Letters From Her Across Time
To Every Woman Who Was Born to Live More Beautifully Than the World Expected
There is a photograph.
You may have seen it. Most people who have seen it never quite forget it.
A rooftop in Marrakech. January 1969. The medina stretching out below in every direction — the souks and the minarets and the flat roofs and the particular golden light of a Moroccan winter afternoon that makes everything look like it was painted rather than photographed.
And in the centre of it all — a woman.
She is crouching on the rooftop in a multicoloured kaftan and white harem pants and cream boots, her dark hair wild and free, her expression utterly serene and utterly alive simultaneously — the expression of someone who has arrived, completely and without reservation, at exactly the place she was supposed to be.
Her name was Talitha Getty.
The world remembers her as the pioneer of the gypsy, bohemian-chic style. Yves Saint Laurent called her and her husband “beautiful and damned.” Diana Vreeland called her a “style icon of the century.”
She was thirty years old when she died. She had been on that rooftop for only a decade. And she had changed the way the world understood beauty, freedom and the extraordinary possibility of a life lived completely on your own terms.
She has something to say to you.
You may have seen it. Most people who have seen it never quite forget it.
A rooftop in Marrakech. January 1969. The medina stretching out below in every direction — the souks and the minarets and the flat roofs and the particular golden light of a Moroccan winter afternoon that makes everything look like it was painted rather than photographed.
And in the centre of it all — a woman.
She is crouching on the rooftop in a multicoloured kaftan and white harem pants and cream boots, her dark hair wild and free, her expression utterly serene and utterly alive simultaneously — the expression of someone who has arrived, completely and without reservation, at exactly the place she was supposed to be.
Her name was Talitha Getty.
The world remembers her as the pioneer of the gypsy, bohemian-chic style. Yves Saint Laurent called her and her husband “beautiful and damned.” Diana Vreeland called her a “style icon of the century.”
She was thirty years old when she died. She had been on that rooftop for only a decade. And she had changed the way the world understood beauty, freedom and the extraordinary possibility of a life lived completely on your own terms.
She has something to say to you.
The Letter
The rooftop of the Palais du Zahir, Marrakech
A golden afternoon — the call to prayer is beginning and the light is extraordinary
Dear Modern Woman,
Let me tell you about the first time I came to Marrakech.
It was 1966. Paul and I had just been married — in Rome, where I wore a white miniskirt with a hood trimmed in mink, because it was 1966 and Rome and why would you wear anything else. We were young and beautiful and in love with each other and with the world and with the particular exhilarating feeling of being completely alive in a body that worked and a decade that felt like the beginning of everything.
We drove into the medina through the ancient gates and the light changed. That is the only way I can describe it. The light in Marrakech is not like the light anywhere else — it is warmer, more golden, more absolute, as though it has been filtering through centuries of dust and spice and human life and arrived at the present moment already ancient and already beautiful.
I stepped out of the car into the souks and I heard the hammering of the metalworkers and smelled the tanneries and the spices and felt the press of a city that had been alive and magnificent long before anyone I knew had been born.
And I thought: this is where I am supposed to be.
We bought the Palais du Zahir that afternoon. For $10,000 — a dilapidated riad in the medina that we proceeded to transform into what our friends would call the pleasure palace.
I want to tell you about the palace because I think it is the most complete expression of who I was and what I believed about beauty and life and the extraordinary things that become possible when you decide to inhabit your life completely rather than observing it from a careful distance.
The rooftop of the Palais du Zahir, Marrakech
A golden afternoon — the call to prayer is beginning and the light is extraordinary
Dear Modern Woman,
Let me tell you about the first time I came to Marrakech.
It was 1966. Paul and I had just been married — in Rome, where I wore a white miniskirt with a hood trimmed in mink, because it was 1966 and Rome and why would you wear anything else. We were young and beautiful and in love with each other and with the world and with the particular exhilarating feeling of being completely alive in a body that worked and a decade that felt like the beginning of everything.
