
True story:
I am 9 1/2 months pregnant with my first kid and walking the dog on the little streets from New Rochelle to Pelham (Westchester, NY), when we spot a huge amount of trash piled up for removal next to a house that's being gutted. Of course my dog begs me to go check it, and since there's nothing more interesting to do on a sleepy Sunday morning, I indulge her.
The first to catch my eye (obviously) is a 6' x 10' oil painting (Hudson River School?) of a ship on the stormy waters - magnificent, but impossible to carry in my condition. There's a medley of small pieces of furniture obstructed by my belly, and I decide not to check them out so that I don't ruin my (already precariously off) center of gravity. However, sitting pretty on its four legs there's a mid-century coffee table I just have to have, and that I just might be able to carry back home, provided my dog agrees to walk by my side unleashed (I don't give birth clutching it, if that's what you're wondering right now).
For the next ten years, the coffee table followed us from home to home and state to state until last week when, for its latest re-positioning (in the upstairs sitting room of my home), I give it another cleaning. And there, glued underneath the tabletop, there's the (previously covered by old paint) little tag: R Jens Risom Design Inc.























