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September 04, 2012

Photo Essay: Before Malibu Was Malibu

[Last updated 8/13/20 6:02 PM PT—some minor edits to text and layout]

Malibu is now known for its scenic beaches, active surf, and imposing mountains whose rocky soil gives rise to enough grapes for an entire wine industry to spring forth. Vista-seeking celebrities and socialites have flocked there since parcels were first leased to the public in the late 1920s (and still populate what's now the gated community of Malibu Colony).

But before that, Malibu secured its place in Southern California history in surprising and fascinating ways: the former native Chumash settlement became a sprawling rancho operated by May K. Rindge and her husband Frederick, who purchased it as the final owners of one of the last Spanish land grants.

Frederick preserved the integrity of his land by warding off the encroachment of the Southern Pacific Railroad with the construction of his own tiny, private railway. After his death, the Widow Rindge couldn't prevent the future Pacific Coast Highway from being built right down the middle of her prized rancho, which she was now running.

And so the pristine beachfront property, once known to the Chumash as Humaliwo ("where the surf sounds loudly"), evolved into present-day Malibu.

The Adamson House, situated at what was the center of the rancho, was originally built in 1929 not only as a vacation home for May's daughter Rhoda Rindge Adamson and her husband Merritt Huntley Adamson, but also primarily as a showcase for the tiles from the factory May founded, Malibu Potteries.

Although it only operated for six years during the heyday of California's decorative tile manufacturing before burning down in 1932, Malibu Potteries established Malibu Tile in the world of ceramics, a legacy that is being honored by several modern tile manufacturers (e.g. Malibu Tile Works, Catalina Classic Tile Co., Malibu Ceramic Works, Native Tile and Ceramics).


Neptune Fountain

But there is nothing like the original. And so, on the beach by the Malibu Lagoon at the mouth of Malibu Creek, the Adamson House stands as a reminder of what Malibu once was.



Designed by architect Stiles O. Clements with a number of Moorish influences in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, the house features decorative elements derived from Islamic art.



The original paving stones are still set in the courtyard...



...and both the interior and exterior of the house resemble a combination of a castle...



...and a ship.



There's even a turret.



But while even the windows are ornate in their design...



...including some stained glass...



...the real attraction of the Adamson House is the tile.



At the front entrance, a cacophony of broken tile pieces confuse evil sprits at the doorstep (which apparently can only travel along straight lines).



There are tiles everywhere - both inside and out - and in every style offered by Malibu Potteries at the time, including the distinctive cuerda seca style of keeping the colors from running by outlining them in black (a technique also seen in art of the Islamic world) and the cuenca method of depressing the pattern into the clay so the colors would sink in and not run into each other (also seen in Spanish tile).



Unfortunately, photos are not allowed inside the house...



...but there are plenty of tiles to be seen outside...



...lining every fountain...



...on every patio...



...and even at the poolhouse and pool...



...to which you need a docent to give you access.



The pool, with its stunning ocean view, was constructed by combining decorative and utilitarian tiles...



...those immediately surrounding the pool's edge having a non-slip surface.



The original wooden diving board still hovers over the honeycomb tile pattern at the bottom of the 10-foot deep end...



...as does the original ladder, which descends all ten feet down to the bottom.



It's really a shame...



...because the only light of day that the pool house ever really sees anymore is through a couple of original windows...



...and it's been a long time since any clothes hung off the rods in the outdoor laundry room.



In fact, although the Adamson House has been carefully preserved (including its furnishings, which were painstakingly catalogued and locked away during the years after Rhoda's 1962 death, after which the State of California leased the property to Pepperdine University), it really has not undergone any restoration. Amazingly, it doesn't seem to need it: The only tiles that really show any wear and tear  (despite many of them exposed to constant sunlight and moist air conditions) are those on the kitchen floor, presumably because of heavy foot traffic.



Among the historic relics outside the house along the rest of the property include an original railroad tie which was found nearby...



...the original greenhouse of Rhoda, who was an avid gardener...



...and a relic of original flooring from the burned-down Malibu Potteries factory, which washed ashore out of the Pacific Ocean.

The Adamson House's presence on Malibu Beach is now somewhat eclipsed by the surfers on Surfrider Beach, sportfishermen on Malibu Pier, affluents at upscale restaurants and shopping, and lots of cars passing by on the highway.

But if you look beyond the trees, behind the stone wall that marks the estate, you'll find one of the many treasures of LA's historical past.

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: Mosaic Tile House, Venice
Photo Essay: Tile House, Hollywood Hills

September 02, 2012

Photo Essay: RMS Queen Mary, Magic Hour to Dusk



This weekend was the annual Art Deco Festival hosted by the Art Deco Society of Los Angeles on the Queen Mary, a streamlined cruise ship whose Art Deco interiors have attracted tourists and visitors since its permanent mooring in Long Beach in 1967.

The opening night party - and monthly edition of ADSLA's Cocktails in Historic Places - was free and a good excuse for me to not only explore Long Beach a bit, but to get a good look at the oceanliner, which I'd previously only visited last year during their annual haunted house. I didn't get to see much then.



I was thrilled to walk the deck and the promenade freely during the Magic Hour...



...unaided by a tour guide or an audio tour, unfettered by security staff.



My photos were uncontaminated by tourists...



...and as the sun set, the only thing that got in my way was my own shadow.







The lifeboats still hung low, their red-painted interiors chipping and peeling from disuse...





...as the gulls perched to take in the late-day view.









I more or less followed the path of the self-guided tour without the companion audio tour, visiting the Radio Room, the Captain's Quarters, the Chart Room and the Bridge, examining the Stone System, the hydraulic door controls, and the swimming pool filling mechanism without disturbance.











