The foyer of Jane Fonda's loft apartment is a warm pink oval--softly lit, windowless and strangely familiar. A few paces in, the room narrows to a bright seam of a doorway that resembles the more unabashed works of Georgia O'Keeffe. "The entryway is a womb, and the door is a vagina," says Fonda in her startling vibrato. "I had it designed so that you're sort of delivered into the loft. Don't you love it?"
It takes a certain kind of person to turn her home into a symbol. One must either be carefree enough to think that nothing matters or intense...
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