I’m not an architect—but my ex was. My former partner taught me more about cantilevers, concrete and, er, collecting fees than I ever expected to know as he interpreted his clients’ visions into built designs. And for what it’s worth, my mother once dated the pioneering architect Paul Rudolph in her debutante days (finally conceding he was gay long before she did with me). Nevertheless, between friendship, osmosis and family lore, I’ve developed a deep appreciation for how architects express themselves, especially when the client is themselves, with a space that reflects their obsessions, experiments and identity. Philip Johnson had…
