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PHOTOGRAPHY COURTESY OF THE LA PUBLIC LIBRARY & VENICE HERITAGE MUSEUM

Go to Venice, stand in the middle of Windward Circle, and its shape feels bizarre for a traffic intersection; streets approach from odd angles, the Grand Boulevard curves away. Main Street dissects diagonally and Windward Avenue points toward the ocean.

When you realize these strange angles are the ghosts of canals from a century ago, converging at the old Venice Lagoon, the shapes suddenly make sense.

One hundred years ago Windward Circle was a central lagoon complete with gondola rides, waterfront hotels, and a slew of other tourist attractions. Much of Venice was once, true to its name, actually navigated via water.

The roads did not replace the original plan; they solidified it. Cars now drive where boats glided. Asphalt covers up the lively history that was once there.

Before it was Venice, the area was part of a much larger natural wetland complex stretching from the coast toward the Baldwin Hills. As many Angelinos know, this area is the ancestral homeland of the Tongva, Kizh, Gabrieleño people, who lived throughout the Ballona Watershed for thousands of years. The landscape was not empty land awaiting invention; it was inhabited and highly abundant tidal marshland.

By the beginning of the twentieth century, developers saw something else: land that was difficult to build on.

The developer Abbot Kinney did not bring water to an otherwise dry place; he reorganized an existing wet landscape into real estate, transportation, and theater.

Kinney — a tobacco heir — arrived in Southern California after widespread travels across Europe, Asia, and the Pacific. In 1891, he began developing land south of Santa Monica with several partners. When the partnership dissolved in 1904, the property was divided by a coin toss. Kinney received the undeveloped southern tract — a stretch of marshy coast his former partners considered the less valuable half.

He imagined a city there.

Kinney wanted a planned community modeled loosely on Venice, Italy: a place of canals, arcaded buildings, and classic Venetian gondoliers. The waterways were romantic, but they were also practical for development. Digging them helped drain and control land that could not otherwise be easily subdivided and sold.

The plan included roughly two miles of canals arranged around a great Venetian Lagoon, with 504 residential lots — 289 of them facing the water. There would be a bathhouse, dance pavilion, casino, theater, hotels, and a pier extending into the Pacific from the commercial district at Windward Avenue.

Accessible by streetcar from Santa Monica and Los Angeles, “Venice of America” opened on July 4, 1905.

Visitors could arrive by electric railway, board a gondola, pass beneath a bridge, and travel through a new town that seemed to float between California and an imagined version of Italy. The canals made hard to develop land desirable. They also made it memorable.

Attractions included everything from rides, to theatre and dance hall entertainment, to a no-longer-standing yet absolutely iconic heated saltwater bathhouse called The Venice Plunge. Built for today’s equivalent of about $4M, the bathhouse featured a 100-by-150-foot pool that allowed for heated Pacific swimming. The pool could hold two thousand swimmers and even had a unique plate-glass window replacing one wall so people outside could watch people swim. The bath house was opened in 1908 and closed down in 1943. Thirty-five years of heated Pacific bliss. Imagine the parties that would throw there today were it still standing.

Venice continued growing after opening day. The residential population expanded, entertainment became increasingly central, and the infrastructure struggled to keep up. After Kinney died in 1920, conflicts intensified between tourist interests and permanent residents who wanted better services and a more governable city.

In 1925, after several bitterly contested elections, Venice was annexed by Los Angeles.

The annexation changed what the canals meant. Within a city increasingly organized around automobiles, the northern waterways began to look less like an amenity and more like an obstruction. After several earlier attempts, Los Angeles filled them with dirt and paved them in 1929.

The great lagoon became Windward Circle. Coral Canal became Main Street. Lion Canal became Windward Avenue. Grand Canal became Grand Boulevard. Water became roadway, but the unusual curves, diagonals, narrow parcels, and converging streets remained.

The city erased the water but kept their form. The remaining canals in Venice today are not, technically, the canals Kinney built.

As Kinney’s network was being excavated north of present-day Venice Boulevard, another group of property owners wanted waterways through their adjoining land to the south. The Ocean Park Improvement Association approved the idea in 1904, creating what became the Short Line Beach Venice Canal subdivision. Construction began in July 1905, only days after Kinney’s resort opened.

Four parallel canals—Carroll, Linnie, Howland, and Sherman—ran toward Grand Canal. Eastern Canal was added later. The system connected north to Kinney’s Venice of America and south through Ballona Lagoon toward Playa del Rey, allowing boats to travel from the amusement district toward the sea.

These are the waterways that remain. In other words, the most intact fragment of Kinney’s dream was not actually part of his original plan.

Though the southern canals escaped filling, their survival did not mean they were well cared for. Oil was discovered in Venice in 1929, and derricks appeared along the waterways farther south. Pollution entered the remaining canal system. Silt, debris, and stagnant water accumulated. Bridges and walkways decayed. By the time the Venice Canal Historic District was nominated to the National Register of Historic Places in 1982, the official description called its condition deteriorated.

The nomination made an important distinction: it protected the canals and their public rights-of-way, not the surrounding houses.

The value of the canals highlighted the larger spatial idea and way of life: homes facing water instead of streets, pedestrian bridges connecting small islands, narrow walkways creating accidental encounters, and public infrastructure determining the rhythm of private life.

Residents were already asserting those values. From 1969 through 1976, annual canal festivals turned the threatened waterways into places of gathering and declaration. Preserving the canals was not only about saving a picturesque relic. It was about insisting that this alternative way of living still belonged in LA.

A major rehabilitation plan was approved in 1991 and completed in 1993. The canals were dredged. Banks and public walkways were rebuilt. Bridges were reconstructed. Vegetation was returned to the water’s edge, and circulation was improved.

Today, the canals remain connected to Ballona Lagoon and the ocean through a controlled tidal system. They are not simply decorative space between expensive houses; they are part of a living coastal environment — affected by runoff, water circulation, native planting, marine life, birds, and every decision made along their banks. Every time I’ve visited recently they have been nearly empty from drought.

Their history is therefore not a simple preservation story. The canals are artificial waterways carved into a much older wetland landscape. The six that survive were not Kinney’s originals but a neighboring extension. Their banks and bridges have been substantially rebuilt. Most of the surrounding houses arrived later.

And yet, the central relationship has endured: a way of life organized around water.

That may be the more useful definition of preservation: not freezing a place at the moment of its creation, but recognizing the relationship that makes it meaningful and prioritizing protecting that relationship.

At Windward Circle, traffic still moves around the shape of a vanished lagoon. On Carroll, Linnie, Howland, and Sherman, homes still turn away from the automobile and toward the water. Footbridges remain more direct than roads. Neighbors meet on narrow walk streets. The City of Los Angeles filled in the canals, but it never fully escaped their form. The water is gone. The geometry remembers.

As I explore more of Los Angeles history and learn more about historic preservation, I am struck by how much we’ve lost over the years. How the city we live in is a ghost of what it once was, how we trade soul for convenience, history for a promise of a better future.

Remembering is the only way we can ever preserve what we have now and return, in whatever small ways we can, to what once was.

Thank you to the Los Angeles Public Library and Venice Historical Museum for imagery.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY MATTHEW POTHIER AND HARTWICK HANSON

There are practical reasons Venice-and-Big-Sur-based Hartwick Hanson likes working outside: a long piece of lumber can move through space without smashing into a wall; the light is better; he doesn’t have to sweep up.

“Being outside completely changed my approach to making work. There’s something about moving around in the sun and wind that cuts down to the point. Mostly it just feels normal, which is nice because I never feel normal.”

Outside, the conditions are always changing. The sun moves. The wind picks up. The body has to participate. “It puts you in the world,” Hartwick says. “Gets you out of your head and into your body. It makes you sweat and feel like the animal that you are. You get cold and hot and itchy and pissed off and it’s invigorating and you feel satisfyingly spent at the end of the day.”

This is how much of his work takes shape: outdoors in Big Sur, surrounded by redwood and Monterey cypress, turning salvaged wood into chairs, tables, lamps, and sculptural forms that seem to be from another world.

Hartwick’s work is mystical, reminiscent of folk art sculptures. Pieces that become centerpieces of rooms. They are sturdy but rarely orderly. Familiar, until they aren’t. A chair might suggest a sunburst, a hand, a face. A wooden figure appears caught somewhere between dancing and transforming.

Hartwick hopes the work feels warm. He also hopes it frightens you a little in the middle of the night.

Hartwick was born on the west coast of Canada and now splits his time between Big Sur and Los Angeles. He started as a printmaker, and spent years making relief woodcuts before the flatness of paper felt too limiting.

The physicality of working with wood was already there — carving into a block, working backward, pulling an image from pressure — but he wanted to make something he could walk around. A 3D object to interact with and use.

During the pandemic, Hartwick moved home to Big Sur. “I was privileged to have parents who are not only both very creative people themselves but during that time allowed me to use their space to learn how to build things.” He started with lamps, small sculptures, and what he calls “tiny little stools that you could put a beer on.” From there, the objects took on new scale.

So did his experimentation with form and a willingness to let them get strange.

Big Sur and Los Angeles exert different pressures on the work. Hartwick thinks of them almost as opposing formal languages.

Big Sur is escape: hills folding into one another, the shoreline breaking into pieces, the sky changing by the minute. Los Angeles offers proximity—to other artists, to work, to the kind of talented people who make him want to return to the studio. His Venice shop is a hot box filled with tools and dust, but its limitations produce discipline.

LA traffic also helps. “I get a lot of ideas while being angry and sitting in traffic.”

The more enjoyable part of Hartwick’s Los Angeles process happens at a bar. Solo with his sketchbook, he orders a beer, and draws until the ideas get bad or the lines get sloppy. Later, he returns to the drawings and chooses the ones worth keeping. Those forms are drawn again, refined, and eventually transferred directly onto the wood.

The wood itself usually has a previous life.

In the early years, Hartwick sourced material through a process that could generously be described as informal reclamation. He would venture into oil fields off Routes 33 and 46, trespassing through forgotten sites where collapsed pump sheds yielded old-growth lumber. An act of reuse.

He now visits salvage yards throughout California and uses wood from fallen trees in the Central Valley, often Redwood and Monterey cypress because they belong to the landscape where he works.

At a salvage yard, Hartwick is looking for what he calls Good Wood. The category is not especially technical. It means a board with a strong, dry structure and some evidence of the time it has already lived through. “Sometimes a board just jumps out at you and demands to be something else.”

Salvaged material does not behave like a blank sheet. It splits, twists, conceals damage, and reveals variations at inconvenient moments. Hartwick works around these irregularities or allows them to become part of the piece.

He cares deeply about structural integrity. Perfection is less interesting. “I feel like an irregular, imperfect person in general, so that aspect is pretty baked in.”

Usefulness remains intentionally beside the point.

Hartwick’s work often sits between furniture, sculpture, and artifact. His chairs maintain enough of a chair’s basic framework to support a body, but function rarely matters. “Function usually follows form for me. If the chair happens to be comfortable, great. If it’s not, oh well. Stand up. Go to IKEA or get an Eames or something.”

What he wants is for an object to look as though it has come from another time—or another dimension. Not completely alien necessarily, but with enough familiarity so that the strangeness of the form translates to the viewer.

Recently, he has been creating larger works derived from drawings of early modern dancers, including Margaret Morris, Hélène Vanel, and Loïs Hutton. The work came to be after a period of what he describes as “absolute inspirational desolation.” Finding the figures felt like a door opening into a new motif.

These feminine forms stretch, bend, and gather themselves into the wood, as if an image has been excavated from the material rather than imposed upon it.

His stylistic references are all over the map — from Brazilian modernism’s combination of elegance, earthiness, curved space, and human form to Godard’s Pierrot le Fou and Herzog’s Lessons of Darkness.

“I tend to be obsessed and get a lot of inspiration from ecotones between human civilization and nature, places of decay and regrowth… I find places like forgotten structures and rusting hulks to be fascinating for unclear psychic reasons, Pre-apocalyptic zones of reclamation, Ballardian wastelands, dreamlike spaces of unclear purpose.”

The point is not to translate any of these references directly into furniture. It is to keep enough strange material circulating through the subconscious that, eventually, a new form emerges.

In Big Sur, the lesson is repeated everywhere.

The landscape is growing, eroding, and becoming something else all the time. Hills rise and fall; the coast breaks into chunks with rocks jutting from the sea; fires leave scars and then the plants return.

Hartwick compares it to the mutable landscape of Area X in VanderMeer’s novels: entropy running rampant, swallowing the distinction between destruction and creation.

California’s fires have turned scarred land and destruction into part of the ordinary background. Hartwick is interested in what it means to remain a person in a world moving away from what we have traditionally considered habitable—and how to make something hopeful without pretending that the shadow is not there.

“How do you create light in the shadow?” he asks. “People have always managed to do it in far bleaker circumstances, so I try to carry a sense of optimism.”

Everything will eventually collapse into earth and sea — and there’s something beautiful about that. “If I can capture even a minuscule amount of that feeling in what I’m making, then I’m happy.”

When Hartwick talks about sanctuary, he does not describe peace so much as freedom.

A sanctuary is a place free from judgment, fear, and anxiety—a place where it is possible to be genuinely alone, act like yourself, and play. Making offers access to that place even when the rest of life does not.

He would eventually like to return to Chile’s Atacama Desert, where he once made a small installation during a residency. He wants to see if it is still there. More than that, he wants to make something larger in that vast, harsh, unearthly landscape—another handprint left in a place where human presence can feel improbable.

For now, the work moves between the curves of Big Sur and the angles of Los Angeles. Between the lumber’s old life and its next one. Between structural soundness and a line drawn after one beer too many.

Warm, familiar, a little weird. And, if everything goes well, just haunted enough.

Follow Hartwick Hanson on Instagram at @hartwickhanson

Work inquiries at hartwickhansonstudio@gmail.com

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

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A home is not a product.

But by the time one comes to market, it has often been made to look like one. Family photographs disappear. Bookshelves are thinned. Countertops are cleared.

The evidence of routines, eccentricities, and ordinary life is edited away. What remains is translated into the language of a listing: bedrooms, bathrooms, square footage, lot size, finishes, views.

