In 2019, I taught a block printmaking art class at a senior home in Westwood. Only three residents attended. I asked the activity director if anyone else might be interested. “Well there’s this one woman,” she said, “but she’s a little… difficult.”
“Don’t bring her,” one of the seniors begged. “Please.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “The more the merrier.”
A few minutes later a caregiver rolled a woman in a wheelchair into the class. She had short gray hair and glasses and smelled of stale cigarettes. I greeted her with a welcoming smile.
“What are you so goddamned happy about,” the woman asked.
“I’m happy to meet you.”
“The fuck you are.”
She scowled then looked to the table where I’d assembled my carving tools, printing inks and blocks.
“What’s all this kindergarten crap?”
“I’m a printmaker and I’m here to teach an art class.”
“Pathetic,” she said.
One of the other seniors gestured for me to come over. She whispered into my ear, “Please take her away. She’s ruining it for everyone.”
“Let’s give her a chance,” I said.
I began the class then returned to the woman in the wheelchair.
“Looks like we got off on the wrong foot. My name’s Loren. What’s yours?”
“Her name’s Eve as in evil,” one of the seniors said. The woman in the wheelchair rolled herself to the window. She gazed down at the foot traffic on Westwood Boulevard. She looked sad. And frustrated.
I’d encountered this situation before. Some residents have trouble adjusting to life in a senior facility away from the sanctuary of their own home. Perhaps they feel abandoned or have conflicts with other residents. I’m certain I’d feel the same way if I lived in a senior home.
After class, I asked the woman in the wheelchair if she’d like something to drink. She said she’d love a coffee but “not the crap they serve here.” I walked across the street to Starbucks and bought a small coffee with cream and sugar. I returned to the senior home and gave it to the woman.
“Thank you,” she said. “What do I owe you?”
“I’m good.”
I had a few minutes before I had to leave for my next class. I sat with the woman in silence, hoping she’d appreciate the company.
“What else do you do,” she asked.
“I’m a writer,” I said.
“So am I.”
“Really,” I said. “Have you written any books?”
“A few.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eve Babitz.”
I’d never heard of her. She gazed across the street at a young couple kissing on a bus bench.
“I wasn’t always this way,” she said. “I never thought I’d end up in a place like this.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said.
“It’s Satan’s waiting room.”
That night, I googled Eve Babitz. I couldn’t believe I’d never heard of her. She was an author who’d written four memoirs about Los Angeles life in the 1970s. She was discovered by Joan Didion and became a renowned literary figure. She was friends with Mick Jagger and Jim Morrison, she dated Harrison Ford and Stephen Stills, she introduced Salvador Dali to Frank Zappa.
Her most well-known novel was Slow Days, Fast Company. I purchased a Kindle edition and read it over several nights. It reminded me of an LA version of Sex in the City circa 1970. The writing was bold and confident and expressed what it felt like to be a young woman searching for love in the world of rock and roll.
Women want to be loved like roses. They spend hours perfecting their eyebrows and toes and inventing irresistible curls that fall by accident down the back of their necks from otherwise austere hair-dos. They want their lover to remember the way they held a glass. They want to haunt. (From Slow Days, Fast Company.)
She was funny as when she wrote: The act of waitressing is a solace, it’s got everything you could ask for: confusion, panic, humility and food.
Her musings on Los Angeles were as pertinent today as they were 50 years ago.
You are perfect for Los Angeles. You’re like the lady whom everyone’s in love with but they hate themselves…You’re voluptuous and too smart and too kind and too mean, and you give everyone just what they want and then you get sad and bland.
Babitz was a pleasure seeker. She indulged in drugs, alcohol and men. She made her first splash on the cultural scene in 1963 when she was photographed playing chess in the nude with artist Marcel Duchamp at the Pasadena Art Museum. She befriended Andy Warhol and Los Angeles artist Ed Ruscha. She photographed Linda Ronstadt and designed album covers for The Byrds and Buffalo Springfield.
Babitz’s first book Eve’s Hollywood was published in 1974. It’s a series of essays on Los Angeles counterculture. She befriended and was compared to Joan Didion and Nora Ephron. Babitz never married or had children. She made her living as a novelist and a freelance writer for magazines like Rolling Stone, Village Voice and Esquire. She had little financial security. She lived in the moment, a perpetual bohemian embracing Los Angeles as when she wrote: “From earliest childhood I have rejoiced over the Santa Ana winds. I know those winds the way the Eskimos know their snows.”
Babitz gave up alcohol and drugs in the 1980s and worked to become sober. In 1997, while driving her Volkswagen Beetle, she inadvertently ignited her acrylic skirt while lighting a cigarette. She suffered third-degree burns over most of her body. She had no health insurance. Her celebrity friends held an art auction at the Chateau Marmont to raise money for her medical bills. After the accident, Babitz became a recluse. She published her last book Fiorucci in 1980.
In the summer of 2019, I returned to the Westwood senior home to teach another class. This time eight residents attended. Babitz wasn’t among them. I was disappointed since I wanted to tell her how much I enjoyed her writing. I asked the activity director how Eve was doing.
“She isn’t feeling well today,” she said.
After class, I again walked to Starbucks. I returned to the senior home and asked if I could deliver the coffee to Eve. The activity director knocked on Eve’s door then pushed it open. Eve was in her wheelchair by the window staring outside. Her television was tuned to Fox News at high volume.
“Eve, the art teacher brought you some coffee,” the activity director said.
Eve didn’t respond.
“Maybe next time,” the activity director said.
The next time was September 2019. My own father was ill in a nursing home with lymphoma. I felt raw and especially sensitive to other people’s pain, particularly seniors. While I prepared my class, the activity director rolled Eve into the room. I was caught off guard but excited to see her.
“I’m happy to see you,” I said.
She looked up at me, clearly in pain. Her hands made involuntary jerking movements as if she had Parkinson’s. She tried saying something but had difficulty speaking.
“I read Slow Days, Fast Company,” I told her. “It’s fantastic. You’re a hell of a writer.”
She tried smiling but couldn’t control her facial muscles.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I told her. “I brought you a special block design.”
I showed her a rubber block inked with Mick Jagger’s face.
“You knew him right,” I asked.
She shook her head up and down.
“I’ll carve it for you and we’ll make a print, okay?”
While Eve watched from her wheelchair, I carved the Jagger print then gave it to Eve to hold. She rubbed her fingers atop the carved block, fascinated.
“Now we’re going to Paint it Black,” I said with a smile.
She repeated the phrase with difficulty, “Paint it black.”
I rolled black ink atop the block and made a print. I held it up for Eve to admire. She mumbled something and nodded her head. After class, I walked with the caregiver to Eve’s room and left the print on her dresser.
My father passed away in October 2019. I took time off from my classes. In March 2020, Covid hit. All my art classes were cancelled for the year.
In December 2021, I clicked the Los Angeles Times online edition as I did every morning. I saw an obituary for Eve Babitz. She died at 78 due to complications from Huntington’s Disease.
The obituary stated that Babitz’s work had gained a new wave of popularity among young women. This was largely due to a biography of Babitz’s life written by Lili Anolik called Hollywood’s Eve: Eve Babitz and the Secret History of L.A. Anolik told the Times, “She could be difficult, she could be perverse, but she was always a delight.” Babitz’s friend and literary rival Joan Didion died five days later in Manhattan.