L.A.’S CREATIVE COMMUNITY
ON WHAT WAS LOST IN THE FIRES AND WHAT IS LIFTING THEM UP
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN C MAGAZINE
PHOTOGRAPHED BY KURT ISWARIENKO
WORDS BY CHRISTINE LENNON
Where else in the United States is there a higher concentration of working artists who are not just subsisting but thriving? An army of composers, painters, milliners, musicians, hair and makeup artists, ceramicists, graphic designers, production designers, interior designers, costume designers, floral designers, clothing designers, writers, furniture makers, healers, and performers of all kinds call this city home. Their work, and the sunshine, is what makes the whole place sparkle. Tragically, the fires hit the creative community extremely hard, and the stories of their loss are profound.
When you ask residents of Altadena and the Palisades who had time to load their cars before they fled what they reached for first, they’ll tell you about their art. After family photos and important documents, they took rare drawings and prints off the walls, or grabbed armloads from a carefully curated vinyl collection. Second to the people and animals that perished, it’s the lost art that haunts people most.
DALE FIELDER, 68
(Pictured above)
Composer, band leader, and multi-instrumentalist (he plays all four saxophones — soprano, alto, tenor, and baritone) who lost his home and studio in the Eaton fire
I came out to L.A. from New York in 1988. I got into the scene here playing at 5th Street Dick’s and founded the Clarion Jazz label in 1993. I met my wife, who lived in Pasadena, and we decided to try living together nearby in Altadena. That was 16 years ago. Most Black folks know about Altadena, but I’ll never forget the first time I went out there. I couldn’t believe how much I liked it. We were sitting on the patio one night and my wife asked me, “Can you see yourself here in five years?” And I said, “You could bury me in that backyard.” We rented the house, but we treated it like our own. We grew tangerines, kumquats, and avocados. I turned the garage into my studio, and I would sit in the lush backyard and express my gratitude.
The night of the fire I was performing at The Baked Potato with one of the top five drummers in jazz, Marvin “Smitty” Smith. My wife and I were heading home at about 1 a.m. and from the 134 we could see all the hillside on fire. Both of us were so quiet.
At home, I could see the flames from the yard and I thought, “Maybe I should put my saxophones in the car?” I was so tired after this gig that I just wanted to rest. Then the phones went off telling us to evacuate.
We ended up at the convention center in Pasadena. I managed to sleep for about an hour. Then I went on Facebook and I saw a neighbor, Louis Van Taylor from Kool and the Gang, said his house was gone. So I went out to see it for myself. When I got to my block, it was gone. I sat in the car and bellowed.
Now everybody knows what we always knew about Altadena. It felt like the best-kept secret. Neighbors respected each other. Especially for African-Americans, that history went back to the 1930s. Even if they rebuild, it’s never going to be the same.
VICTORIA MORRIS, 50
L.A. native, ceramics artist, and Altadena resident who lost both her home and her business in the Eaton fire
In early January, I had a huge amount of orders in various stages of production, from wet clay to two full kilns that were cooling. We had a monster day on Tuesday. We threw in the morning from 8 to 12. We set up new shelves. We mixed new glazes. I remember leaving around 6:30. I knew the power was off at the house, so I said to my husband, Morgan, “Let’s make sure the cats are inside.” I had to walk backward because there was so much debris in the air. As I’m getting into the car, I hear a woman on the street scream, “It’s on fire!” I was trying to be calm, but I know in hindsight I was panicking. We went to the studio and I covered all the work in plastic thinking I wouldn’t be back for a few days to trim it. I left my computers. We drove to Ojai.
We knew the next day that everything was gone. We were watching the news, and it all became really clear. You feel like a five-year-old when you talk about missing your stuff. But it’s so much deeper and weirder than that. Blocks and blocks of houses in West Altadena are just gone. It’s violent, what you see. Walking through my garden is what made me weep. There are wild peacocks that visit our yard. I heard one up in a tree, and I thought, “Are you OK? How did you survive?”
I rented a studio in Ventura and we’re getting settled in. I ordered kilns and they’re on their way. And the outpouring of support from the L.A. community at large has been incredible. It’s uncomfortable for me, but I’m so grateful, and I’m trying to help others when I can. We’ve got to keep going. I know I’m being incredibly optimistic. But there’s nothing left. Why not create a little utopia for people to return to?
TAYLOR JACOBSON, 49, JOHN KNUTH, 46 AND MATEO, 5
Interior designer (Jacobson), painter and community college professor (Knuth), and their son who lost their home in the Eaton fire
We lived in Echo Park for years [says Jacobson], but when we were finally ready to buy a house, nine years ago, Altadena was what we could afford. We felt lucky to find such a special place. It was a diverse community with people who lived there their whole life mixed with young artists. Mateo had just started at a local elementary school and was playing tee ball and soccer, and we were feeling entrenched in the community.
The night of the fire was windy as hell, but in our minds, the wind was blowing in the opposite direction. I went to bed, and then woke up at 2 a.m. I could see the fire from the window. I knew we needed to leave. The thought was, “They’re going to take care of this. We’ll be back.” We packed three days’ worth of clothes, calmly woke up Mateo, and left for our friends’ house in Los Feliz.
