Showing posts with label relics reimagined. Show all posts
Showing posts with label relics reimagined. Show all posts

Monday, April 3, 2017

Relics Reimagined: A Black Basalt Pastille Burner

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Photo: Chronica Domus


We are in the midst of daffodil season here in the garden, the most glorious time of the horticultural year.  At least I consider it so, for I regard the humble daffodil to be my favorite flower above all others, followed closely by summer's sweet pea.

Last evening, after a long day of blustery winds, I noticed that a clump of narcissus Albatross was in peril of being toppled over.

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It was rather a challenge to photograph these daffodils as they whipped about in the wind
Photo: Chronica Domus


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Curious Norton proved himself  to be a further challenge, albeit a pleasant one
Photo: Chronica Domus


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Narcissus Albatross in full bloom or would that be in full flight?
Photo: Chronica Domus


Having endured losses to winds in years past, I thought it prudent to gather up the flowers already in bloom and enjoy those indoors.  There are plenty still remaining, in bud, to be savored in the weeks ahead as garden ornament.

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Into the garden trug go a dozen blooming Albatross daffodils
Photo: Chronica Domus


Seeking a suitable container in which to display these dainty heirlooms, I looked no further than my mantelshelf where an early nineteenth century black basalt Wedgwood pastille burner takes pride of place.  Removing its lid, I placed a small circular metal flower frog within it before adding water.

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My chosen flower container for the heirloom daffodils, an early nineteenth century Wedgwood black basalt pastille burner
Photo: Chronica Domus


Then came the flowers.

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Photo: Chronica Domus


As I stepped back to admire my handy work, I was reminded why it wasn't always such a bright idea to repurpose certain objects as flower receptacles.  A slow dribble of water from three previously unnoticed tiny holes in the base of its bowl rendered this particular vessel wholly unsuitable as a vase. I suspect the trio of holes were intended to provide oxygen to the aromatic pastille while lit.  A further hole in the lid allowed a wisp of white smoke to escape and saturate the air with its perfume.

Ah well, I thought the basalt burner made for a very pretty little vase, if only for a brief moment.  I hope you think so too.

If you are interested in learning more about pastille burners, the air fresheners of yesteryear, I would encourage you to read the excellent post written by the author of The Regency Redingote, which can be found here.

Sunday, December 4, 2016

December's Antiques Faire Loot

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Photo: Chronica Domus

I know, I know, it's a tad too soon to be thinking about Christmas so early in December but when one happens across a basketful of fragile vintage glass ornaments, one must act rather sharpish, which is exactly what my good friend Jeanette and I did today at the monthly Alameda Antiques Faire.  Funny thing is, we dithered around not fully committed to attending the faire this month, what with our schedules being so full.  We almost stayed home.  What a shame that would have been.  You see, not only did we brave the crowds and have a marvelous time chitchatting and catching up on our week's news, but we both managed to haul home some serious loot.

Many of the dealers had saved up their year's worth of finds to sell at the market today, and luckily for us, many of them were selling vintage Christmas ornaments.  I snapped up several in fading shades of green, silver, and gold, and in varying shapes that I was more than happy to add to my burgeoning collection.  One of those ornaments was a gold German kugel, much like the ones I photographed for this post a few years ago.

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Photo: Chronica Domus


"Oh no, I'm done" was the running joke between Jeanette and me throughout the day in response to one of us asking the other "Are you going to buy that ornament?"  You see, we have a shared obsession for these beguilling tree ornaments and each year we swear that we "are done" with our collections. We have to remind each other that we shall never quite be "done" because each year the inevitable happens and we both suffer losses at our clumsy hands when the time comes to decorate our trees.

Lady Luck had carried me successfully through the day with my haul, but just as Jeanette and I were walking towards the car, I spotted this gilded Paris Porcelain reticulated basket for a song.  How fortuitous, I thought, my new old ornaments can be safely and beautifully squirreled away in the basket for their safe passage home.

