Not long ago, I went to the London home of the late Jean Muir. The austere-looking fashion designer, who never set foot in public without a heavily white-powdered face and noirish lipstick, died 10 years ago, but the interior of her Kensington apartment is spookily intact. It was bought by a Muir fanatic who lives in Hong Kong, but has until now insisted on the absolute preservation of its decoration - even for renters who can pay top Kensington prices.
It was recently on the market for £1.3m, which - according to local estate agents M2 Property - isn't at all bad for a spacious apartment in Albert Mansions. This is one of those ornate, late-Victorian blocks (in this case, right behind the Albert Hall), whose luscious communal parts are designed to make inhabitants believe they own an apartment in a palace rather than in a block.
Muir's home, however, defies the surrounding rococo de luxe. It's probably the most minimalist interior I've ever seen - and there was us thinking we'd invented that look in the 1990s. Miss M, it turns out, was working the many shades of white way back in the 1970s. Still here is her shiny white vinyl floor and walls hung with interestingly textured papers and fabrics, but then painted over in ivories and palest creams. When Muir was in residence, it was sparsely furnished with angular and mirrored pieces, but full of fabulous ceramics, glass, textiles and rugs. How very now.
Her own fashion designs - exquisite dresses in cashmere and jersey, and waistcoats and jackets in softest suede - were remarkable for showing no interest in pattern or decoration, and every concern with form and fluidity. Her taste in interiors appears to have been the same. Except, that is, for the bathroom. Entirely lined in mirror and with a generous corner bath that suggests recreation rather than hygiene, you get the feeling she can't have been quite as strait-laced as her image would have us believe.