Recently wildfires have ravaged the Napa Valley in northern California. To convey how these fires have affected the arts community there, Charles Desmarais, a critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, related the accounts of a few artists who lost their homes and studios to the fires. I spoke in-depth with one of them, Norma Quintana, who told me that the Atlas Fire took both her home and studio. We discussed sorting out how to deal with such a devastating loss, and what she imagines she will do next.

Seph Rodney: I wanted to chat with you about how you’re dealing with the aftermath of the wildfire that took your home and studio. Before we get into exactly what happened, I would like to give our readers some background. You’re a photography artist, right?

Norma Quintana: Exactly. I started exhibiting in 2000. I’m not formally trained. I have a Masters in Juvenile Justice Administration, actually, from the School of Social Sciences [the Mandel School of Applied Social Sciences at Case Western Reserve University]. I decided to pursue photography because it was a great vehicle for expression. I pretty much knew immediately that I was going to be a documentarian. I took some classes and experimented, but what really spoke to me was documentary work. I just started doing that.

SR: Where exactly was your house and studio?

NQ: We live in Napa, California, which is where the fire, as I understand, started; it’s called the Atlas Fire. My home was actually in a country club environment, within the country club there are homes and my home was there. My studio was in my home.

SR: You had another room?

NQ: Exactly. I didn’t do commercial work. I did work like the Circus series [Circus: A Traveling Life] and then I had exhibitions. I’ve taught. I’ve had residencies, and then a book, and then I started this other series called, Forget Me Not. Again, using my Hasselblad and black-and-white film — not digital at all. [Now I have] to use what I have, which is my iPhone, which is totally opposite of the way I shoot, but it’s what I have.

Pre-fire I would spend a significant amount of time developing relationships or doing research, and then I would photograph. This was different, it was almost like an out-of-body experience. I immediately found myself documenting with what I had, which was this phone that I use to do little photographs and memories of friends, and what people do with the iPhone, but I took that leap.

SR: So you’re saying post-fire you did a kind of documentary project with your iPhone?

NQ: Yes. I found myself rummaging through what was left, which was really nothing, but through the ashes I’d find remnants — which is that series that people seem to respond to, Forage From Fire. You should look at this article KQED Arts just put out today.

SR: I read Charles’s article. He said that you were at home with your family and you saw an orange glow on the horizon and then not too long after you heard a knock on the door from the neighborhood police saying that you needed to evacuate.

NQ: We were at the house, we had just seen 60 Minutes, we were just hanging out, everybody was in bed. I heard from a friend after three calls; I went to look and I didn’t see anything. Then I went behind my house, which ironically is a fire road, and kept looking and then I saw the glow, still not thinking that fire was ever going to touch my house. Never did I think that was going to happen, never. I’ve been there for 28 years.

The police came because I think they started to see that was coming down in our direction, but we didn’t have a sense of that or warning. They weren’t going to leave until we did. I’m still not thinking the house is going to burn; I couldn’t negotiate — because I’m so visual — that the home I lived in, my photos, my art books, that everything would be gone; I couldn’t negotiate that in my head.

SR: When you had to leave, what did you end up taking, and how did you decide to take those things?

NQ: I was slightly annoyed, I was like, okay, why do we all have to leave? There’s a fire in the hills, but not a fire in the neighborhood. They didn’t tell you anything; they just said, “get out.” We basically had five minutes because they were waiting for us and they said they [would] not leave until we left.

I grabbed my phone, my laptop. We took our passports. I don’t have things like jewels and diamonds [but] I don’t think I could choose from everything that is in my home, because I have prints, collections and vintage cameras and text files. I had so many things. As I [was] leaving the house I took my car; then I went into my studio space and I can’t … what do you take? I don’t know why, but I got my Hasselblad. Then I took only two photographs, they were of my mother in Puerto Rico and they were studio shots and I just took them, I think it’s because I wanted her presence.

[We] left. We didn’t sleep very much in [my husband’s office] you can imagine. The next morning we get this message and … I’m like, what do you mean it’s gone? It was really very shocking.

NQ: We’re fortunate we have private insurance [and] we are surrounded by an incredible community, so we have support in terms of housing. The other thing [is] I think I have the belief that I’m going to recreate what I had. My loss really was about a sense of home so when I would cry I would cry about that, home, security, a place of memories and it was gone.

SR: Do you find that being with your family makes that sense of loss more poignant or alleviates that for you?

NQ: I think both. I think yes, family and my husband who is the love of my life, I’ve been with him since we’ve been 18 years old — that’s pretty strong. I don’t know. It’s because I’m an immigrant, daughter of an immigrant — they’re from Puerto Rico and I know what it’s like to not have anything. I often would just open my eyes in my home and be thankful, I really can say that honestly. So then this work came up, this Forage From Fire, which is so different, but it seems to be moving a lot of people.