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"The evening of January 7, 2025 almost felt almost romantic at first. Outside, the wind was doing that full-throated howl that rolls down the hills of Altadena during the Santa Anas. Inside, with the electricity out-not uncommon up here on a windy day-my husband, kiddo, and I posted up in the living room surrounded by all the candles I could find. We played music-me on the guitar, my husband on ukulele-under the beams of our 1930s Spanish home."
"Demonstrate faith. Don't take everything. Trust you'll be okay. Trust the house will be okay. My brain went into a weird, rule-based mode, like I was following instructions from a disaster movie: Don't take what can be replaced. So I grabbed passports and important documents and stuffed them into a tote. I went into my closet and started choosing jewelry like I was curating a museum exhibit with seconds to spare."
"But another voice in me, sharper and more profane, shouted back: Don't be an idiot. Take your shit. There was a push-and-pull during those wild twenty minutes as I moved through the dark with a phone flashlight, ripping my paintings off the walls, gathering my wedding dress and boxes of photos. I blew out all the candles. Everything suddenly smelled like smoke."
On the evening of January 7, 2025, Santa Ana winds howled while electricity was out in an Altadena 1930s Spanish home. The designer, her husband, and child gathered by candlelight and played music. A report of a hill fire prompted frantic evacuation. She followed a rule-based plan—grabbing passports, documents, jewelry, wedding dress, paintings, photos—and wrestled between leaving replaceable items and taking personal treasures. She collected her child and two cats and loaded them into the car. Her husband returned and began hosing down a giant Italian pine to protect the house. The house and surroundings soon filled with smoke.
Read at Architectural Digest
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