We drove into the medina through the ancient gates and the light changed. That is the only way I can describe it. The light in Marrakech is not like the light anywhere else — it is warmer, more golden, more absolute, as though it has been filtering through centuries of dust and spice and human life and arrived at the present moment already ancient and already beautiful.
I stepped out of the car into the souks and I heard the hammering of the metalworkers and smelled the tanneries and the spices and felt the press of a city that had been alive and magnificent long before anyone I knew had been born.
And I thought: this is where I am supposed to be.
We bought the Palais du Zahir that afternoon. For $10,000 — a dilapidated riad in the medina that we proceeded to transform into what our friends would call the pleasure palace.
I want to tell you about the palace because I think it is the most complete expression of who I was and what I believed about beauty and life and the extraordinary things that become possible when you decide to inhabit your life completely rather than observing it from a careful distance.
On the Palais du Zahir — Her Home and Her Philosophy
We renovated it with the help of designer Bill Willis, featuring tadelakt walls, zellij tiles, and lush courtyards.
But the spirit of it — the colour and the layering and the particular extravagant warmth of every room — that was mine.
I collected as I travelled. Not carefully, not with a plan, not with a designer’s eye for coordination and restraint. With passion. With the absolute conviction that beautiful things belong together regardless of their origin — that a Palestinian wedding dress and a Moroccan djellaba and a piece of Balinese silk and a Yves Saint Laurent kaftan are not contradictions but a conversation.
I was known to mix an international wardrobe of Balinese wraps, Palestinian wedding dresses, and Moroccan djellabas with my YSL and Valentino. Not because I was trying to make a statement. Because all of it was beautiful and beauty does not require permission to coexist.
The rooms of the Palais du Zahir were the same. I loved to mix and match colours and fabrics, Berber rugs, artisanal pillows, and materials. Zellij tiles in turquoise and gold on the floors. Tadelakt walls in warm terracotta and cream. Low cushioned seating in rich silks — saffron and deep rose and the particular blue of Moroccan pottery. Lanterns everywhere — brass and coloured glass casting patterns on every surface. Incense. Flowers. The sound of water in the courtyard fountain.
It was not a decorated space. It was a lived space. Every object had been found somewhere and brought home and placed where it felt right. Nothing matched. Everything belonged.
This is the first thing I want you to understand about beauty: it does not require coordination. It requires passion. The room that is most beautiful is the room assembled by someone who loved every object in it — not the room assembled to look beautiful in a photograph.
We renovated it with the help of designer Bill Willis, featuring tadelakt walls, zellij tiles, and lush courtyards.
But the spirit of it — the colour and the layering and the particular extravagant warmth of every room — that was mine.
I collected as I travelled. Not carefully, not with a plan, not with a designer’s eye for coordination and restraint. With passion. With the absolute conviction that beautiful things belong together regardless of their origin — that a Palestinian wedding dress and a Moroccan djellaba and a piece of Balinese silk and a Yves Saint Laurent kaftan are not contradictions but a conversation.
I was known to mix an international wardrobe of Balinese wraps, Palestinian wedding dresses, and Moroccan djellabas with my YSL and Valentino. Not because I was trying to make a statement. Because all of it was beautiful and beauty does not require permission to coexist.
The rooms of the Palais du Zahir were the same. I loved to mix and match colours and fabrics, Berber rugs, artisanal pillows, and materials. Zellij tiles in turquoise and gold on the floors. Tadelakt walls in warm terracotta and cream. Low cushioned seating in rich silks — saffron and deep rose and the particular blue of Moroccan pottery. Lanterns everywhere — brass and coloured glass casting patterns on every surface. Incense. Flowers. The sound of water in the courtyard fountain.
It was not a decorated space. It was a lived space. Every object had been found somewhere and brought home and placed where it felt right. Nothing matched. Everything belonged.
This is the first thing I want you to understand about beauty: it does not require coordination. It requires passion. The room that is most beautiful is the room assembled by someone who loved every object in it — not the room assembled to look beautiful in a photograph.
On Her Style — The Bohemian Philosophy
Trailblazing a bohemian style that would become a reference point for countless designers in the coming decades, I wore Marrakesh-style kaftans, harem pants and Moroccan djellabas.
