When it comes to interiors, the word “kitsch” has positive connotations. We salute the late Deborah Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, née Deborah Mitford for her juxtaposition of a cardboard cut-out of Elvis with exquisite antique furniture, just as we delight in the plastic King Kong that nestles amid Picasso ceramics on the dresser in the dining room of Farleys House. The great Nancy Lancaster famously advocated for every room to include something “a little bit ugly” – kitsch equally fulfils the brief, with its joyous and often humorous vulgarity that bulges against the boundaries of taste. But try to define kitsch, and you’ll quickly come across the word ‘tacky’; the Merriam-Webster dictionary even suggests that ‘kitsch’ refers to ‘things in the realm of popular culture that are tacky.’ To which your response is undoubtedly “wait, what?” – for tacky, with its associations with bad taste, garden gnomes and ‘Live, Laugh, Love’ signs, is not something that anybody aspires to. The nebulousness of the line that divides the two complicates the definition of each – so how do we ensure that our collection of furry dice, plastic flamingos and dashboard hula dancers (items named by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as fitting the kitsch bill) does not stray into the territory of tacky?

Firstly, let’s move away from rear-view mirror accessories, because we’re not in the motorcar business, and look for decorative equivalents – though it’s not straightforward, for “I really think almost anything can be kitsch or tacky,” says Benedict Foley. Often, there’s a garishness, and sense of melodrama, within which date and worth are both irrelevant to inuring against either description – the ultimate proof being Versailles, the most over the top of all the French palaces. Donald Trump’s homage to the Sun King in his pre-presidency Manhattan penthouse definitely verges on tacky (as, arguably, did Versailles at its conception – socioeconomics cannot be entirely separated out.) But, a single André Charles Boulle console table, liberally adorned with bronze mascarons, claws and foliage and combined with less ostentatious furniture, is kind of kitsch. Fast-forward a few centuries, to Nicky Haslam’s point that works by Damien Hirst and cartoons by Roy Lichtenstein are “just as kitsch as neon Santas” and an art collection formed of lots of Damien Hirst’s butterfly art (because he’s a name) might verge on tacky; on the other hand, a keen entomologist hanging a Damien Hirst butterfly work alongside a case of rare specimens – well, that’s kitsch.

“Kitsch comes with a knowing wink,” suggests Bridie Hall, “whereas tacky can be unintentional.” Benedict identifies an inadvertent crossover occurring when “things [are] plonked around uncohesively because they are all of some perceived level of status” – ‘perceived’ being the key word, for “what’s bougie in one place might be funny somewhere else. It’s all about the context and how seriously people take themselves!” he continues. “I love Horror Charm, things that attain really high levels of bad taste but are really well executed, think mostly 19^th-century Great Exhibition type clobber.  But I’m also very into a Dolly Parton lucite coaster. Some people would scream, but I say ‘Scream! Must have!’”

Which brings us to a vital consideration: good kitsch is individual and unapologetic. Circle back to the Duchess of Devonshire, and “what made her interiors so interesting is confidence and authenticity,” explains Hubert Zandberg. “They were completely unpretentious, which is how she got away with ‘bad taste’ moments.” By her own admission, the Duchess had advanced from a casual listener to an avid collector of items relating to ‘The King’ and owned rare memorabilia (a plank of wood said to be from the fence at Graceland) as well as mass produced souvenirs such as tattoo transfers, postcards, slippers, and a telephone which played Jailhouse Rock. As Hubert points out, any of those items left sitting in a flea market might have been deemed tacky, but “take it out of that context and put it in a new context such as a room of ‘exquisite taste’ and it becomes humorous.” And of course, Benedict’s Dolly Parton coaster lives amid beautiful antiques, textiles and examples of modern British art.

So must we have antiques to successfully incorporate kitsch?  Maybe the answer to that is more to do with the necessity of having a good interior – which is generally to do with layering, and thus often involves antiques along with other loved items.

Within that, kitsch is simply another stratum, and is something that sparks joy, whether that is royal memorabilia (and if it is, good news, there’s a new wave of availability), ecclesiastical décor, items that reference the acid house days of our youth (or what we imagine them to have been had we been old enough), a decorative detail that other people might deem naff – for instance, lace doilies, garden gnomes or flying ducks (the passing of time can see tacky become kitsch, due to the change in context) – or all of the above. It might be the pattern that is kitschy, or the bright, plasticky finish, or the overdose of gilt on 19^th-century Dresden candelabra. Kitsch is also to do with attitude, one that not only indulges but celebrates a guilty pleasure. Kitsch is framing and hanging a collectible tattoo transfer instead of sticking it in a drawer, it’s twanging the strings of a notable musician’s guitar as you walk past it rather than keeping it behind museum-grade glass – and it’s mostly avoiding the generic, for clichéd kitsch (a disco ball in the kitchen) detracts from the impact, simply because kitsch remains kitsch because so many think it is of questionable taste. We don’t all want Benedict’s Dolly Parton coaster, or the Duchess of Devonshire’s Elvis Presley slippers – or a Boulle console or a Damien Hirst-signed heart-shaped canvas covered in dead butterflies.