This serves a purpose; a prospective buyer needs enough room to imagine a life of their own. But somewhere in the effort to make a home legible to everyone, we risk removing the very thing that made it valuable to someone.

The life that happened there.

Preservation and adaptation are not opposites; adaptation is often what allows a place to survive.

When we bought our house in Northeast Los Angeles, the previous owner was a union set builder and fabricator. You could see his way of thinking everywhere: an industrial wok turned into a kitchen sink, a custom glass door with its lock set into the wall, a small opening cut between the bedroom and living room to pull light deeper into the house.

These interventions were beautiful, practical, and slightly strange. Without their history, they might have read as things to correct. Knowing who made them changed the way I saw them. They became evidence of someone solving problems with the skills and materials he understood.

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The house was nearly a century old when we arrived. It had been built, modified, repaired, and adapted by people we would never meet. We did not inherit an untouched artifact.

We inherited an accumulation of a hundred years of life lived: childhoods, deaths, laughter, grief. That accumulation is the house.

I thought about this concept again when I met Bradford Craig.

Bradford has lived in his Hollywood Hills home since 1969. He says the house was originally built for Greta Garbo. He bought it from a landlord who needed to sell, taking over the mortgage without a down payment. In the decades since, it has held dancers, songwriters, strangers sleeping on couches, gowns sent over by Halston, a Michael Jackson advertising shoot, paintings, parties, friends, housemates, loss, and an enormous amount of joy.

The house is architecturally extraordinary. The original tile, theatrical arches, strange staircases, and views across the hills would be enough to make it significant. But they are not what made the time spent with Bradford unforgettable.

The house has become a second autobiography. Every room contains a story; every object activates another memory. He cannot be separated from the house, and the house cannot be fully understood without him.

The Rome Compound revealed another version of the same idea. It was on the market when I covered it, but it never felt like a neutral real-estate product. Kathryn McCullough could explain why every decision had been made: why four residences should function independently but still feel like one home, why the courtyard needed to act as connective tissue, why the original ceiling was kept, why broken concrete was reused across the landscape, why native plantings belonged there.

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The history in that case was more recent. It was the history of making — the choices, restraints, collaborators, and convictions that gave the property its character.

That knowledge made its value more legible, not less.

I have encountered the same idea in quieter, more personal forms.

Alfie Koetter’s Highland Park home is a 1926 house he and his wife, filmmaker Cristina Costantini, chose precisely because it had not been flipped into anonymity. He reorganized its awkward plan around how they actually live and entertain, using a new archway motif to bind the rooms together. It is not a period piece or a blank slate, but an old house made more specific to the people inside it.

Andrei Pogany’s hillside home is architecture built around family movement. He opened a closed-off 1950s house, expanded it as the family grew, and designed the plan so the children and adults occupy their own sides but meet in the middle. Clerestories track California light; folding doors open the living room to the garden. The house records the rituals and relationships it was made to hold.

Ellie Benov has shaped her home through slow accumulation: vintage objects from France and Japan, the two cultures that form her history and her brand Marseille Blue, alongside heirlooms, books, and travel keepsakes. Her hanging bookshelf functions almost like a family altar, with ceramics by her late uncle beside books on symbols, Zen, tarot, and mycology. The room is highly curated, but never anonymous; every object makes its inhabitant more legible.

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Real estate is very good at documenting what can be measured. It is less practiced at carrying forward what can only be remembered.

What if the history of a home traveled with it?

Not only the architect and year built, although those matter. I mean an oral history from the people who actually lived there:

What almost got removed but was ultimately kept? Which plants were grown from cuttings, and where did they come from? What does the light do over the course of the day?

What rituals formed here? What was changed, and why? What happened in this house that the photographs cannot show? What did living here teach you? What do you hope the next person understands?

These answers would not obligate the next owner to preserve someone else’s life. A house has to continue changing in order to remain alive. New people should be able to paint the walls, move the furniture, adapt rooms, raise children, host friends, plant different things, and become part of its history.

But change made with knowledge is different from change made in a vacuum.

History can reveal why a house works. It can explain an odd repair, a mature landscape, a material choice, or a room whose purpose is not immediately obvious. It can help distinguish something worn out from something that has simply acquired a patina. It can tell us what has endured — and perhaps deserves to endure a little longer.

This is not nostalgia for its own sake. Preservation cannot mean freezing every building at a single moment in time. The places that last are often the ones allowed to adapt: a cabin that becomes a family home, a department store that becomes a school, a factory that becomes a new kind of village, four separate residences that can also become a shared compound.

The goal is not to prevent the next chapter. It is to keep us from mistaking erasure for improvement.

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I want Sanctuaries LA to begin making room for these records — particularly when meaningful Los Angeles homes are preparing to change hands. To speak with the people who know where the house creaks, where the afternoon light lands, what has been repaired three times, what they will miss, and what they hope remains.

A listing can tell us what a property contains. I want to understand what it has held.

We do not begin the stories of most homes, and we rarely finish them. We occupy a chapter. We make choices that someone else will eventually inherit. If we are fortunate, we leave the place more useful, more beautiful, and more itself than we found it.

The next owner does not arrive at an empty shell. They arrive in the middle of a life much longer than their own.

And then, for a while, they become its caretaker.

What do you wish you knew about the people who lived in your home before you? Reply and tell me.

If you know of a Los Angeles home with a history worth recording, especially one preparing to change hands, I would love to hear about it.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Bradford Craig is 89. He turns 90 next May. He has lived in this house since 1969 and has been living and working in Hollywood for six decades. Before he was a homeowner on this hill he was a dancer — trained in ballet, on stage with Judy Garland, flown across a stage on a wire at the World's Fair. He turns up in Garland's later concert specials alongside a young Liza Minnelli, and has film credits including Honky and Evel Knievel. He even appears singing and dancing in the 1962 classic The Music Man.

Born May 3, 1937, in New Bedford, Massachusetts, he moved to LA in his twenties. Ballet dancer, songwriter, painter — an artist through and through. Then, somewhere along the way, he became the kind of man who's lived in one house so long that the house has basically become a second autobiography.

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He’s lived in this one since 1969, and before we get to any of the rest of it — the ballet, the songwriting, the paintings, the wire act — you should know how the house came to him, because it explains everything about how he’s held onto it since.

The home was designed for Greta Garbo, and she lived here for some time. Bradford shares, "This house was originally built for Greta Garbo in 1927, I think — 1926 or seven, something like that. That's what the deed says." A silent-era icon, a house built on spec for her glamour, decades before Bradford ever set foot in it — designed by Alfred Frederick Leicht, the architect known for his opulent, theatrical work throughout Hollywood and Los Feliz in that same era.

He didn’t get the house from Garbo, obviously — he was a few owners down the chain. The year he bought the house, 1969, was also the year of the Manson family murders, and the landlord who owned this house owned the Manson property too. Over-leveraged, needing to unload what he could, he cut Bradford a deal: no down payment, just take over the mortgage.

That’s how it happened. The Manson family murders bankrupted a landlord, and a young dancer with nothing down walked into a house built for a movie star.

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He painted the house white. He kept two lightning rods a dancer named Juliet Prowse brought him back from a French chateau — rusted, the rods long since snapped off, still standing sentry on either side of his fireplace mantel. He slowly accumulated treasures throughout, including the African antelope above the mantel, which Bradford refers to as his moose.

"So this rich lady that I knew was over here... she said, 'Oh, you need one of those mooses. My husband goes hunting, we have mooses and deers and stuffed animals in every room,' and she says, 'I'll send you one.' And so one day this beautiful model came in a taxi... with the head all wrapped in paper and then I hear: 'I'm here! Can you come and get your fucking moose?!' So that was free."

People slept on his couch and he'd wake up to strangers in other rooms and just introduce himself. It was that kind of house, that kind of decade. He cleaned it up eventually, room by room, keeping the bones. "Weed in those days was like having a cup of coffee or a drink, you know. It's coming back," muses Bradford.

He’d rent the house to strangers, to brands. Suzuki leased the house for their campaign starring Michael Jackson, the way brands do when they need a room with real history in it instead of a set. Bradford remembers Jackson exactly the way you’d hope someone who actually paid attention would remember him — not starstruck, just quietly sad on his behalf.

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Before any of this, Bradford was a dancer. Then a songwriter. Then a painter. “I started off as a ballet dancer, and I danced in the Marin Symphony Ballet.”

He wrote special material for Marisa Berenson's This Is Tom Jones show appearance — granddaughter of the designer Elsa Schiaparelli, and a style icon in her own right by then. She couldn't sing or dance, so he built her a number instead, and Halston sent over gowns in cardboard boxes that took over the whole living room.

Before the house, before the ballet even, he was harnessed to a wire above the General Motors pavilion at the 1964 World's Fair in New York with a partner named Barbara Swisher, flying across a stage in costume, letting go, falling on purpose.

He paints, too. He had a blue period, like he’ll tell you, half-joking, half not. “I did it when I was so young, you know. I have several paintings that seem to be that same coloring.”

These days, the house holds him the way he once held it together.

He has two housemates who live in downstairs apartments: Walter and Jeffrey. Walter handles the bills now. Bradford jokes that now Walter is him, as he functions as a second brain for Bradford. It’s very sweet seeing them all together, this group of older men who are all friends and take care of one another.

There’s a maid and a gardener Bradford still resents needing, a little, because he was the one who used to do everything himself. He still waters the plants. “I water everything, and — yeah, the plants are so happy.”

There have been losses along the way, too — the kind that naturally accumulate in a home with more than a century of history. A beloved songwriting partner and dear friend passed away not long ago. There are stories from previous owners, too, including the legend of a child who once fell to their death from the front stairs. And years ago, Bradford experienced the heartbreaking loss of his partner. A home that has held this much life inevitably holds some sorrow as well; it’s simply part of what it means to have stood witness to so many generations.

What he wanted us to know, mostly, was that he’s lived a lot of life in this house. Had so many good memories. He kept mentioning the parties, the joy of the way the world was back then, where you’d invite strangers in and let them stay, lamenting at how different everything has become in the nearly six decades he’s been living on this hill. He kept celebrating the joy of community.

Fifty-seven years in a house built for a silent film star, bought off a bankrupt man’s bad luck, filled with hippies and lightning rods and a king of pop who couldn’t be himself and a dancer who could still, some days, feel the blood get going if he did his push-ups first.

He asked us more than once if we thought when he was younger that he looked like Ernest Hemingway. He did, a little. He liked that we said so.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

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When I first moved to LA, I was enamored with the coyotes. They’re so cute. That one needs a mom. Look at them playing. Then I got my dog, Murphy. We’d run into them on trails, he’d freak and give chase, and overnight they went from charming to a source of stress. From quasi-cute to menacing.

I've had countless run-ins since. Hazed them until I looked like an actual psycho. Watched one stare me down with a dead house cat — collar still on — in its mouth. Spent weeks trying to get animal control on the phone for an injured one burrowed at my neighbor's fence line, to no avail. Stood on my roof at midnight, arms flailing, growl-yelling and stomping at the pack to get the fuck out of my backyard. Once, six months pregnant, I chased a collarless Murphy down the street after he shot out the gate at one, screaming for anyone to help me catch him; my neighbor's contractor, up at the top of the hill, was the one who did.

It runs in cycles — months of nothing, then months of them everywhere. We’ve tried it all: reinforced the fence, sprayed wolf pee around the perimeter, got the whole street to spray wolf pee. There’s a neighbor group chat that exists mostly to live-update sightings so everyone can pull their pets and kids inside.

Two weeks ago I let Murph out for his normal morning pee and heard an unfamiliar yip cut through his bark. My neighbor, Andrei, shouted. I ran out to find my dog in a standoff with a lone coyote that wouldn’t back down. The exterior cameras caught the rest; the coyote went after my dog twice. Murph somehow got away bite-free.

So here's a practical guide for dealing with coyotes — because the people I watch stare in dumb awe instead of hazing clearly don't know how to handle this, and here in the hills of Northeast LA, you have to.

A FIELD NOTE ON THE SONG DOG

Here’s what helped me most: actually learning about our coyote neighbors.

That “unfamiliar yip chorus” I hear at all hours of the night? It probably isn’t a pack. A bonded pair yipping and howling together throws an auditory illusion — researchers call it the beau geste effect — that makes two animals sound like a dozen. The howling isn’t a hunt. It’s a family talking across the landscape, marking the edges of home. Suddenly that takes it from sinister to … a little sweet?

Because they do live in families. Coyotes are monogamous, often for life — urban ones especially, with some studies clocking near-total fidelity. The unit is a mated pair and their young, and that pair defends its territory against other coyotes, which is its own quiet form of population control: a held territory keeps the area from filling up. It’s also why removal backfires.

They earn their keep. A single coyote can eat well over a thousand rodents a year. And in LA specifically, the Natural History Museum’s research found the thing most people get backwards — domestic cats are nearly absent from the coyote-rich interior of Griffith Park, but everywhere in the more fragmented hills without them. Strip the coyotes out and you don’t get a calmer ecosystem; you get more feral cats and smaller predators, and more pressure on the songbirds and reptiles underneath. The predator on your fence line is, inconveniently, a sign the block is still alive.

And they are almost never the danger they’re cast as. In all of recorded history there are two confirmed fatal coyote attacks — set that against the thousands of dog bites LA logs every year. The fear is real; the statistics aren’t on its side.

They were here first — the native song dog, in these hills since the Ice Age, long before the lots were drawn. This was a sanctuary before it was an address. It still is — we just don’t have it to ourselves. So the work isn’t getting rid of them; it’s learning to live alongside them — which, it turns out, comes down to a handful of things.

1. BE A BORING BLOCK

Here’s the thing: the coyote isn’t the problem. The block is. Justin Brown, the National Park Service biologist who runs the L.A. Urban Coyote Project, has heard every version of the panic — the one sleeping in someone’s yard, the one trailing a dog down the street. His read is unsentimental. When there’s conflict, he told LAist, “they’re coming into your neighborhood for a reason.” Some resource they keep finding.

