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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

When I moved to Highland Park in 2019, The York Manor was one of the first buildings that caught my attention. Sitting just before the main stretch of businesses on York Boulevard, the former church seemed to be trying on different lives.

Over the years, I knew it as an event venue, a place for sound baths, and a basement speakeasy hosting comedy nights. At one point, there were soccer jerseys for sale upstairs and games screening below. I kept wondering what would stick.

Then Meadow moved in.

I’d first noticed Meadow at its former Study Hall space farther down York, near the old Sip Snack location. A neighborhood coworking space felt like something worth rooting for: somewhere to work close to home, with familiar faces and a little personality. At The York Manor, that idea had room to grow. By day, people settled in with their laptops. On evenings and weekends, the building filled with weddings, readings, markets, and gatherings.

For several months, I was one of those people with a laptop. Some of the earliest ideas for Sanctuaries LA took shape here, followed by an early website before I moved the publication to Substack. I also hosted a screening of ’s New York Times Op-Doc, The Loneliest Crash Test Dummy in the space. The building became part of my working life — not just somewhere I passed and wondered about.

More recently, during an LA Conservancy preservation bootcamp, I learned that The York Manor was the only Historic-Cultural Monument in the immediate area. Having spent so much time here, I wanted to understand this part of its story, too — and how Meadow was giving an old building a new place in the neighborhood’s daily life.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Alexandra “Alex” Cadiz grew up across five countries, became an architect, worked in interiors, makes music, and is continually building a lighting brand with her husband, Micah Blyckert. For a long time, she felt she had to decide which of those things defined her. At 33, she is making room for all of them. Ceramicah, the Los Angeles studio she and Micah founded, has given them both creative autonomy and the means to buy their first home. Now, that home is giving something back: new ideas, space to experiment, and an unexpected sense of peace.

I visited Alex at the Tudor-style house she and Micah moved into in October 2025, after nearly nine years in a beloved Spanish-style apartment. There are original details they want to hold onto, a banquette Micah built, their own lighting throughout, and a basement pub their friends are campaigning to keep. The previous owners left a note about the family who had lived there before them, the peach trees and jasmine, and their hope that someone would celebrate the house’s hundredth birthday in 2028. Alex and Micah are finding their place in a home that already holds other people’s lives.

Tell us a little about yourself.

I’m Alex. I’m 33, and my husband and I own a design brand called Ceramicah that we’ve been building over the past six years. It’s completely changed our lives. It’s given us freedom, creative autonomy, and the resources to move into this chapter: buying our first house, creating a space that really feels like ours, and hopefully growing into the next chapter.

You also make music, and you work across architecture and share these various parts of yourself on social media. I find people who are so multifaceted really interesting, and it’s part of why I wanted to interview you.

Sometimes it’s hard for me to introduce myself because I think about how people view me and what they know me for, versus how I feel inside. I am a multifaceted person. There are so many layers to me and my creativity; I’ve never been just one thing.

It’s taken me a long time to feel comfortable embodying the full spectrum of who I am and what I do. That’s why my age feels important. At 33, I finally feel secure enough in myself and my life to do all the things I love and share them, without worrying that one will dilute the other or confuse people.

This is me. This is what I like, this is what I do, and these are all the things I encompass. What motivates me is showing other women that they can do that too.

I really relate. I also went through that journey of feeling I had to pick a lane and define myself. The more people do all the things that interest them, the more it gives other people permission to do the same.

One hundred percent.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Hi! I’m , an interior designer and color consultant based in Hudson, NY. As the guest editor of today’s Sanctuaries LA guide, I’m embarrassed to admit I used to identify as an “LA is not for me” person (and when I say used to, I mean as of approximately one week ago).

But leave it to Shelby to convince me to fly across the country for LAD/W and finally experience the magic LA has to offer. I’m so grateful they did; the week was exhilarating. I spent most of my days soaking up design inspiration, discovering new artists and friends, and drinking as many cold beverages as possible to survive the 100-degree-plus heat.

Shelby has mentioned LAD/W to me enough times over the years that I started to wonder what exactly I was missing. It’s hard for me to gauge which events are actually worth going to and which just look like they are (the internet can be deceiving). I experience this sometimes in New York City, where there’s no shortage of design events. You have the massive trade shows like ICFF and BDNY, which are held in convention centers and feel very corporate. Then there are events more up my alley, like NYCxDESIGN, which spreads programming across the city, or WNWN at the New York Design Center, which I love for its specificity and panel discussions.

LAD/W felt different in a good way; it was intimate and incredibly well curated without feeling exclusive. I met other designers, makers, and people who simply really love design. The whole thing felt less like networking and more like spending a week with a bunch of very interesting and creative people, each with something unique to share. Even in the heat, we rallied.

So, please consider this my official retraction of all previous LA slander. Here’s what caught my eye at LAD/W, through my very colorful lens.

THE HAAS BROTHERS

My week of festivities kicked off with a friends-and-family opening party at the Haas Brothers studio, a (somehow) new-to-me design duo whose work is wonderfully weird and whimsical.

I was especially obsessed with the oversized, Dr. Seuss-esque lighting in the main room, but I’d be remiss not to mention the glass and marble snails. This place was a little world of its own and it all made me stop and smile, which is what good design should do.

DESIGN PROPER HOTEL

The Downtown LA Proper has been on my must-see list for a while, so you bet I was excited to learn the official LAD/W party was happening on the rooftop. The views! The vibes! The of it all!

There is so much happening in this hotel. Pattern, color, texture, vintage objects everywhere you look. I left the party feeling like I hadn’t gotten nearly enough time to take it all in, so I did the only reasonable thing and spontaneously booked myself a couple of nights there at the end of my trip. For research, obviously.

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SERPENTINE

I had no idea what to expect when I walked into Serpentine. I was given the context of plants and Eric Wareheim, and what I stepped into was about as weird as you’d expect: part plant and furniture archive, part haunted house, the whole thing felt like walking into an outdoor work of art.

I chickened out of the actual haunted house in the back, but something tells me I missed a good time. I look to nature for color palette inspiration all the time, but Serpentine had me paying more attention to shape and form, like the strange, sculptural things nature comes up with all on its own.

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THIS MUST BE THE VASE

One of the highlights of my trip was finally meeting internet friends from afar that I’d never met IRL, and Abby Pendergrast was one of them. This Must Be the Vase, hosted by Danielle Armstrong, brought together nine LA-based interior stylists, each pulling a vase from their own collection and creating a floral arrangement around it.

