“I ‘m a maximalist,” says Neil G., seated on an armless purple club chair, surrounded by futuristic, museum-quality Italian lamps. A display case on the coffee table houses pieces from his collection of antique grand tour souvenirs—replicas of famous sculptures and such, from the days when no upper-class education was complete without a trek through the cultural capitals of Europe.
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Neil’s parents were collectors. “It’s in my DNA,” he says. From a young age he filled his life with coins, stamps, trading cards—the stuff young boys typically collect—and his interests gradually evolved. His one-bedroom Lakeview apartment is a candy store for the eyes, showcasing pop art, giant plaster busts, plush patterned fabrics, psychedelic lighting—and a convex mirror so he can look at it all twice.
“The big painting of the groovy gal I found on eBay about ten years ago. It’s dated 1971 and signed ‘Vernon,’ an otherwise unknown artist. It was purchased as a rolled and unframed canvas. The American WWII general is another piece of original illustration artwork that might have been used to accompany a magazine article.”
