Michael Tessler is founder and principal of Responsive Homes, a real estate development company in Los Angeles that utilizes ecological design and building science to create beautiful, low-energy buildings. Michael is an alumnus of UCLA and holds a Master’s of Real Estate Development from USC.
L.A. Forum Board Member Danielle Rago speaks to Michael about his interest in ecological design through two key projects: Fig / R1 and Isabel.
Danielle Rago: How did you begin working in the design and development space?
Michael Tessler: I got into it unintentionally, right out of college. I graduated from UCLA in 2009 during the Great Recession. I had been interested in urbanism ever since reading The Death and Life of Great American Cities by Jane Jacobs. I was teaching music at a middle school in Boyle Heights and was passing by a real estate office in Cypress Park every day. I knew I’d be out of a job for the summer, so I asked if they needed an intern or even just a gopher. They said no, but I offered to work for free. Three months later, I had my real estate license.
This was amidst the global financial crisis—foreclosures, short sales, evictions. I was working with both first-time homebuyers and investors flipping houses. At that time, I was incredibly naïve – I hadn’t even heard the word “gentrification”. Through my work with the Cypress Park Neighborhood Council, I met a man who had grown up in Northeast LA and lived through the street gangs of the '80s and '90s and had a very different perspective on the changes that he was seeing. When he told me straight up that what I was doing was harming the neighborhood, it shook me.
I’d already felt uneasy, mostly about the construction quality of the house flips that the office was doing. But that moment was catalytic—I realized I couldn’t keep going down that path. I had a bit of a crisis of self, and moved to rural Sonoma County – I wanted to plant an orchard.
Up there, I was exposed to permaculture through the Occidental Arts & Ecology Center. That place has a rich history—it was formerly the site of the Farallones Rural Institute in the 1970s. One of the founders was Sim Van der Ryn, a pioneer in modern ecological architecture. He had been California’s state architect under Jerry Brown in his first term. They used the site to experiment with passive design strategies—different roof forms, window orientations, thermal mass, earthen and timber-framed construction. It was all data-driven and intended to influence public policy. Then Reagan got elected, subsidies disappeared, and a lot of that momentum was lost.
I had gone up there thinking I’d never participate in anything to do with real estate again. But being around that environment—these deeply sustainable buildings and permaculture principles like closed-loop systems—I began thinking: what if I brought these ideas into architecture and development?
Danielle: What were your next steps, and how did you incorporate sustainable principles into the built environment?
Michael: At that time, I started with a small single-family renovation in Sebastopol. It was a modest 700 sf ranch house, but it was a first foray, where my primary focus was sourcing recycled, reclaimed, and used materials – hardware from Urban Ore in Berkeley, appliances from Craigslist, Heath Tile overstock room in Sausalito. With a small project like that, it’s fairly easy to source the majority of hardware, finishes, and appliances from secondhand sources if you have enough lead time. The most sustainable material is the one that doesn’t need to be created for your project. If you’ve ever visited a landfill, you understand the immense problem of resource waste in the current American model of construction. That’s also where I learned the importance and potential of earthen materials. I worked with a clay plaster artisan named Janine Björnson—a super talented natural builder. Through her work, I was introduced to clay and lime plasters, which are not just beautiful but have been proven by building scientists to improve indoor air quality. Clay plaster, in particular, can be repaired easily by the end-user and has minuscule levels of waste in the application process.
Danielle: What came next after that project in Sebastopol? How did your journey lead you back to Los Angeles, and how did those early sustainable experiences shape your work moving forward?
Michael: I grew up in the San Fernando Valley and feel like I know LA’s flaws intimately. Living in West Sonoma County was beautiful in many regards, but it also felt like I was abandoning the place where I could actually make a contribution.
I believed (and still do) that if sustainable development can work here, it can work anywhere. L.A. in the modern era has been a laboratory for single-family innovation, unlike New York or European cities, where the opportunities for young architects, designers, or developers are mostly residential interiors or commercial space. In L.A., you can experiment holistically with an entire small building.
So I moved back to LA in 2014 and started working with an architect on a new construction single-family home on Figueroa in Highland Park. When that architect proposed a beautiful, but very West LA design, I realized I needed to find someone with a more grassroots understanding of the neighborhoods surrounding the project. Shortly thereafter, by sheer luck, I met Daveed Kapoor at an ADU conference at the A+D Museum downtown.
Danielle: Can you share more about your partnership with Daveed Kapoor? What drew you to working with him, and what qualities do you look for in a collaborator?
Michael: Daveed and I were a couple of the only people who biked to the event. We happened to leave at the same time, heading in the same direction, so we biked and chatted about the city – it wasn’t until the very end that I even found out he was an architect. Shortly thereafter, I released the architect I had been working with on the Fig house and hired Daveed.
The design collaboration was long, messy, and fascinating. We iterated a lot of ideas back and forth – we complemented and also challenged each other. Daveed has a deep knowledge of art, architectural history, and Los Angeles’ urbanism. I was still learning many architectural basics, but I brought a strong understanding of passive design, natural materials, and permaculture sensibilities.
