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Archive for the ‘Celebretis’ Category


The Palm Springs Spa Hotel, one of architect William F. Cody’s largest projects, has recently been returned to the Cahuilla Indians, whose land was originally leased for the project. The Modernist complex was specifically built in this location to make use of the natural hot springs that lay underneath the property. Donald A. Wexler and Richard A. Harrison designed the hotel’s Spa. The entrance is highlighted by a whimsical sculpture—a detail often employed by Cody to lighten up the severe nature of his architecture.


The Oasis Hotel and Tower was designed by Lloyd Wright, son of Frank Lloyd Wright, in 1925. The hotel and tower—scaling 40 feet—provided exclusive views of Palm Springs. The Moderne style was created from an innovative slip-form technique of molding concrete.


Marking the entrance to the city of Palm Springs, the Tramway Gas Station provides a hint of the architectural innovation that lay ahead. Designed by architect Albert Frey with Robson Chambers in 1965, the distinctive roof structure is a hyperbolic paraboloid of steel I-beams and corrugated metal roofing, a design that allows minimal need for support columns. The station has since been renovated with Frey’s collaboration.


The Tramway Upper Station, designed by Roger Williams and E. Stewart Williams (above, right, with artist O.E.L Graves), posed a difficult task for the architects: they were required to use materials that did not compromise the mountain environment. Large glass windows were installed for panoramic views of the valley below.


Built in 1966 by E. Stewart Williams, the structure is characterized by the distinctly Modernist roof and flowing concrete arches. The floating staircase, acting as the entrance, was removed when current tenant, Washington Mutual Bank, remodeled the building.


“The architecture grows out of the landscape and seems to continue into the desert for miles,” AD 100 designer Thad Hayes notes of the house Richard Neutra built for Edgar J. Kaufmann in Palm Springs, California. Neutra intended the house to be “a machine in the garden, juxtaposing foreign, man-made construction onto a natural setting.” (January 2001)


Composed of 1930s and ‘40s structures by architect Albert Frey, the Movie Colony Hotel in Palm Springs was recently made over. Architect Francisco J. Urrutia added the façade; landscape designer Andy Cao put in the cactuses. (October 2005)


More than 20 years after his death, Michael Taylor is still considered a pioneer. A Palm Springs-area house he designed displayed his love of ample light, neutral backgrounds and natural materials. Above: An earth-toned palette predominated in the library, which featured a large painting by Morris Louis, comfortable seating and travertine tables. Taylor created Chinese-style screens of ash—similar to those in his own dining room—that he hand-glazed to look like driftwood. (November 2007)


“I like the contrast between the machine-made materials and the rocks,” says Albert Frey of his Palm Springs house. “The straight lines bring out the drama of the hills.” Frey used low-cost materials, including corrugated metal and Formica, for the 1964 house, which “hasn’t been touched since it was built.” (July 1996)


The living room of Arthur Elrod’s Palm Springs, California, residence (also featured in the 1971 James Bond film Diamonds Are Forever). The room features ribbon chairs by Turner T and a mobile by Mimi Kornaza. Architecture by John Lautner, interior design by Arthur Elrod. (Spring 1970)

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Memoirs of a Geisha

The evocative movie Memoirs of a Geisha opened in American theaters last December, drawing crowds with its stylish depiction of a geisha’s life in pre-World War II Japan, earning itself a pair of Golden Globe nominations and provoking a mini-controversy about ethnicity in casting. But missing from discussion of the film, in which actresses of Chinese and Malaysian descent were cast as Japanese women, was the acknowledgment that Hollywood has always been perfectly happy to create its own alternatives to the real thing.

Indeed, when people speak of the fabled Hollywood magic, they’re often referring to the kind of exquisite fakery that has been fooling audiences ever since Cecil B. DeMille let the beaches of San Luis Obispo, California, stand in for the deserts of Egypt in his original version of The Ten Commandments. More than 80 years later, moviemakers are still among the world’s most expert illusionists, relentless in their pursuit of perfection. And they’re well aware that in an imperfect world, perfection is manufactured more often than it is found.

John Myhre, production designer for Memoirs of a Geisha, would have loved to film more of the project in the land of its setting, taking full advantage of the storybook scenery that the mere mention of Japan always brings to mind: fog-shrouded hills, commanding temples, delicate bridges that arch over winding rivers strewn with lotus blossoms. But upon arriving, he and his team made an important discovery.

