Maybe it was the cute hand-drawn arrows. Maybe it was the unapologetic obsession with all things French (right down to editor-in-chief Deborah Needleman's current-issue editor letter about vacationing in a Loire chateau). Or maybe it was that every time we cracked open a fresh issue of Domino magazine, it made our own pathetic hovel feel a little less hopeless. Whatever it was, we loved Domino with a white-hot, searing passion that could not be contained.
So we were crushed on a fundamental level to hear of the swift plug-pulling that Condé Nast visited yesterday upon its shelter rag (while sparing sister publication Lucky). This end doesn't seem to leave the door open for Domino to continue in any iteration (unlike what Martha Stewart did with Blueprint: Nixed the print version, but kept the Bluelines blog limping along until a mercy-killing half a year later).
Domino had been in the news of late, with speculation that the hubbub around Needleman's obsession with the Obamas' new decorator was a desperate bid to raise the magazine's profile.
The March issue will be Domino's last, and after that we'll just have to move on and fill our need for shelter porn elsewhere.
