Design Class: Bathroom

The first project for the semester in my interior design class is to create a full set of design materials for a bathroom.  This entails a floorplan, elevations of the four walls, and selecting all of the hardware, finishes and accessories that would go into the room -- everything that you'd need to give to a contractor to implement the design.  Once those things are done, then we're supposed to create a design board (think Pinterest, only with real materials glued to a foam core poster-sized foam core board) and a half-inch scale model of the bathroom for presentation to the client

Sounds super fun, right?  A little artsy, a little crafty; a great excuse to flip through magazines and browse furniture and hardware stores.  The problem, of course, is that to do it all properly, you have to devote some time -- which is precisely what I haven't had lately.  For the past several weeks, my day job (where I've been billing about 70 hours a week) plus a few ambitious weekend commitments (such as riding 100 miles last weekend and an overnight jaunt to New York for the opera this weekend) has kept me working around the clock with little time to eat and sleep, let alone design a bathroom. 

And so the unthinkable is about to happen:  Next week, when our design projects are due and we're supposed to present them to the class, I will not be anywhere close to being done.  (gasp!)


My incomplete floorplan and elevations.
This is why I'm only auditing the class and not taking it for credit.

BUT, that doesn't mean I don't know what I would do if I had the time!  In fact, I've imagined an awesome bathroom for Amanda.  Keep in mind that it's a tad fictional, given that I'm working with room dimensions set by the curriculum and not Amanda's real bathroom; also, I haven't taken budget into account -- though I promise it's all totally worth it. 

My only quasi-complete elevation starts to give a sense of what the room would look like:

 

Before I jump into the details of the design, here are some of the considerations that guided my choices:  Anyone who knows Amanda will know that she's drawn to the colors blue and green.  She loves texture and pattern, especially those that remind her of her world travels.  She enjoys luxury but isn't fussy or formal.  She likes the notion of a 19th-century cabinet of curiosities but also appreciates clean, modern lines.  Her heritage is French, she lives in Colorado, and she has a slate-colored cat with an obscene amount of fur.  She's feminine (though not girly) and isn't afraid of the unusual.

And so . . . the floor would be natural slate tiles . . .


Slate tile from Home Depot

and the walls would be painted green and stenciled with a Moroccan motif in white (basically the same colors as below; the pattern itself is negotiable, though this one has a nice feminine quality).

Chez Sheikh stencil from Royal Design
(in fact, this may be the stencil she has already used in other rooms)

To add architectural interest and prevent the Moroccan pattern from overpowering the room, the bottom third of the walls would have paneled wainscoting painted glossy white.


Beadboard would be cool and would add nice vertical lines,
but other types of paneling would work as well.

And the bathtub?  Every gothic heroine needs an awesome bathtub from which to climb out into a a diaphanous white nightie.

Restoration Hardware Victorian bathtub with shower extension

For the vanity, I picked this piece inspired by an elegant 18th-century French style, but with a more rustic finish. (My initial inclination was to paint it white, like the wainscoting, but this brown color is really growing on me and could provide a nice contrast against the green and white and slate.)


Vanity from Restoration Hardware's "Maison" collection

A sleek and solid-feeling faucet.


Chatham faucet from Restoration Hardware

This is the best light fixture I found in the 10 minutes I devoted to looking.  I'd say the jury is still out on this particular model, but at least you get the idea -- there would be one sconce on each side of the mirror above the vanity.

A sconce, also from
Restoration Hardware

Ditto for the toilet.  Something traditional with good lines.  While I was hunting for bathtubs I found what must have been the holy grail of toilets because it was perfect and now I can't find it again for the life of me.  (Unlike the actual holy grail, though, I'm not sure it's worth embarking on a quest to find it.)

This one is from Waterworks

There should be a bench along the wall opposite the toilet/vanity, and it should look like this, only longer -- and with green velvet upholstery to match the walls.

Now back to the floor: Slate, by itself, will be cold, so on top of the stone tiles, a jute area rug.  Preferably one with a strong pattern, like this one.

