LENNY KRAVITZ

Welcome To Our Humble Abode....

Insert me on the couch behind Lenny drinking a bone dry Gin Martini

Last week Architectural Digest featured Lenny Kravitz's Paris home. This isn't my first rodeo drooling over the musicians not-so-humble-abode—the house originally appeared in British Vogue in 2019—and cross my heart, I've thought about it every day since.

It was a tale as old as time: a rockstar with an affinity for leather pants searching for the type of Paris pied-à-terre anyone who's experienced the magic of great foie gras daydreams about calling their own. Something on the Seine, two bedrooms, with lighting so good even LENNY KRAVITZ goes from a 10 to a 10.5. When his real estate agent brought him to a tree-lined cul-de-sac in the 16th arrondissement, Kravitz had no idea he would soon be shown a home formerly belonging to Countess Anne d'Ornano, the widowed former mayor of Deauville. But from the moment Kravitz walked inside, he says he "just spiritually knew." The rest is history.

I have zero notes. The house is perfect: pristine white walls accented with jewel tones, Baccarat chandeliers, and gold mirrors that look like they once belonged to someone both very rich and very dead. It is, without exaggeration, the home of my wildest dreams.

I'm currently planting seeds for my own grand mansion (a more modest 4-bedroom loft as far west as possible in TriBeCa, with an elevator opening directly into the living room, more Giallo Siena marble than should be legally permitted to own, and a cold plunge/sauna setup overlooking the Hudson). As my dreams continue to bloom, I am left with no choice but to fantasize about being Lenny Kravitz tenant. Here's exactly how I'd spend my days in each room of the most magnificent house ever to exist.

The Living Room: To me, this is the type of space that screams ‘I have arrived!!!!’ The highest version of myself would throw together weekly Artists Way check-ins for me and my girlfriends…the other half would invite all of my exes over for tea at the same time and label it a "networking event."

The Bedroom: No chance am I putting this in writing on Substack, sorry!

The Primary Bathroom: Once a week I’d be covered from head to toe in Masque Vivant, gossiping on speakerphone with my best friend from college about pressing issues—the audacity of The Row Flip Flops, any celebrity venturing to space, and whatever emotional rollercoaster my personal life has signed me up for.

The Dining Room: Jeremy Allen White himself would throw on a Loro Piana apron (they should make these) and whip up some sort of Wagyu beef and Matsutake type beat for me and my besties. We’d play hours of Kill, Fuck, Marry, drink Krug from each of our birth years and end the night dancing to ‘Show Me Love’ by Robyn, while devouring Gâteau St. Honoré.

The Sous-Sol: If you’re looking for me, I’ll be in my Sous-Sol manifesting everything from the man of my dreams to an unlimited metabolism to world peace.

The Wine Room: I’ve never played Poker before, but something about this lighting makes me want to go all-in…literally. I’d host weekly poker nights catered by Meadow Lane…think ample amounts of chicken nuggets topped with Beluga caviar paired with perfectly chilled Coche in Zalto glasses.

The Chaufferie: You better believe I’d find a way to weave the sentence ‘you should stop by my Chaufferie some time’, into even the most solemn conversation. I’d blast so much Peggy Gou my neighbors would hate…except they wouldn’t because they would be partying in The Caufferie with us!