Latest news with #EveBabitz
Los Angeles Times
11-07-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
L.A. Affairs: I boldly gave a fun, mysterious guy my number. Could I refrain from Googling him later?
This story begins at MiniBar, as so many of my Hollywood stories do. Well, technically it's called Lily's Bar now, but to me it will always be MiniBar — the inconspicuous hole-in-the-wall bar found inside the Best Western — no wait, the Adler a Hollywood Hills Hotel on Franklin Avenue. It's the kind of place where you can talk to everyone or no one, and that's why I love it. Now it goes without saying that it's been a rough start to the new year for us Angelenos. As if the constant threat to democracy and climate change-induced fires weren't enough, I also found myself deep in the loneliness and existential hopelessness that comes with a breakup, one that was initiated by me but still stung. My ex is an egomaniacal actor who once said, 'I think I'd like you more if you were repped by a reputable agency like CAA.' So you'll understand my choice to drown my sorrows in a dirty martini and Eve Babitz's 'Sex and Rage.' Despite my 'talk to no one' intention on this idle Wednesday, I found myself distracted by a man sitting at the edge of the bar across from me, writing feverishly on a napkin. I recognize that flow of inspiration, the need to get every thought onto any surface possible before it slips away. This manner drew me in more than his sharp jaw and shiny hair (he must have an oiling routine), though in hindsight his features were magnetic, almost of a different era. A Marlon Brando-esque gaze which holds a world of thoughts. I sensed us looking at each other at different times, he when I was (pretending to be) deeply engrossed in a chapter, and I when he was scribbling down a thought. I wanted so badly to ask him what he was writing but would have had to yell across the bar or plop down next to him. Neither option seemed warranted. After an hour and a second dirty martini, I decided it was time to leave and let this man remain a mystery. Just as I asked for my check, he got up to go to the bathroom, and a stroke of inspiration hit me: Why not leave my number on a napkin? At the very least he'd respect the vessel through which I chose to write it. So that's exactly what I did. I set it next to his drink, and the bartender gave me a wink, which felt like a good omen. I left with a stroke of energy. I should leave my number more often, I thought as I walked across the parking lot to my car. Then I heard someone say, 'Kelly!' My name cut through the spirited air, and I turned around to find him standing there. He shrugged his shoulders and asked, 'Do you want to go to the Frolic Room?' He could have said Mars, and I would have said yes. Suddenly, what lay before me was a night filled with endless possibilities. I hadn't felt the electricity of spontaneity for a long time. It turns out the Frolic Room was a quick walk down to Hollywood Boulevard, probably one of the only times I've walked from one bar to another in L.A. He said he liked the boldness of leaving my number and had wanted to do the same. He told me his first name: Vincent. There was a lot of silence, but it was comfortable. And we walked fast. There were only a handful of people inside, although the place couldn't fit much more than that anyway, and Vincent guided me straight to the jukebox, hand-in-hand. 'Pick a song,' he said. I don't know why, but Billy Joel's 'Vienna' came to mind, perhaps because it's always embodied a desire to find adventure in this city and soak the marrow out of life. That prompted Vincent to choose 'Piano Man,' and before I knew it we were doing shots of whiskey and pretending the bar was a piano itself, miming the notes with our hands. Everyone joined in. The whole time I was thinking, Who is this guy? Although I was curious about what he did for work, I also appreciated that we hadn't broached this topic, especially because it's often the first thing people want to know about another person in L.A. I was forming my own theories — a writer, of course, or perhaps a musician. He seemed to be a font of musical knowledge and he was hitting those fake piano notes with a rhythm I did not have! Or perhaps he was an artist of many trades, like me, who pieces together different passions to make a living. As the place was closing, the bartender said, 'You know we just hung your picture up on the wall!' I was shocked to see him gesture to a framed photo of Vincent and another guy beaming at the camera, arms flung over each other's shoulders in a brotherly manner. It was in the middle of a gallery wall filled with old-timey signed photos of celebrities including Sly Stallone and Lindsay Wagner, Johnny Depp and even Charles Bukowski. Now my wheels were really turning. We stepped onto Hollywood Boulevard and strolled up to the Pantages Theatre, arm-in-arm, under the marquee. 