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‘The closest thing to church’: How Unusual Tuesday became L.A.’s home for misfit artists

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‘The closest thing to church’: How Unusual Tuesday became L.A.’s home for misfit artists

It is not just any Tuesday.

It is 9 p.m. on a dreary night in Shadow Hills, just miles away from the lush foothills of the Verdugo Mountains. The delicate pitter-patter of a drum’s cymbal is the only sound to break through the thick brick wall of the obscure performance venue, Sun Space, and reach the wide, desolate Sunland Boulevard.

There is no sign outside, but follow the noise inside to find the Host arrive on stage from a door hidden behind a hypnotic dayglow projector visual. He’s wearing a gold sequin jacket over a fresh-pressed polka-dot shirt, fuchsia bell-bottoms and yellow trucker hat and he has an Appalachian-style beard.

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The Host is just one of a strange cast of characters to escape the loose folds of Noel Rhodes’ mind and make it on-time to the circus. Rhodes, 63, founded Sun Space in 2017 as a performance art venue for wayward artists who don’t properly fit the rigid mold of the Los Angeles club and bar circuit. The space is “not quite open mic,” Rhodes says, but all lovers of experimental ambient music, free-form jazz, observational comedy, paleontology and asteroseismology lectures or just plain old rock ‘n’ roll are welcome on the schedule, nearly every day of the week.

Patrons gather outside Sun Space during a break between performances in the intimate setting for Unusual Tuesday.

Patrons gather outside Sun Space during a break between performances in the intimate setting for Unusual Tuesday.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

Tuesdays, however, are somehow more unusual.

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The crowd drowns in the second-long tension as they sit below teardrop-shaped papier-mâché stalactite hanging from handmade alien geodes on the ceiling. A 2-foot-tall, human-goat lovechild mask rests on the stage. Demographics for Unusual Tuesday range from late teens to septuagenarians, mingling and meandering as they await the start of the show.

“Let’s all together, as one great rising cluster, try, together, to accomplish one thing,” says the Host.

“Let’s figure out what this whole thing is!”

The house band drums intensify, a violin cries and guitar chords growl.

“It’s Un-usual Tuesday,” the congregation replies in song. “And all of those other days, like Friday and Saturday and Sunday … are just big wastes of ti-ime!”

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Chaos breaks loose. Rhodes’ bones transform into wild, loose cartilage. Tonya Lee Jaynes, the drummer, puts her entire life force into the bass and snare. The crowd sings the chorus in dissonant harmony.

On an entirely normal Wednesday walk through a nature preserve north of Los Angeles, Rhodes says the idea for Sun Space and the hallmark Unusual Tuesday came from small fundraiser shows his father put on for their small Pennsylvanian town when Rhodes was a child. Vague memories of “The Little Rascals” and “Monty Python” influenced the sketch-based, psychedelic feel of Unusual Tuesday, with Sun Space serving as an outlet for other misfit artists looking to perform on the other days of the week.

“My goal was just to cover the rent with volunteers and equipment already bought,” Rhodes says. “I knew it would work if we weren’t having to pay our home rent on it, you know, our medical bills … as long as it stayed afloat.”

Despite its obscure location, stuck between a cafe and vacant building, the weekly show began to attract an eccentric crowd of artists and attendees.

“The whole ethos is creativity, expression and most importantly, freedom,” says Eddie Loyola, who has attended Unusual Tuesday near-weekly since 2017. “It’s really unusual. It helps support the idea of ‘come show us what you got’ rather than something that’s just cliquey, like at other venues.”

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For a fledgling artist like Bailey Zabaglio, who most commonly performs electrocrash music at small house shows, Unusual Tuesday can be a time to experiment with other genres outside of their comfort zone. On the last Unusual Tuesday of April, Zabaglio performed soft electric-indie ballads to a roar of applause as the first act of the night.

A person performs an original song on an electric guitar before an audience.

