I am led into the quaint living room of Honeybear’s rustic Santa Monica bungalow, where she sits by the window, her gimlet eyes scanning the bushes beyond the glass. “Just keep looking,” she whispers—a mottled bloom of calico perched on the edge of a peacock couch. I’m rapt in suspense and more than a little nervous. It isn’t every day that you get to see life through the eyes of what many critics attest is the prettiest cat on her street.
“There,” she purrs, as a small scrub jay alights on the terra-cotta vase tastefully placed beside the front door. “I see him sometimes.”
It’s only been a year since Honeybear first graced the bluffs of this picturesque beach city, but she’s already garnering glowing reviews. Stu the mailman recently proclaimed, “Such a beautiful cat!” And a little girl on her way to school raved, “Look! Fluffy!” Naturally, I expected that the interview would be conducted over bespoke cocktails at Fia or Fig. I never imagined that she would invite me into her home.
Over the past twelve months, Honeybear has been decidedly camera-shy, rarely stepping out to field questions from the press. “I’m not a recluse,” she explains with a whip of her lustrous tail. “It’s just, I had this . . . it’s kind of hard to talk about.” She pauses, partly owing to the gravity of the moment, partly owing to the sound of a lozenge wrapper crinkling in the other room. In her own time, she describes her private struggle with fleas. “I love the outdoors. Especially the parts where the grass is, because I like to eat the grass.” I nod—who doesn’t? She continues, “it’s not something I thought would happen to me, but I’ve realized that it’s a problem a lot of cats grapple with. Anyway, I’m on meds now and am doing a lot better.” She is. So much so that she’s been allowed back on the patio. And I’m here to witness her triumphant return.
We step outside and I’m happy to see it’s a slow day for onlookers—two crows at the most. Honeybear effortlessly spreads out on a wicker love seat, embracing the weathered teal cushion like an old friend. “I like this one the best because it’s dirty and has the most weird smells. I like weird smells.” Somehow, in spite of all her success, she never forgets to appreciate the little things.
What keeps her motivated? Everything. “I really feel that the key to life is a curious mind. And crane flies.” Then, as if the universe were her own personal concierge, she expertly catches a crane fly in her mouth. “These things are crazy,” she remarks, unintentionally dropping the bug onto the Spanish tile. “I want one to be my friend and to play with me, but also to let me eat him.” It’s comforting to know even the best of us struggle to have it all.
Finally, we visit her art studio, a place few have seen. “I’m very private about my art,” she says, delicately. “Also, it’s hard for people to come here because it’s under a bed.” As Alice once descended the rabbit hole, so I lower myself to the floor and wriggle under the stately bed frame with a vigor I know would make my editors at Forgettable Life Style Magazine proud. Then, I see the work—and I weep.
“What I do is, I scratch up the carpet where no one can see,” Honeybear expounds. “I started in the corner and now I’m here.” The aggressively shorn Berber is visceral—raw, but with a technical competency that belies the artist’s lack of formal training. Once I collect myself, I muse on its meaning—could it be a sagacious commentary on the social unrest tearing at the corners of society? Honeybear shrugs, and confesses, “I just like scratching.” A formalist! I should have known. The piece refuses to be labelled or pigeonholed, just like the artist.
As you might expect, trying to put a bow on this story is about as difficult as putting a bow on Honeybear herself. She hates wearing bows. At the same time, maybe it’s wrong to try to define someone so multifaceted. Better to appreciate the ineffable. Embrace the unknown. As Honeybear leads me to the door, we see the scrub jay has returned to feast on the semiconscious crane fly. “Whoa,” Honeybear whispers, her eyes wide with glee. “I didn’t see that coming.”