'So what do you do?' I finally asked, and our very stimulating conversation went like this: Him: 'I'm a DJ.' Me: 'Do you love it?' Him: 'I do!' Me: 'That's … great! Him: 'Yup. Do you want to come back to my place?' Me: 'Yup!' So that was that. Mystery not quite solved. The escapades that followed are a story for another day, but let's just say the ambience was top notch. Think musky candles, dim lighting, lo-fi jazz and smooth whiskey with a big cube. Let's also say he was seemingly more interested in my pleasure than his own gain, and that was refreshing. I woke up the next morning with a pounding headache, a meeting to rush to in Santa Monica, and a giddiness I hadn't felt since well before the new year. Of course, the question remained of who he was exactly, but as I drove on the 101 Freeway, with the sun beating down, the smoke clearing literally and figuratively and the sky a shade of brilliant blue, I realized how little it mattered. Now, of course, I'd be lying if I said I didn't do everything in my power to Google him when I got home (though not knowing his last name was a real barrier). I'm a bit of a sleuth, and finally found his Instagram via the Lily's Bar page. I can confirm he is in fact a world-touring DJ, though I had never heard his music. So a famous DJ — or better yet, an enigmatic, dynamic person named Vincent — made me feel hopeful again and reclaim a little bit of the love I had lost both with my partner and the feeling of enchantment in L.A. Life had been tough, but there was still love to find. When will you realize, Vienna waits for you? This author is an actor and writer based between L.A. and Paris. She pens the weekly Substack column A Woman of Leisure ( where she explores femininity, solitude and the art of paying attention. She's also on Instagram: @kellyrookdaly. L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@ You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Yahoo
28-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
How Kamasi Washington and 100 musicians filled LACMA's empty new building with a sonic work of art
'The general public was admitted to new Los Angeles County Museum of Art for the first time on Friday night — not to look at art but to listen to music,' wrote Times music critic Albert Goldberg in 1965. Exactly 70 years and three months later, history repeated itself. Thursday night was the first time the public was allowed into LACMA's David Geffen Galleries. The occasion was a massive sonic event led by jazz saxophonist Kamasi Washington. More than a hundred musicians spread out in nine groups along 900-foot serpentine route of Peter Zumthor's new building, still empty of art. The celebration, which drew arts and civic leaders for the first of three preview nights, was far grander than the concert on March 26,1965, that opened LACMA's Leo S. Bing Theatre the night before the doors opened to the museum's original galleries. That occasion, a program by the legendary Monday Evening Concerts in which Pierre Boulez conducted the premiere of his 'Éclat,' helped symbolize an exuberant L.A. coming of age, with the Music Center having opened three months earlier. Read more: Column: The new LACMA is sleek, splotchy, powerful, jarring, monotonous, appealing and absurd Monday Evening Concerts had been a true L.A. event drawing local musical celebrities including Igor Stravinsky and showing off L.A.'s exceptional musicians. The mandolinist in 'Éclat,' for instance, was Sol Babitz, the father of the late, quintessential L.A. writer Eve Babitz. Boulez, an explosive composer, eventually turned the 10-minute ''Éclat,' for 15 instruments' into a 25-minute orchestral masterpiece, 'Éclat/Multiples,' and left unfinished sketches behind to extend that to a full hour. Washington turned out to be the ideal radical expansionist to follow in Boulez's footsteps for the new LACMA, with a resplendent enlargement of his 2018 half-hour EP, 'Harmony of Difference.' The short tracks — 'Desire,' 'Knowledge,' 'Perspective,' "Humility," 'Integrity' and 'Truth' — employ nearly three dozen musicians in bursts of effusive wonder. For LACMA, Washington tripled the number of musicians and the length. What some critics thought were bursts of bluster, however enthralling, became outright splendor. Introducing the program, LACMA Director Michael Govan called it an event that has never happened before and may never happen again. I got little sense of what this building will be like as a museum with art on the walls, but it's a great space for thinking big musically and, in the process, for finding hope in an L.A. this year beset by fires and fear-inducing troops on our streets. Washington is one of our rare musicians who thrives on excess. He has long been encouraged to aim toward concision, especially in his longer numbers, in which his untiring improvisations can become exhausting in their many climaxes. But that misses the point. I've