I loved seeing how differently everyone interpreted the assignment, but even more than that, I loved the idea of treating something as simple as arranging flowers as a creative exercise. Play with your flowers, people!

ORCA X MARLEIGH CULVER

ORCA’s indoor-outdoor studio and garden got my wheels turning for future projects, especially in the way art, furniture, and landscape all seemed to live together instead of competing for attention. I just wish it hadn’t been approximately one million degrees outside so I could have stayed longer.

I was also pleasantly surprised to spot work by Marleigh Culver, an artist I first discovered years ago while I was painting a mural for Indeed’s offices. One of her murals was in the building, and I immediately fell in love with her use of color. It was so cool to see how her work has evolved since then, and I think this was my sign that I might finally need an original of my own.

POGANY STUDIO

Two things immediately caught my attention when I walked into Pogany Studio: the color-block painted walls and a table full of food that looked like art.

Andrei Pogany is the architect behind the studio, while his partner, chef Deborah Gorman, is responsible for the edible side of things. I loved seeing their two creative worlds come together in one space. The food was just as considered in its color, shape, and presentation as the architecture surrounding it.

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RAD FURNITURE

RAD Fest Rodeo felt more like a big, hot, sweaty party than a traditional design event. There was a mechanical bull, after all. But lest we forget about the furniture! I’m big on soft edges when it comes to design, so naturally I gravitate toward a lot of what RAD does. A new favorite is their Little Dot Lamp, made in collaboration with Gantri, which was on display at the show.

GRENADA X CERAMICAH

I was very happy with the amount of good lighting I saw all week in LA, and the Granada x Ceramicah collaboration was no exception. The two California studios teamed up on a series of cast aluminum fixtures made from hand-thrown forms, but naturally I was most drawn to the brightest little blue number; I’d take her home immediately.

The collection was displayed throughout Granada’s Echo Park home alongside a gorgeous tablescape that was giving the lighting some competition. Apparently beautiful lamps and beautiful snacks are my LAD/W love language.

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ADI GOODRICH

I’d never seen Adi Goodrich’s furniture line, Sing-Thing, in person before, but you better believe I have saved many photos of it on my Pinterest boards. It did not disappoint. I love her ability to make everyday things like a lamp or dining chair feel like an opportunity to evolve and play. Her work just makes me feel good.

After doing a little more investigating into the collection’s color palette, I was delighted to learn that it was pulled straight from her childhood, with each color representing a different memory or feeling. As someone who is constantly preaching that our relationship to color is personal, I ate this up.

DANNY D’S MUD SHOP

There is nothing cooler to me than getting to see someone in their actual studio space (part of why I enjoyed LAD/W so much). At Danny D’s Mud Shop, you could literally see the team in action, working to sgraffito pieces in the back while we wandered around the shop.

You can see the hand behind his ceramics, which makes each one feel incredibly personal. So personal, in fact, that I ended up bringing one home for my husband as a birthday gift.

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BLOCK SHOP

I’m a big fan of Block Shop and recently used their fabric in one of my projects in Brooklyn, so getting to see all of the colors and textiles in person was a dream. I felt like an overstimulated kid running from corner to corner wanting to touch everything.

The retail space was basically an Eye Spy of colorful textiles and small goods, but for LAD/W, they also opened up their back office, which felt like getting a peek behind the curtain at what they’ve been working on.

Upstairs, the fabric and wallpaper library was tucked away like a little design treasure trove. Design is so tactile, and there’s just no substitute for getting up close and personal with materials like this.

RAVENHILL STUDIOS

I had multiple people enthusiastically run up to me throughout the week to tell me I couldn’t miss Ravenhill Studio, and they were totally right. It was my final stop of LAD/W and wow, way to end on a high note.

Their Los Angeles Sets a Table installation brought together table settings made from the work of dozens of local artists, designers, and makers. I loved seeing all these completely different pieces put into conversation with one another. A table setting is basically a tiny room when you think about it (color, texture, objects, composition) and each one had its own little personality.

Our final stop at Ravenhill Studio summed up what I loved about LAD/W: creative people making cool things, and even better things happening when you bring them all together.

Follow Daniela on Substack and Instagram, or visit her website for work inquiries.

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

It’s been a long week of design events. I started Tuesday at the LAD/W friends-and-family party at the Haas Brothers’ studio in NoHo. Wednesday began with the rooftop kickoff party at the Downtown L.A. Proper, followed by Serpentine’s wonderfully wacky haunted house and garden event. Thursday, I took a Terranea spa interlude — my new favorite end-of-week escape. Friday was spent at home with my family. Then I was back out all day Saturday and Sunday for what felt like countless LAD/W events. And still somehow I managed to fit in a Darkside show at Lodge Room Saturday night.

Thank you to everyone who introduced themselves out in the world. I’m excited about all the new features and collaborations emerging from the week/end. Friend of Sanctuaries LA crushed it for the third year in a row — and told me that applications for LAD/W 2027 are already open.

A more exhaustive guide is coming later this week with , a close friend and Hudson Valley-based designer and color consultant who traveled to LA for LAD/W. For now, I present a highly edited, very Sanctuaries-coded best of the weekend.

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This year was hot, and the heat changed the shape of the weekend. I have visceral memories of cavorting down Glendale Boulevard in Atwater last year with Holland and hundreds of other people; the streets were packed, and there was a general air of merriment. This year, Glendale felt almost empty except for the handful of locations where everyone crowded inside for air conditioning. RAD Fest was a literal oven, and ORCA — one of my favorite events last year — was simply too hot to exist in.

My favorite event — besides Serpentine, where I was too present to take any photos —was Yamaha Design Laboratory’s exhibition at the Neutra VDL House. I know, choosing a branded activation is so uncool, but it was beautiful and exceptionally well executed.

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Another highlight was Ceramicah at Granada. I love the studio’s new collection, which translates its iconic forms into cast metal finished with different colored patinas. A little over a week ago, I visited the home of Ceramicah founders and Micah Blyckert for a home tour and interview with Alex. Stay tuned for that in a few weeks. Granada was an especially fitting setting for the new work; the collection looked beautiful inside.

Danny D’s Mud Shop was my favorite first-time stop of Sunday. I’d seen his work online, but seeing it in person and meeting Danny irl felt especially wholesome. There was food for visitors, while a team of four — including his girlfriend Peyton Perron — kept working on holiday orders throughout our visit. I picked up some merch for my husband, my own Danny D, so he can rep his name. And one day I will commission a full set of custom dinnerware. Hopefully, a proper feature on the East Hollywood ceramicist will follow later this year.

