Fact:
You’ll most definitely be catcalled if you’re wearing cat ears in Downtown LA, even
if those cat ears are made of pink flowers from @floralromance. Either that or
men in LA have never seen cats wearing electric pink stilettos before and were
therefore utterly fascinated that they thought meowing and making air claws was
the way to go?
Fact: Drunk
men are the only ones who genuinely find me intriguing enough to approach. I
learned that a decade ago in another downtown but the lesson was reinforced
last night. Sober ones, the ones that are cute and well put together and can
carry a decent coherent conversation with you, well they manage to throw in a,
“Yeah, and my wife…” about three minutes and forty-six seconds into the
flirtatious chat. Suddenly, everything around you gets put on mute and you’re
wondering why he started chatting you up like that in the first place and where
his wedding ring is. Drunk ones though, they start bowing to you, calling you a
goddess, neglecting the White Jesus who made a grander entrance than you did on
5th and Spring.
Fact: I
laugh way too loud, way too hard, way too fast, and unapologetically I’m way
too unapologetic about it.
Fact:
Nowhere is the spirit of art more authentic and alive than in Los Angeles.
Fact a: It’s also my hometown!
Spring
Street looked breathtakingly vibrant and animated. As I made my rounds up and
down the bright blocks, I came across the souls behind the artists, and not
just the artists who had paintings and handcrafts on display, but the artists
who create the masterpieces that keep LA going every night, all night.
While at
the same intersection I had crossed quite a few times already, waiting for the
light to turn green, a petite young woman wearing black t-shirt, pants and an
apron walked up. She was carrying two full trays of large sized Starbucks
drinks stacked atop one another. “Do you need any help with those?” I asked,
worrying about her crossing the uneven street. With a smile she said, “No,
thank you. I am okay. We’re just working the closing shift tonight and we need
coffee. I love coffee.” We laughed and made our way across the street to what
turned out to be the same café I had Yelped earlier. I stopped at the register and
she headed to the back.
Nestled
in the corner, waiting for my divine looking pastrami cheese fries, I thought
of this woman and every other hard working individual currently striving in
Downtown LA making a living by making the wheels of life turn in LA. Like the
craftsman I met earlier who hand carved wood and used recycled metal to create
beautiful candle and plant holders that could accent any home [@funkforest]. Like
the painter who told me the story behind his art—a manifestation of his
frustration with the hate often spread in closed-minded organized religions’
frequently misinterpreted teachings. He wants the world to know that “God F***ing
Loves You.” All of you, and White Jesus agreed.
It was
magical meeting the young lady who handmade the gorgeous exotic jewelry at the
corner by Joe’s Parking Lot on 5th, that sold me the beautiful
crystal and chain headband [@cuatrourbandesign]. I was mesmerized by the gothic
appeal of @urksdesign’s work that mirrored my inner goth—the one not always
expected (or welcome) but definitely very much alive. I loved walking into The Last Bookstore and getting lost in
its every corner. For a writer, this is my home. Once a performer on their
stage, hopefully an author on their shelf.
On
another round of Spring Street, a woman called out to me. “Excuse me, I asked
another woman and she was able to help me with a dollar. I’m trying to get to
the domestic violence shelter.” That was it. She had me at “domestic violence
shelter” and all of a sudden I had no appetite, no desire to go treat myself to
anything. She asked for only $2.46, just enough to cover the bus fee to the
shelter two hours away. “If I can’t make it tonight, I’m going to have to go
back to the hospital because I’ve never slept on the street before and I don’t
feel comfortable trying it. I’m too scared.” She said that as a man, previously
sleeping on the nearby corner, got up and started screaming as he banged
against the wall. I rummaged through my wallet, knowing this is why God had me
walk three and a half extra blocks in five-inch heels to the ATM. When I handed
her the money she asked me, “But why? Why this much?” I looked at her and
wondered how I wasn’t going to cry. “Because I know what it’s like to have to
leave him like that.” She grabbed me
and hugged me, then asked, holding back tears, “And how did you do it?” With
heaviness I said, “My family took me back in.”
As we
exchanged names and prayers, she thanked me again and said that now not only
would she be able to cover the bus cost, but she would also be able to finally
enjoy a full meal. A full meal. Let
that sink in. Hence, I settled for a side order of pastrami fries versus a real
sit down dinner. It was hard to walk away. I wanted to collect all of these
souls living on the streets and help them. It’s been a focal point of my life working
to help homeless in SoCal—specifically those who are victims of domestic
violence—and yet I feel like I am not doing enough.
Quite a
few of the artists I met and shared deep discussions with were homeless
themselves, literally using all they scavenge to create masterpieces that they
hope will bring them stability and strength. Never underestimate the power of
art, and God how I wish more people would carve out an evening from their
month to walk through this art district and watch the masterpieces come to
life, hear the stories behind the creativity, imagination and hands that create
them. Like the story of the young man who had one short stool and twelve
various coffee/tea cups he converted into planters. The story of the old woman
with her very young daughter selling polished gemstones. The story of the three
brothers selling incense on the corner.
Considering
this had been my first experience at the DTLA Art Walk (I’ve visited a few in
OC and SD), I had no idea where the starting point was and I actually made it
there at the very end. It was there that Diego Cardoso’s vibrant art was being
featured, the highlight of this month’s show. The simplicity of the inner
gallery where his paintings hung only further brightened the essence of his
work; paintings that left me in awe as I recalled literally experiencing LA in
its depth fifteen seconds prior to walking through those doors. He captured the
colors and the sights with such gravity that I almost heard the sounds
accompanying each picture. The sound of that woman’s voice, thanking me as she
nestled by the bus bench. The sound of artists greeting me and sharing their
stories behind each work of art they invested a piece of their soul into.
A friend
of mine works as a chaplain in the LA county jails and one evening after work
she was telling me that an inmate she visits gave her a flower. “Guess what
kind?” she asked. I shrugged my shoulders and let her tell me. “It was a paper
towel, wound up and folded in the perfect shape of a rose. The petals were
dipped in red colored soap while the stem in green.” She ended the story but my
mind had just begun. For a good ten minutes I thought about it, about this
man’s efforts, behind bars, to show his appreciation for the work and faith she
was investing in him. He managed, with what he had handy, to create something
to give her as a token of utter gratitude, a piece of him, and nothing could be
a more beautiful gesture. And that’s what it felt like to walk past each of
these artists last night. I felt like I was seeing their souls in complete raw
form and nothing was more beautiful.
So I
wrap up this post with a plea, calling all SoCal peeps and tourists alike, to
set aside some time on the second Thursday of each month to explore and support
the colorful diversity and beauty that is the Downtown LA Art Walk. And if not,
then go out and explore the Art Walks of your neighborhood. Take a night out to
journey across the most exciting city and mingle with the artistic souls that
make up the colorful diversity that is our world. Encounter the drunk, the
divine, the girl in floral cat ears and electric pink stilettos, swim in the
graffiti art, dance like no tomorrow in the sounds of drums and guitars, or get
lost in the dark eyes of the portraits who have just as many stories to tell as
their makers. Remember, never underestimate the power of art.
