A Passion for the Old Pasadena

Want to build in Pasadena? Talk to Claire.

That would be Claire Bogaard, who for three decades has led a band of preservationists bent on keeping quaint Pasadena quaint.

Through charm, organization and stubbornness -- “Over my dead body” is a Bogaard battle cry -- she has achieved virtual veto power over development that might destroy or alter buildings she loves.

She and her associates at Pasadena Heritage, a preservation group that would inspire the launch of other such groups nationwide, have defeated plans to bulldoze many of the buildings in Old Pasadena. They saved the grand Colorado Street Bridge from the wrecking ball. Their power might help determine whether an NFL team plays in the Rose Bowl.

More than a few developers have left town sputtering mad, complaining about “hysterical preservationists.”

Others seek Bogaard’s counsel, occasionally stopping for coffee at her stately Victorian home off South Orange Grove Boulevard, a street where Pasadena’s elite have lived since the 1890s. Bogaard, a willowy blond with a preppy, proper air, listens politely as her callers lay out their plans. She gives advice, tips and, if they’re lucky, her blessing.

Her focus is Pasadena, but her reach extends beyond, largely through the example set by Old Pasadena, now an internationally recognized model for downtown revitalization studied by other cities hoping to restore their urban cores. Representatives from Japan and India recently came to town to learn the Old Pasadena formula. Preservation groups have also copied Pasadena Heritage’s tactics, a mix of smooth politicking and blunt confrontation.

Though her husband is Pasadena Mayor Bill Bogaard, the 64-year-old Claire earned her reputation as a powerful preservationist before he entered politics in the 1980s. She helped start Pasadena Heritage in 1977 after the city approved knocking down old buildings to clear the way for a big shopping mall south of City Hall.

The group was too late to stop the mall, but it geared up quickly to fight for Old Pasadena. At the time, the area around Colorado Boulevard and Fair Oaks Avenue featured a collection of saloons, peep shows and junk stores doing business in dilapidated structures dating to the early part of the century.

Developers thought the area could be revived, but they wanted the freedom to tear down and rebuild.

Bogaard saw it differently, arguing successfully that the key to the revival would be restoration.

“All of us could see the quality that existed in Old Pasadena,” she said. “Some people thought we were crazy to want to save the old buildings. That was the mentality of the day. We were advocating restoring wood floors in an era of wall-to-wall carpeting.”

Now Pasadena Heritage is determined to keep the landmark look of the Rose Bowl amid plans to overhaul the stadium for possible use by the National Football League.

Hoping to head off a fight, two sets of consultants have been working for months: One to woo the NFL and the other to win over the preservationists. In other words, Claire Bogaard.

Her power -- it’s widely known she hates to lose -- has brought her praise and scorn.

“I think, generally, Claire is well-intentioned, and there probably have been a lot of positive contributions by the group,” said builder Lary Mielke. “But sometimes they forget to look at the impacts their decisions have on individuals and businesses as a whole. There’s a cost to everything you do.”

Mielke’s firm fought with Bogaard over the fate of the Huntington Hotel in 1988, arguing that the structure was too earthquake-damaged to save. Pasadena Heritage disagreed.

City voters were eventually asked to weigh in on the matter, clearing the way for Mielke’s group to demolish and rebuild part of the complex, which is now a Ritz-Carlton. The battle cost the developers tens of thousands of dollars.

Santa Monica developer John Wilson, who had a number of projects underway in Old Pasadena, was perhaps Bogaard’s most vocal foe. The two sparred over the smallest of details, such as whether window panes in a building on Colorado should be beveled.

Wilson installed beveled glass, but Bogaard wanted it taken out, because she said the structure originally had plain windows. With the bevels, Bogaard said, Wilson was trying to “cutesify” the area also known as Old Town.

Ultimately, the city ordered the developer to replace the beveled windows. For years, Wilson was disgusted with the “tweedy” woman who made his life so difficult. But now he gives her credit.

“Some of my contemporaries in Old Pasadena will think I’ve fallen off my rocker when they read this, but I give Claire very good marks,” Wilson said.

Bogaard says she became an avid preservationist almost by accident, though the seeds were planted when she was young.

She grew up in a large classical-style house in San Francisco’s Presidio Terrace district. Her father was a surgeon and her mother a member of the Girl Scouts’ national board. Bogaard was a lanky tomboy who loved to climb the tall trees on her block. Surrounded by grand homes in the shadow of Temple Emanuel, she grew to appreciate the historic charm of her neighborhood.

After a few months studying in Rome during high school, she became enthralled with architecture and history.

As she worked on her bachelor’s degree in Renaissance history at the University of San Diego, a Catholic liberal arts college, a cousin fixed her up on a blind date with Bill Bogaard, who was finishing up a degree in English and philosophy at Loyola University. The two were married shortly thereafter.