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I also made it to California Dirt’s newly opened flagship. I’ve been following Carmen Kelly’s world-building for a couple of years, and it was lovely to see the brand evolve into a physical home of its own. I left with a bracelet I’d had my eye on for a while.

I’m drawn to people whose motifs move easily across mediums. In Carmen’s case, the same language appears in jewelry, furniture, mirrors, playing cards, and the space itself. She has created an entire California Dirt world. I’d love to feature her and the new store in the future.

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LAD/W is always a joyous reminder of the endless creativity here in Los Angeles. Despite the heat, it was a fantastic week/end. Now it’s back to work, with another Terranea visit planned for the end of the week (yes, I’m obsessed) to help me settle and ground after a whirlwind few weeks.

Stay tuned next week for a deeper dive into the colorful world of LAD/W with Daniela Araya. x

Visit the new California Dirt studio and showroom at:
1832 Sunset Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90026

Shop Ceramicah online and at Lawson-Fenning:
824 Melrose Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90038

Visit the Neutra VDL house at:
2300 Silver Lake Blvd, Los Angeles, CA 90039

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.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

I met Holland Denvir when I moved into the house next door. We were neighbors for seven years, during which I watched them grow, evolve, and eventually create LA Design Week/end. Holland is someone with a genuine excitement for life — and for bringing people together — that is infectious. They are inclusive, warm, and seemingly always building a new community around whatever they love. I’m grateful to call them a friend.

Long before design became Holland’s profession, it was a way of creating small worlds of their own. At around eight years old, they began turning cardboard boxes into houses, constructing paper floors, stairs, and tiny pieces of furniture, then writing stories about the families who lived inside. “I felt safe creating this little contained world,” they told me. They were always making something: Sprite cans became painted vases and pencil holders; other ideas became CD racks and picture frames.

Some of this instinct came from Holland’s aunt Holly, their namesake, who taught them to decoupage and mosaic. Holly and her husband lived in the woods of North Carolina in a home that Holland remembers as “a magical explosion of color and craft,” filled with house pigs, other animals, and Barbie dolls with dinosaur heads hanging from the ceiling. To a shy, perfectionistic child growing up in Washington, D.C., Holly and her husband represented another way to live. Stranger, freer, and entirely one’s own.

Holland now lives in El Sereno with many of Holly’s objects and materials. A piece of her artwork, driven across the country in 2012 but never previously given a proper place, finally hangs in Holland’s home. Her papers and broken tiles appear in an urn they recently made for the final Object Permanence exhibition. These objects are not valuable because someone else declared them timeless; Holland keeps them because they still feel alive. “I don’t keep something because I feel I should,” they said. “I keep it because I want to. What remains is purely gut instinct.”

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Holland originally moved to Los Angeles to attend ArtCenter, then dropped out after one semester. Soon afterward, they began showing their work at Unique LA, where a chance encounter led to their first interior-design job. They found woodshops, met other makers, and began building a career that has moved between furniture making, interiors, sales, business development, curation, and community building. Holland admits to having social anxiety, but design became the common language that made connecting with people easier.

An early precursor to LA Design Week/end was Object Permanence, the exhibition series Holland created with designer Leah Ring of Another Human. The idea began at a sterile West Hollywood showroom opening where they both agreed, simply, “We need something different.” Leah wished there were more opportunities for designers to show work in Los Angeles; Holland had access to a showroom and knew how to make things happen. Each exhibition invited a group of artists and designers to interpret a single object, beginning with candles. At the first opening, everyone lit their candle together. Holland saw the community that could form around design when people were given a reason and a place to gather.

That impulse eventually grew into LA Design Week/end: a decentralized celebration of the designers, makers, studios, homes, and strange corners that make this city unlike anywhere else. It is also, for Holland, deeply personal. Los Angeles is where they built a career and a community, got sober, transitioned, developed a spiritual life, and assembled what they lovingly call their “cat family.”

“I’ve really grown up in Los Angeles,” Holland told me. “LA Design Week/end is my celebration of everything the city has to offer.”

Interviewing Holland on the eve of Object Permanence’s final show — fittingly devoted to urns — made clear that LA Design Week/end has been in them all along: the child building contained worlds, the maker giving overlooked materials new life, and the friend who believes design is more meaningful when more people are invited in.

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For someone who has never experienced it, what is LA Design Week/end?

LA Design Week/end is a decentralized design fair that takes place across Downtown, the Arts District, and East and Northeast LA.

The key is the map and the fact that the week/end is intentionally contained. That isn’t because other parts of the city aren’t valuable or don’t have anything to offer. LA is simply so vast that I wanted the experience to be accessible. I wanted every moment you spent participating to be about discovery and connection, not sitting in your car in traffic; we can do that any other day of the week.

It’s also a progression. Each day centers on one or several neighborhoods, and events are planned around one another so you can experience many different things within a few hours. That creates a special energy that I often don’t feel in Los Angeles.

What did you feel was missing from more conventional design fairs, and why did you design LAD/W this way?

Los Angeles has so many independent designers and makers. I feel like, if there were a study, we would have a very high number per capita. A lot of other cities center legacy and heritage brands within their design industries. We need those brands; we need everyone for the ecosystem to work. But when I visit design fairs around the world, the center of attention is often brands that have existed for more than a hundred years and are billion-dollar businesses.

I don’t find that very exciting. Even when one of those brands collaborates with an “emerging” designer, I’m not necessarily discovering much. I’m seeing the same things repeatedly. That collaboration has probably taken five years to bring together and has been heavily trend-forecasted.

LA has an abundance of independent designers who are working on the same kinds of projects as those larger brands, especially within the commercial design industry I come from. A workspace or hotel project needs both independent designers and large manufacturers to bring it to life.

LA Design Week/end spotlights those independent designers alongside fine artists and local retailers. We also bring larger brands in to support the weekend and show what they’re doing, but they aren’t the focus.

Inclusivity is central to LAD/W. What does that look like in practice?

The barrier to entry for both participation and attendance is very low. Most events are free to attend. We also welcome people from within the design industry and people completely outside of it.

If you’re simply curious about design or want something interesting to do, you can have as fun and meaningful an experience as someone steeped in the industry. Other design weeks I’ve attended—in different countries and in cities like New York—are generally catered to the industry.

Our priority is, of course, to introduce independent designers to designers and architects who may purchase their work or specify it for projects. But it’s also about bringing the wider community into the experience. That creates a different energy. We aren’t only here for business; we’re here for connection. Hopefully sales and business development happen down the line, but that isn’t the purpose of the weekend.

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Why was it important for Los Angeles itself to become the venue?