“Everywhere you look, it’s advertisements, asphalt, power lines and satellite dishes on the tops of the houses,” he says. The Columbia Pictures movie, adapted from the best-selling 1997 novel by Arthur Golden, takes place in Kyoto’s hanamachi, or geisha district, and follows the transformation of the waifish Chiyo, sold by her father to an okiya (geisha house), into the beautiful Sayuri, the most desirable geisha in Japan. On another level, the movie is about the cultural and political changes that roiled the country during the 1930s, when most of the story takes place.

“We needed extraordinary control over the filming environment, and we knew we weren’t going to be able to achieve that kind of control if we shot in Japan,” Myhre adds. “What we found was that there’s just not much of 1930s Japan left.”

And so Myhre took lots of pictures (“about 200 a day,” he estimates, over the course of a monthlong visit), made lots of mental notes and then returned to California, where he and his crew of 150 set about re-creating prewar Kyoto in the suburban community of Thousand Oaks, just north of Los Angeles. “I had photographed anything that seemed unusual or unique: the cap of a roof, a shoji screen door, window details. And when it was time to come up with the drawings for our buildings, we drew on those pictures.”

Shooting schedules being what they are, Myhre had only about 14 weeks in which to build his slice of city. In that short amount of time, he and his team erected some 40 Japanese-style structures, most of them three stories tall; dug and filled a 250-foot-long river; and created five separate cobblestone streets, connecting them with alleyways. “It was really like making an old Hollywood film from the ’30s or ’40s, the kind they used to make at MGM,” he says, referring to the era when production designers were expected to fashion the entire land of Oz on a dusty studio backlot.

Though his thousands of photographs proved helpful in designing his Kyoto copy, Myhre needed more than snapshots to aid him in constructing the intimate interior world of Sayuri, the woman caught in a battle for top-geisha status with Hatsumomo, her conniving nemesis. “You can’t beat the book for inspiration,” he says of the novel, which spent two years on The New York Times’ best-seller list and has been translated into 32 languages. “It’s so visual. Reading it, I was transported to another place. Arthur Golden had done such a good job of describing this world; I wanted to represent it visually in a way that would give viewers the same experience I’d had as a reader.”

And so he asked the film’s producers if he might talk to the book’s author, not necessarily expecting that such a conversation would ever really take place. “Arthur Golden called me five minutes later,” Myhre says, still sounding surprised. “And then he sent me 66 pages of notes he’d taken” on the private realm of the geisha. “How they ate, how they moved, everything.”

When it was discovered that the traditional dances performed by geishas lacked the kineticism the filmmakers were after, they did what filmmakers have always done: They took liberties. Director Rob Marshall, who helmed countless Broadway musicals before going on to direct the Oscar-winning movie Chicago in 2002 (for which Myhre won an Academy Award for art direction), wanted to include a dynamic dance sequence that would capture the sensuousness and longing in Sayuri’s soul. The result was Sayuri’s dance, the most pivotal and expressive—if not the most historically authentic—scene in the movie.

“We had all had such a great time working on Chicago, and we were bursting with excitement to do a musical number,” says Myhre. “But a lot of geisha dances were just posing. So we borrowed from modern dance, and even from Kabuki theater. I found some Japanese flowers and took them to Rob; he loved them and said, ‘Let’s use these as the basis for the dance.’”

Some have quibbled over the dance’s contemporary stylization, just as some have quibbled over the casting decisions. But John Myhre isn’t making any excuses. Sayuri’s dance, which culminates in a violent storm of the very flower petals he first took to director Marshall, is visually spectacular. And clearly the casting department knew what it was doing: Ziyi Zhang, who plays Sayuri, was nominated for a Best Actress Golden Globe.

“Right from the beginning, Rob said we were making a fable, a fairy tale,” says Myhre. “Nobody wanted to make a museum re-creation. We wanted to tell an emotionally realistic story.”

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The Last Picture Show

It was the third of July on an important weekend, a sunny afternoon with a light breeze lifting the mingled aromas of spruce trees and sea mist off the glittering harbor in Rockland, Maine. Excited residents were lining up under the bright marquee of the Strand Theatre on Main Street to see The General, starring Buster Keaton. The silent film would have live musical accompaniment. The theater looked newly built. Tickets were 25 cents apiece.

