In the quiet aftermath of a wildfire, when the embers have cooled and the smoke has cleared, what remains is often nothing more than dust and memory. But sometimes, amid the wreckage, something endures.
Dominick Ciarimboli, 38, and his mother Linda, 68, lost their home in the Eaton Fire, a devastating blaze that consumed their neighborhood in Altadena, California. In the early morning hours of January 8, they had little time to escape. His mother gathered only the essentials—her laptop, a small bag of clothes, some important documents. By the time they were allowed to return, their home was nothing more than ash.
And yet, as Dominick sifted through the remains, something astonishing happened.
He found color.
Bright glazes peeked through the soot—fragments of his Motawi tiles, the same ones that had once brought warmth and history into his home. These tiles, chosen not just for their beauty but for their deep connection to the Arts & Crafts heritage of Pasadena, had been part of his space for years. And now, in the face of total loss, they were the only tangible pieces of his past that remained.
"All she was able to get for me was a shoebox of photos and some prints, all of which I could hold in one hand,"Dominick wrote. He had braced himself for the possibility that nothing else had survived. But as he and his mother dug through the debris, something unexpected emerged.
"Something astonished me—after digging and digging, miraculously one of the Motawi tiles appeared by my side in its bright colors." Encouraged, he kept searching. "I then began to dig more and more, and I saw more pieces of the tiles start to come together."
What at first seemed like a small discovery quickly became something profound. "It didn't take long after shoveling and scooping everywhere that it became very apparent that these were going to be the only things left remaining of any belongings that I had from the fire," he shared.
The fire had stripped everything else away, but these pieces of his past—cracked, chipped, broken—were still there. "A tile was just cracked, another a missing piece, another broken into fragments. All in all, pieces remained from four surviving tiles. None in an original state, but all something left…the only things left…and deeply cherished. And that is why I am writing to Motawi Tiles."
A Thread of Continuity
When Dominick first wrote to us, he wasn’t asking for replacements. He wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was simply reaching out, unsure of what to do with these remnants—these small, unexpected survivors of the fire.
"I miss the tiles as they were," he wrote.
But even in their damaged state, the tiles held meaning. They weren’t just decoration; they were part of a story—a story tied to a place with deep artistic roots.
"There seems to be a deep connection with Pasadena for the styles and ethos of an art movement whose effects still resonate today," he reflected. "You see it in the local community, the craftsmen, the architecture—especially in the work of the Greene & Greene brothers. Motawi tile is part of that living tradition."
For Dominick, these tiles were more than just objects—they were part of the spirit of a place he had come to love. When he first bought his home in the foothills above Pasadena, it was the connection to this history that made Motawi feel like the right choice. "It’s the kind of place where these special tiles belong," he said. "They tied my home to the landscape, to the history around me."
More Than Just Tile
At Motawi, we talk a lot about craftsmanship, about history, about the joy of surrounding yourself with art that feels personal. But Dominick’s story is a reminder that the things we create don’t just live in homes—they live in people’s lives. They become part of their stories.
His words and his experience are now part of ours.
Dominick, we’re honored that our tiles meant so much to you before the fire—and even more so after. We hope, in whatever way feels right to you, that we can help bring them back to life.
And to the people of Altadena—our hearts are with you. Your homes may be gone, but your stories endure.
