Hello World - Issue 12, April 2020

Above left: The bedroom has curtains that run along the wall and the headboard. It is decorated with Jaime Hayon’s ‘Formakami
JH5’ paper lamp from &Tradition; a bed from Treca, Paris covered in a HAY quilt; ‘Cuatro’ small tables from Punt and ‘Funiculí’ lamps
from Marset. Above right: In the bathroom, dressed in Neolith ‘Retrostone’, a House Doctor mirror and vintage 1970s sconces are
paired with a custom-made wash basin. Facing page, left & right: The artwork by the dining table is by Marcel Dzama and the
ceiling lamp is a Serge Mouille design. The cube in Neolith’s ‘Retrostone’ next to the dining room serves as an island in the ‘Serie 45’
kitchen by Dica, in the same grey colour as the walls. The ‘Ypperlig’ vases on the dining table are from the IKEA x HAY collection.



At the back is a drawing by artist Elena Alonso
(left) and a large-format acrylic-on-paper
work by Pedro Luis Cembranos. Jaime Hayon’s
‘Palette’ table from &Tradition accompanies
the HAY sofa. Facing page: On the far end are
a Serge Mouille wall lamp, Mathieu Matégot’s
‘Demon’ shelf from Gubi, and Cees Braakman’s
‘FM03’ seats from Pastoe. In the foreground, on
the right, is Oskar Zieta’s Plopp aluminium stool.

A closer look at the kitchen island
covered in ‘Retrostone’ from Neolith—
lemons from a friend’s terrace sit on a
Jasper Morrison ‘High Tray’ for Vitra,
next to a vintage Fornasetti ashtray.

am writing these lines as the last details of our new house are being finalized. A
year ago the house underwent a set of somewhat drastic changes—partitions were
demolished, wooden floors were sanded, and polished materials were installed.
We chose a comfortable, simple sofa, changed the paint on the walls, updated the
kitchen and bathrooms in a minimalist way, added bookcases, and renewed
every last door handle. Now, after living in, and experiencing our home so in-
tensely over these last few months of confinement, we are happy to see that we
made the right decisions.

I always admired interior designers and architects for their agility in making
decisions that affect how we live; there is a lot of excitement when it comes to the
work of home renovation, but also stress and uncertainty. (I admit to having
sleepless nights caused by the measurements of the doors and the tones of the
matt varnish on the floor.) Madrid-based Cano Estudio helped us by transform-
ing our ideas into spaces, and contributing with theirs when we didn’t have any.

My friends think that I have it easy. Yes, working at AD opens your eyes to the
latest in decoration, but you can easily end up overwhelmed by too much infor-
mation, and opt for something classic and elegant instead of being adventurous.
I’m hopeful that this was not the case with us. Inspired by the new Nordic mini-
malism (grey tones, beige with black, light woods, simple and soft furniture,
colour flashes), what we carried out in this house was a decorative experiment.
The late Andrée Putman taught us to appreciate spaces of a radical, Cistercian,
timeless simplicity. To this great French lady we owe the attempt to turn our
house into one of her interiors: very high ceilings, generous baseboards and a
contained but theatrical use of colour. Thank you, muse!

More than in square metres, a flat should be measured in calories. If the popu-
lar saying that happiness is fattening is true, good decoration, a studied distribu-
tion, an extra-large sofa or a large-format work of art can make you go up in size
in a few weeks. That’s why my diet is aesthetic, decorative.

Those of us who work in the interior design sector must have a certain disci-
pline, restraint, a sense of abstinence. This begins with not taking your work
home with you, and not suffering from the ‘I want to put everything in’ syn-
drome, so that your interiors end up being a baseless pastiche, the result of sud-
den impulses or the latest fashions. Restraint means something else. It reflects a
new way of living that is more nomadic, flexible, and used to moving houses, or
changing the decor. (My parents have moved only twice in their lives; I have al-
ready moved seven times.)