But as night began to fall, I felt that I should join the cocktail party that I'd come to the Queen Mary for. And at first, I was delighted at the costumed attendees, decked out in suits and dresses of The Great Gatsby time period, adjusting their ties, repinning their hats, lighting up the dance floor and sipping their drinks.



And then I realized: everyone was dressed to the nines, outfitted to the hilt for the Art Deco era.

That is, everyone except me.

At first, I thought I must be the youngest party-goer there, but as the evening wore on, I started to spot couples my age, and then couples even younger than me. And then I wondered: where did these people come from? And, more importantly, how did they find each other? Flying solo, I particularly stuck out because any other attendee who wasn't part of a couple was embedded into some kind of like-minded group, deep in conversation. The one person I knew - though not well - would have been impossible to extract from his social circle.

In present day, modern society, these Prohibition-era patrons might be considered freaks, but at their party, during their festival, in my black and white striped maxi dress which I thought was at least "nautical," I was the freak.

And, attending alone, improperly costumed, not only was I an anomaly and quite literally an anachronism, but I was also somewhat of a novelty. Those who did strike up a conversation with me only wanted to point out how alone I was and how much I didn't belong.



It's amazing when you visit an Island of Misfit toys and you're too much of a misfit to belong there. You get turned away, even from there.



But, in truth, I hadn't gone to the Queen Mary for drinks, conversation, or even romance. I went for the ship itself.

And that, I got my fill of.



So, after only a swig of pink wine, with the Port of Los Angeles twinkling in the distance under a swath of twilight clouds, I disembarked, returned to my car, and drove inland, home.

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Get a Move On

Whenever I'm unemployed and have a lot of free time on my hands, I try to take the opportunity to spend my time wisely: not only by exploring the nether reaches of wherever I am or can afford to go, but also by repaying my karmic debt.

Instead of feeding the homeless or embarking on some other socially-responsible volunteerism, I try to help those in need from my immediate social circle. If someone complains of illness, I offer to visit. (They almost always decline.) If they are apartment hunting, I offer to accompany them on viewings. And when they are ready to move, I offer to help.

I know how hard it is to move. And I know how hard it is to ask for the help you so desperately need.

Having moved several times over the years without help from my own parents, I always had to depend on others: Nicki's mom from dorm-to-dorm, Maria on graduation night, Tim through the Holland Tunnel and to NYU in the pouring rain, Terry's parents to Brooklyn, Anthony, Michelle, James, Alex, Dan, Edith, Eric... So, if I don't have the opportunity to repay those who have helped me in the past, the least I can do is pay it forward.

I still feel pretty new in town after having been in LA for a year and a half, so truthfully, anyone I volunteer to help isn't that good of a friend, or a person I know very well. But that doesn't stop me from offering. Given my health situation, I can't do much heavy lifting, but sometimes it's good to have an extra body on hand.

I was glad when a friend took me up on my offer this weekend, and let me help him, even if it was only to act as the lookout at the open, half-filled truck parked at a red curb bus zone, warding off thieves and parking enforcement.

But the saddest fact of my life is, as much as I was glad to help out (though I really didn't feel like I did very much), what I really appreciated - and what I think motivated me from the time I initially offered - was the opportunity just to hang out.

And after all of the expressions of gratitude and appreciation once it was over - the commentary that "This was really nice of you" - all I wanted to do was thank them for letting me hang out.

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September 01, 2012

Photo Essay: Oviatt's Art Deco Penthouse, At Night

[Last Updated 3/22/18 9:41 PM PT]

When visiting the Oviatt Building, anyone can gawk at its ornate Art Deco cornice from across the street, and examine the lovely Lalique glasswork from the front entrance.

But when anyone enters the building - probably through Cicada, the restaurant that now lays claim to the ground floor once occupied by Oviatt's men's clothing store - they lose nearly all sense of Art Deco, since the building itself is Italian Romanesque, and the interior was designed in the style of English Jacobian.



However, upon the rare chance of getting to take the center elevator up, one can find an Art Deco masterpiece perched atop of the roof of the Oviatt Building, in the form of the penthouse where James Oviatt himself lived until his death.


circa 2018

The view of Downtown LA is a bit different than in Oviatt's time—now surrounded by stark, corporate high-rises that dwarf the Oviatt Building's comparatively short stature.



Nearly all of the penthouse's furnishings were sold off in 1974 after Oviatt died (except the dining room table), but there are some Art Deco details that remain, and have been restored: the "spider web" flooring...



...some original sand-etched decorative glass windows (similar to that found in the front courtyard on the ground level)...



...and the bed. Though, not the bedding.



The bathroom is truly phenomenal, with its two sinks (the second for shaving), carved plaster walls (made to look like wood)...



...toilet hidden behind a mirrored closet door...



...and tiled steam and massage room.



Though the building was completed in 1928 during Prohibition, Oviatt commissioned an elaborate, custom bar to be built, which still stands in excellent condition...



...as do the shelves and fixtures in the tiny study off the main room.



The Penthouse (like LA itself) is also full of surprises, utility hidden by decorative elements. A sliding drawer in the dressing room, when pulled out, reveals a cocaine-cutting mirror. (In the same room there's also a hidden sink and a toilet tucked away under a cushioned seat.)



The Penthouse is still being restored, slowly, over time and as new information is learned. In fact, even photographs of the Penthouse have been hard to come by, many of which have only recently emerged as a result of extensive and arduous research. And since much of its original decor (including some valuable art) was sold decades ago, historians must accept that those items have probably been lost forever.



For now, when visiting, all you can do is gaze upon what's there now...



...and imagine what it must have been like when Oviatt's residence rose high above Downtown LA.

Related Post:
Photo Essay: The Oviatt Building's Art Deco Legacy
Looking Up from the Streets of Downtown LA

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