I live in a world of neutrals; I like my apartments to have lots of white, tan, wood, and maybe some French inspired stripes here and there. (Ok, maybe a crazy textile once in a while.) On a daily basis, I wear a lot of black, jean, and grey. But when it comes to flowers, I love color. Bright, bold, saturated. I can't help it. There are just so many amazing flowers and different hues-- having to work solely with a minimalist palette would be unfortunate.
I recently did a Belgian Masters inspired still life DIY for Gardenista. I went all out color-wise. Below are some outtakes.
This is going to be a long one. How can it not be when we're talking about La Pampa, the Argentine landscape where my grandma has her farm. It's a special and crazy place, miles and miles and miles of flat land. Cows. Horses. Golden fields, and clusters of trees. (OK, a couple hills here and there.) So different from the landscapes I'm used to in New York, and even different from those in California. These farms are never ending flatlands… you think it's over and then there is more golden, more cows, more trees, more land.
I wish you could all zoom into this photo and see the gang of grey geese waddling there, and feel the texture of these fields, the light, and the air. I think if you drag it onto your desktop you can. Zoom in and pretend you're in this grey haze; it's not too cold, but just enough.
My 82 year old (83? who's counting?) grandma driving her manual, 4x4 through cities and muddy roads, chatting with us. She's a maaahnstah.
First things first for a late afternoon arrival.
Typical moody frenchman. (Except he's not at all moody.) Bartó you're amazing and hilarious.
Typical potatoes and egg moodiness. FARM LYFE.
Typical grandma's carrot. And radio. A soft and scratchy radio (can't you tell it's scratchy) is always on at my G's and I love it.
Typical that Matias made the fire with ant repellant/killer liquid (thinking it was liquid fuel or whatever you call it). Of course we did not notice until we starting eating our meat and it tasted weird. Grandma was sassy and mad, and taught him to look at the labels, nene.
Me and ma G, from Matias' vantage point.
Just another morning with G and Mati-ass. (What I used to call him when we were little and he- or I- was being a little poop.) Yes, my grandmother is dusting her perfectly clean house.
This is reaaaally typical. My brother signs this in my grandmother's guest book in 2001 (i.e. he was a 12 year old rascal); he writes about hunting and fishing, and what to sing to the fish as you reel them in once you've caught one: "I told you, I told, I told you mother f*cker." (This was of course, taught to him by my dad- the man who thinks the pigeons outside our Venice Beach family restaurant should be shot with BB guns by our staff. Great idea.)
Typical flower foraging.
Baby grandma. It's actually a term (when you look like a baby, act like a G.)
Typical gong that I have heard loud and clear one too many times, thanks to my brother 15 years ago.
Same arrangement, different day.
Typical that my mom was a BABE. And I know she'd be laughing real hard right about now with that goofy and round, slow giggle of hers.
Babe x 2.
Babe squared + parthenon. (plus babe me on the right.)
In the background here, a painting my grandfather made.
The pampa's that inspired his grey horizons and golden field.
My grandma, queen of the land, and a woman that inspires me.
Té after a walk. (and crumpets.)
A little bit of French, since my grandma was once a French teacher (as well as a quail egg entrepreneur and now, a cattle farmer lady). And this is where my love of Paris and all things proper originally stems.
Typical that I hate goodbyes (or, 'the house seen from the back of the truck.')
I read this poem recently that I love, by Rainer Maria Rilke: