The Chair, the Bench, and the Spaces In Between

A Biography in Objects

She was born in 1897, in New York City—just a few blocks from Central Park and the Harlem River. The city, newly unified into five boroughs, was expanding skyward, but daily life still unfolded on the stoop. Horse-drawn carriages, street vendors, and coal-fired hearths formed the rhythm of her earliest years. Inside, homes were layered with texture and care—lace curtains, pressed tin ceilings, and furniture that carried both function and memory.

At the turn of the 20th century, the parlor was more than a room—it was a kind of moral stage. Here, family values were expressed in velvet cushions and polished wood, in lace drapery and perfectly placed chairs. Upholstery was protected not only for preservation, but as a point of pride. Many homes used small decorative cloths—called antimacassars—draped over the backs and arms of chairs to shield the fabric from wear. Originally meant to guard against the popular hair oil of the day, they soon became symbols of gentility: embroidered, crocheted, and carefully laundered as part of weekly domestic rituals.

In this world, beauty was bound to care. Furniture wasn’t cycled out with trends—it was maintained, passed down, reupholstered when necessary, and quietly revered. A chair that showed age was not discarded. It was dignified.

By 1902, she appears in a studio portrait: a girl of five, seated in a turned-wood spindle-back chair. Her boots are laced precisely, her expression composed. A richly patterned rug lies beneath her feet, softened by a pale white fur—lamb or fox—draped carefully on top. The painted backdrop suggests stonework or stained glass, completing a scene designed to elevate and idealize. These portrait studios were part stage, part sanctuary—intended to transform a fleeting moment into something worthy of memory.

From the Acanthus Home private archive. 1902.

She sits lightly, yet with presence. Her hand rests on the top rail, her legs gently folded. She does not pose on the chair but rather within it. A passing object, perhaps—but one that holds something enduring.

These portraits were never meant to be about the furniture. And yet the furniture remains.

1935: A Life, Reframed

She reappears in 1935.

Now grown, she reclines into a carved scroll-armed chair. The setting is quieter. A stairwell behind her. A patterned rug underfoot. Her expression is soft, self-assured. The chair is larger now—cut velvet upholstery in a diamond motif, claw feet, and scroll arms. It speaks to the luxury home interiors of the period: layered, elegant, tactile.

From the Acanthus Home private archive. 1935.

And yet again, it’s not the ornamentation that draws us in. It’s her posture.

In 1902, she was placed. In 1935, she chooses. Her hand drapes easily over the scroll arm. Her presence fills the frame. The chair, like the moment, holds her with deference.

Between these photographs lies a life: well documented in letters, newspaper stories, and presence.

What Furniture Remembers

She was never photographed for the furniture. But through the chairs—and through the absence of one—we glimpse the shape of her life.

The turned-wood chair in New York in 1902. A moment by the lake in Westlake Park (now MacArthur Park) in Los Angeles, where she stood in 1915 as Frank photographed her—just before their story truly began. And then, in 1919, it is Frank who sits alone on a bench, writing to her, remembering her. And finally, the scroll-arm chair in 1935—where she is no longer waiting, but at ease.

None of these pieces were owned. But all of them held something: A gesture. A softness. A quiet continuity. They are not just furnishings. They are biographical objects. The kind found not in catalogs, but in the corners of lived interiors. In rooms curated and collected over time.

The Acanthus Philosophy

At Acanthus Home, we believe furniture is never just a backdrop. It’s a biography—told in grain, form, and fabric. Our collection of vintage home decor and antique furnishings is restored with quiet reverence—honoring traditional craftsmanship and natural materials like oak, walnut, and hand-selected velvet.

Every chair we restore is selected for its ability to speak—not just stylistically, but emotionally. Our clients aren’t looking for a trend. They’re seeking something felt. It might be a collectible antique chair reupholstered for a layered interior in the hills above Los Angeles, or a velvet-clad armchair placed with intention in a historic coastal home—each piece offers more than beauty. It offers presence.

Interior designers crafting refined spaces and collectors drawn to organic luxury and enduring form will find in our pieces a kind of resonance that modern design often forgets.

To Those Who Understand the Weight of a Chair

Not every story is told in words. Some are told in the language of form. In the way a woman rests her hand on a scroll arm. In the way a man, years later, returns to a bench not for comfort—but to remember.

Our Heirloom Seating Collection is curated for those who understand that true beauty is not just aesthetic—it’s emotional. These are not pieces you merely decorate with. These are pieces that stay.

If this speaks to you, linger.

Explore the collection. Read the journals. And discover what still lives in the space between posture and presence.