Coyotes are opportunists, and LA sets a long table. The single biggest driver is the one we planted ourselves — ornamental fruit trees, the kind shading half the streets on the Eastside, dropping figs and loquats and dates onto the sidewalk all summer. Brown’s scat research found that human-linked food — garbage, that fallen ornamental fruit, the occasional cat — made up 60 to 75 percent of an urban coyote’s diet. So pick the fruit up. Pet bowls off the porch, trash latched, bird seed gone, compost closed. And never, ever feed one on purpose. That’s the line that ends badly for everyone.

It’s not just food. In a dry city, water is its own draw — and they’ll work for it. We’ve come out to find our garden’s drip system chewed apart, emitters torn off the line, the coyotes having figured out the irrigation before we did. Walk your system. Patch the leaks, cap what’s weeping, and don’t leave standing water sitting out — bowls, saucers under pots, a forgotten bucket. A reliable drink is a reason to keep coming back.

And the wolf pee — yes, we’ve tried it, the whole street has tried it. Predator-urine deterrents are worth a shot and easy enough to run around the perimeter, but be aware: they wash off in a sprinkle, need constant reapplying, and a hungry coyote that’s already comfortable on your block will walk right past it. Treat it as a small nudge, not a fence. The fruit and the water are the fence.

2. MAKE YOURSELF UNFORGETTABLE

If one holds its ground, don't run — running makes you prey. Stand tall, wave your arms, get loud. Yell, an air horn, a coffee can full of coins. Walk toward it, never corner it, until it leaves for good. Halfway counts for nothing. Quit early and all you've taught it is that humans make noise and then go away. And it takes the whole street: "Hazing is a community effort," Citizens for L.A. Wildlife puts it plainly. One brave neighbor and an easygoing rest of the block, and the coyote does the math.

Hence the hazing to the point of looking psychotic situation. Whenever I do this, both the coyotes and the local people look at me like I’m insane.

3. KNOW THE SEASON

Spring through late summer is pup season. A coyote shadowing you at a distance — especially if you've got a big dog — is usually walking you away from a den, not hunting you. Move steady, don't turn your back, keep going. "This is their territory, and they protect their territory," Calabasas environmental manager Alex Farassati told NBC. Read it as a parent, not a predator.

This explains why we don’t see them for months, and suddenly it feels like they’re everywhere. We are spotting them mostly during pup season and drought season when they are looking for water in our yards.

4. PROTECT YOUR PETS

Keep cats indoors. I have a senior cat, Tony, who still likes his daytime sun — I only let him out after Murphy’s swept the yard, and even then I keep eyes on him. We put baby gates on the porch for a little indoor-outdoor compromise.

Small dogs go on a six-foot leash — flat, not retractable. Don’t leave anyone out unsupervised, fence or no fence. If a coyote comes close on a walk, pick your little one up.

5. DON’T CALL A TRAPPER

It never occurred to me to try, but apparently it's the first instinct for a lot of people — and the wrong one. In LA, trapping and relocating is illegal: by state law a trapped coyote is released on the spot or killed. "Humane relocation" is a myth — an animal dropped in unfamiliar territory rarely survives. And it doesn't even work. Pull the resident pair off a block and you open a vacuum — the territory clears, a new coyote moves in, and with the pressure gone the pack often breeds larger. The city's whole policy is coexistence for exactly this reason. A boring block is the only thing that actually holds.

6. RALLY YOUR NEIGHBORS

None of this is a solo sport. The single most useful tool we have isn't the air horn or the wolf pee — it's the neighbor group chat. Live sightings, so everyone pulls pets and kids in at the same time. Shared hazing, so the whole hill reads as hostile instead of one lone weirdo on a roof. If your street doesn't have one, start it. It's the cheapest coyote deterrent there is.

So: clear the table, read the season, keep your animals close. And when one stares you down at dawn, don't gawk. Get big, get loud, and remember it has more claim to the hill than you do. Then go inside and text the group chat.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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SANCTUARIES LA EXPLORES THE QUIETER SIDE OF LOS ANGELES THROUGH DESIGN.

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This weekend, between the smoke from the Boyle Heights warehouse fire, a coyote going after my fifty-pound dog, and the heat, I found myself questioning whether LA really is a sanctuary. Is the 98% of the time paradise worth the 2% of apocalypse? Yes, I think so. But in the 2%, I start to understand why people say enough and leave.

I spent Sunday in Santa Monica escaping the poor air quality and while I was there I found myself at the Miles Memorial Playhouse for their Summer Solstice celebration. Super cute, wholesome scene filled with live music, lots of kids making forts out of foam blocks, and older couples in zen mode in their matching folding chairs. Maybe the west side isn’t so bad.

GET INVOLVED

Los Angeles has no demolition by neglect ordinance. That means a property owner can let a designated Historic-Cultural Monument sit vacant, refuse maintenance, and watch it deteriorate. And eventually, when the cost of repair is high enough, argue that demolition is the only viable option. The city has almost no mechanism to stop them. Two landmarks are currently in danger of being lost this way.

THE BARRY BUILDING

• A 1951 International Style landmark by architect Milton Caughey in Brentwood, once home to the beloved Dutton’s Brentwood Bookstore is another HCM facing demolition by neglect. The heirs of billionaire Charlie Munger, former Vice Chairman of Berkshire Hathaway, evicted tenants, let the building sit vacant for a decade, and are now pushing to tear it down with no replacement project planned. Just a vacant lot. The LA Conservancy and Angelenos for Historic Preservation filed a joint lawsuit in May to block the demolition. If this one falls, every other landmark in the city could be on the clock. Sign the petition here.

THE STURGES HOUSE

• The LA Conservancy has named Frank Lloyd Wright’s Sturges House the first advocacy priority on their 2026 LA Watch List. It’s a 1939 Brentwood hillside home supervised during construction by a young John Lautner, and the only Usonian home ever built in Southern California. The home is a designated Historic-Cultural Monument but has sat vacant for years under a nonprofit that has repeatedly rebuffed preservation outreach. The cantilevered redwood and brick structure is actively deteriorating. Want to help? Contact Councilmember Traci Park at traci.park@lacity.org and urge the city to require the owner to act before it’s past the point of no return.

  

  

• The building that leases to Junior's Party Supply — a cornerstone of York Boulevard for 20 years — and Sip Snack was sold to a New York-based private equity company, which gave both tenants 60 days to get out. For Highland Park residents, this is not a new story. It hurts every time. Sign the petition to help Junior's fight to stay, donate to Sip Snack's relocation fund, and if you want to understand why and how private equity is ruining America read this.

UPCOMING

• The Lafayette Square Estate Sale is this Saturday, June 27, 8 AM – 3 PM. Ome Dezin will be pulling pieces from storage to sell. Go early. RSVP here for access.

• California residents have until July 6 to download a special Historian Passport granting free entry for up to four people at more than 30 historic state parks, with unlimited visits through the end of the year.

• The Sparkletts Bottling Plant passed PLUM on June 9th and is now headed to full City Council tomorrow, June 24. Historic-Cultural Monument designation is looking likely. We’ve been following this one since the beginning and we’re cautiously optimistic. But here’s the update that stings: the second four-acre lot at 4500 York sold for $14.5M to Lift Partners — a San Francisco-based real estate investment firm that specializes in, and I quote, “adaptive reuse and repositioning of industrial and office properties.” The same agent who sold the lot has already put it up for lease through CBRE at $142,000 a month, marketing it as rare M1-zoned industrial land with “direct access to Interstate 5.” No mention of the last active artesian spring in Northeast LA sitting beneath it. No mention of the 1929 Moorish Revival architecture next door. I wish these people had some imagination instead of copy, paste, profit.

WORTH KNOWING

• The Lineage Logistics warehouse fire in Boyle Heights has been burning since June 17. A cold storage facility the size of five football fields, 85 million pounds of food spoiling inside, smoke blanketing the Eastside for days. Governor Newsom declared a state of emergency. Mayor Bass declared a local emergency. The Boyle Heights community — one of the most historically underserved in the city — is bearing the brunt of it. If you’re in the area and need resources, relief centers and air purifiers are being distributed. This is the 2%.

• The Glendale City Council voted earlier this month to approve the Garden River Bridge — a new pedestrian crossing that will span the LA River at Flower Street and Fairmont Avenue, connecting Glendale to Griffith Park. The bridge is the second phase of Glendale's Riverwalk and will be designed with raised garden beds, shade structures, seating, and viewing areas on both approaches and on the span itself. Olin is handling the landscaping. Construction is expected to take two and a half years. It follows recently completed pedestrian bridges in Atwater Village, Glassell Park, and adjacent to the Glendale-Hyperion complex.

• Sunday was the solstice. Under the oculus skylight at the Getty Research Institute, the midday sun aligned with the plaque below — the spot where Andy Goldsworthy once installed a hand-formed clay spiral made from dirt and clay excavated during the Getty’s own construction. The piece cracked as it dried over nine months, deepening into what looked like a desert ridge. Then a burst pipe flooded it. It was decommissioned in 1999, only two years after its completion. The alignment still happens every year, over a metal circular inlay. Worth remembering what was originally there.

  

• James Turrell’s 100th and largest museum-housed Skyspace, As Seen Below — The Dome, opened June 19 at ARoS Aarhus in Denmark, timed to the summer solstice. The dome is 16 meters tall and 40 meters wide — roughly the scale of the Pantheon. Visitors descend through an underground corridor before arriving inside a vast domed chamber where a central oculus frames the open sky. Adding to the list. Turrell was born in Los Angeles, if you needed another reason to care.

  

Shelby xx

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

On a corner of the Norma Triangle section of Doheny Drive, a few doors from one of Marilyn Monroe’s first LA apartments, there’s a house that looks like it doesn’t want you to enter. Blunt walls. Block stacked on block. From the sidewalk it reads as a fortress — closed, cubist, almost cold.

Lloyd Wright built it in 1927 as his home and his office, and he never left. Fifty-one years in the same rooms, until he died in 1978. Home upstairs, studio below, the two stacked on a lot you could cross in under a minute.

You’ve probably driven past it and credited his father; Happy Father’s Day, Lloyd.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Hi my name is Cassandra Giraldo, commonly known as Cassie by my friends and neighbors. I’m a cinematographer based in Los Angeles. I’m actually a born and bred Angeleno, hailing from the San Fernando Valley to be precise (818 for life!). After a decade-long stint in NYC, I decided to move back home three years ago, and have been a proud resident of Pasadena-Altadena ever since.

SUPPORTING ALTADENA

Many of these places on this list were either spared by the fires or are working hard to rebuild in their aftermath. Supporting them is a meaningful way to help Altadena preserve the character, resilience, and sense of community that make it so special.

NATURAL SPACES

EATON CANYON

• I live walking distance to Eaton Canyon. Before the fires, it was a weekly pilgrimage my dog Scout and I made. There are so many trails to discover inside, the most famous and popular being the hike up to the famous waterfall.
  I hate its association with the devastating fires earlier this year because it is such a sacred and special place. Sadly the park is closed until further notice but you can follow for updates here and/or donate and support the ENCA which is working to restore and reopen the park. My dog and I still walk past it and have been thrilled to see all the regrowth.

ARROYO SECO TRAIL + ROSE BOWL LOOP

• The Arroyo Seco trail walk has become a ritual every Saturday morning. The loop is just south of the Rose Bowl. Our favorite way to enter is via the pathways behind the Rose Bowl Aquatic Center. For a really ambitious hike you can walk a portion of the Rose Bowl loop and take the back pathways behind the golf course all the way up to Hahamonga Watershed Park which has epic views of NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab.

MT. WILSON TRAIL

• You can catch this historic trail from the foothills of beautiful Sierra Madre, a town just adjacent to us here in Northeast Pasadena/Altadena. Sadly many parts of the trail were affected by the fires but restoration efforts are underway. If you’d like to donate or support, check out the folks behind the annual Mt. Wilson Trail Recovery Race.

MT. WILSON OBSERVATORY

• Perched high above the city, this historic observatory offers breathtaking views and fascinating insight into the astronomical discoveries that transformed our understanding of the universe. The scenic drive through the Angeles National Forest is reason enough to visit. While you’re there, consider booking a tour of the observatory itself — and, if your timing aligns, don’t miss the beloved summer concert series held among the telescopes, which is on my own list to experience this year.

ANGELES NATIONAL FOREST

• A fun day trip to take your dog for an epic hike on a weekend. Notable trails include Grizzly Flats and Switzer Falls.

MILLARD FALLS

• Unfortunately road access is still closed due to the fires, but worth monitoring for future visits.

HUNTINGTON LIBRARY & GARDENS

• One of Southern California’s crown jewels. Spend an afternoon wandering through Japanese gardens, desert landscapes, and rose collections, then duck into the galleries or library exhibitions. A membership is well worth it if you live nearby.

LACY PARK

• A beloved green space in neighboring San Marino that feels worlds away from the city. It’s perfect for picnics, stroller walks, reading under a shady tree, or simply slowing down for a few hours. Admission is free on weekdays, while non-residents pay a modest fee of $4 per person on weekends.

DINING & DRINKING

One of the best things about living in this pocket of Los Angeles is the food. From neighborhood institutions to newer favorites, Pasadena and Altadena reward curiosity — and are perfect for everything from casual lunches to celebratory dinners.

BETSY

• A new restaurant that survived the Eaton fires and is bringing Angelenos out to Altadena. At the corner of Mariposa Ave where a lot of businesses were lost, the restaurant has revitalized the corner along with neighboring restaurant Miya. The restaurant features live fire cooking, reclaiming fire’s positive connotations. It’s been great to see how locals have been rebuilding in the community and this is just one of many examples. They recently opened a wine bar, Bar Betsy, right next to the restaurant which is a delightful meet up spot at sunset to catch up with a friend and to appreciate and commemorate the beauty of the Dena.

GOOD NEIGHBOR BAR & ALTADENA WINE AND SPIRITS

• A hip bar that opened up before the fires, this welcoming spot has gained even more popularity, becoming another community hub for neighbors affected by the fires. A map of the fire’s devastation sits in front of the bar to act as a reminder that the community remains and to allow neighbors and fire victims to feel seen. The patio is both dog and kid friendly and hosts nightly pop ups with local food haunts.

