Good morning, Wednesday. I'm amazed that I'm sitting here awake at 6 am in LA, and the last thing I want to do is work out. I usually get up early here and go to the gym or go for a run, but those days are over, and until I'm done with these projects my body is going to turn into a potato- my big plan is to get back to that dungeony New York Sports Club on my corner when I have a break over the holidays and get back in the swing of things. It's proving challenging as I can't get my head in the game for some reason. Finding the whole thing incredibly boring and would rather be doing pretty much anything else. Plus, I lose weight when I stop going to the gym. I'm weird, I know.
So I'm here in LA, a city I find enticing in so many ways but ultimately too weird in many others. We are doing a photoshoot on location here, and the two houses we shot in yesterday were simply amazing. The first one was pretty much right under the Hollywood sign, up Beachwood and smack dab in the middle of paradise. The house was a midcentury theme park- if you like Eames or Saarinen or clean lines, I'm not sure you could take it. I have never felt the way I felt when I walked into this house- sure I've been in nice homes, but this one literally took me somewhere. To a place where David, Khan, and I wanted to live. There was a pool in the back, the views from every room were unobstructed and gorgeous of LA, and the enormous glass windows made the house feel so very open, and the concrete tile floors gave it just the right amout of chill, with wooden pieces from crendenzas to the oval Eames table to the all white bedding in each room .If I lived in that house, I would never leave. You would come to me for parties, to show me the latest fashion, to have coffee and chat about how we almost got into an accident with Nicole Richie (omg it was so her) coming down Beachwood and why in hell she was driving a PT Cruiser. This house. Too much to take. The flow of that place. Felt like somewhere David Hockney would live, and felt like somewhere I could very much make myself at home in a Celia Birtwell print and a mimosa. Love.
The second location was different altogether- a Spanish beauty on a beautiful banyan tree lined street in Brentwood. Sprawling and dark and filled with modern art, this home was for a family, with a dog and children and lots and lots of money. A comfortable old dame with so much potential for comfy sofas, Thanksgiving dinners, and hide and seek. But just when you think I'm getting swept up in LA, my bubble bursts. It's not just the fact I could never afford to live in any of these places. It's just that people in LA, well, people in LA are just too weird. There's an elitist level of weirdness running through this whole town- from my photographer who decided it was a good idea to do a full Kundalini practice while we were making selects complete with rapid fire alternate nostril breathing and flapping arms, to the cardamon infused almond mik on set, to the owner of the second home who was padding around in ikat pants and Stubbs and Wooton loafers who proceeded to tell me she would not spend over 15,000 dollars for a Retna painting, even if her son really wanted it (her son by the way looked to be about 16, and was ensconced in the den with the fireplace going, sipping Bailey's and gossiping with his teenaged friends. Um, ok). This chick, though endlessly chic and effortless, was a bit of a nut. Married to a man and had three kids, then became a lesbian, now looking to date Jodie Foster. Honestly, I can't make this shit up.
And then the crew was a fabulous band of skinny cadavers with oodles of money, though I will admit the stylist with her beautiful long head of grey hair and vintage tuxedo shirts and cashmere pea coats (was cold yesterday for real) tucked into AG boyfriend jeans was altogether amazing. Oh and she hooked me up with some Claire Vivier bags, of which the brought to set for all of us to peruse and ultimately buy. Needless to say, the whole thing was exhausting, but a great snapshot in yet another fascinating LA subculture of rich women who are not the Lululemoners, but more gypset divorcees who open their homes to their creative photographer friends and pocket thousands in the process. Oh and ps- the ikat pants wearing lesbian was seriously considering turning her house into a sober living facility after Baileys and cream went to college. Apparently it's all the rage for rich addicts in recovery to keep it together in big mansions in Brentwood post-treatment.
And then it's dinner time on Abbot Kinney where everyone is swaddled in scarves and quinoa and Italian shoes. For dinner I had a vegetarian plate of tofu, brown rice, brocollni, carrots, squash, and tomato sauce. Oh, and with a side of roasted root vegetables. Looking around, I realized I was probably the least healthy person in the restaurant, and never have I craved smoking a cigarette more than right then and there, and blowing every last ring into someone's fair trade scarf. I guess my thing with LA is maybe there's a concern on my part that I would lose my edge, that I would graze in the land of vacant rich women and boyfriend jeans and yoga with a beat. And in my heart of hearts I know I could be happy here, but the sprawl and monotony of going to east to west seems almost impossible. Is there anything more monotonous than a tour of Sunset from Hollywood to Brentwood? I'm not sure, but LA is just too weird. On not one but two days I saw two very handsome African American twins with afros, running in place in unison on Sunset, at the very same spot, at the very same time. And I might get bored with everyone's quest to be skinny, healthy, and well juiced. It's nice i know but I find it kind of boring. I like more salt with my earth and that's that. There's too much self-absorption here, and I'm not nearly fit or divorced or therapized or colon cleansed enough to make it work here. I must admit the food here knocks me out every time- the number of options for fresh deliciousness is endless- currants and honey and Greek yogurt for breakfast. Yum. Oh, and the stylist on my shoot is one of the coolest women I have ever met, miles of long grey hair and oversized sweaters and all sorts of effortless goodness.
Anyhoo, I'm ranting. But it's 6:32 and I really should be at the gym or some blissed out yoga class with the Santa Monica mommies and i just can't seem to get out of bed. Today we shoot in a park with a bunch of kiddies, and then craft a scene back at the Brentwood house and learn more tales of a chic life of undecided sexuality and Tom Ford glasses. I'm in, and kind of can't wait. And that's what's up this I'm almost back home and can't wait kind of Wednesday in the 310. LA, a kooky town full of gorgeous homes with gorgeous people and all the organic shit you can eat. I'm not saying this place doesn't have its charms and beauty, but I still feel like I would never fit in here because I curse entirely too much, my thighs are not the size of my arms, and the thought of doing Kundalini yoga in a roomful of people (not in a yoga studio mind you) to pass the time is just not my vibe. I do however find the shopping here off the chain, especially when it is brought to me at a house in Brentwood where I can pick and choose in private. Yea, I do like LA and can't admit it, but living here as just a normal person working and commuting every day does not seem nearly as fun as hanging with the witches of Brentwood or lounging in a caftan in a midcentury masterpiece in Hollywood. XO