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?
The activism of Theodore “Ted” Hayes, Jr. began in January 1985, when Justiceville, a community of homeless people in Los Angeles, was founded. It survived for five months, until authorities shut down the shantytown. Hayes entered 35-day fast in protest in response. In 1987, with producer Tom Bolema and the Butchers, he recorded “Ted’s Rap: Justiceville” about the bulldozing of the encampment.
From this evolved The Dome Village community, officially opened in November of 1993 with a $250,000 grant from ARCO. Located in downtown Los Angeles, the 20 Omni-sphere domes were a working prototypical model, key to a comprehensive plan designed to “break the cycle” of homelessness, optimistically named the Exodus, Genesis, Incentive, Initiative Plan (EGIIP).
Rosa Vasquez and her two children at Genesis I.
“’The idea was to create a family environment…. We recognized that people needed to be in a social environment, but they needed a private space,’ Hayes told the Los Angeles Times. Residents, who paid $70 to $100 a month, were responsible for chores and could buy and cook their own food in a communal kitchen dome. Other domes housed washrooms and laundry facilities. Also on site was a dome for a library containing computers with Internet access.”
Photo origin unknown
The project received worldwide acclaim for
its innovative concept and proposal for dealing with global homelessness. Attracting attention nationally
and internationally, the Dome Village received visits from HRH Prince Edward
of England, the Prince of Wales Business Leaders Forum as well as government
and business dignitaries from various parts of the world.
In February 1998 Hayes delivered to the
White House his proposal for the creation of a National Homeless Plan to
eradicate homelessness in the next ten years. In October of 1998 the City
Council of Los Angeles, and in January of 1999 the County passed resolutions in
support of the plan. But by
November of 2007, the Dome Village was closed due to political and economic obstacles that
Ted, his staff and supporters could not overcome. An article in the Los Angeles Times published on October 29, 2006, explained:
“Dome Village had paid $2,500 a month for the 1 ¼ acres, not including property taxes, said founder Ted Hayes, a longtime homeless activist who lived in a dome. But last year, one of the owners, Milton Sidley, wrote to Hayes, saying the overall rent would increase to more than $18,300 a month.
That spelled the end of Dome Village.
‘The property in downtown Los Angeles has appreciated such a great deal at this point,“ said Mike Sidley, Milton Sidley’s son and attorney for the partnership that owns the land. ‘It’s just no longer economically viable to allow them to remain there.’
The dismantling of Dome Village – near the Staples Center – ended an era of experimentation in which Hayes tried to give homeless people their own haven away from skid row.”
Back for the third time in four days, I spoke with an employee of the Thai restaurant who told me Jimmy (the owner) has struck a deal of mutual convenience with our friend– free meals as long as Craig keeps to the back of the ramp, out of eyesight of customers. Craig is now in terrible shape, with the combination of drug addiction, staph infection and general societal dissociation rendering him psychologically fragile– yesterday (the day after I took these photographs) I returned there on my bike and found him raging, to the point where he started rubbing his infected hands all over by bicycle, a surprisingly hostile move from a guy who has always been friendly until now. Paramedic units have been called but did not find him there upon arrival. Seems like he is generally quarantining himself from Gracie and the others, now also back in the forbidden zone…
Dori Sill has been in her new, Los Angeles Family Housing-subsidized apartment for over a month now. She’s gradually getting her things out of storage and putting the pieces of her life back together.
Her small apartment is filling up with the vintage furniture and artifacts that were once taken for granted, back in her salad days…
Her career and lifestyle as a professional musician now in the distant past, Dori hopes to put her arsenal of guitars and keyboards back to work… Now in her early 60s, it may be her best chance to earn a living on her own, as the aneurysm and coma which left her physically hobbled makes it a strain to even climb the stairs to her second-story apartment.
Max, Dori’s constant canine companion during the homeless years, recently passed away, but Dori still has two large cats to keep her company.
No longer homeless “but still poor,” Dori takes her lunch each Saturday at the Hope of Valley in Van Nuys, among dozens of others in various stages of homelessness and impoverishment.
One lasting sensation from today’s bike ride was the reminder that outdoors, even on a moderate, not-yet-cool late-afternoon in March, the blast of warmth that comes from the tumbling dryers when you pass or enter the open door of a laundromat is comforting, when not a reminder of what you no longer have access to. The not-so-homeless Colonel is back on the ramp, he who survives entirely on socialist subsistence programs and the kindness of strangers (as though those two things should be mutually exclusive in cases of dire need)?
