The Lives of Others: Sublime Interiors of Extraordinary People, Rizzoli, 2020.
Private Views: A High-Rise Panorama of Manhattan, VI PER Gallery, Prague, 2021.
Hidden behind imposing gates and demure concierges, forecourts and VIP express elevators, the living spaces of the ultra-wealthy resist our gaze. At the same time, these splashy pads form the basis of a cottage industry, with countless novels, magazines, and films and TV series offering privileged look-ins. Can such works balance admiration of the wealthy and honest assessment of these spaces of luxury? How innocent is our consumption of the lifestyles of the mega-rich when systemic inequities are rife throughout society? Two books of photography join the fray and shed some light on these very questions.
The Lives of Others, a collection of sumptuous photographs by Simon Watson, presents a smattering of the venerable homes he has documented over his thirty-year career. Bolstered by contributions from Marella Caracciolo Chia, Tom Delavan, and James Reginato, the book coalesces around Watson’s personal impressions, gathered on walkthroughs of homes and his conversations with the “extraordinary people” who live in them.
The assembled villas, castles, estates, palaces, and mansions, scattered across Europe and Northern Africa, are exquisite. Most are centuries old, and many have been passed down through generations, as is the case with the Duchess of Alba, whose familial Madrid palacio is lined with canvases by Titian, Velázquez, and Goya. The obscene wealth that built these estates has been softened by time; the slow decay of the architecture contrasts with the abundant furnishings—oil paintings, antique ottomans, marble busts, deer skulls, and textiles accrued over time—that jostle for space in Watson’s photos. The overall effect is aptly described by Caracciolo Chia as “crumbling splendor.”
As the contributors repeatedly point out, Vermeer and Rembrandt are abiding references in Watson’s compositions. Sun beams into a room from some out-of-frame window, illuminating a quiet scene. A bar of light ricochets off a Not Vital aluminum sculpture installed in the Swiss conceptual artist’s Alpine home. Accompanying anecdotes are as intimate and eye-opening as the photos themselves. Upon arriving at Christian Louboutin’s residence in Paris, Watson notices the fashion designer looking down at his boots: “They were looking a little scruff, a little unpolished, a little worn. A bit like me. I wonder if we shared those same thoughts.” Over breakfast with the Marchioness of Dufferin and Ava at the Guinness Estate, the photographer delights in the “wickedly good mood” of his host with a “naughty sparkle in her eye.”
Ultimately, Watson’s keen eye occludes the world outside these interiors. In his close attention to the lush details of these spaces, and in his endearing snapshots of his obliging hosts, he alludes to a greater complexity than mere luxury, but presses the issue no further.
With Private Views, Hungarian photographer Andi Schmied’s stealth series about Manhattan’s latest crop of ultra-luxury apartments, the equation is altogether different. There are few personalities to distract from the inordinate wealth these spaces command. The slow accumulation of beautiful objects and other finery has been replaced with an instant minimalism of status symbols. During an artist residency in New York, Schmied gained access to these sky-high locales by posing as Gabriella, a Hungarian heiress in the market for a new luxury home. She successfully evaded notice, as her beautifully compiled vistas attest.
The aesthetic similarities from one building to another are remarkable. The same soaking tub, Carrera marble countertops, and floor-to-ceiling windows fill each staged condo and penthouse. Like the interior design, the views out vary little—the distant city seen in plan below, other supertalls piercing the skyline and occasionally blocking the view.
The realty tours gave Schmied access not only to the best views in all of New York, but also the entitlement and insularity that occupies and profits off these buildings. In an unfinished top-floor unit in Kohn Pedersen Fox Associates’ 111 Murray Street, the exposed slab and wrapped mullions frame a view of One World Trade Center. Gabriella inquires about the asking price, and the agent lists off a couple of penthouse options—$40 million and, for a slightly higher ceiling, $45 million—before admitting, “they are basically the same. Also, none of them are built yet.”
That detail hardly seems to matter; these apartments are, after all, financial instruments disguised as high-end architectural design. At Raphael Viñoly’s 432 Park Avenue, the agent helpfully suggests that because Gabriella’s husband is looking for a wise investment, a penthouse “might be the best choice.” Going rate? $85 million. (In February of this year, the New York Times published an investigation into design problems of 432 Park Avenue and other luxury towers, including leaks, plumbing, and mechanical issues, and ballooning amenity costs. One can only imagine the value of the investment has since dropped.)
The aesthetic similarities from one building to another are remarkable. The same soaking tub, Carrera marble countertops, and floor-to-ceiling windows fill each staged condo and penthouse. Like the interior design, the views out vary little—the distant city seen in plan below, other supertalls piercing the skyline and occasionally blocking the view. At Robert A. M. Stern’s 220 Central Park South, Gabriella observes that the 953-foot-tall building is blocking park views for residents in Smith + Gill’s Central Park Tower just to the south. “Well, but for us they are blocking the downtown view!” the agent retorts. If the languid personalities of Watson’s volume are unhurried and charming, those in Schmied’s volume—namely, realtors—are presumptuous, laughably out-of-touch, and as endemic to the ecosystem of the ultra-luxury residences as the investors and owners themselves.
New York itself is the asset that justifies the enormous cost of these towers, which, in turn, deplete the city’s inherent value and desirability across the board. They occupy huge quantities of space and eat up resources and tax dollars, but mostly sit vacant. They claim to cherish the city while draining it for all they can. Geographer Samuel Stein Samuel Stein gets at this paradox in his accompanying essay (just one of many by the likes of , Irena Lehkoživová, and Sharon Zukin). “Why do these ultra-luxury extra high-rise buildings exist?” he asks. If they were to “suddenly disappear, who would miss them? How many of those people are there?”
Seen alongside Watson’s set of photographs, it’s tempting to imagine these supertalls in a century or two, their exteriors hopelessly worn and their interiors turned into storehouses for art and rarefied objects. Such a fate, however, is unlikely; whereas the homes that catch Watson’s fancy embrace interiority, collapsing centuries of history into a single space while somehow standing outside the progression of time, New York’s ultra-luxury apartments are momentary shells oriented to the exterior, incapable of providing the conditions for splendor—crumbling or otherwise—to take hold.
If some might be surprised to find themselves taken in by the subjects of Watson’s book, Schmied’s volume will likely only deepen their disgust for Billionaire’s Row and its ilk. Both, however, depict the various ways extreme wealth and privilege leverage the sublime for the benefit of a select few.