July 1, 2024
Topanga Canyon
The memories of the spaces we have inhabited throughout our lives can be pretty precious cargo. They live somewhere between the stories, the remaining photos, and whatever other evidence you’ve kept in tow. If you decide to return to these places, you risk adding a layer to your memory. It might be great. It might be disappointing.
I recently took a trip to Los Angeles with my family. I was born there and that was where my parents built their custom furniture design business. We visited their old friends, colleagues, and clients and they spent hours reminiscing about how they met and the outcomes of so many choices they’ve made. All in their 70s and 80s, it was an honor to witness their reflections and learnings.
My folks catching up with the owner of Lares, a restaurant they designed the interior of.
One stop brought us to the original home and workshop my folks built that started it all. They named it Casa Pequeña. It was built in the 1970s just off of Topanga Canyon Boulevard and has been a mainstay in the area. It has been bought and sold several times since my family left LA in the 90s to live in Hawaii.
My memories of it revolve around the creek that ran beside it where I spent countless hours catching tadpoles and sending notes to my parents through a hole that was in the second story floor during their notorious dinner parties. It was featured in numerous publications, one of which caught me in a moment curiously peeking through the balcony banisters at the photographers (Old-World Ways : Tomas Braverman Carries on the Traditions of Spanish Renaissance Furniture Makers). I was about 2 years old.
Same location different time. Left is from our recent trip and right is from a Los Angels Times article (January 26th, 1986).
For me, it was fun to see the house. Everything was smaller than I remembered. They had added a lot to the interiors and painted it a rusty red, dramatically different from its original creamy patina. We were lucky enough to get a tour by the current tenets. They were kind and clearly adored the space. That felt good.
But it was a little different for my folks, especially for my dad. This was the place that so much of his identity, passions, and creativity thrived. He knew every inch of that place. My parents laid every stone in the cobbled driveway. It was part of them. Seeing the house was both a warmly nostalgic experience and a mourning one.
My folks peeking through the gate of Casa Pequeña.
Mixed emotions are to be expected and regardless of the sadness woven into the experience, we were so glad we got to visit it. Change do what change do. How we engage with change is up to us but it’s nice sometimes to keep those memories safely tucked away so you can relish in the good ol’ days.
Casa Pequeña in its untouched original glory (circa 1990’s).