HBLA Spring 2010 : Page 60

HOMEFRONT people Heir Quality Down to earth and over the top? Daughter of L.A. decorating royalty Jamie Adler stays grounded amid the glitz By Andrew Myers | Photography by Melissa Valladares As the daughter of famed L.A. designer Phyllis Morris, Jamie Adler grew up in a world of beyond-baroque décor, where beds were measured in acreage and gold leaf was practically a neutral. Adler’s own streamlined furniture line, Circa, isn’t exactly minimal, either. But Adler at home isn’t about super-sized, entouraged living. With three children; her husband and business partner, John; and Rusty, the family Vizsla (who just won second runner-up in his class at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show in New York), she’s created her own version of the low-key high life. “We love this house,” says Adler of the almost 4,000-square-foot spread. Its location is great: an eighth-mile above Sunset and Doheny. She can be at work in the showroom “in six minutes, if the lights are 60 | | Spring 2010 right.” As importantly, it’s the street where she grew up: “I’ve lived on this block my entire life,” says Adler, making her about as rare as the Dodo in peripatetic L.A. But even more important is the house itself. “My husband and I moved in 15 years ago when we were married; we had a Jacuzzi on the deck,” says Adler. But apart from the glorious city-to-ocean and canyon views, Adler says she’d be hard-pressed to explain, rationally and coldly in style court, why this was Te House. But of course, she doesn’t need to. “It’s our home” is more than enough. Te problem, however, is this particular house wants to be a bachelor pad. “It was just this funny, awkward modern place that followed the zigzags of the street. In a very u-modern way, it continued... piece maker Jamie adler’s West Hollywood house features furniture of her own design. The Starlet Sofa with Swarovski crystal buttons, the kidney Bean tables and the Versailles chairs (upholstered in romo fabric from Thomas Lavin) are all from her circa line. Sable mohair rug by The rug company.

Home Front People

Heir Quality Down to earth and over the top? Daughter of L.A. decorating royalty Jamie Adler stays grounded amid the glitz By Andrew Myers | Photography by Melissa Valladares As the daughter of famed L.A. designer Phyllis Morris, Jamie Adler grew up in a world of beyond-baroque décor, where beds were measured in acreage and gold leaf was practically a neutral. Adler’s own streamlined furniture line, Circa, isn’t exactly minimal, either. But Adler at home isn’t about super-sized, entouraged living. With three children; her husband and business partner, John; and Rusty, the family Vizsla (who just won second runner-up in his class at the Westminster Kennel Club dog show in New York), she’s created her own version of the low-key high life. “We love this house,” says Adler of the almost 4,000-square-foot spread. Its location is great: an eighth-mile above Sunset and Doheny. She can be at work in the showroom “in six minutes, if the lights are right.” As importantly, it’s the street where she grew up: “I’ve lived on this block my entire life,” says Adler, making her about as rare as the Dodo in peripatetic L. A. But even more important is the house itself. “My husband and I moved in 15 years ago when we were married; we had a Jacuzzi on the deck,” says Adler. But apart from the glorious city-to-ocean and canyon views, Adler says she’d be hard-pressed to explain, rationally and coldly in style court, why this was Te House. But of course, she doesn’t need to. “It’s our home” is more than enough. Te problem, however, is this particular house wants to be a bachelor pad. “It was just this funny, awkward modern place that followed the zigzags of the street. In a very u-modern way, itHad almost no straight lines, and made almost no sense.” So the Adlers made do through sons one and two, making the few physical additions that were possible, such as a swimming pool on a lower level. But when they were expecting child number three—Ruby, now four years old—the couple went on a house hunt. Tey found larger possibilities. Tey made offers. But nothing worked out. “Tings just kept falling out of place,” she says. “Maybe it was destiny because it forced us to take a hard look at what we had.” Te subsequent re-evaluation involved a quest for additional space. But in a hillside house, one in which the footprint can’t practically be changed, an enlargement of paradigm was called for first. “Basically I had to figure out how to make major moves with minor effort.” Not so much less is more as formulating small but crucial reconceptions that would have an exponential effect. First off, Adler opened up the kitchen. “Suddenly I could see the dining room wasn’t an island; suddenly I could see the kids in the family room or watching TV.” Next she opened up the family room to the deck and installed 28-foot pocket doors that, when opened, can disappear entirely. Te indoor/outdoor fusion was then buttressed by a porcelain tile used inside and out, one that looks and feels like wood (and thereby unites the space in terms of materiality but also conceptually. Trees, anyone?). “Not even our yogaTeacher could tell it wasn’t actual wood,” says Adler. But forget just meeting the yogi’s standards: Adler’s boys, who often ride their skateboards throughout the aerie, can also submit hands on (or feet on) testimony of the floor’s seamlessness. Other changes were small but meaningful. Adler moved the front door, creating a visual axis—via foyer, two-way fireplace, family room and deck—that unites indoors and out. Tis shift also allowed her to carve a media room out of a passageway whose flow had been awkwardly punctuated by the front door’s original placement. Should one doubt this new efficiency of space, simply ask the opinion of the three wideeyed pictures by painter Margaret Keane—part of a collection of Keane’s paintings purchased by Adler’s legendary “Auntie Mame” mother and queen of overthe- top décor—which hang together on one wall. She also redid the landscaping and the house’s exterior, retaining the language of modernism— simplicity, geometric shapes, utilitarian materials— but softening its syntax through the addition of warmer, classical elements. Te front door is oversized, importantly framed, under a cantilevered canopy, and flanked by Deco-ish Donghia light fixtures. Te façade and plant boxes in smooth-trowel cement are not harsh white, but rather what Adler calls “three shades of Weimaraner gray-brown.” It’s the same shifting color range found in the leaves of the new olive trees, as well as the general color scheme for the interiors (yes, further connecting the ins with the outs). In all, the changes took one year, during which time the family moved six doors up the street to a 9,000-square-foot house owned by Adler’s dad, the kind where everybody can be at home and not know it. “We so prefer a smaller house with great flow,” says Adler. “One that reflects how we live and that helps us maximize how we live.” Fine. But how does a confirmed maximalist dial it down? “Color! Look at my French baroque chairs, lacquered white and upholstered in a hot pink velvet,” says Adler, who save for one or two pieces such as the Trina Turk sofa on the terrace and the Ann Sacks backsplash, designed everything—furniture, wallpaper, patterned carpets, the works. “Tere’s a lot going on here, but I’m calmed by opulence, by multiple layers,” says Alder, pointing to the sofa’s Lucite legs and tufted glossy leatherette. “I find this very soothing. Maybe I’ve found my minimal.”

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