Thursday, June 3, 2010


In my 24 years I have lived on orchards with piglets and pet cows, in suburbia with clipped lawns and garden gnomes, and innercity apartments with unrelenting buskers and an interesting array of flatmates. My favourite residence to date, was when I lived in the middle of a forest up north, when I was just a wee thing. The sound of rustling trees, nearby streams and adventure for Africa was unbeatable. Our house was old and wooden with cane furniture, tapestry and impressive bookshelves.

 Dad took me to a neighboring forest one day and showed me a spot where a man had been killed and buried. The ground was sawdusty and there was a large mound which us kids took turns jumping over. The thought of a corpse beneath the ground scared me witless and excited me terribly.  The guy had been a drug dealer and had been murdered when a deal went wrong. Years later, I found out the man who killed him went crazy from the guilt and fear and comitted suicide as well.

Growing up, my parents had friends with cottages down long and winding paths. I thought they were all a bit mad with their herbal tea, musty books and dried flowers hanging from the rafters. Now I realise they weren't mad, they had imagination. (The last two pics are from my parents friends house).

Given that I have little pride im my personal space right now (I'm living out of a suitcase and a half at my boyfriends house before departure and we have let the room get ridiculously messy) all I seem to want to look at is beautiful, lust worthy interiors. There is so much inspiration and the way one interprets a space can be an incredible example of inventiveness, personal style and history.

A room, or a house to call ones very own is a truly wonderful thing.

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