A Zak Barnett Studios long-time student and enthusiast of all things acting and self-discovery, Ava Marilyn seeks to capture the essence of the studio in her writing through her weekly personal experiences and epiphanies and her findings about the deeper self and others. Through these diary entry-type updates from someone actively studying and working through the industry, she hopes to provide an insider’s look into the studio itself, its practices, and its impact.
Los Angeles has been home for as long as I can remember; this city is one of my greatest loves and very best friends. For me, this place represents vibrancy, tenacity, creativity, and possibility.
LA is by nature a place of struggle and grit and dreams—those realized and those yet to be born. It’s where bruised knees, bloodied knuckles, and the undying spirit to fight through the “hard” are commonplace. It is this unique spirit that bonds us most. It’s why we come and why we stay.
We come here to be with dreamers and risk-takers. That connection provides the comfort of family. As hard as this place can be and as wide as the city walls are, I can feel less alone here than in a room back home with people I’ve known my whole life. This place is raw and complicated and real.
To see this sprawling, sparkling city scorched in the ashes of despair evokes a unique sort of pain. As the wildfires consumed the land so quickly, I felt helpless as I watched from afar… away for a season. These places that raised me blazed into unrecognizable shells of a memory.
I’m back now, and it feels so different.
I couldn’t have prepared myself for just how different it would feel. The once fierce spirit of Los Angeles feels broken and tattered.
My soul is aching for all that has been lost, for those who have been displaced, for the businesses and communities that now must rebuild from scratch, and for those who look upon the remains of a home and grieve memories, identities, and lifelong labors of love.
The streets are littered with fragments of stories that can never be replaced. The recovery process is long and uncertain and only just beginning.
When it seems that Instagram no longer cares and everyone moves on, as people do… when the reporters tell new stories… when life elsewhere continues and our grave concerns fade into the distance, and the roads reopen… when the smoke dissipates and the brave blue sky conquers the burning red, the cuts will still run deep. This is gonna take a while.
We are not done yet.
And yet, what is true resilience if not a city full of artists?
Art shines amidst suffering. The untold artistry to be born from this may be just what moves humanity forward the most. And in putting ourselves back together, we will tell new stories because that is what we do. LA is a city of storytellers above all else.
To create is to survive and the healing process is a byproduct of the creative process. We write to know we’re not alone. In our search for a new normal, our art form expands… this is where our artistry becomes a masterpiece.
Art is grief.
Art is the attempt for a semblance of clarity in a world far beyond our comprehension.
Art is sanity. Art is the great unifier.
Art is disruptive and essential. Art is honesty and vulnerability.
Art truly is an antidote, and ultimately, when all can feel lost, art is hope.
There is no shortage of phrases and metaphors that suggest beauty rising from ashes and peace resulting from chaos, but I offer one more.
I recently learned about a unique species of wildflower called Fire Followers. They bloom in specific Mediterranean and California ecosystems and only begin their growth cycle on scorched earth—where a fire has been and where the ground is scarred
As in the ultimate visual aid of a clean slate. All previous plant life has been utterly wiped out.
Similar to the human experience where we get so deep in our brokenness that there’s nowhere to go but “up” and we are forced to start over from nothing.
In its grueling labor, we feel the promise of a phoenix rising and it’s hard, but it’s good.
From the void of death, new life can start.
Then and only then.
And while we wouldn’t choose to walk through the portal of sharp refining, we’re always glad to get to the other side.
And with these flowers, not until everything has been lost, does anything bloom, robust and breathtaking.
The scars will remain, but eventually, some flowers will grow in the cracks.
And so it is with this city we feel we’ve lost.
The landscapes were robbed of palms and palaces, and places we loved.
Neighbors displaced, wanderers searching for home.
Los Angeles is still the one of angels.
It is still our home and though its faces and facades have been ripped from us, we’ll make new ones.
We’ll plant new seeds.
We’ll witness the power of what comes only after something has died first.
LA is still the city of stars, still your home.
