THE ART OF LIVING

CREATIVE DIRECTION DANÉ STOJANOVIC
SET DESIGN MARNE SCHWARTZ
PHOTOGRAPHY VLADIMIR MARTI
STYLIST LAURA JANE BROWN
WORDS ALISSA THOMAS

We know what it’s thinking, smizing from beneath its eccentric silver cloche. It thinks it will be given centrepiece. Catching the light and basking in freshly unboxed superiority, it believes it’s like no other. That it’s worthy of clearing the pedestal. This porcelain ingenue, this crockery nobility is here to claim our place. We know because it’s happened before. Many times. A new guest arrives and asserts a certain level of importance. It’s hard to argue, they have such an intoxicating beauty. They’re without history and are yet to be burdened by the cracks and scratches of a life on show. Usually, they’re the dernier cri – decorated in a mode so desirable they become estranged from their safe and sturdy contemporaries. We’re used to it. We’re well versed in casually reminding these visitors that they are, indeed, not the first and that they won’t be the last.

We are the vessels. The vases. Hand-painted, handmade, antique, vintage, classic – whatever the new guests want to call us – and we own the mantle. All we need is a single preserved bloom to perpetuate our place. We’re arranged in a complementary fashion with all our heights and shapes balanced to perfection. We are the objets d’art all others circumnavigate. We’ve survived dystopian clean outs and all the trinkets, hardcover books and Philodendron that have come and gone before us. We’ve been here so long we have sentimental tenure. We are the leaders of the living room tableaux, stoic and distinguished – even if we are occasionally forced to defend our place.

It was not long ago that a suspiciously decorative land-mammal votive arrived. Its glossy finish and use of fashionable irony caused us to become uncharacteristically disorientated. We wondered if kitsch had finally come to overthrow us – to disrupt our mid-century-modernity. This tusky guest appeared to be a home for a fine-formed stem, yet its quirky, novelty expression clearly came for a coup.  If successful, its unique look might have threatened the very foundations our interior was built on. So we had to move fast. After discussing the matter, we concluded that such a discernible piece of decor should be offered a solitary landing. A place with a more appropriate, exotic setting. A premium position on the rattan bench in the hall. 

Some months later, a family of coloured cut-glass tumblers arrived in a similar fashion. Momentarily placed beside us, their prism-etched physiques posed a risk that could only come from something deeply involved in the zeitgeist. We had to speculate, quickly. It was determined these delicate broods would, long-term, require the support of a curvaceous carafe. Such chic chalices are not complete without a dominant decanter. And, since they were also so awfully attractive, it was decided they would be best arranged on the mirrored surface of the nearby bar cart. 

A while later, we were greeted by a particularly unusual flask guest. A clear glass bottle that could have been overlooked had it not been for its intriguing miniature Saguaro. With all the bravado of a Palm Springs wunderkind this tiny caged cactus was nothing if not aggressively cool. Without a second thought, we deemed it too special, too interesting, too inspiring for the mantle. It needed somewhere boutique, a little off the beaten track. Somewhere like the warm glow of the bedside table. 

The next day, out of a well-padded box, came a designer derriere. A most evocative installation, this sculpture was so devilishly avant-garde we knew it deserved the attention of something equally beguiling. Something Poolside, perhaps. Not in the aquatic sense, of course, but on the coffee table beside the stack of Slim Aarons’ most attractive tomes. 

Since then we have also deflected a string of trendy trompe l’œil’s – trays, dishes, even canisters that boasted utility, beauty and extensive confidence. Fresh from the Surrealist revival, they were all sure they’d become the Dalí of the living room. But pieces so exceptionally artistic needed more creative foundations – atop an ottoman, on an occasional chair or dressing the marble top of the guest bathroom, perhaps. 

When the candlesticks arrived, we assumed they would immediately unpack on the dining table, flanking the urn of fresh-cut olive branches. Yet, despite this obvious choice they still needed some coercive encouragement. The same went for the Poseidon twins. Fine-form plates sporting painterly portraits of the God of the sea, could only be appreciated should they be at eye level. They needed to be adored like the artworks they were. So, we presented them with the finest wall mounts a decorative dish could be fastened to. 

So, when our latest guest arrived, that beautifully be-cloched plate, it was easy to persuade it should live a similarly curated existence. But as we admired them all finally ensconced, we settled for a moment too long – and we never saw it arrive. Slipping in with an ethereal spirit, this guest had more beauty and capacity than all of us put together. It was delicate, strong and decorated in a hypnotic geometry – a perfect blend of captivating and refined – an impossible dichotomy. 

This was the guest, the vase, that had come to replace us all. In a moment, we knew. We knew we were defeated as the dark wind of rearranging began to blow. The first of us was shifted to the desk in the spare room, the next sent alfresco to hold flowers near the barbecue. Two were pushed up onto a shelf beside Gwyneth Paltrow cookbooks and three smaller ones were donated to the toddler’s room. Then, one of the most classic of our kind, was horrifyingly stationed to a behind-closed-cupboard-doors position inside the kitchen hutch. A place from which no one ever returned. 

Finally, there was only me and my fierce competitor. Everyone knows that in the world of superfluous decor, two is a crowd, so I knew my time was up. But I refused to go to the musky depths of forgotten storage, I’d rather smash than be sent to live beside all the microwavable miseries that lived inside the crockery drawers. I had too much pride. Panicked, I looked to the elephant, to the Poseidon brothers. I looked to the tiny cactus and to the glossy rear end but none would catch my eye. I thought about shifting too close to the edge and going out in a spectacle of shattered porcelain. Yet I feared I’d just chip or crack and then be sent to the garage – a discarded relic now a house for screwdrivers and dried-out paint brushes. But then, a miracle. A small bunch of dried Craspedia was arranged inside my shallow self and I was placed back to the centre of the mantle. The guest had vanished. Gone to another place. A better place? If I was lucky, I would never know.