ote In 1993, Barbra Streisand donated a 22.5-acre estate in Malibu to the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy. They created the "Streisand Center for Conservancy
ote> In 1993, Barbra Streisand donated a 22.5-acre estate in Malibu to the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy. They created the "Streisand Center for Conservancy Studies" and now offer tours every Wednesday for a mere $30 per person.
After the editors of The Simon asked me to write about the Conservancy, I mailed in a check. A brochure and map arrived a week later. I was instructed to report to a parking lot in Malibu on the appointed Wednesday. The brochure read, "Be prompt. Arrive at the car pool site by 1:00 p.m."
I showed up at 1:03 p.m. and discovered an empty parking lot. I know people often lie about their arrival times when running late. (The tardy people almost always pads their time, so it sounds as if they missed you by one-tenth of a second.) However, I have subsequently called the time and confirmed that my watch and the clock in my car were correct. I was only three minutes late.
Anyway, when I saw the empty lot, I assumed I was the only person interested in touring Barbra Streisand's old estate. Then I wondered if everyone else was late. When I remembered Barbra Streisand's reputation as a demanding diva, I began to suspect that the tour had already left.
I wouldn't have been annoyed if the brochure was more explicit. However, it did not read, "Because the Streisand Conservancy tries to emulate our control-freak benefactor in every way, the tour leaves 10 seconds after 1:00."
At 1:15, I called the Streisand Conservancy on my cell phone. A voicemail robot recited a list of names. As directed, I spelled out "Feldman" for Marsha Feldman, the director. The robot told me, twice, that there was nobody by that name at the Conservancy. I pushed "0" and told the woman who answered what happened. Marsha Feldman, who, lo and behold, did exist, came on the line and gave me directions to the Conservancy.
When I arrived, an employee opened the gate and explained that the tour guide had waited at the parking lot for "a few minutes." A "few minutes" meant less than three, but I didn't quibble.
After I parked, the employee pointed me toward the "Barn," where the tour was in progress. Marsha Feldman greeted me at the front door. Like Linda Richman, Mike Myers' impersonation of his Barbra-obsessed mother-in-law, Marsha had dark hair, long nails, and a New York accent. I tried not to snicker as she guided me toward the backyard, where the tour was in progress.
When I walked outside, the screen door slammed behind me. Several people turned to look and the docent, a stylish woman in her 40s, stopped talking.
"Are you here for the tour?" she asked.
"Yes, I am. I'm late."
"We're glad to have you," the docent said, as I remembered the outrageous fee and imagined green dollar signs light up in her eyes.
As I walked up and stood behind an overweight gal in white jeans, I realized the rest of the tour consisted of middle-aged women. No doubt all of them were rabid Streisand fans and had mistaken me for one as well. I wanted to shout, "I hate Barbra Streisand. I don't own any of her CDs and the only reason I saw The Prince of Tides was because the theater's exit doors were open and I strolled in without paying." At the very least, I wanted to explain that I was writing an article on assignment. However, I knew that wouldn't go over well with the clock-watching Nazis in charge.
Before I describe the tour, here's what the Conservancy's brochure had to say: "The tours highlight ecological improvements to the property and show people that these conservation techniques can be applied in their own homes."
That sentence is a bald-faced lie. By "ecological improvements," I suspect they are referring to the creek Babs illegally rerouted to the other side of her property (purely for aesthetic reasons) or the hundreds of trees, many of them non-indigenous, that litter the estate. I don't think planting palm trees and sod are "ecological improvements." Furthermore, the docents never did get around to sharing a single "conservation technique."
Would anyone in their right mind part with $30 to learn about soil erosion? Of course not. Would an obsessed Barbra Streisand fan pay $30 to tour her old estate? Of course.
I later learned the docent began the tour by announcing, "The Streisand Conservancy is not Graceland. We will not be gossiping." In reality, she gossiped plenty, and should have done even more. If Babs and the Conservancy were honest about the real reason people visited the estate, the tour would have been much more fulfilling.
The lead docent, who I'll call Bonnie, spoke most of the time. Also, there were two other guides on the tour, but they didn't say much. Instead, they watched us to make sure we didn't steal anything or sneak off to go exploring. I caught them counting heads more than once.
Throughout the tour, Bonnie referred to Barbra Streisand as "Miss" Streisand. Why do old women think "Miss" makes them sound young and/or classy? Using "Miss" after your 30th birthday or second marriage seems like a joke.
