Little within his home has been assembled to a rigid plan, a fact that was once pointed out to him publicly, and by someone qualified to notice. “I remember, maybe ten years or so ago, I was living out on a farm in central west New South Wales. It was a beautiful spring morning, and I looked across my living room which was painted a deep shade of blue, and the Gio Ponti chairs were there and some Gaetano Pesce things and so on, and I just took a picture and posted it to Instagram.
“And a then-rising but now renowned interior designer, who might be called David Flack, posted ‘nice pieces’ in response. And what he meant was, dude, you’ve got some great stuff, but nothing works together.”
“Dave was spot-on, and I kind of take that as a badge of honour.” Stephen laughs, explaining that the things he gathers are chosen for reasons he doesn’t try to account for, or particularly want to.
They speak “to something weird about my own psyche,” as he puts it. Some pieces have accrued value over the years, but that was never the reason they were acquired. His identity as a non-nostalgic person comes in handy too, for someone who’s moved as often as he has. “I’m not attached to place. Things travel with me, with all of us. And so they incarnate a moment in time.” Those moments have included twenty years in Paris, several in New York, the farm, and now Alexandria; a home intimate enough that it demanded clarity on what came and what stayed behind.











