bravadce

[bravadce]

Lennox Laurrier & The

Subtle Art of Influence

Tucked behind a modest booth at the St. Vincent Jewelry Center is a legacy being quietly recut. Lennox Laurrier, armed with a G.I.A. education and an eye for precision, is redefining her family’s custom jewelry business from the bench up by balancing private clients and L.A.’s social circuit with seamless control. This isn’t inheritance, it's her own foundation set stone by stone.

Complex Magazine, July 2025

The name that echoes through Los Angeles high society is the same one humbly displayed above the glass cases on the first floor of the St. Vincent Jewelry Center, the West Coast’s shrine to everything gleaming and precision cut. It blends in among the neighboring booths, but what’s inside sets it unmistakably apart. Vivid stones anchor each display like exclamation points in a sea of frozen starlight, each one caged in carbon. The sight of it commands your attention just as much as the lively man behind the counter does.

Adrian Laurrier doesn’t look like the type to have cut multimillion dollar deals over Kashmir sapphires or spent the last three decades carving masterpieces from raw stone. But looks, like diamonds, can be deceiving. With the sleeves of his shirt hiked past the elbows and a loupe always within reach, he runs the floor with the type of authority you only get from doing something long enough to stop second guessing. Adrian’s work built the Laurrier name into one of quiet power in the Diamond District; commonly recognized for custom pieces that whisper luxury instead of screaming it.

And now, his daughter Lennox is reshaping the legacy.

When I meet her, it’s just past 9 a.m., and the first floor is already flooded with the most experienced hagglers who make buying a competitive sport. She greets her father with a quiet exchange of updates, shorthand talk built from years of working side by side. A couple parcels from Sri Lanka are late. A three-stone emerald engagement ring was casted by a new hire and needs quality control. A long standing client is asking for pear shaped diamonds, “nothing too icy.” She scrolls through vendor emails while sipping an espresso that’s already gone lukewarm, flagging stones that have the potential to meet her standards for color and clarity at first glance. Her G.I.A. certification is an advantage in this world, equipping her with a mastery in the technical that allows her to spot heat treatment within seconds and tell you exactly why the price of gold is dropping or spiking. 

Eventually we step away from the center and into the backroom of their private studio space, a short drive but worlds away from the bustle of St. Vincent. The room smells faintly of metal and lavender polish. The floor's scattered with tool cases, wax molds stacked upon themselves, loupe cloths, and filled sketchbooks scribbled with drawings and barely legible handwriting. A stark contrast to the tools of her workbench that are arranged with a surgical neatness. This is where the dirty work happens, she tells me. She sets a spinel in a platinum claw setting, adjusting the tension with a laser focus, each movement as deliberate as calligraphy.

Sometimes she sketches by hand, other times she works in CAD, building digital prototypes dependent on client and paternal approval to come to life. Her fingers move between appliances without hesitation: ring mandrel, bezel pusher, divider compass. A recent commission is laid out beside her in wax, a grown up take on the friendship bracelets you made at ten but this time with solid gold letter beads encrusted with diamonds. She shows me a tray of colorful melee gems, no bigger than grains of sand, that she’ll be pavé setting into the charms. It’s delicate work, and she loses herself in it. No posing nor performative hustle. Just a quiet obsession with getting it right.

By early afternoon, she’s gone again; off to meet clients behind closed doors. “Privacy’s everything,” she says, slipping on a pair of oversized tortoiseshell sunglasses. These aren’t red carpet walk-ins or casual buyers. Some of them are stylists, others private collectors, and a few are names I’d need to redact if this were a legal document. She won’t let me sit in, but I don’t take it personally. In her world, trust is the real currency, and Lennox has it in spades.

At sunset, she’s back home in West Hollywood, trading her bench apron for Cavalli. Her phone buzzes with dinner RSVPs and whispered club openings. She calls it networking, and maybe it is. Because while her family name opened the door, Lennox is shaping a presence all her own, one that exists beyond the showcase lights. A fixture in the city’s social circuit, she’s just as known for her underground art world ties as she is for her ability to source untreated Burmese moonstones.

“I know what this looks like,” she says, smiling, a little sharp. “But this isn’t just partying. It’s how I built this.” She says it like a statement of fact. Like a cut grade, or a carat weight. Something you can measure. Something you can prove.

And when she does open that showroom—rumored to be near Westwood Village, though she won’t confirm—you’ll know it. Not from a press release, but from the way the right people start showing up wearing pieces that don’t need introductions.