About A Chair

Found On A Road

If a chair could speak, imagine the stories it would tell.

There is a chair to sit in, a book to read, a page to write. There is a brush and a tin of paint, waiting to transform another chair. I’ve never met a chair I didn’t like, which suggests a form of chair dysfunction. From elegant: turned legs, clawed arms, carved backs to simple: sturdy legs, wide arms. Chairs that have graced servant’s quarters and the grandest of dining rooms suggest the best stories.

Chairs are often discarded curb-side or to wait, lonely, beside a rubbish bin. Usually a chair can be restored with vision, a few coats of paint, and a new seat cover (Hint: Grab the chair with the removable seat.). Gorgeous fabrics abound to offer ‘looks’ from farmhouse to manor. Painted red, a chair becomes the curiosity in a room.

I choose minimalistic, affordable furniture. Favourite pieces are hand me downs or shabby finds, tufted and French. I stick to Benjamin Moore: ‘Winter White’, add shots of colour, and invest in bowls and pitchers. The couch is slip covered, white. There is silver from a grandmother and an aunt. There are oils from a mother. I’ve removed blinds for linen curtains, pulled back to reveal light. Simple chandeliers sparkle and shine. Bouquets of roses gather in glass. A chair waits in the kitchen.

I’m not a designer, rather, a woman who searches for beauty in the raw and spent. Every piece of furniture should suggest a story. I prefer simple lines, a reminder of a common lady who kept a sturdy chair beside an oven, sugar biscuits in a tin, and splashy rose covered tea cups on the table.

“Sit down,” she says. “I’ll fix a pot of tea.”

I settle into the empty chair. In this moment, the world slows to a crawl. Pressing thoughts are forgotten. On the window sill is a pot filled with flowers, their petals bright as jewels. She believes in violets, claims they grow where they are needed.

Once more, we return to one another.


“Vacant chairs always leave me wondering who had sat there in the past.” 
― Anthony T.Hincks

Annie Sloan Chalk Paint: ‘Pure White’

Eleanor

Eleanor At The Bar

Wide eyes drew me in. Eyes the colour of sea glass and molten gold set down by a painter’s touch. I coveted her story, listened within silence.

I studied her eyes, eyes that appeared to see beyond the realm of ordinary, sensed her bewilderment. A glance as if asking: why is it that  others can’t see how light casts shadow, how waves kiss the shore, how a smile deceives?

Lips, slightly pursed, held tangled secrets, if only she dared speak. Her side swept hair, a mix of caramel and honey, suggested an elegant yet strong ancestral line. Scandinavian vigour lingered like a shield to cover fine bones.

Eleanor. Salvaged from a Vancouver vintage shop. This is her given name, penciled to the back of a plywood board. Painted in oil, she remains bespoke for all time.

I brought her home.

“I am intrigued by the smile upon your face, and the sadness within your eyes”
Jeremy Aldana

Simple Style

Cinderella coveted

~ serve yourself

a tub tray. Therefore, she fashioned one.

You can do it, too.

Measure the width of your bath tub.

Salvage. She found a plank of discarded fencing, aged is better. Cut to desired length. Grab a belt sander (her favourite accessory) and sand off the slivers and lichen.

Apply one or two coats of White chalk paint ( Annie Sloan https://www.anniesloan.com).

Stencil a royal touch (she will find her crown).

Sand again.

Wax. (Annie Sloan Clear Chalkpaint Wax.)

~ fit for a Queen

 

my darling, may you live happily ever after”

Currency

The value isn’t in the object. It is in the human story attached to it. The worn chair, the chipped saucer, a silver fork, her oil painting, a skeleton key, a one-eyed bear, a favourite find, a worn photograph. The memory is tactile, visual, and fraught with emotion.

Love. This is the currency to value.

love is the currency

~ Ikea.com

Tillago 20 piece flatware