Adamas jute rug from West Elm

But jute, too, is kind of rough, so a smaller sheepskin rug would lie on top of the jute rug, in front of the vanity.  So comfy!  (And I really just love the idea of a floor layered with slate, jute and sheepskin -- the colors and textures would be wonderful.)


Sheepskin rug from Pottery Barn

As for the walls, there's already a lot going on with the Moroccan stencil.  BUT, to get that cabinet of curiosities feel, let's add some curiosities:

For example, I would hang a large Walton Ford print
on the wall above the bench
(I bought this print for Amanda when I saw a Walton Ford
exhibition a few years ago in Vienna. The monkey made
me think of Mrs Coulter's golden monkey daemon in
Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials trilogy, which Amanda
introduced to me.)

And framed exotic butterflies to hang above the towelrod above the toilet.
(I bought this one while shopping with Amanda and have it hanging in my
own bathroom. The blue would look great with the other colors in this room.)

And on the countertop (or window ledge -- I may have added a window to the bathroom), flowers.  Because a bathroom should always have flowers, either fresh cut or potted.

You can order this orchid from Pro Flowers

I think the only other primary feature that hasn't been discussed would be the door.  Right now it's a regular swinging door -- I would propose converting it to a pocket door so that Amanda doesn't lose the floor space to the swinging door (that, at least, is shown in the floorplan above).

And there you have it.  I haven't included photos of the towels (they'd be plain white) or other hardware/accessories (like towelrods and wastebaskets and whatnot), but I think those are pretty straightforward and would be selected in keeping with the same aesthetic approach as the other elements. 

What do you think?

The Ride: St. Mary's Century

Remember how I signed up to ride a 100-mile bike race today?  And do you also recall how I predicted it would be a complete train wreck because (a) I knew I would end up working so much that I wouldn't have time to train, and (b) I had tickets to a 5-hour opera the night before the race that would prevent my getting any sleep? 

Well, congratulations to me, because all of that happened exactly as I predicted.  It's like I'm freaking Cassandra and I'm cursed not to listen to my own prophecies.  Seriously, I have ridden my bike all of twice in the past six weeks, which is hardly what you'd expect from someone training for a century ride.  I've been working crazy hours at the firm, to the point where I haven't been able to clean or go grocery shopping or do any of my design class homework for several weeks now.  And by the time I got home from the opera, went shopping for food to eat on the bike, and prepared all of my gear, it was 1am -- which meant that I got exactly 3.5 hours of sleep before my alarm went off at 4:30am and I had to get up and drive to the starting line in southern Maryland. 

Ridiculous, right?  Right. 

Only here's the thing:  Everything went absolutely perfectly.  Like clockwork.  In fact, it was one of the best rides of the entire summer.  I felt fantastic and was able to ride hard and long through the gorgeous, lush farmland of southern Maryland -- and with a finish time of 6 hours and 11 minutes, I was right on target with what I'd hoped for. 



On a ride this long, you need to have a good stock of fuel.  I figured this would get
me through the day.  Fortunately, thre were way-stations with additional food along the way.

7:30am in the parking lot at the starting area (my car on the right)

The view from one of the more scenic way-stations.  The weather was chilly and cloudy most of the day, with spells of bright sunshine.

Around the 90-mile marker.  I had just finished leading the group and had fallen
to the back to draft and take a break from the headwind.

Selfies on a bike are way easier than selfies on a camel.

Just over the finish line.
(Also, seriously? why does every single stranger need a lesson in how to frame a photo?)

When you burn 5,000+ calories in a morning, you can eat pretty much whatever you want for lunch.

Now, of course, I need to jump back into real life and figure out the rest of the work train wreck that is brewing.  Hopefully I'll be able to repeating these quasi-all-nighters...

