When asked to contribute a few words to this issue, I hesitated at first. Was I ready? I suffered a stroke nine months ago, shortly after becoming editor in chief of this magazine. Its effects still bedevil me. But then I thought to myself that life should be about renewal, staying in touch with friends and supporters, and sharing what can bring awe into your life. This brought to mind an editor in chief who I worked for decades ago. She always wanted to live in a ballroom and imagined that it would always feel like a party was about to happen: the rustle of taffeta, the clink of crystal.
For me, I always wanted to own a prie-dieu. Literally, a chair that was designed to kneel before God and to pray to Him. (I am an Anglo-Catholic Episcopalian, if you are wondering.) I asked and asked, but a prie-dieu did not come into my life until much later, this past Christmas. It is French in origin, nineteenth century in date, Louis XVI in style, and made of gray-painted wood. It sits beside my side of the bed. It is very pretty, cushioned in cerise silk damask.
Though I am yet unable to lower myself as required, I do look at it with something akin to awe, even reverence. And I thank my husband for finally following through. Prie-dieux are not often found, though I have stalked the aisles of TEFAF in Maastricht, The Netherlands, California’s San Francisco Fall Show, and venues elsewhere in search of one.
My husband, who runs Irwin and Lane on Chairish, discovered this particular prie-dieu at Doyle’s in New York City; he thinks it might have belonged to collector Jayne Wrightsman. Nobody wanted it. The only collecting advice I ever give: if nobody wants an item or is not looking at it, make it yours. Or, in the case of the Louis XVI prie-dieu, mine.