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Photo: Chronica Domus


And, just when I thought our visit had come to an end, I was stopped in my tracks by this coin silver spoon.  It measures just four and a half inches long, and was crafted by the New York based silversmith Jared L. Moore, circa 1830.  The spoon is inscribed with the monogram, H E W.

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Photo: Chronica Domus

I have long admired the wheatsheaf design on old silver and could not resist this diminutive spoon which will be a joy to use for anything other than its intended purpose, salt.  I am a firm believer in repurposing antiques so that they once again become useful and beautiful objects in one's life.  I have written posts about this philosophy in the past, so you won't be surprised to learn that this particular utensil will be serving up dollops of mustard in its new life.

I hope you've enjoyed sharing in my excitement at my new finds.  I must say that all this talk of vintage ornaments has prompted me into considering how I am going to decorate this year's Christmas tree.  Ah, well, there's still plenty of time left.  Twenty-one days to be exact.


Wednesday, June 22, 2016

New Additions to The Hanging Wall Shelf

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At last, the hanging wall shelf is full!
Photo: Chronica Domus

Last October, I wrote about my Morandi-inspired hanging wall shelf.  After arranging a small collection of earthenware vessels upon it, I was delighted to discover that sufficient room remained for additional bits and bobs to be added over time.

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The hanging wall shelf as it looked last October
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As you may have guessed, I'm a bit of a gatherer type.  I was certain it would not be long until an interesting and attractive object presented itself, begging to be added to the hanging shelf.

My opportunity came last December during a visit to London's Portobello Road Market, which I wrote about, here.  Rummaging through the crates and boxes of Mr. Peter Adams' stall, my husband and I selected several of the diminutive treacle and toffee colored ink pots and salt glazed polish vessels to take home with us.

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Spoilt for choice!
Photo: Chronica Domus
We also snapped these up:

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Photo: Chronica Domus

What, you might be asking yourself is Virol?  Well, we too were wondering the same thing.  It turns out that Virol was a perplexing concoction of bone marrow, among other ingredients, conceived during the early twentieth century.  It was marketed to British mothers of young children and carers of the elderly and infirm.  I suppose one could describe Virol as a type of super food of its day.

An early metal sign depicting an earthenware jar of Virol

Virol promised everything from "perfectly moulded features, clear bright eyes, firm flesh with good healthy colour, and well-formed limbs ... a Virol constitution".  Sign me up please!  Or, maybe not.  I have a sneaking suspicion that Virol may have fallen flat on its face in its attempts at exciting the gastronomic juices of this gentle author.

Our Virol bottles look perfectly at home alongside their earthenware companions, would you not agree?

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Photo: Chronica Domus

The taller of the two measures a mere three and a half inches, and the smaller bottle is a fraction shorter.

Now that I've filled up my hanging wall shelf, I'm afraid I haven't a clue where to put this charming little fellow, which I could not pass up when doing my rounds of The Alameda Antiques Faire earlier this month.

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A 19th century ink pot complete with the potter's fingerprint embedded in the glaze for posterity
Photo: Chronica Domus

No matter, for I am sure it won't be too long until I find an appropriate resting place for it.  Do I see another hanging wall shelf in my future?  Perhaps so.

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Relics Reimagined: A Morandiesque Hanging Shelf

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A rescued early-twentieth century spice rack has found new life as a hanging wall shelf corralling diminutive earthenware vessels à la Giorgio Morandi
(Please excuse my crooked photography. The hanging shelf is, in fact, mounted perfectly plumb)
Photo: Chronica Domus


There is a new addition to the stairwell, an area we consider a transitional space between the living quarters upstairs and the basement level leading to the garden.  I'm thrilled to bits with it.

