Mimi Zeiger

Critic, editor, curator and instigator.

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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Four months have passed since the Eaton and Palisades fires devastated Los Angeles neighbourhoods. In recent weeks, signs of repair and restoration are underway: FEMA workers clear sites, loading trucks full of concrete and steel debris, while charred oak trees show green signs of life. Many design-oriented groups are trying to chart the next steps for residential architecture. For example, FORT Los Angeles launched ‘Healing the Heart of LA’, and the new Case Study Adapt programme aims to pair ten select architecture firms with displaced families.

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How do we steward the past into the future? As a conservationist and director of the graduate programs in heritage conservation at USC School of Architecture, the question is often on the mind of Trudi Sandmeier. A few weeks after the fires in Los Angeles indiscriminately engulfed neighbourhoods in the Pacific Palisades and Altadena, it’s become an important and regular refrain. The fires destroyed individual structures, some designated as historically or architecturally important, and tore a rent in the cultural fabric of the city. In their aftermath, the ways that we give meaning to the buildings and places around us have changed.

The Palisades Fire ravaged Sandmeier’s home, leaving just the foundations. As she grieves that tremendous loss, she’s also working to understand her own role in guiding Los Angeles forward. ‘As heritage conservationists, we are storytellers,’ she says. ‘We have skills that are needed at a time of crisis to help people—to help ourselves—understand both what we’ve lost and, more importantly, what remains.’
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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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Nancy Pearlman is many things: radio personality, environmentalist, dancer and storyteller. Chief among these is passionate host. On occasional days throughout the year, she opens the doors to her family’s midcentury modern cabin to friends, architecture enthusiasts, artists and hikers she met on the trails in the surrounding San Jacinto Mountains. Located in Idyllwild, a resort town 5,000ft above Palm Springs, the home was designed by architect John Lautner for her parents, Dr Carl Kenneth and Agnes Branch Pearlman, as a holiday retreat.

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Zeina Koreitem and John May are the founders of MILLIØNS, a small, L.A.-based studio with an outsized vision for architecture. They describe their practice: ‘We find it impossible to imagine architecture apart from a kind of expansive, ongoing project of observation and investigation—cultural, historical, technical, political—as a way of continually understanding the world around us.’

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The Open Workshop’s Neeraj Bhatia would like to change what it means for architecture to be radical. When the San Francisco–based architect and urban designer, entered architecture school the epitome of radical was Deconstructivism. This meant wild drawings and rare but daring constructions in a pre-digital age. Early in his career he was drawn to this definition, and even did a stint at the famously avant-garde firm Coop Himmelblau, but the pursuit of ‘form for form’s sake’ wasn’t satisfying. Simply looking radical wasn’t enough, for architecture to truly be radical it needed to have an effect on people and policy.

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Terremoto is the kind of firm that enthusiastically describes its approach to a recent project as ‘hippie-dippy gooey goodness.’ The landscape architecture design studio with offices in Los Angeles and San Francisco digs a countercultural vibe. After all, they did restore and enhance the landscape of the Sea Ranch Lodge, the historic (and famously hippie modernist) outpost on the Northern California coast master planned by landscape architect Lawrence Halprin.

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Out of the windows of Lenny Steinberg’s Venice Beach living room, there are a few hundred metres of sand, a line of white surf, then the grey-blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean. It’s a remarkable, pinch-me view, the kind most folks only see from the nearby boardwalk at Muscle Beach, where tourists and roller skaters glide through a perfume of cannabis dispensaries and fish taco stands.

The LA-based designer’s home is just a few doors down from Frank Gehry’s Norton House, a mid-1980s landmark that mimics a lifeguard tower. She and her husband, Bob, a prominent lawyer, moved here in the 1990s, transforming a 1960s post-and-beam duplex into a minimalist roost that now houses an archive and showroom of five decades of her work, alongside her art and object collection. Each piece – from the Lucite high heels on a table by the front door to the Frank Stella print in the main bedroom – reflects, in short, the fruits of a highly creative life.

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