Mimi Zeiger

Critic, editor, curator and instigator.

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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Minerva Parker Nichols: The Search for a Forgotten Architect (Yale University Press) is about absence as much as it is about the presence of its protagonist. Organized by the Architectural Archives of the University of Pennsylvania, the 336-page book of essays and photographs is forensic, collecting things that are ineffable: demolished structures, gaps in a fragmented archive, and a figure missing from the architectural canon.

Slightly older than the much more celebrated architect and engineer Julia Morgan, the first female architect licensed in California, Nichols (1862–1949) is considered the first American woman to establish her own independent architecture practice—a feat accomplished without generational wealth or the financial support of a husband in 1888, a time when professional paths for women were narrow. Although Nichols later married Reverend William Ichabod Nichols, the book opens with a note explaining the editorial decision to refer to the architect as “Minerva” rather than to define her by her married name (moving forward, I’ll do the same), and for clarity: 53 of the 81 known projects she worked on were commissioned before her marriage.

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By valuing small spaces, we find pleasures through design more generous and more humane than solutions made for bigger projects—adding to the case for living with less.

This past summer, Barbie Dreamhouses sprawled out across our collective imagination like a rose-colored suburban subdivision. They feature prominently in Greta Gerwig’s movie, where a solitary Barbie occupies each multistory home. Notably wall-less and stair-less (who needs a staircase when a spiral slide will do?), the toy houses reflect vast expansiveness—in pink. Boundless, they combine manifest destiny, the American dream, and a pop feminist utopia. If Virginia Woolf wanted a room of one’s own, Barbie craves the world.

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