I didn’t want LA to have another design fair with a convention center as its focal point. For one thing, it’s inaccessible. Even at the lower price points, exhibiting is a huge investment when you don’t know whether you’ll receive a return. It can break an artist or designer’s year. It isn’t really there for them.

It’s also sterile. I knew we didn’t need that. People have asked us to establish a central location, and I’ve refused because that isn’t the point of how the weekend flows.

We spotlight the more industrial nooks of LA: places I’ve been visiting since I arrived here as a maker and woodworker, but that you may have no reason to enter if you aren’t in the industry. You visit the places where things are manufactured and see much more of the city than you ordinarily would.

Yeah. Well, even building upon that: something I really loved last year is that I would be in a neighborhood that I knew really well, but went into places I had never been. Brendan Ravenhill’s Studio, for example. I used to go to The Pottery Studio up the street every day for years, and I had no idea that I could walk into Brendan’s space and enter this whole other world. I think it unlocks parts of neighborhoods that you know already, too.

That’s very cool to hear. Yeah.

Can you elaborate a bit more on how seeing work in someone’s studio is different than the sterile atmosphere of a convention center or gallery?

Seeing a designer’s work in their studio instead of a showroom or convention center is night and day. It’s very difficult for someone’s soul to remain alive in a convention center. Even the most beautiful handmade object loses some of its life.

In a studio, the designer or maker is there. You feel their passion, you’re standing where they spend most of their time, and the work is in its natural habitat. It’s like being in the wild instead of at the zoo. It couldn’t be more different.

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You obviously live on the east side — you have for years — but how do you decide which neighborhoods to focus on? This year when you expanded, how did you decide the expansion? And in the future is there a world where it would be like two weekends and one weekend is the west side?

No. And people have asked us to do it twice a year and I'm like, “No.” My end goal is that LA is a global design destination, and to do that, it needs to be very focused.

I didn’t mean two separate weekends in a year. I meant two weekends back-to-back.

I know. Same answer. I want people to come here for a dedicated amount of time and have this blast of an experience.

In terms of the geography, initially, it was where I was, where my friends were, and where we were making things; that was the obvious place to begin.

The first year was manageable, and I saw firsthand what it looked like to be successful at a smaller scale. As we’ve expanded, my primary concern has been not losing that energy. Anything that could throw it off geographically feels too risky. It also isn’t fun for the hosts.

It’s very important to me that hosts feel their investment was worthwhile. If you’re too far outside the map, you won’t receive the attendance that someone on the map will receive through foot traffic. The more hosts there are in one area, the greater that foot traffic becomes. It’s math. We’ve had to reject people who were too far outside of the geographic footprint because it wouldn’t have been a good experience for them or for the few people who made the trip.

But we haven’t rejected anyone because of what their business is. If you want to open your doors to the public and share something cool, go for it. The audience can decide what they want to see.

Oddballs, and dreamers, and builders. That's always been one of my favorite parts about the LA architecture world is you have 20 different types of architecture in one neighborhood.

I’m not the arbiter of taste. I have my own taste, and you’ll see it in the things I photograph or choose for myself, but that doesn’t mean my taste is better than anyone else’s. LA is such an eccentric city. People freely express their individual style in their clothing, their homes, and their work. In some cities, everyone can begin to look or make their homes look a certain way.

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I remember you first mentioning the festival three years ago at a new moon ceremony; you were at my house, and you were like, "It's happening in a couple of weeks. I'm so nervous.” And here we are, three years later. You've grown the festival a substantial amount. Can you talk about the growth of LAD/W?

Most of the growth has been organic. We seem to have tapped into something that was deeply needed and wanted in LA.

I’ve started many businesses that “failed” — not that failure is necessarily a bad word; they simply weren’t the right things for many different reasons. They were painful to pursue. I don’t enjoy many aspects of making a brand grow, like marketing. But this became a groundswell that took over.

The first year, I was so nervous. I thought maybe 500 people would attend the 46 events, and 8,000 people came. The second year had 120 events and 12,000 attendees. This year, we have around 140 events, and I have no idea how to estimate attendance.

I think people feel the community-oriented nature of it and want us to win. Participants and attendees alike want it to succeed. That creates a palpable energy I haven’t experienced at another design week, or really anywhere else.

Well, it's also fun, and I feel like as somebody who knows you personally, it's such a reflection of you and your energy and who you are and your values, and I feel like that comes through.

Yeah, thank you.

It really does; it's you in an event.

Thank you. I never plan to get married, and the first weekend of the first year of LAD/W felt like my wedding. It was so fun; I cried tears of happiness, which I had never done in my life.

That’s so sweet, Holland.

People’s gratitude was so deep and heartfelt. That encourages us to keep going because it isn’t a walk in the park. This still isn’t my job; it’s a passion project, and I have many other jobs. It’s difficult to do this so scrappily, but the weekend itself keeps us going.

People make new, lasting friendships. People have fallen in love. We want to make a bumper sticker that says, “I fell in love at LAD/W.”

I love that idea; I would wear a t-shirt or a hat. As the event grows, what are you most determined to protect?

The map, the accessibility, and the fact that anyone can participate.

Those are some of the things I’m most stubborn about. People have told me I should stop doing them, and I refuse. I can be influenced by people who are more senior or who I think know better, but with this, I’ve always thought, “No, you’re wrong.” It is never the right thing to become more exclusive.

Art and design are subjective. People have their own tastes and can make their own decisions. We establish the groundwork, and everyone else can figure out their own experience.

One of my favorite things happened last year. Several curators reached out about hosting shows after attending the first year. Many were young women of color who said they had never felt welcome in the art or design worlds. Even when they were technically invited to an event, they didn’t feel as though they belonged.

They felt so welcome at LA Design Week/end that they wanted to participate themselves. We encouraged them, and the cost was accessible. That is extremely important to me. It is the opposite energy of design weeks that are fundamentally pay-to-play.

What are you particularly excited for people to experience this year?

One is the open call, which is my passion project within this larger passion project. We opened applications to anyone in the world who wanted to submit art or objects. The fee was kept very low — $25 per piece — and we do our best to include everyone in a show.

This year, we have five or six open-call shows and are exhibiting approximately 80 percent of the work submitted. Guest curators organize the shows, many of whom have never curated before or have only done it once. We give them a small stipend and find them gallery spaces that have been loaned to us at little or no cost. It’s a beautiful community spirit coming together.

I’m passionate about supporting emerging designers because I didn’t feel supported when I was trying to enter the industry. I felt terrible. Most companies that say they support emerging designers are actually supporting established designers. If people don’t come from design or money, the barrier to entry can be too great. We’re trying to change that and give people visibility they may not otherwise receive.

