|
Maternal InfluencesIn January, Architectural Digest devoted an entire issue to legendary 20th century interior designers. Several of those interviewed mentioned their mothers’ influence in shaping their own tastes; I have often heard others in the design world make the same claim. Well, of course. In taste, as in most of life, we're generally shaped by what we grew up with – whether by gentle molding, unconscious imitation or wholesale rejection. In celebration of Mother’s Day, the editorial staff of Jim Esch Magazine took a look at how maternal influence has played out in their own homes. Not surprisingly, grandmothers were also part of the collective portrait. And even those who thought they had utterly rejected Mom’s taste found, in their writing, what had stayed with them. These reminiscences invite you to consider how your own mother’s taste shaped your style and your home. May your answer bring back happy memories and unexpected revelations. Love of the Game
I can’t imagine where my mother acquired her sense of style. Her father was a miner, and her mother oversaw their large family and frequent moves to the next Pennsylvania coal town or West Virginia holler. Their Kentucky neighbors included the feuding Hatfields and McCoys. Understandably, home fashion was not a high priority. Whatever the reason (good karma? a hidden gene?), my mother was blessed with awesome instincts, a superb eye, and the sense of decorating a house as creative play. When no one else in our town would have dreamed of it, she dared to paper our living room in a dramatic, huge-repeat, dark green and chalk white wallpaper. I still remember and admire the effect. In my teens and 20s, she frequently took me with her to antiques shops and art galleries. Those were probably the only times during my adolescence that we didn’t fight. My mother’s discerning eye and bargaining skills stood her in good stead, as did her near psychic awareness of when the next sales were coming up. Although I doubt she ever heard the word "eclectic," her motto was “good things just go together.” She had her prejudices, including an irrational loathing for Mission furniture, but that was probably because of what she grew up with and ran away from. What I inherited from my mother was her love of the game, eye for quality, insistence on individuality, and fondness for mixing it up. I was lucky to learn first hand that creating a handsome and inviting home is fun, not a chore. She never saw me make a career from her legacy, but she would have loved it. Especially the shopping. Patina
When I stand in the middle of my condo, I feel a tremendous sense of independence – for about three seconds. Great Grandmother Marney, Grandmother Gumma, and Mom are always there. Not that three of us share the tiny, one-bedroom space, but rather, my taste reflects those who are special to me … literally. On the far wall hangs an enormous gilded mirror that has been part of my family for more than 100 years. When I look into its faded glass, I see my great grandmother straightening one of the large hats she loved to wear. I see my Gumma bringing her newborn daughter home from the hospital for the first time. I see that infant growing up; I see my mother as a teenager, looking at herself in the Capri pants she sewed together from old draperies. I see my father nervously picking my mother up for their first date, and my mother fixing her veil on the morning of their wedding. I also see sad times, like the day my grandparents left the house together, and my grandmother returned alone. In its memory, this mirror holds the reflections of three generations of women who have made me who I am. It reflects laugher, tears, and the passage of time, as well as faith and hope. Seurat Style
My apartment is not beautiful. At all. It is a stark white, two-room box in a building my mother fondly refers to as the “No-Tell Motel.” But nevertheless, it is my apartment, and anyone walking in can see that. I have made an effort to make the impersonal space reflect my personality by combining various pieces I have found, made, received, begged, saved for, refurbished, and, in one case, just noticed in the corner one day. It is unique, all my own, just me. At first glance, that is. But as I lean back on the couch and take a closer look, my apartment becomes more like a Seurat painting where I notice the tiny styles and influences of past generations of women in my family. Nestled away in the corner is an ornately embroidered and extravagantly carved sewing stool. The touch of it brings me back to childhood and running through my paternal grandmother’s gracious Victorian home. My other grandmother’s cherry Queen Anne hall table welcomes guests in the front hall, instantly evoking the formality and tradition of her European background. My favorite piece is a large, oak bookcase, stuffed and overflowing with novels my mother and I have exchanged over the years. Every time I curl up reading beside it, I picture her snuggled up to the fire in her cozy, wood-paneled library. Each piece reminds me of these women and their individual tastes. Put them together – and mix in my own unique style – and my apartment becomes a reminder of how three strong women have influenced my tastes, sense of style and the person I am today. |
|
