Is Julian Schnabel's big, pink Palazzo Chupi in the West Village so sleepy that the doormen are giving tours to any old passerby? That and more blasphemous rumors from Sunnyside Gardens, Dumbo, and Park Slope in today's boroughs report.
That's a whole $8 million more than the couple got for Shiloh! Is it because there's two of them or because of inflation? Plus: Citigroup's seven-point plan for saving itself, the Palazzo Chupi triplex goes on sale, and other things that make you go hmmm, in our daily roundup of media, finance, real-estate and law news.
Richard Gere has put his apartment in Julian Schnabel's Palazzo Chupi on the market, private-equity execs come down to earth, Sam Zell continues to be wacky, and Jeff Zucker and Harvey Weinstein fight like a couple of queens over 'Project Runway' in our daily roundup of real-estate, finance, media and law news.
Well, someone is getting fancy. Julian Schnabel has hired Brown Harris Stevens, the hoity real-estate brokers that market big-time rich-people properties like 15 Central Park West, to sell the remaining units of his pink palace, the Palazzo Chupi (above). Sure, this makes sense, since the condos are in the range of $27–$32 million, but when we heard it we were a little disapointed, since it doesn't really jibe with the Schnab's bohemian, pajamas-wearing style. Except! Max Abelson over at Observer tells us the agents he picked are virtual neophytes: a sales associate named Debra Ortega, whose son his sons met at camp who has never actually had her own listing, and Paddington M. Zwigard, an agent who has never sold an apartment over $10 million, whom we imagine Schnabel chose for her awesome name. See, the Schnab is all about people and the feelings he gets from people, not stuffy stuff like credentials. “I think what he wants is a community that’s comparable to his lifestyle,” Ortega told the Observer, “someone he would feel keen about being neighbors with. I don’t think he’s going to judge if you’re a banker or artist or a top global realtor.” What about money? Does he judge you if you don't have enough to actually buy in the Palazzo? Because that wouldn't really jibe with his bohemian style, either. Maybe he should think about that and about the bloggers who really deserve to be in his community. We're just saying.
Schnabel’s Palazzo Goes Mainstream With $59 M. in Broker Listings [NYO]
Because Daily Intel's pursuit of all things Schnabel is not bound by geography or actually, gravity, we asked Berlin-based reporter Lawrence Ferber to corner Madonna at the Berlin Film Festival this week, where she was promoting the film she directed, Filth and Wisdom, and ask her why she had rejected the Chupi of our dreams. Here is his report:
"What a strange question!" Madonna laughed when we asked her about the Palazzo Chupi. So we laughed too, like "Ha-ha-ha-ha, we're not psycho." "How did you know that?" she asked. Er, we have our ways. Madge confirmed she had looked at the Chupi and decided not to move in. But not, it turned out, for fear of seeing a Schnaked Schnabel slipping into the swimming pool. "I love the house," she explained. "But it's not child-friendly, which is why I didn't end up moving there." Also, she was able to iron out the issues she was having with her co-op board at Harperly Hall. I bought the apartment upstairs, so now everything's A-OK," she said. She and Schnabel will continue to be friends. "I love [Julian]," she gushed. "He's awesome." We think so too! Maybe we can all be friends! Madge? —Lawrence Ferber
This may be hard for you to believe since we at Intel are clearly deeply fulfilled by our work, but there are days when we say to ourselves, Selves? Why did we not go into investment banking? Because a life of pounding the pavement and speaking truth to power may be noble, but it's not gonna get us to the Palazzo Chupi. Yes, today the remaining two units of Julian Schnabel's pink West Village Palace, having been rejected by Bono, then by Madonna, went on the market. The views (river and harbor, from various terraces), amenities (pool, parking, access to the Schnabe), and schnabulous details (cast-bronze door handles, stone fireplaces, cast-stone railings, beamed ceilings, terra-cotta tile floors) put the price at $27 million (for the duplex) and $32 million (for the triplex). Our rudimentary math skills (another reason we're not bankers) indicate that it will take us somewhere between 400 and 700 years to save up for our chunk of Chupi. Until then, we can only dream, and moon over the pictures after the jump.
The list of reasons why we love Julian Schnabel are many and varied — he is large and hairy, but has a funny Mickey Mouse voice; he constructed a large pink castle in the middle of the city and named it Palazzo Chupi; he can often be found in pajamas and sometimes a skirt; he has more progeny than we can keep track of; he appears to have no filter whatsoever. Perhaps most importantly, he is one of a diminishing number of personalities from an era when New York City, even on its worst days, felt like more than just a collection of Duane Reades and bank branches clustered on a chunk of concrete. And now we add to our list an exchange from the Daily Telegraph's profile of the Schnab, which we have transcribed below.
Schnabel: I kid around a lot. I have a lot of fun. But most people don't have a sense of humor.… And then I read in this other thing that I was name-dropping all the time. Well it just so happens that the people I know are famous. You know, they work in the movies with me. They're my friends. It's like if I said… What's your name? Reporter: (Thinks: My name? We have been talking for the past two hours.) Mick. Schnabel: Mick what? Reporter: Mick Brown. Schnabel: Okay, so I could say I was talking to Mick Brown the other day — I might well say that. (His tone sounds doubtful.) But they might not know who Mick Brown is. Reporter: (Thinks: Maybe they will after I become famous for murdering a famous artist/director.)
So this weekend we finally read Andrew Corsello's profile of Julian Schnabel in the current issue of GQ, in which the two gigantic personalities ride around the Hamptons in La Schnabe's newly purchased 1975 Eldorado, eating and farting and picking at themselves. Other than not being online, much is wonderful about the piece, but our favorite part is the description of Schnabel's tubby magnificence, which we've faithfully, and perhaps illegally, transcribed for your pleasure:
I only now register the absurdity of what he's wearing: Slippers, a blue-and-gray checked wraparound skirt that may or may not be a old tablecloth, and a grubby white vest, unbuttoned, that may or may not be Naugahyde and may or may not have been part of a three-piece suit worn by Don Johnson in a Miami Vice episode. His belly, ample, ruddy with sun, parts and displaces the flaps of the vest so that they hang to the sides, putting on glorious display the salt-and-pepper Afghans that are his chest and back hair. Look at him, the bear on the outside and the satyr on the inside. Is this a man capable of making a movie with the word butterfly in the title? The look of a man capable of making a movie as powerful as The Diving Bell and the Butterfly — powerful not only in the sense of exalted emotions, but in the way it takes your assumptions about what movies are for, assumptions so fundamental you aren't even aware you have them, and turns them inside out? No. This is the look of a man living off the dregs of a modest fortune made in the 1970s publishing a magazine called Heavy Shaggin'