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Brief.
Ha.
Sure, it could be brief—if not for Walt’s palatial floor plan. It’s like I’m touring a museum.
We walk down the central hallway, past a few of the bedrooms, all with en-suite bathrooms. From briefly poking my head into a few of them, I can tell each one would be like living inside a luxurious hotel suite.
The hall dead-ends directly into what Rebecca refers to as a breathtaking great room with two terraces and views of the Brooklyn, Manhattan, and Williamsburg Bridges. I listen intently as she tells me how the apartment was renovated by Reber Design Architecture in coordination with Emma Donnersberg Interiors.
In the main suite—where Walt sleeps and where Terrell drops my suitcases—there’s a fireplace, a sitting room off of an outdoor terrace, and a master bathroom with radiant heated floors, steam shower, and deep soaking tub.
I barely have a moment to appreciate it before Rebecca sweeps me out into the hallway to the open chef’s kitchen where there are two islands, double Sub-Zero refrigerators, and a Miele double oven.
Off of the kitchen is a granite and brass 550-bottle wine closet and a marble bar, both hidden behind washed oak doors. Across from that is the library with floor-to-ceiling millwork.
I can barely pick my jaw up off the floor. If I was alone, I’d be running from one room to the next with crazed eyes, my hand covering my mouth to try to quell the squeals of glee. I grew up around wealth. I know how the truly rich really live, but this is different. This isn’t the 1%, it’s the .0001%. Walt’s art alone would make any discerning critic weep.
There’s a David Hockney landscape hanging in the great room. A Jenny Saville large-scale nude in the dining room. One of Albrecht Dürer’s sketches of hands hangs back in the entry gallery, and most notably, A Banquet Still Life by Jan Davidszoon De Heem sits above the fireplace in the library. I stare at it after Rebecca leaves, slightly stunned. I knew it was slated to go up for auction at Christie’s recently, but then it was sold to a private collector before the auction could take place. It was a low-key scandal across the art world. All the blogs I follow were speculating about who could have purchased the masterpiece. The best guess was that it had been acquired by the Menil Collection, which makes sense considering it could easily be the capstone of their Houston museum, and yet, here it sits in Walt’s apartment.
It feels oddly intimate to be alone with the painting, like I’ve been allowed in for a private viewing. The large-scale piece is done in true Dutch style with a moody color palette and meticulous attention to detail. It depicts the remnants of a heavily laden banquet table, in the aftermath of an extravagant dinner. Sitting on top of draped linens are a half-eaten pie, a sliced peach, a pewter cup tipped on its side, and a wicker basket overflowing with fruit. I know De Heem loved to inlay metaphors into his work. For instance, the apples in the basket undoubtedly refer to the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. The glasses of wine likely allude to the redemptive nature of the Last Supper.
I could stare at it all night, but my fingers are itching to get to work. I don’t bother unpacking my clothes or exploring the apartment. I rush back to Walt’s room, unzip my suitcase, and toss around supplies until I find a new sketchbook and a sharpened drawing pencil. Then I take both back to the library—almost running—as I round the corner, like I’m scared the painting will have disappeared in the time I’ve been away.
With a sigh of relief, I find it right where I left it, and that same zing of excitement jolts through me as I contemplate how best to arrange my setup for drawing.
I turn on the chandelier hanging in the center of the room since the sun is starting to set, and then I look around the space, inspecting the furniture. There are two comfy leather couches that face each other near the fireplace. Between them is a heavy coffee table adorned with decor and books. For a moment I consider moving everything aside and sitting on the table to sketch, but my back would be killing me after five minutes. Instead, I grab a chair from the high-end chess table in the corner and—after learning that I can’t actually lift the damn thing—I push it across the parquet wood floor until it sits in front of the fireplace. It’s still not right. Positioned where it is, it’s like I’m in the front row of a movie theater, craning my neck to see the painting.
I really need to be right where the coffee table sits, but the thing weighs 300 pounds and it doesn’t budge no matter how much I push it. Thinking quick, I use my cell phone to call Terrell, grateful that both he and Rebecca gave me their contact information before they left.