That’s why you won’t see wasted corners, unnecessary corridors or tiny ward-
robes in our space. This house is like an inhabitable Tetris grid where everything
is tailor-made for us—although sometimes we do feel the sudden urge to readjust
our lives and change the decor.

The Italian-born Brazilian architect Lina Bo Bardi once said: “The purpose of
a house is to provide a good and comfortable life. It would be a mistake to place
too much value on an exclusively decorative result.” I agree.

WRITER & PHOTOGRAPHER OLIVER JAHN





107







t’s all about books. As a son of a book dealer and grandson of a typeset-
ter, my whole life is very deeply all about books and culture. One will
find books in almost every part of my home and that reflects in each one
of these photographs. Not only because books are beautiful—which they
are!—but because books are the topic of my life. I’m a real-life version of
Robin Williams’s character in Dead Poets Society. Imagine me with cordu-
roy pants and Harris Tweed jackets back in the days when I was a stu-
dent. The clothes got better but my heart is still, and will always be, all
about the written word that comes in skilfully bound volumes. I feel
like I’m living in a library. My office is the same. Jorge Luis Borges once said, “I’ve
always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.” Books are my religion. I
have, over the years, acquired over 20,000 volumes, collecting books from the
17th century onwards; this includes a series of beautifully crafted handbound first
editions from the early 19th century. To draw a reference from our chosen field of
design and aesthetics—of which a 500-year-long history of bookmaking is a
highly artisanal part—I quote the words of Charles Eames: “I take my
pleasures seriously.”





114

Above: Crossing the Seine on the Pont des Invalides. Facing page: Kalt added some greenery to her balcony with a butterfly bush, or Buddleja davidii.

115



Above: Kalt’s bedroom in her Paris apartment. On the wall is an Edouard Boubat photo, titled Petite
Fille aux Feuilles Mortes. A small Isamu Noguchi lamp sits by the bed. Facing page: Kalt’s office
at the Condé Nast France building. On the table is a Charles Zana ‘Gigaro’ terracotta and enamel
lamp with a raffia shade, and an Astier de Villatte coffee mug. The bookshelves are from USM.



This corner in the living room features
an Isamu Noguchi ‘Akari BB1-YA1’ lamp.
The sofa is from the Ghost collection
by Gervasoni. Facing page: Another
Isamu Noguchi lamp—the ‘Akari 1P’—
occupies this corner of the apartment,
paired with candelabras, a Baccarat
candlestick, rock crystal cups from India,
and a smoked rock crystal plate made
by Kalt’s husband, who makes pieces
for Galerie Chahan.

nI’s
Italy.

WRITER & PHOTOGRAPHER LUCA DINI

Luca Dini employed the services
of architect Marco Olmeda to
convert an old, abandoned mill—in
the village of Borgo Pace in north
central Italy—into his second home.

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aAnbdovthee: Tmoirlleetra’sinhtohueshei—stuosriynagnadwthoeosdp-iarnitdo-fsttheeels-fitrea,mOelmbuedildaincogntnheacttmedirrtohreetdwtohesuprvroivpinogrtioolndsstoofntehestoruricgtiunraelsb—utilhdeinmgisll.

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Dini remembered this
view of the waterfall
from his childhood, and
purchased the property
primarily because of it.

here are places you feel connected to even before you understand why. This is the
story of one such place.

Today, I live and work in Milan, but the corner of north central Italy where I grew
up—a tiny village in the Marche region called Borgo Pace (literally ‘borough of
peace’)—is a stone’s throw from the Tuscan border, and that’s how I came to exist.
My father’s family, the Dinis, settled on this side of the mountains from the Lucca
region, who knows how many generations ago. My mother’s family, the Franceschi,
were thought to be the last remaining relatives of Piero di Benedetto de’ Franceschi—
also known as Piero della Francesca—and never moved from the painter’s Tuscan
neighbourhood on the other side of the mountains. Mum and dad would have re-
mained strangers had it not been for this shared border. Back in the 1950s, a young
teacher was sent on her first assignment to the most remote parish in her region; for
my mother, nothing was more remote than the last Tuscan outpost just upriver from
the border, a short hike from my paternal grandmother’s grocery shop where she
bought food—and found a husband. They had my older brothers, then, me.

