This is a photo of my imaginary atelier in Paris. You have to mentally add the floor-to-ceiling windows yourself, but that’s easy enough. I think it’s mostly that La Boheme-ish chair that puts me in mind of being a French starving artist—it was a $5 junk shop find; the shop sold mostly VHS tapes and outdated sports equipment, so the potential for finding the perfect chair wasn’t very high, and I think we only stopped in there on a whim anyway, since the guy who runs that shop tends to sit around inside on an old couch chain-smoking and watching TV, which doesn’t make the stuff he’s selling very appealing, and I wasn’t even shopping for a chair—but we went in anyway (I once found the perfect coffeemaker in that shop) and there was the La Boheme chair, standing alone in the middle of a room, kind of up on this slowly revolving dais, with a spotlight on it, but the chainsmoking guy had marked it $50, and as I was leaving, casting one last longing backward glance at it, he said, “I’ll make you a deal on that chair.”
What kind of deal? I said.
I’ll give you that chair, plus those two drawings of the Argentinian dancers you were looking at, for twenty bucks.
It took a lot of Febreeze, and a whole lot of the deep kind of vacuuming I usually reserve for places where the cat sleeps, and even then, for awhile, there was a certain reluctance to sit in it, but I have overcome that now, because this chair is a delicious and comfy place to tuck up my feet and knit for awhile, oh I love it so, an now it sort of has our own family dirt on it, you know?
I made this pillow yesterday, and as soon as I’d finished it and tossed it on the chair, I knew it was a perfect match. That gold upholstery loves the hot pink, and the hot pink loves it right back. This cushion is made from a thrifted linen L.L. Bean dress and a scrap of hot pink velvet appliqued on with fusible web, then embroidered. Ooh la la!
edit: I forgot to tell you, the “J” is from a font called “Snidely.” Isn’t that just the best?