THE ANATOMY OF ME

Discovering, Developing and Defining My Taste

I wasn’t born with taste— and neither were you. So, how is it that some of us seem to have it and some don’t? How did I recognize it, acquire it, and hone it to such a degree that it would become a defining skill— not only in my professional life, but also my personalone?

The truth is, we all have it. Its development starts early, often in childhood, through simple awareness, but some of us never discover it. For years, I didn’t recognize it either. What I do know is that I was a very precocious child when it came to noticing the world around me. What I saw weren’t just impressions that later became imprints of my taste, but something more basic: they were feelings and intuitions that informed my visual perception—I saw everything.

My absorption wasn’t photographic memory, it was more like photographic programming. I could—and can—take in countless pieces of visual information and assimilate them with almost computer-like precision. I can only describe this as feeling like data points. From childhood, I recognized shapes, patterns, and forms, assembled them all, and intuitively knew what created balance. This was before understanding what balance was.

I’m no snob

I was not born into privilege, wealth, or a refined life; nor was I “to the manner born” as Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet before the phrase later morphed into “manor.” No, my taste, nor my life, were derived from the landed gentry. But, somehow, I developed taste as if they were.

This may read like a bold statement, but I’m not being arrogant when I say my taste is refined. Taste is nothing more than awareness, development, and confidence in your aesthetic view. I just happen to have all three.

I would also say that while I’ve been fortunate enough to experience a lot of extraordinary things in life that influenced my taste, what squarely makes me me is that my eye is attuned to beauty in all its forms. I see beauty in things I sometimes don’t even understand— or frankly don’t like— but I can still appreciate them. I see beauty in the imperfect. I see beauty in things you might not. What I wish for everyone is to discover and develop their own taste, to experience this visual sensation as something that feels uniquely their own.

I also don’t ascribe a cost, brand, or provenance to what I like.

I appreciate fine things, yes; I’ve even been told I have expensive taste, but I’m equally excited when I find a flea market gem. And my clients are often shocked when they learn I love Walmart and TJ Maxx.

There are good things all around us, including things you don’t acquire but experience instead—like music, a play, or an art installation. Everything around you colors your taste. You just have to look at the world with a sense of childlike curiosity to find it.

Musée National Picasso-Paris

This sense of wonder and visual awareness has served me since childhood. I had such an acute sense of perception at a young age that visual cues often morphed into intuition, or vice versa, that ultimately became a prequel to real- life experiences.

Not All Taste is Good Taste

I hope I’ve given you confidence in knowing that taste isn’t about being born with a silver spoon and choosing which spoon you prefer. It’s about experience. And, sometimes, the events that contribute to your taste aren’t positive. In fact, one strong imprint from my childhood had less to do with taste and more to do with survival, but I’m convinced it influenced how I came to feel about a particular color.

When I was eight years old my mother, sister and I were held at gunpoint during an armed robbery. While I was born in Tennessee, we lived in Indianapolis at the time. It was a Sunday night; my mother had taken my sister and me to the market for a few last-minute items for our school lunches. You ask what this has to do with taste? Experience. The visual cues from such moments get cemented into our psyche, influencing emotional responses that become part of our taste.

To this day, I can still see the saturated colors and haze of that night — everything from the red neon store sign to the textures of the hoodies the men wore. While it was an awful experience for a kid (I’m absolutely fine aside from a small obsession with security), I’m convinced that my aversion to the color red for years stemmed from that night.

When I think of how I came by my taste, I sometimes feel as though I was swept away and spun out by a tornado—like the scene from The Wizard of Oz. The only difference: I didn’t land in Kansas. I landed in different states every time we touched down.

I’ve always attributed my early adoption of taste to hypervigilance—the need to take in the constant change— but when I reflect back, I realize I came by my taste not only through this, but some pretty unusual sources.

Long before studies showed the impact classrooms have on children, I can remember sitting in mine, daydreaming about what would make them look and feel better, or more inspiring. I found inspiration, too, in the most ordinary things: the shape of a street grate, window configurations, or the lines of cars. I’d rank them all–from the most handsome to the least—studying proportion, color, and form. These were games I played constantly, and I found endless things to examine. In what was often a less-than-aesthetic world, observation became my entertainment.

I’ve always had an affection for the famous line from The Wizard of Oz: “There’s no place like home.” As a kid, I loved that scene in the film though that witch scared the daylights out of me. If only I had had ruby slippers like Dorothy and could have clicked my heels three times.

Indianapolis, Indiana, 1972

Home wasn’t one specific place, but it was still my favorite destination, no matter where it was. I attribute living in so many cities and states to my obsession with it. I intrinsically knew I needed it, and I was determined to have it. Upheaval had its upside. Wherever we lived, home was my anchor, a safe space and laboratory to explore.