WOON

• One of my favorite homestyle Chinese restaurants is now walking distance — and delivery distance — from my house! Beautiful space, friendly service, fun pop-up events and a very popular brunch on weekends.

BEVEL COFFEE

• Bevel Coffee started as a pop up in Prime Pizza’s front courtyard but they’re now officially a brick and mortar on the same block as Altadena Bev. Huge news for the neighborhood! Delicious brews, friendly staff, and a true neighborhood gem.

HIGHLIGHT COFFEE

• A neighborhood favorite serving excellent coffee with a strong sense of community. A wonderful spot to grab your morning drink while supporting a beloved Altadena small business.

MIYA

• Homestyle Thai food in the heart of Altadena. Support the old neighborhood while enjoying some Thai is this very cute restaurant. This year they made LA Time’s best Thai restaurants in Los Angeles.

SEED BAKERY

• My favorite local bakery. If you’re headed to a dinner party and need a guaranteed crowd-pleaser, pick up a few pastries or a loaf of bread from Seed. Everything is thoughtfully made, seasonal, and somehow feels both elevated and comforting.

ROMA MARKET

• Home of Pasadena’s legendary Italian sandwich. The hype is absolutely real. Order “The Sandwich” exactly as it comes and thank me later.

CLUB 1881

• Don’t let its unassuming location fool you: Pasadena’s oldest continuously operating cocktail bar is also one of its best. A longtime local favorite, 1881 pairs classic cocktails and European aperitifs with some of the finest live jazz in LA County.

OLD SASOON BAKERY

• An institution serving Armenian and Middle Eastern specialties. The khachapuri is a must-order, but honestly, it’s hard to go wrong here. The lahmajoun, manaeesh, and savory pastries have earned this family-run bakery a devoted following.

LAVENDER & HONEY ESPRESSO BAR

• A cozy neighborhood café ideal for a casual breakfast meeting, working remotely for an hour, or catching up with a friend over excellent coffee and fresh toasts.

LUNASIA DIM SUM HOUSE

• Some of the best dim sum in the San Gabriel Valley. Go with a group, order liberally, and don’t skip the shrimp dumplings or baked barbecue pork buns.

SICHUAN STREET FOOD

• A go-to for bold, spicy flavors and comforting noodle dishes. Perfect when you’re craving something warming, flavorful, and unfussy.

CANNONBALL

• One of South Pasadena’s standout newer additions. The food is excellent, but even if you’re not staying for dinner, it’s worth stopping in for a cocktail at the bar. A wonderful choice for a special occasion or date night.

PRIME PIZZA

• On the same corner as Armen Market and Altadena Bev, Prime has become a wonderful community hub since the fires. The restaurant has hosted a lot of neighborhood potlucks and fundraisers, and flyers and resources posted outside the restaurant make it feel like a community center. Prime is a chain but the pizza is delicious — I prefer the square pizza — and there’s a great courtyard to mingle with your fellow neighbors and catch a Dodger Game on their big screen TV.

OLD PASADENA

• More generally, don’t overlook Downtown Pasadena itself. It’s one of the most underrated food neighborhoods in Los Angeles, with everything from destination restaurants to cozy cafés tucked between historic architecture and independent shops.

SHOPS

Pasadena and Altadena are full of independently owned shops that reflect the creativity, warmth, and slightly eccentric spirit of the neighborhood. These are the places I find myself returning to again and again.

ELEMENTI

• A beautifully curated shop specializing in one-of-a-kind furniture, handmade home goods, and vintage finds. They also have an incredible selection of secondhand clothing. It’s the kind of place you pop into “just to look” and inevitably leave with something special. I’ve been a fan of owners Frank and Rihanna for years — their eye for design and commitment to craftsmanship shines through in every corner of the shop.

REMAINDERS CREATIVE REUSE

• A nonprofit treasure trove for artists, teachers, and anyone who loves to make things. Filled with donated craft supplies, fabrics, art materials, and unexpected odds and ends, it’s equal parts art supply store and scavenger hunt. A genuinely fun stop, even if you don’t consider yourself particularly crafty.

SAMY’S CAMERA

• An institution for photographers and filmmakers in Los Angeles. Whether you need a last-minute memory card, want to browse gear, or just enjoy talking shop with people who truly know their equipment, Samy’s is worth the visit. A rite of passage for anyone working in visual storytelling.

OCTAVIA’S BOOKSHELF

• A thoughtfully curated independent bookstore dedicated to centering BIPOC voices and building community through literature. Named in honor of science fiction author Octavia E. Butler, the shop hosts events, book clubs, and conversations that extend well beyond its shelves.

SIBYLLINE RECORDS

• A small but mighty record store with an excellent selection of new and used vinyl. The curation leans eclectic and intentional, making it easy to discover something unexpected. Even if you don’t collect records, it’s worth stopping in for the atmosphere alone.

VROMAN’S BOOKSTORE

• Southern California’s oldest independent bookstore, and one of Pasadena’s true institutions. Family-owned since 1894, Vroman’s offers an extensive selection of books, gifts, stationery, and frequent author events. It’s the kind of place that reminds you why independent bookstores matter. Plan to linger.

ALTADENA BEVERAGE & MARKET

• Just a short walking distance from my house, I love this woman-owned neighborhood shop which curates delicious and eclectic wines, spirits, foods, and home goods. Join the wine club or visit on the weekends for the rotating pop up events hosting local eateries and food vendors. Their homegoods shop Zinnie’s is also my go-to spot for gifts.

ARMEN MARKET

• Across the street from Altadena Wine & Bev, Armen Market is another local grocery with an amazing selection of produce, Mediterranean spices and dips, as well as imported goods from outside the U.S. I love getting imported beers, baclava, dried fruits, and obscure snacks, candies and carbonated water from Europe.

ARTS & CULTURE

EATON CANYON ALTADENA LIBRARY

• I have a passion for libraries so it’s quite convenient that Pasadena & Altadena have some of the most beautiful libraries you want to spend time in. The main library in Altadena was spared from the fires and hosts wonderful community events for the public. It’s also an incredibly beautiful building.

PASADENA PLAYHOUSE

• California’s official State Theater and one of Pasadena’s cultural anchors. The Playhouse stages everything from new works to acclaimed revivals, often before productions move on to larger venues. Even if you’re not a regular theatergoer, it’s worth keeping an eye on their calendar.

NORTON SIMON MUSEUM

• One of Los Angeles’ most underrated museums. Its collection spans European masters, Asian sculpture, and modern art, all within an intimate setting that never feels crowded. The sculpture garden alone is worth the visit.

SID THE CAT PRESENTS AT THE DAILY

• Indie promoter Sid the Cat has transformed a historic South Pasadena elementary school into one of the area’s most charming live music venues. We saw an unforgettable Jonathan Richman show in the former school gymnasium. There’s also a great bar space that regularly hosts DJs, making it a fun destination even on nights without a concert.

LANDMARK PASADENA CINEMA

• Quite possibly the most comfortable movie theater in Los Angeles. Spacious reclining seats, a thoughtfully curated mix of independent and mainstream films, and a location that makes pairing a movie with dinner easy.

COMMUNITY & EVENTS

SOUTH PASADENA FARMER’S MARKET

• A local favorite that manages to feel genuinely neighborly. Come for seasonal produce and flowers, stay for breakfast, live music, and people-watching.

ROSE BOWL FLEA MARKET

• First Sunday of every month. One of the most famous flea markets in the country. Whether you’re hunting for vintage furniture, antique jewelry, artwork, or simply looking for inspiration, it’s worth dedicating a morning to exploring.

FIRST FRIDAY WINE TASTINGS AT THE GAMBLE HOUSE

• One of the area’s most magical recurring events. Enjoy thoughtfully selected wines while spending an evening on the grounds of the iconic Gamble House, one of the finest examples of American Arts and Crafts architecture.

HISTORICAL ARCHITECTURE & WALKING TOURS

• Pasadena is a dream for architecture lovers. From Craftsman masterpieces and grand Victorian homes to Art Deco gems, there are countless opportunities to explore the city’s design history on foot.

JET PROPULSION LAB TOURS

• Few places capture Pasadena’s unique blend of intellect and imagination quite like NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Public tours offer a behind-the-scenes look at the science and engineering behind space exploration. Reservations are required and tend to book up well in advance.

ROSE BOWL AQUATIC CENTER

• A fantastic community resource offering swimming lessons, lap swim, water fitness classes, and recreational programming for all ages. Particularly wonderful for families.

EATON CANYON CHRISTMAS TREE LANE FESTIVAL

• Mark your calendars for my favorite time of year. Grab some mulled wine or hot cocoa and walk through the Christmas market and admire the beautiful 100+ year-old cedar trees lit up with Christmas lights.

SAN GABRIEL VALLEY EXCURSIONS

One of Pasadena’s greatest perks is its proximity to the wider San Gabriel Valley. Within a 10–20 minute drive, you’ll find charming small-town main streets, world-class Chinese food, and some of Southern California’s most beloved institutions.

DOWNTOWN SIERRA MADRE

• A picturesque foothill town with a wonderfully old-fashioned feel. Spend an afternoon browsing local shops, grabbing a coffee, or having brunch before wandering the quiet residential streets lined with historic homes.

SANTA ANITA PARK

• One of America’s most beautiful racetracks, set against the backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains. Whether you’re a devoted horse racing fan or simply there for the atmosphere, it’s a uniquely Southern California experience.

LA COUNTY ARBORETUM & BOTANIC GARDEN

• Located in Arcadia, this sprawling 127-acre garden offers peacocks roaming freely, historic architecture, and miles of walking paths through diverse landscapes. It’s especially lovely in the spring.

THE SHOPS AT SANTA ANITA

• A surprisingly useful stop for errands, shopping, or escaping the heat. Beyond the typical mall offerings, it also serves as a gateway to many of Arcadia’s excellent restaurants.

CHINESE FOOD IN THE SGV

• If you love food, this deserves its own category. The San Gabriel Valley is home to one of the most celebrated Chinese dining scenes outside of China, with extraordinary regional specialties spanning Sichuan, Cantonese, Shanghainese, Taiwanese, and beyond. Don’t be afraid to venture beyond familiar dishes — some of the area’s most memorable meals are found in modest strip malls.

BUILDING BACK ALTADENA

The Eaton Fire left a profound mark on Altadena, and several of the community’s most beloved gathering places and cultural institutions were lost. While buildings can be rebuilt, the spirit of these places lives on through the people who created them and the neighbors who cherished them. If you’re able, consider supporting their rebuilding efforts and helping ensure that Altadena’s unique character endures.

RANCHO BAR

• A favorite neighborhood watering hole known for its welcoming atmosphere, strong drinks, and unpretentious charm. More than just a bar, it was a gathering place where locals became regulars and regulars became friends.

SIDE PIE

• A beloved pizza spot around the corner from Rancho Bar that brought people together over great food and community spirit. Whether you came for a quick slice or lingered over dinner with friends, Side Pie represented the kind of independently owned neighborhood business that gives Altadena its soul.

THE BUNNY MUSEUM

• One of Altadena’s most delightfully eccentric treasures. Home to an astonishing collection dedicated entirely to rabbits, the museum embodied the creativity and whimsy that make Altadena so special. Its loss was deeply felt by residents and visitors alike.

ALTADENA PHOTOGRAPHERS

• A longstanding photography studio and local institution that documented generations of families, milestones, and community history. Supporting their recovery means helping preserve a piece of Altadena’s collective memory.

ZORTHIAN RANCH

• An extraordinary artist enclave tucked into the hills of Altadena, known for its eclectic architecture, creative gatherings, and decades-long legacy as a haven for artists, musicians, and free thinkers. Few places captured Altadena’s unconventional spirit quite like Zorthian Ranch.

If these places speak to you, consider learning more about their rebuilding efforts and contributing if you’re able. Recovery is a long process, and community support — whether financial, through advocacy, or simply by sharing their stories — can help ensure that Altadena emerges from this chapter with its identity intact.

Altadena has always been defined by its creativity, resilience, and deep sense of neighborliness. Rebuilding isn’t just about restoring structures; it’s about preserving the people and places that make this community feel like home.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Last Tuesday, Andrei Pogany and I went to an Urban Land Institute tour of Habitat, the new mixed-use development at 3401 S. La Cienega at the edge of Culver City and Baldwin Hills. The pitch: sustainable, well-designed, live-work-thrive. Residences, creative offices, coworking, a screening room, a full acre of park space. On paper, this is a style of development that I want to root for.

A little context. Lendlease and its pension fund partner Aware Super bought the 3.5-acre former Public Storage facility parcel in 2020 for $92 million, then secured $316 million in construction financing to build it out. The architect of record is SHoP, the New York firm working on their first Los Angeles project, led here by Principal Dana Getman, a Cornell & Yale-trained architect who also oversaw Essex Crossing in Manhattan. Landscape by downtown LA-based Relm. Interiors by . On the Lendlease side: Rodney James Ross and Glen Rosic. And Ellen Way, the senior superintendent who led the build: 45 years in construction, one of the first women to join the laborers union in Boston back in 1979. She was cool.

What struck me when we arrived: the scale. A six-story, 253,000 sq ft office building. A 12-story residential tower with 260 units. Even with the green cladding and the rounded building edges — which I genuinely liked — it reads immediately as a New York project dropped into an LA site. That’s not a design failure; it’s a conceptual one. SHoP does beautiful, precise, intelligent work. But the DNA is Manhattan mixed-use, and in my dream world, Los Angeles doesn’t grow the same way as New York. It's a different theory of city-building, and it has its place. Just not in every neighborhood — or even in every city.

The Kelly Wearstler-designed interiors — Venetian plaster adorning the walls, warm materials, natural stone, locally made tile, considered details — are the part that had me going: wow. You can feel she cared. Anyone familiar with her work will recognize her style. The shared spaces in the co-working area, screening room, and top floor lounge were places I would happily spend time.