I've been on the hunt these past few years for a simple hanging wall shelf and I finally located one just the other day while walking Mavro around the neighborhood early on a bright and sunny morn. It was lurking on the basement floor of a house up the hill from ours, and was sold to me for a mere three dollars at the family's tag sale. I wish I had taken a snap shot of it in its dusty and dirty state.  It was, quite frankly, a hideous mess. I'm sure the man who sold it to me thought me quite mad, of course. "Who in their right mind would want that?" I imagined was going through his mind as we exchanged shelf for dough. The wooden backing board had long ago been subjected to two crude holes, haphazardly off-set and not at all neatly centered as one might expect. Obviously, those required some attention.  A bit of patching and sanding was in order.  The remnant of thinly applied cream colored paint was still in evidence.  I believe the shelf once hung in the original 1920's era kitchen of the house in which I found it, and may have been used to hold tins of spices and seasonings. Despite the wall shelf's degraded appearance, it was still very sturdy and obviously well-made in its day by a carpenter, probably by the same hands that built the other cabinetry in the kitchen.  Ah, how one longs for the days before the dreaded flat-pack arrived on scene, killing the local carpenter.

With a gentle sanding and a lick or two of paint, I am now the proud owner of a practical and charming little hanging shelf that would very probably have met its death at the local dump had I not stepped in to rescue it. I think it looks perfectly lovely mounted on the wall of our stairwell, placed above the cache of traditional cleaning tools. Finally, a place for all my little earthenware vessels and flower scissors, making them easily accessible as I make my way back upstairs from the garden in readiness for arranging the little blooms I would have just gathered.  Oh, and I mustn't forget to mention the sweet little mochaware piggy bank, long-ago smashed to pieces and lovingly re-glued having been enjoyed by an excited child surely saving for a treasure. It looks quite content sharing real estate alongside the other diminutive items on the shelf.

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Photo: Chronica Domus


After spending a bit of time fussing with the placement of all the objects, I stepped back to admire my handiwork.  I noticed the hanging shelf had taken on a Giorgio Morandiesque air in its composition. Would you not agree?

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A still life by Giorgio Morandi


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Life imitates art
Photo: Chronica Domus


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Yet another still life by the artist
Source

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A corner of Mr. Morandi's studio showing his collection of vessels which inspired the artist's oeuvre


The next time you find an object that is destined for the landfill, do consider for a moment whether it may be something you could reimagine with a little elbow grease. You will not only be rewarded with a useful or decorative item for pennies on the dollar, but you will have also played your part as a green citizen of our planet.

Tell me, do you enjoy the benefits of open shelving in your house, or do you prefer to stash your items in cupboards behind closed doors?

Wednesday, March 18, 2015

Hyacinth Update: Not Quite So "Splendid"

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Hyacinth Splendid Cornelia
Not quite as splendid as their namesake might suggest
Photo: Chronica Domus


Well, it has been just shy of a month since I discovered my long-overdue-for-forcing hyacinth bulbs which, if you recall, had escaped my notice tucked away within brown paper bags in my basement for the better part of winter. Quickly hatching a plan to force them in water, contained in antique copper food molds, I thought I might have saved the day.  With as much cosseting and coddling as a mother can provide her offspring, I was hopeful for a good show.

Alas, this year's selection of hyacinth bulbs did not quite live up to their namesake, Splendid Cornelia.  It is, I believe, all my fault as I have obviously denied them adequate growing conditions to thrive. After all, as with past efforts, seen here and here, I've always started the forcing of my hyacinths closer to the calendar New Year than the Lunar New Year.

I'll admit, the photograph I've included in this post does look somewhat pretty at first glance, and I am grateful that at least a few of the bulbs have bloomed for my enjoyment, releasing their heavenly fragrance to sweeten the air in the kitchen. Clearly, they have not thrived and have obviously had a falling out and some cross words with each other, much like a couple of petulant children.  Why else would they not be blooming in unison?  In fact, I'm not quite certain what to make of it all. Firstly, the most successful of the bulbs was actually growing very well on its own in the smaller of the two food molds. As soon as I came to realize that one of the bulbs in the larger mold was not to be coaxed into action, looking a little desiccated as it was, I ditched that under-achiever into the compost receptacle and replaced it with the one from the small mold.  The little mold soon got a replacement bulb; a yellow variety named City of Haarlem.  Now, I wait with eager anticipation as to its fate.