Music is also a significant focus this year. We’ve partnered with dublab and have two dance parties, including a large party at Small Green Door in Boyle Heights with multiple DJs and two dance floors, one in a bunker.

It’s also the year of the group show. I have no way of grasping how many artists and designers will be represented because we know which shows are being hosted, but not always every person being included. There may be 500 artists to discover. Again, that is very different from other design fairs.

A bunker? What do you mean?

It's above ground, but it's for sure a bunker. And there will be DJs all night till 2AM — and tattoos and art workshops. I do want to say that I think I'm the first design event to have had tattoos eight years ago at Hemfest, and now everyone has them — and I just want to say I did that.

What do you hope remains after the weekend ends?

Friendships and connections seem to be what people hold on to—as well as the memories. It’s incredibly fun to have this intense period together.

It also isn’t drinking-fueled, which many design weeks are. Because I’m sober, that isn’t how I approach events. You’ll probably remember a lot of the weekend, which is notable.

The new connections people make — whether socially or professionally — can last for a very long time.

Who else makes LA Design Week/end possible?

megan mcneer is my co-founder and the Creative Director. She’s responsible for everything you see visually: the zine, the Instagram, and the visual personality of the brand. That is entirely meghan’s personality, although we’re best friends and have a lot in common.

Emily Ibarra is our Executive Producer, and has become one of my best friends through working together on LAD/W. We have many volunteers who contribute their particular skills. Someone new joined this year who had never attended the weekend but wanted to become involved. They helped with our more technical needs and saved the day with our Luma setup.

I’m not afraid to ask people for help. I’m constantly asking, “Who can do this thing that we can’t do ourselves?” The goal is for all of us to be paid well for our time in the future. In the meantime, people’s generosity has made the weekend happen.

That is how it began. I told a few people that I wanted to do it, and within two weeks, we had a call with 20 volunteers. I remember thinking, “What is happening?”

OK, last question: what does a sanctuary mean to you, and where do you find that feeling in Los Angeles?

I’m happy whenever I approach my door. Because it’s a studio, I can see my entire home at once.

A sanctuary is about safety. It makes me feel happy. I work here a lot, but I can also rest here. My cats are, for the most part, happy here.

WiSpa is another sanctuary for me. I go often, and it creates a guaranteed energy reversal. If I enter feeling anxious, depressed, or angry, it will flip that feeling, whether temporarily or for longer.

Twelve-step meetings are a sanctuary, as are the friends and fellows I’ve met through different programs. I hike frequently, especially now that I live near Ascot Hills. Coffee shops are also sanctuaries. I love the routine of buying coffee and talking to the barista.

I used to need longer retreats because my life was so chaotic that I could only find peace by leaving and getting off the grid. My life is now much more balanced. I don’t need those trips in order to be okay. I rely more on daily resets. I meditate every day and have an entire morning routine.

I’m happy to report that I don’t need to leave my life to find peace anymore.

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Visit LA Design Week/end starting this Wednesday, September 30th, thru Sunday October 4th.

Browse & sign up for events here — & view the map here.

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

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

Two weeks ago, I spent five days at Terranea. The first time I saw photographs of the five-star resort along the Palos Verdes coast, I assumed it was in Europe, specifically Portugal. In actuality, it is less than an hour from our Eastside home.

Perched on 102 acres of bluffs above the Pacific in LA County, Terranea is only seventeen years old, though as I was wandering the grounds I found myself wondering the history, feeling like it was a much older resort.

The 360-room main hotel is flanked by 20 bungalows, 50 casitas, and 32 villas. Add the four pools, nine restaurants and bars, golf course, 50,000-square-foot spa, and seemingly endless public trails, beach access, and hidden corners overlooking the Pacific, and this resort is officially my new favorite LA getaway.

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The drive into Terranea is its own experience. Palos Verdes Drive South, a Wild West version of PCH, rises and falls like a small roller coaster. Its cracked and repeatedly patched asphalt sent our stomachs for loops. I later learned — while looking on Zillow and finding what should be a $3M house on the market for closer to $1M — that the road passes through the Portuguese Bend Landslide.

At the height of its recent acceleration in 2024, the land was moving roughly one foot per week and parts of the road needed to be repaved every two to three weeks. That September, the city of Rancho Palos Verdes invested over $33M as part of an emergency effort to slow the movement by installing deep wells to pump out the groundwater fueling the slide. So far, it’s working.

Turning into Terranea felt like crossing into another world, one of permanence and heritage. A large fountain anchors the valet arrival, and the lobby opens almost immediately onto an uninterrupted view of the sea. The hotel’s Mediterranean character is intentional: an invented lineage referencing Frank Vanderlip’s early-20th-century vision of Palos Verdes as a Mediterranean coastal colony. Hill Glazier Architects and Scheurer Architects designed the resort to feel connected to that history, despite it being completed in 2009.

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We traveled as three generations: my parents, in their sixties and seventies; my husband; our one-and-a-half-year-old son; and me. When we arrived on Sunday, the resort was packed. That night we saw a sunset wedding on the bluffs, with a big party on the back lawn. By Monday, the wedding and weekend guests had left, and we had the main family pool, including its 140-foot waterslide, almost entirely to ourselves.

The best part of the resort is the adults-only spa. The 50,000-square-foot space was renovated in 2025 for $4.5 million by Los Angeles–based RVD Associates and includes a cold plunge, hot tub, eucalyptus steam room, salt sauna, and quiet corners arranged around an oceanfront pool.

This is where you see solo travelers recharging, couples reconnecting, and groups of women settling in for the day. A hot tip for LA locals: Terranea currently offers a $150 public spa pass Monday through Thursday, excluding holidays. Availability is limited, and passes are reserved by calling the morning of. I am already scheming on how to work being a regular here into my routine, and planning to return with a friend for her birthday at the end of this month.

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The first night, we walked down toward the cliffs for a seafood boil at Nelson’s, Terranea’s oceanfront casual dining spot. The boil had snow crab, shrimp, lobster, sausage, potatoes, cornbread, and live music. For a moment, as we watched the sunset while the band sang, Boot Scootin’ Boogie and Friends in Low Places, the Pacific felt like the Southern Atlantic.

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Our best meal was at mar’sel, the property’s fine-dining restaurant, floating above the water with views of Catalina Island, dolphins flipping in the distance, and cottontail rabbits appearing and disappearing into the shrubs. We enjoyed corn bisque with lump crab, handmade lobster pasta, and filet mignon, followed by cheesecake and pot de crème. All while overlooking a seaside sunset.

