Wendy Paterson’s house is an intensely personal, private space, certainly not for everyone. The unadorned rooms of the inner-city circa 1860 sandstone terrace house offer an uninterrupted gallery for constantly changing, playful vignettes garnered from a lifetime of collecting – a nest of tiny spotted bird’s eggs, a fist of silver thimbles or a freshly laundered stack of monogrammed linen napkins smelling faintly of lavender juxtaposed with hand-coloured botanical etchings lying on an old Swedish daybed. A posse of scrabble letters on a metal table may appear random, it is not. Paterson is creating an interior conversation, speaking objectively through the many delightful small things she finds. Here is the honed eye of a true collector, the visual and the verbal, as she reinvents phrases to describe what she calls the “poetry of everyday life”.
In the dining room, the fire surround painted in Porter’s Paints ‘Aubergine’ and a set of “upcycled” 1930’s chairs hand-painted chairs by Nina Davis, from Edit, are Paterson’s “tilt at the ‘Bloomsbury’ spirit” with colour and pattern in the edited, ordered interior. Rescued teacups without saucers rest on the mantelpiece below Stef Bassett’s “Only Tell Me The Good Things”.