Musician Bailey Zabaglio performs an original song on an electric guitar during Unusual Tuesday.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

“The fact that the demographic is so vast and wide and every person you meet is such a f— character, it’s really cool,” Zabaglio says. “It’s so beautiful that everyone agreed to get off the phone, off their couch on a Tuesday in the middle of the week.”

The social media presence of Sun Space is sparse, so Unusual Tuesday attracts most of its attendees by word of mouth. Zabaglio’s brother, Jamie, visited from Washington and performed a witty free-form comedy act only a few slots after his sibling.

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“I used to have a variety show in Washington, and this whole trip has been very healing for me,” Jamie says. “I started my own show and I was just doing whatever I could. … I felt like I would never experience something like that again, but I got it again tonight.”

Booking for this specific show is a strange calculus, says Jamie Inman, who does scheduling, sound engineering and other odd jobs for Sun Space, which he now co-owns with Rhodes. Acts are booked two to three weeks in advance and selected from a pool of artists who expressed interest in performing.

“Every single Tuesday is different. Some weeks are singer-songwriter heavy, some weeks are modular synth heavy, some weeks are everything in between,” Inman says. “Sometimes we have expert lecturers come. … We just mishmash everything together until it makes sense. Or if it doesn’t make sense, that’s fine too.”

The only break in the show’s near decade-long history came during the COVID-19 pandemic, when artists all around the city were holed up in their homes with nowhere to play. Rhodes, Inman and Chris Soohoo, Sun Space’s visuals engineer, threw together a Twitch livestream to continue the chaos.

“[Unusual Tuesday online] was nothing like this, but we all learned some new stuff, like, I got into all the visual stuff,” Soohoo says. “Someone said that their first Unusual Tuesday experience was the stream, and now they get to come here in person. … It’s good to know that we did what we could.”

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During the online show, Rhodes’ character Austin Drizzles, who performs the crackpot weekly weather report, would field calls from crazed viewers. Now, back on the regular news cycle, Drizzles accepts photo submissions from viewers before the show with added commentary at the end of Unusual Tuesday.

“This was sent in by Rebecca,” Drizzles says of a photo of a squirrel. “That is a cute little wild dog. … The effervescence there. I hope they eat a banana just like they always do.”

Left Unsaid, a jazz breakbeat fusion duo, performed live for the first time at Unusual Tuesday‘s last April show. Lucian Smith and Sander Bryce, who formed the group this year, say performing in L.A. proper to an attentive audience can be a difficult feat, but Unusual Tuesday provides a full venue for nontraditional acts.

A patron watches the Unusual Tuesday show in very low light at Sun Space.

A patron watches the Unusual Tuesday show in very low light at Sun Space.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

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“There’s so many venues where people are waiting for you to pull them into it,” Smith says. “But here everyone seems like they’re getting something special, and they’re excited to see what they’re gonna find out. … Coming from having no audience, I loved having this.”

For the faithful observers, many of whom attend weekly, Unusual Tuesday is welcomed as a reprieve from the stress, struggle and day-to-day drag of the working week, says August Kamp, an artist and regular attendee of the weekly sermon.

“I think we’re over-saturated with mundane everything,” she says. “The fact that there is a day of the week where I know I’ll feel extra alive and that it’s a day that is otherwise not allocated for that is really valuable.”

Many interviewees likened Unusual Tuesdays to church, a cult or a religious movement. Rhodes, raised Swedenborgian — a Christian denomination that emphasizes “divine love” based on the writings of theologian Emanuel Swedenborg — does not outright reject the comparison.

“Unusual Tuesday is definitely a church service in that we get together and hypnotize the musicians, get into a rhythm and all that stuff,” Rhodes says. “Get people into us — into a vibe.”

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Near midnight, following Austin Drizzles’ weekly forecast, the church once again erupts into the Unusual Tuesday gospel. A rapturous feeling takes over the room, as if all of the disparate identities and backgrounds came together in spiritual tune — the cluster having finally risen. Some mouth the words, but others belt away, letting all the emotion built up over the six other days of the week fall onto Rhodes, who’s not Rhodes then, but simply the Host.

