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New York Times
23-03-2025
- General
- New York Times
After the L.A. Wildfires, a Race to Save the Tiles, and the Soul, of Altadena
Amid the ash, warped metal and husks of cars, the chimneys appear eerily uniform, each like a tombstone for a burned-down house. In many cases, they are all that is left of the thousands of homes consumed by the Los Angeles wildfires. Fred Van der Linde said his fireplace 'was the only thing that was standing' after the Eaton fire incinerated his century-old home in Altadena in January. Remarkably, its patchwork of historic clay tiles depicting tulips, pomegranate blossoms and medieval knights in shining armor also remained intact. 'My first thought was: I want to try to salvage it,' he said. Mr. Van der Linde's fireplace is among several dozen that were left standing with their historic tiles more or less intact after the Eaton fire tore through Altadena, an unincorporated community in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains north of Los Angeles, on Jan. 7, killing 17 people and destroying more than 9,400 homes, businesses and other buildings. Now, a group of neighbors, masons and other volunteers are racing to salvage the tiles — many of which are at least a century old, and can be worth thousands of dollars apiece — from burned-out homes before they are demolished or stolen. The tiles, many of which were handmade locally in the early 1900s, tether Altadena to its history and are part of the rich cultural and architectural legacy of Los Angeles. For some residents, the effort to rescue them has also become symbolic of the battle to save the community from predatory investors who, in the aftermath of the Eaton fire, have pressured some homeowners in the bucolic enclave to sell their land. 'We're in a battle for the soul of the place,' said Eric Garland, an Altadena resident and one of the people leading the salvaging effort, known as Save the Tiles. Altadena's founders, he said, were reacting to 'a surging modernity, very much like the present moment.' They envisioned a future grounded in the past and revered harmony with nature, Mr. Garland said. 'We know what built the place,' he said, 'and therefore, we know how to rebuild.' The clay tiles, many of which feature textured reliefs of mythic figures and nature motifs in muted, earthy tones, date from the Arts and Crafts movement. In 1910, Ernest A. Batchelder, an entrepreneur and pioneer of the movement, began firing tiles in his home kiln in Pasadena, which borders Altadena to the south. The tiles were often used to embellish fireplaces, which Mr. Batchelder viewed as the 'center of the home.' A majority of the tiles being salvaged are Batchelder tiles, Mr. Garland said. 'He was a genius, he was an artist, he was a public servant and he embodied the best of the California spirit,' said Rusty Areias, a former California state legislator who has installed Batchelder tiles throughout his home in Sacramento County. Mr. Areias, who is not involved in the salvage effort in Altadena, added, 'When you see that patchwork quilt of colors, you just go, 'Wow.'' Mr. Van der Linde, who was known among his neighbors for having one of the most well-tended homes on his block, said that when he and his wife returned to their property for the first time after the fire on Jan. 8, they placed their hands on the fireplace. 'When I touched it, it was still warm,' he said. Within days, looters began trying to chip off the Batchelder tiles. So Mr. Van der Linde called Eric Ramos, who owns an architectural salvage company in Los Angeles, to remove them. 'When we got there, he started crying,' Mr. Ramos said of Mr. Van der Linde. 'At that moment, I realized that I couldn't charge him anything.' In the weeks since, Mr. Ramos and other salvage experts have removed the tiles from more than 70 fireplaces in Altadena, Mr. Garland said. He believes there are several dozen more to go. The work is physically demanding. Though his back and hands ache, Mr. Ramos, who has continued to offer his services free, is racing to remove tiles from as many fireplaces as possible before cleanup crews bulldoze them. Each tile, Mr. Ramos said, can be worth anywhere from about $20 to thousands of dollars, depending on its origin and design. 'All that's left are the fireplaces,' Mr. Ramos said. 'I just felt like I had a calling.' Last month, dozens of volunteers spent a weekend helping to map the surviving fireplaces, Mr. Garland said. Volunteers are working to match those fireplaces with the property owners, so they can contact them to offer to remove the tiles. They have written dozens of letters, sent text messages and emails, and made phone calls, Mr. Garland said, but they are struggling to find them all. 