Thursday, 17 May 2018

Home IS Where My Heart Is! And You?

'Where We Love is Home – Home that Our Feet May Leave, But Not Our Hearts.' ~ Oliver Wendell Holmes

AND with a generous monthly pledge of $15 on Patreon - YOU too shall feel 'At Home' with exclusive access to 'Nicole's House' on my Patreon page.

Inspired by the life of Nicole Brown Simpson, 'Nicole's House' is the story of a 12th scale contemporary home which has enjoyed world wide recognition - however, the story is FAR from over!


With access to my Patreon musings, you can watch as I recreate Nicole's last home at 875 South Bundy Drive as faithfully as possible.

For with completion scheduled for Christmas 2018, you can now join me in the studio as I work on the ambitious design of another and much larger Nicole's House!


You'll have the opportunity to see the completed 'Nicole's House' before anyone else and you can enjoy other Patreon rewards too!

But what IS Patreon? And how does it work?

Although I love what I do and cannot imagine myself doing anything other than this – I do know that in this crazy world of mine that it's impossible to survive on fresh air with only a diet of hope and the occasional box of donated teabags.

The glue, paint, wood, tools, paintbrushes, fabric and all of the other lovely stuff I use to create my imaginary worlds ALL costs money AND if it didn't I would either be crawling over hot coals to get to this 'Land of the Free' or I'd be spending time at Her Majesty's Pleasure...

Which brings me to Patreon!

Patreon is a crowd funding membership site for artists just like me - although I've yet to find anyone else using this site who creates anything quite like I do!

Beginning with a monthly pledge from a $1 and up which is charged to your card on the 1st of every month – not only will you be supporting me in my work but you'll also be invited to cross the portal and step into my world!


AND there are also lots of unique rewards to enjoy including exclusive 'behind-the-scenes' images, giveaways, tutorials and an anniversary gift.​

A unique 'little' something from 'Nicole's House' designed by me will be posted to you on every six month anniversary that you and I have shared together on Patreon - as a 'Thank you' for your wonderful support!

And as June 2019 will the twenty-fifth anniversary of Nicole's death, you will receive an exclusive invitation to buy my tribute to Nicole as a gift for yourself or a loved one with the release of a limited edition beautiful coffee table book.

Your pledge means everything to me as it will allow me to the freedom to design, create and teach and it would be wonderful to inspire others to become a 'little' creative too - and you can cancel or amend your pledge at any time!

If you are unable to pledge - that's OK for knowing that you are still reading this means just as much - Thank you!

Wednesday, 2 May 2018

In Search of the Ghost of Brentwood...

A young woman named Moya Rimp, whom I met during the Simpson trial, called to tell me that she and her mother, Pauline Rimp, a prominent real-estate woman in Brentwood, had moved into Nicole Brown Simpson's condo, the scene of the murders, in order to help the Brown family sell it. 

The Browns are eager to get rid of the condo, although as yet there have been no takers.

"What's it like living there?" I asked.

"Very strange. Tourists are still coming by to look at it. When I walk the dog, I meet all these people in the neighborhood who tell me things. There's one who swears she saw O.J. talking to Ron and Nicole before the murders, but she wouldn't come forward."

Moya Rimp invited me for dinner, I went. Robert Altman, the film director, and his wife, Kathryn, were also there...


With the reverence of a docent at the Getty Museum, Moya Rimp showed us through the condo. "This is where Nicole's exercise equipment was," she said stopping in an area outside the master bedroom. We stared at the empty space, then moved on.

"Now we're entering Nicole's bedroom. That was her bed, and beyond, in the bathroom, you can see her tub, which was filled with water that night and had lit candles around the edge." We became caught up in her surreal thrall.

As many times as I had walked by the condo and looked at the pictures of the crime scene, I was still amazed at how large the place is - 3,400 square feet - and how small the killing area is.


I perched on the spot outside the picture window where Simpson would have sat when he reportedly spied on Nicole prior to the killings. It was the perfect place for a voyeur...

"We think he was watching Nicole through the window on the night of the murders before she came outside," said Moya Rimp.

In the ill-lit, eerie space, I felt as if I could almost hear the scuffling of rubber-soled Bruno Magli shoes and sneakers in the dirt and on the walkway. 

"This is where Ron fell," said Moya. "That's where Nicole was."

As I looked at the scene, remembering the horrifying photographs shown in court, I didn't want to be there anymore, and we went inside.

Dominick Dunne 
Three Faces of Evil for Vanity Fair 
(June 1996)

A Peek Inside the Abode of a Has-Been...

Brentwood was definitely not my neck of the woods. The conventional wisdom about this upscale 'hood was that it was a place where people air-kissed, compared implants, and did lunch. During my stint in Beverly Hills, I discovered that the cliches were pretty much true.


The hills north of Sunset were jammed with multi million-dollar estates hidden behind many millions more dollars' worth of landscaping. All to create the illusion of privacy. The farther north you went, and the higher you climbed into the hills, the narrower the streets became, and the more obscure the street signs were. I strained to find Rockingham Drive.


There was a cruiser parked up ahead, where a uniformed officer directed traffic. A few civilians milled around outside an iron security gate. Some of them had the nervous, unfed look of reporters. Still, the scene was not exactly bustling with activity. I got the impression that the main show had come and gone.


I slipped unnoticed past the press and through the gate, where I got my first look at the larger Tudor-style house overhung with old eucalyptus trees. The manicured grounds seemed to glow an unnatural shade of green in the midday light. In one corner of the lawn stood a child's playhouse. O.J. Simpson might be a has-been, I thought, but he must still be bringing in serious bucks to manage the upkeep on this place.


A white Ford Bronco sat nosed into the curb on Rockingham. Extending up the driveway from the rear of the vehicle was a trail of reddish-brown spots. The rust-colored droplets stopped several yards short of the house. The front door was open and in the foyer I could see more droplets. They appeared to be blood. Gingerly, careful to disturb nothing, I stepped inside.


Search warrant or no, it always felt weird to me to walk into the house of a stranger. But there's also a voyeuristic fascination: what a person chooses to surround himself with tells you a lot about him.

This interior of O.J. Simpson's house was exquisitely appointed with overstuffed white furniture, Lalique glass, and Berber carpeting. And yet the place gave off a faint odor of mildew and neglect.

"Hey, Marcia, come upstairs. I want to show you something." It was Brad Roberts. I followed him up the spiral staircase, where the wall was lined with photographs, mostly shots of O.J. Simpson with various fat cats.

It was on that stairway that I got my first look at the face of Nicole Brown Simpson.


She was blond, with handsome, almost mannish, features. Her hair, teeth, and skin all had that gloss peculiar to the West Side elite. In some of the photos she was with a pair of lovely brown-skinned children, a boy and a girl. They all wore ski attire.

Her face was difficult to read. The expression in all the photos was uniformly happy, but her eyes were glazed. She had - how would you describe it  - a thousand-yard stare.

By now,  I knew that the Simpson had been divorced for two years. I found it peculiar that he still had her pictures everywhere. The photos of my ex were long gone from the walls and end tables.

I peeked into the master bedroom suite. From that vantage point I could see only the top and one side of the bed. Brad Roberts knelt on the floor. He reached under the box spring and, using his fingertips, pulled out a framed photo. It showed Nicole and her husband in evening dress.

"Is that the way you found it?" I asked.

"Yep," he replied. "Just like that. Face down. Under the bed."

"Make sure they get a photo of that." I told him.

Marcia Clark
Without a Doubt 
(New York: Penguin Books 1998)