He delivers only one promise, which he no doubt will keep: “I will see you in six days, 22 hours, and however many minutes, for Unusual Tuesday!”

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A judge says the Kennedy Center must update him on its plans — and address that tarp

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A judge says the Kennedy Center must update him on its plans — and address that tarp

A tarp covers the facade of the John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C., on June 13. A federal judge has asked the arts complex’s leadership to explain the purpose of the tarp and the surrounding scaffolding.

Alex Wroblewski/AFP via Getty Images


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Alex Wroblewski/AFP via Getty Images

On Wednesday, the federal judge overseeing the Kennedy Center lawsuit ordered the center to give him a status report on the center’s operation and programming within the next few weeks. Judge Christopher R. Cooper also said that the Kennedy Center must explain the purpose and status of the tarp and scaffolding that have been placed over the front of the arts complex, where until recently both President Trump and President John F. Kennedy’s names were both displayed.

In a directive issued last Tuesday, Judge Cooper had given Kennedy Center administrators three days to update him on the arts complex’s immediate plans regarding construction, programming and public access. Trump, who now serves as the center’s chairman, had announced July 5 as the date the venue would close for major renovations.

Last Friday, on Cooper’s due date, lawyers for the Kennedy Center filed a request asking for an extension. In that filing, Matt Floca, who was promoted as the center’s president and CEO in March, said that the Kennedy Center’s current management intends to present its board with “an array of options” for trustees to vote on at their next meeting on an unspecified date in mid-July.

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According to Floca, the options are a complete closure for extensive renovations; a partial closure “enabling some continued public access and limited programming” while some renovations are undertaken; and “a highly limited series of phased closures to address only the center’s most serious infrastructure needs while scheduling and maintaining a full slate of programming.”

In his newest order, Cooper denied Floca’s request for an extension. And he mandated that the center file a status report within seven days of the center’s July board meeting or by July 31, whichever date is earliest. He also ruled that the report must “indicate the purpose for and status of the tarp and scaffolding,” which were erected by workers over the center’s front signage in the early morning hours of June 13.

When asked for comment Wednesday, the Kennedy Center pointed back to the documents its legal team submitted to the court.

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4 ways to design a dreamy summer, according to a happiness expert

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4 ways to design a dreamy summer, according to a happiness expert

Denis Novikov/Getty Images

I tend to romanticize summer. The movies and TV shows I grew up with made me think that the season was about adventure and big-time transformation.

I imagined myself building a tight-knit friend group and getting out of a pickle together, like in The Sandlot or Camp Nowhere. Or traveling across the world, say, to Greece, like Lena Kaligaris, a character in The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, having a whirlwind summer romance and returning an entirely different person.

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I’ve never actually had a summer like that.

Even when your expectations are more modest than mine, “so often, the summer just flies by, and we haven’t taken the picnics or gone for the day trip or whatever it was that we thought we were gonna do,” says happiness expert Gretchen Rubin.

Rubin, author of The Happiness Project and host of the podcast Happier With Gretchen Rubin, has been sharing ideas on social media about how to make the season more memorable and satisfying.

She walks through four exercises to help you get what you want — and more — out of the season. Print out our worksheet here, fill it out and stick it on your fridge to keep you accountable. Or take a screenshot and post it to Instagram (don’t forget to tag @NPRLifeKit!).

🍑 Give your summer a theme

Pick a single word or phrase that you want to embrace this season — something that captures the feeling you want to have over the next few months.

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“My theme for the summer is ‘ketchup,’” Rubin says. “It has a kind of a summer feeling, because you think of putting ketchup on your burger.”

“It’s a metaphor,” she says. It means to look for “whatever I could add [this season] to make something elevated and more fun.”

Meanwhile, my theme word this summer is “juice.” I no longer think that I need to travel far or completely transform to have a delicious summer. I just need to take advantage of the abundance that the season offers: ripe peaches and tomatoes, juicy softball pitches and the opportunity to feel juicy in my body when I wear a bathing suit.