'We are trying to reach more homeowners every day,' he said, 'but we are more urgently trying to beat those bulldozers.' After the tiles are salvaged, they are either returned to the owners or stored temporarily in warehouse space arranged by a donor who is assisting the group, Mr. Garland said. Conservators are also helping to clean and repair damaged tiles. The Los Angeles wildfires are now part of the story of these tiles, said Amy Green, one of the conservators. In some cases, the heat of the fire loosened mortar or burned off residue from tiles that were later salvaged, she said. Anytime she and her team glue a broken tile back together, they do so in a way that it can be disassembled. The goal is conservation, not restoration, Ms. Green said. 'We're never disguising the age of something, or hiding the patina of age,' she said. 'We are stabilizing.' The effort to salvage the tiles is a small part of a broader undertaking to rebuild in a way that honors the region's architectural heritage, said Adrian Scott Fine, the president of the Los Angeles Conservancy. 'Altadena had a very rich, distinctive, unique sense of place,' Mr. Fine said. 'How do you rebuild in a way that meets modern-day codes but still is representative of the look and feel, and the materiality and the scale, of what was there before?' Generations of Black and Latino families have cherished Altadena as an emblem of middle-class prosperity; a place where Angelenos could afford a single-family home. But many residents, mired in complex insurance claims, are now considering whether to rebuild or move on. Dozens of burned properties have been listed for sale, and homeowners have been flooded with all-cash offers for their land. In response, yard signs throughout Altadena declare that it is 'NOT FOR SALE!' There is a fear that an exodus would open the door to expensive new developments, forcing out longtime residents and forever changing the neighborhood's character. Felita Kealing, 61, has lived in the San Gabriel Valley her whole life. The wildfire burned down her home of 25 years in Altadena, but she said there was no doubt that she would rebuild. Though the hardwood floors, molding and other elements of her 1925 Spanish-style home could be reconstructed, she said, they will never have the same character as the original materials. Her tiles, though, were saved. 'Besides our family, or besides the lot,' she said, 'that's the only thing that really connects the old with the new.'
Los Angeles Times
18-03-2025
- General
- Los Angeles Times
‘The only thing still left.' Volunteers race to save Altadena's vintage tiles from the bulldozers
The team of masons, covered in dust and sweat, had been working in the ruins of the Altadena house for hours when a shout echoed across the wreckage. Volunteer Devon Douglas emerged from a pit of rubble that had once been the living room, staggering under the weight of a concrete slab more than a foot wide. 'It's a stair,' Douglas said, turning toward homeowner Valerie Elachi. 'A whole stair, and all the tiles.' It was a bittersweet moment for Elachi, 76, who had danced down that tiled staircase when she and her husband first saw the home during an open house in the early 1980s. She watched from her patio wall as five volunteers chiseled the historic tiles from the stairs and from her massive living room fireplace. Having something to salvage was a gift, she thought, and a bitter reminder of all they had lost. The work on Elachi's home was being done by a ragtag group of volunteers who call their collective Save the Tiles. The group is racing to remove and preserve thousands of vintage and historically significant tiles from the Eaton fire burn zone before the properties are bulldozed by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. As part of their work to remove debris and level lots for rebuilding, the Army Corps tears down everything left standing on a property. That includes chimneys and fireplaces, which can be left structurally weakened by fire. 'Anything you haven't removed is gone forever,' said Eric Garland, one of the Save the Tiles organizers. The volunteers have preserved the tiles from about 50 homes, and have about 150 left on their list. Already, they've had one close call, removing the tiles from one home just two days before the Army Corps arrived. Finding enough skilled masons was the group's first challenge. Now, their biggest hurdle is tracking down the homeowners and getting their permission to remove tiles from their properties. A team of volunteers is using public records to trace homeowners, but they're hitting a lot of dead ends. Property records generally don't contain any contact information, and when they do, the phone numbers are often out of date. In some cases, the numbers ring to landlines that burned down. 'There will be a day, soon, when we wake up and there are no houses in our queue,' Garland said, 'even though we know there are dozens left.' The group's last-ditch effort to reach homeowners is a letter. Mail is still being forwarded, Garland figured, so maybe it was worth a shot. 