What the Fire Left Behind: A Photographer’s Perspective on the Pacific Palisades and Malibu Wildfires

When you walk through a place that’s been changed forever, silence hits differently. In Malibu and the Pacific Palisades, the quiet that followed the recent wildfires wasn’t peaceful—it was heavy. I went there to photograph the aftermath, but what I found was more than destruction. It was absence. Stillness. Loss.

The goal was simple: preserve what the fire tried to erase.

Charred doorframes. Half standing walls. Hillsides stripped bare. Some of the most iconic landscapes in California were reduced to fragments each one telling a story. These weren’t just homes; they were lives in motion, now frozen in place. A camera doesn’t just capture what’s visible it holds the weight of what once was.

My love for photography started when I was really young. Every now and then, my dad would bring out a camera, and I’d ask to use it. He’d hand it over, and I’d start shooting—no plan, just a kid trying to make something look cool. Years later, I found that same camera tucked in a closet. The memory card was still inside, filled with my first-ever photos. That’s the camera I use today.

Over the past four years, I’ve taught myself everything I now know—how to frame a shot, how to edit, how to set ISO, aperture, and shutter speed. It’s all been trial and error. No classes, no tutorials. Just time, mistakes, and figuring things out. Eventually, I launched an Instagram portfolio to share the images that moved me—landscapes, ruins, moments worth holding onto.

Then came an unexpected opportunity. Before working in insurance, my dad had been in the film industry. That’s how he met Luc Nicknair, an award winning cinematographer, and Hillary Greene-Pae, a nationally recognized photographer. Months after starting my portfolio, Luc and Hillary offered to take me into the field to document the aftermath of the fires in Malibu and the Pacific Palisades. It was a full-circle moment—and a chance to learn from two professionals I deeply admire.

What I saw was haunting, humbling, and unforgettable. What the news cycle moves on from, the coastline still remembers. These are scenes from the aftermath of the recent fires that tore through Malibu and the Pacific Palisades—charred homes, melted steel, scorched trees, and fragments of lives once lived. Even here, at the edge of the ocean, the destruction tells its story. You see it in staircases that lead to nowhere. In mailboxes that stand untouched, while everything around them is gone. In the skeletons of homes that once framed family dinners and ocean views. There’s a strange quiet in these places now—a kind of stillness that settles after disaster. But the evidence remains, embedded in ash, concrete, and twisted metal.

Some of the most striking sights were the skeletons of homes—twisted metal frames standing awkwardly in place, entire structures reduced to rebar and dust. Driving along Pacific Coast Highway, I kept thinking about how vibrant these neighborhoods once were. Now, whole blocks were gone. And occasionally, impossibly, one house would still be standing, untouched, while every neighboring home had burned to the ground. It felt unreal.

We passed a burned building. The roof had collapsed, the walls were scorched, and the structure was hollowed out. I wouldn’t have known what it was if not for the stone sign out front—it had been a church. There were no stained glass windows, no steeple left—just ash and ruin. Even places built for comfort and community weren’t spared.

We saw cars flipped upside down. Engines melted into pavement. In some areas, the heat had been so intense that entire vehicles had disintegrated. The destruction wasn’t just dramatic—it was disorienting. You don’t fully understand the power of fire until you stand in the middle of its aftermath. It doesn’t just burn. It erases.

Months later, cleanup was still only beginning. Trucks were rolling in, crews were on site, but the landscape remained raw and open. The silence felt heavier than sound.

Through this project, I was reminded that there’s meaning to be found in almost anything—if you’re willing to look for it. A cracked sidewalk. A blackened hillside. A mailbox that somehow made it through. Photography has taught me to slow down and notice. It’s why I created @schneidermanarchives—a space where I share whatever catches my eye. There’s no single subject, just images that speak for themselves.

These photos are my attempt to capture that silence, that fragility, and the strange beauty left behind after disaster. I didn’t expect this experience to change me, but it did. I left with a deeper respect for the people rebuilding, for the communities recovering, and for the coastline that still carries the memory of what happened.

Thank you to Luc and Hillary for guiding me with patience and generosity. And thank you to my dad, for always pushing me to do something meaningful with the things I love. This shoot wasn’t just about fire damage—it was about connection, reflection, and finding beauty in the ashes.