These days we live in the clouds; the breath of air coming up to our windows at dawn; fog and sleep collide and outside the wet smell of dry asphalt lingers until the sun has warmed up the streets. Earlier than usual, the rain began to fall, and kept falling throughout January and into February. This morning, its sound obscured the birdsong, its ticking against the glass like in a movie. And while the rain sometimes lasts for days, it is never truly gray here. There is a theatre of cloud compositions breaking up the sky, like there are hillsides and mountains and vegetation. And thus, of vistas, in between. Los Angeles is built out of corners following the earth’s surface. This is how you navigate the city, via curves and angles, in a constant movement, following the earth’s surface.

Los Angeles appears in fragments. Even if there is a gridded infrastructure, the roads roll with the landscape and until you reach the ocean or the mountains, there is not one wide horizon. Even if the city sprawls horizontally rather than up into the air, the folds of nature that was before her inform her current shape, and cause everything to seem close and far at the same time. The spatial and temporal layers of this L.A. landscape ripple into its society, and how can they not. A city too big and with too many pockets to govern to the teeth leaves “invisible” space to dream in. It is with the knowledge of this space yet the absence of a visible overwhelming magnitude due to the hills, plants, eclectic architecture, and signage that disrupt all sightlines, that the Los Angeles basin becomes an environment for endless imagination.

For thousands of years so many different lives and ways of going about them––from the Chumash and Tongva people, L.A.’s first inhabitants, to people from each corner of the world––fall together in this city of angels. A city indivisible because of its differences. Through its geography Los Angeles gives glimpses, a sense of proximity to place, dreams, nature, and, yes, Hollywood.

Perhaps this is the allure of Los Angeles: there is always a view. The temptation of someplace elsewhere, a bit further, yet within vision, still close by, to dream of or up. Of course, most often, views are constructed. They tempt. They encourage memory so as to find them again and ignite anticipation to follow their way.

Here they are a given on each street corner. Before the new 6th Street bridge was completed, when driving through the Flats on Anderson St. towards the Northeast you would have a clear view of the San Gabriel Mountains, and if you were lucky a moon rising above them. And, one day, as we were driving back to the city from Ojai, through the Santa Monica Mountains, a friend cried as we turned a corner in our car and the Pacific appeared between hillsides, the sun turning the water white gold. I have run in these mountains alongside the ocean, and more often in the Los Angeles National Forest, from which you can still see the ocean, and once every so often in Chino Hills where the mustard flowers seem to grow even taller and more abundant in the spring, and where on bright days, you may sometimes still see the ocean.

But, this early spring rain has conjured a veil, reorienting our view perhaps away from a sliver of distance and towards our immediate surroundings, making sure the gradual bloom of flora does not go unnoticed. An annunciation, as if the raindrops might absorb the flowers’ scents and once the drops all have dissipated, the smell of a new season emerges. Soon, the nightshade, lupine, primrose, and jasmine will bloom, as will the cactus and poppies, and the agave will be taller. Tonight, however, the lights of the downtown skyline remain muted in the view from our kitchen, shaded by a new bed of clouds. Then, tomorrow and each day after, the blue sky returns, and temperatures will rise a little higher until one day this summer a fire erupts.

Lara Schoorl
Los Angeles, Spring 2024

Sitting atop the Santa Monica Mountains is a hidden gem skillfully carved into a boulder. The property spanning almost two acres is an ode to good design, and now, the backdrop to our latest campaign. Saddle Peak House is the work of Michael Sant – the architect charged with conceptualizing the glass-box building as well as the first owner responsible for filling it with beautiful decor and memories. Over a year ago, he sold the home and everything in it to film industry creative director Goktug Sarioz – in order to start a new dream project from scratch.

The home away from home in the city is a short 45-minute drive from Venice that can host up to 8 people, 4 in the main house and 4 in the annex beside it. We made this same drive out to the canyonside in Topanga, California for our 2-day shoot, photographing around every inch in and outside of the impressive L-shaped residence. The more we learn about Saddle Peak House, the more we are struck by how Sant’s design philosophy reflects so much of our own – a love of natural materials, a skillful balance of function and aesthetic, and a simplicity that can only come with true craft.

When designing the original concept, Sant not only drew his inspiration from the minimalism of early L.A. modernism but the site’s stark surroundings. He pared back the materials used, restricting the palette to only one timber, glass, and steel. Fourteen immense concrete walls spring out of the plateau, their color blending with the stone from which they are built. Even the view adds to this minimalist feeling – the uninterrupted blue sky that stretches forever, met by the equally beautiful shade of the Pacific. Outside, the pool’s infinity edge seemingly extends all the way to the ocean too. Just as in crafting a suit, the simplicity speaks volumes, showcasing masterful skill and a quiet elegance. That said, the minimalist building is not devoid of character. The exposed concrete speckled with subtle flaws, the warm wooden walls crafted with playful lines and texture, mid-century pieces by Hans Wegner dotting the interior. All add a sense of individuality as charming and recognizable as the handwork of a skilled tailor.

But beauty was not Sant’s only concern. The architect displays a deft hand at bringing practicality along with his design. As you step into the home, gravel beds act as a sort of doormat, removing the desert dust from your feet. Those great concrete walls offer privacy for the many floor-to-ceiling windows. The timber used is a Brazilian hardwood Garapa, selected for its density and fire resistance in wildfire-prone California. Sustainability has been considered too, with the place powered by solar panels and geothermal wells.

Even our processes felt similar. In the same way we look to one’s form to direct the silhouettes and tones we will use, he lets the canvas inform his design, his design directed by the landscape. Rather than trying to transform the mountain, he looked to interact with nature and enhance it rather than change it. This is clear in the way the home is nestled into the mountainside and the flow of the space from indoors to outdoors and beyond. As we roam the magical place for two days from sunrise to sunset, we can’t help but feel a kinship. With Sant, his design, and the principles that underpin what we both do.

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