The English Maximalista

I recently read The Guardian’s interview with David Chase, who wrote several hit television series, most famously The Sopranos.

It wasn’t his anecdotes about success or fame that struck me most in this piece, it was his humble comment, “I was brought up not to speak well about my own work – in fact, not to say anything good about anything”. This has given me pause for thought, and has been stuck in my mind ever since. Because I can relate.

Now, before we all start jumping to conclusions, I would like to preface that my contemplation of Mr Chase’s interview is NOT an indictment against my parents, both of whom I adore; rather, I have simply been pondering my own reminiscences and experiences from growing up in England during the 1970-90s. 

[Nor is this column referring to anybody whom I am friends with on social media, before we self-righteously start jabbing at that unfriend button!]

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Being an observant child, I recall often trying to understand what the bloody hell was going on around me, and why the bloody hell it was going on, for that matter… although frankly, this is something I’m still trying to figure out, all these years later!

I have written before about the scolding culture of my childhood, how a lot of adults in my life back then were unnecessarily telling us off all the time. Mine was a childhood of constant beratings and corrections — to which I’m sure many of my readers can relate.

It seems like the majority of adult figures were doling out dirty looks (perfectly summed up in Alice Cooper’s School’s Out). I find it quite sickening to think of the negativity we were summarily subjected to on a daily basis. Not only from respected adults in positions of influence: it was endemic everywhere. Shop keepers. Bus drivers. Even from blasted strangers in the street because one crossed the pavement the “wrong” way, or some other dubious infraction.

Being shouted at, getting called an idiot, told you were a stupid girl [or boy], and other similar invectives were a daily occurrence that I witnessed, or was on the receiving end of, throughout my childhood and youth.

It’s no wonder kids develop unhealthy habits, grow up to have substance abuse problems, and are drawn into toxic relationships. Or decide to travel around the world, needing to escape and never returning “home”.

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In middle school, we had an English teacher who was so horrid, I wonder why on Earth they were in this profession. By the time I was 11 or 12 years old, I had already established my deep love of reading, was interested in poetry, and wanted to be a journalist and writer “when I grow up”. Yet I distinctly remember being discouraged by this individual. 

A teacher! Of English! 

At that time, I didn’t yet have the life experience to understand the meaning behind their barely-disguised sneers, but was canny enough to intuit that that person was not being very nice… and sensitive enough to believe that I must have said something wrong. What? I don’t know. 

Looking back now, I can identify that teacher’s facial expression as disdain, and their words as being sarcastic. So let’s be clear, right now: from their position of authority, this educated adult was mocking a child. This teacher made it clear that my dreams were deserving only of derision.

Sadly, a lot of my peers had the same attitude. 

After graduating from school, I had a so-called friend stop speaking to me for many months after I told them I had gotten accepted into one of the [lesser!] colleges at Cambridge. I hadn’t told them I had applied there because I hadn’t expected to get in, but they were shocked that I had had the audacity to even apply.

Obviously, I was not surrounded by people who nurtured my love of learning, or encouraged self-improvement!

Of course, from my current perspective, the two individuals mentioned here were only reinforcing arcane notions that were popular across generations in England at that time. Id est, one must not reach for anything that is too high or too low; one must suppress all desires which are beneath oneself — or above oneself! — depending on ones’ class.

Clearly I had ideas outside my given station in life. 

It’s all very Dickensian, isn’t it.

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Another incident occurring a few years before all that, was my encounter with the mother of one of my school chums, who asked me, “why are you dressed up like a dog’s dinner?”

I was wearing pink dungarees.

I was 8 years old.

What was I supposed to wear? Why was playing in pink dungarees wrong? What did she mean? Why would she ask me that? To this day, I don’t understand WTF she was getting at.

One phrase I particularly remember hearing a lot during my childhood is, “she’s a bit full of herself!” It’s only now that I’m a fully-fledged adult that I would think to ask, what should she be full of? Shit??Your opinions? Your tastes? Your ideas? Answers on a postcard, please!

Let me tell you what this little girl has always been full of. Heart. Joy. Love. Curiosity. Feelings. Kindness. Humour. Creativity.

