Arnold Hylen (1908–1987) trained at the Chouinard Art Institute, and found work as a photographer for the Fluor Corporation, where he worked from the early 1940s into the 1970s. During that period, he spent his free time photographing vanishing old Los Angeles. Hylen compiled his work on the downtown neighborhood of Bunker Hill in Bunker Hill: A Los Angeles Landmark (1976) and his research on greater downtown in Los Angeles Before the Freeways 1850–1950: Images of an Era (1981).
Nathan Marsak studied under Reyner Banham at the University of California, Santa Cruz, and completed his graduate work at the University of Wisconsin, Madison. He worked on the curatorial staff of the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art and served as a historian for the Los Angeles Police Museum archives. His books include Los Angeles Neon (2002), Bunker Hill Los Angeles (2020), Bunker Noir! (2021) and Marsak’s Guide to Bunker Hill (2023). His latest work is a revised edition of Arnold Hylen's Los Angeles Before the Freeways 1850–1950 and he recently talked about it with Daryl Maxwell for the LAPL Blog.
The original edition of Los Angeles Before the Freeways by Arnold Hylen was published in 1981. What inspired you to revisit Hylen's book and create an updated and expanded edition four decades later?
Hylen's book is indispensable to understanding old and vanished Los Angeles. But it had a very limited press run—just 600 copies—and has become a scarce, expensive collectible. I bought my copy in the mid-90s and would drive around downtown with it in my lap, looking for remnants of this lost world. I fell in love with the book so it seemed only natural to get Hylen's insightful text and incredible photographs into the hands of a wider audience.
What was your approach to creating the new edition?
My initial impulse was to create a facsimile edition; the original, as printed by Grant Dahlstrom at Castle Press, is a work of art. Nevertheless, I felt the Castle Press layout awkward (pictures at the back), and the image reproduction left something to be desired: smaller than I'd like, and they reproduced a bit dark. As such, we've integrated the text and pictures, giving it better flow. I'm thrilled that we could make the book larger, including full-bleed images, which deserve to be seen in all their glorious detail. Because I have the negatives, many of the shots, which had been cropped for the 1981 publication, now include more of the original image, providing the reader greater visual information about the surroundings. The biggest change is that I've written captions providing more information about the buildings, which I then expanded into an introductory essay about the styles of architecture featured in the book.
How familiar were you with Los Angeles architecture and its history, in general, and Arnold Hylen's work, in particular, prior to beginning your work on Los Angeles Before the Freeways? Did you have to do a bit of research? How long did it take you to do the necessary research and then create the new edition of the book?
Los Angeles's built environment became a passion of mine as a child (living ninety miles north, every trip to L.A. was like going to a giant museum of madness), and when I finally moved here, I dug in. My research really ramped up when I began writing for the OnBunkerHill blog in 2007, which showcased many of Hylen's images. It was at that time the Hylen family reached out to me, and I began the work of acquiring the Freeways archive, which finally happened in 2016. At that point I was at work on my book Bunker Hill, Los Angeles for Angel City Press, which was published in September 2020. My work on the new edition of Los Angeles Before the Freeways began in earnest in early 2022, and I delivered the manuscript last May, so it was about two years of scanning negatives, transcribing Hylen's book, and doing my own research into lost buildings that few if any had ever deigned to consider. Customarily, historians, especially architectural historians, regard the nineteenth century as lacking gravitas... architects like James Bradbeer or Frederick Rice Dorn aren't usually considered serious enough to merit study, compared to twentieth-century icons like Schindler or Becket or Lautner. So, the research just wasn't there, and I was in uncharted territory. It was wonderful doing so much research into neglected topics.
What was the most interesting or surprising thing that you learned during your research?
I love, in my research, attaching an architect to a building. The building might be forgotten, and the architect nearly forgotten, so it's a joy to do that digging. In Freeways, I note, for example, that the Bernard Block was designed by B. J. Reeve, the Millar Block by W. R. Norton, and the Rees & Wirsching Block by C. W. Davis. Sure, each of those little facts makes for only a few words of text in the book—but represents hours of research. Each discovery is so thrillingly revelatory!
Do you have a favorite architectural style from the period Los Angeles Before the Freeways covers (1850-1950)? A favorite building that was lost? One that survives?
