Memory

When I was 9 years old, my family was invited to vacation in Greenwich Village New York at the home of a close friend. He was wealthy, handsome and recently divorced. Recently returned to his native New York, after a 3 year stint in the Southwest.

His home was more townhouse than apartment, and was quite simply, the most elegant and sophisticated of digs in the heart of the village. I was shown to my room by his housekeeper apart from my siblings, to a separate space on the second level. His home was open, light and and modern with an old world twist, each level decorated in varying styles of floor to ceiling bookshelves, oil paintings, small sculptures and a mini grand piano. My room was a little cubby of a library/bedroom. A hand carved captain’s bed in dark oak and white linens, fitted into the wall on the landing. It was completely enclosed in bookshelves except for the opening. Encased as it was, with my own personal little wall lamps built into the headboard and tiny paintings on the shelves. I was literally ensconced in a bookshelf.

I've never forgotten that vacation. It exposed me to live Jazz, Broadway, city noise, leaving me with intense culture shock. My parents were wonderful, and I'm thankful for the many excursions into sophisticated society we were afforded over the years. Memories of my little bedroom library surrounded by books of every different shape and subject are still magical to me. I’ve always been a book collector and book lover (not just the reading of them) but also the scent and feel of paper and bookbinding. I enjoy the calming ambience that pervades places where books are found. This feeling, this style, this look, is what I have been attempting to re-create in my home some 40 years later.