'Dear displaced neighbor,' the letter begins. '... We are just volunteers and Altadena neighbors desperate to reach you because we want to rescue your historic fireplace tiles for free. That's it. No strings. Just trying to save what's left of beautiful Altadena and bring some joy.' ::: Garland embarked on the tile rescue mission after a walk through Altadena with his teenage daughter. Their house survived the Eaton fire, but many on their street did not, including their neighbor Fred's 1924 Spanish-style house. Amid the rubble, they spotted his century-old fireplace, its gray, brown and beige tiles still intact. 'That beautiful fireplace is all they have left,' Garland's daughter said. Garland emailed the neighborhood list-serv to ask whether anyone was saving the tiles. One response sent him to Douglas, who had written on Reddit that her father, Cliff, a professional mason, was volunteering to remove tiles from ruined homes for free. The teams joined forces. In early February, they gathered dozens of volunteers in the parking lot of an Aldi grocery store in Altadena. Garland and fellow volunteer organizer Stanley Zucker handed out printed maps of the burn zone and sent small groups out on foot, telling them to stick to the sidewalks and photograph any tile that looked remotely historic. In two days, the volunteers completed an ad-hoc architectural survey of thousands of burned properties. They whittled down the list to more than 200 homes with Arts and Crafts tile, many by the famous Pasadena artisan Ernest Batchelder and one of his main competitors, Claycraft. First produced on the banks of the Arroyo Seco in 1910, Batchelder tiles were a key part of the California Arts and Crafts movement, a return-to-nature style that was a response to the ornate designs of the Victorian era and the industrialization of American cities. Most Batchelder tiles are in private homes, but they can also be found on the Pasadena Playhouse's courtyard fountain, the floors of Pasadena's All Saints Episcopal Church and the lobby of the downtown Los Angeles Fine Arts Building on 7th Street. (One of his largest surviving commissions, the 1914 Dutch Chocolate Shop in downtown, is generally closed to the public.) California in the early 20th century was rich with clay and with cultural influence, said Amy Green of Silverlake Conservation, a firm that repairs and restores historic tile. In addition to the Arts and Crafts movement, tile artists began producing a wide variety of works inspired by traditional Mexican and Indigenous designs, as well as European styles like Delft. 'It reflects who and what we are,' Green said. 'A very interesting mix of people that bring different aesthetics and skills to our work.' Batchelder tiles can be palm-sized or larger, with muted matte finishes and understated glazes. A company catalog from 1923 described the tiles as 'luminous and mellow in character, somewhat akin to the quality of a piece of old tapestry.' They could be ordered through a catalog and were relatively affordable, said Anuja Navare, the director of collections at the Pasadena Museum of History, which maintains a private registry of homes with Batchelder tiles. Many middle-class families splurged a little and installed them in new bungalows in the 1910s and 1920s. 'He made beauty available to a person with modest means,' Navare said. The work of Batchelder and his competitors spread to thousands of homes, businesses and civic institutions across Southern California. American tastes changed, and, by the end of World War II, many of the tile companies had gone under. Arts-and-crafts tiles were painted over or ripped out in favor of the avocado greens and burnt oranges of the 1970s. But the tiles have come back into vogue in the last two decades and have developed a cult following among design enthusiasts. Actress Diane Keaton has renovated entire homes with historic tiles, and preservationists have been known to dumpster dive to save Batchelder tiles from the landfill. A single salvaged tile can sell for more than $200. A fully intact hearth and mantle can fetch 100 times that. Early on, the Save the Tiles group was on high alert for looters in the burn zone. Most people would drive past the ruins of a home without a second look at the fireplace, but a select few know what to look for. Cliff Douglas, the mason, said he had assessed several fireplaces along one street and returned to find the tiles gone. It was impossible to know, he said, whether the tiles had been removed by the homeowners or by someone else. The group tackled the most visible fireplaces first, including those on corner lots. One volunteer with Hollywood set-building experience built false fronts to disguise fireplaces as any other fire debris. The tiles must be removed by trained masons, and