For Elizabeth Law, a house is only as interesting as the lives—and objects—that have passed through it. The South Carolina-born, Los Angeles-based interior designer has built a practice by giving historic homes a second act, specializing in the restoration of Spanish Revival and Mediterranean residences from the 1920s and ’30s. A Parsons alumna with an affection for architectural patina and old-world craftsmanship, Law approaches interiors less as finished compositions than as evolving collections in their own right, where provenance, personality, and the occasional eccentricity take precedence over polish.
Her own 1923 Hollywood Hills residence, among the earliest homes built in the original Hollywoodland development, is a particularly compelling case study. Below, Law opens up about the relationships that have shaped her collection, the acquisitions that tested her resolve, and why an artwork should never have to match the furniture.
Where does the story of your personal art collection begin?
Collecting art began at a very young age for me, long before design or career was on my radar. My parents have always instilled the pleasure of travel, and that is where my own collection started. Whether it was a single tile from Portugal, a hammered brass plate from Morocco, or a drawing from a local artist in Italy—I still do that. An oil painting of the Bosphorus with a pine silhouette, which I recently acquired in Paris, hangs in my dining room. I also have an ink work on fabric that my brother brought home for me from a trip to Chiang Mai. The stories and context attached hold great meaning to me.
How would you characterize your collection, given that your professional eye is trained on juxtaposing different worlds together?
I am particularly drawn to flowers. I have oil paintings, watercolors, and screenprints spanning centuries, and from all over the world—the subject being both figuratively and literally, flowers. Seeing the same subject interpreted in different mediums across different moments in history, and juxtaposing those worlds next to each other is interesting to me. It’s often how I approach design. I never want a space to feel like a museum, or like it’s frozen in a specific era.
For example, I have an early-20th-century French oil painting by Louis Marchand des Raux next to Luke Chiswell’s Bunch of Flowers screenprint from 2021. They’re separated by more than a century, yet they converse with one another. That dialogue is what makes a collection, and a space, feel thoughtful and intentional.
How did your initial coursework at Parsons shape what you personally respond to in a piece of art, versus what you’d select for someone else’s home?
I continue to learn about art through lived experience, as opposed to learning through a particular institution or mentor. So much of what I respond to today has come from years of looking, traveling, and simply living with art and amongst artists. I try to encourage the same with my clients, who range from very established collectors to young, new homeowners who are just starting to build a collection and learn what appeals to them.
The collecting process is incredibly personal, because everyone responds differently. What moves me may not move someone else, and that’s part of what makes the process so interesting. Something I try to instill in my clients is that art does not have to match or complete a room’s palette; it just has to impact you, mean something to you, and hold your attention personally. There should be cohesion and a throughline, without the pieces appearing to have been purchased at the same place at the same time.
Do your travels and love of old-world style show up more in the art you collect, or in the design objects you source for projects?
These fascinations absolutely translate to the art, furnishings, and objects I collect. I have many pieces that I found at the Marché aux Puces in France or through estate sales in Los Angeles. I’m attracted to things that have a sense of character and craftsmanship. Sometimes, an antique frame is more impressive than the framed work itself. The detail in carved wood, the patina in a gilt frame, the craftsmanship—it all shows character and has a story before it even arrives in your home.
How do you discover new artists or work? Through the same channels you find antiques and one-of-a-kind finds for clients, or separately?
My sister, Bella Slagsvol, is a private art advisor, so her knowledge and experience have really opened my eyes to the art world beyond what I had already appreciated. I go with her to galleries and art fairs, and we are constantly sharing artists and discoveries. There are galleries we both know and frequent that do a fantastic job of supporting emerging artists. We visit them regularly, discovering new works and educating ourselves and our clients. Seeing a painting in person and having conversations around it, or going to a studio visit and speaking directly with the artist, often provides greater context. Understanding the artist’s process is essential, and adds so much significance to appreciating their work. Discovering art is very collaborative and ongoing for me.
Which work in your home provokes the most conversation from visitors?
Dangerous Beauties, an oil painting by Martha Mans—a contemporary painter out of Colorado—hangs in my living room and is a showstopper, with the magenta of the cactus flower petals, the texture of the paint, and the drama of the sky against tangly thorns. It is visceral, and you want to touch it. The scale of it in the space is quite powerful and commands attention.
What was the most challenging piece in your collection to acquire?
I bought a Robert Graham “MOCA Torso” at auction, which was a wild way to acquire something. It’s a bronze female torso sculpture, and was complete with an adrenaline rush and more money than I meant to spend. The bronze was made as a benefit for the Museum of Contemporary Art, Los Angeles. In the 1990s, Graham trained young former gang members and LA locals in bronze casting as a response to the LA Riots in 1992. The collaboration resulted in 3,500 editions. Having a part of the city’s art history was worth the challenge.
Which factors do you weigh when deciding a piece belongs in your collection?
I am a believer in discovering what strikes you and buying what you want to live with. Without being frivolous, I do not think art needs to have a perfectly pre-assigned location or exactly match the colors of the rug to belong in your collection. Does it feel timeless? Do I want to share it with other people? Is there a story behind it that I want to tell? Does it make me feel introspective, nostalgic, or otherwise? For me, those questions are much more meaningful than whether it fits neatly into a particular room, or if it will increase in value. The right piece will find its place, and I think the best collections evolve organically.
Is there one piece that got away, or that you still think about?
Generally, if there’s a piece I really want, I’ll think it over and do my best to make it happen. If it doesn’t work out, I let it go. Right now, I’m thinking a lot about Huê Thi Hoffmaster. His star is definitely on the rise. I want to make sure I procure one of his paintings before that opportunity gets away from me.
Since you design homes with a nod to indoor-outdoor living, does that logic extend to how you think about art in your own space?
Incorporating outdoor living into my design is something I do because I genuinely enjoy being outside. I grew up on a farm, and I chose to live in Los Angeles because being outdoors is such a natural element of everyday life here. So, it’s probably no surprise that much of the art I’m drawn to reflects that same connection to nature, like curiosities from the outdoors. I have framed feathers that I’ve found myself, or that someone has given me because they know how much I cherish them. It all relates, really.
How has your collection changed as your own home, and the way you like to entertain, has evolved?
My collection has become more specific over the years. So has the art and the way I collect. The pieces speak to each other in subtle ways. There are themes, certainly, but it feels truly collected and, most importantly, personal. A number of the works I have are gifts, which I am incredibly fortunate to receive, being lucky enough to surround myself with artists. John Alexander and my dad were in cahoots over my Lily Pads by John.
Anjelica Huston, who is like a fairy godmother to me, gave me one of her ceramic female figures. Luke Chiswell gifted me a bronze Chateau Marmont soap. Fiona Waterstreet gave me one of her bird ceramics. Each, of course, comes with its own story, making each piece deeply special to me because it represents meaningful relationships and particular moments in time. The things in my house are always in rotation. I never think of [the collection] as finished; it’s much more organic than that. Especially because I truly live in my house, and people are constantly coming through since I entertain often. As my life changes, so do the things I live with.
What piece of advice would you give someone who wants to start collecting?
Buy what you love and remember why you loved it. Everything has a story, and it is those stories that make a collection and space most remarkable and layered. You may not remember what it cost, but you will remember why you brought it home. People sometimes forget that art can move. You can give a piece, or the space it inhabits, new life by repositioning it. You can hang a painting on another wall, or move a sculpture or decorative item to another surface. It’s part of the excitement of collecting.
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