Only in the darkness can you see the stars.
Which is why, in all its light, the Hollywood stars don’t dazzle me.
Probably one of my least favorite neighborhoods in one of my favorite cities of Los Angeles is downtown Hollywood. Attracting tourists like the Pied Piper’s mice or a plague of sorts, I often seek solace in some of its groovy restaurants, bars and sumptuous hotels. More often than not, having bumped into the real stars, to discover they are merely people with sunglasses. Like me. However, location is everything. In a geotagged world of growing dots and pins, location is clearly the pedestal of more than just real estate. One such hotel is The Redbury, and along with my infatuation for all things red, probably merits a review of its property alone, which tragically is on the brink of closure to a Soho House concept in Los Angeles, but leaves counterparts in Miami and New York vibrantly alive. It evokes a lazy mood that is in strict juxtaposition with a shoddy exterior of Hollywood Boulevard, brainchild of photographer Matthew Rolston and nightlife magnet Sam Nazarian. Apparently mimicking New York lofts which I didn’t quite explore, the door was a floral palette reminding me, once again, of Alice in Wonderland. Without the quintessential ‘Eat me’ pill, I stepped away from the stars bloating the streets and into this wonderland.
My lookbook for the night comprised of a Marc Jacobs leather jacket, an Antony Morato shirt, Topman jeans and Dita eyewear, transparent lenses with a signature smug look for a Hollywoody character up to no good, but pretending to be all good.
There was plenty to play with at the hotel, for editorials or snacks or casual liberties before nightlife and nightfall. The impeccably black and white tiled floors gave the space a retro vibe, and the red velvet curtain was asymmetrically half done, lending grace and a 1920s aura. Red being a favorite color, mandated that this evoked many a fantasy to my stay in Los Angeles. Tabletops were littered with trinkets and jewel cases, a bohemian mix of yesteryear luxury and gypsy fantasy.
A black mirror with a sandy wooden chest and flanked with leather black chairs were in direct parallel with the odyssey of Persian princesses in metallic attire who’s full length facial portraits glistened across the property. The entire vibe was a sensual one, which acted both alluring and transportive into an era that had slipped by.
I have already spent time reviewing Cleo and its magnificent vegan and vegetable bites, all the way from the cashew cauliflower to the award winning brussel sprouts and the tasty shishito peppers. So a recollection can be found here, which I salivated over for one last time again.
And thus ended a late night in Hollywood. A night of new stories. For if you don’t formulate a story between the stars, you may as well call it daylight.