Save the Tiles now has four crews ready every day, made up of volunteers and workers whose employers are covering their wages. The group plans to start paying the masons from a GoFundMe that has now raised more than $100,000. About 20 volunteers learned from Green how to properly clean, catalog and store the tiles. Some cracked tiles will still need to be professionally restored, which will cost money, but a lot of the work can be done by amateurs, Garland said. Some of them are sitting in boxes on a side porch at Garland's mother's house, and others are in a climate-controlled warehouse in Harbor City donated by a friend in the tile industry. The tiles will wait until homeowners are ready to take them back. The power of the project, Green said, is that the hearth has such importance in the home: 'It provides warmth,' she said. 'It's where you gather.' ::: Despite the pressure of the bulldozers moving closer, removing the tiles is delicate work that can't be rushed. On a recent weekend, ceramicist Jose Nonato stood in the rubble of a three-bedroom home along East Altadena Drive, his hair, forearms and apron coated in dust. The third-generation ceramicist from Mexico City saw a Facebook post about the rescue effort and showed up with his tools. He had been working for hours in the sun on his 30th wedding anniversary to extract tiles surrounding a fireplace. The tiles had been fired once, a hundred years ago, in kilns that reached 2,200 degrees Fahrenheit, Nonato said. He said the Eaton fire had thrown them into thermal shock. They could crumble at any moment. Nonato laid his chisel against the mortar and gingerly began to tap the top of the tool with a hammer. He gently pried loose a tile the size of a paperback book and wiped his hand across the dusty surface. A faint green hue shone through — a Batchelder. By the end of the day, Nonato had rescued about 90% of the tiles and laid them on a blanket in the driveway in the same pattern as the fireplace. A few were broken and held together by red duct tape, but those would be repaired. Soon, the tiles would be cleaned, boxed and stored for the homeowners, who planned to rebuild. 'This is basically the only thing still left,' Nonato said. 'This, and memories.' ::: Elachi, the Altadena homeowner, had initially hoped that the tile volunteers could shore up the massive Batchelder fireplace in her living room so the home could be rebuilt around it. To her disappointment, Cliff Douglas told her that the mortar had been weakened in the fire. Everything would have to come down, he said, or the Army Corps would take it down themselves. Elachi and her husband raised their daughter in the 1923 Pueblo Revival-style home and spent four decades caring for the property, embracing its Southwestern style and finding furniture and art that, along with the pink adobe walls and wood beams above the windows, would have looked at home in Santa Fe. 'This house was like another child to us,' Elachi said. The fire had taken almost all of it: her husband's memorabilia from 15 years as the director of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, their ceramics and furniture, all their photographs and books. The loss felt overwhelming and enraging. They hope to rebuild, but aren't sure yet whether they will.
The Guardian
25-02-2025
- General
- The Guardian
LA races to save a vital piece of history – Batchelder tiles found amid wildfire ash
The mission is clear: retrieve the pristine tiles from a field of ash and rubble. With a hammer and chisel, Cliff Douglas taps on the perimeters of a decorative tile etched with the image of a peacock until it comes loose in his hands. 'We've got it,' said Cliff, a mason racing to save these historic tiles that once defined the architecture of Altadena homes – many of which were destroyed in January's wildfire. Amid the ruins, brick chimneys covered in iridescent Batchelder tiles are the only markers where homes once stood. These tiles are relics of the American Arts and Crafts movement, popular during the turn of the 20th century, when the artist Ernest Batchelder handcrafted the tiles from his backyard kiln. The tiles at the Christensen family's home on Altadena Drive survived a century and a wildfire when the rest of the house did not. To Cliff, known in inner circles as a tile historian, the Christensens' tiles are particularly special because of the unique glaze. Determined to salvage what remains, Cliff and a team of volunteers are working to remove, restore and return these tiles to their owners before the bulldozers move in to clear the debris from Altadena's burn zone. 'This is what the mission is all about,' said Cliff, cradling a tile. 