![]() “I like to be on top of things,” he explained.Įach pair of guests at the Night Heron is sponsored by a previous pair: the invitations, at two hundred and fifty dollars per couple, are issued in the form of a pocket watch and a phone number to call for instructions. (He dabbles in origami.) His favorite projects involve heights. He has a handlebar mustache and wore a fedora and a tailcoat with an intricately folded pink silk pocket square. ![]() Austin, a slight thirty-one-year-old with a passing resemblance to Marcel Proust, waited at the top of the ladder to greet his guests. A spinet became the bar, where a cluster of purple tulips rested in a lab jar alongside a handmade sign: “Warning-No Trespassing.” The effect was like being inside a candlelit sauna. Austin, describes his work as “transgressive placemaking.” He built the interior fixtures from three deconstructed pianos. Since February, more than seven hundred visitors had climbed a ladder up through a trapdoor into the belly of the water tower, which housed the Night Heron speakeasy. Dirby pointed up to one such tower directly above their heads. What do you see?” Three couples obediently looked out from the roof of a decrepit eleven-story building in lower Manhattan, which they had entered illegally, by night, with the help of a nattily dressed guide named Dirby.
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