I want to tell you where the style came from because I think its origins matter more than the clothes themselves.
I was born in Java, in the Dutch East Indies, in 1940. My earliest years were spent in a Japanese internment camp during the Second World War — my mother and I in one camp, my father in another. I was a child and I did not fully understand what was happening but I absorbed it — the colours of Java, the textures of the batik cloth, the gold and the heat and the particular saturated beauty of a tropical world before everything changed.
After the war I moved to England. My mother died when I was eight. My father remarried into a world of artists and bohemians — his new wife was the daughter of Augustus John, one of the great painters of the early twentieth century. He was a pivotal figure in the world of bohemian culture and fashion.
I grew up surrounded by artists who dressed as they pleased, decorated their homes as they pleased, loved as they pleased and considered convention an interesting starting point rather than a destination.
By the time I arrived in Marrakech I had been collecting beauty for my entire life — from Java, from England, from Rome, from everywhere I had been. The kaftan was not a costume. It was the natural conclusion of a life spent in passionate attention to the beautiful things of the world.
The lesson: Your style is not separate from your life. It is the autobiography of your attention — everything you have loved and collected and absorbed and made your own. Dress from that place. Not from the magazine or the trend or what is expected of someone like you. From the whole rich accumulation of everything you have found beautiful.
Trailblazing a bohemian style that would become a reference point for countless designers in the coming decades, I wore Marrakesh-style kaftans, harem pants and Moroccan djellabas.
I want to tell you where the style came from because I think its origins matter more than the clothes themselves.
I was born in Java, in the Dutch East Indies, in 1940. My earliest years were spent in a Japanese internment camp during the Second World War — my mother and I in one camp, my father in another. I was a child and I did not fully understand what was happening but I absorbed it — the colours of Java, the textures of the batik cloth, the gold and the heat and the particular saturated beauty of a tropical world before everything changed.
After the war I moved to England. My mother died when I was eight. My father remarried into a world of artists and bohemians — his new wife was the daughter of Augustus John, one of the great painters of the early twentieth century. He was a pivotal figure in the world of bohemian culture and fashion.
I grew up surrounded by artists who dressed as they pleased, decorated their homes as they pleased, loved as they pleased and considered convention an interesting starting point rather than a destination.
By the time I arrived in Marrakech I had been collecting beauty for my entire life — from Java, from England, from Rome, from everywhere I had been. The kaftan was not a costume. It was the natural conclusion of a life spent in passionate attention to the beautiful things of the world.
The lesson: Your style is not separate from your life. It is the autobiography of your attention — everything you have loved and collected and absorbed and made your own. Dress from that place. Not from the magazine or the trend or what is expected of someone like you. From the whole rich accumulation of everything you have found beautiful.
On the Parties — Her Table and Her Gatherings
Our parties were legendary, hosting the likes of Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Yves Saint Laurent. Vogue devoted an entire profile to our parties, which often featured magicians, acrobats, and servers who would dance as they wove around the crowds with tea trays.
I want to be honest about the parties because they have become legendary in a way that is partly true and partly myth and I think the true part is more interesting than the myth.
The true part is this: I believed — completely, without reservation — that gathering beautiful and interesting people together in a beautiful space and feeding them and entertaining them was one of the highest forms of creative expression available to a human being.
The parties at the Palais du Zahir were not planned in the conventional sense. They were curated — which is a different thing entirely. I thought about who would interest whom. I thought about the food and the music and the entertainment not as logistics but as composition — the elements of an experience that was meant to transport everyone who attended out of their ordinary life and into something more alive and more beautiful.
I was the queen of outdoor parties in Marrakech. I loved to mix and match colours and fabrics, Berber rugs, artisanal pillows, and materials.
The rooftop at sunset. Lanterns lit as the light faded. Mint tea served by people who moved through the crowd with the grace of dancers. The call to prayer rising from the minarets of the medina as the stars came out. Yves Saint Laurent sketching on a napkin. Mick Jagger somewhere in the crowd. The smell of cumin and rose water and incense and the particular warm darkness of a Moroccan night.