'It's about getting this art out of the fireplace and back to where the owners can enjoy it again.' Days before the fire swept out of Eaton Canyon and took her home, Susan Christensen sat in the living room of her English Revival home watching the Rose Parade – a New Year's Day tradition – on the TV above her Batchelder-tiled fireplace. Now these same tiles are scattered on her front lawn as Cliff taps and chisels through the ruins of her home. Susan wants her fireplace back. Some day in new Altadena, the tiles may be the only throughline to the past. The goal is ambitious: rescue and restore tiles from as many houses as possible, said Darcy Douglas, Cliff's daughter and a member of the family masonry business based in South Pasadena. What started as a weekend tile rescue effort now permeates the Douglas family's life – including their backyard, where many rescued Batchelder tiles wait to be restored. In his downtime, Cliff pieces together broken tiles like jigsaw puzzles and retouches them with the tiniest paintbrush strokes. 'This is the merging of his passion and giving back,' said Janet Douglas about her husband. In January, Cliff was moved to tears as he watched footage of the fire devouring Altadena homes with Batchelder-tiled fireplaces he once restored. He wanted to offer free services to help homeowners save the tiles. He asked Darcy to spread the word. Naturally, she turned to social media. In another part of town, neighbors Eric Garland and Stanley Zucker had also noticed the pristine Batchelder tiles gleaming in leveled neighborhoods. They wondered: who had the expertise to save them? Then they saw Darcy's post offering Cliff's masonry services. Save the Tiles, an ad hoc organization to preserve Altadena's history, was born. It unites community members in a collective effort to rescue as many tiles as possible. 'I mean, posting my dad's phone number on Reddit is always questionable, but I'm glad I did it in the right one,' said Darcy. Since the mission started, the rescue crew has saved tiles from 15 homes, said Darcy. Crews are spread throughout the burn area. At a property on Beverly Way, Martin and Jorge Vargas, a father and son team that has worked with Cliff for 30 years gingerly removes a Batchelder tile emblazoned with an ornate bird standing in a flower field. 'You have to be really gentle,' said Jorge. For now, the rhythmic clicking of hammers and chisels are the only sounds that pierce the silence. No bulldozers have arrived yet, but the army corps of engineers has begun clearing fire-damaged properties of debris, making the tile rescue a race. The scale of the mission is daunting. More than 200 of these Batchelder-tile fireplaces have been identified in Altadena's burn zone, said Garland. Fewer than half of the owners have been contacted and have consented to the tile retrieval. 'We're terrified that this will be an exercise in failure by degree,' said Garland. The new tile rescue organization has many needs, including funds to support Cliff and his crews. They launched a fundraising site to support the rental of storage space and an artist studio for the restoration effort, said Zucker. Their command center is often just an open space on the job site. They also need boxes. 'In my car, we have tiles that are being stored in a burnt-out dishwasher rack because we are working so quickly that we didn't have enough cardboard boxes,' said Darcy. During the tile rescue mission, the homeowners should be present. 'It's a sacred pursuit,' said Garland. Mike Christensen sits on a low landscaping wall next to his wife Susan and watches the crew carefully extract their tiles. He can't stop smiling. He's witnessing the intersection of expertise and passion – both in Cliff and the artist behind the tiles. Starting in 1910, Ernest Batchelder fired his first tiles with a portable kiln in the backyard of his Pasadena home. The tiles' muted tones soon became sought after, and Batchelder's work helped popularize the Arts and Crafts movement in California. The durability of the tiles – to survive both a century and a wildfire – is a testament to Batchelder's craftsmanship, said Garland. His work is emblematic of the movement that gave rise to Altadena. It would be a shame to let the Batchelder legacy end here, said Mike. The rescue service is free for fire victims. If saving the tiles is not a priority, homeowners should allow the crew to save them. 'They're just worth preserving,' he said. For the Christensens, the worst part of losing their home is wrestling with the homesickness that lives in their bones. It's a yearning that constantly whispers. Before the fire, this block was a living piece of California's eclectic history. One home was built by a founder of American Express. Another was rumored to be once owned by the mobster Bugsy Siegel. Here, financial history intersects with mob lore. Mike gestures to a neighboring lot, where another Batchelder fireplace stands alone amid the rubble. Then to another in the distance. The tiles form an unbroken thread. 'We're putting the house back on the same footprint,' said Mike.
