Lifestyle
L.A. Affairs: Our home survived the Palisades fire. Our love almost did not
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a quote widely attributed to Tennessee Williams: “We live in a perpetually burning building, and what we must save from it, all the time, is love.”
When the Palisades fire broke out in January, forcing my teenage daughter and me to evacuate from our quaint canyon home while my husband was at work on the other side of town, I did my best to gather our most essential items before heading for safety. Drenched in a cold and sudden sweat, I grabbed our family’s passports, a baby album, my vintage Levi’s — tossing them all into a large silver suitcase.
As my girl and I crawled out of Santa Monica, inching our way through a clogged artery of cars, I felt as though I were in a dream: Neighbors lined the streets, loading up the trunks of their cars while a massive plume of black smoke hunted us in our rearview mirror. Between chatting nervously with my daughter and navigating the roads, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten my grandmother’s brass heart-shaped locket. I’d forgotten the framed photo of my husband and me from our honeymoon to Maui decades earlier. While my daughter tried to calm our two panting pups in the back seat, I worried: What else had I forgotten to save?
No one knew at the time that what began as a local wildfire would quickly come to decimate our city; a beloved small town within the larger landscape of L.A. And I had no idea that my own life — specifically my marriage and the little family we’d created — was itself about to be scorched.
When you choose to live in Los Angeles, you do so with the understanding that, at some point, you may be required to brace yourself for all manner of natural disasters. Earthquakes are the one that have always scared me the most. As a little girl living with my mother in Ohio as my father resided in L.A., I used to pray at bedtime that he’d make it through the night. When, at 18, I finally made my way out West for good, I began reciting the same prayer for myself.
Fires weren’t so much on my radar, but as it happens, they have the ability to shift the earth beneath one’s feet just as drastically. After days of uncertainty, staring at the Firewatch app as miles of hillside and countless numbers of homes were reduced to ash, we let out a collective sigh as we learned that our house remained standing. And yet with the entire contents of our home ravaged by toxic soot and smoke, we, along with thousands of others, were displaced, forced to find temporary housing.
Five weeks passed in a fever-dream of Airbnbs and air mattresses until, finally, we were able to secure a short-term lease on a place of our own. It was a minor miracle in the current L.A. market of limited availability and price gouging. Standing in the barren living room of an unfurnished Hollywood rental, my husband and I should have collapsed in relief. Instead, we did what any exhausted couple of 20-plus years might do: We fought.
“I need a break,” he said, jaw clenched.
“What do you mean?” I shot back. But after months of couples therapy, I knew exactly what he meant. He needed a break from us, or, rather, from me. Our dogs barked incessantly.
I dropped my head into my hands and squeezed hard — a futile attempt to contain the chaos in my brain. Tears forced their way through closed lids, streaming hot down my cheeks. As a little girl growing up in the ’80s, one of my favorite movies was “Firestarter,” starring an 8-year-old Drew Barrymore. When enraged or overwhelmed, Barrymore’s character would start fires with her mind. I remember fearing back then that I, too, might have this power, so profound was my pain.
Now, despite decades of my own inner work, despite years of actively trying to not be ruled by the wounds of my past, I couldn’t help but to detonate at the threat of my husband leaving me.
But having a child means that even during times of disaster, natural or self-made, we must carry on. As the days passed, I attempted to blend our old life with our new one by scattering our few family photos around the apartment, helping my daughter navigate a new bus route, dealing with insurance adjusters. Yet as my husband grew increasingly more distant, I sank into a state of despair.
Loss suddenly seemed everywhere. Beyond the many dear friends who lost their homes in the Palisades and Altadena fires, beyond the decimation to our once gorgeous coastline between Santa Monica and Malibu, I thought of my daughter who would soon be off to college, of my ailing father, of my marriage. Unable to eat or sleep, I sought out help. I met with my trusted longtime therapist, emailed my spiritual teacher, road-tripped down to Orange County to visit my best friend. I also met with a grief therapist with whom I’d worked a decade earlier.
“You have some very real, very major things happening. But this isn’t just about now. What does this feeling remind you of, Evan?” she asked, her voice soft and supportive as she leaned in toward the screen separating us.
Suddenly I was no longer idling in my parked car, phone propped up on my steering wheel. I was 9 years old again, unaccompanied on an airplane somewhere above the continental U.S., being hurled between two contentiously divorced parents. As I talked through my present-day experience, I began to understand exactly what had happened between my husband and me on the day of our move; why I had lashed out so fiercely.
Famed psychologist Richard Schwartz, founder of Internal Family Systems therapy, posits that our minds are made up of different sub-personalities much like a family system. He labels some of these parts our exiles — the wounded selves that hold our deepest pain. When my husband questioned our marriage, my exiles, my most fragile, fearful parts felt wildly threatened. That is when my firefighters — our most reactive, protective parts (and no, the irony is not lost on me) — stormed in to shield them unfortunately in the only way they knew how: through rage.
They weren’t trying to destroy my marriage; they were just trying to keep me from once again experiencing the anguish of being launched into the world, alone and afraid.