As can be seen, I've had varied success with three of the four bulbs in the larger mold. Although the middle bulb towards the back does contain a flower, it has not advanced past the sword-shaped leaves.  The one in the front has seemingly birthed a young 'un, which has thrust forth its own little leaflet, probably robbing the main bulb of the vital energy required to actually do its job and produce a beautiful bloom.  Oh dear, what a mixed bag this has turned out to be!

There is nothing quite like a humble little garden bulb to remind one that Mother Nature makes the rules around here.  No matter how much we wish to fiddle with her, in this case forcing in water, she always has the last word.

Ah well, there is always next year's foray into bulb forcing to look forward to.  Now, please excuse me while I pencil in a few useful notes on my calendar - 1. Buy bulbs in the autumn, 2. Force in early January.

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

Relics Reimagined: A Sewing Kit

My sewing paraphernalia held in Granny's tole box
Photo: Chronica Domus


Oh dear, it finally happened last week.  While busily tapping away at my keyboard, I felt my trouser button abruptly give way, proof (as if any was needed) that all of the over-eating and idle inactivity of cooler winter days had finally caught up to my waistline. There was only one thing for it.  I needed to embark on a rigorous slenderization diet in order to shed the few creeping pounds that had settled rather uncomfortably around my middle.  Actually, there was one other thing I could do about this sorry tale, and that was to sew that button right back where it belongs.  This entire episode left me wondering, do people still keep a sewing kit at their disposal to cope with such pesky little clothing emergencies? Here is the story of how I came about securing mine while simultaneously creating yet another in the series on "Relics Reimagined".

When I was in my early twenties and still living in London, I would regularly visit my Granny Elizabeth. We'd sit and chat over cups of tea, or take gentle walks in her walled garden, and if I were visiting during the evening hours, I would be treated to one of her delicious dinners. Granny lived alone (by choice), so having company at dinner time was always a great treat for her.

On one of my visits, she gave me an empty metal tole box which she had owned for much of her life. I found the box attractive because of its deep blue color and sturdy hinged lid, and also because of the motif depicted on top, which rather reminded me of a spool of thread.  I could never quite identify what the central decoration depicted and had not a clue as to the origins of its contents.  I imagined it contained toffees or perhaps boiled sweets of some ilk and rather regretted not having asked her about it at the time. Alas, Granny is no longer with us, but the little box helps keep my memories of her alive.

Granny's little tole box, but what could it have held?
Photo: Chronica Domus


Recently, I found the empty box in the back of a drawer and was surprised I had not put it to good use. Granny loved to sew and was an expert seamstress.  She could knit and crochet too, which helped fill the many hours she spent at home while listening to the wireless.  Anything she made was accomplished with the highest degree of skill and always looked perfectly perfect upon completion. Her dexterity and sharpness of mind remained with her until her final days. Her attempts at teaching me to sew and knit as a young child, skills that, unfortunately, I've not used in decades, outside of rudimentary tasks such as sewing a button, were always prefaced with her mantra. I can still hear her steady voice at the commencement of each instruction uttering, "If you are going to all the bother of making something, make sure and do it right the first time".

In honor of Granny, I decided the best use for the little tole box would be to turn it into a small sewing kit, housing the paraphernalia that would allow me to mend a torn seam or sew a button onto a shirt with minimal fuss.  I wondered why I had not thought of this simple and practical idea before, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my "eureka!" moment.  Up until then, I am somewhat embarrassed to admit, a shabby little resealable plastic bag had clumsily sufficed.  It was not a particularly practical solution I might add. After all, the bag was supposed to accommodate little sharp scissor blades and pointy needles. Ouch!  Dear Granny would have visibly blanched at the thought.