A creek runs through Borgo Pace, and there was one particular waterfall in the
woods that we used to dive from as kids. It was called Mill Waterfall, but what
was left of the mill was so engulfed in vegetation that you could only see a door-
way and darkness inside; we thought it was haunted and stayed clear of it. I left
the village when I was 18, and as much as I remained attached to it, I never
thought I would make a home here again. I almost forgot about the mill until a
few years ago, when I casually found out that it was on sale and that there was
more to the story. For several centuries, as I discovered, a miller’s house had been
standing next to the mill, until retreating German forces blew it up in 1944. Only
its stone dovecote tower remained, but the whole thing could be rebuilt. Some-
thing clicked in my mind. I bought the property—perhaps I should say I bought
the view of the waterfall of my childhood—and started renovations.

Work is very much in progress, but I can already picture the end result. What
I really liked about the design submitted by Marco Olmeda, an architect from
nearby Pesaro, was how it incorporated old and new elements to reflect the
spirit and history of the place. The two surviving structures with their hotch-
potch stonemasonry—a telltale sign of repeated reconstruction through the
centuries—were connected by a wood-and-steel-frame building, modern, yet
adopting details and proportions of traditional local architecture. The floors—
coated in an epoxy-free, vegetable-oil-based, antibacterial and antiviral mortar
(patented by Oltremateria, a local firm)—provide a sleek but warm counterpoint
to the wood-trussed and brick-vaulted ceilings. An original water turbine has
been set into a porthole as a kind of modern sculpture. The early-19th-century
cast-iron pillars, which supported the millstones, have been turned into legs for
a large glass tabletop. I like the idea of breaking bread over those parts of a ma-
chine once used to provide flour to the inhabitants of the valley, back when they
had little more than bread to feed their families but would not hesitate to break it
with foreign pilgrims, in keeping with the age-old rules of hospitality.

I already knew that this valley had once been famous for growing woad, whose
leaves were turned into the deep turquoise pigment used to colour skies and the
Madonna’s veil in Renaissance tapestries, and in the frescoes and paintings of Piero
della Francesca and his contemporaries. I knew that this was where the faded
greenish-blue on the oldest doors and window frames in the area came from. I knew
that the woad industry had been destroyed between the 16th and 18th centuries by
the arrival of stronger, bluer indigo from Asia. What I didn’t know, till recently, was
that long before converting to flour production, ours had most likely been a woad
mill. What I also didn’t know was that Piero’s father, Benedetto de’ Franceschi, had
himself been a woad merchant, buying the dye from mills in our valley—five centu-
ries before another Franceschi, my mother, came to teach the children of lumber-
jacks. I like to think he bought it from this very mill, whose miller was a neighbour of
my father’s ancestors. I like to see this as a place where my roots run deep.

The natural pigment is back on the market; I just found it in a wood craft shop. The
planks of my door and window blinds will be tinted in a beautiful shade of teal.

127

我的家

be u

WRITER BERYL HSU PHOTOGRAPHER DIRK WEIBLEN STYLIST QINGTONG QIAN

AD China editor-in-chief Beryl Hsu (right) and her friend
Qingtong Qian, a designer who founded the brand
Minimaïst. Surrounding the pair (from left) are a rubber
plant, a pencil cactus, a Philodendron xanadu, and a
pteridophyte. Hsu is sitting on an ‘LC1’ chair from Cassina.



