Daily Nugget 006

This is Beaker. His expression in this picture is eerily similar to shocked and appalled face my significant other makes when I tell him I'm actually going to do something besides sleep all day and eat chocolate in bed.

Cholitas

Cholitas are indigenous Bolivian women who are well known for their strength, familial obligations, farming abilities, and a very interesting sense of style. Bowler hats are abundant in Bolivia and these women like to pair their traditional black bowlers with vibrant wool ponchos and multi-layered, flowing skirts. I'm coveting their look, but since I think I'd get some rather odd stares if I donned their full attire (well, maybe not, because I live in Williamsburg), here are some items I found that channel the Cholita vibe for the home.

Flamenco Shower Curtain, Anthropologie, $118

Hand Knit Popcorn Powder Blanket, Twinkle Living, $264

Wool Cushion Covers, Novica, $49.95 

Seagrass Trunk With Lid, Cost Plus World Market, $79.99

Diamond Ikat Tapestry, Urban Outfitters, $36

Goorin Clockwork Wool Felt Hat, Hats in the Belfry, $140

Daily Nugget 005

This isn't a muppet, obviously. But this is kind of what I feel like today. d'oh.

Bono, King of Ireland

Daily Nugget 004

This is the Swedish Chef. I fancy myself a very good cook, and it is through this culinary master that I learned all of my best dishes.

A new name, because the last one was pretty crappy.

I spend pretty much every day, all day, writing. Actually, that's a lie. I do spend a lot of time wandering around the D&D, eating, looking at home accessories online, and walking my boyfriend's dog. But the rest of the time, I'm writing. Tons of words! Yet it has been impossible for me to come up with a name for this blog. Word & Decor? Yes, I like 'em both, but plltrrrtht. Crappy name. But, as I was lollygagging in bed this morning, this name came to me, and I kind of like it. Empty rooms need decorating, ugly rooms need redecorating, but so do our lives. Special people, places, and stories to enhance ourselves.  I think it's the perfect name to exemplify what I want to do with this blog, which is talk about decorating, muppets, and little stories from my own life. I hope some of it is useful. I'm having a pretty good time decorating this blog with pictures, nuggets and words :)

xx Robin

Grammar School

Above, journal from Kiosk, $15

Above, from Fishs Eddy, $24 each/plate, $4/tumbler

Remember in third grade when you learned how to write in cursive? We were given that sweet thin, recycled paper with the fat blue and red lines? I'm obsessed with that paper and am happy to see that the pattern is reemerging in accessories. These plates from Fishs Eddy could be used for appetizers or as cheese boards. And the journal from Kiosk is brilliant to just throw in your bag and jot down little chestnuts throughout the day.

Reform School is an LA-based company that has a really eclectic mix of merchandise. I love them for the posters, but I also especially love them because they send notes on the real deal old school paper, as well as wrap their breakables in it. Perfect for decoupage. Above is one of my favorite David Shrigley cards that Reform School is selling for $6!!

My New Favorite Designer

Above, interiors by Hilary White

Above, a custom piece from Liv Chic

Nothing makes me quite as happy as meeting talented young designers who both make me want to buy, in bulk, their custom items as well as inspire me to follow my dreams and be a designer too. Well, pie makes me happier, but this scenario makes me pretty pleased. 

I met an amazing young designer last week named Hilary White. She's 28, a mother of two, and a seasoned decorator who is about to launch her own line of custom furniture, Liv Chic. Her style is a delicious mix of modern baroque, hollywood glamour, and a few understated hints of rococo. She offers well-made, beautiful custom pieces at prices that are shockingly reasonable in the often hard to access world of custom furniture from decorators. She sells wholesale, to her clients, and to the public, which is really refreshing as many decorators are hard to purchase from. She was also recently featured here. Check out her Flickr page link above for more information on what she's selling. Or contact me for more information. Robin.Sillau@gmail.com

xx

Daily Nugget 003

It's funny, because it's true. Although, I take umbrage with the fact that whoever made this creepy fraggle nugget used "your" instead of "you're."

Horseshit!