Every day for over a week, I knelt before a makeshift altar in my bedroom, anchored myself to my breath and performed a most Herculean feat: twice daily, hour-long meditations. Rather than resist my sadness, I allowed myself to feel it fully — even when this meant soaking my T-shirt in tears, even when it felt as though the tears would never stop.
“I can handle my life” became my new mantra.
As I began to experience the sort of clarity and calm that only meditation can bring, I had a powerful insight: I recently trained to work as a doula, supporting women through labor, reminding them that the most unfathomable pain — in life as in birth — comes just before the new version of themselves can be born.
I considered how, for days on end, I’d cried in the shower, doubled over in heartache. I can’t survive this, I’d sobbed to my best friend. You will, she insisted.
I pleaded to the universe to spare me of my suffering, to reverse time, to let me be anywhere but here.
Just like birthing mamas do in the throes of labor.
But as I was recently reminded, our agony isn’t the end of the story. It’s the threshold. And when once we emerge on the other side — and we always do no matter how unlikely our survival may seem — we emerge transformed.
After eight interminable days, it struck me: My husband was suffering just as deeply as I was.
Sitting across from him at a tiny, borrowed wooden table, I chose to tell him: “I understand now. I hear you. I’m sorry.” Suddenly, he softened. My ability to empathize enabled him to see a door where once he’d believed none had existed.
In the end, had I saved love? It’s such an amorphous, ever-evolving entity; I’m not really sure. Though I certainly hope so.
But what I do know now is that this fire hadn’t come to destroy me; it came to show me what was indestructible. It came to show me that I could, indeed, handle my life.
The author is a writer, yoga teacher and doula in L.A. She is at work on a memoir. She’s on Instagram: @evanecooper
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
Terry Tempest Williams on why women with big ideas get labeled ‘crazy’ : Wild Card with Rachel Martin
A note from Wild Card host Rachel Martin: I met Terry Tempest Williams about 25 years ago at a writer’s conference in Yosemite Valley. I was a young reporter who was there to do a story about how literature was addressing climate change and she made such a huge impression on me. I had never heard someone talk about the natural world the way Terry did and she had a spiritual depth I hadn’t encountered in my life at that point.
To this day, Terry’s writing always reorients me towards what is good, what is beautiful, and what is true. Her newest book is called “The Glorians.”
Lifestyle
Meow Wolf taps famed L.A. animation house for its new Los Angeles venue
For its upcoming Los Angeles venue, experiential art firm Meow Wolf will focus on the art of storytelling, with a specific eye toward skewering our city’s moviemaking magic. To help bring that vision to life, Meow Wolf has entered into a creative partnership with Titmouse, one of L.A.’s most renowned independent animation houses.
The Hollywood-based studio behind popular series such as “Big Mouth” and “Star Trek: Lower Decks” will create animation that will be shown throughout the West L.A. venue, which is on target for a late 2026 opening at the Howard Hughes entertainment complex.
It’s a move that represents a shift for Santa Fe, N.M.-based Meow Wolf. Over the last decade-plus, the art collective has grown beyond its anything-goes, punk-meets-psychedelic roots into an organization with full-scale, maximalist installations in its hometown, Denver, Las Vegas, Houston and the Dallas suburbs. In the past, Meow Wolf kept most of its media in-house.
As part of its larger-than-life participatory art installations, Meow Wolf L.A. will feature a mix of live action and animation, the former filmed by Meow Wolf in its Santa Fe studio. Meow Wolf’s James Stephenson, a senior VP with the company and its creative director of emerging media, said the degree to which the L.A. exhibition will lean into various animation styles necessitated an outside partner. Titmouse’s work, in development by a number of directors with contrasting tones, will be shown on a variety of formats, ranging from cinema screens to full-room projections.
“I really believe in animation as an art form, and I know the Titmouse folks do too,” Stephenson says. “Animation is made by artists. It’s made by artists with their own hands. It’s something that is still very rooted in craft.”
Meow Wolf’s L.A. space is set in a former cinema complex, and will champion its location, taking guests on a journey through a converted movie house and beyond, into a sci-fi-inspired fantasyland with sentient spaceships and a 30-foot-tall mushroom tower. Meow Wolf creatives have spoken of the fantastical movie theater as one that will feature animated, self-aware candy before attendees enter the main exhibition space, making Titmouse’s work some of the first art guests will encounter. Titmouse co-founder Chris Prynoski has said the studio has lined up at least six directors for the exhibit.
An in-progress art installation destined for Meow Wolf L.A. at the art collective’s Santa Fe, N.M., headquarters. The L.A. exhibition will feature animation from Titmouse.
(Gabriela Campos / For The Times)
Titmouse, says Stephenson, is the right partner because “they’re known less for a house style, and more for a house vibe.” Over the years, Titmouse has been behind such diverse shows as “Scavengers Reign,” owning a Jean Giraud influence rooted in French and Spanish surrealism, the lively “Jentry Chau vs. the Underworld,” with an unique color palette that took inspiration from anime and Chinese mythology, the exaggerated comic book feel of Adult Swim’s “Metalocalypse,” and the approachable yet expressive tone of “Star Trek: Lower Decks.”
