This Prismatic L.A. Home Is One Big Never-Ending Art Project

PublishedMay 24, 2025 1:32 AM EDT

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OK so I'm wrapping up my conversation with artist and creative directorMaps Rasmussen(who uses they/them pronouns) about their home in L.A.'s Glassell Park when the topic shifts to porcelain clowns. At one point after moving in, their collection was corralled on three shelves opposite the tub in a color-drenched yellow bathroom—one that Rasmussen and a close friend had tiled together (more on that later). Instead of poodles, their current obsession, "there were just clowns, clowns, clowns," Rasmussen says. One day, "I heard a big bang and the whole shelving unit had fallen down, and every single clown crashed into 1,000 pieces." Instead of mourning the loss, they decided to use the shards in a sculptural work. I mean, iconic behavior honestly.

There's honestly no better intro to Rasmussen's generative spirit and practice, plus their whole perspective on the art of making and remaking, of constantly reimagining a home. It was from that vantage point that Rasmussen resolved to find a place where they could invite other artists to live and make work with and around them, back in 2016. "I was thinking about community and just how I can share it," they note. "Having a sacred space that felt really safe for people to be in."

They fell hard for the hillside property in East L.A., covered in plants and shaded by gorgeous old-growth trees. The 444-square-foot house? Not so much. The initial idea was to make a few upgrades, bring things up to code, and call it a day. But after acquiring permits and a construction loan, Rasmussen says a can of worms was opened: "What I thought would be a little renovation turned into a very big, almost complete tear-down." Story of every renovation ever, honestly.

By that point, the artist was already living in a vintage 10-foot trailer parked under a carport next to what would eventually become their studio. Armed with binders worth of references, Rasmussen teamed up with an architect friend to draft plans for the rebuild. Beyond a strong connection to the outdoors, they had a few nonnegotiables: big windows, a rooftop deck, a sunken bathtub, and a built-in reading nook. "I got really excited about getting to design every nook and cranny of this space," they note. (The rooftop deck is still coming. "Eventually I'll get to that." Relatable!)

During construction, the trailer was feeling pretty tight, so Rasmussen tapped another pal to help erect an elevated one-room cabin perched above the main house. Tiered garden beds followed, all while the main house was slowly coming together. Rasmussen leaned in hard—installing bathroom floors, jack-hammering the second bedroom, and building furniture. "It felt like an art project," they say. "There's an intimate relationship to materials when you're building and making something, and I felt that with this house."

That bathroom floor? Honestly a work of art. After giving a friend free rein to design the tile (the only brief:glaze it in white and blue), Rasmussen didn't exactly receive your standard squares or rectangles. "She had this handwritten, mad genius note that showed every tile—I mean, there were hundreds of pieces—and each was like a puzzle piece," they recall. "She made it into this massive undertaking, and it's just so beautiful." Obviously, the only wall color that could do it justice was a contrasting ochre yellow. Perfection.

The original structure's footprint became the framework for the kitchen. The cabinets were supposed to have butcher block countertops, but Rasmussen quickly realized it skewed too dark and pivoted to white stone instead. Similarly, all the upper cabinet fronts and tilework is white—a refreshing contrast to the plywood-and-maple lowers and wood pegboard wall. That space opens up to the living room, where a built-in sofa lines the wall. The chartreuse cushions come off to reveal tons of storage for old art and keepsakes—plus a hidden door that was a retreat for her beloved former cat Auto.

Paired up with a contractor who was game for their "creative impulses," Rasmussen tapped their own set-design background to find inventive workarounds for things that were out of budget. Take the lighting: Instead of splurging on pricey fixtures, the duo collaborated on ceiling cut-outs housing LED fluorescents (peep the one above the bedroom's projector screen). All the doors were also custom made, as was the built-in bookshelf made of large, deep wood cubes—some open to the living room, others open to the second bedroom, like a peekaboo Tetris situation. "I like play and playfulness," they say. "I'm not interested in sterile minimalism." Honestly, same.

With its lush, verdant view, the window above Rasmussen's bed looks more like a piece of framed art—but their bathroom is the real showstopper. An electric blue concrete floor gives way to a sunken tub flanked by nearly floor-to-ceiling windows and a floating vanity with concrete countertops. Installing those windows wasn't just about flooding the space with light, the artist says—it was about providing a sense of freedom, of security with who they and the other people living there are.

Throughout the home, there's this wonderful sense of fluidity and openness—the gallery-white walls creating a backdrop for ever-changing ideas and evolution. "Being an artist, I always want to allow room for things to transform," Rasmussen says. Even when that means moving on from a caboodle of clowns to a medley of poodles. And honestly? That's what makes a home feel alive.

Samantha Weiss-Hills is the managing editor for Domino. She edits and writes home tours and features, and she's the friend who everyone texts for glassware, sofa, and sheet recommendations. She lives in Brooklyn with her husband, Alex, and their beagle-corgi, Elsa.

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