#john ike

When pieces of the Golden Gate started arriving to the site in the 1930s, they were painted in a primer of a similar vermillion color. Architect Irving Morrow liked the shade so much, he proposed they paint the entire thing like that, rather than the usual black or grey. After writing a 29 page proposal, he got his way. 

I can understand his attraction to it. It looks great against blues and greens, and emerges from the fog that often surrounds it. 

There are a couple different versions of International Orange; the bridge's is a redder take on it. 

It's been used traditionally in the aeronautics industry, for example, on astronaut's uniforms.

The color enlivens already dramatic forms, like a curvy 1950s truck. 

A house in San Francisco embraces the bridge's exact shade. 

It apparently takes over 47,000 gallons of paint to cover the bridge. They constantly paint portions of it to prevent against the salt water's corrosive effects.

A ceramic display by Mongiardino. 

At the time I was enamored with Henri Samuel and Renzo Mongiardino, two icons of the past century. They both were experts at mixing genres and generations of design, from the ancient to the Renaissance to more recent antiques and beyond. They layered textures and objets, incorporated frescoes of ruins and other trompe l’oeil effects.

An entry hall by Mongiardino. 

I was particularly taken with Mongiardino. Originally trained in architecture, he was known for decorating old chateaus and villas, as well as creating opulent set designs. He gave renewed life to places with good bones.

My Mongiardinian mindset fit the project to a T. The house we were working on, originally an American Shingle Style, had been transformed in 1925 by its French owners into a Norman chateau. Over the decades that passed, a fire had damaged the home and rooms had fallen into disrepair. When our clients acquired the property, they wanted to refurbish it to the former glory of its chateau remodel.

The entry space received a stone floor with unevenly sized squares. The tall fireplace and trompe l’oeil walls were impressive backdrops to the display of period photographs that paid homage to the house's demolition and rebuilding.

An antique, beamed ceiling and wallpaper panels of an 18th century French design were installed in the living room.

And the conservatory received wooden trellises of varying pattern, with light furniture in the vein of a garden room.

I’ve been turned on to a lot of designers and architects through this group. One I’ve fallen for recently is C. Jeré, the compound moniker of the mid-century designers Curtis Freiler and Jerry Fels. They're known for their metal wall pieces and sculptures, each original hand signed with their nom de plume.

The duo was quite prolific. Before starting their art and home goods company, they had worked designing costume jewelry. During that era they apparently went as Matisse and Renoir. They used their experience in jewelry design and manufacturing to start Artisan House, the company of C. Jeré, in 1963. Their output was such that even today the pieces are widely available; prices are still quite reasonable. And that was their goal – they wanted, as Fels once said, to design “gallery quality art for the masses.”

The diversity of styles makes it good for "the masses" too. Work ranged from representational to abstract, with a wide variety of metals and finishes. It looks good with different textures, materials, and aesthetics, and so has been reprised by many an interior decorator. “Raindrops” is a beautiful, and popular, piece. You can see it in the two previous photos - it seems like a three dimensional Gustav Klimt pattern. 

The design was simple and clean. A 2-cycle chainsaw engine was mounted to the frame, and looked like a miniature V-twin engine. The gas tank was attached to the cross bar of the sweeping profile of the frame. The finishing touch was the seat: classic banana. 

We started talking, and it turns out Eric makes bikes like this on the side (his normal business is 24 Hour Tattoos). 

I've started looking at other souped up mopeds, many of them DIY-like his version. They range from glossy, designer made bikes to coddled together pieces of metal and engine.

An old Peugeot. 

Derringer-designed moped. 

A spoke-less DIY version. 

A vintage Solifer Capri. 

Paul’s collection in Stockholm contains bespoke pieces made specifically for exhibition by the top furniture designers of the day – bureaus, desks, beds, and cabinets by designers like Carl Malmsten and Axel Hjorth. There are even some pieces shown in the Swedish pavilion at the formative Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes in 1925. But he also has pieces crafted for larger production runs, and manufactured by high quality furniture companies like Bodafors and Seffle. 

A Malmsten desk, designed for Tändstickspalatset and manufactured by NK. 

A table exhibited in the Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Modernes, by Anna Petrus. 

The hallmarks of Swedish design that we know today really originated in the 1920s. The pieces were pared down, highly functional, and very beautiful. Design from the era became associated with the phrase "Vackrare vardagsvara." I've been told the English translation leaves something out, but it can be approximated as "Better things for everyday life." 

NK's room in the 1930 Stockholm Exhibition. 

I own a couple pieces of Swedish furniture from the era myself, mostly manufactured by the interiors arm of Nordiska Kompaniet, the Swedish department store, who had Hjorth as head of their design department during the 1920s and 30s. 

An NK cabinet. 

Pictures from the NK factory. 

We stayed in Waimea, on the island of Kauai, renting a small house in a coconut grove at the Waimea Plantation Cottages. It's a remote place, and for the most part unspoiled. The cottage colony was constructed in the early 19th century, to house workers and families on one of the sugar plantations that dotted the island. The houses were then moved to the sites they occupy today.

The colony remains largely unchanged since then: simple stick cottages with broad covered porches protect you from the sun, or the occasional shower; broad allées of palms flank lawns that lead to black sand beaches. There have been a few humble additions: a pool, hammocks, a shuffleboard court. But there's not much else to distract from the task at hand: relaxation. 

The architecture of the cottages reinforces this notion of simplicity: boards are set within a frame of slender, 4 x 4 framing lumber; electrical wiring, what little there is, runs atop the plank floors and ceiling. There are basic kitchens with old fridges and propane stoves, but most of the cooking is done on the Weber kettles in a private little yard.

Any food you need, you get from Ishihara, the Japanese grocer (keep the money on the island). There you buy fresh ahi poke, chicken marinated in an Asian confab I can't pronounce, seaweed salad, and lots of Kona Big Wave beer. 

After dinner, you sit on the porch, see the sun set again, watch the stars, and go to bed with the trade winds blowing through the windows.