The Pad

I went disguised as a writer. I was carrying glasses, laptop, pens, and a yellow tablet. If I put on my reading glasses, I might be convincing. I had found the red brick building, deep in the mysterious industrial zone of downtown L.A. It had no door. It had a gate, which rolled open if you said the right thing, to the right person, after pushing the right button. Aha! I gained entrance. Three flights up the fire escape, and I was in. The Writing Pad.

The door opened to shoes. Many shoes. Bare feet evidently enhanced either the experience or the shine on the blond hardwood floor. I sidled my Sketchers up against a masculine pair of New Balance. The floor was smooth, cool and clean on my feet. I stepped in.

Just past the white bed,on the left, a computer hutch and stacks of books defined a work area. To the right, a rectangle aburst with sunlight shining through gauzy curtains defined a mysterious space, with a couch.

I was immediately drawn to this veiled and lighted space, curious to know what mystical acts were performed in there that required more care in privacy than the bed. A peak revealed vaulting floor-to-ceiling windows and, yes, a couch. Then, the answer: Huge canvases asplash with colors, all colors, bold colors, bold shapes. Multiple easels and stacked canvases. A place to worship to the artistic process and nature’s sunlight.

Beyond, working towards more huge windows, were couches and chairs, a fireplace, and about a dozen people lounging everywhere, on the couches, on the chairs, on cushions, on the floor. Everyone was barefoot, and had something to write with and something to write on. In a corner kitchen, the hosts shared their morning coffee. Kindred spirits, surely.

So here I was amidst writers, not knowing quite how I got there, nor what I was going to do. I was in another world, in an artist’s loft. The building used to be a mattress factory, and yet here now were fifty artists creating art -- and me.

This space was everything. It defied norms, boundaries and separations. It was workplace and bedroom merged. It housed both a private life and a public life. All was skylit. Walls did not exist. Everything was movable. Chairs glided, the bookshelves rolled, cabinets shifted.

Here was a place where minds could change, hearts could roam, and spirits could investigate. And here I was. And so, there was just one thing to do. I began to write.