Bonnie began to explain that the Barn, the oldest home on the estate, was originally used by "Miss" Streisand as a country home. "The cruel streets of Brooklyn, where Miss Streisand grew up, are as far away from the country as you can get," Bonnie said in an unsuccessful attempt to wax poetic. "However, Miss Streisand wanted to live in a barn since she was a child."
I found that hard to believe, and suspected the country music/Americana/Little House on the Prairie craze in the '70s was instead to blame.
Bonnie explained that Babs' barn had been brought over from the East coast and reassembled in Malibu to maintain its authenticity. It didn't look that authentic to me, what with the huge plate glass window in the back and the panel of ornate leaded glass above the front door. I was reminded of Le Hameau at Versailles, the thatched cottages in which Marie Antoinette played at being a commoner.
Bonnie told us that Babs' bedroom in the Barn used to have vintage hats, gloves, and ties hanging from the ceiling. "Miss Streisand paid a lot of attention to detail," Bonnie said optimistically. I thought it looked like the apartment of an elderly pack rat in Manhattan's East Village.
"OK, we're ready to move along, ladies," Bonnie announced. I waited for her to add, "and gentleman," but she didn't.
We followed Bonnie to an organic herb garden. I couldn't hear what she was saying because a housewife in a denim dress with a matching bolero jacket kept talking about the bougainvillea.
After the garden, Bonnie took us to a meadow. A variety of fruit trees and even a tiny vineyard had been planted on the terraced hillside. Bonnie was visibly irritated when Docent Number Two suggested everyone look at a creek that ran next to the meadow. Bonnie said no, she was going to show everyone the creek later at a much more appropriate and beautiful spot. However, Denim Bolero Jacket and her friends went to look at the stream.
As a quick aside, let me describe these two women. One of Bolero Jacket's friends was wearing a cheap frock that had a denim top attached to a flowered skirt (you know, the kind found in Ross Dress-For-Less in the mid-'90s). The other woman wore a black blouse and slacks-sounds good so far, right? Unfortunately, she'd completed the ensemble with a full-length caftan that looked like it used to be a rug in Babs' Barn.
I was hoping to leave the chatterboxes behind. Unfortunately, Bonnie waited for Bolero Jacket and her cronies to return.
As the group continued, I slowed down to take a picture of the garden. Docent Number Three, a classy Gloria Steinem clone, stood beside me until I finished. She explained that the Conservancy was worried people might trip and hurt themselves. When I asked if "Miss" Streisand was instead worried that someone might pretend to trip and sue her, the docent tried to suppress a smile.
We walked past the Barn and arrived at the "Peach House," a multi-storied orange stucco number. Alcoves, arches, bay windows and other architectural details sprouted everywhere. It was exhausting to even look at the house.
Like three of the four houses on the estate, the Peach House has only one bedroom. I guess after sleeping with winners like Elliott Gould and Jon Peters, Babs wanted to discourage boyfriends, husbands, and overnight guests of any kind.
There isn't a big market for one-bedroom condos, so I imagine one-bedroom homes are even less popular. The resale value of houses that were hindered by questionable taste probably had more than a little to do with "Miss" Streisand's decision to donate the estate to charity. Want more proof? There was a public outcry in 1993 when she considered selling the estate. Also, Babs didn't bother to leave the Conservancy an endowment. When she lived there, the estate had six gardeners. Now it has one. The grounds looked nice, but a few of the buildings were showing signs of decay.
When Docent Number Three corrected some misinformation Bonnie offered about a ginkgo tree, Bonnie snottily requested that no one "disrupt" the tour again. Denim Bolero Jacket didn't hear the remark because she was telling Ross Dress-For-Less about Babs' newest CD.
We followed Bonnie up some stairs to the Peach House's "media room." At our destination, many of the middle-aged women were huffing and puffing from the strenuous climb, equivalent to two-and-a-half flights of stairs. I felt fine and got a boost of adrenaline when I realized the media room was the first real example of Graceland-style bad taste.
I remember reading that Babs was an Art Nouveau aficionado, and the media room proved it. Unfortunately, another design influence battled the Art Nouveau and neither side won.