I have a particular fondness for the Italianate, which I find to be the most elegant and romantic of the revivalist styles. But a very favorite building is the Bath Block (in the Freeways book, page 144), designed by Robert Brown Young in 1898; its ogee arches impart a Flamboyant Gothic feel, with wonderful clusters of engaged columns. Of those buildings that managed to actually survive, I'm ever thankful for the retention of the Garnier Block! The southern wing of Edelman's 1890 red sandstone building was demolished for the freeway, and it's amazing the remainder was retained and restored
You've previously published several books: Bunker Hill Los Angeles (2020), Bunker Noir! (2021), and Marsak's Guide to Bunker Hill (2023) focused solely on Los Angeles' Bunker Hill area. What is it that draws you to that specific part of downtown Los Angeles?
I suppose it's akin to being interested in Atlantis. It's a lost world and mythic, and whose stories are often more mythical than rooted in reality. There are so many interesting elements: the architecture, the noir, the tales to be told of its people, and of government's power to uproot them. But unlike Atlantis—more akin to the Mississippians, perhaps—the Bunker Hill culture of yore has left remnants and clues to its existence.
What are your favorite parts of Bunker Hill, past or present?
Of vanished Bunker Hill, I'm naturally attracted to Bunker Hill Avenue, where the best domestic architecture lay. But the bygone commercial areas also intrigue me, especially Third Street between Hope and Figueroa and Hill Street north of Fifth; these stretches were replete with dive bars and disreputable pool halls, along with the requisite corner markets and laundries. The narrow, dark confines of Clay Street interest, of course, and the area north of First Street is a continued source of fascination, as it's so poorly documented.
As much as I mourn lost Bunker Hill, the modern version does have its charms. A walk circumnavigating the DWP building is glorious, and the Sasaki, Walker-designed park at the Bank of America plaza restores the soul. Most importantly, one must have cocktails in the revolving BonaVista Lounge atop the Bonaventure.
If you could magically restore a building, or buildings, from Bunker Hill that have been lost, what would it/they be?
I have a fetish for the Brunson Mansion (as seen on page 94 of the book Bunker Hill, Los Angeles), which was once at the corner of Fourth and Grand, where the Wells Fargo Center is now. It was built in 1886 with a centered entry and balanced cross-gables (had it been built two years later, it would likely have exhibited more willful asymmetry in tune with the prevailing Queen Anne style). In October 1890, one of our local papers, the Los Angeles Evening Express, published a detailed description of the Brunson's interior decoration and contents: it was a riot of frescoes, stained glass, friezes, Lincrusta-covered walls, etc. It had a two-thousand-square-foot drawing room done in the French Renaissance style. The house was as well famed for its picture collection—oils by A. D. M. Cooper, James Fairman, Gideon Jacques Denny, and the like. There's little photographic evidence regarding the house since it lasted a scant thirty-one years, demolished in 1917 for an auto service garage. While there's no lack of lost Gilded Age Bunker Hill mansions in which I'd love to spend an afternoon—the Rose, the Bradbury, the Crocker—if we could bring back the Brunson as it was in the early 1890s, well…
Same question, but for the greater downtown Los Angeles area?
That's tough—so many incredible landmarks, from the 1840s Lugo Adobe to the 1950s Parker Center, have been so stupidly and needlessly destroyed. Do you choose something pre-boom like the Mansard-towered Baker Block or the boom-era Romanesque-style County Courthouse? Most people, if asked, would assert the late, lamented Richfield Building, a 1929 Art Deco monument demolished in 1969, should be magically restored. I wouldn’t disagree…
Did you have the opportunity to meet Arnold Hylen before he passed in 1987? If so, can you tell us about it? If not, if you had the chance to ask Arnold a question, what would it be?
Hylen passed seven years before I became interested in his work. If he were here now, I'd ask him how he became interested in the subject—what were the formative moments that lit the fire? But what I'd really like to do is spend an afternoon with the man (in the thick of his photography days, around 1955) wandering downtown and watching his process. I'd observe why he photographed what he did, how he set up his shots, and his process of investigating the history of his beloved downtown L.A.
Is there something you would tell him now if you had the chance?
I'd just say thank you.
Your Acknowledgements state that Arnold Hylen's collection for the original edition was in the possession of a family member who had been caring for it since his death and that you purchased the collection. What are your plans for them?
Having put the Hylen collection to work in the production of this book, at the moment, my plans are just conservation: all of the material has been stabilized—endless mylar sheets, plenty of acid-free paper, lots of archival boxes—and temperature controlled. My heirs have been informed as to the importance of what's lurking in my office, so, nothing will end up at a garage sale or in the dumpster, as happens far too often. As to the eventual disposition of the Hylen collection and the rest of my thirty-year acquisition of Old L.A. images, I've made no plans. Maybe LAPL will want to acquisition the lot when I pass?