Granny would most certainly approve of my (new) vintage wooden needle case that safely corrals my sewing needles
Photo: Chronica Domus


A few reels of thread in the basic color palette of one's wardrobe, a selection of needles of various lengths and thicknesses, a thimble, a cloth tape measure, and a small scissor is all that one requires to put together a useful and indispensable sewing kit.

A few basic sewing implements ...
Photo: Chronica domus


...  now housed in Granny's tole tin
Photo: Chronica Domus


Not only is it a most satisfactory feeling to finally have a well-organized and safe place to store my sewing essentials, but I am now reminded of Granny Elizabeth each time I reach for my box, making it more of a pleasure than a chore whenever the need arises for a speedy clothing repair.  Besides, this is another wonderful demonstration of how a relic can be reimagined and made useful once more.

Last week, as I reached for my sewing kit to sew my trouser button back in place, I showed the box to my husband explaining that I had finally put Granny's box to good use.  He examined the lid's design and casually mentioned that it looked like a ship's capstan.  I quickly admitted my ignorance of such a contraption, which led him to explain that a capstan was a revolving spindle onto which rope was wound. While searching for an image of a ship's capstan on the internet to bolster his point, he made a surprising discovery.  It appeared that the capstan symbol was used by W.D. & H.O. Willis, a British tobacco importer who manufactured Capstan Navy Cut Cigarettes. The mystery of what Granny Elizabeth's tole box had long ago held was finally solved.

An early Capstan Navy Cut Cigarettes tin displaying the same motif as Granny's tole box


Granny was a smoker in her formative years, which I believe at the time was considered quite a fashionable and glamorous pursuit in some sectors of society.  I remember my mother telling me that when she was a young girl and Granny lit up socially, it caused her great embarrassment. Apparently, not everyone considered smoking de rigueur, but rather a masculine and immoral practice.  The fact that Granny held on to her tole cigarette tin for so long might have been an indication of how much she enjoyed the experience of smoking.  Perhaps she was fond of offering her house guests a cigarette from such a discreet presentation box (notice the lack of wording on Granny's box which might have otherwise betrayed the contents within).

A stylish Katherine Hepburn showing women how it was done in the 1930's

Do you have the benefit of a basic sewing kit at your disposal when little sewing emergencies present themselves?  If not I urge you the gather together a few sewing essentials so that you too will be kitted out to sew whenever the opportunity next presents itself.

Wednesday, February 18, 2015

The Bulbs That (almost) Got Away

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Hyacinth bulbs begging to be forced in water
Photo: Chronica Domus


Last weekend while tidying up the basement, a place that can all too frequently become a groaning repository for the flotsam and jetsam of the household, I came across two forgotten brown paper bags.  I was agasp to discover that the bags were filled with the hyacinth bulbs I had purchased last November. My intention was to force them in water at the beginning of the new year, much as I've done each January for as long as I can remember. Obviously, something had gone awry in my plan, as here we are in mid-February without a hyacinth in bloom.

Dashing back upstairs, paper bags in hand, I was determined to mend the error of my careless ways and quickly set forth in search of suitable containers to house the bulbs. As the hyacinths would ultimately be displayed in my kitchen, where they would be enjoyed daily once in bloom, I dug out two copper food molds from the kitchen cupboards, an unusual choice I'll admit, but appropriate for the setting.

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Two antique copper food molds are pressed into service as impromptu hyacinth forcing containers
Photo: Chronica Domus


I've long had a weakness for such interesting geometric molds and could not resist buying the large nineteenth century example, shown in the preceding photograph, from a little antiques group shop in Hertfordshire, England many years ago.  I made a promise back then that I would not succumb to the pitfalls of yet another collection. This would be a "one off" I told myself.  I've mostly stuck to my guns, I am pleased to report, and only added the small mold when I saw it for a snip in a thrift store recently (how could I have possibly left it?) .

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The prepared containers ready to receive their bulbs
Photo: Chronica Domus


I lined the molds in plastic, and added the stones that I save from year to year that help secure the bulbs in place and anchor the roots when they begin to sprout.  I tucked four purple hued Splendid Cornelia hyacinths into the large mold, and a single plump one in the smaller example, topping both off with enough water until the base of each bulb barely touched the water line.

