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 …

“Last summer, when LACMA opened the doors of the David Geffen Galleries for a tantalizing sneak peek, reactions swiftly cut across party lines: Those who dig the allure of brutal Swissness seemed pleased; others pointed out lime stains and less-than-meticulous concrete detailing. The new building is appealing in the way a dam or highway is appealing. (It’s impossible to know how it’ll look with artwork banged into those massive walls.) With this bridge to nowhere, Zumthor (and SOM) may have produced infrastructural thrall, but is it a museum—a county museum meant to serve all Angelenos? With a vast, sun-blasted plaza and vertiginous climb to the first floor, it’s a dubious welcome.”
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Eight decades after her death, the multi-hyphenate Galka Scheyer is having a moment. She’d be thrilled.

In February, Dear Little Friend: Impressions of Galka Scheyer, an exhibition devoted to the curator, art dealer, and impresario who brought European Modernism to the West Coast, opened at the Norton Simon Museum. And this spring, at her Richard Neutra–designed home on Blue Heights Drive in the Hollywood Hills, Okey Dokey Konrad Fischer and Del Vaz Projects presented Wunderkammer, a site-specific installation by contemporary artist Rita McBride.

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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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A loving and intense photographic approach

Modern Barragán is a personal book that unfolds and recounts multiple encounters the contemporary Mexican artists Lake Verea have had with Luis Barragán’s oeuvre since 2006. This book unveils photographic depictions of the architect’s work and private spaces as a tribute and a celebration, an anthem of love and admiration. While spending time in his private home, as enthusiastic aficionados enchanted by the elements of his house, the game unfolds. Read More …

In 1971, the American Institute of Architects awarded the prestigious AIA Industrial Arts Medal to self-proclaimed “potter” Edith Heath. It was the first time the organization had bestowed such recognition on a ceramicist. 

Heath, the remarkable founder of the Sausalito-based Heath Ceramics, is probably better known for midcentury homewares. Her earthen tableware captures a casual West Coast modernism in hues drawn from California’s landscape. Her company was founded in 1947, and most design aficionados have a Heath bud vase or generous serving bowl in their collection. Yet the AIA recognition shed light on what was then an emerging and exciting facet of her practice—architectural tile. “Heath Ceramics have become integral parts of architecture in installations across the United States,” noted the jury. 

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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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