Mimi Zeiger

Critic, editor, curator and instigator.

‘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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There was a little pizza place in Altadena I used to visit with some regularity called Side Pie. The owner got his start by making pizzas in the side of his yard during the pandemic, hence the name. He later opened a storefront, and they opened the back parking lot for patrons to sit and enjoy their food while seated on colorful picnic tables and umbrellas. It was all very casual, but because of this casualness, and the incredible pizza, it had a community feel. Everyone felt welcome. It was a special establishment that went a long way in creating the fabric of Altadena.

It would be convenient to say that Barbara Kasten works in photography or sculpture. The output of this Chicago-based artist certainly fits within these traditional categories. Over the course of her decades-long career—from her 1970s experiments in abstraction using cyanotype photograms to recent ballroom-scaled commissions—she’s skirted categorization, producing images and installations that capture, sometimes fleetingly, that which is ineffable. Which is to say, her true mediums are neither film nor stone, but rather light, space, and time.

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Artist Arash Nassiri makes work about Tehran, but not the city as it exists today. His films reconstruct the capital’s Western fantasies from the dreams and memories of the Iranian diaspora. In Tehran-Geles (2014) and City of Tales (2018), Nassiri interweaves the two urban fabrics — the Iranian capital and Los Angeles — projecting the past of one place onto the future of another. His latest work, which has been co-commissioned by Chisenhale Gallery and Fondation Pernod Ricard for two solo exhibitions in 2026, focuses on “Persian palaces,” the ornate mansions built by Iranian families in Beverly Hills. Although their decorative style is often derided by neighbors, these grand homes are, for Nassiri, heritage sites that simultaneously represent émigrés’ cultural baggage and their pursuit of the American Dream. PIN–UP caught up with Nassiri while he was in L.A. for the prestigious Villa Albertine residency to discuss the complex meanings contained within these monumental homes. 

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I have yet to make a pilgrimage to The Sphere, but I think about it more than I’d like to admit, searching for tickets to see Dead & Company under its dome of high-resolution screens or doling out Instagram likes to friends who road-tripped east on Interstate 15 in search of immersive communion. As Las Vegas’s newest attraction, The Sphere opened in 2023, but the values it embodies were there all along. These are captured in the latest photo book from Iwan Baan, Rome – Las Vegas: Bread and Circuses: desire, spectacle, the “horror” of global tourism, as contributing essayist Ryan Scavnicky puts it after Nikola Tesla. For all the earthly talk of showgirls and slot machines, fear and loathing, ducks and decorated sheds, Sin City is a place of passion and transcendence: a truth closer to godliness than devilish temptation.

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It’s a blustery, early spring day in the Eastern Coachella Valley, or ECV. The basin is tinted green and purple by wildflowers and grasses encouraged by a surprisingly heavy rainy season, a departure from its usual brown. Wild yellow mustard pokes through the asphalt road edge, and palm trees stand shoulder to shoulder in orderly military rows. These shaggy, shady oases are date orchards, managed by commercial growers that have been in the valley for generations. Since 2011, the nonprofit Kounkuey Design Initiative (KDI) has worked in this landscape, painstakingly building relationships with community members and leadership as well as county and state politicians to address the need for public space. KDI’s approach is remarkable because it values residents over a finished product. Throughout the process, residents find the confidence to speak out on their own behalf, and the design team listens.

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Hartt’s nuanced approach to addressing identity and colonial history is evident in his way of thinking about images.

TUVALU IS SINKING. In a few decades, the island nation in the South Pacific might be mostly waves. Many of us know this from the internet, the island’s submersion a de facto symbol of climate change, much like starving polar bears stranded on floating icebergs. The artist David Hartt knows about Tuvalu because he went there in 2015 to make a film called Adrift and to witness firsthand the effects of rising sea levels. He’s traveled to swamplands in Florida and to Jamaica, where the artist Frederic Church sketched plein air studies. And he found the exact location in Ohio where the landscape painter Robert Duncanson set his easel for Blue Hole, Flood Waters, Little Miami River (1851). For more than a decade, he’s made artworks—photographs, essayistic films, sculptural and sound installations— that examine place and history.

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Victory Boulevard cuts a straight line through the suburban San Fernando Valley. It’s a 20th-century time capsule: a wide swath of asphalt lined by lowrise retail, gas stations, and fast food outlets that sprung up after acres of orange groves were bulldozed. More recently, infill housing has sporadically plugged in the gaps between strip malls and midcentury apartment buildings, but as a place, the Valley’s commercial corridor is bleak and sunbaked, even on a winter day.

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Is Oceanwide Plaza an object lesson? Stalled for more than five years, the project in Downtown Los Angeles stands half-built, filling an entire block across the street from the Crypto.com arena and the L.A. convention center. Tall grasses grow in the gaps between materials and equipment abandoned when its bankrupt Beijing-based developer, Oceanwide Holdings, pulled the plug in 2019. This $1.2 billion ruin of global capital sat untended all through the pandemic, quietly emblematic of overreaching speculative development.

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