Think pink. Think Camilla.

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Think pink. That’s what we learned from Funny Face’s Quality magazine’s editor-in-chief Maggie Prescott – Hollywood’s version of Diana Vreeland. Think pink. That’s what I learned from my mother. My life is quite unthinkable without her Pink Camilla china service, designed by Spode in the late 1700s. I grew up with it, took parts of it to my very first apartment, bought additional pieces myself, smashed dozens of cups and plates, some teapots, too, replaced it all, well, not all, only the pieces I smashed after making my own living, after turning 27, so to speak, I still have tea from a broken bouillon cup, its handle broke years and years ago, my doing of course, never anybody else’s, why that is I don’t know, I’m not that clumsy, believe you me, anyway, I had my cornflakes in it right before school and vichyssoise, game and charlotte russe on Christmas eve, lamb was served on it at Easter and strawberry extravaganzas on my birthday, it witnessed tears and laughter, the entertaining of dear friends and social obligation dinners, small talk and passed on top secret information, all over breakfast, lunch and dinner, over coffee, tea, wine and champagne, in summer and winter, in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the garden, in a nutshell, this china is part of my life, and however much I love my own Royal Copenhagen, Pink Camilla will always represent my home, my parents, my background. God bless her.

So, here’s a potpourri of pictures I took over my years on Instagram.

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My life as a Peanut.

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When you look at this picture, you might spot some iconic design work I decorated my home with: one of Marcel Breuer’s little Bauhaus tables from the late 1920s, the lampstand of Wilhelm Wagenfeld’s iconic work from 1924, also called the Bauhaus lamp, the Thonet chair right in the middle which happened to be Le Corbusier’s favourite chair, apart from his own designs, I guess, but still, he knew what he was talking about, and, well, far more ubiquitous, I’m afraid, but still perfect, that MacBook Air from Apple, but all of that is not what this post is about – it’s about the Snoopy mug. That mug is my favourite mug (and don’t get me started on my “Berlin” mug from KPM, so refined, so well designed, all that fine porcelain, but pardon my French, you just can’t sip from it), and however cheap it was, I cherish it because it shows my childhood companion whom I’ve loved since, well, ever. It doesn’t get more iconic, does it? I had Snoopy everwhere in my room, on everything. I wouldn’t eat or drink from anything that had no Peanuts character on it. My Snoopy mugs have always been most dear to me, I had several, the tiniest cup with Woodstock and some his friends flying around it, you might have called it an espresso cup, but in those days nobody north of Trieste had espressos at home, for some time I had my cornflakes in a plastic Snoopy dog bowl, in bright blue, my favourite colour, too, from which I remember a line, that beagle was quite pragmatic a philosopher: “I hate when it snows on my French toast”, I loved that bowl and it sure increased my Kellogg’s sugar intake by a great deal, but then a friend of my mother’s put an end to it. Not because of the carbs and the sugar, no, everybody was quite fine with sugar those days, but no one should eat from a dog bowl, so she said. My mother listened to her and from that day on, only the family cats were to eat from it, what can I say, they had cast pearls before swine!

All these mugs and dishes are gone, all of them broken. I miss them all. But apart from this very new mug with Snoopy on it that I found by chance in Lucerne, I still have a particular pair of shoes, once owned by my friend Miriam, shoes I was so very jealous of, the whole cast from the Peanuts is on their soles. She outgrew them fast and gave them to me, and since I’ve never outgrown my love for Charles M. Schulz’s iconic work, they still have a special place in my apartment.

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What to wear in bed.

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I’m very good at sleeping. I can sleep for 12 hours straight. Or even more. But apart from my bed linen I don’t place much value on the way I Iook in bed. A t-shirt and boxers, that’s it. Sometimes the colours don’t even match. I blame my mother for that.

You see, in 1980, I was 12 at the time, my parents and I travelled to the United States to visit friends in New York and San Francisco, and as it was quite a hot summer we spent a lot of time in all kinds of air conditioned places, department stores being on top of that list. Saks on 5th Avenue has many floors but I remember only one, the one with a man’s nightgown by Christian Dior. Out of day and time, yet on display for me. It was hanging there on its hanger, white with thin grey stripes and looked like it belonged to a young English gentleman, Edwardian on top of that. I was deeply attracted to young Edwardian Englishmen at the time as I had just discovered Saki’s stories. I was pretty sure Bertie van Than and Reginald would wear exactly this nightshirt. And its being by Christian Dior was the icing on the cake. But iced or not, I didn’t get that cake. For some odd reasons, I couldn’t convince my mother that I needed this nightshirt. I never recovered from that denial. I am traumatized. This explains my complete désintéressement as far as looking good in bed is concerned. We look best naked anyway. My cat is proof of that.