It was an improbable place. An artist collective known as JJU, or John Joyce University, hidden in the foothills of Altadena, resembled a 1960s fever dream of communal living. That such a community could exist in modern Los Angeles was a miracle to those residing there, until — in a single harrowing night — the Eaton fire swallowed it whole.

If you haven’t heard of it, that’s because it wasn’t actually a university. It was a compound of two neighboring properties — mansions, bungalows and converted garages — affectionately named after the 77-year-old carpenter who resided there for 26 years. He was the guy you went to if you wanted to borrow a book, had a maintenance issue or just wanted to talk philosophy. About 30 artists lived and worked together, sharing art studios, supplies, the tools of their various crafts and how-to knowledge.

Joyce saw all kinds of artists come and go over the years; composers, sculptors, painters, performance artists, poets and art professors.

“We also raised amazing kids,” he said, noting the many families who came through.

Joyce uses the word “we” liberally when talking about JJU, because the compound was all about the benefits of togetherness. He shared videos and photos of community dinners in the grand dining room and of walls covered with art from those who had once lived there. A number of clips featured artists working in various areas of the house while a performance artist named Michelle Garduno danced or napped with a CPR doll. Everybody, Joyce said, donated a piece of art to the community upon leaving.

“The whole notion of individualism is a complete fraud,” Joyce said. “We had common areas where people could do whatever they wanted. We had a photo studio set up. We had painting studios going on. We had shows in there. We used it for everything. Even the yard — there were lots of big sloppy paintings in the yard.”

The main house had a lending library filled with art books and catalogs, and people from the surrounding community came for annual parties. The diversity of the neighborhood — a melting pot from around the world — was also part of the area’s cosmic draw.

“There were working-class people next to JPL [Jet Propulsion Laboratory] people, next to Caltech people, next to Hollywood people,” Joyce said. “Everybody got along.”

Painter Susannah Mills, who for the last decade lived in a converted garage at JJU, said that one mansion on the compound was built in 1890 by a French artist and later became an orphanage run by Catholic nuns. Its current owner, Jeff Ricks, bought it more than 30 years ago and began populating it with artists, including Joyce, who also managed the property.

Mills said that when she first arrived at the compound, Joyce helped her get set up. He made sure she had the art supplies and furniture she needed.

“From that point forward, I knew I had just found this misfit community,” Mills said. “That’s what we were like. Many of us were people without families. We all had dogs and cats, and we were all artists. I never worried about anything. I always felt safe there. We all just loved each other.”

The community built an exhibition area called the Narrow Gallery in one of the houses, and that’s where Mills staged her first show. Her rent was less than $1,000 per month; Ricks never raised it. The low living expenses gave her the freedom to work as an end-of-life guide; she also worked at the Altadena Community Church, an inclusive, social-justice-oriented congregation where she helped book events for community organizations. (The church also was destroyed in the Eaton fire.)

Residents of JJU were friendly with the people living at Zorthian Ranch, another nearby collective also lost to fire. The 48-acre artists colony was on land that muralist Jirayr Zorthian bought in the 1940s, turning it into a sprawling outpost for his family and eventually a summer arts camp for children. Zorthian ran in bohemian circles and threw parties that attracted Andy Warhol, Charlie Parker and Bob Dylan.

A figure-drawing class at Zorthian Ranch in Altadena.

(Hannah Ray Taylor)

For as long as she’s lived in Altadena, Mills said, Zorthian has served as a community hub. It hosted donation-based figure-drawing and mosaic classes, as well as workshops on how to shear sheep and spin wool. Zorthian’s granddaughter, Julia, lived at the ranch, along with about more than a dozen docents and artists, and she said the community thrived in the ordered lawlessness of the unincorporated area.

“Because Los Angeles is such a regulated city, it can be really hard to just exist as an artist,” she said. “So being able to live in a space where somebody is allowing for flexibility outside of these harsh rules and regulations gave people room to flourish.”

The utopian sense of self-determination flagged a bit after the fire, when everyone in the community scattered to the wind, but Joyce cited a great desire to rebuild. Text chains are flourishing, and an idea is fermenting about using shipping containers as living quarters.

Joyce was the last JJU resident on the property early Jan. 8, when a house across the street literally exploded from what he thinks may have been a gas leak. An ember from that fire raced on the wind and lodged into a 50-foot palm tree by the main JJU house. Gales whipped the fronds into a frenzy, causing the tree to spray embers like a sprinkler. The world around Joyce erupted in flames. Even the gravel looked like it was burning.

Joyce was holding a garden hose.

“I never felt so weak in my whole life,” Joyce recalled. “Those flames, and the sound. … It was a huge, powerful, angry animal.”