My Dream Summer worksheet to print.

Print out our worksheet here, fill it out and stick it on your fridge to keep you accountable. Or take a screenshot and post it to Instagram (don’t forget to tag @NPRLifeKit!).

Malaka Gharib/NPR


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🪣 Create a summer bucket list

What do you want to do this summer? On my bucket list: ride the Ferris wheel at a summer fair, have more barbecues at my parents’ house and see the sunrise at least once.

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After the Eaton fire, ‘In the Gardens of Eaton’ finds unexpected beauty in loss

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After the Eaton fire, ‘In the Gardens of Eaton’ finds unexpected beauty in loss

Night is falling in Altadena as bats circle, peacocks wail and photographer Kevin Cooley tries to capture what’s left of a tree.

Using strobes and a long exposure time to allow the maximum amount of available light to hit his lens, Cooley snags about 50 shots of the 20-foot-tall tree, which stands vigil over a street where nearly all the homes burned. The tree’s limbs were lopped off in the wake of January 2025’s Eaton fire, which ravaged Altadena and part of Pasadena, but all these months after the fire, there’s new growth on the tree.

Photographer Kevin Cooley sets up a camera to take photos for his series.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

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Little tufts of green leaves have emerged from the raw cuts where the burned branches once were, proving the tree to be more resilient than its otherwise relatively stark exterior might suggest.

A fine art and news photographer for decades, Cooley, 51, is using pictures like the one he snapped of the tree as part of his new project, “In the Gardens of Eaton.” A collection of 6,000 photos and counting that Cooley has taken around Altadena on wild lots where homes once stood, “In the Gardens of Eaton” aims to capture bits of natural beauty that have endured despite the ravages of the fire and its aftermath.

Cooley has lived in Altadena since 2000 and he knew his neighbors well. He started working on the photo project several months after losing his home in the fire. He’d enlisted a group called Samaritan’s Purse to come up to his lot, where he’d found a metal flat file he’d used to store his photographic prints. Cooley was hopeful some had survived, but when the group popped it open, he says it quickly became clear that the burning metal had acted somewhat like an oven, burning almost everything inside to a charred crisp.

A ponytail palm on Athens Street at dusk.

A ponytail palm on Athens Street photographed for Kevin Cooley’s “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

(Kevin Cooley)

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One piece Cooley could identify, though, was a 2020 copy of Wired magazine for which he’d shot the cover. It featured a swirling plume of smoke, accompanying the story “The West’s Infernos Are Melting Our Sense of How Fire Works,” and the irony wasn’t lost on him.

“You could still kind of make out the word Wired across the top of the masthead and something about that just blew me away,” Cooley says. “It’s as if the whole thing had come full circle. I immediately wanted to photograph it in the same way I had originally photographed the smoke, which was in a studio with lighting, and I guess that made something click for me. I started feeling like there was a way to make something positive after the fire, and that’s when I started spending more time back in Altadena.”

Driving around town, looking at the lots and the wreckage, Cooley says he started to notice the bits of nature that were trying to persevere. He spotted a begonia poking through a burned fence on his neighbor’s property and snapped a photo, and soon he was accumulating more and more similar images. Cooley says if you’d told him before the fire he’d be taking so many pictures of flowers, he’d have scoffed, but now images like one he captured recently of a group of blooming roses in front of a cluster of dead vines remind him that perseverance is possible no matter the odds.

Photographer Kevin Cooley poses for a portrait in a gallery.

Cooley stands in front of some of his photos on display in a gallery in Culver City.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

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“It’s inspiring what nature is doing up there,” Cooley says. “We live in this environment where fire is very much part of the ecology, but people’s gardens are also pushing through. Nonnative species and native species are both there. And people are planting more wildflowers, and it feels cathartic. It’s making me excited to rebuild too, because I really can’t wait to get back.”