The pool food was mid: your standard burgers, quesadillas, and Caesar salads. But eating it from a lounge chair facing the Pacific for five days was exactly what all of us needed. Room service was better than average, and the various bars made exquisite cocktails and mocktails.

The resort became more interesting once I learned what had occupied the land before it.

Terranea opened in 2009 after a decade of planning and construction on the former site of Marineland of the Pacific. When the Sea World-esque park opened in 1954, one year before Disneyland, it was the world’s largest oceanarium and is often described as California’s first major theme park. It remained on the land until 1987. I’m relieved to know that now the only dolphins you see from here are swimming wild and free along the horizon.

There is another, less known layer of history here. Before Marineland, Japanese families farmed the southern slopes of the Palos Verdes Peninsula until WWII when they were unjustly forcibly removed. Before that, the peninsula was home to the Tongva, who lived in villages along the coast and sustained themselves through fishing, hunting, gathering, and trade. This layered history is a reminder that every seemingly untouched landscape has been shaped and stewarded by generations of people.

The land’s previous life lives on through the preserved mature trees, reused material, and names scattered around the property. According to the resort, its buildings occupy only about one-quarter of the site, leaving more than 75 acres as landscape, 14 of those acres dedicated to wildlife habitat rewilded with coastal shrubs native to Palos Verdes and the Channel Islands.

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One of the best things about Terranea is that, although it feels like an entirely private world, much of its coastline is legally public. When the California Coastal Commission approved the resort in 2003, they required roughly four miles of bluff trails, hundreds of public parking spaces, beach access, public restrooms, viewpoints, benches, and extensive habitat restoration. You don’t need to spend a dollar to enjoy much of the landscape.

While at the resort you see countless locals walking through the paths with their dogs. The property is clearly a well-loved and highly trafficked area for those who know.

What I loved most was not any single amenity but the way the property allowed three generations of our family to fill their own cup. I witnessed the elation of my son playing on the splash pad and learning to enjoy the pool, saw my parents reconnect with their own inner children on the waterslide, experienced my husband’s joy of getting to slip into fun-dad mode tossing my son into the air in the pool, and I was able to slip into quiet corners with my fantasy novel, the sound of waves crashing and squadrons of pelicans in the distance.

Our family could part ways to indulge our own joy, reunite, and each find a little piece of what we needed from the time away from routine. We all had dinners overlooking the ocean, walks along the bluffs, and several days in which the boundaries of our world simplified to the next swim, meal, walk, or sunset.

Terranea is a curious case of dichotomies: a seventeen-year-old resort designed to feel historic, a private escape with public paths stitched throughout, and a feeling of permanence set adjacent to continually shifting land. It has its contradictions, but what in California doesn’t?

I will be back. Many more times.

Visit Terranea at 100 Terranea Way, Rancho Palos Verdes, CA 90275.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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PHOTOGRAPHY BY SHELBY NICO DIAMOND

This month, I started the LA Conservancy’s Community Leadership Boot Camp, a six-week course centered on historic preservation. I joined partly because progress on the Sparkletts project is feeling stalled; we succeeded in designating the former factory as a Historic-Cultural Monument, a major win, for sure; but now it feels like we keep hitting wall after wall in creating the future of the former factory.

When you are trying to protect a building, designation can feel like the finish line. Once you get there, you realize it is only the beginning. Now, what comes next? To try to find the answer of how we make the community bathhouse vision a reality, I wanted to learn from the LA Conservancy, experts in the realm of not just preservation but also adaptive reuse.

Adaptive reuse is when a historic space is reimagined and rezoned for a new purpose. There are fantastic examples of this being executed successfully across LA: the Meadow York Manor, a turn-of-the-century church with HCM designation is now a co-working space down the street from me in Highland Park; the 28th Street YMCA became affordable and supportive housing for low-income adults and formerly unhoused youth; Beverly Hills Waterworks, a former water-treatment plant, was adapted into the Academy’s film library and archive; the Santa Fe Freight Depot was converted into Sci-Arc, an architecture school; the DTLA art gallery Hauser & Wirth lives in a former flour mill. The list goes on.

To me, adaptive reuse is the most beautiful and effective way to create layered history: preserving what already exists while imagining better, more sustainable infrastructure for our city and for today’s needs.

And we need more citizens dreaming up what that future could look like, so that we’re not all at the mercy of unimaginative development bros in boardrooms with their spreadsheets and more-often-than-not mediocre to bad taste. With that in mind, I present to you: a beginner’s guide to what I have learned so far through the LA Conservancy.

1. FIND YOUR WHY — IDEALLY BEFORE A CRISIS

Is there a place you want to preserve? Ask yourself why. Is it the architecture, cultural history, or some combination? What could its continued existence mean to the neighborhood?

The best time to designate? An ordinary day. And the worst time to notice that a building matters? When a demolition notice goes up, or when it’s put on the market and rumors begin to swirl of an impending Erewhon or Uber depot. Speaking from experience here.

If you’re in a time crunch, act quickly. Often demolitions pause or listings become stagnant if an HCM nomination is in process.

2. GATHER DETAILS

Then begin documenting everything. Find the address, original owner, architect or builder, construction date, permit history, past uses, and the people or communities connected to it. Find historical photos and go to photograph the site’s current state. Save stories you find online. Talk to people who have spent time there and collect oral histories.

The strongest cases pair physical evidence with human meaning; both permit records and personal stories will tell you about the building, and sometimes even the land underneath it. With Sparkletts we found in research that wooly mammoth fossils were found on the site. Written records tell you building history; oral records tell you living history. Both matter.

USEFUL RESEARCH TOOLS:

For properties inside the City of Los Angeles, ZIMAS can tell you whether a property is already designated or has been identified as potentially eligible. HistoricPlacesLA includes designated landmarks as well as properties identified through SurveyLA, the citywide historic-resources survey. Building permits, Sanborn maps, assessor records, newspaper archives, census records, photographs, and oral histories can help reconstruct what happened there.

Also confirm the jurisdiction. “Los Angeles” may mean the City of Los Angeles, another incorporated city, or unincorporated Los Angeles County, each with its own process and protections.

3. WRITE THE NOMINATION, THEN SHOW UP

Then all that research has to become an actual nomination. In Los Angeles, that means completing the Historic-Cultural Monument application and assembling supporting evidence including: permits, a bibliography, historic and current photographs, and a ZIMAS parcel report. The LA Conservancy’s Landmark THIS! guide is a useful toolkit for writing your nomination.