“Meow Wolf’s vibe is similar to Titmouse’s vibe,” Stephenson says. “It’s artist-first, artist-driven, independent and kinda edgy. They are always trying to find the edge of what’s possible. They try to see how far they can go, and it’s done for fun and in the spirit of taking risks.”
Prynoski says working with Meow Wolf will give Titmouse a sense of artistic freedom it doesn’t always have when delivering content for more traditional Hollywood partners. He says the multi-director approach is a callback to the early days of Warner Bros. Animation, when individual creators put their own stamp on Looney Tunes material.
“I use Bugs Bunny as an example,” Prynoski says. “You’ve got a Friz Freleng Bugs Bunny short. You’ve got a Chuck Jones Bugs Bunny short. You’ve got a Tex Avery Bugs Bunny short. They’re all different versions of Bugs Bunny, and people who are really paying attention can tell which director directed each one. Even though to the layman, these are all Bugs Bunny, but if you lined them up, they are drawing in different styles, sensibilities and techniques.”
Prynoski says that was a centerpiece of his pitch to Meow Wolf, noting that characters will reappear in multiple installations, each handled by a different artist. Meow Wolf L.A., in fact, will be the firm’s most character-driven exhibition, as guests will follow the storylines of three main protagonists throughout the space.
In announcing the partnership, Meow Wolf and Titmouse released an image from an animated work directed by Luca Vitale. It features a key character having a moment with a hummingbird and it’s done in an elegant, slightly anime-influenced style. It’s an image full of movement, reflecting a character in transition with inviting pastels and bold dashes.
“I like that image because I think it captures some of the sense of wonder that we want people to feel,” Stephenson says. “The character is having an encounter with the elusive nature of creativity and reality in a way that makes them have a different perspective of what’s possible.”
Other contributing animation directors to Meow Wolf L.A. include Space Dawg, Felix Colgrave, Alexander Vanderplank and Phimémon Martin, and Jun Ioneda.
Titmouse’s partnership with Meow Wolf will extend beyond the L.A. exhibition. The two will be working on the development of Meow Wolf New York, which is slated to open some time after Los Angeles, and are collaborating on a planned animated series, which Prynoski is spearheading.
Meow Wolf exhibits are the result of sometimes hundreds of disparate artists coming together in a shared space. Distilling that into a signature, singular style for a series could be a challenge. Stephenson pinpoints some guiding principles.
“You really need to feel the hand of the artist,” he says. “You need to feel a DIY aesthetic. You need to feel the materiality. Those are very specific to what we are.”
Lifestyle
Appeals court denies Trump’s request to halt removal of his name from the Kennedy Center
The Kennedy Center on June 28, with its facade signage still covered by a tarp and scaffolding.
Alex Wroblewski/AFP via Getty Images
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Alex Wroblewski/AFP via Getty Images
On Wednesday, a federal appeals court denied President Trump’s request to stop the removal of his name from Washington, D.C.’s Kennedy Center. The signage on the building has been covered with tarp and scaffolding since June 13, but in a court filing last month, the center’s current executive director said that Trump’s name has been removed.
In their decision, three judges from the U.S. District Court of Appeals for the District of Columbia Circuit said that the president had failed to prove that the arts center would be “irreparably injured” without Trump’s name attached to it.

NPR requested comment from the Kennedy Center, but did not receive an immediate reply.
This latest round of court decisions is part of the ongoing litigation filed by Rep. Joyce Beatty, D-Ohio, against President Trump and the board of the Kennedy Center. In a statement emailed Wednesday to NPR, Beatty said: “Today’s ruling again affirms that this administration’s efforts to rename the Kennedy Center were unlawful. His name no longer desecrates this sacred memorial, which belongs to the American people. Now it is time for the Trump administration to accept this, comply with the law, and take the tarps down.”
In previous court filings, Trump’s legal team had asserted that removing the president’s name from the arts complex, both on the physical building and in its digital materials, would inflict irreparable harm in both time and money already spent. In the denial, the three judges — Patricia Millett, Robert Wilkins and Gregory Katsas — wrote that since Trump’s name has already been removed, “a stay would not avert those harms.”
Furthermore, Trump had claimed that without his name attached, future fundraising would be threatened “and [will] contribute to the financial decline of the Center.” In response, the appeals judges wrote: “Appellants, however, have failed to support this assertion with any specific facts or evidence. They offer only the conclusory assertions of the Kennedy Center’s Executive Director that were made in a factually unsupported declaration.” The center’s current executive director, Matt Floca, specializes in physical plant management.

The presiding judge in the case, Christopher R. Cooper, has ordered that the center provide him a status report on the center’s operation and programming before the end of this month. As of Wednesday, the center’s calendar lists a small roster of programs, including outdoor free movie screenings, workshops for children, and five free live performances in July on its Millennium Stage. In the past, the Kennedy Center presented over 2,000 arts and education events each year, including free daily Millennium Stage performances.

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