I have felt the hand of God in the wrath of the Eaton Canyon Fire and in the grace that spared my home. While I am humbled and grateful by a house that still stands, is it truly a home when all that remains beyond my windows are echoes of lives lost in the deafening silence ?
Fire Storm Triptych 2' x 9' Three panels, acrylic ink and paint on raw Belgian linen
While I am a victim of Southern California Edison’s gross negligence I consider myself more a survivor of the Eaton Canyon Fire. These paintings are created in that spirit and are shared to tell the story, to bear witness to what transpired, the horrors of the event physically, emotionally and psychologically as well as the surreal nature that was left in the wake of it.
Panel 1, East
On January 7th 2025 miles away from Eaton Canyon in Altadena a fault occurred at 6:11pm causing a power surge at an electric tower in Eaton Canyon. The surge caused an electric arc that dropped molten burning metal and sparks into the high brush directly under the tower.
The wind speed was between 60-90mph.
Panel 2, North
The ensuing Firestorm crashed down upon us like a Tsunami of Fire.
Early the next morning as my family and I mourned the loss of our home of 16 years we received a call from a neighbor who told us that our house was still standing and that he and his son were in our garden putting out fires. My son and I raced up there joining neighbors to put out fires with shovels and dirt and water drawn from pools. Two houses were saved.
Panel 3, West
As the sun rose on day two we awakened to the unimaginable, the vast majority of the neighborhood and Altadena itself was gone, only chimneys remained for miles in all directions. I had only seen images of such destruction in old photos of Hiroshima and the bombing campaigns of WW2.
Single Paintings
Racing up to Altadena the morning of the fire, roads were covered with roaring flames and smoke so dark you could not see through it. I was afraid we would drive through the darkness into a raging fire and die. "What had I brought my son and I into...kept resounding in my head"
The orange glow of the sky had been replaced by a grey fog with billowing black plumes of smoke emitted from the raging fires that outlined where homes used to be.
While just a glimpse from the corner of my eye while driving to our home this image continues to haunt me. Electric poles were burning high above our heads, the flames must have been roaring across the sky to do this.
From the center of burned homes single giant flames stood, about six feet high from gas lines that were still active. These were demons that stood menacingly above their kill, boastfully roaring in triumph of their evil deed until they exploded sending them back to the hell they came from.
Passage of Fire
Both sides of the long driveway leading up to the house was on fire, I recall seeing this in a dream years before. White ash looked like freshly fallen snow under the flames.
Neighbors House
Along the shared portion of the driveway we saw my closest neighbors home still actively burning. Overwhelmed by feelings of sadness and guilt that we were spared the same fate we moved on driven by adrenaline, fear and a purpose to put out as many fires and hotspots that threatened our still standing house now with a visceral sense of what failure would mean.
Hell Forest
There is a particular sense of despair to find trees burning from the inside out. We threw water into the glowing crevices and shoveled as much dirt as we could into the burning bases of these trees. Throughout the wooded backyard of our neighbor. I found odd carbonized circles about a foot in diameter and an inch deep. These "hotspots" were fires burning underground, I was amazed upon hitting them with water that the water instantly boiled and steamed. I couldn't help but think that this is what hell must be like.
Sickening Beauty
Like Christmas lights strung on a tree, twinkling flames lit up the branches of carbonized Oak Trees. There was a sickening beauty that I struggle to comprehend.
Pages
What kind of force can burn through a home, liquifying metal, devouring books on shelves, spewing their pages into the burning sky? I found these oddly shaped burned pages from books and magazines spread throughout the neighborhood. This is an actual page set upon the painting.
And then the still set in.
Lost in the Fog
Early morning fog silently shrouds the area creating fading silhouettes of the skeletal remains of homes. It's as if the homes and memories are slowly being erased in reality and in my mind. With the ingrained landmarks of houses gone I have found myself getting disoriented and lost in my own neighborhood. There is an incredible loneliness to it unlike anything I have ever felt.
Squirrel
I discovered charred bodies of squirrels and rats in my yard many deformed beyond recognition. Images I could not have imagined cling to me now.
Land of Ash
I find myself consumed by grief, the echoing suffering of thousands who scratch through the ashes of their lives desperate to find a molten artifact that proves they existed in a life now gone. In the midst of it all there is a haunting melancholy that beckons in the stillness, this colorless land of ash.
...and still spring comes.
Trees and flowers blossom without prejudice to their circumstances "answering the devastation of the wildfire with a fiery passion of their own, bursting forth from ash trumpeting a new cycle of life with almost unbelievable beauty."
From the charred limbs of a tree almost florescent leaves spring forth reanimating what was thought dead.
Sweet Magnolia explodes from the dark.
As a new world blossoms around me a guardian manifests from the ashen world, watching over me he becomes my sole companion in this place.
Flowers bloom at the feet of this bear I no longer feel part of that past world but anew in this place of rebirth.
I Have Returned
I have returned.
When the men fled the mountain in flames,
when the trucks howled through the canyons,
when the birds fell, ashes in their wings,
I remained in the shadows,
pressed against the burning rock,
motionless at the heart of the chaos.
When the men fled the mountain in flames,
when the trucks howled through the canyons,
when the birds fell, ashes in their wings,
I remained in the shadows,
pressed against the burning rock,
motionless at the heart of the chaos.
I know this land.
Before the fences, before the roads, before the concrete.
