2015 Interscope Records. Directed by Alek Keshishia. SelenaGomezVEVO.
In 1972, it was Val and Ruth Rosing’s beautiful house at the top of the Hollywood Hills. The year they moved in, they were the youngest couple in the neighborhood, two creatives, Val, a composer, and Ruth, a singer and a poet with the lights of Los Angeles illuminated before them. Their only daughter, DeeDee, was born in that house and they planted a pine tree off the back terrace in her honor.
By the time I moved into Ruth’s garage apartment, Val had passed away, DeeDee was an adult and had moved out, and her tree had grown over the house to shade the terrace. Now in her eighties, Ruth was the oldest person in the neighborhood and lived with her male companion, Jim, who helped to maintain the property.
Over the years, Ruth’s garage apartment, adjacent to the main house, had been rented out to artists in the industry including set painters and musicians. Fresh from New York, after years of moving from apartment to apartment, I was looking for a different experience. I came across her listing, made the drive up the hill, and never looked back.
Ruth took a liking to me and would tell me these stories over chilled red wine on ice while we sat on her terrace overlooking the city. She’d bring out a plate of cheese slices on crackers for us, and a bowl of peanuts for the squirrels. We’d bask in her 180 degree view of the city. On the fourth of July, I’d join her for a drink and we’d watch the fireworks go off from Dodger Stadium to Santa Monica Pier. But on regular evenings, she’d simply share stories, pour wine, and consistently drink me under the table.
Fortunately, on such evenings, after hugging Ruth goodnight, I didn’t have far to stumble. Once I left her front door, I was about seven steps from my own front door. Inside the apartment felt like a collection of past, eccentric tenants. The main room had been painted zebra and brown, the bathroom, two shades of blue and the kitchen/closet/library, green and purple. I eventually made my own mark by adding an orange accent wall to the zebra, and painted the inside of my front door pink. The apartment, lovingly referred to as The Cabin, was 250 square feet including my own outdoor terrace looking west to Santa Monica – perfect for this former New Yorker.
Some mornings, I would find fruit or banana bread at my screen door. In turn, I would leave a thank you note on Ruth and Jim’s front door. On the drive to work, I would stop exactly at the top of the hill, just beyond our garage, to take a photo. I have a collection of photos from that spot. In the early morning, sometimes the fog would cover the city below and it felt like I was on a cloud. Other mornings, it was beautifully clear and I could see all the way to Downtown. Every time, I’d have to stop in awe of the beauty and my good fortune for landing here. The drive home was also an adventure, after my long commute, I’d turn off Sunset Boulevard and accelerate, getting excited for my winding, tree-lined, country road drive. It was a thrill – every, single time.
Ruth shared her many stories, she shared her books of poetry and she shared that she wanted to live in that house until the day she died. Looking out over the expansive view of Los Angeles, she’d set her wine glass down with a slight tremor and ask, ‘Where else would I go?’ It was clear to us both that there was no place better. On the night that I saw the ambulance lights outside my room, I knew the day had come – Ruth had achieved her final wish, to die in her house on the hill.
After four years living in the cabin on the hill, moving off was a blur, like being pulled out of a dream. I can’t remember the details. I do remember Ruth talking about realtors always knocking at her door, looking to see if she was ready to sell. With her daughter living outside the city, I knew it would go quickly.
In the years that have gone by since, I sometimes would torture myself by taking the drive up the hill to check on the house. Soon after it was sold – there was never even a sign – it was torn down, along with the tree Ruth had planted for her daughter. When friends would come to town, I’d drive them up the hill and share stories, each time, the new house climbed higher from the foundation. It was modern and massive, and painful to see.
I hardly watch music videos anymore, but as a self-proclaimed fangirl, I dip around to see what’s happening, including with pop starlets like Selena Gomez. In her new music video, Hands To Myself, the third scene cuts to nearly the exact spot where I’d take my photos every morning from the hill. The modern and massive house that replaced my home of four years, my private hideaway, was now center screen. In the video, Selena plays a semi-dressed stalker, lurking around the house of a hunky Hollywood actor. I watched all the way through to catch glimpses of my former hilltop views. In the Behind the Scenes look at the making of the video, Selena is seated in front of the expansive view, about the same spot where Ruth's dining table was, where I'd sometimes join her for a meal. Selena talks to camera and describes the house as a crucial character of the video. With all the stories shared and memories made in my cabin above the clouds, I can't help but think – if she only knew.