The walls were covered with synthetic-looking wood decorated with Art Nouveau-ish curls. In stark contract, the exposed, rustic beams in the ceiling were very Aspen, circa 1975. Even worse, Babs' old boyfriend, Jon Peters, had commissioned two ugly wood carvings of a female figure (Bonnie gossiped-excuse me-informed us that the figure was modeled after Babs-another obvious lie). One carving adorned the bar; the other was in the kitchen.
The fireplace and both the kitchen and bar counter tops were made of a hideous, peach-colored onyx. If that wasn't bad enough, a picture on the wall showed that the room was originally filled with an army of pink suede couches. I wondered if Babs and Ryan O'Neal had screened dailies from The Main Event while lounging on the sofas. I imagined Ryan gorging himself on chocolate while Babs shouted at him not to get any on the suede.
The matching carpet, still in place, was a low-pile custom job that featured a vaguely Art Nouveau-ish pattern in dirty white, pink, and green wool.
Apparently the media room was the only room in the Peach House we were allowed to see because we walked outside and descended some steps. I perked up when I noticed a sign that read "Art Deco House."
This house, a gray building with silver trim, stood next to a geometric black-bottomed pool that was in poor condition. I was immediately reminded of Gloria Swanson's scummy pool in Sunset Boulevard.
The Art Deco house had something else in common with the mansion in Sunset Boulevard: It was definitely a thing of the past. The 1920s? No such luck. Like the Art-Nouveau, Rocky Mountain High media room, the Deco house was very much a product of the 1970s.
After expressing annoyance that some people were lagging, Bonnie punished the slow walkers by starting her talk before they arrived. She claimed that Babs did "hours" of research on Art Deco, including "library research." I find that hard to believe, especially when I saw the inside of the house, which was filled with anachronisms.
As we entered, Denim Bolero Jacket and her friends dissected the service at the restaurant where they ate lunch. Bonnie talked over them and explained that everything in the house was one of three colors: black, burgundy, or gray (or a derivative of those colors, such as pink).
"Miss Streisand instructed that even the candy in the candy dishes be burgundy or black," Bonnie said. I imagined a pathetic servant sorting through a box of Good N' Plenty.
Barbra had taken her Art Deco artwork and accessories with her, but left the custom-made furniture behind. The coffee tables and bases for the couches looked suspiciously like Formica. When I walked past the dining table (which had a hideous, smoked glass insert in the middle), I fingered the wood. It was either Formica or an amazing facsimile.
The kitchen was especially anachronistic. The entire thing was black, including the sink, the floor, the refrigerator, dishwasher, and stove. I don't know about you, but I think a kitchen that doesn't show any dirt is unsanitary.
Overall, the Art Deco house looked like a set from a movie made in the '70s but set in the '20s. Judging from the black-and-burgundy decor, it could double as either a gangster's hideaway or a bordello.
We weren't allowed to see the (one) bedroom upstairs because, as Bonnie explained, a previous tourist had brazenly reclined on the bed. However, we could see the ceiling through the open door. The entire room was painted a shocking pink that looked like boysenberry yogurt with too much food dye.
Bonnie informed us that "Miss" Streisand slept in the house for one night, decided it was too austere, and never stayed there again. If that and the candy dish revelation weren't Graceland-style gossip, then what was? Bonnie continued by telling us that after Babs' abortive attempt to live in the Art Deco house, it was used solely for entertaining.
At this point, Docent Number Two suggested that Bonnie tell everyone about the period dresses "Miss" Streisand left upstairs. Bonnie did not acknowledge her coworker and acted as if the idea had occurred to her naturally. She simmered a few minutes later when Docent Number Three offhandedly told someone to notice the swags hanging from a side table.
Outside, as I noticed that the paint on the house was peeling and the roof was sagging, Bonnie took me aside. She repeated the lie about waiting at the parking lot "a few minutes."
"I really couldn't wait any longer," she said. I imagined sending her a copy of this article, then smiled.
When everyone had exited the Deco house, Bonnie told us that "Miss" Streisand used to park a car with a rumble seat in the driveway. Apparently Babs was a big Nancy Drew fan as a child and always wanted a car like the one owned by Nancy. It occurred to me that Babs might also be envious of Nancy Drew because she was a WASP. Suddenly, the barn house made sense.