I walked where the ancients carved prayers
into the living skin of the stones.
I drank from the springs still guarded by spirits.
I carried the memory of the world before the memory of men.
Before the fences, before the roads, before the concrete.
I walked where the ancients carved prayers
into the living skin of the stones.
I drank from the springs still guarded by spirits.
I carried the memory of the world before the memory of men.
I returned when silence fell again,
heavy as the dust of ruins.
I came down from the heights
where the fire left only skeletons of trees
and open scars in the flesh of the hills.
heavy as the dust of ruins.
I came down from the heights
where the fire left only skeletons of trees
and open scars in the flesh of the hills.
I did not knock on the door.
I did not say my name.
I sat there, on the warm earth,
facing the flickering light at the entrance.
I did not say my name.
I sat there, on the warm earth,
facing the flickering light at the entrance.
The man came out.
He saw me. He understood.
He did not cry out, did not step back.
He placed before me fruits, honey,
as one leaves an offering to gods no longer worshipped.
He saw me. He understood.
He did not cry out, did not step back.
He placed before me fruits, honey,
as one leaves an offering to gods no longer worshipped.
I looked at him.
He bore on his face the weariness of watchers,
those who know they have taken too much.
He spoke to me without words.
I answered him without voice.
He bore on his face the weariness of watchers,
those who know they have taken too much.
He spoke to me without words.
I answered him without voice.
Since then, every night, I return.
I watch.
I breathe.
I am the shadow on his threshold,
the memory rooted before his home.
I watch.
I breathe.
I am the shadow on his threshold,
the memory rooted before his home.
He thinks he feeds me.
He thinks he tames me.
But it is he who is changing.
Each night, a little wilder,
a little closer to the fire,
a little closer to me.
He thinks he tames me.
But it is he who is changing.
Each night, a little wilder,
a little closer to the fire,
a little closer to me.
I have returned.
And I had never left.
And I had never left.
Poem by Beni Beeri Issembert
Je suis revenu
Je suis revenu.
Quand les hommes ont fui la montagne en flammes,
quand les camions ont hurlé dans les canyons,
quand les oiseaux ont chuté, cendres dans les ailes,
je suis resté dans l’ombre,
tapissé dans la roche brûlante,
immobile au cœur du chaos.
Quand les hommes ont fui la montagne en flammes,
quand les camions ont hurlé dans les canyons,
quand les oiseaux ont chuté, cendres dans les ailes,
je suis resté dans l’ombre,
tapissé dans la roche brûlante,
immobile au cœur du chaos.
Je connais cette terre.
Avant les clôtures, avant les routes, avant le béton.
Je marchais là où les anciens gravaient des prières
sur la peau vive des pierres.
Je buvais aux sources que les esprits gardent encore.
Je portais le souvenir du monde avant la mémoire des hommes.
Avant les clôtures, avant les routes, avant le béton.
Je marchais là où les anciens gravaient des prières
sur la peau vive des pierres.
Je buvais aux sources que les esprits gardent encore.
Je portais le souvenir du monde avant la mémoire des hommes.
Je suis revenu quand le silence est retombé,
lourd comme la poussière des ruines.
Je suis descendu des hauteurs
là où le feu n’a laissé que des squelettes d’arbres
et des cicatrices ouvertes dans la chair des collines.
lourd comme la poussière des ruines.
Je suis descendu des hauteurs
là où le feu n’a laissé que des squelettes d’arbres
et des cicatrices ouvertes dans la chair des collines.
Je n’ai pas cogné à la porte.
Je n’ai pas dit mon nom.
Je me suis assis, là, sur la terre tiède,
face à la lumière tremblante de l’entrée.
Je n’ai pas dit mon nom.
Je me suis assis, là, sur la terre tiède,
face à la lumière tremblante de l’entrée.
L’homme est sorti.
Il m’a vu. Il a compris.
Il n’a pas crié, pas reculé.
Il a déposé devant moi des fruits, du miel,
comme on pose une offrande aux dieux qu’on ne prie plus.
Il m’a vu. Il a compris.
Il n’a pas crié, pas reculé.
Il a déposé devant moi des fruits, du miel,
comme on pose une offrande aux dieux qu’on ne prie plus.
Je l’ai regardé.
Il portait sur le visage la fatigue des veilleurs,
ceux qui savent qu’ils ont trop pris.
Il m’a parlé sans voix.
Je lui ai répondu sans mots.
Il portait sur le visage la fatigue des veilleurs,
ceux qui savent qu’ils ont trop pris.
Il m’a parlé sans voix.
Je lui ai répondu sans mots.
Depuis, chaque nuit, je reviens.
Je veille.
Je respire.
Je suis l’ombre sur son seuil,
la mémoire plantée devant sa maison.
Je veille.
Je respire.
Je suis l’ombre sur son seuil,
la mémoire plantée devant sa maison.
Il croit me nourrir.
Il croit m’apprivoiser.
Mais c’est lui qui change.
Chaque nuit, un peu plus sauvage,
un peu plus proche du feu,
un peu plus proche de moi.
Il croit m’apprivoiser.
Mais c’est lui qui change.
Chaque nuit, un peu plus sauvage,
un peu plus proche du feu,
un peu plus proche de moi.
Je suis revenu.
Et je n’étais jamais parti.
Et je n’étais jamais parti.
Poem by Beni Beeri Issembert