Jeebus. 

Daily Nugget 002

This is Pepe. He's a shrimp. I believe he is the only Muppet to enjoy hooded sweatshirts.

Daily Nugget 001

Behold. My favorite Muppet of all thyme. Banana Nose Maldonado. I'm trying to convince my boyfriend to dress as him for Halloween. He's hesitant because he doesn't want to paint his face green. I've even offered to sew a large, yellow felt nose for him. If he doesn't go as him, I will. It can't be more disturbing than my Tobias Funke outfit from last year....

Upholstery De-mystified

It always comes back to the people, places and things I have met, visited and done while I was working at Domino. Before my venture into impromptu and budget upholstery on-set during my shoot in LA, I used an amazing NY-based upholsterer for all of my fabric and furniture needs, Matthew Haly. He's the proprietor of The Furniture Joint, a wonderful upholstery shop in Nolita that not only has helped me get something masterfully recovered in, oh, say, a DAY, but also aims to make custom furniture something that's accessible to everyone, not just the super rich or those who are master craftsmen or women. 

Matthew has penned a Book of Upholstery that will be in stores on November 25, 2008. It's packed with great tips and ideas that will inspire you to dabble in customizing your own furniture. Pre-order your copy on Amazon right now, and if you're in the New York area, I'd suggest visiting his website and looking into taking a class at his studio!

Introducing the Daily Nugget

I'm a little bit addicted to enhancing my emails and text messages and basically LIFE with the additions of random Google images or stock photos. I enjoy muppets, children in costume, clowns, manatees, and pictures of funny looking people. I decided to post one such picture each day from my extensive collection that resides on my desktop in a folder entitled "important tax documents." Hopefully these daily nuggets will incite two, tree giggles in the midst of your hum-drum workdays.

xx 

Craving Men

Maybe it's because I'm not working consistently right now that I'm really into dressing in baggy, comfortable, androgynous outfits. But that wouldn't explain my newfound penchant for donning mens cologne. Whatever the impetus, I'm completely into all things MAN right now.

Prada's Amber Cologne is a new obsession of mine. A special guy I know wears this and I've been spraying it on myself so much, I think it's time to buy my own bottle. I find a lot of perfume overwhelming and too floral. To me, the idea scent would be a sheet of downy rubbed all over my neck, but my skin is far too sensitive for such things. This Prada cologne smells lightly masculine, yet still sweet and slightly soapy. And the bottle is really sleek and attractive. I think it will look quite nice atop my nesting tables from CB2.

I'm also really into men's jeans from APC. I have a pair in the smallest size they make, perfectly faded, with a button fly. They are loose but i still feel like a lady when I wear them. And at $155, they are pretty affordable as well

I've also been getting a lot of scarves for fall from Urban Outfitters, but in the men's section. I usually abhor the Urban, but this probably because I spent three months after college rotting away as an employee on their 59th and 3rd Ave location in the women's panty section. But I will enter their doors to stock up on these scarves. Around $24 each.

North Carolina

This weekend I'm off to visit my mom in North Carolina. Every Saturday there's a fantastic flea market set up at the State Fair Grounds that I hope we'll have a chance to peruse. Here are some finds from my last visit. Obviously, reupholstery is a must!

My Deco File

Dominomag.com has recently launched a feature called "My Deco File" that allows readers to upload and share their inspiration, homes, and ideas. It's a really cool way to put your ideas out there and get some in return.

Exit and Exile.

To tell you the truth, I blame the movies. The f'ing movies, I tells you. Movies make the absurd and impossible seem romantic. And plausible. Sigh. Whoever wrote the screenplay for the romantic comedy "The Holiday" should be tossed under the wheels of a double-decker red bus. And now, the story of how I came to leave Domino Magazine.