When I had asked Sim Van der Ryn’s advice on whether I should go back and get an M.Arch, he told me, “Don’t go to architecture school. Just design a project yourself and hire a structural engineer. You’ll learn more and it’ll be cheaper.” He was right in some ways, but I also knew I needed more guidance than just a structural engineer.
Danielle: Let’s talk about your first project together—Isabel, which also became your home. How did that collaboration unfold, and what did you learn through the process of designing and building it?
Michael: Originally, this house was going to be built for sale. But once we started with Isabel, I realized with all of the experiments that were going into it—and much of my heart—that I couldn’t imagine selling it. We used Thermacork panels, clay plaster, LA River gravel terrazzo countertops, Angel City Lumber urban lumber floors, Douglas fir structural beams, metal roofing, south-facing transom windows on a parcel with 0-5’ yard setbacks. It was a wild architectural experiment on a shoestring.
Unfortunately, much of the construction, management, detailing, means and methods, and inspections ended in a minor disaster, whereby my permits were revoked for 18 months.
Isabel was built at $500 per square foot (total development cost) in 2018, but the construction process was totally unscalable.
Danielle: How did the experience of building Isabel—both the successes and the challenges—inform your approach to your next project, Fig // R1?
Michael: With Fig, I didn’t want to repeat the same construction mistakes. A friend I had made while I was building Isabel, Corey Ruppert of Salt Mine Design-Build, came on board as GC. He was passionate about the same things and had a great team. We started construction in May 2019, and it was a dream compared to the nightmare of Isabel.
All the details came out right. The house was a narrow 12'2" three-story, Type V over podium, but the foundation could’ve supported five stories. So in many ways, it became a petite prototype for multifamily units.
When I sold it, I had just completed my Master’s degree. I always knew it was at best going to just break even. But I didn’t want to compromise on quality and craft—and we didn’t. But the tradeoff showed up in the budget.
What surprised me was the market’s response. One major issue in LA is that building something durably doesn’t get acknowledged or valued when it's time to sell. For example, there’s almost zero incentive to use metal flex conduit over Romex, even though there’s a marked future-proofing that comes with the former.
I listed the house for $1.1 million. The total development cost was $1.25 million. And that’s with me not taking a salary for over three years. I was designing cabinets, collecting gravel from the LA River (very sensitively), and Corey was working for a pittance of a builder's fee. Subcontractors, too—though they were less idealistic.
But we got lucky with some—our framer was amazing. We framed the whole thing using beautiful lumber—ACX plywood, Douglas fir select structural beams, 4x4s in the wall—for $55,000. That’d be $300K–$400K today. So, to build that house in 2025? Probably $2M+. And a typical developer would never build it.
Danielle: Can you walk us through the material palettes for both Isabel and Fig? What guided your choices, and how did your priorities evolve between the two projects?
Michael: Fig has concrete on the basement and first level—both structural slabs. Upstairs, we used Angel City Lumber ash for stairs and landings. The exterior is cork. We fabricated LA River terrazzo countertops again. I worked with the same fabricator on both houses–Charles Cowie–an incredible craftsman.
The palette didn’t change much—Isabel helped me discover the material language for these passive, durable homes. I’m not trying to build cheap. I’m trying to find the sweet spot—cost, quality, speed, and ecological impact. I find that to be a missing variable in most “pick two out of three” development conversations.
Most materials in the U.S. are shipped from across the world. But we have stunning local resources—they’re just not integrated into the building system. And the truth is, in most LA projects, the developer is the most powerful person—not the architect. That’s why architects need to become developers. Or developers need to care more about the residents, the environment, and the city.
And durable materials? They age better. People take care of them. They don't get ripped out after 10 years. The most sustainable building is the one that lasts the longest and is most loved.
Unfortunately, today’s multifamily buildings won’t last 200 years. They aren’t built to. Developers don’t plan to hold them that long— many sell them within 5–10 years. So why invest in durability?
Danielle: You found success with your single-family model—both in design integrity and proof of concept. What motivated your shift away from that approach, and what new direction are you pursuing now?
Michael: While these two homes may be architectural successes, they certainly weren’t business successes.
I had attended the Ross Program at USC, and while I was under construction with Isabel, I decided to pursue a Master’s of Real Estate Development. I wanted to really understand the nuts and bolts of real estate—specifically, financial underwriting for large, multi-unit projects.
My vision shifted to multi-family, and I needed to prove a model for myself. And the only reason I was able to do these projects was 10 years of small land acquisitions in LA. Starting in 2010, I began a visual survey of the surrounding neighborhoods where I lived, identifying vacant lots—like Fig. It was a weird little lot, one of six subdivided 50' x 50' parcels at a corner that was formerly zoned commercial, which historically had a streetcar running in front of it.
I knocked on the neighbor’s door and asked about it. Their son owned it, and a few months later, he sold it to me. We became friends—I’d sit in their living room and talk. I was always aware of the impact on them. I’ve lived in the backyard of construction projects—I know what that’s like.
Danielle: As you transition into long-term multifamily development, how are you thinking about designing for longevity—both in terms of the buildings themselves and their impact on the communities around them?