Though step into the units and something shifts: the scale feels off. The whole thing reads as hospitality — a very good hotel, made for someone who splits time between here and New York. The $10k/month unit we toured was underwhelming for the price. For that in this city, you could rent a stunning home with a garden and a garage. I'm clearly not the target demo, but someone is; they'd just raised the market rate on the 11th floor units.

One part I loved: the landscape. Relm, the downtown LA firm behind the outdoor spaces, did something I didn’t expect: large timber bleachers built into the site like three-tier stadium seating, outdoor sculptures, native planting. If the site wasn’t directly next to the noisy, rumbling metro, the ground-level park would have been a peaceful outdoor corridor in a busy part of town.

During the Q&A, SB 79 came up, the transit-oriented housing bill, now signed into law I mentioned in April, and it was interesting to hear it referenced out in the field rather than in a policy meeting. The developers chose to include parking anyway. Parking for 700 vehicles, because they know their tenants drive. A part that I loved and want to take away for future visioning: all of it is excavated below grade, so you never feel it at the surface. Expensive, but worth the effort.

Here's what I keep coming back to: Habitat is well-made. Parts of the design are thoughtful and downright beautiful. The sustainability credentials are real. But even the most considered version of this development model is still cutting from the same playbook — density, amenity, market rate, repeat. It answers the question of how to build beautifully and sustainably without asking the harder one: for whom, and toward what kind of city?

What would it look like to actually start over? To decide that luxury isn't a hotel lobby and a $4k studio rental unit. To redefine luxury. As real community. Neighbors who know each other. Childcare that doesn't bankrupt you. Elder care folded into daily life instead of shipped offsite. Green space that belongs to everyone. Architecture that's beautiful, yes — but also mixed, and weird, and built over time by people who actually live there. Ownership structures that let more people have a stake in the place they call home.

A city where the creative class isn't just the aesthetic, it's the actual population, with the actual resources to stay. We keep building for the global high-earner who could live anywhere. I want to live somewhere that was built for the people who chose here.

Habitat is now open for leasing at 3401 S. La Cienega Boulevard, Baldwin Hills. Units range from studios to two-bedrooms. If you read this and thought: actually, this is exactly for me.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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The 89-year-old neighbor who invited us inside on the day of the MAK tour — who has lived in his Hollywood Hills home since 1969 — sat down with us for a proper interview last Friday.

The May gray sky came with us. That soft glow through his windows turned out to be the best light in the house. We got the photos. We got the stories. This one is going to take a minute to do right.

The overcast has been welcome. After last week's fires, the gloom feels like a reprieve. Apocalypse-era LA is never far.

Here’s what else has been on my radar.

UPCOMING

• The Sparkletts Bottling Plant is headed to PLUM on June 9th — a story I’ve been following since April. The Cultural Heritage Commission voted unanimously to recommend Historic-Cultural Monument designation in April. Now it goes to the Planning & Land Use Management Committee, and if it clears, on to full City Council. The meeting is open to the public and public comment is welcome. We’ll have more details on logistics as the date gets closer.

• Maceo Paisley is hosting another session of his Philosophy Club this Friday at Vita Abstracta Gallery. The topic: the Philosophy of Interior Design. What does "good" design actually mean — and who gets to decide? Wine and snacks provided. 6:30 PM. RSVP. Spots are limited. I’ll be there.

• Yoko Ono at The Broad, Music of the Mind opened May 23 at The Broad, presenting over 200 works across seven decades — her first solo museum exhibition in Southern California. The Broad’s olive trees on East West Bank Plaza have become Wish Trees for Los Angeles, inviting audiences to tie their own wishes to the branches. The participatory ethos and the “art lives in the mind” framing is very Sanctuaries coded. Free every Thursday evening from 5-8PM starting May 28.

• Star Party Silverlake is partnering with Lauren Halsey's Summaheverythang Community Center for their next gathering. May 31 at 8:30 PM at ‘sister dreamer’ Sculpture Park. Telescopes, Don Brown Collective on music, and the particular relief of being reminded there's a sky above all of this. Go look up.

WORTH KNOWING

• Last Friday, a telecommunications crew struck an underground crude oil pipeline near East Cesar Chavez and North Eastern Avenue. Oil entered the storm drains and the LA River. 2,400 gallons of crude oil spilled, and oiled birds were collected from the river by Saturday. A reminder that the apocalypse era doesn't only announce itself with fire. The land needs us to pay attention — always, not just in crisis.

• Robin Jones has been posting about the OE parasite moving through LA’s monarch butterfly population. Healthy infection rates sit around 10%. LA is currently at 28%. The fix is simple: cut back a quarter of the milkweed in your yard and leave the cuttings on the ground — monarch caterpillars are often still on those shorn leaves.

• Mouthwash Studio — the LA creative firm behind Café Tondo in Chinatown and brand work for Nike, Fender, The North Face — went back to their origins and released an updated Mouthwash Magazine this week. The studio started as a magazine before it became one of the more interesting multidisciplinary agencies in the city. The launch party was at Iconic Magazines in New York. Wish it had been here in LA instead.

• Another sold-out Glass Hill show this Saturday — this one for the album launch of iTMRW by Arc Iris, the band that moved from Providence to LA in 2020 and built Glass Hill into one of the more essential outdoor music gatherings in the city. A recurring series, the same hillside, a community that keeps showing up. Very much on my list to feature.

• NY Design Week wrapped last week. Several LA brands showed out — including Ceramicah launching their new collection. Alexandra Cadiz is on my list for a future profile.

• Usal opened their wine bar, Annex House, this past Saturday with a cumbia night. I will be going soon.

Shelby x

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND
EVENT PHOTOGRAPHY BY JULISSA AARON

The morning I arrive at Raquel Navarro’s house in the hills of Silverlake, two baby hummingbirds are tucked into a nest just outside the greenhouse door. I almost didn’t notice them. Then I stop and take a closer look. It’s that kind of space.

Raquel — who goes by Rockii, and runs her jewelry brand and workshop space under the name Rockii Studios — meets me in the backyard on a warm spring morning, draped in silver. The air smells alive. The vines that now cascade over the roof of her glass-and-wood greenhouse have grown so dense and green that sunlight falls through them in rare dappled patches, the way it does in places that feel more secret than constructed. Which is exactly what this place is.

It has a name: the Jewelry Jungle.

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There is a Pinterest board at the origin of all of this. “I always had a Pinterest board full of greenhouses,” she tells me, settled at the wood worktable her father helped her assemble, surrounded by trays of beads. “One day I wanted to have a greenhouse where I grew my veggies.”

She moved into this Silverlake house in January 2021 — on her birthday, January 15th — after what she describes as a cosmically arranged encounter. She had met her future roommate, movement artist Cami Árboles, through an online jewelry order. Cami reposted her package, Raquel was drawn to her, and months later, at a beading gathering at a house a few doors up the hill (the same house where Shiloh Enoki of Tea at Shiloh started testing her late-night tea house concept), something clicked into place. It was December 21st, 2020, with the world still in lockdown and the eve of the Saturn-Jupiter Great Conjunction, one of the most significant astrological events in decades.

“We were all sharing our dreams for when the world opens up,” Raquel says. “We wanted to create communities and shared spaces because we believe spaces can heal you. And so by the end of the night I knew that these are my platonic soulmates.”

That night, Cami mentioned she’d spotted a house for rent down the hill and asked if Raquel would want to be the third roommate. She didn’t need to think about it. “I didn’t even know what the house looked like, but I was down.”

She already knew it was hers.

One week after moving in, she had her eye on the backyard. A month and a half later, the greenhouse was built.

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Raquel grew up going to Home Depot with her dad, a self-taught electrician who could, as she puts it, “just do anything.” When it was time to build, she went back to find her team. “I’ve never been flocked by so many men,” she says, laughing. “It was like 30 men.” She chose two — strangers who had met that morning — and she showed them her Pinterest board. She said, “Can you make this for me? Let’s do it.”

They built the bones in six weeks for around $25,000, materials and labor included. It’s paid itself off many times over.

The round windows came later. A trip to Mexico City, where she stayed at El Nido de Quetzacóatl made her come home and look at her own walls differently. “I was like, why don’t I have round windows?” She found them on Alibaba — both, custom-sized, black-rimmed, with spinning hardware, for $2,000 total including shipping. Her dad installed them. He’s the one she calls when she has a list.

“I am grateful I grew up going to the hardware store with my dad,” she says. “That’s where I think I get it from. The DIY genes. He’s a handy Mexican dad. An electrician who was self-taught. So valuable. So blessed.”

The vines she didn’t plant. They came from a neighbor’s yard and simply took over. “It’s their home,” she says, and means it.

Silver has always been the thread. Raquel grew up spending summers in Mexico — Tulum, beach towns, her grandmother’s neighborhood in Mexico City — and her eye went straight to the jewelry sold in the markets. Mexico holds more silver than anywhere else in the world, much of it from a small town called Taxco. As a child she was drawn to it without fully understanding why. Later she would learn about the healing properties attributed to the metal. Its conductivity. What some describe as its ability to protect and clear.

“I just thought it was so magical,” she says. “The way it reflects. And I just thought it was so cool to wear a little piece of my roots. A little piece of art you can wear.”

Much of her sterling silver is now produced in Mexico City by a couple in their thirties who live above their studio — two people, one small production, very intentional orders. It gives her an excuse to go back every few months. Business and pleasure, she says. Same thing, really.

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The workshops came gradually, then all at once. She had always loved the shared experience of making something with other women — bringing beads to friends’ houses as a girl, the ancestral intimacy of sitting together and creating. “I came out the womb crafting,” she says. Now workshops run most weekends, up to twelve people in the greenhouse, at $100 a person. She’s hosted corporate team-building events, birthday parties for six-year-olds and sixty-six-year-olds, brand activations for Puma and Saie Beauty. She’s taken the workshops into the woods with Usal.

And recently, the greenhouse became something else entirely for one evening — a candlelit dinner hosted by chef Magdalena O’Neal. Cocktails along one end of the table, a chef friend behind the drinks, flash tattoos happening in the adjacent room. “It was so romantic in here,” she says. “Candles everywhere. Everyone felt like a friend by the end of the night.” She’s already planning the next one. A brunch this time.

What people carry out from the events or the beading workshops isn’t just the full belly or the piece they’ve made. “I get the most beautiful messages after this,” Raquel says. “They’re like, because of you, I’ve literally quit my 9-to-5. I’m like — because of this experience, it transformed them.” One workshop participant went on to become a personal chef. Others have left with friendships they didn’t expect. “People become friends after this. It’s so beautiful.”

She describes the workshop as meditative. Art therapy. A place where something in people opens. “They come in super stressed out from LA life, and I ease them into it. And they create the most beautiful piece. And they’re like, wow. This space really inspired me to just surrender.”

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The space has evolved alongside her. A wood table her dad helped her build. Hilma af Klint prints on the walls. A butterfly she keeps as a reminder that change is the only constant. Plans for a moon-shaped light fixture with beads hanging from it, a stained glass panel in one of the windows, a vine canopy over the garden beds outside. “It’s evolved so much with me,” she says.

I asked her what sanctuary meant to her.

Before I left, I went back to look at the hummingbird nest one more time. The mom had come and gone several times over the course of our interview — out into the world, back again, out again — while her babies sat there, snug and unworried. She knew they were safe here.

Two new lives, tucked into the corner of something someone built with their own longing. It is not a coincidence that the hummingbird chose here, against Raquel’s own nest. This is what a haven looks like when a woman builds it — not a paradise kept behind a gate, but one left open. Where the most tender things come to rest. Where people arrive carrying the weight of the city and leave, somehow, lighter. Softer. More themselves. The Jewelry Jungle does that. Raquel does that.

She built a sanctuary, and the world, slowly, keeps finding its way to her door.

Rockii Studios workshops are hosted at the Jewelry Jungle in Silverlake. Find her at @rockiistudios on Instagram.

Additional Photography by Julissa Aaron.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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This weekend I did the MAK Center for Art & Architecture spring tour. Four houses — skipping the Woodland Hills Van Dekker House because, well, driving — all private homes or studios opened up for one day. There's something so different about seeing a landmarked building where someone actually lives. Where a family has figured out how to inhabit it, adapted it, made it theirs. Versus a house that exists purely for tours. The Hollyhock House is beautiful. But it's a museum. These were lived-in homes (and a working studio!).

THE POLITO HOUSE: HOLLYWOOD HILLS

My favorite home of the day, and honestly the one I can’t stop thinking about. The way the building meets the back deck — and the way that deck connects up to the hill behind it — is exactly the vision I have for what I want to do with my own house someday. A two-story addition where the top level walks directly out to the land. The ivy covering everything. A pool added in 1980 that manages to feel like it was always there. This one has it all.

THE LLOYD WRIGHT STUDIO: DOHENY DRIVE

Lloyd Wright working in his father’s Mayan Revival language, but filtered through his own obsession with the California landscape. The Joshua Tree motif running throughout is so specific, so him. The building currently operates as a showroom for von Holzhausen, an LA-based material innovation company making plant-based alternatives to plastic — a surprisingly fitting tenant. The upstairs dining room and sun room stopped me in my tracks. All that green. I want to interview the owner one day. Consider this a placeholder for now.

THE WOLFF HOUSE: SHERMAN OAKS

I’ll be honest: this one wasn’t for me. Schindler working in an adobe vernacular, clearly channeling New Mexico, with an exterior washed in orange and an interior that reads almost pink. The lines are good. The breezeway is good. The all-wood additions with flagstone flooring from the current owners are lovely. But the color palette kept pulling me out of it. I can admire what he was doing here without it being my thing.

THE TUCKER HOUSE: HOLLYWOOD HILLS

No photos allowed, which is a shame, because this one was a showstopper. The kind of house that makes you quiet when you walk in. This is the version of the work I love most.

But honestly? The best moment of the whole day had nothing to do with any of the houses on the official list. Walking from our car to the Tucker House, a neighbor — 89 years old who has lived in his Hollywood Hills home for almost 50 years — invited me and my friend, Sael Bartolucci, inside. He gave us a tour. He told stories. The kind of stories that make you realize how much of this city’s history lives in the people who’ve simply stayed. He agreed to let me come back in the next couple of weeks to interview him and shoot properly. Stay tuned. This one is going to be a real gem.