In March, I was shipped off the Los Angeles to produce a shoot in which I decorated a living room, bedroom, and dining room on a budget. This was the first story I really designed, and I think it came out pretty, pretty, pretty good. Will follow up with the images in another post, but you can see it for yourself is the August 08 issue. While in LA, I met some really cool people. One of these people was a british dude who was staying in my hotel. We hit it off immediately, probably because he had an accent, and I had imbibed several vodka sodas with just a splash of lime. We hung out for a bit, but then I had to run to catch a plane back to NYC. With an exchange of emails, I lumbered into my rented explorer and sped off towards LAX, hoping to not injure myself or any motorists, and wondering if I'd ever see my long-haired, british friend again.

An email courtship ensued, which acted as a gateway drug to heavier hitters such as ichat, phone calls, text messages, and finally, video chat. Damn you Apple and your fancy devices. After about two months of carrying on like this, we decided that we should plan a visit. I hate to fly. Hate. Anti-swoon. So I was hoping to lure the Londoner to NYC. Sadly, we decided to determine whom would visit whom via a game of interwebs scrabble. I lost. 

On May 15th, I set sail to London. This would be my first trip to Europe, and little did I know, probably my last. I spend a sickeningly romantic five days with my brit and fell in love with London, and the idea of a relationship with said man-child. I returned to New York with an addiction to prawn crisps and the notion that I could maintain a trans-atlantic relationship. After a visit from the Brit in July I decided I was in love. Ten days in person with someone. 'Tis the stuff that lasting, and trusting relationships are made of folks. 

Desperate for a reason to leave my comfortable, safe, yet stagnant job at the Dom, I decided that I should take some time off and move to London for a bit. Just a month. Which turned into three months. Which turned into me pursuing an apartment swap. Which turned into me going broke and needing to break off the swap and dedicate myself to living in London, with said Brit, for three months. I quit before I even had some sort of work to keep me busy while on my adventure. 

As an American, you do not need a visa to travel to England if you are visiting for under six months. Since I was meant to visit for three, I felt no need to inquire about any sort of documentation. I was very fortunate and was offered an interview for a three-month internship at Tom Dixon, one of my favorite furniture designers of all time. Everything seemed to be falling into place. Unpaid job to keep me busy yet legal? Check. Subletter? Check. Meager savings? Check. Supportive family? Check. Nothing keeping me in Brooklyn? Check. Responsible boyfriend who could be trusted? Not so much. Any idea of what to say to the British customs officials? Negative.

The two latter are my own fault really. It seemed like such a cool idea. Living with my older british boyfriend, working for free and learning how to make furniture. Pints at Effra Hall. Trips to the country. A holiday in Paris. The idea of all that made me overlook the fact that I was making these three-month plans to be with a person I had only spend 10-days with. Ever. Also, I saw "The Holiday." Ugh. And the customs part. Oh the customs. I've traveled out of the country twice. Once to the Bahamas when I was 18 and had the flu. I barely remember one moment out of the seven feverish days I spent in the fetal position on what I can only assume was a white sand beach. And once to Israel, where if you are Jewish, they practically shackle you to palm tree upon arrival and tell you that you're welcome to stay. FOREVER. I was just clueless.

So on August 13th, I dragged three months of luggage to JFK, slipped two klonopan under my tongue, and to quote Joseph Campbell, I said "a hearty yes to my adventure." And the free wine on my Virgin Atlantic flight. I felt no excitement during the six hour flight. Probably because I was heavily sedated, but also, a bit because part of me knew what I was doing was ill-planned. I didn't totally trust or know the Brit, and mostly what I was eager for was my internship. As we made our decent into Heathrow, I caught sight of the London Eye, where Brit and I shared many kisses and I decided I needed to do whatever I could to be with him. I started to get excited. I touched my portfolio in my bag and thought about my meeting with Tom Dixon the next day. I closed my eyes and imagined myself in their impeccably decorated office, in my Chloe boots, being told I was talented. 