The Colonel has seen them all come and go, and still knows the whereabouts of a few, or who might have last been camping on a local sidestreet. Now 80, he has worked the off-ramps of the 405 for woe these many years while shacked up in a motel room along the strip on Sepulveda Blvd. The Colonel still has the glint in his eye as he recounts surviving many health challenges, even as he must now cart around the oxygen that keeps him afloat.
This gentle soul will converse with a friendly stranger… he expresses his lamentations in abrupt tones… one of those that are said to not want to accept the offer of a shelter bed, has worn out his welcome, or prefers to scratch out a meager life in the margins.
…of Gracie and Craig, Terry and Amie, Lynda and the others who plied their trades and tried their luck and laid their head and money on the dirty ground to weather the weather whether or not they might be a number in a homeless count counting their blessings for Hope not hopelessness and domicile deprived not homeless…
Community pride…. The off ramps and underpasses are back, well let’s say order has been restored. The old gang is pretty much broken up and dispersed by now… not too many happy endings, hardly any down here in fact. Funny thing is, they chased the people away but the detritus remains unattended to by any and all who were advocating for a “cleanup” of the neighborhood.
Synchronicity… worlds meet at the 2nd Annual Homeless Initiative Conference, Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels, Feb. 8th… Sheila Kuehl of the LA County Board of Supervisors brought our friend Dori in front of the 500 participants, and related her story. Dori was somewhat bemused by the attention, but much more relaxed and happy now that LAFH has provided her with shelter.
The event organizers asked to display some of the One of Us art, including this one of Manuel Flores, Community Liaison for the North Valley Caring Services.
When I first met and spoke with Dori last August at the St. Charles Borromeo Church in North Hollywood, the most enduring impression was her cheerfulness in the face of great hardship. As her story printed below testifies, Dori’s life was shattered by a tragic fate, a brain aneurism which derailed her dreams, put her at death’s door, and still affects her physically and otherwise…
Revisiting Dori’s story today, after finally locating her cluttered but homey RV (a camper shell) parked for now on a residential North Hollywood street, I’m struck by how little she talked about her early career in music. She had told me about a song she had once written that was included in a high-profile movie soundtrack, but not much more. Today she shared an old CD which contained that song and five other well-written and produced tracks, recorded by the band she sang and played keyboards in. The music is lovely, her voice sweet and strong. As she sang along with the CD, it was still her song, still her voice. Dori also took out an old 11x14 portfolio that held several high-quality black and white portraits of her in those salad days, portraits of a beautiful and sensitive artist. There were also pictures taken with Rick James, Gary Wright and other luminaries of that era. Most surprising, among the memorabilia stuffed in the side pockets of the portfolio, was a card (a love letter really) written to her by Prince. It’s envelope also held a color Polaroid of Dori and the legend, taken sometime in the late-70s before he hit superstardom. She mused about selling it to some collector, but seems to have decided that in spite of her dire straits, it’s not worth it.
“Because of my aneurism I might
forget some of the things you ask me, My name is Dori, my age is 58. Before I
had a brain aneurism, I owned a spa called the Oasis Day Spa in Studio City and
we did facials, massage, nails. I had about ten employees and I was working
about eight days a week. And I think the stress of it all just got to my head. One
night I was working in my studio at home and writing music and then I suddenly
started to feel lightheaded so I went down to the bathroom and looked at myself
in the mirror and I saw this black blood that was under my skin and I had white
circles through my eyes, then I just fainted and then went in a coma from that
point.
I was in the hospital when I
woke up … I came out of that stroke and was like ‘okay I have to get back
to work.’ You know, I was telling everybody I’ve got to get to my spa because I
just started it four years prior and I really wanted it to do well. And it was,
and I was very busy that day, so my receptionist kept calling me and she said
you always answer the phone so what’s the matter with you Dori? So she came to my house and found me in bed
with the two dogs next to the bed lying there and I couldn’t move so she called
the ambulance and they took me into the hospital and said that I was
experiencing a brain aneurism.
Actually I could talk or think
about what people were saying but I couldn’t respond. So that was what the
scene was all about for three weeks. They were going to take me off life
support and then Greg, my ex-husband, came up to me and said Dori, I want you
to know that it’s okay if you go but if you want you can stay. But they are
going to take you off life support so you need come to and give me a sign that
you are going to come to so I squeezed his hand and he said ‘I think she’s
awake come on in,’ and they all came running in saying ‘yep she’s out of the
coma,’ so get it out so we can get her going.