Night at the opera

Last fall, the Washington National Opera announced that it would be opening its 2013-14 season with a production of Tristan und Isolde, with Deborah Voigt (a major opera star and one of the leading Wagnerian sopranoes) singing Isolde.  I marked my calendar for the day that tickets went on sale, called all my opera-going friends, and figuratively camped out to buy tickets (I kid you not -- the tickets went on sale at 10am; I was on the website at 10am).  It's rare that the WNO pulls in talent like Deborah Voigt (I've only seen her at the Met Opera in New York), and I wanted to be part of it. 

Which is how I ended up with tickets to a 4.5-hour opera on Friday, at the end of a crazy-busy week of work (with too much still to do), on the eve of a 100-mile bike ride for which I was completely unprepared.  Oh, the things I do for a good opera star.

Only the opera star wasn't there!  DV withdrew from the production a few weeks ago under mysterious (to me) circumstances, and so the role was sung by some random British soprano.  It was super disappointing -- as in, I probably wouldn't have bought tickets if I'd known DV wouldn't be singing (and certainly not at the price level I did).

Oh well.  Such is life.  At least I could be confident that it wouldn't be worse than the production of Tristan I'd seen ten years ago in London, which was horrible and dark, full of stomping and stout women in combat boots and apparently unwashed hair.

In fact, I enjoyed it very much.  Since that first time in London, I've seen a lot more opera, especially Wagner, and read all of the original legends surrounding Tristan and Isolde (they're roughly the same vintage as the King Arthur legends, with a number of different variations having been handed down through the centuries).  So I went into it better prepared to appreciate it. 

Instead of darkness and stomping, all was light and airy, with the action taking place on a clear glass platform suspended over a black pool of reflective water, framed on all sides by billowing white sheets.  It was a clean and elegant look.  True, the women were still stout (heck, everyone was stout), but there was nary a combat boot or stringy lock of hair to be found. 

And the singing was perfectly fine.  No, it was not at the same level as we would have had with DV or the other major stars, but still, everyone did a fine job.  Wagner's music is powerful and full of magic.  I would not describe it as generally accessible, but it you pay attention to what he's doing, it's incredible and deeply moving.  Also, to watch these singers perform for nearly five hours with almost no breaks other than the intermissions (of which there were two), was to witness a remarkable feat of endurance. 

For me, the highlight comes at the very end of the opera, when Tristan has died and Isolde, too, succumbs to the power of her yearing to be with the man she loves.  She sings an aria that is so tender and beautiful -- and if you listen to the orchestra, you hear it build and build in tension until you can hardly bear it, and then IT NEVER RESOLVES because, apparently, that sort of passionate longing can't be resolved or fulfilled; it just subsides and lets her pass to the other side to rejoin him. 

There are a bunch of videos of this Liebestod ("love death") on YouTube, but for some reason none of them permit embedding.  So here's a link to a video of Waltraud Meier singing the Liebestod.
 

Theatre season begins!

I can't believe it's already that time of year again:  the air is cooler, the days noticeably shorter, my weekend evenings suddenly full of theatre dates.  While I don't love everything about fall (why can't it just be warm all the time?), that last bit makes up for a lot. 

This theatre season got off to a pleasant start on Friday, with the Shakespeare Theatre Company's production of Measure for Measure.  It snuck up on me by surprise; things have been so busy at work that I'd forgotten all about the play.  Fortunately I got a calendar reminder just in time to hit "pause" on whatever I was working on and run out for some pre-theatre dinner at The Shake Shack.
 

I got the "SmokeShack" burger (with bacon, peppers and cheese)
with a side of fries.

And lest you think my dinner choice too low-brow, I ate it while reading Irene Nemirovsky's Suite francaise, which I started some time ago and only recently picked up again.

 

Nemirovsky was a well-regarded Jewish writer who lived in Paris at the time of the Nazi invasion.  She and her family fled the city and, essentially contemporaneously, she started a novel about the exodus from Paris.  She was eventually captured and put to death by the Germans and the novel was never published -- at least, not until a few years ago.  It came out while I was in law school and all the literary types in New York were buzzing about it.  That's when I picked it up the first time.  I didn't finish it, though, because sometimes I have these allergic reactions when people around me start getting unbearably pretentious and, in my annoyance with their pretensions, I start to hate the object of those pretensions (in this case, the book).  Plus, it was kind of boring. 