What sounds like a time warp was Matt and Ellen Simmons’s dream come true—a ruined and abandoned single-screen movie theater, an atmospheric small-town picture palace, had been brought back to life and was back in business. The classic silent film and the two-bit admission were the Simmonses’ way of honoring the theater’s history—that was about what tickets had cost in 1923, when the Strand first opened, showing My Wild Irish Rose, starring Pat O’Malley and Pauline Starke.

The couple happened to be at a seminar on historic preservation in Savannah, Georgia, when the idea dawned. “We were hearing this lecture on how theaters were restored,” Matt Simmons remembers, and what struck him was that the restoration in most cases helped bring back confidence to the town, creating “new activities and growth,” he explains. “We said to ourselves, ‘This is what should happen in Rockland—someone should do this.’”

He had the Strand Theatre in mind. The Simmonses had started visiting the Maine coast in the 1980s, but from their first visit to Rockport, a few miles north of the town of Rockland, they were bewitched. “We got to the rental house, and after five minutes we said, ‘This is the prettiest place we’ve ever seen in our lives.’”

And the Strand became part of those lives. Having grown to love this part of the mid-Maine coast, the couple had seen movies at the Strand for years, depending on it for entertainment for themselves and their five daughters during rainy days on their summer vacations. The boarding up of the Strand was a sadness the Simmonses took personally.

Rockland began as a busy, working town, the terminus of the Maine Central Railroad Rockland Branch, first the producer and shipper of lime and then an important depot of the granite industry (many of New York’s landmark buildings are made from Maine granite). It is now the lobster capital of the world and home to the world-renowned Farnsworth Art Museum and many summer festivals.

“I’m proud of what’s happened in Rockland,” Matt Simmons says, and reflecting on this renewal brings the mild-mannered Utah-born investor and author of the recent Twilight in the Desert close to passion. “But boarding up a movie theater is just a billboard saying, ‘We’re a dying town.’ That galled me too. It’s an eyesore—like a dead body in the middle of the street.” Simmons got in touch with his lawyer in Rockland and said, “Find out who owns it.”

It turned out that the Strand had been bought and shut down by the same people who had built a generic multiplex just outside town. This real estate maneuver is actionable, something called “restraint of trade.” As Simmons explains it, “It’s illegal to shut something down in order to create a monopoly nearby for yourself.”

Under law, a new owner of the Strand would have to reopen it as a movie theater. Having restored a Mormon pioneer home in southern Utah (now on the National Register of Historic Places) near St. George, the Simmonses felt equal to the challenge. The family had also completed a new summer home in Rockport. If they decided to renovate the Strand, they had plenty of reliable workmen to call upon.

The purchase price for this near-ruin of a theater was small, Simmons says, “so incidental it should have been zero.” His mission from the beginning was to restore the Strand to its former glory. “We could have torn it down and put up a movie theater that looked like a movie theater—and it would have been way less expensive. But we think historical restoration is fabulous.”

In Simmons’s view, such restoration is American history reclaimed for generations to follow. “We knew that it would be expensive, but if you do it right, it’s really important.” Donna Daly, hired by the Simmonses to be the theater’s managing director and renovation coordinator, describes the Strand’s architectural style as “a mix of Art Déco and town hall.” It was not a dazzling movie house like those Simmons had seen in Santa Fe or elsewhere, but it was an important theater, one of the first in Maine, central to the town and a local landmark.

“But it had been built on a shoestring,” Simmons says. His trusted project manager, from many generations of Maine masons, examined the façade bricks and said, “I know bad bricks when I see them.” Their poor quality had plagued the theater for years, because they were so porous they leaked. But if Simmons could not prove to the Maine Historic Preservation Commission that at least 50 percent of the bricks in the final building were original, he could not claim it as an authentic restoration project, and it would not qualify for a 20 percent tax credit.

The façade bricks were unsuitable, even unsafe, and “would have been the wrong way to do it.” Refusing to compromise, and hoping to create a test case for historic preservation, Simmons pressed on. “Once we said we were not going to use the old bricks, the Maine Historic Preservation Commission wrote us off and showed no further interest. But I’m determined to use this as an example, so that 40 other people don’t have the same thing happen to them. If we can change the national law, that will really be exciting.”

