The Art of Gainage

Gainage.  No, it's not what happens to your body after, say, a holiday season spent eating fattening foods.  Rather, it's the term for the French style of upholstery in which fabric is applied to hard surfaces, such as moldings (see above) and furniture.  Although I've known about this type of intricate upholstery for years, I never knew what to call it. But thanks to the July-August issue of Veranda, I can now put a proper name to a technique that must take great skill, not to mention great patience.  According to Veranda, one of the leading firms that specializes in gainage is that of Charles Jouffre, a master upholsterer with workshops in Paris, Lyon, and New York.  One of Jouffre's notable clients is Chilean designer Juan Pablo Molyneux, whose work sometimes features gainage beds.  Can you imagine how luxurious it must be to sleep in a velvet-covered, four-poster bed?

I don't know if the late designer Alberto Pinto was a client of Charles Jouffre, but I do know that his green velvet-drenched dining room is a prime example of gainage.  Look closely at the photos below, and you'll see that his dining room's shell corner niche was completely covered in the same velvet that was applied to the walls.  And gainage beds can be found in a number of country houses in the U.K., including Dumfries House and Houghton Hall.  (I'm not sure if British craftsmen refer to this type of upholstery as gainage.  Perhaps they have an English term for it.)

Of course, not all gainage is as elaborate as fabric-wrapped state beds or corner niches.  Look at those David Hicks wall brackets, below, that were covered in the same claret-colored velvet that graced the room's walls.  Fabric-covered brackets are perhaps a more manageable way to indulge in the art of gainage.  (I know a clever New York designer who executed his own gainage brackets, which are most becoming.)  Or, you could simply hunt for an antique or vintage gainage table or cabinet.  The beauty of an old fabric-wrapped piece is that its fabric, likely velvet or silk, has patina, which only adds to the allure of gainage. 

Two different examples of gainage beds, which were designed by Juan Pablo Molyneux.

Two views of Alberto Pinto's dining room.  This has to be one of design history's most memorable dining rooms.

Both the walls and molding in this Georges Geffroy-decorated room were covered in green velvet.

Dumfries House's famous Chippendale bed, whose canopy cresting is covered entirely in blue damask. 

An early eighteenth-century tester bed in the Wentworth Bedroom of Milton, a country house in Cambridgeshire.  Recently restored, the bed is covered in a silk damask that is based on the bed's original fabric.

This William Kent-designed bed is located in the aptly-named Green Velvet Bedchamber at Houghton Hall.  The double-shell motif is a reference to Venus.

In this David Hicks-designed room, claret-colored velvet brackets match the room's walls.



Images #1 and #2 from Veranda, July-August issue; #7 from Town & Country, Harry Cory Wright photographer; #8 from The English Country House; #9 from English Country House Interiors; #10 from David Hicks Style and Design

Revisiting David Hicks Carpet

Around the time I started blogging, David Hicks's carpet designs were all the rage, just as they had been when first introduced decades ago.  Everywhere I looked, I saw hexagons, octagons, and the rest of Hicks's favored geometric shapes and patterns.  But because Mr. Hicks's designs were all anyone seemed to talk and blog about, I lost interest, choosing instead to focus on other topics that had not yet reached critical mass.

Almost ten years later, though, David Hicks carpet is back on my mind.  I was recently looking at photos of Hicks's later work, and I was reminded of the range of his carpet designs, many of which are no longer in production.  Take, for example, the carpet sample in the photo, seen above.  According to Suzanne Trocme's Influential Interiors, this Brussels weave carpet was produced by Avena carpets.  Like most of Hicks's floor-coverings, this carpet boasts a geometric pattern, but because it is small-scaled, it appears much less bold than some of his more famous designs .  The colorway is quite attractive, too.