never heard him play anything, short or long, that couldn't have been three times longer. His vision is vast, and he needs space. In the David Geffen Galleries, he got it. The nine ensembles included a large mixed band that he headed, along with ensembles of strings, brass, woodwinds and choruses. Each played unique arrangements of the songs, not quite synchronized, but if you ambled the long walkways, you heard the material in different contexts as though this were sonic surrealism. Acoustically, the Geffen is a weird combination. The large glass windows and angled concrete walls reflect sound in very different ways. Dozens of spaces vary in shape, size and acoustical properties. During a media tour earlier in the day, I found less echo than might be expected, though each space had its own peculiarities. Washington's ensembles were all carefully amplified and sounded surprisingly liquid, which made walking a delight as the sounds of different ensembles came in and out of focus. A chorus' effusiveness gradually morphed into an ecstatic Washington saxophone solo down the way that then became a woodwind choir that had an organ-like quality. The whole building felt alive. There was also the visual element. The concert took place at sunset, the light through the large windows ever changing, the 'Harmony of Difference' becoming the differences of the bubbling tar pits nearby or the street life on Wilshire or LACMA's Pavilion for Japanese Art, which looks lovely from the new galleries. Govan's vision is of a place where art of all kinds from all over comes together, turning the galleries into a promenade of discovery. Musically, this falls more in line with John Cage's 'Musicircus,' in which any number of musical ensembles perform at chance-derived times as a carnival of musical difference — something for which the Geffen Galleries is all but tailor-made. Nevertheless, Washington brilliantly demonstrated the new building's potential for dance, opera, even theater. The museum may not have made performance a priority in recent years, but Washington also reminded us that the premiere of Boulez' 'Éclat' put music in LACMA's DNA. Seven decades on, Zumthor, whether he intended it or not, now challenges LACMA to become LACMAP: Los Angeles County Museum of Art and Performance. Get notified when the biggest stories in Hollywood, culture and entertainment go live. Sign up for L.A. Times entertainment alerts. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
Vogue
23-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Vogue
Sanderlak Spring 2026 Ready-to-Wear Collection
Before shipping his debut Sanderlak collection to Paris, where press and buyers will see the new label for the first time later this week, Sander Lak did a test run in a gallery space in his Chrystie Street office building. Sanderlak is both a straightforward sportswear line and a concept brand, one whose everyday vibes will shift year-to-year based on a location of the peripatetic designer's choosing. First up in Los Angeles, a fitting starting point given that in the time since Sies Marjan, Lak's former brand, shuttered, he worked on a screenplay and came close to getting the movie made before returning to fashion. On the walls on Chrystie Street were portraits of Anglenos of all stripes: the well-known, famous progeny, and street-cast kids alike, and piled here and there amidst colorful pillows and lush houseplants were books by L.A. chroniclers including Eve Babitz, John Fante, and Rosecrans Baldwin. The paperback edition of the latter's Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles is a particularly vivid shade of green. That seems fitting too, considering the fact that color is such a big part of the Sanderlak identity. The racks were indeed awash with color: sweat sets in the freshest lemon sorbet and the deepest bordeaux red, an '80ish snap-front jacket and cargos in sky blue, denim separates overdyed deep pink, a striped rugby, a midnight blue shearling with 'frosted' bronze tips, and another coat in a rainbow melange jacquard that conjured memories of a circa 2019 Sies Marjan dress aswirl with watercolor pastels. After oohing and ahhing over the juicy colors, editors and buyers will surely appreciate the care with which Lak chose his fabrics, be it the slubby cotton of the logo ringer tees, a world away from the 'plasticky' t-shirts surfers wore until they were holey back in the day; the just-right cotton rib of other tops, or the bounce of a fuzzy marl knit sweater with a scoop neck. Is it normcore? Not exactly. In Sanderlak, there's no 'blending in,' which is one of the founding principles of fashion's first 'core.' But it is arriving at a moment when even luxury designers are rejecting sartorial indulgence. At Prada yesterday, Miuccia Prada railed against 'useless complicated ideas: a lot for the sake of doing a lot.' Lak has managed a neat trick: he's doing a lot with a little.