The next afternoon, we connected with our neighbor whose son works for the county. He told us our block was on fire. An hour later our house was gone. One of our neighbors stayed behind and saved two houses, but we’re glad ours is gone. I am so worried about the toxicity of the environment. Mateo’s school is open, but I didn’t want to send him back. I’m on a Facebook group for Altadena, and about 90 percent of the community has said they want to rebuild. We don’t. As a designer, I know the cost, the time, and the headache of building a house. I’m just not in the headspace to deal with that. Maybe it’s because those people don’t work in my industry, they have a more hopeful picture? It’s a horrible mess that will take 10 years to come back. I don’t want to live like that, but we’ll hold on to our land in case we change our minds.
KENNETH BROWN, 79
We’ve been living in Altadena for about two-and-a-half years. We moved down from the San Mateo area where our kids grew up. During the pandemic, we came down to be closer to the kids and the grandkids. Before we moved, we looked for a good six months before we found this great two-bedroom house. It had really nice mahogany paneling in the front room, and so many nice nooks. We had to downsize quite a bit when we moved and kept only the furniture we loved, a lot of which I made myself. My wife, Mary, got me a saw 40 years ago, and making furniture is what I love to do. We’d been working on the house for a while and finally got it to the place where we wanted it.
Then the fire came.We love the community in Altadena, which is really diverse and very close. Everyone talked to each other and went out of their way to help. We were at a birthday party when we got a call that a fire was coming down the hill. By the time we got home, the wind was blowing trees down. It was 7:30 p.m. and we had no power. A neighbor came over and said, “We’re not leaving until you get out of here.” Mary was able to grab some jewelry and other important things. We went to Naomi and Adam’s house and spent the night there. The next morning, a neighbor called to let us know that our house was burning. Then we had to evacuate Naomi’s house in the hills, so we went to a hotel in Long Beach.
We’re in an apartment now, but boy, is it expensive. One of our neighbors is a retired lawyer and a great negotiator, and he’s been helping us navigate FEMA. We’re grateful for people who can help us, because we are feeling so overwhelmed. We have plans to rebuild, but it will take a while. We lost everything I made in the fire, and I’m too old now to remake it. But I’ll always have the memories.
Retired auto body worker, former Stanford hospital facilities worker, skilled woodworker, father of producer Naomi Scott, and father-in-law of actor Adam Scott who lost his home and work in the Eaton fire
KATE MARTINDALE, 54
Vintage collector, stylist, interior designer, and costar of the Discovery Channel’s Capturing Home who lost her home and most of her inventory in the Palisades fire
We were renting a beautiful little 1937 Sears kit house. I’m a decorator and a stylist and my home was where I could really be me. It was like a laboratory. My house was my “kit” with all the props I use. I’m always late when I leave the house for a shoot because I scan my living room and grab 10 more things to load in the car. My garage was filled with art, pillows, ceramics, and books. That’s all gone.
I’ll be honest: Right after the fire, I swore off buying vintage. I only wanted new things that can be replaced, not the one-of-a-kind stuff that I had, but those feelings lasted for about a week. I had a bowl from the 1800s that survived without a single chip, and then it’s just gone in a fire in the Palisades? Now that everything is gone, I’m thinking I’m going to do it differently this time and start over on the East Coast.
I was in New York shooting when they fire happened, and my husband and my daughter, who was in town for the holidays, called me when they had to evacuate. I told them to take four pieces of art that are worth money, and then they left. My husband says that there was a reason I wasn’t home that day, because if I had been, I would have tried to save everything, and we may have gotten trapped. I left the day before and I remember thinking what a beautiful day it was, and how lucky we were. The next day, it was gone.
ALEC EGAN, 41
Painter, lifelong resident of the Pacific Palisades, and father of two who lost his home and his studio in the Palisades fire
I grew up splitting time between my parents’ houses. My dad lived in the Palisades. I loved being from there and I wanted to raise my kids there. Then when my wife, writer Harper Dill, was pregnant with our first child, we took over the house. That’s one of the saddest things. There were old pockets of the neighborhood where generational families still lived. Now they couldn’t afford to live there anymore.
The morning the fire started, we saw a single plume of smoke from our bedroom. Within an hour, the sky was black. Our nanny took our baby and went to pick up our daughter at preschool, so they got out before they had to see the harrowing scene of people evacuating. Families were running from St. Matthews. Cars were melted to the ground.
My studio was in my home, and it’s all gone. I have a couple of shows coming up, Frieze and Hong Kong Basel, and I have to start from scratch. We were able to mount one exhibition with some work that was in inventory that went to the San Francisco Fog Art Fair. Now I’m working in one of gallerist Anat Egbi’s spaces on Fountain Avenue, and we’re renting a house in Melrose Hill. The generosity of the community has been hard to feel. I’ve been experiencing intense confusion for a long time with adrenaline involved. The great thing about being an artist is it’s not only a great form of catharsis, but also a great distraction. Being in an empty studio is really helpful. I was so stressed, but those four white walls were a refuge.
When you drive through the Palisades now, it’s bizarre to see what looks like an atomic bomb hit. For young families like us that aren’t billionaires, rebuilding is going to be a long haul. We hope to find the plans for our house through the city and build again. Maybe it won’t be terrible? Maybe every house won’t look the same? But I am not living in an optimistic space right now. It’ll take a minute.