After a short walk, we stopped between a dilapidated tennis court and a rustic bridge. After asking Denim Bolero Jacket and the Rug Lady to stop talking about their tennis games, Bonnie told us we were next to the bridge that was used as the Conservancy's logo. She also pointed out that the bridge was merely decorative. Like the tour, it led nowhere. After every single woman on the tour had asked me to take her picture in front of the bridge, we walked on.
Bonnie proudly announced that we were coming up to her favorite house, a white stucco number with frosted Spanish tiles. Personally, I thought it resembled a tract home.
Even though the house was rather large, Bonnie told us it had, you guessed it, only one bedroom. "Miss" Streisand originally intended to live in the house, then planned to install her Barwood Films office in it, but neither ever happened.
Denim Bolero Jacket and her friends, now openly contemptuous of Bonnie, talked loudly. I thought Streisand fans would be more interested in the gossipy tidbits Bonnie dropped now and then. However, the proximity to one of their idol's unused homes was just too exciting. As Bonnie herded our group toward another bridge, Bolero Jacket and her friends ran up and looked in the windows. "Look!" the Rug Lady shouted, "A pizza oven!" Apparently she thought a tarnished brass pizza oven from the 1980s was the height of style.
Bonnie grimaced. "Ladies, please keep up with the tour. We wouldn't want to lose you."
"We wouldn't want to lose you," Ross Dress-For-Less said, imitating Bonnie's "highfalutin" manner of speaking. The other two made similarly clever remarks under their breath as we stopped on another bridge.
Bonnie pointed to the creek below. "Sixty workers were hired to move the stream over to this side of the canyon," she said. "You'd never be able to do it now, what with the building codes and everything." A tiny creek trickled through an aqueduct that resembled those built by the Romans. The ravine was covered with peach stucco bridges that, once again, led nowhere. To be specific, they jutted up against the canyon walls.
"I'd like all of us to close our eyes and breathe in and out and relax," Bonnie said. "This is my favorite spot on the tour and I want everyone to close their eyes and appreciate it."
Since I was standing next to Bonnie, I had no choice but to close my eyes. With my vision gone, my other senses became sharpened. I heard a bird, an airplane overhead, and Denim Bolero Jacket making fun of Bonnie.
Bonnie opened her eyes and snapped out of her meditation. "That concludes the tour," she barked. "Thank you, ladies-oh, and gentleman," she added. "Now we'd like to invite you to have tea in the Barn."
As Bonnie set out for the Barn, everyone relaxed for real on the bridge.
The woman in the white jeans and her short friend took me aside.
"What time did you get to the parking lot?" Short Friend asked.
"At 1:03. When did you leave?"
"Right at 1:00," White Jeans said.
"She and another employee told me she waited a few minutes," I said.
"She didn't wait at all!" White Jeans said. "Someone said maybe we should and she said no."
After extricating myself from White Jeans and her Short Friend (and declining their kind offer to take my picture in front of the Peach House), I reentered the Barn and headed for the bathroom. The door fastened with a clumsy, oversized wooden latch. If Babs was so concerned with authenticity, why did the Barn have a cheap, synthetic-looking parquet floor?
I thought about leaving because I didn't want to be mistaken for a Streisand fan for another second, but forced myself to stay.
As I grabbed some cookies, I noticed a speaker and tape deck imbedded in an old, dried-out trunk and/or casket. I assumed it was Babs' state-of-the-art stereo from the 1970s, and wondered how many times she'd played her own albums on it.
I moved outside and sat by myself. A table full of harpies grandly motioned me over. "No, thank you," I said. "I don't want to intrude." Another table beckoned me. "No, thank you," I said. "I don't want to. . . ." I trailed off because they had already turned away, offended and annoyed.
Although the tour wasn't very satisfying, it was nice to drink tea and eat dry chocolate-chip cookies while surrounded by nature. I had to agree with the Conservancy's brochure, which says the estate, "provides an uplifting retreat from the city."
Sure, the estate was ludicrous, but it was also a little inspirational. Barbra Streisand had managed to bring her wildest childhood fantasies to life, then decorated her houses exactly as she wanted, good taste be damned.
Babs' estate reminded me of a fantasy I had as a child: I wanted to live in a human-sized version of the Fisher-Price Little People Play Castle. I hadn't thought about that castle for a long time and realized I'd still like to have it (especially the moat full of alligators that would keep out my parents). Babs' self-created world reminded me that my castle might not be as unattainable as I thought.
The Streisand Center for Conservancy Studies can be reached at (310) 589-2850.