So why start reading it again?  Well, for one thing, pretentious people have stopped talking about it.  And for another, last week I was on the beach with Amy, who was reading a history of the cultural life of occupied Paris, which reminded me of Suite francaise and made me think I might as well give it another try (and, really, if Victor Hugo gets a second chance, then EVERYONE gets a second chance). 

Not that I did all that much reading anyway -- hamburgers don't really lend themselves to leisurely, cafe-like dining and reading.  So I headed outside thinking that I'd read some more on the steps of the museum near the theatre.  Only it turns out there was an awesome brass band rocking out on the street corner, which clearly took precedence over fine French prose.  (My favorite part?  The band leader's hollering during his trombone solo breaks.)



After soaking up the fun street music, I finally made my way into the theatre . . . or should I say into an cabaret of loose morals in inter-war Vienna?  Because that's what was happening on stage.  Bustiers, fishnet stockings, men in drag (and an unfortunate woman who looked like a man in drag), and lots of bawdy jokes and dance numbers that might have been inappropriate for mixed company (at least, in a pre-"Miley Cyrus twerking" era).  Apparently sex was going to be a theme in this show, and they wanted to get it on the table (literally) right away. 

I probably could have gotten that message
from the posters, if I'd looked at them...

Which, as unexpected as it was, actually worked really well as a framing device for the play.  Measure for Measure was all about sex -- or, rather, the hypocrisies and crimes and repressions and freedoms that have so troubled Western civilization when it comes to sex.  The gist of the plot is the Duke of Vienna (this is Shakespeare's only play set in Vienna) decides to leave town and place all power in the hands of another guy, Angelo.  The Duke felt that he'd been too lax in enforcing the laws, and he knew that Angelo would take a firmer approach.  Which he did by sentencing to death everyone who has sex outside of marriage -- or, at least, one guy named Claudio who got his girlfriend pregnant.  Fortunately, Claudio had a sister, Isabella, who could plead his case with Angelo and, failing that (turns out Angelo was perfectly willing to negotiate if Isabella would just let him rape her, which she wasn't keen to do) orchestrate an elaborate scheme of mistaken identity (she lures Angelo into the bedroom at night, then has Angelo's old fiancee step in and sleep with him instead) and then ultimately save the day (she and the fiancee publicly denounce Angelo) before running off to a convent (where, natch, she and her chastity can live happily ever after). 

I had fun watching the play; it isn't often that I see a Shakespeare play that is totally new to me, and I loved the feeling of wondering what was going to happen.  My primary critique was the director's choice to cast Angelo as a Nazi.  While it was an effective, shorthand way to condemn Angelo's repressive tactics, I regret how evil and Nazism have become sinonymous.  Yes, Nazism is evil, but so are many things that are not Nazism -- including many things that seem familiar and comfortable (maybe event good?) to us.  It would be nice to explore the darker recesses of worlds and societies that aren't so obviously condemnable.  On the other hand, to be reading a book about the Nazi invasion of Paris, and then to see a representation of Nazism so quickly thereafter, was pleasantly surreal.

I also enjoyed the coincidence of seeing the play on the same day as the Pope's encouragement to the Catholic church that it shouldn't be so fixated on sexual morality that it loses sight of the bigger project of Christianity).




 

Beach camping (Part II)

Waking up to a clear, late-summer morning on the beach is a glorious thing.  Especially when your earplugs and sparkly Moroccan blanket made for a long and deliciously comfortable night of sleep.
 

Amy kept laughing at all the jingling.  It was a little like Christmastime...

The metal grocery cart is another trapping of my "urban camper" getup. 
It may sound ridiculous, but I was the envy of everyone who saw me carting things to and fro.

While Amy made herself a pot of coffee, I walked out onto the beach, which was resplendent in the morning light.