After a long walk from the plane to the customs waiting area, I found myself part of a heard of men and women who were not citizens of the UK. I followed the other foreign cattle, chatting away on my iphone to my friends and the Brit, patting myself on the back for convincing my father to pay my phone bills. My turn. I march up to the podium, in my short shorts and face full of make up. "Why are you coming to London today ma'am?" asked an irritable man, who seemed to be training another new officer. "To visit my boyfriend." "How long do you plan on staying? Where is your return ticket?" Hmm..didn't print out my return ticket. "Sorry sir, I didn't print it out, but you can look at it on my iphone. See? November 6th." They whispered to each other at which point the diseased portion of my brain that infects my life with almost unrelenting panic attacks said "START TO CRY," so I did. "Why are you crying," he implored. "What will you be doing here for three months? Why would you stay so long? Don't you have a job?" "No, I quit my job for this trip." "I asked you what you will be doing. Every day. What will you do every day? How much money do you have with you? What does your boyfriend do?" It was hard to answer them, as my heart was i my mouth, but I managed a "I have an interview for an unpaid internship. I might not do it. I don't know." And with that, I was shoved into what could be best described as a pen, and told not to touch my cell phone. The two officers took my passport and disappeared into a booth with a one-way mirror. I don't know how long they were gone, because my head was between my legs and I was hyperventilating, but when they did finally return, a huge wave of relief washed over me. I assumed they would let me through. I was wrong. I was told to sit in the pen and stop crying. Someone else would be over shortly. About thirty minutes later, a very butch woman who was about 6'4 roughly grabbed my arm and asked me if I wouldn't mind following her to a holding cell. Cell? What? WHAT?

I was escorted to a small room where I was personally searched, as were my bags. She removed all paperwork, journals, notebooks, and unfortunately for me, my portfolios. After these were confiscated, I was led into an even starker room that reeked of misfortune. I sat in a plastic chair for about an hour, all the while wondering what Brit was thinking. Did he think I backed out? Was he calling out for me over the PA? Was he tearing his thinning, long hair out of his pointy head with worry over where I was? I would later learn he was reading a book and eating a sandwich. 

I was then taken to a room that could best be described as the seventh circle of hell. Small, damp, wall-to-wall carpet, moist chairs, hanging lightbulbs, one pay phone, no windows. One wall had bar-enforced windows that looked onto several obese guards. And then there was the door. The heavy wooden door that I can still recall sounding like the most shrill and painful noise I can remember experiencing thus far. It was explained to me that the original customs officers could not be sure of my real intentions upon visiting the UK. I would wait in this cell with around seven Arab men, until the officer assigned to my case was ready to interrogate me. No, I couldn't bring my cell phone in with me. No, I couldn't get change for the 20 p bill in my pocket so might use the one pay phone. No, there was no place else I could wait, I had to wait in this small room with the men. No, I couldn't have my anxiety pills!!!

I perched on the edge of the couch. "This room is crawling with AIDS," said my diseased brain. I suppose I was rocking back and forth, because the one man in the room who didn't look as he was about to rape me came over and pressed a damp calling card into my hand. "Take this," he offered. Then he sat next to me while I called my mom, and called my boyfriend, making sure none of the other men bothered me. "Thank you I mouthed" while I waited for the Brit to answer. "It's going to be ok," he mouthed back. The moment I heard his voice on the phone I lost my mind a little bit more. I told him what was happening and that for some reason they had a problem with the fact that I was offered an interview for an unpaid internship. I didn't understand. He said that they probably were holding me because they DIDN'T believe I was working and that I was going to be a deadbeat. I tried to argue. No. NO. It's because they think I am seeking full-time employment. He said I was wrong again. He wanted to leave, and for me to take a cab to Brixton when this "mess" was sorted out. Part of me understood, because if he was so blase about the situation, it meant I'd be released from the hell box. But part of me knew something bad would happen, and that the fact that he wanted to leave the airport while I was in custody was enough of a red flag for me to chose to get on a plane back to New York, even if I was allowed to get into the country.

I finally was removed from the room that smelled like body odor, vomit, urine and some sort of pine freshener, and taken into the even more luxurious Interrogation Room. Now, once again, I have to give a big middle finger to the movie industry, this time for being so painfully spot on when it comes to what an interrogation room in real life looks like. Small. White walls. One table, two folding chairs. A lightbulb swinging from the ceiling. There was a strip of red tape affixed at waist height placed horizontally around the whole room.  I was told not to make any sudden movements. The red tape was there for both of our safety. If I was to make a sudden movement and possibly touch the red tape, an alarm would sound and the outcome would be unsavory, I was told. 