Then take a look at the carpet in Hicks's Oxfordshire home, which can be seen in both the second and third photos, below.  This particular Hicks carpet possesses the verve for which the designer was so well-known, but its neutral tones help to tone down the swagger.  In fact, look how well the carpet works with those voluminous- and fetching- curtains. And speaking of fetching, what about that carpet in the blue bathroom, also seen below? Hicks originally created this carpet for the Prince of Wales, which explains the inclusion of the feather-motif within the overall octagonal pattern. If you look at the fifth photo, a scrapbook of David Hicks's carpet designs, you'll see a rendering of this Prince of Wales pattern, minus the feathers.

I've included a few additional photos that show other Hicksonian carpets and rugs, all of which I think are ripe for reissue.  To me, these examples have the flair and pizzazz that people still desire, but they're not quite as brazen as those designs that were all the rage almost a decade ago.

Curling Up with a Good Book

For the past few days, I've been engrossed in engaging new book, A Curious Friendship: The Story of a Bluestocking and a Bright Young Thing. Written by Anna Thomasson, the book recounts the unconventional friendship between writer Edith Olivier, the Victorian bluestocking of the book's subtitle, and the much younger artist, Rex Whistler. Although I am only a quarter of the way into the book (at 463 pages, it is lengthy), the text thus far is delightful. If you have an interest in either Olivier or Whistler, I highly recommend reading this book.  By the way, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention the book's dust jacket, which has to be one of the most charming I've seen in some time. The cover art is fitting considering that Rex Whistler was renowned for his whimsical, sometimes fantastical, and always charming paintings and illustrations.

Along with a number of photographs of Olivier and Whistler, the book also features one of Whistler's more well-known paintings, Conversation Piece at the Daye House, which depicts Olivier in the Long Room at her Wiltshire house, Daye House, along with her guests Lady Ottoline Morrell, Lord David Cecil, and Whistler himself. I've long admired this painting because Whistler's evocative painting style, coupled with the room's genteel and relaxed furnishings, captures a setting that is both mannerly (a virtue valued by both Victorian bluestockings and a few of us modern types) and favorable for relaxation. In other words, I find Olivier's Long Room- at least, Whistler's version of it- to be the ideal room in which to curl up with a good book, preferably one as pleasant as A Curious Friendship. (A cozy mystery would work equally as well.)

I spent some time finding examples of other rooms in which I would be quite happy to while away an afternoon or evening with my nose stuck in a good book.  Some of the examples are sprightly, while others are a bit more serious, but what they all share is their ability to lure visitors into their clutches, either through deep, rich color or comfortable, nostalgic fabrics.  And if you plan to lose yourself in a book, what better way to do so than in rooms designed beautifully for comfort and relaxation?

Conversation Piece at the Daye House, painted by Rex Whistler in 1937. The painting depicts Edith Olivier, Lord David Cecil, Lady Ottoline Morrell, and Rex Whistler.

The drawing room at the Dower House, Badminton.

David Hicks's library in his Oxfordshire house.

Scott Nelson's dressing room, located in the Manhattan apartment of Nelson and Alex Papachristidis, who decorated the room.

The living room in the country home of the late Timothy Mawson.

The Manhattan living room of the late Stanley Barrows, design professor and historian extraordinaire.

A cozy room decorated by Paolo Genta.

An Easy-to-Appreciate Home

The day after a holiday weekend is never a good time to deal with anything challenging, so today, I thought we would ease into the work week with a Paris home that requires little effort to appreciate. The apartment you see here, which was built around 1790 and is located on the place du Palais-Bourbon, belonged (and, perhaps, still belongs) to Didier and Barbara Wirth. Through the years, the homes of the Wirths have been published frequently, including their noted house in Normandy, Chateau de Brécy.  Barbara Wirth also authored one of my very favorite books on table settings, The Elegant Table, so perhaps it's not surprising that I very much admire her sense of style.  In fact, if you were to search my blog archives, you would find a number of Wirth-related posts.

