr. Brian J. McCarthy's hot-off-the-presses first book, <a href="http://www.abramsbooks.com/Books/Luminous_Interiors-9781617690433.html"><i>Luminous Interiors</i></a>, published by Stewart, Taboori & Chang. As many of you know, Mr. McCarthy is the principal of the celebrated, eponymously named interior design firm <a href="http://bjminc.com/">Brian J. McCarthy, Inc.</a> I've known Mr. McCarthy's partner, Danny Sager, for many years, and Boy and I wanted to attend the party to help celebrate Brian's accomplishment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Brian had his work cut out for him . . .</span></td></tr>
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The party was an absolute madhouse crush, with over five hundred people crowding Beauvais' showrooms, all having what appeared to be a lovely time. And why not? Even though it was, at times, difficult to navigate one's way across the floor, there were many familiar faces among the crowd to jabber with by simply turning around (including the lovely Lyle Vivolo of Beauvais, Boy's longtime and most-adored rep). The party was beautifully supplied with what seemed to be an endless army of waiters carrying trays of well-filled wine glasses and platters loaded with yummy hors d'oeuvres. Reggie particularly liked the mini latkes with crème fraîche and salmon roe that were among the many nibbles offered—they reminded him of one of his favorite appetizers at <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2010/12/dining-at-swiftys.html">Swifty's</a>.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvqTo-6E2qc8cimBo8-TvFYgViitOXTpiHjuDQWYLczdY_6UtCOFt6Ae9utAdgIZyzruTfM7MFDVPPrkfvdLj0a9NZtFCO6WJPcppR3NYBpzWSuKo2JxCqRc9eVzPefOoSfpoK-UL36I/s1600/IMG_3109.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNvqTo-6E2qc8cimBo8-TvFYgViitOXTpiHjuDQWYLczdY_6UtCOFt6Ae9utAdgIZyzruTfM7MFDVPPrkfvdLj0a9NZtFCO6WJPcppR3NYBpzWSuKo2JxCqRc9eVzPefOoSfpoK-UL36I/s400/IMG_3109.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">A brief respite from inscribing books</span></td></tr>
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What with the long line of attendees queued up to have Mr. McCarthy sign copies of <i>Luminous Interiors</i>, Reggie decided to wait for another day to have his own copy autographed. I did get to say a quick "Hello" to Brian (only by elbowing my way through the scrum of admirers clustering around him, though) and snap his picture before Boy and I scooted out the door for our next engagement. I look forward to having Brian inscribe my copy of his book soon, under more leisurely circumstances.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The cocktail hour at the Irish Georgian Society party</span></td></tr>
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Our next stop was one of New York's legendary private clubs, where Reggie was once a member but gave it up because the food and drink there is so delicious and plentiful that he gained five pounds every time he darkened its doors. For those of us with a tendency to put on weight, such as dear old Reggie, ready access to such temptation is a dangerous proposition indeed.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Boy looking around the room to find our host . . .</span></td></tr>
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The party was held in honor of the very worthy <a href="http://www.igs.ie/">Irish Georgian Society</a>, and we were the guests of Mr. Steven Stolman, man about town extraordinaire and president of <a href="http://www.scalamandre.com/">Scalamandre</a>.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">. . . Ah, there he is! Mr. Steven Stolman!</span></td></tr>
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Unlike the book-signing party we had just come from, one was able to maneuver one's way around the Irish Georgian Society party with ease and stop and chat with the numerous friends and acquaintances that one pleasantly came across there.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Lots of face kissing was to be observed</span></td></tr>
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Among the party guests were Mr. Mitch Owens of <a href="http://www.architecturaldigest.com/">Architectural Digest</a>, who wrote <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/05/reggie-revealed.html">the article about our house</a> that appeared in the magazine's June issue. I like him immensely. Mr. Angus Wilkie of <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2013/10/reggie-out-about-cocktail-preview-party.html">Cove Landing</a> and his charming partner, Mr. Len Morgan, were also there. Reggie had an amusing conversation with Mr. James Andrew of <a href="http://www.whatisjameswearing.com/gorgeous-gotham/">What Is James Wearing</a>, who was there with his partner, Mr. Scott McBee.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dinner is served!</span></td></tr>
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The party's dinner was held in a handsome, wood-paneled room. One of the speakers during the meal was the actor Jeremy Irons, who spoke <i>at length</i> about the restoration of his castle in West Cork, Ireland. The castle's restoration was a huge undertaking, we learned, as it was a near ruin when Mr. Irons acquired it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Jeremy Irons at the podium</span></td></tr>
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Although one's mind did wander during the speeches at dinner, it didn't really matter to me that Mr. Irons went on as long as he did because he has one of the most beautiful speaking voices imaginable, and I could happily listen to him recite the pages of a telephone book.<br />
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Besides, there was lots to look at during the speeches, including the tables' pretty flowers and decorations.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">The place card of our host and dinner partner</span></td></tr>
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Adding to the fun was that I was seated next to Mr. Stolman, an amusing <i>bon vivant </i>who had me in stitches for much of the evening.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUtKmcgmhqBUGXubv8rp4k3c6-2RqgoNTI4JeLTROPx6PVpjHs19Vdz3tRPDSGJQkM8Ur_Avi6aX54IcTyHPsY1qmk0Cr62icwk-2bgD1-ZhWQYF7E9bD7HOJjTM1DEyQvRKQubNiAQU/s1600/IMG_3144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFUtKmcgmhqBUGXubv8rp4k3c6-2RqgoNTI4JeLTROPx6PVpjHs19Vdz3tRPDSGJQkM8Ur_Avi6aX54IcTyHPsY1qmk0Cr62icwk-2bgD1-ZhWQYF7E9bD7HOJjTM1DEyQvRKQubNiAQU/s320/IMG_3144.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Mr. Richard Wilkie</span></td></tr>