If the your application moves forward, the nomination will pass through the Office of Historic Resources, the Cultural Heritage Commission, P.L.U.M., and finally City Council. There will be multiple hearings, a site visit, staff reports, letters of support, and public comment. Go to City Hall and bring your neighbors. Speak, even if you feel under-qualified.

And schedule a lot of time. When I went to City Hall? Sparkletts was the very last item on the docket, four hours into the meeting. The preceding nomination discussions were interesting to witness, but I wasn’t expecting to be there so long. I wrote about this before but the arguments for/against each designation were very GOT-coded and the whole experience was significantly more entertaining and exciting than I anticipated. Turns out going to City Hall is… kind of fun?

4. FUTURE VISION

Preservation is often framed as a fight between history and progress. I think the better question is: How can the past influence the future?

Good rehabilitation does not pretend that time stopped; it honors a place’s layered history while allowing it to evolve. With Sparkletts the most compelling possibility is not simply saving an old industrial complex because it has 1920s Moorish architecture, or is the last remaining uncapped spring in Northeast Los Angeles, but it is imagining how it might become useful again: as a public bathhouse.

The idea is ambitious and still taking shape, but working on this project with many stakeholders has taught me something essential: nostalgia may begin a preservation effort, but practicality and vision write the next chapter.

5. CREATE A PRESERVATION CAMPAIGN

When we started working on Sparkletts we didn’t have this written framework, though learning it in the boot camp confirmed our instincts that led us haphazardly to the below were correct.

The campaign framework taught by the LA Conservancy is simple:

1. IDENTIFY THE STAKEHOLDERS
   These might include neighbors, neighborhood councils, local historical societies, the current owner, a developer or buyer, City representatives, and even the LA Conservancy.

2. BUILD COMMUNITY SUPPORT
   This can happen through surveys, meetings, individual conversations, and trusted community organizations. Not everyone needs to share the same motivation; some people may care about history or cultural memory; others about housing, sustainability, beauty, neighborhood identity, or the possibility of a new use.

3. SHAPE THE MESSAGE
   What is at risk, why does it matter, and what future are you proposing? Consider which local publications, Substacks, social platforms, or community voices could help make the case for both protecting the place and reimagining its future.

4. TARGET THE DECISION-MAKER
   This might be an investor, the owner or seller, a developer, or your City Council representative. Identify who actually has the power to affect the outcome, then make the case difficult to ignore. Each case will be different here. Some sites are city-owned and developers respond to adaptive reuse RFPs; some are simply on the market and require an investor with an aligned vision, like Sparkletts.

6. FIND INVESTMENT

In time, in effort, in actual dollars. Saving a place is never a solo act. Depending on the situation and site, you may need to partner with a preservation consultant, architect, historian, structural engineer, land-use attorney, planner, fundraiser, organizer, elected official, or simply a well-connected neighbor.

The financials matter, too, obviously. Redeveloping a historic site is complicated and costly, in the tens-of-millions of dollars. Los Angeles has preservation tools including rehabilitation tax credits, the California Historical Building Code, adaptive-reuse provisions, conservation easements, legacy-business programs, and the Mills Act, which can exchange property-tax savings for a long-term commitment to restoration and maintenance.

The Los Angeles Conservancy’s preservation resources and the City’s Office of Historic Resources are good places to begin. More importantly, begin speaking to people before you think you have the perfect case. Someone else may have the missing photograph, memory, expertise, use, or relationship needed to take your project to the next phase.

7. BE PATIENT, AND KEEP MOVING

I entered the LAC boot camp thinking preservation was primarily a designation process. I am learning that it is closer to a mix of community organizing, a political campaign, and even a large-scale production.

Required for success are a combination of evidence, narrative, coalition, political strategy, financing, and a future people can believe in. And projects take years. Some of the LA Conservancy adaptive reuse projects can take decades.

And when you hit a wall? Step away long enough to recharge, then come back and try another approach. I’m writing this as much for myself as for anyone else. It is hard to keep pushing when you feel like a random citizen with no relevant experience. But one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned from the LA Conservancy is that you do not need to begin as an expert. Sometimes the most important things you can bring are a vision, genuine passion, and the willingness to keep going.

The goal with preservation is not to freeze Los Angeles in time; cities change. The goal is to influence that change with greater discernment, to take lessons from history, restore what we’ve destroyed over the years, to preserve what’s still here, and to dream up a more communal infrastructure that honors history.

A city without memory eventually becomes interchangeable. The places we choose to carry forward are part of how we decide who we are.

Is there a building in Los Angeles you believe deserves a future? Send it my way. I would love to know what place you cannot stop thinking about—and why.

If you’re interested in participating in the LA Conservancy Boot Camp, consider becoming an LA Conservancy member.

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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This week I started the L.A. Conservancy Community Leadership Bootcamp that teaches you how to nominate places as Historic-Cultural Monuments. I applied because I want to better understand the tools we can use to protect and rehabilitate properties across Los Angeles — especially the Sparkletts factory, which is now officially an HCM but still needs a future. With the historic designation, the factory side was taken off the market for repairs and will apparently be re-listed. Anyone have a connection to investors with $14 million interested in adaptive reuse?! Serious question.

On Friday I met Courtney of to talk about the spectacular public plunges that once existed across Los Angeles — and how we might bring communal bathing back. We dreamed about the future of Sparkletts, the Bimini Baths, and other bathing sites around the city. How we could uncap springs. How we could bring the water back to the people. You know, normal end-of-week conversation about repairing the infrastructure decisions we made more than a century ago.

Later this month I’m finally getting out of Los Angeles for a few California detours. First, I’m heading into the redwoods for a friend’s fortieth birthday. She has organized a full summer-camp situation for forty of her closest friends, complete with river tubing, walks through old-growth forests, beach rituals, and game nights. This feels like the ideal way to host a milestone birthday, and I will be taking notes for my own future fortieth. There won’t be a feature next Sunday. I’ll be in the woods, disconnecting from the digital world and touching grass.

I’m also heading to Terranea in Rancho Palos Verdes for the easiest possible coastal vacation with a sixteen-month-old. More from both soon.

UPCOMING

• is hosting their Summer Bathing Club at the misleadingly named Descanso Garden Spa — not actually at Descanso Gardens, but in Tujunga — this Monday at 5PM till late. Maybe see you there?

• Last week I met of Zephyr Letter, who is staying in West Hollywood while he explores stories around Los Angeles. He’s hosting his first event next week: a bicoastal meetup on Tuesday August 18 at Kibitz Room, the club attached to Canter’s Deli.