This was not excess. This was an art form.
You do not need a palace in Marrakech to gather people beautifully. You need the conviction that gathering matters — that the table you set, the food you serve, the people you bring together and the atmosphere you create are creative acts as real and as significant as any painting or any poem. Set your table accordingly.
Our parties were legendary, hosting the likes of Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, and Yves Saint Laurent. Vogue devoted an entire profile to our parties, which often featured magicians, acrobats, and servers who would dance as they wove around the crowds with tea trays.
I want to be honest about the parties because they have become legendary in a way that is partly true and partly myth and I think the true part is more interesting than the myth.
The true part is this: I believed — completely, without reservation — that gathering beautiful and interesting people together in a beautiful space and feeding them and entertaining them was one of the highest forms of creative expression available to a human being.
The parties at the Palais du Zahir were not planned in the conventional sense. They were curated — which is a different thing entirely. I thought about who would interest whom. I thought about the food and the music and the entertainment not as logistics but as composition — the elements of an experience that was meant to transport everyone who attended out of their ordinary life and into something more alive and more beautiful.
I was the queen of outdoor parties in Marrakech. I loved to mix and match colours and fabrics, Berber rugs, artisanal pillows, and materials.
The rooftop at sunset. Lanterns lit as the light faded. Mint tea served by people who moved through the crowd with the grace of dancers. The call to prayer rising from the minarets of the medina as the stars came out. Yves Saint Laurent sketching on a napkin. Mick Jagger somewhere in the crowd. The smell of cumin and rose water and incense and the particular warm darkness of a Moroccan night.
This was not excess. This was an art form.
You do not need a palace in Marrakech to gather people beautifully. You need the conviction that gathering matters — that the table you set, the food you serve, the people you bring together and the atmosphere you create are creative acts as real and as significant as any painting or any poem. Set your table accordingly.
On Her Colours — The Talitha Palette
The colours of Talitha’s world were the colours of Marrakech and Java and the life she had assembled from every beautiful place she had been:
Saffron yellow — the colour of the spice market, of turmeric and marigolds and the warm walls of the medina at sunset
Deep terracotta — the colour of the riad walls, of Moroccan clay and the earth of the Atlas Mountains
Rich turquoise — the colour of the zellij tiles and the Moroccan pottery and the sky over the desert at noon
Cream and warm ivory — the colour of the harem pants and the linen kaftans and the whitewashed walls of the courtyard
Deep rose and fuchsia — the colour of the bougainvillea spilling over every wall in Marrakech in summer
Antique gold — the colour of the brass lanterns and the Berber jewellery and the light on everything at golden hour
The Talitha Wardrobe Today:
• One extraordinary kaftan — silk or cotton, in rich jewel tones or warm earth colours — worn as evening wear without apology
• Wide leg linen trousers in cream or warm white — the harem pant made modern
• A simple white linen shirt — worn loose, open at the neck, sleeves rolled
• One piece of statement Berber or ethnic jewellery — a substantial necklace, a stack of bangles, something with turquoise or amber
• Leather sandals for the warm months — worn with everything
• A large woven or leather bag — market bag sized, beautiful, capable of carrying the whole of a Marrakech afternoon
• Silk or cotton scarves in multiple — to wear in the hair, around the neck, tied to a bag
The colours of Talitha’s world were the colours of Marrakech and Java and the life she had assembled from every beautiful place she had been:
Saffron yellow — the colour of the spice market, of turmeric and marigolds and the warm walls of the medina at sunset
Deep terracotta — the colour of the riad walls, of Moroccan clay and the earth of the Atlas Mountains
Rich turquoise — the colour of the zellij tiles and the Moroccan pottery and the sky over the desert at noon
Cream and warm ivory — the colour of the harem pants and the linen kaftans and the whitewashed walls of the courtyard
Deep rose and fuchsia — the colour of the bougainvillea spilling over every wall in Marrakech in summer
Antique gold — the colour of the brass lanterns and the Berber jewellery and the light on everything at golden hour
The Talitha Wardrobe Today:
• One extraordinary kaftan — silk or cotton, in rich jewel tones or warm earth colours — worn as evening wear without apology
• Wide leg linen trousers in cream or warm white — the harem pant made modern
• A simple white linen shirt — worn loose, open at the neck, sleeves rolled
• One piece of statement Berber or ethnic jewellery — a substantial necklace, a stack of bangles, something with turquoise or amber
• Leather sandals for the warm months — worn with everything
• A large woven or leather bag — market bag sized, beautiful, capable of carrying the whole of a Marrakech afternoon
• Silk or cotton scarves in multiple — to wear in the hair, around the neck, tied to a bag
Her Home — How to Bring Marrakech Into Your Life
You do not need a riad in the medina. You need the spirit of it — the layering, the warmth, the passionate mixing of beautiful things from wherever you have been.
