Here is a transcription of r87's article:
TOO seldom does reality, for most of us, measure up to the esthetic ideal. Not so, however, in the case of Martin J. Davidson. Indeed, he makes no bones about it: “I want nothing but the best,” he says. “And I have it.” Mr. Davidson, 34 years old, is slim and fashionably bearded. A Brooklyn High School graduate who attended art school at night and by the age of 27 owned his own graphics design business, he has been moving as fast and as emphatically as a 20‐hour work day and a handful of successful tax shelters will permit.
“I want to be rich, famous and have the best of everything,” he says. “My goal is to be a millionaire before I'm 37.”
Unabashedly immodest (“I am the original arrogant Aries”), Mr. Davidson maintains that between his business and his venture capital deals, he will realize his aim. “I live the American dream,” he declares. The dream, as interpreted by Mr. Davidson, has specific contours that include being known “as one of Barney's top three customers,” being able to dine at restaurants where he is known to the headwaiter, owning a new Cadillac limousine (burgundy with gray upholstery) outfitted with all the extras and, finally, owning the exactly right apartment. And what else but a loft would be right for a graphics designer who wants to be in the forefront of design?
The completion of his apartment is all but done. After spending $150,000 – instead of an estimated $35,000 because of his aversion to anything “less than the best” – Mr. Davidson lacks only a dining room table and chairs, which will be delivered shortly.
“The total concept was mine,” said the designer;surveying the results of a 17‐month process during which he fired his architect (“my ex‐friend and architect, whose name shall remain anonymous”) and hired a contractor, who completed the 4,100square‐foot job in three months. “He is John LaBarca and he delivers, which is rare,” Mr. Davidson said.
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Everything in the apartment but the original maple floor is white. Not merely white, but flawlessly bump‐free and crack. free white. This is to show off Mr. Davidson's art collection, which includes 14 Viarhols, one Man Ray and one Claes Olden. berg. Along the ceiling runs a cocky red air‐conditioning duct that brings to mind the decorative bravado of Paris's Centre National d'Art et de Culture Georges Pompidou, popularly known as Beaubourg.
There are almost no interior walls. The exception is a spanking white laundry room and two jet‐black tile bathrooms. One, 18 by 18 feet, is the size of a small studio, containing a sauna, shower stall, Jacnzzi, bidet, double sinks and a walk‐in medicine cabinet.
Besides a mirrored exercise space with an elaborate weight‐lifting apparatus, a kitchen that looks like a grouping of Brancusi sculptures, 120 feet of vertical blinds and seemingly unlimited closets (“There is so much closet space, friends want to know if they can rent some”), there are two free‐standing laminated monoliths that contain beds, closets, storage space and serve as bedrooms.
One is for Mr. Davidson's two children, Derek, 11 years old, and Erica, 8, who come to visit every other weekend. The other is for himself and Dawn F. Bennett, a singer whom Mr. Davidson met one weekend two years and eight months ago, sent roses to the following Monday and has been living with ever since.
“Marty is the original self‐made man,” said Miss Bennett. Born and raised in Hawaii, the diminutive, 28year‐old singer noted that Mr. Davidson had taken her 5‐foot‐2‐inch size into consideration when deciding on counter and shelf heights. Her contribution to the apartment, she said, besides “moral support and batting things back and forth” was a vocal interest in how things ought to be in the kitchen.