The Velvet Armchair and the Andalusian Ceiling

It began with the armchair. Or rather, it began with the Carmichaels. By the time they mentioned “the ceiling,” I was already buried under an avalanche of velvet swatches, armed with fabric shears and an overabundance of ambition.

The Carmichaels were an intriguing pair, equal parts reserved and eccentric, with a shared passion for stories and drinking Pernod at 2:25 in the afternoon. Mr. Carmichael spoke with the deliberate air of a man who measured his words, while Mrs. Carmichael carried an understated theatricality that gave each sentence a touch of intrigue. Together, they radiated a quiet confidence that, frankly, made me determined not to disappoint.

Act I: The Great-Aunt’s Legacy

“The chair must match the walls,” Mr. Carmichael stated with the precision of the leader of a movement issuing their manifesto.

Mrs. Carmichael leaned forward, her voice soft but brimming with conviction. “And the walls must reflect the hue of the Andalusian hunting lodge ceiling my husband’s great-aunt found on her expedition in 1912.”

I paused, unsure if this was a test of wits or perhaps there was more Pernod in my coffee than coffee?

“Of course,” I said smoothly. “Could you show me the ceiling in question?”

They presented an old photograph, its edges worn with time. In it, an Edwardian woman with a rifle and a formidable expression stood beside the hunting lodge . Above her, barely discernible, was the ceiling—a faint, soft green that seemed to carry the memory of sunlight filtered through ancient trees.

“It’s… intriguing,” I ventured, studying the photograph. “That green has a timeless quality. If we get it right, it could create a space that feels both grounded and ethereal.”

Mrs. Carmichael’s eyes lit up, and Mr. Carmichael gave a small, approving nod. They were already imagining the room.

Act II: The Colour Hunt

Recreating a century-old, Andalusian green required more than a paint chart. I consulted colour historians, studied natural pigments, and even spent an afternoon scrutinising the photograph under different lights. Eventually, I narrowed it down to three shades: Moss Reverie, Dusty Celadon, and Green Mirage.

But the Carmichaels weren’t quite satisfied.

“It’s close,” Mrs. Carmichael said, tilting her head. “But it’s missing… something.”

“It needs the depth of memory,” Mr. Carmichael added.

I appreciated their exacting standards. Their vision was clear: this wasn’t just a colour for a wall; it was a portal to a story.

In my search for the perfect hue, I enlisted Jules, my go-to upholsterer, who suggested his cousin Henriette, a paint specialist with a knack for the unconventional.

Henriette’s studio—a converted windmill—was an experience unto itself, filled with jars of pigments, hanging herbs, and an old dog named Hugo who surveyed visitors like a grumpy child who had not yet been served lunch.

“Do you believe in the spirit of colour?” Henriette asked as she studied the photograph.

“I do,” I said earnestly, though I was already wondering how to explain this visit to the Carmichaels.

Henriette ground pigments, muttering in low tones, until she produced a shade of green that felt alive—a soft, luminous hue that seemed to shift as it caught the light.

“This,” she said with quiet triumph, “is the one.”

Act III: The Reveal

As the team and I, worked diligently, transforming the Carmichaels’ walls into a canvas of Andalusian green. When the armchair finally took its place, its cobalt velvet framed against the walls, the effect was striking. The green softened the boldness of the blue, while the velvet gave the room a sense of quiet luxury.

“The interplay between the colours,” I explained to the Carmichaels, “balances boldness and harmony. The green evokes a sense of connection to nature, while the blue anchors it in sophistication. It tells the story of your great-aunt while creating something uniquely yours.”

The Carmichaels stood in silence, absorbing the space.

“It’s perfect,” Mrs. Carmichael said at last, her voice thick with emotion.

Epilogue: Margot, the Chair, and a Pernod Toast

As I packed up my tools and prepared to leave, I glanced back one last time. The Carmichaels had settled into the room, Mr. Carmichael reclining elegantly in the cobalt armchair, a glass of Pernod in hand. Mrs. Carmichael sat nearby, her gaze fixed on the Andalusian green ceiling, her expression one of quiet triumph.

Between them, their cat, Margot had already claimed her territory, stretching luxuriously on the armchair’s cushion. Her claws made quick, deliberate work of the pristine cotton piping. She had already unravelled the piping on the cushion corner.

I smiled to myself, knowing the chair was no longer just a piece of furniture but part of the family—a canvas for their stories, their moments, and, evidently, their cat’s whims.

Driving home, I reflected on the journey. It wasn’t just about recreating a colour or sourcing a fabric; it was about taking their history, their quirks, and their vision, and weaving it into a space they could inhabit and cherish.

As for next month? Perhaps a dining table inspired by Venetian glass or a chandelier echoing the Northern Lights. Whatever it was, I knew it would come with its own set of challenges, quirks, and laughter—a journey I’d gladly embark on again.