From the Ashes of the Los Angeles Fires. She rises.

Look, I get it. So many people lost everything in the Los Angeles fires, some even their lives. And I also get that not everyone had the right insurance or the agency now to make sure the insurance company put them at the top of the list for payouts. It’s a terrible time of devastation and loss, of grieving and shaking of heads. I get all that.

But this one little story that I got to watch unfold—for some reason, it gives me such solace.

I have old friends who collected great art over the years. They lived in a mansion-ish home in the hills of the Palisades, looking out over the water. When I moved to LA for a few years, I stayed with them for many months while we all postponed me finding a place on my own. It was the best of times.

My friend and I had been roommates in the ’70s, in New York City, when we painted our apartment on 70th St., Grecian Rose, which looked like a bordello from the street but was the backdrop for many a wonderful evening with friends and Charlie’s Angels and gossiping and bags of candy from Gimbels on 86th St. Fast forward 30 years, and I moved in with them again. She and I continued to behave pretty much the same way we did in the seventies, and her loving husband put up with us, cooked for use, and challenged us, and for a short time, we were a little family. And we were surrounded by the beauty of the art—mostly pieces he had collected for decades.

When the fires came, she kicked herself for not having packed up the car in anticipation. They actually left within seven minutes, with only the clothes on their backs, their passports, and a few pieces of jewelry. Everything was gone. The Henry Moore. The Italian plates we ate pasta off of at least a few nights a week. The beautiful, inviting chairs and couches that we sank into to watch television and argue and laugh. The pictures of decades of joy with family and friends.

By then, I was long gone, back to the East Coast—and a political chasm had formed between us as well—but I have memories of having a home there for a short time and what a lovely home they made for us all.

It was all gone. In a few moments. Gone.

She didn’t want to go back and look at the rubble, but he did, and she felt she needed to because of the insurance adjusters, etc. She’s very thorough and very organized. And tough as nails. Trust me, they will pay every dime.

This is her before the fire in their home.

Something extraordinary happened. Their grandson came along, and as he was walking around with his mask and everything else, all of a sudden he reached down and lifted up the terracotta woman on her knees. According to my research, she’s thousands of years old, from Africa, made out of the kind of materials Africa has—partially because you can’t get rid of them with high temperatures. She doesn't mind the heat.

There she is…waiting for them to come and get her.

Her hat is gone, which was on the newer side anyway, but she suffers only little bits of darkness on the top of her head from her ordeal.

I like to think of her sitting in the ash and scorched earth, these last few weeks, wondering what took them so long to come and get her. This was just another moment in time where, if she was quiet and still, she would emerge victorious against fires that have burned for centuries but never brought down a gender as strong as ours.

I wept when I saw the pictures.

I asked AI about her:

This statue appears to be a traditional African terracotta figure, possibly from the Nok culture of Nigeria or another West African artistic tradition. The Nok civilization, which existed between 1500 BCE and 500 CE, is well known for its distinctive terracotta sculptures featuring human figures with elaborate hairstyles, jewelry, and intricate surface textures.

The style of the figure, with its elongated limbs, perforated or stylized facial features, and textured body, aligns with ancient African sculptural techniques used to represent deities, ancestors, or cultural symbols. The posture of the figure—seated with hands on its legs—suggests a form of reverence, meditation, or social status.

That this statue survived a fire in Los Angeles adds another layer of history and resilience to its story. The material—likely terracotta or clay—can withstand high temperatures, which may have contributed to its survival. If the piece has a known provenance (such as coming from a specific African culture, region, or artist), it could be valuable not just in monetary terms but as an artifact carrying deep historical and cultural significance.

Here she is in her new home.

They have a new apartment now, though they don’t have much to put in it. Bookshelves stand empty, and huge walk-in closets will never be full the way they were in the home that’s no longer. And the furniture came with the new apartment, but will be replaced with the plush comfort of conversation-enticing seating areas. It’s an apartment, and it’s lovely, and most people would be ecstatic to live there. And I think they will be too. In time.

My friend had wanted to downsize for a long time. And she says it took an act of God to get her to do it. But now she has two things saved from the fire: the rosary beads, which were in her purse when they ran out—beads she received from her parents for her First Communion—and this wonderful woman on her knees. And, her husband and herself.

I love her, this Tigress who can’t be destroyed. And I love the way she sits on this empty table now, very comfortable—although I hope they get her a new hat.