Letizia Ragusa, an Altadena resident who lost her home, says Cooley shot her flower-filled lot without her even knowing it. Before the fire, her yard was a wonderland of 16 fruit trees, a koi pond and both a vegetable and an herb garden. All of that was lost in the blaze. As a method of coping and of shoring up the land, Ragusa enlisted a Sierra Madre company called Hardy Californians to plant a remediation seed mix across her lot.

El Molino geraniums captured for Cooley's “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

El Molino geraniums captured for Cooley’s “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

(Kevin Cooley)

Seeing the native plants and flowers begin to pop up on her lot was important, Ragusa says. She’s been living in a rental with her family since the fire, and there’s no yard or room for a garden.

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“It’s just really comforting to me to have some sense of control when everything else feels so out of control right now,” Ragusa says. “At least I have this little piece of land that I can plant things on and I know it’s what’s going to happen. It’s very predictable, and I also think it makes other people happy. I see people driving and walking by that stop to look at it. And our neighbors have all commented on it too, so that’s nice.”

The pictures Cooley took on Ragusa’s property were of rows of pink and purple native flowers and sunflowers set amid city lights and a dreamy sunset. Ragusa says they’re surreal and beautiful.

“It’s outdoor photography, but with a studio element,” she says, noting that she’s especially open to Cooley’s process because she’s an artist herself, previously producing ceramics and sculpture from a home studio that she also lost.

Cooley works sets up lights for a recent photo shoot.

Cooley works sets up lights for a recent photo shoot.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

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While the initial photos Cooley took of her yard were from the street and her driveway, she’s since given him permission to go deeper into her lot. It’s something Cooley says is important to him because he knows firsthand that a lot of people’s lots are what he calls “hallowed ground.”

Most of the pictures Cooley has taken so far have been from a distance, though he has set up his equipment near the end of people’s driveways to get a good photo. As word of Cooley’s project has gotten around Altadena — with one resident posting a photo of him on their lot captured via trail cam to a local Facebook group, looking for more information — more and more people have expressed an openness to having him come shoot their gardens.

Honeysuckle on Via Maderas captured for “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

Honeysuckle on Via Maderas captured for “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

(Kevin Cooley)

Cooley has created a Google Form for interested residents to use and he keeps a spreadsheet of the responses in a clipboard on his car’s dashboard. When he’s at a loss for what to shoot next, he’ll glance at it, mentally mapping out addresses in his mind and looking at resident-submitted descriptions of their lots, which include phrases like “We don’t have much left, but we saved our banana plant” and “[Our house] made me into the gardener I am and I adorned her in plants.”

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Cooley says he intends to shoot photos for all the owners who have responded to his Google Form, hoping to gift them prints when the project is complete. Starting in July, he’s headed to Portugal for a six-month art fellowship, but says he plans to continue the photo project later. Cooley would also like to produce an art book of his favorite photos from the project.

He’s also aware that, in some respects, he’s up against a time limit in terms of what he can shoot. He says he spent the beginning part of the project “rushing against the Army Corps” as they were clearing lots, and now he’s trying to photograph rough-and-tumble lots full of nature before their owners level them and start to rebuild.

Calaveras Roses at nighttime.

Calaveras roses photographed for “In the Gardens of Eaton.”

(Kevin Cooley)

Sometimes, Cooley says, he had to shoot on lots where he hadn’t known the owner. When he started the project, he made an effort to track down who lived on the property before he set up his camera, but the process was surprisingly arduous and he’d often lose his intended shot as flowers or plants died or changed shape.

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“It wasn’t practical,” Cooley says. “It’s not that I didn’t want to, but I just couldn’t figure it out. I will eventually, though, and then I’ll be able to present people with a photograph when they’re back in their new homes.

“I just think Altadena is a special place,” he says on a spring day. “Six months ago, it was so depressing to come up here, but now it’s not. It’s still emotional, of course, but seeing all the rebuilding, it’s clear that people see value in being here, even now. When all this is done, if Altadena is even 50% or 75% as special as it was before, it’ll still be great.”

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