Trade Secrets

As Tom Cruise begins filming Rock of Ages in New York this spring, droves of idling extras will be pondering an all-consuming question: is the ageless actor wearing shoe lifts, as he was purported to have done while married to Nicole “now I can wear heels again” Kidman? Before we explain what this juicy query has to do with design here in New England, fly like a crow 187 miles due north to Wilson Farm in Lexington, Massachusetts, where the local Audubon chapter is showing off Squeaky the owl.

Picture it: three boys playing tag in a wide alley. They dart between garbage cans and cardboard boxes, hiding in long, late-afternoon shadows. “Home!” cries a blond tyke. Breaking away from the others, he gloms on to a utility pole, embracing the boys’ base as though it were the last marble column left standing in the sack of Rome. “Home . . . safe!” If only that deep sense of safety were so easy to come by for us grown-ups. What makes us feel safe, like we’re truly home? We often hear people say, “This place is my sanctuary”—the adult equivalent of that utility pole in the alley.

Remember way back in June: the loose knots of beautiful design people gathering at South Boston’s Artists for Humanity Epicenter, the snap-to-it parking valet rushing to meet and greet, the bare-shouldered bar-tenderess stirring up blueberry tart cocktails courtesy of Cold River Vodka in Maine, more intermingling throngs, more air-kisses, the streamers of buttery-yellow orchids by Winston? Many remember. And along with such spirit and good-feeling that uplifted us at this publication’s 5 Under 40 party, we also recall sadness this summer.

“Run, it’s the Client from Hell,” says the meticulous young draughtsman to the office assistant. The Client from Hell breezes by them to corner a bow-tied gent we shall call Edmund S., the firm’s principle. E.S., as he’s known on Cape Cod and in Westport, Connecticut, wears a goatee with a purposeful Mephistophelean air. “Everything must go!” the client says. “It’s just awful. I need you to get rid of it.” E.S. raises an eyebrow, more amused than angry.