7.23am, Los Angeles. A dried corn cob with the husk still attached, rests on the dining room table. There are green/grey glasses by the sink, stacked on the ceramic tiles. I enjoy breakfast with my wife Rosa, and my son, Turner — as the room slowly brightens, and dapples of light begin to dance on the walls. Our home, a Spanish colonial style, dates from 1929. Palm trees wave at the front, and a small pond sits quietly at the back. There are signs of past lives lived here — worn wooden doors with patina on the brass handles, a dog paw print cast in the terracotta floor in the entrance way. It’s a 15 minute walk to the Schindler House, crossing Melrose Place and onto Kings. Completed in 1922, the house turns 100 this year. Now considered a landmark in Californian modernism, the house is tucked away, shielded from its wild West Hollywood surrounds by tall bamboo shoots. Designed in an open plan style, all of the spaces are connected with the environment outside; the garden, the vegetable patch, the flower bed. Rooms are formed by the joining of thick concrete slabs and sliding glass panels. In the late afternoon, the sunlight grows warmer and reaches further into the house. The surroundings melt into the architecture — shadows of branches on the concrete exterior, shimmering reflections of leaves on the glass, and the sound of birdsong. LA diary for @zarahome