The first time we did this, we were just looking at the house because we thought it was cool, and it had no locks. The doors were open, they had just painted it and installed wood floors, and the paint on the glass was still drying. It was empty, the fumes just barely fading. No one had returned yet, maybe staying away for another day or two. We couldn’t smell the fumes.
The second house was a Japanese marvel in the student housing at Taliesin West, an extreme example of the Frank Lloyd Wright school of architecture. Another recommendation is the Japanese house built by Harwell Hamilton Harris and Gregory Ains, which is right below the Fellowship Parkway house at 2300 Lakeshore Avenue. This extremely cool house offers views onto the freeway, although, unfortunately, the freeway called the Two goes right through the canyon that used to be pure nature. What exemplifies these homes and this location is a letter written by Paul Landacher: “You see artists practice here along with other various concerns—pruning the trees, repairing the roof, watching and feeding wildlife, and so on. Of course, other artists live on these wooded hillsides too, and so do other people. The truth is that to some of us, this kind of environment is not only valuable but absolutely necessary—a degree of seclusion, the life of growing things, the awareness that we are part of nature.”
When I read that letter, I think of making love to my wife because that is what we did several times a day, every single day. It didn’t matter if we were in court or on the phone; something was always happening, something was shaking. It was always dirty, dirty, and we had hummingbirds. I think a portrait of a woman with a bird on her finger is a sign she is not a virgin.
The third house was the Harwell Hamilton Harris Fellowship Parkway Conservancy, which was amazing because it was just abandoned. The fourth house was incredibly easy but also extremely famous. It was the Smith House by Craig Ellwood. After the Chris Gould house, we had to do the Craig up at school the past two nights because obviously there were other Craig Ellwoods, but we didn’t know where they were yet until we found the other Craig Ellwood houses.
This ‘floating’ home designed by famed modernist architect Craig Ellwood in the 1950s was on the market in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Brentwood. This classically timeless Craig Ellwood Brentwood Mid-Century Modern Home offers views from every angle, with wood beams stretching across the ceiling to meet walls of glass, creating a timeless aesthetic—a staple of Ellwood’s modernism. We entered with reverence, aware of the stories embedded in its structure.
Inside, the house was a symphony of lines and light. The rain created patterns on the glass, a dance of shadows and reflections that played across the sleek surfaces. We moved through the space with a sense of reverence, our footsteps echoing in the empty rooms. Each room told a story, each corner a new possibility.
In the living room, we stood at the edge of the room, the glass walls offering a panoramic view of the city. The rain blurred the edges of the view, creating an intimate cocoon. Then, as if on cue, we began to move, our bodies responding to the rhythm of the rain, the pulse of the house.
The rain became our guide, each drop a lover's kiss, a promise of unity. The house wrapped around us, its walls a protective embrace. We felt the presence of those who had come before us, their stories blending with ours, creating a tapestry of desire and longing. The house became alive with our presence, its spaces filled with our passion.
As the rain continued to fall, we discovered hidden corners, intimate nooks that invited exploration. Each room offered a new experience, a new layer of connection. The house revealed itself to us, its secrets unfolding with each step we took. We became part of its history, our stories interwoven with the architecture.
The master bedroom, with its panoramic view and luxurious furnishings, became our sanctuary. The rain beat against the windows, a relentless percussion that heightened our senses. We moved together, our bodies responding to the rhythm of the rain, the pulse of the house. The bed, a centerpiece of comfort and design, became our altar. We worshiped each other, our movements a dance of intimacy and connection.
The rain and the house guided us, each touch, each kiss a step closer to unity. The outside world ceased to exist, leaving only the rain, the house, and us. We surrendered to the moment, letting the rain wash away our inhibitions, letting the house envelop us in its embrace. We became one with the elements, our connection deepening with each passing second.
As the storm outside reached its peak, we felt a surge of energy, a culmination of the journey we had undertaken. The rain became a torrent, a symphony of sound that filled the house, enveloped us in its embrace. We moved together, our bodies a testament to the power of connection, the depth of our desire.
In the aftermath, as the rain began to subside, we lay together, our bodies entwined, the house a silent witness to our journey. The transformation was complete. We had become part of the rain, part of the architecture, our stories forever etched into the spaces we had inhabited.
We moved forward, carrying with us the essence of our experiences, the lessons learned from the rain and the houses. Each new encounter added to the tapestry, enriching our connection, deepening our understanding of ourselves and each other. The rain continued to be our guide, its presence a constant reminder of the journey we had undertaken.
In the end, we were no longer just individuals. We were a force of nature, a testament to the power of connection and desire. The rain and the houses had shown us the true meaning of intimacy, leaving us forever changed, forever entwined. We carried this knowledge with us, a secret shared only between us and the rain, a bond that transcended time and space.