Living Out a Fantasy of Hotel Life, Year-Round
Anyone meeting Libbie Lane a year ago would have thought she had the perfect turn-of-the-century Beverly Hills life. As a designer of exquisitely detailed women’s clothes, she had built a business that remained independent of fashion dictates from New York, Paris or Milan. Neiman Marcus and Saks Fifth Avenue carried her line, and a cozy bungalow on Burton Way served as boutique and unofficial clubhouse, headquarters for a privileged group of Los Angeles style setters who were faithful to the colorful, feminine designs that bore the Libbie Lane label.
Her home, a classic French-Mediterranean house in Benedict Canyon shared with her husband and two children, was warm and surprising, a showplace that, like its mistress, was charming because it didn’t take itself too seriously. In her early 40s, Lane was pretty, healthy, creative and productive. And in a rut.
So she made some changes. Closed the store, moved out of the grand house. As is often true of Lane, she was ahead of the curve; she downsized before the rejection of ostentation began to spread. And in the process of settling into a small, cheery apartment south of Wilshire in the heart of Beverly Hills, she has felt rejuvenated, watched her children become more independent and encouraged her husband to expand his career as a writer, producer and director to include teaching.
“I was tired of having the exact same pace to my life,” she says. “I went to the store. I went home. The next day I went to the store, then I went home. I wanted a simpler, clearer life. A lot of people get a sense of security from living in the same place and doing the same thing every day of their life. If I did that, I’d die.”
At first, Lane thought of moving to a smaller house, “somewhere up in the hills.” But then she passed an old apartment building in the midst of extensive renovations. The carved stone three-story building reawakened a romantic fantasy she’d long had of living in an apartment. She peered into the lobby, where Moorish swirls were painted on a beamed ceiling. That was it.
“I operate on an emotional level,” she says. “To me, the apartment was so magical and so light. I said to the manager, ‘I’ll take one of each--the front upstairs apartment and the one beneath it.’ Everything I do in life is gut. Whether it’s renting this place or buying a piece of clothing, if I have to ask someone else what they think, chances are I don’t really want it. I saw this place, and I knew I had to have it.”
Her husband looked at the move with a more practical eye. “Our king-size bed will never fit in the bedroom,” he warned. Lane didn’t care. She’d manage the details somehow, move some treasured pieces in from the big house and put the rest in storage.
Two separate apartments, whose total square footage equals half of what they’d had, became their new home in August. A nanny’s room, Lane’s art studio and a studio-playroom for Alec, 8, and Ella, 4, are on the ground floor. Upstairs, two bedrooms, a living-dining room and a small kitchen keep the family in much closer proximity than they ever have been.
“Being close to the kids is a total pleasure,” Lane says. “They were excited about sharing a room. That’s an experience they’ll remember for the rest of their lives. I’d always lived in houses. When I was a child, I’d pass by those low apartment buildings near the department stores on Wilshire, and I thought living in them would be so much fun. To me, it would be like living in a hotel, and I’ve always wanted to live in a hotel. I grew up near the Beverly Hills Hotel, and that was my playground. I skateboarded or roller-skated over there every day, I’d order tuna fish sandwiches at the counter in the coffee shop for lunch. The pool manager was my private swim teacher. I had a crush on the elevator man. I loved it there, and maybe because of that, I’ve always loved hotels.”
But Lane would never decorate a room like a hotel suite. A painter and fabric designer before she turned to fashion design, she doesn’t know the tyranny of color schemes. Guided, of course, by her emotions, she combines favorite pieces, mixing colors, patterns, periods and styles. The oval French painted wooden dining table came from her shop. Rattan chairs with cotton cushions surround it. The leafy branches of trees on the street below are visible through large, unscreened windows. “When we eat dinner, I feel like we’re in a treehouse,” Lane says.
The living and dining room are dominated by an orange-red Oriental rug that covered the dining room floor in her last house. “That’s when I realized what a change I’d made,” she says. “Now my whole apartment is as big as my other dining room was.” The red of Chinese silk pillows trimmed with dyed feathers is a few shades bluer than the rug’s color. “It isn’t conscious with me,” Lane says. “I wouldn’t think to match the colors. But I don’t think about not matching either. It just happens. I wouldn’t like having the same colors in every room. The kids’ room is bright. My bedroom is pale.” In the living room, bright accents enliven a background of neutrals.
Decorating a bedroom for a girl and a boy was a challenge, because Lane sees her style as extremely feminine. A Manuel Canovas printed cotton covers the base of each bed, which are covered in patched quilts made by Milanese artist Marisa Corti. His-and-hers stuffed animal collections and throw pillows add more color.
Lane still makes custom designs for private clients and is returning to painting. “As an artist, I can’t have output unless I have input,” she says “and the way my life was, I wasn’t getting it. I needed to regenerate.” Since Lane’s decision defied the American belief that bigger is better, she found her friends’ reactions interesting. Some understood; others were envious. Some thought she’d suffered financial disaster but were too polite to ask. If she was going to move to an apartment, some suggested, at least choose a bigger one. “They didn’t get it,” Lane says. “But I have other friends who have big houses here and small vacation homes, and they say that when they’re in their smaller homes, it’s the best of times, being cozy and close as a family. You can get so attached to a house. You think it means everything. It’s status, it’s an expression of your style. But it’s not.”
A beautiful house had become an oppressive responsibility. Now Lane enjoys calling for help when something needs fixing. Andy Lane had helped manage Lane’s business and their home. When the couple decided to walk away from both, he was freed to try teaching, something he’d wanted to do for a long time. He’s committed to teaching writing and directing for nine months at North Carolina School of the Arts, where he’ll have more time to devote to his own writing. Since he sometimes spends several weeks at a time in North Carolina, Lane has enough distance from the children to see how the move has affected them.
“The lifestyle they lead is kind of New York-y, in a way,” he says. They take the bus to LACMA West with their nanny and play in Roxbury Park. Alec calls the neighborhood “dog heaven” and can walk to visit friends, an experience many Los Angeles children don’t share. “The kids have a kind of urban life that has a whole different energy. I see them being stronger and more independent. This place made sense to Libbie on an aesthetic level, and when that happens she has a way with composition and design that makes everything work.”