I was asked a series of very detailed questions about my life and about what my intentions were in London. I answered honestly and accurately, and tried to emphasize that I was there for HOLIDAY and not TO TRY TO GAIN FULL-TIME EMPLOYMENT. Although, in reality, there is nothing illegal about coming to London for an interview for an unpaid internship. There is nothing illegal about coming to interview for real jobs. Yet you can still be denied entry simply for seeming suspicious. I said I was there for vacation. They found my portfolios. 

The customs officer, aka, the Largest Woman I Have Ever Seen Without A Penis, then dragged me out of the interrogation room and back into the first quizzically stark room. She took digital fingerprints of every one of my fingers and both hands. She took three pictures of my face with three different cameras. Finally, she not so gently shoved my face into a black machine and proceeded to take a picture of my eyeballs. I was returned to the room.

The kind man in the cell asked me how it went and wished me the best of luck. He gave me all of the pence he had in his pockets and told me I could have it to call my mom and Brit again. I did, and told them both I had a horrible feeling about what was happening to me. No one would tell me if I had any chance of leaving the cell, if I might get sent back to the US, anything. A male officer came in and took the nice man away. He never came back. 

I convinced the Brit to stay in the airport until my fate was decided. It was hard. But i finally did it.  After about another hour of waiting and feeling exceedingly unsafe with my cell-mates, I was again called into the interrogation room. i was asked the same questions over again, and told that the Brit had been called and asked the same questions. My heart sank. I knew he had a totally different idea of what he thought should be said. I was then taken to a different wing of the labyrinth-like complex and told to take off my shirt and bra. What? I was to be given a chest x-ray. Why? I don't want one. Because you might have turburculosis. My naked torso was placed against a cold plate, and two x-rays were taken. I was not given a lead apron to protect the rest of me. Hysterical, I was led back into the cell. I called my mom once more and told her about the x-ray. "That's great!" she said. "They must be making sure you're healthy because they are going to let you in." This seemed logical, and it did calm me down for the time being.  Finally about seven hours after I landed, my officer came into the cell to get me. She sat me down in yet another room, and told be politely that I was being denied entry to the UK because "they could not be sure I would actually leave at the end of my proposed visit." It was hard to properly hear this, as all the blood in my body was rushing in my ears, but I managed to catch the gist of what she was mumbling in her lower-class accent. 

I suffer from extreme anxiety and depression. I control both with medication, but at this point, nothing could have saved me from a massive panic attack. I'll never be sure why the officers were so terribly harsh on me, especially as a young, female American, but they were. I think she started to feel bad, because she went into my bag and got me my Klonopan. My daily dose is 1 mg broken up over the day. I took 4 mg. She then told me I couldn't see my Brit, even though he was just feel away, but she went to go tell him in person that I would be on the first plane out of London in the morning. As I had a nervous breakdown in this room alone, I wondered how this ever could have happened. I blamed myself, I blamed the douchebag officers who first took my passport, and most disturbingly, I blamed my boyfriend. Because I believed that he may have purposely said the wrong thing to the officers in a moment of panic about the three-month commitment he was about to embark on Because I allowed myself to uproot my life for someone who I believed could do this to me. 

The officer came back and gave me a hug. Although she was the one who had been rough with me and manhandled me and been the ringmaster of this hellish circus, it was the most important human contact I believe I've ever had. She was doing her job. And I had a moment of appreciation for how hard it must be. She held me tightly. And told me to hire a lawyer and get a visa so I could return. Then she looked at me really sympathetically. "Robin. I must tell you. Your boyfriend's biggest concern when I spoke to him, was how he was ever going to find  cab to Brixton at this time of night." I collapsed into myself. I was going home. Home to an apartment I promised to a subletter, no job, embarrassment, and a plethora of friends who are amazing and beautiful when the sun is shining, and scarce in the storms.  And I knew I was going to be single the moment I could regain access to my cell phone. Love isn't worrying about a taxi. Had the situations been reversed I would have clawed my way to the customs area and called the British embassy and done everything in my power to have helped him. And if he was sent home, I would have been on the first plane to London, if only to hug him. But that wasn't my situation, and I knew I would break up with him immediately upon landing. 

