When he signs letters and contracts, his oversized capitals tower over the rest of his signature. Some find his abruptness a bit much; others find his frankness refreshing. His routine is what makes him so productive, and he’d be lost without his assistant, although he’d never admit it. Structure is meaning: he has no time for woolly thinking, meetings with no agenda, and pointless chat.
He respects tradition. He likes jackets that showcase proper tailoring but hates looking retro; He thinks the project of modernism is far from over. Home is sparsely furnished and spotless, his shiny white desk as uncluttered as the one at the office, identically laid out with screen, keypad, filing tray, HB pencil and leather-bound notebook arranged in a strict grid; the technology in both locations is regularly updated. He has never lost his keys, ever, and he’s not sure why he’s so proud of the fact. He loves cars – although he has never owned anything made after 1979, and will always wear gloves at the steering wheel, in the same way a museum curator does when handling sacred texts. He loves speed and drives too fast, and feels the need to rationalise the rush it gives him by pointing out that he is never, ever late.