The Talitha Home Principles:
Layer everything
Rugs on rugs. Cushions on cushions. Textiles from different places and different traditions layered together with the confidence of someone who trusts her own eye. The Moroccan wedding blanket beside the Indian block print beside the English linen — they will speak to each other if you let them.
Warm colours on the walls
Terracotta. Warm cream. Saffron. The particular golden warmth of a room that feels like it has absorbed decades of sun. Not white — warm. The wall colour of the Palais du Zahir was the colour of the earth outside it.
Lanterns and candlelight — always
Talitha loved Moroccan outdoor decor and knew how to mix and match. The electric light in a beautiful room is the equivalent of a beautiful voice speaking too loudly. Turn it down. Light the lanterns. Let the shadows do what shadows do best.
Plants and flowers everywhere
Bougainvillea if you can grow it. Jasmine if you cannot. Roses always. Succulents on every surface. The living world brought inside as aggressively as your space allows.
Objects from everywhere you have been
The market find from the holiday. The piece of pottery from the local market. The textile from the trip you took ten years ago that you have never found a place for. Find places for all of it. A home without the evidence of a life lived is a hotel.
You do not need a riad in the medina. You need the spirit of it — the layering, the warmth, the passionate mixing of beautiful things from wherever you have been.
The Talitha Home Principles:
Layer everything
Rugs on rugs. Cushions on cushions. Textiles from different places and different traditions layered together with the confidence of someone who trusts her own eye. The Moroccan wedding blanket beside the Indian block print beside the English linen — they will speak to each other if you let them.
Warm colours on the walls
Terracotta. Warm cream. Saffron. The particular golden warmth of a room that feels like it has absorbed decades of sun. Not white — warm. The wall colour of the Palais du Zahir was the colour of the earth outside it.
Lanterns and candlelight — always
Talitha loved Moroccan outdoor decor and knew how to mix and match. The electric light in a beautiful room is the equivalent of a beautiful voice speaking too loudly. Turn it down. Light the lanterns. Let the shadows do what shadows do best.
Plants and flowers everywhere
Bougainvillea if you can grow it. Jasmine if you cannot. Roses always. Succulents on every surface. The living world brought inside as aggressively as your space allows.
Objects from everywhere you have been
The market find from the holiday. The piece of pottery from the local market. The textile from the trip you took ten years ago that you have never found a place for. Find places for all of it. A home without the evidence of a life lived is a hotel.
On the Darkness — What ClaimingLife Learns From Her Tragedy
I cannot write Talitha’s letter without addressing the darkness because I think the darkness is part of the lesson.
Talitha Getty died of a heroin overdose aged just 30 at the height of her celebrity.
She was thirty years old. She had a son who was three. She had the palace and the parties and the kaftan and the rooftop and the golden light. And she was gone.
I think about this because I think it speaks to something important about the difference between living beautifully and living well. Talitha lived beautifully — with more colour and passion and aesthetic intelligence than almost anyone of her generation. But the darkness was real and the help was not there and the world she inhabited in those final years was not kind to people who needed steadiness and care.
The lesson I take from Talitha is not the kaftan — though the kaftan is extraordinary. It is the reminder that beauty alone is not enough. That the home you create and the clothes you wear and the parties you give are the expression of a life — not the life itself. The life requires tending. The roots require care. The beautiful things on the surface need something real and nourishing beneath them.
