People constantly ask me what it's like to "live with Jonathan Adler." "I'm sure you guys fight all the time about what goes where. Right?" they ask, with a provocative twinkle.
My first reaction to this question is to cringe. Is there anything more embarrassing than the notion of two gay men duking it out over where to stick their Malachite obelisks? #hisseyfit
My second reaction is to smile, with contentment, as I am reminded how very, very lucky I am. I am lucky because I live with my very own interior decorator. Think about it. What could be more fabulous? If you lived with Riccardo Tisci wouldn't you let him dress you head to foot in Givenchy? If Freddie Fekkai was your roomie, wouldn't he be the one trimming your locks? If Francois Nars was your husband, wouldn't your maquillage always be on fleek?
The truth is that, when it comes to matters of interior design chez nous, Jonathan Adler now holds the remote. And why wouldn't he? Interior design is his thing. But it was not always so. When we first met — we have been together for over two decades — I was the most famous window-dresser in the world, and Jonny was just a clay-spattered potter. Back then it was more 50/50. We would scavenge flea markets together. We would spend hours arranging those Malachite obelisks.
Over time Jonathan began to venture beyond the world of clay into textiles, lighting and then furniture. It was inevitable that our home would become his canvas, and his laboratory. Which brings us to the one area of mild contention: I am talking about the constant flipping and re-arranging of our furniture-plan as Jonny road-tests new armchairs, couches and escritoires. Stubbed toes and grazed shins are now part of my daily life. Last week, Foxylady (our red-headed bitch) bonked her head on a freshly-placed coffee table. #lawsuit.