In the dining area are a framed silk print from Petit h
and Swallow on Horseback by Lin Yishu, a woodcut
print. The lamps above the dining table are from
Flos, and the chairs are from Cassina. On the table
are a caladium bicolour and dahlia in a Minimaïst
‘Hallgrimskirkja’ vase. Above the sofa is an untitled
ink-on-paper by Lin Fan-Wei. Facing page: Behind
the chair are some lilies and dahlias in a ‘Glacier
Blue’ classic vase from Minimaïst. To the right are:
(clockwise from left) kikyō and carnations in a ‘Great
Wave’ vase from Minimaïst; alocasia in a ‘Sérénité’
vase, also from Minimaïst; caladium bicolour, kikyō
and gerbera in a wooden vase from PUSU, China;
caladium bicolour in a Minimaïst ‘Snow Lodge’ vase;
lilies in a vintage vase from Paris; and dahlias and
carnation in a black ceramic vase from Yunnan.



hen the Covid-19 pandemic struck the world, it became
obvious that people’s lives—and lifestyles—were changing.
For me, the silver lining to this cloud is, perhaps, that I’ve de-
veloped a strong relationship with my green companions—to be
precise, my plants and flowers.
It started on a weekend spent with Qingtong ‘QT’ Qian, who is a
young designer based in Shanghai and founder of Minimaïst, a home
decor brand. She has a strong sense of colour, and has spent time in
Jingdezhen—known for its ceramics—developing her vase collections.
QT is not only a designer, but also loves plants and flowers. Every
other week, she visits a flower market and, subsequently, spends a
whole day, sometimes even two days, at home making flower arrangements.
During the Covid-19 ease-off in China, we decided to go to the market together.
It was a normal Saturday for QT, but for me, it was a day of exploration. I was
fascinated by the plants and flowers, and imagined how they could be arranged
in my apartment.
At first, I simply observed—appreciating from a distance. Then, I learned—
from my flower-loving friend—about how to take care of them. For me, it was
understanding how to get along with these companions that I was not familiar
with yet. The way they grow, wither and fade away changes the arrangement. It
takes a keen eye to observe and get a sense of how these lifeforms grow, how they
embody strength and portray the beauty of life. All lives are delicate. Too little or
too much attention causes them harm. They need a balance—neither too much
love, nor too little. Knowledge is surely important, but for me, what works best
is when you closely feel what they need.
My husband and I are both expats in Shanghai. In our 10 years of living here,
we’ve moved numerous times. There have been old Shanghainese-style houses,
newly furnished apartments and even some experiences that we don’t want to
recall. Two years ago, we moved into our current apartment with our three-
year-old son. This top-floor, three-bedroom apartment meets our needs. Our
son has a super bunk bed with all his cars, while we mostly spend our time in the
living and dining room. We haven’t changed too much in the apartment. The
green wall was left by the previous tenant. The most we have done is change all
the furniture. As we both work in the design industry, we wanted our home to
have its own character. Our contributions are the traces of daily life. These in-
clude a lovely breakfast every day, no matter how busy we are, or just staying
home and playing bike-racing games, when the weather outdoors limits us.
We’ve chosen chairs, lamps and side tables very carefully. Being an industrial
designer’s wife and working at AD, it was very important for me to make our
home ‘not too perfect’. Well, I guess I did alright. When my husband and son
come back from their long-stuck-in-Europe journey (yes, due to Covid-19, the
two boys have been stuck in South Tyrol, Italy for eight months!), the only major
change to our home will be the many green companions.
Gradually, flower shopping has become a regular part of my weekend itiner-
ary. These plants have played a great role in my daily life. To make my new life-
style during Covid-19 more fun, I started to read about Japanese, European and,
of course, Chinese flower arrangement methods. It’s a blessing when you find a
brand-new world and the search for knowledge becomes the greatest joy.
Oh! One more thing about ‘not too perfect’. I remember the Japanese tea
master Sen no Rikyu (1522-1591) and his garden sweeping story. One morning,
the master was sweeping up the garden as he usually did. After he’d swept all the
fallen leaves off the ground, the last thing he did to complete his clean-up was to
shake the big tree in the garden so that some leaves would fall. The garden was
then clean.

133

WRITER & PHOTOGRAPHER TALIB CHOUDHRY

Mouse finds a tranquil spot
in the sitting room—an
ottoman reupholstered with
H&M Home tablecloth fabric.



Mouse, Mini and an always stationary,
spotty friend stand sentry. Facing
page: Playtime during golden hour—
leaping across sofas and armchairs,
whizzing past glass vases and dislodging
soil from plant pots are all part of the fun.

