My master bedroom has not escaped decoration with treasures. On the wall over the bed is a stylized print in blue and back of a Japanese nobleman complete with umbrella. On the wall opposite the bed is a reproduction of Gustav Klint’s Der Kuss (The Kiss) in all its color and gold leaf. On the sidewall is a costume sketch for the character of Roxanne from the 2004 production of Edmond Rostand’s Cyrano de Bergerac at the Shakespeare Theater in Washington, D.C.
The walls of my office on the lowest level of my split-level house are also decorated but not with objets d’art. One wall is covered with pictures of my family—my children and grandchildren. The walls on both sides of the descending steps are taken up with 23 award certificates I’ve received, mostly for my books with a few for my volunteer work.
The most honored exhibit in my house is the wall in the dining room where my Who’s Who, Top Professional, Top Artist, and Last Man Out awards are displayed. As I have written here before, these honors humble me.
That’s what comes of an artist/writer/spy travelling to the farthest corners of the earth with enough money to buy mementoes. It may sound overwhelming to the casual reader, but it’s home to me.