Apart from the inferior bricks, many other aspects of the Strand have been preserved or reproduced—the seats that were added in the 1950s were repainted and reupholstered; the rusting stamped-tin ceiling was copied exactly; and the original green shade of paint was used throughout. A new first floor serves as a museum of the Strand’s history, and the popcorn machine is state of the art. Under Donna Daly’s direction, the films are a mix of both popular and art house, and the Strand is now home to the Rockland area’s classical music, the Bay Chamber Concerts.

The restoration cost three times what Simmons had imagined, but he was not deterred by the expense. His object was lofty in the extreme. “I’d like to restore the old Saturday matinee and have grandparents bringing their grandchildren,” he remarks. “Our goal is for people to come and see a movie and leave saying, ‘Wow, that was fun!’?”

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Gone With the Wind

Scarlett O’Hara (Vivien Leigh) in front of Tara, the genteel plantation house that, in 1939, became a screen legend in and of itself. Despite its weathered appearance, the house was an elaborate façade, built on a studio lot.


Citizen Kane

Xanadu, the castle in Orson Welles’s 1941 film, exudes a ghostly grandeur. Larger-than-life figures hover above Raymond (Paul Stewart), left, and Jerry Thompson (William Alland) in the central hall.


Mr. Blandings Builds His Dream House

A picture-perfect Colonial-style house is the focus of the 1948 comedy starring Cary Grant and Myrna Loy as a couple who endure the trials and tribulations of building a dream house of their own.


Sunset Boulevard

In Billy Wilder’s 1950 classic, Gloria Swanson, as the delusional Norma Desmond, and William Holden, as writer Joe Gillis, dance together in her disquieting Sunset Boulevard mansion.


Rebecca

Manderley, the haunted house in Alfred Hitchcock’s 1940 screen adaptation of the novel.


Rebecca

Maxim de Winter (Laurence Olivier) and his second wife (Joan Fontaine) greet the staff in the entrance hall.

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The Aviator

I have to be like a chameleon,” says Dante Ferretti, “and jump from one place and one period to another. I don’t want to just copy a period—I want to live in it.” In the past two decades Ferretti, a production designer with seven Oscar nominations to his credit, has lived in medieval Italy (The Name of the Rose), the South of the Civil War (Cold Mountain; see Architectural Digest, March 2004), modern Manhattan (Meet Joe Black; see Architectural Digest, April 1998), 19th-century Manhattan (The Age of Innocence and Gangs of New York) and 20th-century Tibet (Kundun). Though he is Italian—his mentors were two of Italy’s greatest directors, Pier Paolo Pasolini and Federico Fellini—for his most recent picture Ferretti has resided in what might be called his spiritual home: Hollywood during its golden age.

Scheduled for release during the holidays, Martin Scorsese’s The Aviator, which cost a staggering $110 million to make, is what the movie trades call a biopic—the sprawling saga of one of Hollywood’s favorite characters, Howard Hughes. Rich, handsome, brilliant and increasingly deranged, Hughes has been irresistible to scriptwriters and directors alike, as can be seen in such films as The Carpetbaggers (1964), The Amazing Howard Hughes (1977) and Melvin and Howard (1980). Now it is the turn of Scorsese and Leonardo DiCaprio, who plays Hughes during the two most dramatic decades of his life, from 1927 to 1947.

The film begins in California, where the young Hughes, fresh from Texas, decides he has what it takes to direct a movie and soon makes one of the era’s best, Hell’s Angels (1930). As fascinated by aviation as he is by the movies, he then proceeds to design and fly his own models, own a controlling interest in an airline (TWA) and build the world’s biggest airplane, a flying boat that the press irreverently dubs the Spruce Goose. (That mammoth machine, which was hidden from the public until Hughes’s death, now roosts in a museum in McMinnville, Oregon.) Along the way he finds time to create two movie stars, Jean Harlow and Jane Russell, and romance several others, most notably Katharine Hepburn and Ava Gardner.

If the depiction of such an outsize figure was a challenge for DiCaprio, Scorsese and scriptwriter John Logan, the recreation of the period, or periods, was no less a challenge for Ferretti and a team that included his wife, set decorator Francesca LoSchiavo, a five-time Oscar nominee. Most of Ferretti’s other films were set in either a distant past or a distant location. The Aviator is set in a place and time familiar to most moviegoers. “We had to be very accurate, very believable, because many people know the period,” says Ferretti, “and I think we were. Martin was happy with what we did. I’ve done six movies with him. Now he trusts me.”

