Sex & German Architects

Pam Anderson may be leaving the west coast for Las Vegas but, this girl is staying put. Since my own relocation to the land of sunshine and plenty, I've become a home tour afficiado. I have no specific plan that helps me learn about these jaunts into the private homes of the elite, I just have a wayfarer's sense of direction for these matters.

Last Sunday, I found a post on a blog about a rare viewing of the R.M. Schindler's Mackay Apartments (and yep, Schindler's German). It was being sponsored by the Mak foundation and the raison d'etre was that a group of German architects that had been invited to stay for the year and they had just received their eviction notice. Okay, it was suppose to be more jubilant than that. These architects were having an art open house to showcase their work which in my experience from my days in Chicago only meant disaster.

Sunday was a sort of day that memories are built upon. Los Angeles looked magnificent as a dense veil of black storm clouds circled the back of the city and kept to the hills. The sunlight streaming through the clouds seized on every reflective surface and marble clad building in the skyline. Riding the 110 freeway toward the 10 was made like a drive into thoughts I had lost inside an old drawer. I haven't seen the city quite as beautiful as it looked that day.

I found the house tucked inside the mid-wilshire district. It was set back from the street and protected by a thick hedge. The modernistic sensibility was present immediately. Amidst the geometry of the street, the house, and the landscaping, there was a desolate element in the landscape which may have been just the impending storm overhead. There were no signs posted for a joyous open house nor left over party cups from last night's gala. It was just a breeze passing down the street and me. Until I looked up to the balcony and saw a man in a blue crew neck sweater smoking a cigarette and staring at me. He took a sip of his coffee and I watched him adjust his black frame glass that were a notorious badge of any art crowd. I felt home immediately and so I yell at him:

"Can I come inside?"

He told me to open the door.

Inside the house, I was alone. Only the ghost of Schindler was tracing the walls in his voodoo like pattern of rectangles and squares, intimate spaces and quiet rooms. Lingering inside the house, it wasn't difficult to feel a sense of disconnection between the home and the German architects. Only the faces and the tongues of another made home. I kicked an English dictionary and wondered if anyone but me had come to this art open house affair.

Left alone to wander corridors and rooms, I found little to experience other than the architecture. It would have been a fine home for anyone that the real opportunity to live inside it. The floors needed children and families, not experiments in living. I came to this decision because there was no remnants of living, showcases of work, nor the signs of life typical to even a college dorm move out . I wondered what these architects had done for the last year. I could see trips to the near-by Carl's Jr., drinks on the roof top, and maybe a night or two at some famous place like the House of Blues. Then I found this door.



I found the man that had been watching me from the balcony. He was sitting on the floor watching a projection on the window curtain of a desert. He watched me walk into the room and he spoke German to some one other than me. I went to a table that had a large ballot box and several neatly fanned-out entry forms. A blond hair man rushed to me with a pen.

"This is real." he said to me and his eyes were the color of the sky.

"I know its real."

"It's real." he said back. I wasn't certain if he felt as if his German was failing him or his ability to convince me. I smiled at him.

"Complete the form because this will happen."

I laughed because he was so desperate to let me know that the room was real and the project of some building in Las Vegas was real. Everything is real. My dreams are real. The light from the projector and the light from the window is all real. I took the pen from his hand and told him I would fill out the form.

The questionnaire

The Heidi Fleiss Dude Ranch Project

We have been selected as architects to build the first dude ranch for women.

1. What room would you most like to have sex in? For example, Water Room, Air Room, Fire Room (Please select from the presentation boards)

2. Would you prefer to select a male before entering the ranch or would you prefer to mingle in the bar and wait room to select a male. Please describe your thoughts.

3. Would you like better:

a) A romantic encounter (candle light dinner, roses, soft music, boyfriend like experience)

or

b) an expedited experience

3. What other services would you like to have at the ranch? For example, Spa Services, Massage, Horseback riding, Culinary classes, et cetra...

4. How old are you?

5. Would you visit? Please leave your name, email, and phone number so that you may be reached in the future.

I could feel the two men in the room staring at me as I wrote my answers down using the black sharpie. The letters feather and bled on page. My writing looked crazed. The blond man left the apartment. He didn't say anything to anyone. He just left. I turned to the presentation boards to study the images.

The rooms were beautiful designs of water panel walls, soft beds, and hidden fireplaces. There was honest beauty in the drawings and the aching desire to be treated as a real project.

"We spend all of our time on this." the man that had been sitting on the floor was looking at my calves as he spoke to me. Embroidered on my leg was the flight of the phoenix. I adjusted my weight in my pink heels.

"I heard about this project on NPR. Do you know what that is? NPR?"

He didn't respond and it was my cue to speak and so I told him about the radio report concerning the first brothel for women. It had been one of those radio reports that caught your attention between stock prices and stories of war. It was the first time that I had heard of Heidi Fleiss being involved or these German architects living rent free inside the Schindler apartments working on a commission to build the ranch. It was real after all.

Before I left, I thought the man had wanted to tell me something. I could feel the breeze from the street pushing inside the house seducing me to leave. I had enough of the silence and watching dust float in beautiful rooms. I looked to the man. He stood up from the floor to walk me to the door. I liked his eyes.

"It's just a question of money." I looked at him and gave him my questionnaire. He folded the paper inside his pocket. He took his hand and ran it threw his hair. We were suspended like a photograph. Lost like images of the city before a rainstorm or a desert where nothing exists.

There are too many moments in life in which priceless things are lost. I'll remember his dark hair most of all.