Vogue
23-06-2025
- Entertainment
- Vogue
Sanderlak Spring 2026 Menswear Collection
Before shipping his debut Sanderlak collection to Paris, where press and buyers will see the new label for the first time later this week, Sander Lak did a test run in a gallery space in his Chrystie Street office building. Sanderlak is both a straightforward sportswear line and a concept brand, one whose everyday vibes will shift year-to-year based on a location of the peripatetic designer's choosing. First up in Los Angeles, a fitting starting point given that in the time since Sies Marjan, Lak's former brand, shuttered, he worked on a screenplay and came close to getting the movie made before returning to fashion. On the walls on Chrystie Street were portraits of Anglenos of all stripes: the well-known, famous progeny, and street-cast kids alike, and piled here and there amidst colorful pillows and lush houseplants were books by L.A. chroniclers including Eve Babitz, John Fante, and Rosecrans Baldwin. The paperback edition of the latter's Everything Now: Lessons From the City-State of Los Angeles is a particularly vivid shade of green. That seems fitting too, considering the fact that color is such a big part of the Sanderlak identity. The racks were indeed awash with color: sweat sets in the freshest lemon sorbet and the deepest bordeaux red, an '80ish snap-front jacket and cargos in sky blue, denim separates overdyed deep pink, a striped rugby, a midnight blue shearling with 'frosted' bronze tips, and another coat in a rainbow melange jacquard that conjured memories of a circa 2019 Sies Marjan dress aswirl with watercolor pastels. After oohing and ahhing over the juicy colors, editors and buyers will surely appreciate the care with which Lak chose his fabrics, be it the slubby cotton of the logo ringer tees, a world away from the 'plasticky' t-shirts surfers wore until they were holey back in the day; the just-right cotton rib of other tops, or the bounce of a fuzzy marl knit sweater with a scoop neck. Is it normcore? Not exactly. In Sanderlak, there's no 'blending in,' which is one of the founding principles of fashion's first 'core.' But it is arriving at a moment when even luxury designers are rejecting sartorial indulgence. At Prada yesterday, Miuccia Prada railed against 'useless complicated ideas: a lot for the sake of doing a lot.' Lak has managed a neat trick: he's doing a lot with a little.
Yahoo
16-05-2025
- Entertainment
- Yahoo
L.A. Affairs: Men who don't understand L.A. won't understand me. What's a city girl to do?
'I just hate L.A.,' Yassir said. Enveloped in the arms of the man I loved who valued monogamy and proudly introduced me as his girlfriend to every acquaintance, I felt an uneasiness. The statement felt personal — as if he meant to say 'you' and swapped it for 'L.A.' at the last moment. We're both transplants. Pre-pandemic, he lived in Hollywood for a couple of years, made the typical person-in-entertainment move to New York and returned to L.A. for work in late 2023. I arrived in January 2021 and started referring to Los Feliz as home about two weeks later, although I sometimes kept that fact to myself. Back then, I was quite apologetic in my love for L.A. I worried about appearing a certain way to fellow transplants, my parent's friends who'd only seen Santa Monica and any New Yorker I came across. Read more: L.A. Affairs: Nothing scared me more than intimacy — except L.A. freeways. But I had to face them both I wanted to dodge all the stereotypical perceptions about L.A. despite identifying with them. I didn't want to come off as image-driven, although I find solace in a stroll through the stores at the Americana at Brand, where I zip up skirts in the dressing rooms and spritz perfumes at the makeup counters. I also didn't want to be viewed as health-obsessed — I quite literally buy into Pilates classes and performance running shoes. Or be labeled a workaholic — I don't relax easily and often conflate my worth to my productivity. Or be accused of being a film snob — I'll skip a party in favor of a 35mm screening of a movie I've already seen. Early in our courtship, Yassir spoke romantically of New York's late-night diners and constant goings-on. I felt jealous, as if he were reminiscing about an ex. After we swapped college grievances and grocery shopping habits, a text exchange between us pivoted to his adoration for New York and his contempt for L.A. Instead of skating over the topic or conceding to his opinion, I texted, 'I understand L.A. has many faults, but I love it. And this is something