The Parlour
“Tapestries of Orgin”
Every house has a spirit.
Ours was born in childhood shadows, southern heat, and stitched shirts.These are not memories, darling—
They’re inheritance.Before there was Maison Djordje,
There was a Black boy with a name he had to rewrite.
And these stories?
They’re how the estate learned to speak.Welcome to The Parlor.
The velvet is plush, the air is listening, and The Tapestries hang here—not as decoration, but as proof.
Each one is threaded with ink, grief, powdered sugar, and pride.This isn’t a blog.
It’s archival.
Cinematic. Unsponsored. And absolutely true.
Not written for performance—but for preservation.
Settle In…
Allow the scent of deep rose and vetiver to grace your senses as the house hushes.
These aren’t stories. They’re summons.
Each tapestry below is built from memory, grief, scent, sound, and spiritual residue. You’re not here to scroll—you’re here to remember. To feel. To digest.
This is not entertainment. This is reclamation. These entries aren’t for the faint, nor the performative. They’re layered, lived, and meant to be sat with.
You may need to pause.
You might feel disoriented.
That’s alignment beginning to loosen your old framework.
So breathe. Read slowly. Let what rises… rise.
And when you’re ready to enter—do so with reverence.
You’ve just stepped inside The Tapestries.
The Tapestries