WORTH KNOWING

• A reader tipped me off to the proposed redevelopment of the Woodland Hills Country Club, a nearly century-old landscape associated with golf-course architect William P. Bell and the beginnings of what was then Girard, now Woodland Hills. A developer has proposed 398 homes on roughly twenty acres of the property, while preservation advocates have submitted an HCM nomination for the larger historic landscape. The project is currently pending after multiple hold letters from the Planning Department. I’m still learning about this one, but I’m interested in the larger question: Why do housing, history, and functioning wildlife corridors so often get positioned as mutually exclusive? Latest update here.

  

• Palisades Village officially reopened yesterday. I know, I know — I’m not necessarily cheering for Rick Caruso either. But I am excited for the Palisades to get its village back after everything the community has endured. Transparently, I also think the Palisades Village is cute. There’s complimentary parking through September 30, plus Mahjong, Rummikub, and weekly children’s programming. My son has attended the Kids Club music classes at the Americana many times. I will say, the man can program a kids’ club.

• Loyola Marymount University has launched a digital archive preserving photographs, documents, and oral histories from Palo Verde, La Loma, and Bishop— the three Mexican American neighborhoods displaced from Chávez Ravine. It documents not only what was destroyed, but the full lives that existed there beforehand: homes, churches, gardens, celebrations, and relationships. Preservation isn’t only about the buildings that survive; it’s the history and the people. Explore the story here.

• I was sent a tip about Chapter USA in Echo Park. The owner recently moved to Los Angeles from Korea and runs a fun little clothing shop where he upcycles many of the pieces — often right in front of you. Swing by the next time you’re in Echo Park. The duds are cool.

ON THE MARKET

• Villa d’Este, Holmby Hills — $16.9M — A 1928 estate on 1.63 acres with an original greenhouse and a two-story 1930s theater featuring hand-carved ceilings. The listing invites either “a complete reimagination” or “a spectacular new build.” Would love to see this one preserved and restored. Here’s the hoping that the new buyer cares about history.

• 5730 Cazaux Drive, Los Feliz — $1.55M — One of the most beautiful listings I saw this week: a remarkably intact 1956 mid-century home in Los Feliz Oaks, designed and built by Stephen Briggs for his own family. It has had just two owners in seventy years, and that continuity of care is visible in the preserved wood ceilings, original brick fireplace, and lush hillside.

• 19559 Cave Way, Topanga — $1.14M — I love a Topanga wood cabin and this 1954 home has all the trappings of an ideal hideaway. At just 958 square feet, it holds warm wood interiors, a vaulted den and loft, a detached studio space, and a garden tucked beneath old oaks.

• 775 Montecito Drive, Montecito Heights — $849k — This one feels like a steal. I love the wood of the staircase. And those views? A genuinely great starter home.

Shelby x

THANK YOU FOR READING.

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The house behind the Crosby, Stills, and Nash song “Our House” wasn’t any of their houses at all. It was Joni Mitchell’s Laurel Canyon home. She shared it for a time with Graham Nash where he wrote the song one afternoon on her piano.

Though Nash immortalized it, Mitchell was the one who breathed life into it; she bought it, filled it with colorful objects, and nurtured the community of musicians who were responsible for so much of the music from the 1970s.

Mitchell purchased the small cottage on Lookout Mountain Avenue in the spring of 1968, near the beginning of her recording career. Public records show the sale on May 20 for $31,000, though Joni Mitchell said, “I paid $36,000 for it, but I paid it off. I probably paid more for it because I paid it off.”

Though biographies differ on whether the money came from royalties or her Reprise advance, the house was an early act of artistic independence: a world of her own, paid for by her work.

Records describe a 1,830-square-foot, three-bedroom house built into a Laurel Canyon hillside. So much life, creativity, and history fit into a relatively modest footprint.

A 1969 profile of the home describes is as a small, pine-paneled structure adorned with stained glass, colored bottles, old dolls, flowers, Victorian shadow boxes and a brick fireplace crowned by a jeweled king’s head. There were guitars, books and a piano; a grandfather clock given to her by Leonard Cohen; and, as we all know, two cats in the yard. Sunlight passed through the various types of collected glass, turning the interior itself into something like a painting.

Graham Nash moved in shortly after Mitchell bought the house. As the story goes: one rainy day, after breakfast in the Valley, they stopped at an antique store and Mitchell purchased a vase. Back at the cottage, Nash sat down at her piano while she gathered flowers, and the ordinary afternoon became “Our House.”

That song enshrined the house but the home itself birthed so much other culture and history.

Mitchell wrote much of Ladies of the Canyon there and painted the watercolor of the house that appears on its cover. Friends gathered in the living room to talk, eat and pass around guitars. Joni would host salons there. David Crosby, Stephen Stills, Cass Elliot, Frank Zappa, Judee Sill and Glenn Frey were among those who moved through its rooms. In Nash’s telling, it was there that he first added his voice to Crosby and Stills and the three discovered the harmony that would become Crosby, Stills & Nash.

“For me, it was all a fantasyland… It was a very freeing time in Los Angeles,” Graham Nash recalled.

The relationship between Mitchell and Nash ended. The scene dispersed. Mitchell eventually moved to another home in Bel-Air, where she still resides. But the house appears to have remained hers.

Public records identify that 1968 purchase as its last recorded sale. A 2017 quitclaim deed transferred the title into a trust associated with Mitchell, but there was no sale price or tax reassessment. Nearly sixty years later, public records suggest she has never sold it.

Nash transformed a domestic moment into a song about permanence. Mitchell seems to have practiced it: holding onto the physical place where a life, a body of work and an entire cultural mythology briefly met. Perhaps that is the final chapter of the story.

One day, I hope the house becomes a Historic-Cultural Monument: protected, preserved and occasionally opened to the public, so we can all sit in the living room and sing that long, wordless refrain together. I like to imagine that Mitchell still returns from time to time and does the same, letting the room carry her back into the life once lived there.

This song holds deep meaning for so many people, myself included. I listened to it while buying my first home in the hills of Los Angeles. I thought of it while placing flowers in a vase, watching our two cats in the yard, looking at my husband and, now, our son — tearing up at my own version of the promise contained within “Our House.”

Sometimes a sanctuary is simply a place made distinctly one’s own, then remade by everyone welcomed into it. Each person carries something away while leaving something behind: the accumulated imprint of a particular life, community and moment, held within the walls.

Thank you to Joni Mitchell and Graham Nash for the years they shared in that house — and for a song that has come to mean so much to generations of us.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.

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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