Michael: Initially, I thought it was just about design and materials. But it’s more fundamental—it’s the financial structure. If your model is “build to sell,” you can’t justify long-term quality. The returns don’t show up in a 10-year pro forma.
You need a different financial model. Maybe it's a low-return, long-horizon investor. Or a community land trust whose timeline is forever. That’s the most exciting model to me. Not quite funded yet in LA, but there’s momentum.
Ultimately, we’re just kicking the can down the road. These short-lived buildings will be redeveloped in 30–50 years. We should be building structures that are beautiful, cherished, and won’t need to be redeveloped. But that requires policy shifts—subsidies for durability. It’s a huge missed opportunity.
Danielle: How do you choose the neighborhoods you work in, and what factors—social, historical, or environmental—shape those decisions?
Michael: All Northeast LA. Cypress Park, Lincoln Heights, and Mount Washington are areas I know deeply. I’d never build in a neighborhood I’m not embedded in. Too many developers don’t live anywhere near their projects—they’re just capital moving through cities. That’s a big part of the problem.
When you’re doing a single-family home, it's very different. I know all my immediate neighbors. You have to be a decent human being—have compassion, apologize, care about their utilities, and offer some money for the inconvenience. If their car gets dirty, maybe buy them a car wash. But I haven’t done multifamily yet, and I haven’t done the outreach that it requires. That’s why I’m so interested in working with community land trusts. That kind of outreach requires its own expertise.
When you’re doing large multi-family buildings, many developers can skip community engagement altogether if the entitlements don’t require it. Most developers think it saves time, money, and risk to not engage. But I think about the community a lot. With a single-family home, you’re just dealing with your direct neighbors. But when you’re putting up a 20-unit, four-story building next to a single-story home, that’s a serious change in quality of life. There should at least be a conversation—or compensation.
Danielle: Your work clearly prioritizes environmentally responsive design. How do you see your approach differing from more conventional residential development in L.A., and what role does climate-specific vernacular play in that vision?
Michael: A lot of what gets built today ignores basic passive design. It's wild. Some architects only think about daylighting in aesthetic terms. They’ll orient a giant west-facing window for the view without thinking about glare or cooling loads. A simple, operable exterior awning could solve that.
It’s absurd that people are still using black and dark color paints for building exteriors in Los Angeles. If there was one single design decision that has no cost difference associated with it, but a massive energy load difference associated with it, it’s exterior paint color.
We're so used to mechanical ventilation—AC in homes, offices, cars—that we forget how buildings should work with the climate. In terms of window shading, I have heard people say “that’s why we have blinds,” but blinds/curtains/shades only reduce visual glare. Most of the heat is through the glass and inside the building by the time it hits the shade. In Europe and the Mediterranean, you see exterior shading everywhere. That’s vernacular architecture as a response to climatic and material constraints—the natural development of which hasn’t yet occurred in Los Angeles.
I feel strongly we need to invent a new vernacular architecture—one that fits our climate. Cork, for instance, while not a local material, is carbon-neutral. It has the same insulation value as fiberglass, but it’s rapidly renewable, biodegradable, and can be used as exterior cladding without treatment. As it comes from the bark of the cork oak, which regrows every 7–9 years and the Mediterranean cork industry’s value comes from its older trees, meaning 40+ years old, without cutting them down. It supports local ecosystems and sequesters carbon. I went to the Alentejo region in Portugal to see the cork harvest myself before using it on Fig.
Danielle: In developing a new vernacular architecture tailored to Southern California’s climate, have you encountered any challenges using cork, and how have you addressed them in your projects?
Michael: Yeah, it holds up well—with proper detailing. I visited a 25-year-old cork-clad hotel in Portugal, and the only damaged panels were ones splashed by chlorinated pool water. In L.A., we’ve had issues like neighborhood cats scratching it. In the Pacific Northwest, woodpeckers try to store acorns in it. You can sand it down to refresh the surface. It starts out chocolate brown and fades to blonde over time. It ages beautifully.
Danielle: Considering that most homes in Los Angeles are clad in stucco, how does cork compare in terms of performance and aesthetics? And how do you balance using materials like cork with more traditional or industrial choices like concrete in your projects?
Michael: When you compare it to stucco or cement board, cork is more dynamic and alive. Cement stucco cracks easily. Lime plaster, which we used on Fig, is way more forgiving and patinas over time. I regret not using lime plaster on Isabel’s garage—it would’ve aged better.
I still like concrete, though. Monolithic concrete walls and floors, if detailed properly, can be beautiful and enduring. That might sound off-brand for someone who identifies as an ecological builder, but I try to think holistically—about life cycles, biodiversity, carbon, and how materials feel and age.
Danielle: I really like the term ‘ecological builder.’ Would you say that better defines your identity and approach compared to the label ‘developer’?"
Michael: Probably “designer-developer,” though I lean toward designer. I don’t love the term “developer” because I don’t really relate to most of the people who hold that title. I'm the anti-developer developer. The double agent. As real estate developers largely determine the built environment in this country, it’s clear we need more conscientious people to enter that role.