And nowadays, in addition to that, there is a fair share of outrage. 

I feel disgustedly outraged at all of those people who quashed the wonderful traits that run in my blood. I feel outrage on behalf of other young people out there, subjected to daily squashings from their family, teachers, peers, ministers, The Media, The System.

I feel pity for those small-minded people who have such little joy in their own tiny, ignorant lives that they feel entitled to suck the joy from everyone else.

I feel sorry for any child or young adult who can detect the acerbity unfairly thrown at them, yet doesn’t know what to call it, or even why it has been thrown at them.

The child who is told to behave, yet not given adequate tools to learn how to fairly temper their reactions with civility; instead, is taught by example how to use harsh rejoinders. Sarcasm. Unkindness. A raised voice. Spite for spite.

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All of this is a long-winded and tangential way of making myself understood to you, dear reader. I’m essentially explaining how, when I was growing up in England, pride in oneself was discouraged.

As Mr Chase was describing in the interview mentioned above: it was considered “bad form” to toot one’s own horn. I would add a few other things, too. Like being “house proud” was something to be ashamed of. Or accusations of “showing off”, when in fact, one is simply full of exuberance and joy.

Yet here I am, doing all of those things, and nailing it. I guess I am being a bit full of myself.

Or maybe we can look at it in a more positive — and more accurate — light. Because honestly, the way I see it is that I am genuinely excited to share with you these little things in life that bring me such innocent pleasure.

Finding the perfect little decorative trinkets without spending a fortune. A delicious meal with a good glass of wine. Feeling pretty in a nice frock, even though I know I’m an old bag. Visiting some musty old museum. Reading a great book. Delight at flowers growing in the garden, or freshly cut in a vase. Finishing a DIY project, within budget. Creating a comfy home.

It’s all harmless stuff. Yet how very satisfying it is to quietly express my creativity in this multitude of ways. Then sometimes simply capturing a snapshot, and sharing it with the people who live inside my phone.

Which brings me to my recent blog. If you recall, I wrote about displaying my own artwork at home, alongside pieces created by the Top Banana when she was a child, as well as pictures I have collected on my travels. 

Most of the vignettes I shared with you last time were somewhat monochromatic, so I promised then that I would share with you some of my more vivid colour-schemes, as well as tips on how I curate my treasures.

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Basically, it’s this simple:

• I do not believe in Design Rules.
• I do believe in buying — and using — what I love.
• Personally, I LOVE the colour black. It is the colour I naturally gravitate toward, and it’s the colour that pulls my design themes together. You can do the same thing using your favourite colours.
• When curating, I generally begin with the largest item/s first, and then add the smaller pieces after.
• I seldom measure the walls when I hang things, because in my experience the walls are never straight! (Ha, at least that’s what I keep telling myself!) I find it easier to eyeball things. And guess what? I am pretty darn good at it — TOOT TOOT!
• Remember that Rome wasn’t built in a day. It has taken me literally decades of traveling and living to accumulate the things that make my house a home.
• Follow your gut, despite anyone else’s opinion about how you should decorate your home. Unless it is your spouse — their opinion should be taken into consideration! [EDIT: Mr Maximalista told me to tell you that his wife blatantly disregards his input. I should pretend to be wounded by his aspersion, but sadly I am guilty as charged… I’m usually right, though!!]

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If you have reached this far, in what has been an unexpectedly long blog, I thank you for reading my words.

I hope that you have the courage to be deaf to the negativity in life. Don’t listen to the sneers and detractors. Do what you love, how you love it. Try your best. Defy expectations. Don’t explain why. Just be you… if you want to gussy yourself up like a dog’s dinner, do it.

Always be kind. Especially to yourself.

Lots of love,

M xo

In the peacock bedroom, I used turquoise and red as the accent colours, plus a few spots of orange, and apple green. Wallpaper: Scalamandre.

Back in our living room, the walls are washed in this soft pink paint, which is used as a neutral background. As I showed in a recent blog, I created a gallery of B&W paintings and photos. Here you can see that I have added a lot of bold colours as well. Magenta, teal, turquoise, apple green; it all marries beautifully with the blacks and browns. I absolutely love this space!