Claim the beauty. All of it. The colour and the kaftan and the Moroccan lantern and the rooftop at sunset. And also tend the roots. Because the most beautiful garden in the world needs water beneath the surface.
I cannot write Talitha’s letter without addressing the darkness because I think the darkness is part of the lesson.
Talitha Getty died of a heroin overdose aged just 30 at the height of her celebrity.
She was thirty years old. She had a son who was three. She had the palace and the parties and the kaftan and the rooftop and the golden light. And she was gone.
I think about this because I think it speaks to something important about the difference between living beautifully and living well. Talitha lived beautifully — with more colour and passion and aesthetic intelligence than almost anyone of her generation. But the darkness was real and the help was not there and the world she inhabited in those final years was not kind to people who needed steadiness and care.
The lesson I take from Talitha is not the kaftan — though the kaftan is extraordinary. It is the reminder that beauty alone is not enough. That the home you create and the clothes you wear and the parties you give are the expression of a life — not the life itself. The life requires tending. The roots require care. The beautiful things on the surface need something real and nourishing beneath them.
Claim the beauty. All of it. The colour and the kaftan and the Moroccan lantern and the rooftop at sunset. And also tend the roots. Because the most beautiful garden in the world needs water beneath the surface.
What Talitha Wants You to Know
I lived thirty years. I do not ask you to consider that a tragedy — though it was cut short and I would have liked more time. I ask you to consider what was built in those thirty years.
A rooftop in Marrakech that Yves Saint Laurent sketched from. A photograph that is still being looked at sixty years later. A style that has been referenced by every major designer since — a visual language of freedom and beauty and the passionate mixing of the world’s most beautiful things that belongs to no single culture and to all of them.
I did not plan this legacy. I was simply living as fully and as beautifully and as completely as I knew how.
This is what I want to give you:
Permission to live fully. To wear the kaftan. To layer the textiles. To fill your home with beautiful things from everywhere you have been. To gather people around a table and make the evening extraordinary. To care about beauty not as vanity but as philosophy — the conviction that a beautiful life is a more humane life, a more generous life, a life more worth living.
The world will tell you it is too much. That the colours are too bright and the gathering is too elaborate and the kaftan is too dramatic for a Tuesday.
It is not too much.
Tuesday is exactly when you should wear the kaftan.
With love from the rooftop —
Talitha
Who wore a multicoloured kaftan on a Marrakech rooftop and changed the world’s idea of beauty forever
I lived thirty years. I do not ask you to consider that a tragedy — though it was cut short and I would have liked more time. I ask you to consider what was built in those thirty years.
A rooftop in Marrakech that Yves Saint Laurent sketched from. A photograph that is still being looked at sixty years later. A style that has been referenced by every major designer since — a visual language of freedom and beauty and the passionate mixing of the world’s most beautiful things that belongs to no single culture and to all of them.
I did not plan this legacy. I was simply living as fully and as beautifully and as completely as I knew how.
This is what I want to give you:
Permission to live fully. To wear the kaftan. To layer the textiles. To fill your home with beautiful things from everywhere you have been. To gather people around a table and make the evening extraordinary. To care about beauty not as vanity but as philosophy — the conviction that a beautiful life is a more humane life, a more generous life, a life more worth living.
The world will tell you it is too much. That the colours are too bright and the gathering is too elaborate and the kaftan is too dramatic for a Tuesday.
It is not too much.
Tuesday is exactly when you should wear the kaftan.
With love from the rooftop —
Talitha
Who wore a multicoloured kaftan on a Marrakech rooftop and changed the world’s idea of beauty forever
Amanda’s Note — On the Rooftop and the Permission
I first encountered Talitha Getty in a photograph. The one from the Marrakech rooftop. The kaftan and the white harem pants and the expression of complete, uncomplicated aliveness.
I have been thinking about that expression ever since.
Not the clothes — the expression. The look of a woman who is completely, without reservation, in the right place at the right time wearing exactly the right thing and knowing it.
