Sumptuous
One of my favorite pastimes these days, is to recall my childhood fancies and attempt to bring them into some form of renewed, adult fascination while pondering on how, if any, age has changed my views, thoughts and aesthetics.
Carressed
As far as I can remember, the tomboyish side of my youth that rebelled against feminine frou-frou with Daddy’s pants and polo t-shirts, oversized steel-toe boots and shorn hair disappeared completely within the confines of my girlhood bedrooms. In there, my Georgina alter-ego hung up her dirty scout uniforms and flannel shirts. My bedroom was something that was always completely, utterly and undeniably feminine-pink bedspreads, fringed tablecloths, stuffed toys.
These days, I have reconciled with my girlish ways and while the tomboy in me still surface sometimes for internal wardrobe battles, hitting the golden age of 30 has brought upon a new flush of meaning. Now I have womanhood ahead of me to contend with. Right on cue, I have been secretly coveting a boudoir since discovering it’s spatial meaning beyond corset fetishes and midnight rendezvouses. Defined as a room or space within the home that offers a comfortable and unabashedly feminine respite, it glorifies and celebrates womanhood and all of its pleasurable rituals.
The lovely pictures I have attached above are from The Paris Apartment and really best exemplifies what I believe to be the adult incarnation of the girlhood bedrooms of my past. I am most inspired by the notion of the boudoir as a heightened den of pleasurable textures-lace, silk, fur, satin, brocade and the refinement of craft-both in objects and in furniture.
While Parisian aesthetics can at times appear too ornate for my liking, it is the richness and bold embrace of materials, textures and unrestrained delight for beauty that rings most loudly for me. These set of spatial virtues probably explains why there are so many versions of the woman’s boudoir in so many different cultures, all raw, beautiful, romantic and deeply personal.