Souvenir
When I lived in Bordeaux, there was this fantastic tile on the walls of my kitchen. It surrounded my morning rituals, as I made my Nespresso and washed the wine glasses from the night before.
That visual and color memory is nearly sacred to me. So, I made this oyster tray. I take this with me now, when I travel for my earrings and other tiny things that can NOT get lost. And, when I am at home, it sets in my kitchen window just above the sink.
The French word for memory is souvenir. I can think of no thing that is also a touch of oneself to bring with or even to leave behind.
When I lived in Bordeaux, there was this fantastic tile on the walls of my kitchen. It surrounded my morning rituals, as I made my Nespresso and washed the wine glasses from the night before.
That visual and color memory is nearly sacred to me. So, I made this oyster tray. I take this with me now, when I travel for my earrings and other tiny things that can NOT get lost. And, when I am at home, it sets in my kitchen window just above the sink.
The French word for memory is souvenir. I can think of no thing that is also a touch of oneself to bring with or even to leave behind.
When I lived in Bordeaux, there was this fantastic tile on the walls of my kitchen. It surrounded my morning rituals, as I made my Nespresso and washed the wine glasses from the night before.
That visual and color memory is nearly sacred to me. So, I made this oyster tray. I take this with me now, when I travel for my earrings and other tiny things that can NOT get lost. And, when I am at home, it sets in my kitchen window just above the sink.
The French word for memory is souvenir. I can think of no thing that is also a touch of oneself to bring with or even to leave behind.