Nobal Glomad

"Pass the botox gun would you dear"

It was an early Sunday’s winter eve. I reclined in a blissful, perhaps slightly frozen state of weekend unwind enjoying a rather delicious Tasmanian Pino at a mate’s terrace’d Woollahra abode. I panned the interior that oozeth its hombre. Surrounding me was a quintessential object d’art assembly of collectable Eames coffee tables, sleek vintage leather and chrome lounges, a mortice and tenon’d Parker-era sideboard, pinchable Mud dinnerware, crystal decanters, billboard-sized fashion prints, sultry lighting and the immersive aromas of a wintery Moroccan tagine finessing the sensory experience. A truly beautiful Victorian abode of desirables. It all represents the culmination of years fossicking and curating. A ritual that maketh the man… defines his finely-tuned taste… gives him ownership of his hormonal habitat.

I love it.

I love the relentless passion to bowerbird the perfected ‘me’ nest. It is this love that makes a space reflective of your character. Within us all lies the innate sense of what we do and don’t like. Some need the helping hand of an pro creative to hone their taste. It is the job of a knowledgeable architect, interior designer, car dealer, real estate agent or personal shopper to interpret their client’s loves into an owned experience. To strip the ego from the equation and give them exactly what they really want. An experience that should be like rediscovering your most comfortable pair of underpants (why did Björn Borg have to close his knicker store in Paddo? A day of mourning for Sydneyites).

I class this as the pursuit of healthy materialism. A process that goes beyond the need to have ‘blah’ just because Martha has one next door. It’s building a physical space, place or presence that is an extension of you. Gold guild velour lounges may not be to everyone’s taste but to you they’re puffy clouds of pink happiness.

Right now though this World of Interiors/Cool Hunter fed passion feels far removed from my tick-list of life priorities. I’ve distanced myself from the precisely wrapped collection of hand-carved Japanese spoons, my limited edition Barcelonan Miro architectural print, the first Josh & Louis Salon chair off the rank (ok I’m indulging… I still completely adore this piece). Presently none of this is joined at my hip. I will inevitably go through and sort the functional from the ‘why did I keep this’ when I settle into the rent-sucking Sydney shackles later this year. Right now though it’s just ‘stuff’.

This time two years ago I was in full-tilt cull mode version 1.0. The time arrived to resign from a happy home-making life well established after 10 years of cushion collecting and strategic scattering, linen coordinating and kitchen ‘300 types of Global knives’ accessorising. I remember losing the pure-breds for days in a sea of cardboard and masking tape, screening phone calls, eating order-in cheese crust pizza whilst wrapping and stacking woks, electric blankets and bags of orchid fertilizer. Finally I emerged with multiple wrapped cocoons ready for the self-storage incubator spaces (yes… spaces plural).

Last week I brutally filtered this storage status down to a neatly proportioned Kennards sardine can. Beside the truck parked outside my being-vacated-space I had three beautifully carved children’s Louis chairs. The phone rang so I took the call. A few minutes later I returned to discover the chairs had been permanently borrowed… permanently. Of course in principle I was pissed off. The reality though was I had already let this ‘stuff’ fly from the coop long ago. The thief had saved me a trip to the upholsterer who planned to buy them and I was happy.

Photo. M Blatt website

The stadium-sized Matt Blatt furniture operation recently extended its retail presence from their suburb swallowing Alexandria warehouse to the centre of aspirational life in Paddington. Blatt’s a retail vat of designer rip off furni and home-stuffers. It’s an over-cluttered schizophrenic op-shop retail space with zero care for customer experience. Here materialism dies and aspirational consumption is king. Couples sporting full-face designer shades shuffle in and out purchasing K-Mart quality copies of iconic designer pieces. From Kartel to Herman Miller… it’s all there in its vinyl, plasticised faux schmow state for the gluttons to yawnify their living spaces. This has nothing to do with affordability. It’s vacuous materialism with a strict price-tag.

A catalogue-worthy lifestyle seems more important to some than one of curating an individual collection of interest. One that is representative of a life, a time, and of ‘me’. It’s time to shift priorities away from the $20,000 Space Italian couch or off-the-rack Vera Wang, to sharing a Macchiato with your local upholsterer or tailor. Humanise the material acquisition. Meeting someone who can indulge you in defining frame style, support, fabric and finish for a quarter of the price and with double the care.

Josh’s present residence de mother (excuse my current obsession for French reference) material possession list as of July 2011: $130 eBay novel sprung bed, dining chair bedside table, 2.5 shelves and a single row of hanging rack for essentials only apparel, ½ dozen lace-ups, a few still-to-read scattered travel-related paperbacks, too many camera bags, a yoga matt and a much-loved Alfa Romeo. As for the remaining stuff awaiting the re-hatch? I could quite happily flush the lot tomorrow with little remorse.

I know this headspace will change. I’ll find myself one Saturday morning happily arranging nick knacks and dust collectors in perfect pairs around my living room, fluffing cushions and strategically folding bed throws for that just-out-of-bed look.

Therein lies the wonder of owning and nesting… healthy materialism that does maketh the man (yes yes…or woman). Perhaps you’re doing it to impress the neighbours? Give yourself a good smack on the arse… the only person worth impressing is you.

Enjoy. Live. Love.