UPCOMING

• DATALAND opens June 20 inside Frank Gehry's The Grand LA. Refik Anadol and Efsun Erkılıç are opening what they're calling the world's first museum of AI arts, right in the Grand Avenue Cultural District alongside The Broad, MOCA, and Walt Disney Concert Hall. The inaugural exhibition, Machine Dreams: Rainforest, is a fully immersive, 360-degree environment built from machine learning and ecological data. It's one of the last buildings Gehry designed before he passed last December and I wonder how he’d feel about this exhibit opening there.

• The Lucas Museum of Narrative Art opens September 22 in Exposition Park, and the landscape alone — by Studio-MLA — will be worth the trip. I know that this is on everyone’s radar already; Ma Yansong's building has been rising there for years. But it’s worth noting as the permanent collection reads like a love letter to visual storytelling: Judy Baca, Diego Rivera, Carrie Mae Weems, Norman Rockwell. The fact that it holds the archive from Baca's Great Wall of Los Angeles makes this one of the more significant cultural openings this city has seen in a long time.

WORTH KNOWING

• LACMA's David Geffen Galleries opened on April 19, and I still haven't been — which needs to change. Peter Zumthor. Twenty years in the making. A 275-meter arc of glass and concrete spanning Wilshire, with the entire permanent collection — 6,000 years of art history — arranged on a single, non-hierarchical level. This one has been a long time coming.

• Richard Neutra's Jardinette Apartments in Hollywood — his first LA commission, built in 1928 — has finally been restored. Developer Cameron Hassid spent over $5 million and several years bringing it back — the ribbon windows, the oxblood concrete lobby floor, all of it returned to Neutra's original vision. The building is now accepting tenants.

• A John Lautner built in 1947 has been hiding in plain sight on Mount Washington — buried under decades of accumulation. A few doors down from the Rome Compound. I've walked past it for years — incredible lines, loads of land, views — always knowing something was there, but not knowing what. My husband and I had a name for it: a scare hole. This week I saw a video online and recognized it immediately. Same family since it was built. The grandson of the original owner is now restoring it. I'll be reaching out. Stay tuned.

• The Stahl House has been on the market since November, and since then the price just dropped $5M. wrote a deep dive on it yesterday. Go read it.

Shelby x

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY JEREMY AQUINO

Ellie Benov lives at the top of a hill in Highland Park with her fiancé Will Simon and their chocolate lab named Romeo. She calls it her urban cabin — vaulted ceilings, dark wood beams, a fireplace, a balcony looking out over the city.

Three years in, she’s still slowly figuring out what she wants the place to feel like. She’s not in a hurry. “We’ve taken our time decorating our home… I need to spend a lot of time in a place to figure out what I want it to look and feel like.”

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That patience is the whole spirit of Marseille Blue, the home and bath brand she founded last year. The brand started as a curation of vintage home goods sourced from Japan and France, the two countries Ellie says have shaped her most. Then came the bath line, which is now the center of the work.

Ellie was born and raised in New York and lived in stretches across Cape Town, Hawaii, Japan, and Italy through her early twenties. LA wasn’t originally part of the plan. A job offer brought her west in 2022 to help open Tea at Shiloh, a late-night teahouse downtown, and she stayed.

She talks about her home the way some people talk about a long relationship: as a slow accumulation of the right things. “The homes that resonate with me the most are the ones where you can tell so much about the person who lives there, just by looking around.”

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The focal point of her own home is a hanging bookshelf that holds their most-loved books, alongside Ellie’s family altar of heirlooms and travel keepsakes. She’s drawn to objects that come with stories already attached.

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The bath line is the part of Marseille Blue that feels most personal. Ellie is half Japanese, and her early life included regular trips to the bathhouses of Japan with her mother and obachan. “From the early days of conceptualizing Marseille Blue, I knew that at the heart of it, I wanted to honor and weave in Japanese bathing rituals that have added so much richness to my life.”

Last November she launched Hinoki Mineral Bath — a mineral-rich powder formulated after a specific hot spring in northern Japan known for its healing properties. She spent months developing it. She is particular about what goes in: no filler ingredients, nothing overly fragranced. “This bath powder turns the water milky-white and is packed with minerals that help to release muscle tension, remineralize your skin, and calm your nervous system. Plus, it smells like a Japanese bathhouse in the forest. I don’t go a night without it.”

Marseille Blue is a family project. The manufacturer is a small female-operated team in the town next to her grandparents’ home in Japan. Her mom handles operations. Will helps with the design. The salts come in traditional Japanese rice paper pouches, biodegradable, with individually sealed aluminum inserts to keep them fresh. Everything is assembled by hand.

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What strikes me most about Ellie is how seamlessly the loop closes. The bathing rituals of her childhood carry directly into her life now, and the brand she's built honoring that ritual.

The latest expression of that care is Still Life — twenty-two objects sourced across Japan and Korea, chosen for what she calls their quiet presence in a room. It’s a phrase that could describe the home, the brand, or her.

Asked how to bring more intention into a home, Ellie keeps coming back to one idea: a home should feel unmistakably like the people who live in it.

It’s the kind of advice that sounds simple until you try to take it.

Photography Jeremy Aquino

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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EXHIBITION PHOTOGRAPHY BY KELSEY ROSE WILLIAMS BARTHÉS
PORTRAITS BY TAUNI WESTERN

I was obsessed the moment I saw the announcement. The Eames Pavilion System — a modular, buildable translation of the Eames House — on view at the Triennale di Milano during Milan Design Week as part of The Eames Houses exhibition. Case Study House No. 8 in the Palisades is one of my favorite architecture tours in LA, and there are many. The colors. The surrounding nature. The Pacific in the distance. The details inside, including a hanging tumbleweed Charles and Ray brought home from their honeymoon. The whole place is magical. The announcement sent me deep into Charles and Ray’s history and sensibility — and into the small private fantasy of building my own modular version of what they made.

Charles and Ray Eames weren’t born in Los Angeles. Charles was from St. Louis. Ray, from Sacramento. They met at Cranbrook in Michigan and moved west together in 1941, immediately after their wedding. From a Neutra-designed apartment, they began molding plywood in the spare bedroom. By 1943, the Eames Office was operating out of a renovated garage at 901 Washington Boulevard, in what was then an industrial stretch of Venice. They never left. Charles died in 1978. Ray, ten years later to the day. Forty-five years of work, all of it from the same building. The city claimed them completely.

Their Case Study House No. 8 — a 1.4-acre meadow above the Pacific, eucalyptus trees Abbot Kinney planted in the 1890s, a steel-and-glass box re-designed in 1948 to spare the trees — is one of the most photographed and least understood houses in American modernism. Showing up at Salone del Mobile in modular form is a kind of homecoming in reverse. LA, exported.

Kelsey had a hand in exporting it. The exhibition at the Triennale, the Pavilion System with Kettal, and the new Phaidon book The Eames Houses — the first comprehensive sourcebook on Charles and Ray’s residential architecture — are all built on the same archival research. She spent the past year on the book. The few years before that, on the archive that fed it.

What follows is a Q&A, in Kelsey’s own words. The role of Archivist asks for a particular kind of care, and her words are best left unedited.

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SHELBY NICO DIAMOND: You wrote that one inhale inside the Eames House Pavilion at the Triennale slingshotted you back in time. Can you take us into that first moment — what you saw, smelled, registered before your archivist brain kicked in?

KELSEY ROSE WILLIAMS BARTHÉS: My experience of the Eames House is so viscerally embedded in me that my body – while stepping into the Eames House Pavilion – was registering a familiarity of being inside Charles and Ray’s home, but my mind was hyper aware of the differences. My eyes were busy scanning what was familiar and what wasn’t. The feeling I had, mostly, was awe.

When you’re standing in the House - especially after a few years of knowing it intimately - there’s an acute awareness of its volume and materials. There’s a feeling of being enveloped by it, and there are particular colors and textures associated. The Eames House Pavilion captured both of those elements very accurately. Yes, the dimensions of the Pavilion are compacted and the materials are contemporary, but the spirit feels correct!

SND: The Pavilion is a translation, not a reproduction — aluminum instead of steel, triple glazing instead of single pane. The Eames Pavilion System translates a very specific home into something modular and global. Where do you see it staying true to Charles and Ray’s ethos, and where does it intentionally evolve?

KRWB: The idea for the project with Kettal was never to replicate the Eames House perfectly, and that’s the main reason for there being noticeable differences in its dimensions. Instead, the entire Eames Pavilion System is supposed to give every person the ability to build with the ethos and visual language of Charles and Ray Eames, and at the high-quality that the couple were always seeking. There are thousands of different building configurations available to the public through this system besides an Eames House-esque design–allowing for their design language to be molded to fit many, many homeowner needs. Charles and Ray were always searching to identify the need of a client in order to solve their problems; the Eames Pavilion System is a continuation of the Eameses solving our problems of today.

In my eyes, where it evolves is based on how our building codes, materials, and societal needs have evolved. We aren’t able to source the same Plyon window sliding screens that Charles and Ray fabricated themselves from the fuselage covers of WWII aircraft, but Kettal can manufacture something nearly identical that is ecologically up to today’s standards.

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SND: You spent eleven years working with the Eames legacy before this exhibition. What did Salone surface for you that the archive alone couldn't?

KRWB: Human connection! I work from home on the other side of the world from my colleagues and from the Eames House itself, so being at Salone del Mobile in Milan brought me so much social warmth. I loved being able to spend valuable in-person time with my colleagues, while seeing peers in the industry and complete strangers experience our archival materials for the first time.

Even those who are massive Eames and Eames House admirers had something to discover in the exhibition. There really was a sense of delight alive in this Salone del Mobile show, and I felt that Charles and Ray were once again able to capture the attention and curiosity of all types of people in the same way that they did when they designed exhibitions for museums and pavilions for World’s Fairs.

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SND: The Eames Houses book, for you, was a year of curating, a few years of archiving, and nearly two decades of love for the Eames legacy. Was there a single drawing, photograph, or piece of correspondence that stopped you when you came across it — something you hadn't seen before, even on staff?

My goodness, there were dozens of architecture-related materials that I hadn’t seen prior to archiving and digitizing them, so this feels like an impossible question to answer. Also, my eyes have been on this material for many years, but somehow there is always something to be surprised by.

Charles and Ray designed a few toys throughout their lifetime, some of which were manufactured by Tigrett Enterprises. We had an inkling that the Eameses had designed their workspace, but no direct proof had surfaced yet. When my colleague, Jackie Cassel–a fourth-generation Eames family member–and I opened up a folded drawing one day in the archive, we were close to tears. It was a colored technical drawing of a two-story house and work lab for the toy company’s founder, John Burton Tigrett, and his family. The design featured elements that felt so similar to the Eames House’s modular system, but its own architectural language was very much present.

Our team commissioned AT Models to create models of the architectural projects from the mid-1940s to mid-50s (all done in the same scale). I saw these contemporary models for the first time in person while walking through The Eames Houses exhibition. When my colleague-turned-friend, the Charles & Ray Eames Foundation’s Assistant Director, Thomas Gartman, and I were touring the space together, we both finished each other’s sentence about the Tigrett House and Lab miniature: “That wrap-around porch almost feels Southern!” Which was totally appropriate given that the intended site was in Jackson, Tennessee, next door to the family’s existing home.

The house and lab were never realized, but the project is the perfect example of taking similar Eames House industrial off-the-shelf materials and its principles and adapting them to another climate and context. Charles and Ray made industrial steel and glass feel akin to the vernacular architecture of the historic South. This is an element of the Eames design process that makes it possible for the Eames Pavilion System to appropriately exist anywhere in the world.

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SND: What was it like to handle and surface materials that hadn’t been widely seen before?

KRWB: That is the highlight of my job – besides getting to share the materials with the world.

I’m incredibly attached on an emotional level to the Eames story and designs, so handling drawings they’ve made or seeing personal photographs/letters boils to the surface an indescribable level of sentimentality and admiration in me.

SND: You wrote that your hands and handwriting are on these materials now. What's the responsibility of being the person between the archive and the public?

KRWB: Many of the architectural drawings were drawn on vellum-like paper, which means that my handwriting (we assigned each record an identification number, written in pencil on the verso) is often visible from the front size. When the originals are scanned, there are still traces of the handwriting on the digital files. It’s a tiny detail that I hope nobody will notice, but seeing my hand drawn letters/numbers made me feel doubly proud to be involved. Even after having this job for eleven years, I am still pinching myself!

There is a tremendous responsibility that comes with protecting any legacy, whether physically through the two- and three-dimensional collection items, or intellectually. You have to be physically aware of your movements while handling items, but also extremely discrete with your words. At the same time, my colleagues and I recognize how important it is to share materials–so there are constant conversations to be had about what to share, when, and why. The goal is to continuously educate people on the happenings of the Eames Office, and to be sure to apply that rigorous thinking to our world today and our world tomorrow. Charles and Ray are our greatest teachers, and we want them to keep teaching you, too.

SND: How did the team decide what story this book needed to tell that hadn't been told yet?

KRWB: Speaking only from an archival standpoint: there was an overflow of rich material related to architecture – both seen and unseen by the public – and we collectively knew that it was absolutely necessary to share it.

The discussion and planning for a modular architecture project evoking the Eames House had also been in the works for many years. It was up to our team to have the project come together in perfect unison with sharing the materials from the archive.

SND: You gave tours of Case Study House No. 8, The Eames House, starting in your mid-twenties. What did living with that house — that meadow, those eucalyptus trees — teach you about how people experience architecture?

KRWB: It was wonderful witnessing how architecture impacted each visitor differently. People came truly from all over the world to see the house. Some were there to see it in an industrial way by studying the steel framing; some visited with a curiosity for the house’s collections or how the Eameses spent their time outside of their nearby office in Venice; others wanted to examine furnishings because they knew the Eames Lounge Chair and Ottoman.

