Forget the Soho House. The "Dane Jones Residences" are invite-only sanctuaries hidden in plain sight. There’s the one in Tokyo’s Golden Gai, a tiny ramen shop whose back door opens into a karaoke lounge lined with first-edition Murakami novels. There’s the "Reading Room" in London’s Bloomsbury, where members pay £5,000 a year for access to a fireplace, a typewriter, and a strict silence policy. Jones doesn't sell luxury; he sells permission —to be still, to be curious, to be offline.
In the sprawling, sun-baked hills of Los Angeles, where dreams are manufactured and discarded with equal speed, one name has quietly become synonymous with a new kind of cool: Dane Jones. Not a celebrity chef, a film star, or a tech mogul, Jones is something far rarer in the modern era—a curator of a feeling. dane jones creampie
As for Jones himself, he lives in a rented bungalow in Ojai with no TV and a single landline phone. He takes meetings only while walking. He has never owned a smartphone. And when asked at a recent press conference what the future holds, he smiled, held up his walnut-ink pen, and said: "A better question is—what do you want to stop doing?" Forget the Soho House
The secret to Dane Jones’s success isn't exclusivity. It's intentionality . In an era of infinite scrolling and algorithmic noise, his brand offers a single, radical promise: We will not waste your time. There’s the "Reading Room" in London’s Bloomsbury, where
His latest venture, announced this morning via a handwritten note mailed to 100,000 subscribers, is called "The Pause." It is a streaming service with only one button: PLAY. There are no categories, no recommendations, no skip intro. You press play, and the service shows you a single piece of content—a film, a live performance, a poetry reading—chosen by Jones’s team that day. If you don't like it, you wait 24 hours for the next one.
Jones is famously anti-merch, but he launched "The Essential Line" in 2023. It consists of exactly five items: a wool blanket made by a single weaver in the Outer Hebrides, a ceramic pour-over coffee dripper that takes seven minutes to drain, a journal with no lines, a fountain pen that uses ink made from walnut shells, and a candle that smells of wet earth after a thunderstorm. Each item costs $347—a number Jones chose because it’s "the average price of a therapist copay, and this is cheaper." Every product sells out within an hour.