Anais Nin’s Writing Room

Renowned diarist Anais Nin — the muse of Henry Miller and many others — lived in Silverlake (Los Angeles) from the early 1960s until her death in 1977 at age 73. Her beautiful home, located at 2335 Hidalgo, was designed by Eric Lloyd Wright (Frank’s grandson), the half-brother of Rupert Pole, Nin’s then-husband. Nin led a complicated personal life that included bicoastal husbands (Hugh Guiler in New York and Rupert Pole in California). She eventually had her marriage to Pole annulled, but continued to live with him in the gorgeous house he had built just for her.

From REFLECTIONS by Henry Miller (Capra Press, 1981): With Anais I felt safe, secure. She delighted in keeping things running smoothly so I could write. She was really a true guardian angel, supportive and enthusiastic about my writing at a time when I needed it most. She was generous too. Kept me going with little gifts — pocket money, cigarettes, food, and so on. She sang my praises to the world long before I’d become regarded as a writer. In fact, it was Anais who paid for the first printing of Tropic of Cancer. For these reasons I feel utterly grateful to her. It’s rare to find a friend, a confidante, a colleague, a helpmate, and a lover, all in the same person. 

Anais Nin’s Writing Desk, Silverlake

Anais Nin lived in Silverlake (Los Angeles) from the early 1960s until her death in 1977 at age 73. The beautiful home, located at 2335 Hidalgo, was designed by Eric Lloyd Wright (Frank’s grandson), who was the half-brother of Rupert Pole, Nin’s then-husband. Nin led a complicated personal life that included bicoastal husbands (Hugh Guiler in New York and Rupert Pole in California). She eventually had her marriage to Pole annulled, but continued to live with him in the gorgeous house he had built just for her.

Black & Oh So Blue

I have been black and blue in some spot, somewhere, almost all my life from too intimate contact with my own furniture.” FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT

I lived for many years on the Far Northwest Side of Chicago, about 10 minutes from Oak Park, Illinois — site of many historic buildings designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Since I have seen first-hand much of the unpadded, upright furniture of whence Wright speaks, the above quote makes me smile.

But, for me, the quote has deeper meaning. What writer, poet, or other artist hasn’t ended up black and blue in some spot or another from his or her own creations? I have always been interested in the artist’s relationship to the artwork — a concept explored in a profound way in Mary Shelley‘s Frankenstein.

Are we responsible for our creations? Do they have a life of their own apart from us? Does our art change us — or is it merely an expression of who we are? More on these thoughts in upcoming posts. In the meantime, feel free to leave comments! I’d love to hear what you think.

Photo by Silver Birch (Street Art, Vermont & Sunset, Los Angeles)