Before I knew the type of artist I'd be, I knew I'd live in an artist's loft. Perhaps it was Flashdance. The Real World . . . of course, season 1! The Eyes of Laura Mars was the clincher, Demi Moore in . . . well every movie that mattered (About Last Night, Ghost - sure, why not?

The Loft was equivalent to everything I instinctively knew, the moment I saw it, that would always matter to me.

Lofts meant creativity, artistry, the ability to fill a frame, to curate the canvas until everything felt intentioned. A space for those with taste. And, it represented New York - my first love.

Yet, I was too late to loft New York.

Some had remained imperfectly intact: uneven wood or concrete factory floors, living spaces unencumbered by walls, beds that lounged on floors because of the urban hike defined by flights.

It was Los Angeles - still a mistress city, yet we grow closer every day, whom born my first loft. Situated off a street that every city boasts, sat two compounds of artists loft defined by poison: beer or wine. And I love a pinot with a cube or two . . . so it felt kismet and she was beautiful.

Yet, something felt. . . . wrong.