As I walked along the morning-fresh sand, I started noticing signs of local nightlife.  Tiny footprints everywhere . . .  

Birds

Sand crabs

Me

That's when I noticed just how much higher the beach was than last year when I'd come.  Hurricane Sandy had piled up the sand so that it buried all but the top few inches of the otherwise normal fence designed to help keep the wild horses out of the campsites.  Fortunately Amy had noticed this the night before and remembered to horse-proof everything.

 

I got back to camp and found Amy cheerfully bustling about.  Breakfast consisted of fresh pears, granola bars and an almond danish.  We thought about cooking up some eggs, but the beach beckoned . . .

 

. . . so we struck camp and headed out . . .

. . . to claim a spot amongst the other weekenders. 

What we wanted to be doing:  Eating cheese and crackers while sunbathing.

What we actually did:  work
Amy was reading a reply brief in one of her litigations; I was reading a sports media contract.

Finally the time came to go home.  On our way out of the park we came upon a group of the wild horses fighting on the side of the road.  By the time I stopped to take a picture, they had calmed down and were pretending to be cute and nice (they're not: the park rangers post signs of people who forgot that these are wild animals and were kicked and bitten).

 

And, of course, we timed our return trip perfectly to stop at Jimmy's Grille for dinner. 

 

Fried clams with tartar sauce (white) and cocktail sauce (red)

Chicken cordon bleu, lima beans with dumplings, and cucumbers.

Crab cake

Coconut meringue pie

Amy was brave and ordered the "strawberry pretzel salad"

What a great way to finish the summer!

 

 

Beach camping (Part I)

Okay, so, last weekend.  I told you it was a fun one; now I finally have a minute to get it down in words and photos. 

It started with a long bike ride on Saturday.  At that point, I was two weeks away from a 100-miler, and my training was woefully down.  There were plenty of other obligations and distractions, but I knew I needed to get in a good long ride (and it's a good thing I did, because I certainly didn't get any riding in this weekend).  I got up early and rode 70 miles in the brisk, clear air.  The weather was gorgeous, and the completely unexpected cramping in my thighs that forced me to stop and stretch a few miles from home didn't last long.
 

Once off the bike and freshened up, I threw a bunch of things in a bag and headed out for Assateague Island.  Amy and another friend of hers had reserved a campsite on the beach and I was anxious to join them for one last summery hurrah. 

Well, not so anxious that I'd pass up a chance to eat lunch at Jimmy's Grille.  This place has been a beach-trip favorite of mine for years.  A trip to the beach just wouldn't be the same without those piping hot dinner rolls and the waitresses whose every other word is "sweetheart" and "honey." 

This waitress clearly did not understand that two rolls wasn't going to cut it.

Grilled pork chops with new potatoes and cucumbers.

Pecan cheesecake pie.  Rich enough to kill a horse.

This woman took the concept of "doggy bag" to a whole new level.
I think she was actually doing her weekly grocery shopping.

Between the bike ride, lunch at Jimmy's and some unexpected traffic, I didn't get to Assateague until dusk.  Just in time for some lovely color over the water.

I had three mosquito bites within 30 seconds of getting out of the car.
After pouring approximately seven liters of pure Deet over my body, I moved through
Nature as though surrounded by a force field.

 

By the time I got to the campsite, it was pitch black.  Discovering I had no flashlight, Amy was kind enough to lend me her headlamp.  She was also lending me half her tent.  While she and Eric started cooking dinner (grilled sausages with asparagus), I set up my sleeping quarters.

 

Yes, the sequined blanket is mine; I don't have a sleeping bag. 
That's what happens when you blow your shopping money in Morocco instead of at REI.

Dinner was delicious (too dark for photos) in the way that camping dinners so often are:  there's just something about eating food freshly cooked over an open fire outdoors that makes it taste just that much better.  After dinner we carried our stack of firewood down to the water's edge and built a bonfire on the sand.  We warmed our toes, burned roasted marshmallows for s'mores and gazed at the fantastical constellations overhead as we talked into the wee hours.  It was wonderful.