What so many of these people seemed impacted by most was its setting: it’s nestled into a hillside on a eucalyptus-spotted meadow near a cliff overlooking the ocean. It’s so unexpected–definitely not a focus of photographs of the house. For Charles and Ray, the meadow was indivisible from the residence and studio structures. They actually changed its design in 1948 to accommodate the meadow and the pre-existing rows of eucalyptus trees. Charles, in an article for Arts & Architecture magazine described the meadow as a “shock absorber” of the stresses of modern life. Today, the surrounding nature is still a peace point, even within a much different version of Los Angeles. Visitors can sense that, no matter what culture they are from.

SND: Is there a small, easily-missed detail at the Eames House in the Palisades that you wish every visitor noticed?

KRWB: Even though most people think of the Eames House or most Eames designs as the “minimalist” type of modern, the opposite is true! Their home and studio were/are filled to the brim with their collections from all over the world, gifts, and also their own creations. Once you peer into the glass facade, you’ll realize this. So, there are a lot of details to absorb, and lots of things to easily miss!

I always enjoy taking a close look at their book collection on the prominent bookshelf in the living room. Most people don’t slow down enough or have a close enough view to be able to read the titles on the spines, or to notice patterns in their arrangement.

I also adore the crackling of the black paint on one of the entry hallway’s aluminum closets. Ray enjoyed the way in which the patina was showing up and refused to repaint it.

Speaking of painting, one of the first things I noticed about the facade was how hand-painted it looked. The Eames House is always spoken of as being highly machine-like and industrial–and it is in a lot of ways–but at its core, it’s a handmade house. One can forget that someone had to brush paint across its steel framing. I like taking moments to admire its handmade-ness.

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SND: You previously lived and worked in Los Angeles—how did that experience, especially being at the Eames House, shape your relationship to the city?

KRWB: For the few years that I worked physically at the house, I lived on the east side of LA and commuted four hours each day to and from the Pacific Palisades. I always identified as an east sider, and nobody could get me to move further west. I also couldn’t afford to do so! I learned every back street between Highland Park and the PCH to minimize my time spent driving to the house. But every morning, as soon as I reached the PCH and the traffic dissipated, I was in heaven while on my way to my favorite house. Again, arriving in the meadow washed the stress away.

When visitors came to the Eames House, they’d most often than not ask about other houses they could visit. House museums and architecture are a massive soft spot of mine, so I memorized a list of my most-cherished houses, architects, dates, and their addresses to share with people. We’d spend some time at the end of some visits scribbling down addresses and notes. There’s an entire network of people who love historic homes like I do, and especially from the modern era, so this opened up a new world for me in Los Angeles. I spent a good portion of my time while living in LA admiring houses from the street, volunteering during MAK Center tours, and taking friends inside normally-inaccessible houses. You learn so much about a city from experiencing structure–both exterior and interior–up close in that way. Architects and interior designers create our lifestyles.

In 2019, I created the Not-Trespassing Tour of Modern Homes in Los Angeles, a self-guided driving tour of some of the greatest homes of that era in the city. It still remains one of my favorite projects, and I love when someone brings it up in conversation. “I went on your LA house tour!” It fills my Los Angeles and architecture-loving heart right up.

SND: For an LA reader who's walked past the Eames House in the Palisades but never been inside the property — or never made the pilgrimage at all — what would you tell them they're missing?

KRWB: You’re missing the true ethos of Charles and Ray Eames! Charles’s daughter, Lucia Eames, called the House “primary source material” and I agree. It’s the center of everything they ever stood for, everything they designed and embodied.

SND: You wrote that LA will always be your "home," even though you adore where you live now. When you think about Los Angeles now, what still feels like home to you?

KRWB: I will always identify as an Angeleno at heart, even though I was born elsewhere and live very far away now. What feels like home there is the sunshine, the people who I miss so dearly, and the modern-era architecture.

I live in the Basque Country in southwestern France along the ocean and I adore it. It feels like my own version of California–but French–and every time I’m on a specific ocean-front hillside (on my secret reading bench), it gives me the feeling of being in Charles and Ray’s meadow perched above the Pacific Ocean.

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Will the Pavilion System travel after Salone? It seems likely — and Los Angeles would make sense for a future stop.

If it does land in LA, it’ll be a kind of homecoming. The meadow that taught Charles and Ray what shelter could be is still up there, off the PCH, doing the same work it has done for nearly eighty years. A modular version of their thinking, built somewhere in the city that claimed them. That feels like the right next chapter.

For now, I'll keep dreaming of my future compound. Acres in the Santa Monica Mountains. A small sea of Eames Houses scattered across the grass. Sunlight. Coastal sagebrush. Evergreen chaparral. The ocean in the distance.

Kelsey Rose Williams Barthés is the Archivist for the Eames Office and the author of the newsletter Absolument!, covering art history, architecture, design, and life in the Basque Country. The Eames House Pavilion debuted at the Triennale during Milan Design Week and is on view through May 10. The accompanying book, The Eames Houses: Charles and Ray Eames Residential Architecture, is published by Phaidon and available for pre-order now; US copies ship July 8th.

Portraits of Kelsey Rose Williams Barthés by Tauni Western

The Q&A has been reproduced verbatim to preserve Kelsey's written word. Opening and closing remarks, along with the photo captions, are the editor's.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Two weeks ago I booked myself a solo retreat at Two Bunch Palms — a retreat I’d had on my list forever.

You arrive through an unmarked gate in a stretch of Desert Hot Springs that gives you no reason to expect what’s behind it. No sign, just a guard booth in an unremarkable part of town. The gate lifts and you’re somewhere else entirely — 277 acres tucked against the foothills, the Little San Bernardinos behind you with snow still melting off the top.

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The first thing I noticed was the landscaping. A palette of greens, creams, blues, grays, and yellows, with a sea of young Palo Verde trees in full bloom scattering pops of yellow across the paths. When I dug into it, I realized the grounds are the work of Terremoto, the LA landscape firm behind the Rome Compound.

They also designed the landscape for the new spa, which opened in 2023 alongside the spa buildings by Sharif, Lynch: Architecture, with interiors by Studio MAI. Native, a little wild, deeply site-specific. Both the landscape and the architecture feel like a lush anomaly against the surrounding terrain — a magical little pocket of the desert.

The architecture of the new spa buildings is the kind of thing I add to my vision board. A row of low, single-room pavilions threaded through the trees, each one built in board-formed concrete — a technique where the concrete is cast against rough-sawn timber planks so the wood's grain, knots, and seams are imprinted into the finished wall.

Le Corbusier coined the term béton brut, or "raw concrete", for this technique in the 1950s in Marseille; Tadao Ando later made it his signature. Here it's paired with heavy exposed timber lintels and full-height glass, and the effect lands somewhere between Scandinavian and Brutalist — warm where you'd expect cold, softened by the desert around it. A more organic Ando. Exactly how I'd build a cluster of micro-rooms in nature, if I ever got the chance.

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The second day turned overcast and windy, the palms thrashing in the gales, a welcome reprieve from the early summer heat. The whole property took on a mystical quality, the enclave feeling even more improbable than it already was.

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To understand how any of this got here — the palms, the water, the resort itself — I took the property’s guided history walk with Kerry Berman, a certified California Naturalist, published author, and former Vietnam tunnel rat who’s been leading these tours for twelve years.

He’s a kinesthetic teacher — every fact comes with a laminated map or a photograph or a gold dollar coin (which he hands out when you get the answer his questions correctly).

A few things from his walk I haven't stopped thinking about:

The property sits directly over the Mission Creek branch of the San Andreas Fault; Desert Hot Springs is the only incorporated city on the North American tectonic plate, and the fault is what pushes the water up.

The Cahuilla people who lived here for centuries knew the trick: wherever those specific palms clustered in the desert, water was within eight feet of the surface — the exact depth of a California Fan Palm's root ball. They built around that fact. The resort, much later, did the same.

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The other thing worth knowing is that almost everything you've heard about the property's origins is wrong. The famous Al Capone hideout legend, perpetuated for decades as marketing, doesn't survive a date-check. Capone was in a Georgia penitentiary by 1932 and Alcatraz by 1934, and the resort wasn't built until 1940.

The real story is quieter: a man named Al Wertheimer, head of Detroit's Purple Gang, built a small boutique hotel here in 1936 called the Colonial House. Hollywood actors were contractually forbidden from traveling more than two hours from the studio lot — ruling out Vegas and making Palm Springs the place — and the property became a discreet hideaway for them. Two Als, and not the one everyone thinks.

Originally the property housed a casino and a brothel. Years later it got turned into a spa, and is still an adults-only resort to this day.

The current owners, the Karen family, took over in 2015. Their head of landscaping has been there 25 years; some staff, 30. You can feel that kind of tenure in how the property holds itself — nothing is rushed, nothing feels outsourced.

That held-ness is most of what the place is, once you stop moving through it and start sitting in it. Teak and concrete tubs are scattered everywhere. You can reserve private ones for free or drift between the communal ones.

The newer tubs are a design piece in themselves: cast concrete and untreated teak, set in low rectangular beds against the gravel, the wood silvering as it ages. Many of them sit about a foot above ground, so you're slightly elevated when you soak, palms rising above you, a few with a stream running below — small details you only notice after you've been lounging in one for forty minutes.

It reminded me of a desert Esalen — same unforced, barefoot, phone-free energy, minus the nudity. Cell phones are actively discouraged, which I loved. Nobody here is performing and that’s exactly the point. Everyone’s in a robe, moving slowly, taking in the sound of the flowing water and the wind.

My favorite spot on the property is the Grotto — the original 1940s heart of the resort, tucked against one of the two original bunches of palms. Two organically shaped pools fed directly by the geothermal wells, walled in dry-stacked river rock that feels like it was pulled from a creek bed and set back in place.

The water is naturally lithium-rich, and Kerry told us that drinking it can have the same stabilizing effect as a prescription; if you're someone who'd otherwise be on lithium for mood, the spring water does some of the work for you. It doesn't smell like sulfur or minerals, either; it's surprisingly clean.

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Robert Altman shot The Player here in 1992, the scene where Tim Robbins calls it "a great hideaway in Desert Hot Springs, about a two-hour drive" — and standing in it thirty years later, the description still holds.

The only sounds are wind in the palm fronds and the occasional duck. The energy is wild. A vortex. Kerry told us Two Bunch is considered one of the most positive vortices on earth, on par with Sedona, and I'm not going to argue with him.

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I left on the fourth morning feeling like I’d been gone much longer than I had — the particular trick of a place that makes you forget your phone exists. Two Bunch is now one of my favorite places, and I’m adding it to the list I return to over and over. The wildest part is that it’s two hours from my house in LA. It shouldn’t be possible to feel this far away, this fast.

A more communal and accessible bathhouse version of this is my dream for the Sparkletts property — a space for rest and healing for the community — and something I hope we can bring into reality. Building my own sanctuary like this, somewhere out in nature, someday, is the real dream.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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From the Field is an occasional Wednesday dispatch from Sanctuaries LA — what I saw, what's worth knowing, and what's coming up in the city.

Volume 002

INSIDE THE CULTURAL HERITAGE COMMISSION

Last Thursday morning I went to City Hall with my neighbor Deborah Gorman, wife of architect Andrei Pogany, for the Cultural Heritage Commission meeting. It was my first time there. I came for Sparkletts and left with a lot more than I bargained for.

The area around City Hall was oddly deserted. We entered through a ghost-town outdoor mall, cleared security, showed our IDs, and took the elevator to the 10th floor, where the hallways were lined with photos from the 1984 LA Olympics. With the 2028 Olympics coming, it had a strange resonance.

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Inside, it was a genuine cross-section of the city: commissioners, developers, architectural historians, preservationists, concerned neighbors, the occasional young cool person mixed in with a lot of older regulars. The same faces would stand up again and again across different motions. It felt, at moments, like a more bureaucratic Game of Thrones with worse lighting.

Here’s what went down.

SB79: THE BILL THAT WILL CHANGE YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD

Before the main motions, Historic Resource Manager Ken Bernstein gave a presentation on SB79 — a Senate Bill, already signed into law, that would allow single-family residential lots near public transit to be replaced with apartment buildings. Let that sink in. Los Angeles needs more housing and nobody disputes that, but the question of where and how is very much alive. There is a real possibility your single family neighbor’s home could be torn down and replaced with an apartment building.

The part that really caught my attention: up to 80% of the impacted area in Highland Park falls within historic preservation overlay zones. You can look up whether your property is impacted here. The city isn’t sending out direct mailers to impacted households because it would cost $700,000 and they don’t want to pay for it. So consider this your notice. I’ll keep tracking this.

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TAIX: THE SIGNS AND THE BAR ARE BEING SAVED. THE REST IS BEING LOST.

There was a long presentation on Taix — the beloved French restaurant on Echo Park Avenue that's been a fixture since 1927. It's coming down. A new apartment and commercial building is going up in its place. The developer unveiled the plans at the hearing. View them here.

Taix owners and the developer have signed a letter of intent for the restaurant to return to the new building, with a target of 2029. Whether it will feel like Taix when it does is another question. The signs and the cherrywood bar will be saved, but all in all I’d say this one is a huge loss. This is exactly why the work of preservation matters.

THE FOX APARTMENTS AND A NEUTRA ON MULHOLLAND

Two other nominations came up. The Fox Apartments — built in the early 20th century for actors arriving in Hollywood for the first time, when LA had one of the most extensive streetcar systems in the country. Few buildings like it remain. Commissioner Barry said something that stuck with me: “Not all architecture has to be beautiful to be historically significant.” He was right.

The other: the F.W. Schaarman House on Mulholland Drive, designed by Richard Neutra — nominated and moving forward. This one is a no-brainer imo.

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SPARKLETTS: OFFICIALLY NOMINATED

Last on the docket, and the reason we came: Sparkletts. The Cultural Heritage Commission unanimously approved the nomination for Historic Cultural Monument designation. The agent representing the site, Mike Bogel, said he’s willing to work with the community on what the eight acres becomes.

The nightmare scenario of an Uber depot still looms. The dream: an eco-village-style community housing, neighborhood-serving uses, maybe that public bathhouse we talked about last week. The nomination has been approved. Now we need CD-1 rep Eunisses Hernandez and the council office to support it. We’re organizing. Email me or drop a comment if you want to be involved.

