Sisters of the Convent

This posting is dedicated to Mary Kane. She lived across the street from me when I was a little girl, and she was Roman Catholic. I am protestant. My father’s family came from old New England Puritan stock. My dreams of becoming a nun began about age seven, when I attended my friend’s first communion. Things really got serious when she taught me the sign of the cross, and the two of us erected a shrine in the basement of my house on Maxwell Avenue. Soon, I was reciting Hail Marys to the astonishment of my parents. All this should not have been so strange, since the other side of my family were French-Canadians and Irish!

How appropriate it was then, that I should find myself living in Belgium, a country with so many remnants of the beauty and theatre of the Catholic Church! Religious imagery and architecture are on show everywhere. In addition to the churches and shrines, many of the larger towns in Belgium had a beguinage, compounds where semi-religious women’s communities flourished in the 13th century. There was even a small roadside chapel or kapel across from our farmhouse. In Brussels, we discovered the “Musée du Coeur” devoted to the heart in religious iconography

On one of our many weekend antiquing excursions, we met a jolly Flemish man named Jan and his wife, Marcelle. They graciously invited us to their home which adjoined the medieval town walls of Mechelen. Inside was a miraculous collection of antique religiosa-statues, chapelets (crucifixes), and bénitiers (holy water fonts). The couple had even built their own chapel next to the wall in their garden.

Elsewhere in Belgium, we encountered other religious souvenirs. Near Antwerp cathedral is “Het Elfde Gebod” (Eleventh Commandment). This unique café offers its patrons sanctuary in an interior illuminated with church candles, and packed to the rafters with effigies of angels and saints.

The more we looked, the more new collecting passions were born within us. We trawled the antique markets and brocantes for delicate paper lace holy cards, ornate silk priests’ vestments and miniature travel reliquaries. The inspiration for my Sacre Bleu necklaces (from The Parrott Collection) with tiny blue enamel medallions, comes from this time. Frankincense and myrrh, purchased at a monastery shop near the Vatican, brought home the memory of the smoky-scented church interiors of Italy. The ancient pharmacy of Santa Maria Novella in Florence was a miss, but it is on my must-see list.


It is comforting to know that so many former religious buildings have been born again. In Australia, and other locales down-under they have the right spirit when it comes to reusing these structures. One example is the imposing Convent Gallery in Daylesford, Victoria, (once The Holy Cross Convent and Boarding School for Girls), whose shop was the source of my slender and graceful beeswax church candles. Near Melbourne is Abbotsford Convent. Eleven heritage listed buildings, once the cloister of the Sisters of the Order of the Good Shepherd, now shelter artists, writers, small organizations, a restaurant and a radio station. On New Zealand’s South Island at the Old Convent bed and breakfast in Kaikoura, we swam with the dolphins by day, and slept in a former classroom of the church school by night.


Long ago, I gave up my calling to become a nun. That doesn’t mean that I don’t weep watching Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story, Deborah Kerr in Black Narcissus, or Donna Reed, the good sister in Green Dolphin Street as she takes her final vows.

These days my spiritual side is sated by a visitation to Diamonds and Rust, at 472 Lighthouse Avenue, Pacific Grove, California. Susie and Marilyn opened the shop two years ago in its current location, and it is ecclesiastical Nirvana! There, artifacts such as shell grottos, Virgin Mary statues, and ex-votos/milagros help me find my lost saints.

Dominus Vobiscum,
Marjorie

Paris in Carmel – Part One

J’adore French style. Hunting and gathering is my game, and over the years my ‘tour de France’ has taken me to shops, flea markets, auctions and brocantes - from Paris to Isle-sur-la-Sorgue to Lyon. This obsession began when we were living in Genève Switzerland, perfected later in rural Belgium, and continues to this day.

In Genève, twice weekly, I would get up early, rush to the end of Chemin des Muguets, and catch a bus to Carouges. Then I would jump on a street car - next stop the flea market at Planpalais. The return trip was just the reverse. With numerous bags of treasure, it was always an exercise in strength and balance. For example, one morning I had the pick of a dealer’s stash of elegant antique Swiss theatre costumes; another time I purchased a rustic country dining table and benches. And, there were always endless stacks of original Beaux arts drawings and piles of finely worked lace curtains to be browsed through, and carried home.

In Belgium, my routine involved waking at 3 am, and making the hour’s drive to the center of Brussels - my destination, the famous Jeu de Bal flea market. Parking three blocks away (bonne chance finding a space nearby), I would run for my life through the shadowy and dark quarter. Arriving, I would join the rugby scrum as each vendor would empty their bags of wares on the pavement. Lots of jostling, pushing, shoving, grunts and cursing would follow. The contents of many an old and venerable household would end up this way. Once, I even got into a wrestling match over some particularly beautiful linen and lace window shades. Guess who won? The most humorous episode involved my excited purchase of thirty monumental baskets once used in the wool trade, and the realization that I couldn’t possibly fit them in my little car. Each morning’s foray would end at about 7 am, with a coffee and croissant, and a car full of booty. I would make the journey home, just in time to wake my sleeping husband.

How happy I was then, to discover troves of French treasures here in Carmel! My first stop was Sabine Adamson’s bijoux of a shop, tucked into a corner of one of the town’s picturesque courtyards (at Dolores Street between 5th and 6th).

Look for Sabine’s vintage Renault 2 CV which she parks nearby. Her yearly excursions abroad have gleaned an array of French wares: from antique printed textiles to Provencal furniture to Biot style pottery, all as charming as the proprietor herself. The day I was there, one of her many fans gifted her with a large carton of freshly-cut lavender. Here and there throughout the shop are exquisite tableaux of natural materials- dried pepper berry, oak leaf crowns, and twigs.


Around the corner at San Carlos and 6th Avenue, is the French-inspired shop Trouvé. Housed in a light and airy space this is a captivating and glamorous mix of antique and decorator pieces, luxurious fragrances and imaginative paper giftware.




Not far away on Dolores between Ocean and 7th, is a tiny shop, aptly named Piccolo.

The imaginative July 4th (or was it for Bastille Day?) window, starred two small mannequins in news-print tricorne hats, bedecked with red and blue ribbons. All of this, just hints at the creativity of the artist-owner, and the eclectic collage of curiosities within.

Some years ago, I had read an article in Victoria magazine about a very special shop in Carmel.

That shop, Tancredi & Morgen, at 7174 Carmel Valley Road, is in a league of its own. It is well worth the short drive out into Carmel Valley. The owners have a terrific eye. They cleverly curate their collection of unusual objects: fabrics, furniture, clothing, and garden pieces, with particular attention to patina, color and decorative appeal.

Among the items that caught my eye were the natural linen cushions, made with dressmaker detail by one of the owners, and a collection of ancient bee skeps.

Vive La France in Carmel!

Marjorie