“I am by nature a perfectionist, and I seem to have trouble allowing anything to go through in a half-perfect condition.” Those are Howard Hughes’s own words, but they might just as well have been spoken by two other perfectionists, Scorsese and Ferretti. Before beginning production, Scorsese presented Ferretti with research books and archival photographs, along with an explanation of exactly how he wanted the movie to look, right down to the camera angles. Ferretti continued from there. “I like to think like somebody in the period,” he explains. “I’m a little like an actor. I change personality. This for me is the best way to work.”

In The Aviator, key scenes take place in one of Hollywood’s most glamorous nightclubs, that Moroccan fantasy called the Cocoanut Grove. Although the Grove has gone the way of many of the movie world’s landmarks, Ferretti and LoSchiavo were able to get a measure of its size by visiting the vast room it once occupied in Los Angeles’s Ambassador Hotel. Armed with that knowledge and stacks of photographs, they then worked round the clock for four weeks to re-create the original on a soundstage in Montreal, where most of the film’s interior scenes were shot. “A phenomenal scene,” is how DiCaprio describes his—Hughes’s—first entrance into the club. “Women are on swings overhead, pheasant goes by on a waiter’s tray, the band starts to play, people are drunk and dancing, a whole society is celebrating, and this young god of the industry is coming in to take over.”

Other important scenes are set in the Manhattan office of Hughes’s rival, Juan Trippe, head of Pan Am Airways—Alec Baldwin plays the sleek and smooth-talking Trippe. For that lavish Art Déco interior, as well as for the interiors of Hughes’s and Hepburn’s houses in California, Lo Schiavo moved a good part of Los Angeles to Montreal. “I felt everything had to be really authentic,” she says. “Hughes was one of the richest men in America. We couldn’t decorate his house and office with props, so I worked for three months in Los Angeles rounding up the very best objects, furniture, painting, fabrics and antiques.”

An architect as well as a designer—he built homes for Pasolini and the Italian novelist Alberto Moravia—Ferretti also constructed in Montreal a replica of the front and forecourt of Hollywood’s Grauman’s Chinese Theatre, where Hell’s Angels had its premiere in 1930. “My God!” one of the producers gasped. “You’ve made it full size!” No, he hadn’t, Ferretti calmly replied. He had made it one foot larger than the Hollywood Boulevard original. “My megalomania,” Ferretti laughs.

For production designers, particularly designers of epics like The Aviator, megalomania is not only a virtue, it is a necessity. How else could Ferretti, in 12 short weeks, have designed and built nightclubs, mansions and movie theaters, not to mention the largest airplane that ever took wing? “My only problem is how much time I have to prepare,” says Ferretti. “I never have enough. It’s always a miracle, but we’re always ready—even if it’s five minutes before shooting.”

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Designing Films: The Art Déco Years

The world Hollywood movies projected on-screen in the mid-to late 1920s and throughout the 1930s was of lavish, glamorous rooms (many bordering on the fantastic), of sharply defined geometric designs and of concrete monoliths that rose to the heavens and tore into the sky. These movies were inhabited by the likes of Jean Harlow in clinging white satin or Ginger Rogers shedding the fanciful feathers of a ball gown as she danced across a vast black-marble floor and came down what seemed like hundreds of spiraling steps on Fred Astaire’s tuxedoed arm.

Movie star homes of that period often reflected the images on the screen. Magazines published photographs of the grandest of them, among which was the mansion of Hollywood’s top art director, Cedric Gibbons, and his exotic actress wife, Dolores Del Rio (see Architectural Digest, April 1992). Handsome enough to have been a movie star, Gibbons was head of the art department at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. No other art director so greatly imposed his own taste upon the films he designed. We now call it Art Déco, but it was known then as Art Moderne.

Using two main colors—black and white—art directors, costume designers and lighting experts worked together to create a many-hued variety.

Gibbons had attended the 1925 Paris Exposition Internationale des Arts Décoratifs et Industriels Moderne, an event that radically affected Hollywood set design. He brought back with him many of the room designs he had seen there and incorporated them into his MGM films. Several art directors who preceded him had used the Moderne style, but their sets had a futuristic look that persisted in designs for the 1930s serials such as Flash Gordon and Buck Rogers. Gibbons’s designs were idealized images of the homes of the rich, much enjoyed by a country that fell into the despair of the Great Depression. With times glum and money sparse, millions flocked yearly to movie palaces to escape the daily economic pressures, be entertained and renew their dreams of better times.

