Behold, a miracle: Jennifer Lawrence, sitting still.
It’s a warm evening in Los Angeles, and Lawrence and I are alongside a fire pit in the backyard of a Mediterranean-style home high in the hills, where the air smells of flowers, money, and the negligible carbon burned thoughtfully by electric cars. The chaos of Hollywood feels a zillion miles away.
This is not Lawrence’s actual home. It’s a rental. Lawrence’s real home “broke” while she was away—a madcap story involving crystals and . . . well, let Lawrence tell it: “When I first moved in, the house was crystalled out—crystals everywhere, and geodes,” she explains. “And I was like, ‘Please get rid of these; I don’t want people to come over here and think I’m a crystal person.’ Not that there’s anything wrong with that! But everyone told me, ‘You can’t do that. You can’t move them. You have to have the crystal lady who put them in move them… You know where this is going. Lawrence did not get the crystal lady. “I just had all the crystals yanked out. Sold them. And then my fucking house flooded.”
“I hate crystals,” Lawrence says. There are no crystals in the rental. There’s not much evidence Lawrence is living here, other than an oil painting of her dog, Pippi, over the fireplace. I’ve brought bourbon: a bottle of Old Grand-Dad, a nod to Lawrence’s Kentucky roots. It’s after 5:00 p.m. and we’re having one, because . . . wouldn’t you?
“This is delicious,” Lawrence says, pulling a blanket over her sweater and wide-leg Zimmermann pants. And this booze cost only $19.99, I tell her. “Wow,” she says, deadpan. “I shouldn’t be wasting this on you. I’m going to save it for company.”
A few days prior, Lawrence had visited with the acclaimed American painter John Currin for the work that appears opposite. “Pretty unbelievable,” she says. “He took photos, and posed me like one of those French girls. I think Pippi might actually be in some of them.”
Is she going to get the finished Currin? “How do I broach that?” she asks. “Who else would want it?”
Full interview HERE