Mimi Zeiger

Critic, editor, curator and instigator.

The sky is bright white. It’s 12:30 p.m. on a Sunday, and two dozen people are lined up in front of Courage Bagels on Virgil Avenue. Everyone is desperate for shade. Some foodies hold paper parasols to block the sun. Lucky diners, lox and schmear in hand, sit under frilly outdoor umbrellas. Half a block away, an unhoused person sprawls under a jacaranda.

I’m driving—AC blasting, terrier panting in the back seat—on the hunt for some recently deployed bus shelters designed by SOM with BMW’s Designworks and Studio One Eleven. The irony is not lost on me.

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Hestia, virginal and nary a myth to her name, is the Greek goddess of the hearth. Perched high on Mount Olympus, she would tend the gods’ fire. Zeus put her in charge of sacrifices, and combustible bits of animal flesh and fat would catch and spark as she fed offerings into the flames. While other mythical figures would venture out on odysseys and trickster expeditions, she was central to the continuity of family life—even the Real Housewives–esque craziness of hers.

It is from Hestia that we receive our domesticated idea of tending to the fireplace at home, and of gathering around the hearth (the translation of her Ancient Greek name)—a designed object that rises above its functional purpose, enhancing its users’ everyday lives as a site of communion and reflection. But times have changed. As the climate crisis upends seasonal expectations and increases the frequency of devastating fires, what’s the point of having a hearth in our homes now?

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Modernism marks the beginning of linear time and the end of circular time, commented novelist Alvaro Enrigue. His remarks came amid an exchange with artist Adrián Villar Rojas— one of seventeen performances, keynotes, and dialogues presented as part of AIR Aspen: Life as No One Knows It, a weeklong interdisciplinary conference organized by the Aspen Art Museum. The inaugural festival, held in late July to time with the Aspen Art Fair and ArtCrush Gala, is the latest ideas summit to mine the Bauhaus-inflected legacy of the Aspen Institute’s legendary International Design Conference and gather minds in the Rockies.

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I’m tempted to quote Dionne Warwick’s famous line “LA is a great big freeway” as a breezy lede to the Los Angeles County Art Museum’s preopening of the David Geffen Galleries, if only to insert the singer and psychic’s name into the pages of LARA, but Los Angeles is not a great big freeway. However, Peter Zumthor’s infrastructural art museum is (as I’ve written before) an overpass.

The overpass is certainly another well-worn trope—some soaring CalTrans feats and others wrapped in chain link and hung with NO ICE banners. Yet it’s also a moment of spatial trespass, where one part of the urban fabric folds back on another.

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For some, an executive order issued by California governor Gavin Newsom does little to address the complexities of living within an urban-wildland interface.

‘We are living in a new reality of extremes,’ said California governor Gavin Newsom in a press release that accompanied a February executive order issued after the Eaton and Pacific Palisades fires that destroyed homes, businesses, and neighbourhoods across Los Angeles.

The order, designed to harden communities against urban wildfires, introduced a statewide adoption of a ‘Zone 0’ approach around structures in fire-prone areas. It also updated the state’s Fire Hazard Severity Zone maps, which increased the amount of land considered at high or very high fire risk by 1.4 million acres. While homes at the periphery of open wilderness – perched on hillsides, nestled in canyons – were always in peril, the January fires and these new designations underscore that suburban-seeming neighbourhoods must also adapt.
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Drawing on an inherited plot of land, his father’s steel company, and his brother-in-law’s architectural know-how, Motoshi Yatabe’s new house is all in the family.

Motoshi Yatabe grew up on a quiet, almost rural street in Japan’s Saitama Prefecture. There was a vegetable garden in front of his childhood home and a rice field across the street—plenty of room for him and his sister, Masako, to play. Sited roughly 15 miles outside of central Tokyo, it had yet to be colonized as part of the Greater Tokyo Area. Today, each block is lined by single-family homes packed shoulder to shoulder like commuters on a Tokyo subway.

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Many of the remembrances of David Lynch published after his passing in January mentioned his gee-whiz, cherry-pie-and-coffee, Midwestern earnestness. The director always exuded uncanny sunshine in contrast to his penchant for noir. As a trait, earnestness rarely gets enough attention. More often than not, it’s overshadowed by hipness, camp, or irony. PlayLab is earnest. And Archie Lee Coates IV and Jeff Franklin, who cofounded the creative agency in 2009, are also glass-full, milk-fed earnest. Despite running a twelve-person team that caters to some of the biggest names in art, music, and film, these are two guys who just want to a grab some pizza and a six-pack and geek out over Charles and Ray Eames or Tibor Kalman — just like they did when they met studying architecture at VirginiaTech, or for a dozen years in New York when Franklin would work a day job at REX and then come to the studio for all-night brain-storming sessions.

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The Los Angeles wildfires — social, urban, envi­ronmental catastrophes — mark a bitter, ash-tinged end of the Western imaginary. In the Pacific Palisades and in Altadena, the American dream of a domestic pastoral has gone up in smoke, a burnt offering to the gods of 20th-century real estate development.

