
Even the stuffies are in bad shape out here on the hardscrabble sidewalks.

More of a chair than a bed. 405 on-ramp at Nordhoff, nobody’s home(less)
SURVIVING THE ELEMENTS

In spite of the efforts of concerned governmental agencies, private institutions and individuals, the vast majority of the homeless population in Los Angeles fend for themselves outdoors. They live on the streets and in alleys, alongside freeway off-ramps and under bridges, sleeping in makeshift structures or bushes outdoors, in vehicles, shelters, abandoned buildings or parks. Simple things we take for granted, such as cleaning clothes, or finding indoor plumbing for washing and relieving oneself, present constant challenges. At a certain point, they become what is known as the “chronically homeless,” seeking out a patchwork of social services to meet their health care and nutritional needs; the prospect of finding transitional or affordable housing for most is an elusive goal. Day after day, they face public indifference, or worse, derision. The possibility of being ticketed, arrested, assaulted or robbed is part of everyday reality. Personal possessions, including medications and sentimental items are subject to confiscation at the whim of city and county agencies or political expediency. The general degradation and constant stress of having to navigate their survival in this environment only serves to exacerbate existing addictions, mental and physical illnesses.


Some band together in communal encampments, sharing their struggles, gains and losses, steeling themselves against those among them who are subsumed by their vices. So it is with a group I began documenting in mid-2016, surviving under and around the 405 freeway overpass at Nordhoff in North Hills. From one day to the next their makeshift tents and hovels would move from one spot to another along the on- and off-ramps, in an endless game of cat-and-mouse with authorities. A supporting cast of characters came and went, but those at the center of this clique became my friends and confidantes, to the point where they saw me as someone they could vent and share their frustrations with. On better days, the talk would be optimistic, the low flame of their hopes and dreams flickering back to life. Over the course of several months I witnessed, often with a sense of despair, their attempts to achieve some sense of normalcy.

At the scene of a raid in December 2016 which resulted in the arrest and incarceration of Lynda, Craig, Gracie, Terry, Amie and others, a young LAPD officer remarked that he and his fellow HOPE officers were like “social workers with guns.” That most of those arrested that day continue to be engaged in survival tactics in this same location raises questions about not necessarily the intention but the efficacy of the efforts being made to do more than simply criminalize those having the most difficulty rising above their plight, or just want to be left alone.

After two years of a mostly friendly and cooperative relationship with this group, I was left with more questions than answers. What is the point at which a human being ceases to matter? We find so many who seem at face value to be their own worst enemies; have they forfeited their right to assistance? Where may a person’s individual right to liberty be impeded by state or community intervention? Should those who are unwilling or – perhaps affected by substance abuse and/or mental instability –unable to proactively seek relief, be subject to the uncertainty of not having a safe haven to stake a claim on what is left of their lives? How does our society feel about the confrontational relationships with law enforcement that result from the inevitable intransigence on both sides, when the compassion training officers might receive to help deal with society’s outliers breaks down?