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UPCOMING

• Salmon Creek Farm x Terremoto: Our Seed Community Saturday May 9, 6–9pm at the Terremoto Office Garden, 3618 Pasadena Ave. A conversation on seeds, community, and growing things — with Fritz Haeg of Salmon Creek Arts, Nina Raj of Altadena Seed Library, and David Godshall of Terremoto. This is exactly the kind of gathering this city does well.

• El Sereno Social Club Native Garden Tour Sunday May 3, 9am–1pm. A self-guided tour of native gardens in El Sereno. Tickets here. If you care about what LA actually looks like, this is the event.

WORTH KNOWING

• Aimé Leon Dore opened its first LA flagship on April 17 at 8746 Melrose Ave, West Hollywood. Designed by Sarita Posada Interiors in a Mediterranean-inspired idiom — soft stucco, custom wood windows, a cobblestone courtyard anchored by an 80-year-old olive tree from the Central Valley. Café Leon Dore is inside. It’s the brand’s first Women’s collection debut. Now I can get my hats in person instead of waiting on shipping.

  

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• The Getty Center is closing March 15, 2027. It will reopen spring 2028, just before the Olympics. This is its first major renovation since Richard Meier opened it in 1997. The tram, the galleries, and the welcome hall, are all getting revamped. You have 11 months. Go.

• Gabi Abrão aka sighswoon just launched her second book, Practices in Apparition. She’s doing a book tour. Wednesday May 13th at Stories in Echo Park, Thursday May 14th at the B&N at The Grove, and Friday May 15th at the B&N in Santa Monica. Follow her for details.

• The Eames Pavilion System debuts at Milan Design Week this week — a collaboration between Eames Office and Kettal for prefabricated structures based on Charles and Ray’s original vision for modular living. The dream of an Eames house may actually be within reach. And if you haven’t visited the Eames Foundation in the Palisades, thankfully spared by the fires, what are you waiting for?

  

• Saturday morning I went to Creature's Plants & Coffee for my usual matcha lemonade and realized they were hosting Rooted in the City, a talk on growing food in any space with Carrie-Anne Parker of Rolling Hills Certified Organic Heirloom Farm. The crowd was real. Planting season is here.

• At Marta Gallery Saturday night for Ryan Belli’s art show opening party I ran into Holland Denvir, Trent Rohner and Sunny Robinson pouring drinks with their Calimocho brand Little Sun, and a handful of LADW people. Good room.

See you at Bungalow Heaven in Pasadena this Sunday. It’s back after a year off. Don’t miss it.

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WANT TO HELP SAVE THE SPARKLETTS BUILDING? EMAIL YOUR SUPPORT TO CD-1 REP EUNISSES HERNANDEZ AT HER CONTACT AND REPLY TO THIS EMAIL IF YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED IN THE COMMUNITY ORGANIZING EFFORT.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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SANCTUARIES LA EXPLORES THE QUIETER SIDE OF LOS ANGELES THROUGH DESIGN.

ROOTED IN THE BELIEF THAT SANCTUARY EXISTS EVERYWHERE, OFTEN HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT.

IF YOU ENJOY THIS PUBLICATION, CONSIDER SUBSCRIBING OR SHARING IT WITH A FRIEND.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY GAVIN CATER

There’s a moment when you arrive at the Rome Drive property that Kathryn McCullough describes as a deep exhale. You’re standing on a double lot at the top of Mount Washington, the San Gabriel mountains behind you, the glitter of the Pacific visible to the west on a clear day. The city is right there — and somehow, also very far away.

“Seeing the mountains on one side and the city and sea view on the other,” Kathryn says. “There’s something about having a wide view that can give one a feeling of a bigger perspective. I think a lot of daily stresses melt away when you can zoom out.”

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Kathryn has lived down the street from the Rome property for years. She knows this hill the way you only can when you’ve walked it at night, learned the owls by sound, watched the seasons move through the canyon. When the double lot came on the market — rundown, overgrown, but unmistakably magnetic — she and her partner Andrew Bulbrook recognized something in it immediately.

The property is home to four separate living spaces: a mid-century primary home, a barn, a pool house, and a two-story ADU — each with its own character, each in conversation with the others.

Kathryn’s design intention was never to homogenize them, but to create a kind of material dialogue across the site. The primary thread running through all four spaces is Douglas fir, used for floors, windows, doors, and cabinetry throughout and appearing in slightly different iterations in each structure. Handmade tile anchors each bathroom. Custom steel details move consistently from interior to exterior.

The result is a compound that can function as four independent homes or as one grand home, with the courtyard serving as the connective tissue — a primary gathering spot for a community, or a private garden for one.

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The outdoor spaces were never an afterthought. Landscape studio Terremoto — who had worked alongside Kathryn and Linda Taalman Architecture on her own Mount Washington home — came into the design process in the earliest meetings.

The site is primarily planted with natives. Concrete broken up during construction was reset as pavers, built into garden walls, and shaped into an amphitheater at the back of the property. Nothing left the lot that didn’t have to.

Ask Kathryn about the materials she’s proudest of, and she tells the story behind each one. The barn’s stucco, with its cedar trim detailing and Japanese-Swedish chalet sensibility, evolved during an on-site meeting where she and architect Linda Taalman stood in front of the facade under construction and decided it needed something more. Their stucco contractor, Felix, “probably thought we were a bit mad, but went along with it.” The pattern was later repeated on the ADU.

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The brick kitchen floor nearly didn’t happen. “I almost chickened out,” Kathryn admits. It was Linda who gave her the push to hold the line. Now the brick flows from the kitchen directly onto the outdoor patio, blurring the boundary between inside and outside with quiet confidence.

The fireplace mantel is the work of Vince Skelly, introduced to Kathryn through Terremoto. Skelly also made the sculpture in the garden. “The way the light washes the sculpture and the mantel is just stunning,” she says. The credit, she’s quick to note, goes to Andrew.

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Lighting throughout the property comes largely from Ravenhill Studio, helmed by Brendan Ravenhill, a longtime friend who Kathryn has watched grow his business from his living room to a full studio. The kitchen was designed by Neil Rasmussen of Estuary Home. Tiles are sourced from Clé, Heath, and Zia. Everything is handmade, tactile, considered.

Kathryn came to Mount Washington the way many do — through a friend, at night, coming off the freeway and suddenly finding herself in the woods.

She’s clear about what drove her and Andrew to invest in the Rome property beyond the pure project: they didn’t want to watch a generic spec house go up in their neighborhood.

Mount Washington has a particular architectural legacy — Lautner, A. Quincy Jones and Whitney Smith, James DeLong, John Kemper Nomland — and a community that runs tighter than most Angelenos would expect. “Everyone knows everyone. Kids run around to one another’s houses. Everyone knows everyone else’s dogs,” she says. “It’s that kind of place that you wouldn’t expect in a big metropolitan city.”

The compound was always imagined for a particular kind of inhabitant — “a creative artist, producer, writer, musician type,” in Kathryn’s words. Someone for whom the wide view and the quiet and the owls in the night would register as the luxury they are.

“I think you know when a space is good when people who come over don’t want to leave. Like a warm hug.”

Designer: Kathryn McCullough & Andrew Bulbrook
Architect: Linda Taalman Architecture
Landscape: Terremoto
General Contractor: Mirco Construction
Staging: Kathryn McCullough & Jonas Bergkvist
Styling: Studio Souline
Photography: Gavin Cater
Listing Agents: Kate Daniels & O'Connor Estates

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and length.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

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HAVE A SPACE, MAKER, OR STORY WE SHOULD COVER? REPLY TO THIS EMAIL OR REACH OUT AT SHELBY@SANCTUARIES.LA. ALL SUBMISSIONS WELCOME.

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ROOTED IN THE BELIEF THAT SANCTUARY EXISTS EVERYWHERE, OFTEN HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT.

IF YOU ENJOY THIS PUBLICATION, CONSIDER SUBSCRIBING OR SHARING IT WITH A FRIEND.

Subscribe now

Share Sanctuaries LA

A BUILDING WORTH SAVING

If you live in Eagle Rock or Highland Park, you’ve been watching the old Sparkletts Bottling Plant and wondering. The rumors have been circulating for months — Uber depot, Erewhon, Whole Foods — but nothing is decided yet, and the most important step toward protecting it happens this week.

The Cultural Heritage Commission holds its final hearing on the Sparkletts Bottling Plant’s Historic Cultural Monument designation this Thursday, April 16th at 10am, Room 1010, City Hall. City staff has recommended approval. The community showing up makes a difference.

My neighbor Deborah Gorman — wife of architect Andrei Pogany — has been leading the neighborhood push. I’ll be there.

The building sits above one of Eagle Rock’s original artesian wells: underground water that’s been here far longer than the city. My dream for the site — and I’m not the only one with this dream — is something that honors that: a community bathhouse, a place to gather around water rather than buy it in plastic bottles. Think Wi Spa meets Barton Springs, rooted in the actual geology of this hill. I’m working on a longer piece about the history of springs in this area. More soon.

A MOUNT WASHINGTON COMPOUND

This week I toured an extraordinary compound in Mount Washington — three separate structures including two single-family homes (you could do that in the 1940s!) and a pool with sweeping views of the San Gabriels and the city below. Currently on the market for $3.99M with O’Connor Estates. A full feature is coming. Stay tuned.

TWO BUNCH PALMS

I just returned from four nights at Two Bunch Palms in Desert Hot Springs — one of the oldest continuously operating hot spring resorts in California. A proper feature is coming in a few weeks. If you’ve been on the fence about going, get off it. This place is pure magic.

THE LONELIEST CRASH TEST DUMMY

A few weeks ago I hosted a screening and moderated a panel at Meadow York Manor for Eve Van Dyke’s NYT OpDoc, The Loneliest Crash Test Dummy — a short film about the history of crash test dummies and what their design reveals about whose safety has historically been prioritized. If you weren’t there, watch the panel here. It’s worth your time.

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UPCOMING

• My friend Holland Denvir started LA Design Weekend as a side passion project two and a half years ago. Now in year three it's grown into a full week: kicking off Wednesday September 30 in DTLA, moving through Chinatown and the Arts District, and finishing the weekend starting on it’s usual schedule in Lincoln Heights on Saturday October 3. Host applications are still open; studios, galleries, shops, and workspaces are all welcome, and opening your doors is free. If you've been thinking about it, now is the moment.

• The MAK Center's annual spring architecture tour returns May 9 — this year featuring five houses by R.M. Schindler, Raphael Soriano, and Lloyd Wright, spanning the 1920s to 1950s. If you care about LA modernism this is essential. Tickets support the Schindler House.

• The 35th Annual Bungalow Heaven Home Tour is back on April 26 after taking last year off for fire recovery. If you've never done this — a full afternoon walking through privately owned Craftsman bungalows in Pasadena — put it on the calendar. One of my favorite things to do in LA. Tickets via Eventbrite.

• The Bob Baker Marionette Theater's Hooray LA show runs through May 3. A love letter to the city — the Tongva people, the LA River, the La Brea tar pits, the beach culture. It made me proud to be an Angeleno. Go before it closes.

• LA Woodshop is running an intro to woodworking class on April 25 and 26. Nine to four, you mill and finish your own cutting board. This is exactly the kind of thing this city does well. The Saturday class is sold out but the Sunday class still has tickets available.

• Adam Weiss is throwing dance parties down by the LA River and I am fully supportive of this. Next one is April 19. RSVPs filled up already but if you get on his mailing list you may be able to snag a spot.

WORTH KNOWING

• Last Saturday I attended the VERT x Comet Over Delphi dinner — a one-night collaboration that brought Chef Toshihiro Tanaka, listed in the Michelin Guide Tokyo 2026, into the Comet Over Delphi space. The room was as good as the food. Constanzia Delort-Laval, Comet’s architect-owner, was in vintage Armani. I ended up next to Rose DiSarno, an architect at Gensler who does all the floral arrangements at Comet as a passion project — the ones you’ve probably admired without knowing who made them. More from Rose soon. Eight courses, each paired with Japanese tea. Savory and sweet so interwoven you stopped trying to categorize them.

  

• Milan Design Week is happening April 20-26 and Los Angeles is well represented. Kelly Wearstler debuts her H&M HOME collection there next week through a curated exhibition — a double first for both her and the brand at the furniture world’s most prestigious stage. And Flamingo Estate is collaborating with Kohler on a bathhouse installation inspired by the Flamingo property — Richard Christensen doing what Richard Christensen does. Worth watching.

• Olive Ateliers — the downtown furniture shop with the best eye for objects with soul — just launched The Sentimentalist, a collaboration with Pamela Anderson. Designed from memory and with love, apparently. Available now.

• Erewhon is opening an outpost at LACMA, opening April 19 for members and May 4 for all. Make of that what you will — a $22 smoothie next to a Basquiat feels very Los Angeles 2026.

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This week’s feature: Keeping the Bones — Alfie Koetter of Loaf

Next up: A Mount Washington Compound you don’t want to miss.

A lot happening in this city! More soon — Shelby xx

THANK YOU FOR READING.

SANCTUARIES LA IS AN ONGOING PROJECT EXPLORING HOMES, MAKERS, AND SHARED SPACES ACROSS LOS ANGELES. YOU CAN EXPLORE THE FULL ARCHIVE TO SEE ALL STORIES TO DATE.

THIS PUBLICATION GROWS THROUGH WORD OF MOUTH. IF YOU ENJOYED THIS PIECE, CONSIDER SHARING IT WITH SOMEONE WHO MIGHT AS WELL.

Share Sanctuaries LA

HAVE A SPACE, MAKER, OR STORY WE SHOULD COVER? REPLY TO THIS EMAIL OR REACH OUT AT SHELBY@SANCTUARIES.LA. ALL SUBMISSIONS WELCOME.

ALSO: IF YOU WERE AT THE MT WASHINGTON OPEN HOUSE, THE COMET DINNER, OR ANYWHERE ELSE I MENTIONED — REPLY AND TELL ME WHAT YOU SAW.

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