text ARIA DEAN
artwork MARTINE SYMS
Martine Syms is from Altadena. She grew up in Altadena-proper, while I’m from Pasadena-proper, though much of my childhood was spent in Altadena. I think this was probably one of the first things that I learned about Martine when we met in 2012, at Ooga Booga, the independent bookstore in Chinatown. I was interning there, and she had been founder Wendy Yao’s first intern years before.
Martine was writing and making things about technology and film and art and race. I was starting to make work and write about these things myself. It seemed a strange coincidence that we were from the same area.
There is a critical mass of artists, especially Black artists, who are from or have lived in Altadena. To name a few: American Artist, a contemporary in Black art that deals with technology, and artists from previous generations including Charles White, Betye Saar, and more. In a class of her own, practically the patron saint of Altadena, is Octavia Butler, whose science fiction presented visions of the future not only set in the San Gabriel Valley (Parable of the Sower, most renowned), but reflect its unspoken values and philosophies.
Altadena is more than a quaint suburb of Los Angeles. It’s its own world. Literally an unincorporated community, it’s unlike any other place. People tend to say similar things about places they love, and I’m biased as such, but I truly believe Altadena is a place that carries evidence of other ways to live.
Sure, property as a concept still exists, as do inequalities and frictions, and some of what is beautiful about it looks like an idyllic middle-class suburban fantasy, hanging around past its expiration date (which might be part of what has attracted young families and artists to it in recent years).
I saw someone from Altadena post on Instagram that they felt like they should be trying to defend it from newcomers—new members of the community who profess to know it like a native. But, this user wrote, they knew those who were attracted to the area were attracted in earnest. It carries an old California ethos: an edge-of-the-world sensibility that accepts those who have chosen it.
Now, as Altadena takes stock after the Eaton Fire, we reflect on the magical place we called home.
Aria Dean: What are the first things that come to mind when you think of Altadena?
Martine Syms: I immediately think about there being no sidewalks. It’s very small, but it’s something that people would always mention. I grew up a very curious teen, walking around all the time. So, walking in the street is integral to my memory of growing up there.
I always think about that, too.
It’s kind of, I don’t want to say libertarian, but you know … it’s unincorporated LA, and it’s mountainous. The drive up is always front of mind. You have this vista of the foothills. When you’re giving somebody a ride home, you really are driving into the mountains. In parts of Altadena, like The Meadows, you’re basically right on a trail, very close to wildlife.
I remember when I started being allowed to move around the area on my own as a kid, just using the mountains to navigate. Like, “Okay, if they’re on this side, if they’re this big or small, I know roughly where I am.”
I can do the drive without paying any attention. Those times when you’ve dissociated and you’re like, “Oh, shit, I’m here.”
How do you see Altadena’s relationship to the greater LA area? Altadena is getting kind of cool. Have you been noticing that?
I spent a lot of time in [LA’s] Historical Society archives when I was working on a Triple Canopy project called Solitude, in 2014 or 2015. It was a short story with a character based on Altadena, and a character based on Octavia Butler. Working on that, I started thinking about Altadena
through the lens of a Glenn Gould piece called The Idea of North. It’s effectively a radioplay about the far north of Canada in relation to its cities. It’s the same land-mass, but a drastically different population. That became a metaphor or tool to view Altadena through.
When I was looking at the history of how people got here,I discovered the Wrigleys [of Chicago] had property inPasadena, then bought in Altadena. If somebody was sick, they would send them out there to the sun. Then all the leftist “black sheep” of wealthy families moved there. That’s how all these artists started going.
It has that history, but it was also one of the only places you could buy property as a non-white person in Los Angeles County for a really long time. There was even a council group that advertised it with these ads, which I found in the Historical Society, that were like, “Are you Black? Do you want to buy? This is where you can go.”
Altadena also always had that kind of utopian thread, especially when I was growing up. There were a lot of Black celebrities living there. It was very economically diverse, and one of the more ethnically diverse areas of the LA area, but it also has this weird nature. You’re kind of in the woods very quickly up there.
