Hollywood

Sometimes I forget I live in Hollywood.  Last night I was reminded.  What could have been a run-of-the-mill, average evening attending a book party was anything but.  My GPS guided me towards a large gated estate behind the Beverly Hills Hotel.  A long gravel driveway led to a fountain illuminated by candles, the entree to a breathtaking twenty room Mediterranean villa.  Whispered among the guests were tidbits about the mansion's history -- Buster Keaton built it for his wife Natalie in the 1920s, Cary Grant and Barbara Hutton once called it home, and it fell into disrepair during James Mason's ownership.  Although the house embodied perfection, a Google search revealed all of the marriages were pierced with infidelity and strife.  The echo of past trysts lingered in the intimate outdoor patios illuminated by eight foot tall wrought iron candelabras. Once again I found myself in the company of great artists -- Dali, Picasso, Wyeth, Kahlo, Magritte, Warhol, Renoir, Picabia.  They have been my companions, my guardians, the past month.   I was surprised, but delighted, to see them last night beautifully exhibited on every wall, in every room.  Yes, I hear the message loud and clear as if a demonstrator with a bullhorn is standing in front of me.  My forecast for twenty eleven is creativity, passion, beauty, and expression.