The style can be traced to before World War I, when the Deutsche Werkbund established a charter to further the interrelationship between artists and industry. The war dissolved this movement. Postwar, the French resurrected it. American designers were latecomers, but Gibbons was onto something.

Gibbons’s style, which swept many other fine art directors up in its path, took full root in the late 1920s. Talkies were in their infancy; movies were black-and-white. Enter: the silver screen. Art directors, costume designers and lighting experts worked together to create a many-hued variety with these two colors. In 1933 Gibbons draped platinum-haired Jean Harlow in white satin in a room dominated by wide expanses of white to bedazzle an audience in Dinner at Eight, and Greta Garbo, the beautiful, mysterious Swedish Sphinx, dressed in sheaths of white, mesmerized them as she wandered through his bizarre sets in her early films. There were fantastic chiaroscuro designs for the 1932 film Grand Hotel, featuring a superb revolving-door entranceway and a lavish lobby that became icons of Hollywood’s Art Déco style. Gibbons even adapted his talents to stars’ residences. His most exotic design was for romantic movie idol Ramon Novarro, who insisted that his dinner guests wear black, white and silver, in keeping with the color scheme.

Van Nest Polglase, head of RKO’s art department, had a strong influence on the studio’s design. But there were others, notably Carroll Clark, Perry Ferguson and Allan Abbott, who contributed greatly—although propagating Polglase’s style.

One cannot talk about the Art Déco years of the silver screen without including the masterful works of Richard Day (The Dark Angel), William Cameron Menzies (The Thief of Bagdad), Merrill Pye, Anton Grot, Ben Carré, Charles D. Hall and Hans Dreier (who won three Academy Awards—one for 1950’s Sunset Boulevard—in a career that spanned three decades).

When glorious Technicolor gained popularity in the late 1930s, the silver screen came to an end. With the advent of color, Art Déco style slowly went out of fashion, to be revived only in period films or pastiches of the era.

There are many explanations of how Americans survived the Depression—the prevailing one being that they were sustained by their great fortitude and their belief in government. But there is credence to the theory that the innovative art directors of the period are at least in some way responsible. Re-viewing those movies on a classic-movie channel can, in fact, still carry one away to a beautiful world of shimmering silver and clouds of white.

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On an island off the coast of Maine, actors John Travolta and Kelly Preston have a vacation house that serves as a base for their extended families’ holiday gatherings.


Tudor Revival elements—the entrance portico and the diamond windows—distinguish the facade of the 1903 Shingle Style residence.


“John and Kelly come to Maine to relax,” says designer Christopher B. Boshears. “The house had to be comfortable, but the structure demanded elegance.”


Photos of the couple and their son, Jett, are in the living room. Large silver box from John Rosselli.


Boshears’s goal “was to bring to life the feeling of an English country house,” he says.“I combined linen draperies, damasks and velvet upholstery fabrics with a variety of furnishings.” A seating area has an English chest. Brunschwig & Fils chintz. Karastan carpet.


Travolta—whose next film, The General’s Daughter, comes out this summer—wanted to use the reception hall as an informal gathering space. Brunschwig & Fils sofa chenille with Cowtan & Tout fringe; Robert Allen velvet onclub chairs; Schumacher carpet.


“Many guests now find it their favorite place to relax,”Boshears remarks. At the far end,a William IV rosewood pedestal table displays a pair of Edwardian mahogany book stands. The door beyond opens onto the rear deck. Houlès drapery trim.


“Because they occasionally like to have meals served in their bedroom, I placed a table in front of the fireplace.” Pratesi bed linens; Tiffany’s desk clock; Patterson, Flynn & Martin needlepoint carpet; Brunschwig & Fils table skirt; Clarence House drapery fabric.


Travolta, who collects automobiles and airplanes—he pilots a Learjet and three Gulfstream jets and recently acquired a Boeing 707—keeps a 1977 Rolls-Royce in the carriage house. Atop the cupola is an airplane weathervane.


The secluded house is flanked by a forest on one side and blueberry fields on another. “They both cherish the peace and solitude,” Boshears observes. The split rear deck looks toward the ocean. Stone steps lead to a swimming pool.

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