Speech. Less. Attention: All Awards Nominees

Movie-awards season has begun, and so, apparently, has the reminder that actors generally do better with words someone else has written for them.

I used to think that dull acceptance speeches were a rite of passage--something to endure before getting to the next imaginative dress or bon mot from the host--but this year at the GGs I found them quite unendurable.

Jennifer Lawrence has built a reputation for herself as being "refreshing natural," but I thought she came across more as "inarticulate teenager."

Amy Poehler proved that even a writer can freeze when not working from a script.

And how I wanted Jacqueline Bissett to pull herself together (calling on her Scottish roots was a good sign, but it failed).

So I am announcing a new business:

Miss Cavendish’s

Award-Winning Speeches

All starlets, grand dames, gents new and seasoned, producers, costume designers, directors, etc., may contact me via email (see right sidebar) and I will work with you to prepare a smart, concise, elegant speech that suits your personality.

Be forewarned: no long lists of agents and other entourage members will make the cut. My services may be pricey, but less so than the cost of the Monday morning quarterbacking that your PR team will otherwise engage in.

Have people talking about your speech for all the right reasons.

See Miss C in Selvedge

I have a new story in the May/June issue of Selvedge on the Portuguese designer Teresa Martins.

The magazine focuses on "botanicals" for early spring, and, on the contributor's page, I reminisce about my favourite flower, the wild lupin that grows on Prince Edward Island.

I've included my contributor's photo here, and you can see it's a textile-focused image.  The scarf is by Pero, from my friends at Selvedge; the smock, made from Liberty of London peacock print, is by Nadinoo; and the silver bracelets are gifts from dear Nepali friends.

I Did Not Win The Sartorialist's Writing Contest

But I gave it a whirl.

On Saturday Mr. C told me that The Sartorialist was having a writing contest.  Readers were invited to write a story, in 200 words or less, that responded to one of three photos.

I selected the one with the Louboutin heels:

I decided (blush, blush) to write a billet doux of sorts directly to Sart: I invoked his home state (Indiana) and an earnest young journalism student who wanted real red-soled shoes (Indiana University has a well-respected school of journalism; Sart studied in the fashion merchandising department there.)

I didn't win, but thought I'd share my entry here. (Here's a link to the winning entry.) On The Sartorialist blog my story's posted under Miss Nicholson, my middle name that pinpoints my Scottish herrrritage.

Wish my brogue sounded as good as that.  But I can wear a pair of them like nobody's bizness. 

Miss C's Entry:

Nobody wore red-soled shoes in Valparaiso, thought Kassie. She’d seen them on TV, the Cinderella slippers that could transform her from a Midwestern journalism student into a New York vixen. So she’d slicked the soles of her $39 pumps with scarlet lacquer—a Chanel polish that’d cost almost as much as the shoes.
Kassie smiled at this memory of her teenage ambitions as she stepped onto the street—not 5th Avenue; she'd learned about alternative strolls, like Orchard or Spring. She’d walked far away from her DIY soles: these were the real thing, and she’d paired them with a fringed dress she’d made herself and a voluminous jacket from Century 21. But the shoes were brand new: she’d bought them that morning after accepting a copy-writing job with an online boutique.

She was heading out to celebrate with her parents, who were in town to help her set up her apartment. Kassie tripped lightly down the sidewalk, her authentic red soles in harmony with her own soul as it soared with possibility. When the snow began to fall, she shrugged her generous jacket over her head, saying to herself, “I’m ready.” And again, smiling at her pun, “I’m RED-y.”

The Yellow Books

Recently a large unadorned structural objet came into my daily work life, and it called out for some immediate tarting up.

So I papered it.  I've been collecting wallpaper samples for the past decade, having almost papered my dining room. For this small but conspicuous project, I went to my first wallpaper discovery, J. R. Burrows and selected Priory Garden, which was created in the "style" of William Morris. 

I did notice that the Burrows Company said that rolls of the wallpaper, imported from England somewhere around 1983, were found in the attic of the Nowrood, Massachusetts, family home of the publisher and photographer Fred Holland Day, but attic schmattic, Day Schmay, blah,blah, blah: I was interested in the flowers and colours.

So (and there's always a "so") I was surprised to learn, while discussing how many rolls to order with the charming J. R. Burrows over the phone, that my new wallpaper has a literary pedigree. 

For Fred Holland Day, who papered his father's bedroom in the historic Norwood Holland Day House with Priory Garden, also published the American edition of The Yellow Book, a popular literary magazine (1894-1897) from London. 

The illustrator Aubrey Beardsley was its first art editor, and male literary greats such as Henry James, William Butler Yeats and H. G. Wells were printed in it.  The Yellow Book also promoted women writers, such as Ada Leverson and illustrators, such as Ethel Reed.

A couple of other Yellow Books that have recently caught my eye are those by the artist Harland Miller. Utterly self-aware of his sometimes "macho" (his word) work, Miller creates fictional Penguin covers with a wink. 

Some of these covers look to be a good eight feet tall; some fit beautifully over a mantle, such as this cheeky pink book in the London home of decorator Harriet Anstruther:


The fine print is bold.

 There do not appear to be any yellow books in Anstruther's home, but lush, bitten rosy pinks abound:

I'll give Miller the last word:

New Selvedge Article: Miss C on the "New Demure"

I was delighted to write a piece called "Thoroughly Modern Modesty: The Allure of the New Demure," for Selvedge, the lovely London magazine.




And in a complete contradiction, I am immodest enough to post a peek of the issue here.

The paper magazines have not yet reached my book shop, so I've decided to subscribe online, and the images come from that edition (Jan/Feb, issue 44).

Many thanks to my two wonderful sources for this article, American scholar and poet Dr. Ann Hostetler, as well as London stylist and delightful blogger Kate Battrick, who responded so quickly and who offered such useful information!