I’ve seen these houses in magazines and books, but when I drive up to look it’s impossible to do more than glimpse a corner detail or a garage door. They lie obscured, hidden behind screens of foliage, force grown, fast and dense in the Californian sunshine. The armed response signs sprout like blue mushrooms outside electric gates, private security firms roll past on a circuit of patrol.

I park the car close to the kerb, slip across the sidewalk and crawl through the bushes/cacti/eucalyptus. I hide in the margins between their world and mine. I carry my camera and guidebook, and if I’m questioned they are my excuse. Really though, the longer I’m here the more I realise it’s about the watching.

The osmotic aspect of these dream homes can only function if the barrier to the outside world is secure. Openness is the design of these houses, but their interplay and transparent relationship with the landscape relies on complete privacy. After dark, from the outside, expanses of glass magnify their illuminated interiors. Internally, the darkness turns the glass to mirror. One night I feel a guilty tingle as I watch an owner go about his domestic tasks. He’s some sort of minor movie actor, although I’ve never heard of him. He listens to PIL with the volume turned right up. He’s leaping around in his shorts, singing along to ‘Burn Hollywood burn’ – no kidding.

The Eames house refuses me permission to photograph. I hop the fence into the neighbour’s lot and approach from behind. A group of pre-booked, pre-paid architecture fans are just leaving. I struggle through the grove of trees and perch high on the hillside at the perimeter of the property. I peer down onto the oddly ramshackle rooftop. Someone’s hidden a ladder up there and the shingle is untended and covered in leaf litter. A wooden plank lies offset but parallel to the ladder.

I am discovered at twilight in the ivy outside an early Ellwood House. I am warmly welcomed inside and given the full tour of bathrooms and bedrooms. I try to leave as quickly as possible without appearing rude.

In Palm Springs the totally rebuilt Kaufman House has state of the art security. Lights come on as I struggle through the bushes, even though it’s mid-day. During my many visits, the owners are never home, only armies of unknowable Mexican gardeners and domestics, able to move about freely within the fenced enclosure. Strangely, their presence constitutes no infringement of privacy. On one occasion a cruising police detail stops to investigate my parked car. They see me part-shielded by the vehicle, with the large format camera and the tripod legs threaded through the branches deep within the thick hedge. I’m loading film into the darkslides and fumble with both hands zipped inside the black changing bag on my lap. It takes some explaining.

Another time, back again in Palm Springs, I climb the mountain behind the city. The owners of these most exclusive houses that nestle high into the hill try to hide the pathways and signs that might provide any public access. Boulders are piled across trailheads; signs are torn down. I circle up and back arriving from high above at the rear of the Frey House II with its giant boulder passing through the bedroom wall. The house is empty and open, and I go in. I lie on the bed and look out across the valley.

Later, as darkness falls and I descend from the house I pass pile upon pile of neatly arranged clothes hidden behind large rocks. A razor and soap bar sit on a folded towel lying in the dirt. It takes me longer than it should to work out this is where those who service the town return, every night, to sleep.