WHEN Jacqueline Duncan first opened the doors of the Inchbald in 1960, interior design was hardly regarded as an occupation, let alone a profession. With a few notable exceptions, such as Syrie Maugham, Nancy Lancaster and Mrs Duncan’s first husband, Michael Inchbald, interior decoration was the preserve of a breed referred to euphemistically (and, one suspects, pejoratively) as ‘nice young men who sold antiques’.
Mrs Duncan first encountered Mr Inchbald’s work in 1949, when he curated an exhibition at Peter Jones that juxtaposed exquisite English furniture with startling patterns and colours that caught the attention (and imagination) of locals accustomed to a more sotto voce style of decoration. In those days, the Sloane Square store’s interior-design department was akin to an upmarket decorating firm (it was where John Fowler cut his teeth). Even by its standards, the exhibition was something of a trailblazer.
‘A bedroom was furnished entirely with pearl-inlaid black lacquer furniture married with a brilliant pink fabric,’ she recalls. ‘A set of sabre-legged dining chairs, quietly elegant, was covered in a yellow MacLeod tartan and magnificent armchairs by Thomas Hope in leopardskin. They combined the shock of fashion with the familiarity of classicism. I was enthralled.’
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