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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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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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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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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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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