you need to know about me, I am very good at loving and figuring out how to love.' Read more: L.A. Affairs: I was over dating in L.A. Then a charming co-worker came along It was a conclusion I had been circling for quite some time. As a 27-year-old, I'm still learning who I am and how I go about the world, but I'm improving. This was one of those personal truths that after voicing it to someone else solidifies its verity — and all in the name of Los Angeles. He responded, 'Huge green flag." Just like my friends, my family and Los Angeles, Yassir benefited from this trait of mine. I found him incredibly gorgeous. My industrious demeanor ceased on the mornings I spent with him. I just wanted to run my hands through his dark, curly hair and explain what the words of Los Angeles champion Eve Babitz meant to me. But I also looked up to him. Yassir spoke with cadence and clarity, enunciating all the syllables of 'definitely,' a word he said quite often. And he was definite about the world, especially Los Angeles. As a television writer, the city gave him much more opportunity and money than it ever offered me, and he still hated it. I felt like a child showing off an art project whenever I introduced him to my favorite places in L.A. Over eggs and waffles, I'd say, 'Isn't this restaurant amazing?' Or gesturing with my arms wide on a hilltop, 'This view of Griffith Observatory is pretty spectacular, right?' I said these things as if I were asking, 'Aren't I amazing?' and 'Isn't looking at me next to a bougainvillea spectacular?' His answers were always courteous smiles. I should have known. Read more: L.A. Affairs: I didn't know how to love. Then I came eye to eye with a majestic gray whale He broke up with me last fall after several months of dating, citing differences regarding our outlook on life. He specifically said I see the world with too much sunshine. Definitely too L.A. I partook in my usual breakup agenda. I made my heartbreak Beachwood Canyon's problem, walking and weeping to Amy Winehouse's ballad, 'Tears Dry (Original Version),' on the streetlamp-lined sidewalks. I went to my friend's couches in Highland Park, Los Feliz and Palms to cry a bit more. And I sat on my own couch, another 'Sex and the City' rewatch before me. But it was the words of a New Yorker, albeit a fictional one, that indicated my romantic path going forward. Episode 1 of Season 5 of 'Sex and the City' is titled "Anchors Away." It's the first in the series in a post-9/11 world. In a nod to the show's fifth main character, New York City, Carrie Bradshaw spends the day reckoning with her love for a city that often tests her spirit. However, after a potential love interest dismisses New York, Carrie catches a taxi away and muses: 'If … you only get one great love, New York may just be mine. And I can't have nobody talking s— about my boyfriend. … Maybe the past is like an anchor holding us back. Maybe you have to let go of who you were to become who you will be.' With the devastating L.A. County fires following shortly after my breakup and the "city as a great love" breakthrough, I decided to love Los Angeles more openly, especially in my dating life. As is expected in the who/what/when/where of first dates, the question 'How do you like L.A.?' always arises. After Yassir, the men I've encountered often shrug their shoulders in a 'whatever' manner. Brunettes, blonds, mustached, clean-shaven, my patio-bar dates don't seem to get it, and their answers have alarmed me — their apathy almost as alarming as outright hate. Read more: L.A. Affairs submission guidelines How could a person feel indifferent toward a place so dynamic, so capable, so beautiful and so funny in its ways? A place with a history so lush it would take a lifetime to learn how we got here? Perhaps my similarities to L.A. don't end with the city's stereotypes. Men who don't understand Los Angeles will never understand me, and for that, they're unworthy of my deftness at loving. That's quite all right. I have a boyfriend anyway. This author is a freelance culture and lifestyle writer. She has written for The Times, A Rabbit's Foot, Little White Lies and other publications. She proudly lives in Los Angeles, and Franklin Avenue is her favorite street. She also runs a Substack: L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@ You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here. Sign up for The Wild newsletter to get weekly insider tips on the best of our beaches, trails, parks, deserts, forests and mountains. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