The early years of their marriage included stops in Casablanca, Morocco, where the future mayor served as an Air Force meteorologist, and Michigan, where he received his law degree. With four kids in tow, the couple settled in the Los Angeles area in 1971 when Bogaard was hired as an attorney for First Interstate Bank. After a stint in Inglewood, they moved to Pasadena to be closer to friends who worked for the bank.

“I came to Pasadena reluctantly,” said Claire Bogaard, who preferred the cool beach weather to the San Gabriel Valley’s sweltering summers. “Now I say I will never leave here except in a pine box.”

Hoping to meet friends in her new-found community, the stay-at-home mom joined the Junior League. Given her interest in architecture, she joined the league’s historic preservation committee -- and life for developers in Pasadena has never been the same since.

“Claire was a fairly traditional mother,” her husband said. “And then, for reasons I don’t know, she sprouted wings and decided to be active in the community.”

At the time, in the late ‘70s, the City Council had already approved bulldozing the Pasadena Athletic Club and structures on Colorado to build a new mall, called Plaza Pasadena.

Bogaard was appalled. The plans for the buildings, she thought, were so ugly.

She and others felt that an activist group was needed to take the fight beyond the polite level of the Junior League. So in 1977, Bogaard and a league friend, Katie Harp McLane, quickly organized the group that became Pasadena Heritage.

The fledgling organization included a mix of historians, architects, artists and writers.

There was Bill Ellinger, an architect who combed city archives to find original plans of aging buildings. Jim Marrin, a graphic artist and expert on the Arts and Crafts movement, advocated saving the city’s Craftsman homes. Sue Mossman, a young Kent State graduate, organized educational programs, including a bus tour of Wallace Neff-designed homes in the area.

Bogaard, who offered her backyard as a site for the group’s early meetings, and McLane developed sources and allies among the staff at City Hall to learn early on which buildings might be threatened. Though they failed to stop construction of Plaza Pasadena, they won the battle for Old Pasadena, partly by reaching out to business owners there, helping them apply for federal tax credits to fix up their buildings.

One of Bogaard’s earliest allies was Linda Dishman, who worked in Sacramento on state preservation issues before moving to Pasadena to serve on the staff of the city’s new Cultural Heritage Commission. Dishman said that she was initially impressed by Bogaard’s ability to work her contacts.

“I used to joke with her about it,” said Dishman, now executive director of the Los Angeles Conservancy.

“She would say, ‘I know so and so because his son plays softball with my son. And I know this person because we walk our dogs along the Arroyo.’ ”

Bogaard’s reputation as a top preservationist grew. In 1980, she was named to the board of the Washington-based National Trust for Historic Preservation, a nonprofit group that provides assistance to conservancies across the country.

She served on Pasadena’s Planning Commission and managed to get Pasadena Heritage members put on the city’s Design Commission, giving the preservationists even more say over new construction. Several years ago, Bogaard was named to California’s Historic Resources Commission, a position she still holds.

Bogaard has tried to tone down her public persona recently because of her husband’s position as mayor. She said she rarely appears at City Council meetings. “I tell people that one Bogaard in the room is enough,” she said. But she still works her agenda behind the scenes.

When someone recently came up with the idea of building a bio-tech complex on part of the land occupied by the Bellefontaine Nursery, Bogaard stopped the plan in its tracks.

“That nursery is owned by one of the city’s oldest families,” she said. “There’s a lot of loyalty to them.” Indeed, Bogaard buys her flowers at Bellefontaine.

When a few businesspeople suggested building a parking structure under Central Park, Bogaard called a meeting and issued a warning: People in Pasadena do not dig up the city’s parks. The plan, she said, would move forward “over my dead body.”

“Claire is a powerful woman,” her husband said. “The word ‘abrasive’ has been used to describe her. I would say she is focused, passionate and reluctant to lose.”

Although Bill Bogaard is not considered an avid preservationist, his wife said they often are on the same wavelength when it comes to saving old buildings.

“If we disagree, we disagree,” Claire said. “We’ve been together long enough that we can deal with that.”

So far, the mayor has voiced support for the city’s NFL bid. The plan calls for preserving the landmark shell of the Rose Bowl, but gutting the interior and lowering the field. His wife, meanwhile, is working to make sure the city doesn’t bend to the whims of the NFL.

Developer Wilson said he feels for builders who find themselves opposite Claire. He ran into his old nemesis recently at a Design Commission meeting, where a project he was working on was up for final approval. Bogaard walked in quietly and sat in front of him. When he saw her, his heart sank.

“I said, ‘Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!’ ” he recalled.

As if sensing his anxiety, Bogaard turned around and smiled.

“She said, ‘Don’t worry, John,’ ” he remembered. “ ‘I’m not here for you.’ ”