In the main human bedroom, Mini reclines on
one of the many plush beds she has in the villa.
Mouse watches parakeets in the tree canopy
behind her. Facing page: Mini takes a languid
mid-morning snooze in the dining area.





Wistful birdwatching in the
afternoon is a favourite activity
for Mouse. Playing among the
plants (facing page) is another.

And so to bed. The guest room
beds have textured throws to
claw at and cosy cushions to lie
on. This place is the cat’s whiskers.

I was 40 years of age when I got my first pet. Actually that’s not strictly true; I was
40 when I got my first two pets, because they came as a duo: fluffy, mewling peas
in pod, or rather kittens in a cage. Mini and Mouse—spindly, inseparable sib-
lings—had a noticeably special bond in their litter of rescue kittens and so had
been kept together. She and he were a non-negotiable ‘we’, whose prospective
owners (not that you can ever really own a cat, of course) were asked to take to-
gether from a pet charity’s adoption day at the Dubai Garden Centre.
Not that I had any intention of going home with a cat, never mind two. No, I
was just window shopping, cooing at the kittens and murmuring sweet, empty
words. Because, you see, I’m not a pet person. Or at least I thought I wasn’t a pet
person. Like many South Asian families, the one I grew up in was not concerned
with petting animals; steering children on the righteous path to success—no
distractions, no decadence—was the overriding concern.
My mother’s scrupulously clean and tidy home was (and still is) a symbol of
her acuity and accomplishment as a mother, wife and woman of standing in our
immigrant community in the UK. If the world outside was cold (quite literally),
alien and full of things to be afraid of (both real and imagined), then home—the
solid brick walls, and the idealized, diasporic vision of a homeland—could at least
be comforting and controlled. My sister’s childhood asthma was always held up
as a reason why we couldn’t have pets—“She’s allergic, beta,”—if we ever chir-
ruped about wanting a kitten or puppy. Thrillingly, our great grandmother—very
much the matriarch of the family when I was growing up, having been a child
bride—had a cat that we spied occasionally on visits to the home she shared with
my great uncle and his clan. But that was exotic and unusual, an aberration that
was explained away and justified by the fact there were lots of people to care for
and clean up after it. My perpetually tired parents ran two businesses that were
open seven days a week, so a pet just wasn’t an option. No cat sat on the mat.
That, thank you very much, was very much that.
And so meeting Mini (a sassy girl cat) and Mouse (a timid boy) was a seren-
dipitous blessing. Before I knew it, they were back at home with me and once the
door of their carry cage was opened they darted off behind the bookshelves and
squeezed into the safety of the improbably narrow space behind the books. Now
they are 10 months older, it’s still where they dart off to if they feel unsafe (kitty
basecamp, if you will) except now it’s much easier to spot where they are hiding
with the displaced spines of books and the odd one that has fallen to the ground.
They became a lot more adventurous, too, and now basically have the run of
the house and their choice of furniture to snooze on, scratch and chew. Attempts
at discipline have come too late. It’s their house now and I merely live in it. I
wouldn’t have it any other way, though, because along with the seemingly end-
less hair they shed gladly (the maid was not gladdened by their arrival) they pro-
vide endless entertainment and joy. They have also taught me several valuable life
lessons during lockdown and my time working at home, including: Always fol-
low the light (a sunbeam to lie in, a flickering gleam to chase); take solace in na-
ture (chatter at the birds, nibble a plant); and make time for rest and play (in
truth, they do little else). It transpires that they are budding writers as well; one
of their favourite pastimes is running across my keyboard when I’m typing, so it
seems fitting to give them the final words.
Here’s Mini’s sign-off: b67u896y5ujh.li .
And this is Mouse’s more cautious riposte: oik, /@|±§§§[;p .

143

ahloomnee

mumbaI

WRITER GREG FOSTER PHOTOGRAPHER ASHISH SHAH STYLIST PRIYANKA SHAH