Katherine is a dear friend in L.A. I forgot how we met, I think through mutual friends at Decades, the consignment shop. Kat, as she's known, is a writer of various kinds--she's written for television, for Allure magazine, and soon, she's launching her socio-politico blog. She's also dabbles in essential oils, literally: learn here about her magical ways. I can still recall the smell of the stuff she suggested I anoint my busted thumb with a few years back, but I swear it stunk up, er, sped up recovery.
It was a whole year ago when I visited her one-bedroom in West Hollywood. I fell in love with her kitchen: airy, cheery, bright, pretty tiles. (Why is cheery often the best word to describe a wonderful kitchen? It's true.)
Above, the lemon is sitting out because she forgot to put it away after her morning drink: "A tall glass of water with lemon, cayenne, and a Himalayan salt solution that has tons of minerals. It sets me straight." She used to eat (Trader) Joe's O's every day for brek. She's moved on to eggs.
A Ruscha poster. She loves Ruscha and says this one makes her laugh because the words--BRAVE MEN RUN IN MY FAMILY--"It's like a jackass thing to say"--are angled to appear as though they're drowning at sea. (Kat has a wicked sense of humor, and an even more wicked laugh.) Also, she loves ships, and has since she was little.
The handbag, with its sequins and leather and beading and velvet and satin, is a favorite. "It's my gypsy bag." She attributes her nomadic leanings to her Hungarian-Serbian blood. Until she hits the road again, in high-hobo style, of course, I'll post the rest of the pics of her place in the next week...