Its acrid stench reached me on January 7, a Tuesday night whipped by howling winds. Earlier in the day, while driving the 134 Freeway from Pasadena to Silver Lake, I had seen a plume rising over the Westside: the Palisades Fire. I found it concerning, but distant, like a black and white photograph of an atomic bomb. By evening, Altadena was aflame. The community tucked into the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains is just a few miles from my apartment, its closeness driven home as evacuation orders and red flag warnings lit up my phone. Propelled by Santa Ana winds, ash travelled that distance quickly.

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‘Constructing the built environment has to be rethought holistically, rethought in a very radical way,’ says Heather Flood as she surveys the remains of what once was her Altadena, California home. All that’s left of the French Country, 2,000 sq ft residence is a Batchelder tile fireplace and brick chimney, a pile of collapsed stucco, and the burnt carcass of an overturned refrigerator. Flood and her husband, Josh Goldsmith, evacuated on 7 January during the wind storm and fierce wildfires that ripped through communities, destroying houses, businesses, and schools, and killing at least 29 people.

Flood is dean of the school of architecture and professor at Woodbury University in nearby Burbank. For her, the Eaton Fire is an emotional, personal tragedy and an architectural problem urgently in need of a solution. ‘I’ve never been super into sustainability or resilience, but I can’t look away from them now,’ she says, emphasising that architects must find a better way to design at the edge of the wildland-urban interface. It’s an edge requiring reassessment. According to Flood, although her property is located about a mile from the wilderness of the San Gabriel Mountains, her insurance didn’t categorise it as at high risk for fire.

Rebuilding LA: we talk to Altadena’s architects

Like so many people, Flood spent the last few weeks navigating recovery – insurance claims, paperwork for FEMA clean-up – and in conversation (via regular Zooms) with her closest neighbours about how, when, and what to rebuild. There’s hope amongst folks on her block that they might act collectively or pool resources to expedite the process. Darrell Park lives across the street; he lost not only his home but also the accessory dwelling unit (ADU) he built in the backyard. It took him three years to get through permitting hoops with the LA County Building and Safety Department. Despite initiatives and assurances from California governor Gavin Newson and LA mayor Karen Bass, he’s more than sceptical that permit office officials can efficiently process the thousands of plan checks needed to build back Altadena and the Pacific Palisades.

Park, a self-proclaimed policy wonk who ran for election to the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors in 2020 (and lost), shares his proposal: a fast-track pilot programme to construct 100 houses in 100 days. It’s one of many ideas being generated by the community, including incentivising ADUs, rolling out prefabs, and building with fire-resilient materials. Various groups are discussing how licensed architects might be used to ‘self-check’ plans in order to expedite the permitting process.

As we drive around the burn zone, the surreal diagram of the fire’s erratic path becomes visible: a perfectly intact craftsman bungalow surrounded by oaks at the end of a destroyed block, an enclave of preserved estates within walking distance to Eaton Canyon, where a power line sparked the blaze. Flood points to what once was a metal roof; the kind used to guard against flying embers, it draped like a blanket over the ruins of the house it was supposed to protect. ‘You can’t outrun climate change,’ she notes. ‘It is coming for everybody.’

Architect Steven Lewis, a principal at ZGF Architects and former president of the National Organization of Minority Architects, is what some might call lucky; the fires stopped yards away from his front yard. While his home was spared, many of his neighbours in western Altadena weren’t as fortunate. The historically Black neighbourhood is a tight-knit community with households spanning generations and families with multiple homes in the area. It is also where the most fire deaths occurred – 17 of the 29. Evacuation orders on the western side lagged hours behind the ones issued on the eastern side even as the winds whipped flames and smoke at enormous speed.

Lewis, who first moved to Altadena in 1980, was the urban design director for the Central of Detroit for three years before returning to Altadena in 2018. He is dedicated to helping the place retain its identity as rebuilding efforts take shape and is working with the Pasadena Foothill AIA Chapter and colleagues from NOMA. ‘Detroit has neighbourhoods that are as close to devastation as Altadena and the Palisades, where for blocks and blocks there’s nothing vertical coming off the ground,’ says Lewis. ‘The difference being, of course, that it took decades for that decline to happen in Detroit, and ours happened overnight.’

He shares a lesson from working in Detroit: ‘Nothing about us, without us, is for us.’ The mantra resonates deeply after the Eaton Fire. Regardless of future infrastructure or homeowner aesthetics, Lewis believes that involving the community in leading the way forward is not only crucial to preserving the spirit and rich heritage of Altadena, it’s the only way.

Architect Fernando Romero has been shaping the future of Latin American architecture for two decades. His namesake firm (formerly FR-EE) and London-based Foster + Partners worked on a design for the New International Airport Mexico City; he crafted a gilded vision of Bitcoin City for the president of El Salvador; and he designed Museo Soumaya – the gleaming, dramatic museum named for both his wife and mother-in-law at the time, and commissioned by billionaire businessman Carlos Slim. These days, however, he’s looking at the past, to Luis Barragán’s iconic and chromatic Cuadra San Cristóbal.
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