I’ve known a handful of magic places in my life; pockets
carved out by time and people.
They’re chapters in my life, they’re what’s made me.
The first was the Lane, a short dead-end street on the side
of Mount Tam. My childhood home
was on the Lane (Friars Lane to the uninitiated) but my house was not what made
the Lane magic. My best friend,
Casey, who also lived on the lane was responsible for that. Together we created intricate stories,
stories we’d draw on the pavement and step into. We roamed from her backyard to mine, to the Lane and back,
speaking the voices of the characters that inhabited our secret worlds. This went on for a good ten years.
The second magic place was Ruby Scott Theatre at Tam
High. It was a black box, morphing
with every production. There I met
Megan, I met Evany, I met many of the people that are still with me. Under the guidance of the indomitable
Dan Caldwell, our drama teacher, we wrote, we directed, we produced, we
acted. It was our shelter in the
storm of adolescence. We found a
moment in a single pool of light where we could actually be ourselves.
The next was Room 1340 in McGowan Hall at UCLA. It was a room, yes, but a big
room, a theater, another black box.
There I met more drama freaks, made more drama, pulled off the layers of
girlhood one by one until I found the woman underneath. The Freud Playhouse, the mainstage next
door, was much fancier, much more prestigious. But what we created in 1340 was grittier, it was
three-dimensional, it was true.
Number four, another theater. This one was the Cast Theater in Hollywood. When one thinks “Hollywood” one is not
imagining the Cast, at least in the nineties. It was two tiny theaters housed in one run-down building on
a residential street in a mostly Latino neighborhood. We performed original plays by Justin Tanner, our
wunderkind. For five years running
I performed a play called “Pot Mom” every Saturday night. It was everything the title implies –
irreverent, pee-your-pants funny but with a huge heart. We were a ragged band of actors,
shouting our lines over the thumping Mariachi from next door, movie stars in
the audience.
Number five was the first house I ever owned. It was 750 square feet, on a hill in
Fairfax. Ben and I bought it as
newlyweds, a fixer-upper we quickly shone into submission. There we conceived both girls, the most
magic you can make. I gave birth
to Lana in that house. We
had first steps, first words.
Number six, the very last magic place on my list, is The
Garage. This is the design
collective I’m a part of in my little town. We’re a retail shop housed in an old fix-it garage, largely
unimproved. We are all makers. Everything you find here is unique and
beautiful.
If all the places on my lists are scenes of creativity, The
Garage fits right in. Here I
discovered that people might actually want to buy the stuff I make, the stuff
I’ve been making for years just to feed my soul; the ponchos out of old
cashmere sweaters, the dog-bowl stands out of vintage fruit crates, the brown
sugar fudge that was my father’s favorite. I’ve discovered a group of artists unlike my former actor
tribes; they are visual, often internal, but no less magic, no less true.
This coming Sunday we close our doors. Our building has sold, we have to move
out. A few of us are opening a new
store in nearby Olema, a place that will undoubtedly be my next magic spot, an
exciting prospect. But on Sunday
we will say goodbye to this place, this entity that for me, at least, has been
a life-changer. I’ve spent two
years here, blossoming from a stay-at-home mom to a business owner. I have been inspired and supported by
these gorgeous people around me.
I’ve said before that the Garage has become the beating heart of
Fairfax. On Sunday will be a
little death. And all I can say is
thank you.
