Mimi Zeiger

Critic, editor, curator and instigator.

Almost six years ago, when most of the world was sheltering at home under Covid restrictions, crews tore down several structures on the Los Angeles County Museum of Art campus to make way for Swiss architect Peter Zumthor’s soaring David Geffen Galleries. The three demolished structures were part of the original 1965 scheme by LA modernist architect William L. Pereira and included a never-loved 1986 addition by Hardy Holzman Pfeiffer Associates. Within weeks, what had been a living, breathing piece of somewhat mediocre architecture was reduced to rubble.

Artist Cayetano Ferrer extracted fragments from the pile with the help of the demolition contractors and a tacit okay from the museum. He then exhibited large chunks—decorative columns that once graced the façade—in a storefront in Pasadena and made plans to present them in a public park in West Hollywood, which never came to fruition. Read More …

“A critic can always change her mind,” I thought to myself as I hunted for parking off Wilshire Boulevard. At a stoplight, the full flank of Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s David Geffen Galleries filled my windshield. Late afternoon sun cut sideways and glinted warmly off the large glass panes, each framed in brass. Floppy palm trees masked the hefty concrete structure as it arced over the street. Despite the hour, the constellation of fairy lights embedded in the cantilevered roof were on, twinkling. I looked up at Swiss architect Peter Zumthor’s 347,500-square-foot structure, completed in collaboration with SOM, and thought, “Hmm, not so bad.”

Many folks have remarked that the museum’s panoramic facade is cinematic and reference auteur directors. But maybe it’s a rom-com? In a Jane Austen novel, this would be the détournement—the plot twist when the protagonist’s object of derision turns to one of affection, if not desire. The Pritzker Prize–winning architect’s scheme has been my Mr. Darcy since its black flower—a tribute to a tar puddle—was first revealed in 2012. Read More …

“With a touch of art direction, these objects neither transform nor offer transcendence, but they do make strange the act of living.”

Every year, for the past five years, the good folks at Ravenhill Studio in Los Angeles publish Everyday Objects. Each volume presents a trove of quotidian things selected by a set of creatives within the studio’s orbit.

Launched online just in time for the holidays, it is, ostensibly, an elevated gift guide—burnished to shine by the keen judgement the dozens of designers, architects, makers, curators, writers, and artists use in their selections of household items or work tools. It also is a document of the mundane actions that make up our daily lives. “The archive feels like a love letter to the objects that make doing everyday things delightful,” says Marjory Garrison, Ravenhill’s director of sales and marketing.

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‘What does the Eames House teach us about conservation, care and resilience over time?’

Today, visitors can view the famous living room from the outside, through glazing. The home began its life as Case Study 8 in the Arts & Architecture magazine’s Case Study House programme, launched by editor and designer John Entenza. During its lifetime, the house became something of a set promoting the Eameses’ work and lifestyle, as demonstrated in Julius Shulman’s photographs of the couple for Life magazine.

Far from a showroom, the Eames House was a functional home, with a mezzanine level accessed via a spiral staircase and small kitchen on the ground floor. Alison and Peter Smithson, writing in a 1966 issue of Architectural Design, noted that despite the light appearance of the house – it is, in essence, a glazed steel-frame box – it is ‘stoutly built, and equipped to bourgeois standards’.

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Like many analog photographers, Aspen Mays makes images in a darkroom. But unlike most of them, she doesn’t use a camera and film. She creates her photograms in complete darkness, without even the red glow of the safelight. For hours, she works with eyes unseeing and often closed, guided by muscle memory, touch, and the sound of dripping water.

In the dark, Mays reaches for objects she arranged in the light. Her fingers find the taped lines on the table directing her to materials. She creases photographic paper, invents celestial patterns with a hole punch, and layers and removes tape to form sunbursts and spiderwebs.

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