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Fantasia. Movie Producer Sam Spiegel hired Architect Edward Stone (TIME cover, March 31, 1958) to build a glossy Park Avenue duplex penthouse. With the help of his wife Maria, Stone turned the place into a never-never land of white marble, pink silk, Turkish lamps and other assorted fixtures of Cinemascopic proportions. The sunken marble tub is merely outsize; the master's bed looks roughly like a polo field covered in cardinal red velvet. Like all dedicated cinemagnates, Spiegel has his own home-projection facilities. The wide screen is hidden behind curtains. When he wants to put on a private screening, Spiegel presses a button, and two paintings—a Rouault and a Picasso—slide aside to reveal the projectionist's peepholes.
Back at the Ranch. The West Side apartment of Textile Manufacturer Benjamin Heller strikes some as an art gallery with a bed. Huge paintings by Pollock, Rothko. Newman and other abstractionists, as well as Greek and African sculptures and pre-Columbian potteries, loom everywhere—in the living room and kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. Because action painters feel a compulsion to paint big, Heller kept the apartment free of cornices, architectural decoration and ornamental bric-a-brac whose fussy detail would clash with the large-scale paintings. But, insists Collector Heller, "the idea that our apartment was built around an art gallery is a total misconception. It is a home, and paintings look best in a home. We were solely interested in creating an atmosphere in which art would look best." The living room was "somewhat of a problem. You can't sit along a wall and enjoy art.'' So the modern, clean-lined furniture was grouped in the center, affording views all around. Says Heller: "We think of our apartment as a ranch-home on the tenth floor."
Picasso on Park Avenue. The Heller solution was. in effect, to let the paintings take over the apartment. Victor Ganz, manufacturer of costume jewelry, found a different answer for his 13-room Park Avenue apartment. The Ganzes own America's biggest private collection of Picassos, and called in Designer Robsjohn-Gibbings to find a way to keep the Picassos from overpowering the rooms. Robsjohn-Gibbings and Mrs. Ganz selected massive pieces of authentic Italian Renaissance and Spanish Gothic furniture, mixed them with 17th century English chairs, created a remarkably effective multi-century effect that recognizes Picasso's presence but does not succumb to him altogether.
A. Matter of Esthetics. On a more modest scale, Architect Gordon Bunshaft, chief designer for Skidmore, Owings & Merrill, also had a problem with paintings. His were Picasso, Miro, Modigliani, Dubuffet, and they all had to be fitted into his five-room rental apartment on East 66th Street. He chose "neutral" furnishings "to let the paintings do the coloring." To create more space, Bunshaft removed a wall separating the entranceway from the dining area. His TV set is placed behind a sliding Dubuffet, and from behind a Miro comes the sound of his hi-fi speaker. By using stainless steel, Formica and marble, and by keeping the place uncluttered, Mrs. Bunshaft cuts cleaning chores to a minimum.