Now I wait, patiently, in anticipation of  the promise of pretty blooms and the intoxicating sweet smell of these late winter gifts from nature.

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Fingers crossed that these hyacinths will eventually bloom
Photo: Chronica Domus


Did you remember to buy and plant or force your hyacinth bulbs this winter?

Wednesday, February 4, 2015

Relics Reimagined: An Inky Arrangement

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An inky arrangement of sweet violets and violas contained within a black basalt inkwell
Photo: Chronica Domus


I am a firm believer in using items in ways other than for their intended purpose, items that would otherwise be relegated to obscurity.  I always enjoy these relics reimagined and have several such re-purposed objects around my home. Take, for example, my black basalt inkwell. 

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An early 19th century black basalt inkwell relegated to obscurity by modern writers
Photo: Chronica Domus


Try as I might, I cannot recall a single occasion as an adult in which I have picked up a fountain pen to write a note.  A good quality ballpoint pen, yes, but a fountain pen, I'm afraid not.  I did use one during my childhood as a student in England, where we were instructed in penmanship, a skill that seems to have fallen by the wayside sadly.  It was also a requirement that all school work be completed in ink. We were taught to replenish our pen's cartridge with the aid of a small pot of blue or black India ink, carefully squeezing the soft bladder of the cartridge, and sucking up the contents until filled.  To my annoyance, there were many disastrous attempts at refilling my fountain pen.  Perhaps those memories, and the ones of leaking pens and ink stained fingers and clothes, are what keep me returning to my modern yet reliable ballpoint pen today.

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My trusty ballpoint pen, a far less messy option for scribbling notes I find
Photo: Chronica Domus 


I purchased my basalt inkwell in adulthood, not because I intended to use it as a receptacle for ink, but because I was attracted to its shape, and was eager to add it to my ever expanding collection of black basalt, a collection that is mainly decorative in nature.  I did not want my inkwell to sit around idly on a surface looking pretty, mind you.  I wanted to again make it a relevant and useful item.

The well stands one and a half inches tall and almost twice as wide, having an engine-turned design of vertical ribs around its side.  It has four holes in its top to aid the writer in retrieving ink and storing his quills.  I adore black basalt pottery, which was first introduced to the masses by Josiah Wedgwood in the mid-1700's in England, and was soon plagiarized by his contemporaries, but we'll leave that subject for a future post.

Earlier last year, while crouching down to plant violas and violets in a flower bed, I noticed their sublime beauty and pleasant aroma could easily be lost once I stood up and viewed them from my higher vantage point.  That was when I got an idea.  I gathered a few of the inky black blooms of Viola Cornuta "Black Magic", and a few of the Viola Odorata "White Czar", brought them into the house, and looked for my inkwell.  I filled the well with water and arranged the blooms within the four holes.  I carried my Lilliputian arrangement to the dining room and placed it on one of the side tables, but it just wasn't the right place for it. I then walked into the drawing room and placed it on the mantel.  Although it did look rather fetching, it also appeared a little lost on the wide expanse of surface.  I then walked over to the secretary-bookcase and placed it atop the breakfront surface.  Eureka!  There it was, the perfect spot, an inkwell on a secretary, complete with an inky arrangement of blooms.  Could there be any more suitable place than this?  I was tickled pink with my little arrangement and it cheered me up no end.

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A perfect resting place for an inky arrangement atop the secretary
Photo: Chronica Domus


I urge you to look around your home and reimagine a relic of your own, something that is doing nothing but gathering dust on a shelf, or is tucked within a crowded drawer or groaning cupboard. Do tell me what you find. There are endless possibilities if you take the time to view your belongings with fresh perspective.

I am so happy I did as the little inkwell is being enjoyed once again by its present owner, over two centuries since its manufacture, and to very different ends.

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