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Mr. Stolman was joined by his partner, Mr. Richard Wilkie, who was also seated at our table. Also at the table were a number of their Palm Beach friends, who were jolly good company. After spending the evening with this lively crew I'm thinking that Boy and I just may need to schedule a return trip to the home of <i>The Shiny Sheet</i> sometime this winter.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbcAazhJ0708I_1EbjVsSkgm9gqX62cs5t6sSKEnABaXmnAQS7ehkuZ7Ve9AmRqtDEyaEnCIRE3g1GOEcCDW-wN0aSdgdaHijilnhwghntAfbIJK8CtZ6-iRmcv-2Vb3eXnvzkOPfzFg/s1600/IMG_3147.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvbcAazhJ0708I_1EbjVsSkgm9gqX62cs5t6sSKEnABaXmnAQS7ehkuZ7Ve9AmRqtDEyaEnCIRE3g1GOEcCDW-wN0aSdgdaHijilnhwghntAfbIJK8CtZ6-iRmcv-2Vb3eXnvzkOPfzFg/s400/IMG_3147.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">It was difficult to tear one's self away from this, believe me!</span></td></tr>
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After dinner we returned to the room where cocktails had been served to find it generously laid out with tables covered with silver platters of exquisite petit fours, and the full bar still open. While I'm not exactly sure, I think I had to be pulled away from it all by Boy, who claims that I was gobbling pastries and demanding more drink when it was obvious to him (and most likely others, too) that I had been thoroughly, if not <i>over,</i> served by that point in the evening.<br />
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Ah well. My hangover the next morning, Dear Reader, was but a small price for me to pay for all the merriment I had that evening. Thank you Messers McCarthy and Sager, and Stolman and Wilkie, for including us in the fun!<br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Reggie Darling</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8044541580633294348.post-48423568188798495462013-11-02T13:18:00.000-04:002013-11-02T13:46:46.769-04:00Salted Butter, Please!Yes, Dear Reader, I use salted butter. Because I <i>like</i> it.<br />
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When I was growing up we didn't use unsalted butter in the Darling household. It would have never <a href="http://reggiedarling.blogspot.com/2012/11/the-downs-and-ups-of-mummys-cooking.html">occurred to MD</a> to use anything <i>but</i> salted butter.<br />
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Then Julia Child came on the scene and woke up the American upper middle classes to the joys of French cooking, and people started to replace salted butter with unsalted. If you needed salt to flavor food—either when preparing it or eating it—the thought was that you could always add it. Besides, unsalted butter was <i>so European,</i> so it had to be better!<br />
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Well, that's fine, but that's not where it stopped . . .<br />
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Because in some culinary circles people lost sight of the fact that there are times when the use of salted butter is actually preferable to unsalted butter. And it became <i>verboten</i> to even consider using salted butter. For anything! Only <i>cretins</i> used salted butter!<br />
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Reggie, being a gullible chap, and with an admitted tendency to snobbery—whether it be social or culinary—got swept up in the anti-salted-butter hysteria, and he stopped buying or using salted butter at home. That's because he thought he wasn't supposed to <i>like</i> salted butter.<br />
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But he never could quite understand why it was that the toast he buttered in the morning just wasn't as yummy as he remembered it as being when he was a boy. Nor could he understand why the contents of the bread baskets that arrived in (most of) the restaurants he frequented tasted so delicious when he liberally spread said bread with the butter that accompanied it. He assumed it was because he was a bad, willpowerless person who couldn't stop eating bread (also vilified in certain circles these days—but that's a story for another day). Why was it so good, he wondered?<br />
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Because, Dear Reader, he has finally figured it out that it is far preferable to butter one's bread with salted butter—which is what most restaurants serve with bread (with the exception of Italian ones, which provide olive oil). If you haven't done so, Dear Reader, I suggest you try this little butter taste test: Buy a package of salted butter and one of unsalted butter, and see which tastes better on your morning toast, or English muffin, or whatever bread you choose to spread it on. <br />
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Not only is Reggie convinced that you will find the salted-buttered bread tastes better, but he believes you'll be surprised that the unsalted-buttered bread, in comparison, tastes as if it is has been coated with a mildly sweet, practically tasteless shortening spread.<br />
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Salted butter tastes better!<br />
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Now, I have a confession to make. Dear old Reggie didn't figure this out all on his very own. He owes a debt of gratitude to Mr. Alex Hitz, who debunks the salted-versus-unsalted-butter myth in his highly entertaining, chock-full-of-mouth-watering-recipes cookbook <i>My Beverly Hills Kitchen</i>. Reading what Mr. Hitz writes on the matter was a Eureka! moment for Reggie:<br />
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"Always use salted butter . . . sneering purists will have you believe that if you use salted butter you might, perhaps, better control the salt in a dish by putting it in yourself. The result inevitably ends up tasteless. I have never yet tasted a dish whose salty taste came from salted butter."</blockquote>
And that applies to when one butters one's bread, too!<br />
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I now exclusively use salted butter when I butter my morning toast, or when buttering other breakfast treats such as pancakes, french toast, or waffles (which I eat only very rarely). I do, though, still (mostly) use unsalted butter when I'm cooking. I may come around to Mr. Hitz's admonition on that score, but I'm not there . . . yet.<br />
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Tell me, Dear Reader, what kind of butter do you use? <br />
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<i>Please note: While the photogenic packages of butter that illustrate this post do appear regularly in our kitchen at Darlington House, you would not be surprised also to find packages of Land O'Lakes butter in our refrigerator, should you chance to peek inside it.</i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">All photographs by Boy Fenwick</span></i>Reggie Darlinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04044215790585354363noreply@blogger.com38