To my mother’s credit, she made sure of it. At least, that’s the way I remember it. I’m either terribly traumatized, or I actually believe that so much change growing up provided me the Swiss Army knife of life skills. Considering I’m well-adjusted and I’ve come this far, I’m sticking with the latter.

Life is a Grand Design Experiment

I didn’t grow up in Oz, but I found an anchor in every place we lived because my mother and sister were there, and my father was never far away.

Tennessee Milk Jugs, circa 1900’s

By my teens we had landed in Kentucky where we stayed until I went off to college in Texas and then moved to various cities for work—eventually landing in New York, then London, and back to New York again.

Over the coming years, I continued to move often, translating these influences into my own apartments, then homes, and later into my children’s lives. For every city, state, or country came new lessons—each adding to what felt true to me—and together they shaped my sense of taste and identity.

It helped that I always brought along my prized books, objects and art. They were the talismans that came with me everywhere. When I traveled, I collected more. I was determined to surround myself with meaningful iconography, and once I had my boys, I wanted them to understand its importance too.

My family-—my children-–have always been my metaphorical anchors. But my houses became homes through the assembly of objects that served as physical reminders of the people and things I loved. The objects grounded me; the travel inspired me; and both cultivated my curiosity and seeded my taste.

While living in London, I owned and was running a business in New York, so I commuted back and forth. My life was in overdrive—I was expanding my world and my worldview, including my taste, at a crazy fast speed. I met new people constantly.

I was immersed in different cultures, food, fashion and with it, all the accompanying traditions and etiquette. I was also expanding my interest in business, the arts, and my education about architecture, interior design and decoration.

Two pivotal parties would become lightning rods of design inspiration for me: My beloved mother-in-law Elisabeth, and Stephen and Paul— a couple I met in Central Park (only in New York). Each, in their own way, would become mentors.

I met Elisabeth during a snowstorm. She lived in Greenwich, Connecticut at the time. Somehow, we had made it out of the city as mounting snow was shutting it down. It was nightfall, and the markets were closing early, but she had somehow walked to the market and back, arriving home with groceries to make us a meal (which turned out to be wonderful, by the way). I was from Tennessee. We drove everywhere. I was gobsmacked that someone would walk to the market, let alone in a snowstorm.

There’s so much to say about Elisabeth, with many stories still to come. In short, she was all things educated, technical and skilled. Her knowledge ran deep and wide; we’d discuss philosophy or the Roman wars one moment, and how to use a foley to make applesauce the next—and you had to know which grating metric produced the smoothest sauce. She didn’t like chunks. She had a fascination with ribbons, writing papers, and fine linens, and a fire blazed in her kitchen hearth from morning til night during the winters.

Talk about a taste for the senses. I was intoxicated. Elisabeth was the epitome of the Ivy mind meeting the domestic intellect. She provided a rich education unlike anything I had ever experienced. She made me realize— true light bulb moment— that you could be smart and deeply connected to home, and that the two could become a profession. My time with Elisbeth set my life on a clear and directed path, turning passion into profession. It was the beginning of a journey that would develop my taste even further.

If Elisabeth was my scholarly-domestic mentor, Stephen and Paul were a design inspiration all their own. Invitations to their place in the Hamptons on the weekends were a first, a subversive experience in elegance and ease.

Stephen was an architect, who later became my business partner; Paul, an executive at Sotheby’s. Together, they were avid collectors who brought an almost curatorial precision to everything they touched. Their home was a master class in composition: every object seemed to have a story, a provenance, or a purpose, and my eye went wild.

They were also the first people to host me as a proper weekend guest, and that alone came with an entirely new education: what you brought as a host gift, when you awoke, how you engaged with other guests, and, of course, how you participated — antique shopping, helping in the kitchen, setting a table. Everything had structure, intention, and style.

Where Elisabeth taught me the depth of knowledge that inspired me to make a business out of home, Stephen and Paul taught me the choreography of it all — the technical skill of architecting a space and the art of living beautifully, down to the smallest gesture.

The anatomy of my taste wasn’t inherited, though I did inherit experiences that informed it. Real taste is acquired; it doesn’t hang in the balance of where you were born, the class you were born to, or how you were raised. Nothing ultimately defines or dictates your taste but you. You’ll have a million different influences over your lifetime. You just have to open your peripheral view — to the visual and sensory stimuli constantly telling you things. Just as we take a beat to breathe in order to relax, you’ve got to take a beat to absorb the world around you. In other words, be present.

All our stories, experiences, and lives are different. My childhood was normal to me, but likely unusual to many. Still, it was all I knew. Our view of the world is limited unless we have the good fortune — or the curiosity — to live fully in the moment, whether good or bad; to travel; and to intentionally expand ourselves to include new things that inspire and enrich us. I grew up in many homes, but they were filled with love. I wasn’t just comfortable in them — I grew confident in them. And in every single one, I cultivated my taste.

I hope to help you cultivate yours.