Growing up, I always wanted to leave, so as a young person I really would go all over. My best friend and I would go to shows and parties everywhere in LA. As an adult, I don’t understand how we did it—what was the quantum state that allowed us to get from Altadena to Calabasas with no car?
I’d hang out in Los Feliz and Hollywood Boulevard because there were always punk kids hanging out. I’d also be in Pomona at the Glass House. I had a friend who worked at a skate shop in deep I.E. [Inland Empire]. I was always like, “I’m going to go.” Now, I remember maybe 10 years ago, a friend was like, “We just bought a house in Altadena.”
Then, at some point in the past few years, I was at a party in New York, and I said, “Oh, I’m from Pasadena.” And the person was like, “Oh, fancy.” I was like, “Well, I mean, I’m actually from Altadena.” And then they were like, “Oh, the hipster one.”
When I got to college, I’d say, “I’m from LA.” And all the West Side kids would be like, “That’s not LA.”
It’s so funny to me. The first time I went to New York, I was 17, visiting a friend I grew up with, who was at Pratt [Institute, in Brooklyn]. My friend said to some West Side kid, “Oh, Martine’s also from LA.” They were like, “Oh, yeah, which part?” I said Altadena, and they were like, “So, not LA.” It literally is, but sure …
Altadena also has this weird feeling to it. For instance, are there any corporate or chain businesses up there? Few, if any, right?
People could have a pretty strong impact on shaping the area—my parents definitely were extremely politically active, as were many of our neighbours. Maybe because it’s unincorporated, they wanted to keep it small-business-friendly and not overdevelop. That’s what I’m afraid of for the future—that it’s just going to get sold to the highest bidder and become a horrible development.
Altadena was also really cool, architecturally—a unique postmodern mix of periods and styles that you only find in California. The part of Highview [Avenue] I’m on had one original Victorian house, then the others were all postwar, like Levittown style. But on the south end of it, every house was designed by Gregory Ain. They’re all mid-century prefab—[almost] all gone now.
I keep wondering what we’re going to do. How are we going to stop Altadena from being [real estate developer and LA mayoral candidate] Rick Caruso’s next project? There are so many families whose money is all in their property. Maybe some can afford to rebuild, but if Rick Caruso or someone swoops in and says, “We’ll give you this much money—”
—yeah, $2 million.
It’s just a devastating concept.
I don’t know what the answer is, but I’m really afraid given the rising conservatism in California. Altadena has a very strong community, so whatever development money comes in, it will be fought. That’s what I hope, but that also feels so far away. They’re going to be cleaning up for a while.
We both grew up in the area. We’re both artists. We’re both Black. We have both made work using or thinking about technology, and we’re also not the only two people who check all of those boxes. What’s up with that—
—what’s going on? [laughs] What’s in the water?
Yeah, what’s in the water?
Your guess is as good as mine [laughs]. I think it’s just that it’s semi-isolated and a little separatist. But it did have a strong sense of blackness that was fairly expansive. You had Charles White and Octavia Butler up there—two people whose work is nothing alike. Maybe you could stretch and talk about Social Realism, but not really because [Butler’s] work isn’t really Realist.
I knew about Octavia Butler and some others, but I didn’t realise until the fires that Charles White lived up there. My mom texted me saying Betye Saar lived up there, too.
So many people, and Sidney Poitier lived up there. The gag is that they lived there because they couldn’t live in other places. There were three places you could buy a home as a Black person.
Did you want to talk about disaster dystopia sci-fi at all? Before we started recording, you characterised the situation as one of losing both the past and the future. What do we imagine now that the bad thing, or one of the bad things, has happened? How does speculation or art-making feel? It’s hard to phrase the question…
I know what you mean. I like what you said before we were recording, like, “Maybe I don’t want to think about that right now. Maybe I’m not into sci-fi anymore.” I was working on something pretty intensely two years ago, and I put it down because I was just like, “I don’t want any more dystopia.” Not even on some posi-shit. I just want to try to imagine something outside of the existing framework.
Were you born in the area, or elsewhere?
I was born in Panorama City, but I was taken as a newborn to Altadena. I lived in Altadena until I moved out when I was 17.
Lifer.
Yeah, lifer.