For two days after I returned, I was a mess. Cried all the time, couldn't eat or sleep, was needy. I found myself wanting to sleep in bed with my best friend because I literally wanted to be held. I had never felt so scared for my safety in my entire life. But my friends were turned off by my pain and my depression. So I sat down and collected myself. I had a choice. I could let my depression and anxiety and mental dysfunction take hold of me, or I could stop crying. Nothing would change what happened. No amount of feeling sorry for myself, no amount of begging my friends to get drunk with me and let me be hysterical, running home to North Carolina to see my mom, nothing would help. Except accepting that this shitty thing happened. So that is exactly what I did. 

I spent time with my friends who listened to me and validated the fact that I had endured a traumatic experience. I met a really cool guy. I applied to several jobs. I asked the subletter to leave. I unpacked my suitcases.  I broke up with my Brit. I hired a lawyer. I reinstated my health insurance. I spent three days with my best friend Jenna, who is essentially my sister. She played with my hair and we slept in bed together. I got asked for interviews at every job I applied to. I was offered the job I wanted most. And every other job I interviewed for. I got hired to decorate my first apartment that doesn't belong to myself. 

And that, is how I got to be back in New York, styling, decorating, and soothing my soul with the things that I enjoy most. This will be the only post that is so serious and emotional, but I think it's essential to know everything about a person to understand why he or she makes their specific choices. Plus, it was really freaking cathartic to do this. 

So. think through your decisions. Take relationships slowly. Realize that there is a cultural divide. Chose your friends wisely. Follow your passions. Don't let horrible situations destroy you. And never do something because it looks good in a movie. Someone will end up deported, or with a poked out eye or something.

xx Robin

Cheap Ikats

You may notice the fact that this amazing Madeline Weinreb fabric has now appeared about two, tree times thus far. That's because I'm obsessed with it. It's called Luce, and here it's shown above in Saffron. If I had my druthers, I'd tear all of my clothing off with wild abandon and swath my nude body with this. But, since I'm poor, I'll just have to cover my naked body with other cheaper, yet still attractive ikats. Here are some of my favorites:

.

 

Above, from top to bottom

 - Marine Blue Ikat from Anna Griffin Fabrics, $8.95 /yard

 - Cotton/Silk Ikat from Uzbek-Craft.com, around $10/yard

 - Passage Ikat in Aqua from Kravet, to-the-trade, approx $70/yard

Oh hai!

Welcome to my very small corner of the Interwebs! For the past two years I've worked as an assistant at Domino Magazine. I'm formally trained as a journalist, but working at domino was the proverbial piece of seagrass that broke the camel's back in terms of truly unleashing my passion for decorating. 

I've always noticed my room was nicer than my roommates' bedrooms in college and the years after living in NYC, but I fancied myself a writer. After landing my first job at the domino, I realized that writing is a tool I can use in my career, but my real passion is in decorating. 

How could I not follow a path to lead me to a creative life filled with art and beautiful things? Swoon.

After two years at domino, I was a girl obsessed. Tired of the office drone and hungry for the opportunity to be more assertively creative, I quit my job.**

**This is completely false. But the absurd, and in retrospect, hilarious, explanation of my original exit plan from domino will be investigated in a later post.**

The goal of this blog is to share my insights into the world of decorating and styling as I learn. I've just started a new job as the visual manager/stylist/buyer at a prop house, and am thrilled to become more hands-on with the things that I love. I've got the knack for design and a vast knowledge of sources from my time at what is the greatest design magazine* in the market right now. Hopefully as I learn and grow, I can share little nuggets of decornoledge with you, as well as entertain you with personal chestnuts of stories from my scattered, but often hilarious life.

*This is a completely biased opinion. But how can you blame me? I love me the domino.

xx

Robin