When it came to decorating her Paris apartment, Barbara Wirth worked with her frequent design collaborator, Christian Badin, who also happens to be her cousin.  (Both cousins were associated with David Hicks' Paris design shop.)  Wirth has an obvious penchant for beautiful things, and yet, there is nothing remotely precious about this apartment.  Here, dressy furnishings are tempered by the unobtrusive, like rush matting and casual furniture arrangements.  It's the home's easy sensibility that I find so appealing, although I suspect that the sight of the Wirths' inviting library might have influenced me as well.  I could easily have spent my Memorial Day weekend in just such a room. 

The sunny drawing room was made sunnier by yellow curtains, upholstery, and throws.

The entrance hall evoked the outdoors thanks to those wooden cypress trees and Wirth's collection of watering cans.

The library, which was filled with books, objects, and comfortable furniture.

Wirth switched out her dining room's décor seasonally.  In the spring and summer, the cool tile walls were left visible, while during winter and fall, they were covered by panels wrapped in a David Hicks fabric.  The dining chairs, designed by Badin, had seats and backs that could be changed out according to seasons.  A number of years ago, Veranda featured a more recent version of this dining room.

The Wirths' bedroom had a lit à baldaquin, which was designed by Badin, while roman shades covered the room's walls.

All photos from House Beautiful, January 1995, Antoine Bootz photographer.

A Face from the Past: Billy McCarty

William "Billy" McCarty was once a bright young thing in the world of decorating.  Hailing from Miami, McCarty's career as a designer took off in Swinging Sixties' London, where, after briefly working for the great David Hicks, he opened his own design firm and landed such high-profile clients as the Marquess of Londonderry, Kenneth Tynan, and Vidal Sassoon Salons.  It was also in London where McCarty began affecting a British accent- at least, according to what I have read.

In 1971, McCarty raised his profile further- especially in America- thanks to both his first-prize win in the Burlington House Young Designer competition and his debut collection of fabrics and wallcoverings for Kirk-Brummel.  Titled "Noble Savage", the collection, which you can see above- that's McCarty standing among his designs- was a modern riff on American Indian motifs.  With names such as "Hopi", "Geronimo", "Shawnee", and "Seminole", the prints were McCarty's attempt to "give people another viewpoint into Indian designs.  I think one's eye has been dazzled by the super-plastic pop art thing, which is a definite chore to live with.  The idea here was a softer, more fluid look."  Looking at these designs forty-plus years after their debut, I'm not really sure that I would call these prints soft and fluid.  However, I suppose that if one compares them to the riotous patterns that were so popular in the late Sixties and early Seventies, one could say that McCarty's designs were not quite as harsh. 

Whether McCarty designed subsequent collections, I'm not sure.  But McCarty's design work was featured often in Architectural Digest during the Seventies and Eighties.  Take, for example, the London flat seen below.  Published in 1976, the home displayed a sophistication and a maturity that refrained from appearing too serious thanks to a profusion of patterned walls and ceilings.  But as he did with the rest of the décor, McCarty took a disciplined approach to pattern, choosing more or less one printed fabric per room.  The result is a home that is spirited, yet dignified, too.

As compelling as much of McCarty's work was, it was his personal life that also gained the designer attention.  As a young man in London, McCarty embarked on a relationship with the wealthy art collector, Douglas Cooper, who had previously been involved with Picasso biographer John Richardson.  Cooper eventually adopted McCarty as his son, a move meant to ensure that the designer would inherit Cooper's vast estate.  It also resulted in the designer changing his name to Billy McCarty-Cooper.  Sadly, around the time of Cooper's death in 1984, McCarty-Cooper learned that he had contracted AIDS, a disease to which the designer eventually succumbed in 1991.  Fortunately, his work lives on, at least in the pages of decades-old issues of Architectural Digest. 

*Click here to see a previous blog post that features McCarty's work during his David Hicks days.

McCarty/Kirk-Brummel photo and quotation from House Beautiful, June 1971; London flat photos from Architectural Digest, March/April 1976, Michael Nicholson photographer.