What's currently on your nightstand?
The Domesticated Americans by Russell Lynes, who is perpetually in residence on my nightstand. I just started Horror in Architecture by Joshua Comaroff and Ong Ker-Shing, which I am enjoying, but it's best taken in small doses.
Can you name your top five favorite or most influential authors?
Aldous Huxley was an early fave. John Waters, certainly (Shock Value and Crackpot, especially, were reread frequently). Raymond Chandler and James Ellroy, as I mention in the afterword of Freeways, are the authors who brought me to Los Angeles. Bukowski helped in that regard, too. Who else? Denton Welch. P. J. O'Rourke . Thurber. I guess that's more than five, and I haven't even started in on the architectural historians.
What was your favorite book when you were a child?
Andrew Henry’s Meadow by Doris Burn. It's this remarkable book about architecture, abandoning the world, and building community. Aimed at seven-year-olds.
Was there a book you felt you needed to hide from your parents?
No. My parents were free speech advocates (when that meant something; this was back when the ACLU went to bat for Skokie Nazis), so they were glad I was pushing the envelope in my book choices. I had a heavy William S. Burroughs phase as a teen, at which they raised an eyebrow, granted, but I think they were just happy I was reading. This was Santa Barbara in the 1980s, and most young folk were out playing beach volleyball or something.
Is there a book you've faked reading?
Ha! Not that I can recall. But I've a large library, and I confess, I'll go to my grave without having read many of the books therein.
Can you name a book you've bought for the cover?
Dozens, but I often buy books solely for their covers, especially vintage pulp paperbacks. In the days before eBay, one could regularly find Dell mapbacks in thrift stores, and sometimes I still do. Oh, and pre-1925 "young adult" books from the always have incredible covers, so I usually pick them up when I see them. But if you'd like me to actually name one, my most recent find was spending a buck on Death Blew Out the Match, which features an incredible image of a skull blowing out a matchstick. I'll probably never read it, but I sleep better knowing I have it.
Is there a book that changed your life?
When I was fourteen I discovered Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The subsequent years of grotesque shenanigans were an oak grown from Thompson's acorn, and while Fear and Loathing changed my life, some might argue it was not a change for the better. That said, I regret nothing.
Can you name a book for which you are an evangelist (and you think everyone should read)?
A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole. And I've given the RE/Search Pranks! book to people for Christmas and birthdays more times than I can count.
Is there a book you would most want to read again for the first time?
Ask the Dust by John Fante. I remember the day I finished the final page and then began again on page one. It's one of those. That hasn't happened to me in a long time.
What is the last piece of art (music, movies, TV, more traditional art forms) that you've experienced or that has impacted you?
Contemporary artistic expression leaves me rather unmoved. Don't get me wrong, there are some things I enjoy very much—television programs like Chapelwaite or Penny Dreadful (spooky plus Victorian, what a surprise) and the recent Strange Angel—but nothing in the last twenty years has proved actually impactful. What thrills me is coming across something old and marvelous but unexpectedly, for example, the J. R. Meeker painting I saw hanging in the Houmas House plantation or when I went to Toronto on business, and boom! all around stood incredible Richardsonian Romanesque buildings. Who knew? Well, not me, anyway. I was in full-blown Stendhal Syndrome.
What is your idea of THE perfect day (where you could go anywhere/meet with anyone)?
In this scenario, ideally, there's time travel, and I could lunch with Joseph Cather Newsom in 1888, have dinner with Frank Shaw in 1937, and then go see the Germs at the Hong Kong Cafe in 1979. The perfect day today would be just like it is: I have an incredible wife, adorable cats, and no lack of architectural mysteries to solve. Scanning negatives and reading old newspapers. Perfect day achieved.
What is the question that you're always hoping you'll be asked but never have been?
"Hey, I've got these giant boxes of Kodachrome slides my grandfather shot of downtown L.A. in the 1940s. You want 'em?"
What is your answer?
I'd probably pass out before I could answer.
What are you working on now?
My next book for Angel City Press is in its formative stage, so I'll keep that under wraps for now, but I will say it is of an absolutely different subject matter from both Bunker Hill and Freeways. Atop that, I'm thinking of a series of self-published books featuring my collection of slides and negatives because if I don't get these images "out there" now, who knows if and when they'll be seen. I have a blog—bunkerhilllosangeles.com—where I'll discourse about some Bunker Hill-related topic in all its minutiae. And I just began a novel, because everyone has one novel in them.
