In New York, people generally end up with the real estate they deserve. Creative directors of dubious talent settle in over-renovated Tribeca lofts, bankers form rookeries in glass apartment towers that look just like their offices, solitary artists hoard good light in their vast studios, and cash-strapped eccentrics button themselves into improbably nice apartments with huge terraces overlooking the park, causing all who visit to ask, How on earth did you find this place? (What they really mean to ask is: How can you afford to live here?)
Whether this is the result of self-determination or New York’s unfailing hand of fate is one of the city’s great mysteries. Regardless, you can tell a lot about a person from where he or she spends their days. And that’s how one begins to understand that Paolo Martorano isn’t just a tailor but a seriously good tailor, of the variety you’d find on Savile Row, in London, or down some ancient Neapolitan street. In such places, florescent light and the sour smell of freshly steamed wool—telltale signs of the trade—are presumed but well hidden.
