When I lived in New York’s Hudson Valley, surrounded by endless winter woods, it was the tremendous Magnolia tree in our back yard that announced the shift in seasons. Over the years, its branches grew to form a canopy so large that sitting beneath its branches was to find myself enveloped in luxurious solitude. It was the explosion of silky blossoms that briefly embraced this space in April that formed a sight line to spring. In Cabo, where flowers bloom year round, the continuity is appreciated, but it cannot match the visceral beauty of watching the magnolia petals emerge to maturity against the still bare landscape.
I am always astounded by Christine Lingerie’s prints, breathtaking in execution, each an artistic expression of the designer’s vision. But it was Christine’s interpretation of the Magnolia tree on her exquisite silk robes that conjured my own memories of my family home in the Northeast and a poem I wrote one year while I lived there. Both the loungewear and the poem would have been a perfect mother’s day gift for my mom and had she lived, I would have considered both. She appreciated creativity and excellent craftsmanship and taught me that luxury comes from the quality of an experience, seen, heard or felt. Christine’s designs are visual poetry.
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The magnolia tree has one perfect day
No petals fall at all.
Every bud opens to embrace an April sun
Dripping down from low hanging limbs
Pale silk fingers cloak my eyes.
I am in springs’ disguise. . . . .
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