Rudy moved to Miami for the first time in 2000; I was still in New York, though I commuted down as often as I could. In 2012, Rudy’s work took us back and, shortly after we arrived, he found an extraordinary 1930s bungalow on a quiet island in Biscayne Bay, just a few bridges away from Miami Beach. The house was as strange as could be. I reacted as viscerally to it as I had to the flat in London—this place inspired tears, too, but not of happiness. Mostly my displeasure was due to the putrid stench. More than thirty cats had lived with the sickly hoarder owner who’d preceded us. Still, beneath the piles of boxes overflowing with yellowing newspapers, Rudy and I saw an idiosyncratic gem. Its bedrooms and bathrooms radiated like spokes from a central hub of an oval great room. The layout was bizarre —anomalous enough, really, that I still have a hard time picturing it in my mind—but I firmly believe that the best design comes from working within imposed limits rather than forcing a space to try and accommodate creature comforts that you can almost certainly live without.