I want that. I think you want that too.
Not the kaftan necessarily — though the kaftan is a very good idea. The feeling beneath it. The absolute conviction that the life you are living is the right one. That the beauty you have gathered around you matters. That the table you set and the people you gather and the colours you choose and the home you tend are not frivolous things but the most serious things — the things that make a life worth claiming.
Talitha lived thirty years and left a rooftop photograph that is still changing things.
What will you leave?
Begin. Wear the kaftan. Light the lanterns.
The rooftop is waiting.
With love and a Berber necklace I found in a market —
I first encountered Talitha Getty in a photograph. The one from the Marrakech rooftop. The kaftan and the white harem pants and the expression of complete, uncomplicated aliveness.
I have been thinking about that expression ever since.
Not the clothes — the expression. The look of a woman who is completely, without reservation, in the right place at the right time wearing exactly the right thing and knowing it.
I want that. I think you want that too.
Not the kaftan necessarily — though the kaftan is a very good idea. The feeling beneath it. The absolute conviction that the life you are living is the right one. That the beauty you have gathered around you matters. That the table you set and the people you gather and the colours you choose and the home you tend are not frivolous things but the most serious things — the things that make a life worth claiming.
Talitha lived thirty years and left a rooftop photograph that is still changing things.
What will you leave?
Begin. Wear the kaftan. Light the lanterns.
The rooftop is waiting.
With love and a Berber necklace I found in a market —
Love Amanda
The Talitha Getty Edit
The Wardrobe:
One extraordinary kaftan in rich jewel tones or warm earth colours · Wide leg cream linen trousers · A simple white linen shirt worn loose · Statement Berber or ethnic jewellery — turquoise, amber, silver · Leather sandals · A large woven market bag · Silk scarves worn everywhere
The Colours:
Saffron yellow · Deep terracotta · Rich turquoise · Warm cream · Deep rose · Fuchsia · Antique gold · The blue of Moroccan pottery
The Home:
Layered textiles from everywhere you have been · Warm terracotta walls · Brass and coloured glass lanterns · Plants spilling everywhere · Objects from every market you have ever visited · Low cushioned seating in rich silks · A courtyard if possible — a window box if not · Incense always
The Table:
Moroccan mint tea served beautifully · Mezze and sharing plates · Dates and honey and warm bread · Roses in an earthenware jug · Lanterns lit at dusk · The most interesting people you know · Entertainment that surprises · Conversations that go on too long
Where to Find Her:
The Majorelle Garden — later restored by Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé — another chapter in Marrakech’s long love story with beauty and artistic reinvention.
The Wardrobe:
One extraordinary kaftan in rich jewel tones or warm earth colours · Wide leg cream linen trousers · A simple white linen shirt worn loose · Statement Berber or ethnic jewellery — turquoise, amber, silver · Leather sandals · A large woven market bag · Silk scarves worn everywhere
The Colours:
Saffron yellow · Deep terracotta · Rich turquoise · Warm cream · Deep rose · Fuchsia · Antique gold · The blue of Moroccan pottery
The Home:
Layered textiles from everywhere you have been · Warm terracotta walls · Brass and coloured glass lanterns · Plants spilling everywhere · Objects from every market you have ever visited · Low cushioned seating in rich silks · A courtyard if possible — a window box if not · Incense always
The Table:
Moroccan mint tea served beautifully · Mezze and sharing plates · Dates and honey and warm bread · Roses in an earthenware jug · Lanterns lit at dusk · The most interesting people you know · Entertainment that surprises · Conversations that go on too long
Where to Find Her:
The Majorelle Garden — later restored by Yves Saint Laurent and Pierre Bergé — another chapter in Marrakech’s long love story with beauty and artistic reinvention.
This post is part of the Letters From Her Across Time series and the Bohemian Women section of the Letters From Her Kindle book — coming 2026.
Time does not wait for us to claim life. Read ClaimingLife.com to claim yours.
Time does not wait for us to claim life. Read ClaimingLife.com to claim yours.
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