How Kismi Keeps the Coolest Nights in LA Off the Grid

On a quiet December evening in Bel Air, just before Los Angeles slipped fully into holiday chaos, a discreet stream of cars curved up a residential drive and disappeared behind gates.

There was no step-and-repeat, no flashing lights, no signage announcing what—or who—waited inside. If you were there, it was because someone wanted you there.

Welcome to Kismi (pronounced “kiss me”), the private membership club that has become Los Angeles’ most softly spoken obsession—and one of its most coveted invitations.

The Dec. 12 holiday gathering, dubbed Kismi Under the Mistletoe, was exactly the kind of night people struggle to describe afterward. Hosted at an undisclosed billionaire's private residence in Bel Air, it unfolded not as a party built for spectacle, but as what founder Christine Becker calls “an environment built for listening and emotional connection.”

Cassian, fresh off his performance at the Formula 1 Las Vegas Grand Prix, delivered an intimate set late into the night to a handpicked group of creatives, founders, artists, and cultural figures who seemed far more interested in being present than being perceived.

You could say Becker, a Gen Z founder and self-described introvert, is a modern-day Great Gatsby. Like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s elusive host, she curates worlds rather than events, and guest lists that feel mythic without ever tipping into chaos.

“Each event starts as a concept months in advance,” Becker says. “I think about the feeling first. The setting, the time of year, the pace of the night, the kind of music that would make sense in that moment.”

That instinctive, almost cinematic approach explains why Kismi has never chased crowds. It began quietly in the Hollywood Hills, evolved through Beverly Hills, and then made its international debut not in a nightclub, but aboard This Is It, an award-winning Tecnomar superyacht during the Cannes Film Festival. Every location is chosen, Becker explains, “because it could hold a feeling, not a crowd.”

The result is a private world people whisper about. Festival and Ibiza headliners like Hugel, Keinemusik’s &ME, Francis Mercier, Marten Lou, and Jan Blomqvist have all played emotional, unproduced sets for just a few hundred guests. Phones are discouraged. Lighting is moody and deliberate. The pacing is unhurried.

“When an experience is built for the camera, people stop listening,” Becker says. “They stop feeling. The moment becomes about capture instead of connection.”

The guest lists are just as intentional—and just as legendary.

You never know who you'll meet at the open bar, where your bartenders are likely represented by a modeling agency, or on the dance floor as Kismi’s events often include some of the most attractive and culturally fluent young men and women in Los Angeles, alongside artists, actors, designers, and founders who always seem to end up in the right rooms.

Names like Chris Brown, Elena Perminova, Alex Pall, Ian Bohen, Tyler Hoechlin and Alec Monopoly have all been spotted at past gatherings.

How do they get invited? Not through clout-chasing or social media visibility. “The guest list is always curated with intention,” Becker explains. “Members make up the core of the room, and we selectively extend invitations to non-members who align with the culture and values of Kismi.”

Respect for the space matters more than status. “We prioritize people who will respect the environment, engage with the music, and contribute positively to the atmosphere. That balance is what preserves the quality of the room.”

Membership itself is famously selective, with top-tier access priced at $100,000 a year. The number isn’t about exclusivity for its own sake—it’s a guardrail. “Each membership tier is meant to protect the integrity of the experience,” Becker says. “The barrier keeps the world intentionally small.”

That same restraint defines Kismi’s production. Installation for an event typically takes just a couple of days, with breakdown happening quickly after the event. “We try to keep the production side as quiet and contained as possible,” Becker notes, “so the experience itself feels effortless.”

Becker personally develops the overarching concept for each gathering, collaborating closely with her team of decorators, caterers, sound technicians, and other production staff so nothing feels over designed or overstated.

At the one-year anniversary masquerade on Oct. 30, Kismi was in full cinematic mode, transforming the storied Palazzo di Amore in Beverly Hills into a candlelit maze of hidden rooms, sweeping hilltop views, and couture-level masks.

Mau P delivered a magnetic, high-energy set that carried guests into the early morning hours. “This night was about mystery, intention, and letting the music pull you somewhere new,” Becker said at the time.

“Kismi exists for people who feel deeply and want to experience nightlife differently,” Becker says.

Brands that partner with Kismi—Don Julio 1942, Shoku LA, Ferrari, Malibu Rocky Oaks, AIX Rosé—do so quietly and with restraint. “Any collaborations we do are meant to support the atmosphere of the night, not compete with it,” Becker explains. The focus remains firmly on sound, presence, and emotional resonance.

That philosophy was on full display again on Dec. 12. The crowd was intentionally small. The mood was calm and intimate.

“The crowd was exceptional, and the space came together beautifully,” Becker recalled. Notable attendees included Love Island USA’s Cierra Ortega and Jason and Brett Oppenheim, though titles and résumés quickly faded into irrelevance.

“When curiosity and attentiveness to sound and atmosphere are shared,” Becker says, “status and profession become irrelevant.”

Kismi thrives on what it doesn’t explain. Locations are disclosed late. Details are revealed slowly.

Mystery is not a marketing tactic—it’s part of the experience. “We don’t need to explain everything up front,” Becker says. “The experience reveals itself when you’re there.”

In a culture driven by visibility and constant documentation, Kismi’s restraint feels almost radical.

The nights are one-time-only. They aren’t replicated. They linger as memories instead of content. “I believe the most meaningful nights are the ones you don’t need to document,” Becker says. “They stay with you because you were actually there.”

If that sounds elusive, that’s the point. Kismi isn’t trying to be everywhere. It’s aim is to be unforgettable—just once, in the right room, with the right people, at exactly the right moment.