Now I didn’t have my business
because it had died probably a couple months before I was out of the coma
because they just didn’t know how to keep it running you know, which I
understand. So that died and then I had a house that was going to have to be
put up for sale, which I went bankrupt on. So I went into bankruptcy from that,
and then I got an apartment, which I could afford because I was babysitting
dogs on the side too as well as getting money from the government.
And then the rents went up and
from there I lived in a house on Irvine. For six years I rented a room and he
let my dogs in and let me do music and everything so it was fine but then he
decided he wanted to sell the house. And when he sold the house, looking at
rents and stuff and how much they are, it was so expensive I couldn’t afford
it. So I got an RV. And that’s where I live now, in the RV. Since probably, six
months now. The police say that neighbors are complaining occasionally because
I was living with a guy that we’d fight a lot. And so he’s gone now thank God. I
got a ticket the other day for being there for more than three days because the
police had come.
I love the homeless people that
I meet. To me it’s like another family you know, it’s a good family and the
food is good that we get too because we can go to different places everyday and
get fed. So that’s helpful. I’ve never been homeless, I never ever thought I
would even be in this position. I get money from the government. Every month I
get like $889 for disability. And then I’ll house-sit on the side and (watch) animals
you know, which brings in a little cash. And that’s really what I live on. Six
hundred of it is already spent with the storage that I have and that kind of
thing.
My family, both my parents died
and my sisters, one lives in Nashville and the other one I’m not sure where she
lives. They don’t even know. Because I don’t know if they know how expensive
rents are …
Yeah it would be nice if I could
write a hit song, that would be good. That’s about what I want to do now. And I
have a whole studio setup. I’m trying to get the electricity so I can plug it
in and work on my keyboards. But I’ve got 15 songs that I wrote on my own that
are pretty good.”
AFTER TWO YEARS OF BEING HOMELESS, LOS ANGELES FAMILY HOUSING FINALLY MOVED DORI INTO A ONE-BEDROOM APARTMENT IN VAN NUYS. Activist Laura Rathbone, most instrumental in moving the process along, recounted the saga in a Facebook post January 19, 2018.
I picked this sign up outside a 7-11 along my regular bike route today. Folded and tucked under my arm, it was a symbol of abject poverty and marginalization, so I anticipated or channeled a measure of resentment and pity. I detected a mini-gamut of reactions, from the grim smile to the grim encouraging smile (more eyes), or being ignored outright. (So many people frown these days out in public so I couldn’t gauge a difference from my usual rides).
In spite of and because of the ratty condition and the felt marker mix of upper and lower case italicized san serif lettering, it will become a piece of documentary evidence, an indictment or an artifact, either way a receipt littered on the ground elevated to the status of Art in the service of social justice.
Pedaling into the late afternoon sun with Bob Dylan philosophizing in my ears, it was just a reminder, a pinprick, more than it was a meaningful experience…. Reports abound that it costs $2000 to some guy named Mike to experience professional or recreational slumming. Such naked voyeurism evokes Binyavanga Wainaina’s poverty porn sentiments on patronage and exploitation.
Well you know there’s that lingering guilt about turning a person’s disadvantage into an artwork, with the whole notion of context thrown up for grabs. Displaying their words, as they shared them, hopefully helps to recontextualize the portraits … This project used to be called One of Us
I used to bump into Lydia and her partners on Broadway Street during the years 2007-2009. Big Gulp cups of liquor took the edge off life on Skid Row, and they’d move up to Broadway Street when they preferred to pass the day somewhere less violent.
Consoling one another while talking about a fire that had destroyed most of their possessions.
Evelyn demonstrates a stabbing they witnessed on Skid Row earlier that day.
“’Humanitarian imagery,’ the historian Heide Fehrenbach
suggested, ‘is moral rhetoric masquerading as visual evidence.” (63)
Amie and Terry are caught in an unforgiving phalanx of substance abuse and poverty. January 6, 2018
“In fifty years much of Western society has inched toward a
public-service-lite ‘hollow state,’ a term used to describe a society, most
pronounced in the United States and Britain, where the state withdraws from
primary responsibility for public-service provision. The move in this direction
is based up ‘trickle-down’ economic theory and the belief that self-regulating
markets will solve social problems with minimal care in the community.” (66)
“In 1975, more than a quarter of the British population were
living in or on the margins of poverty. However, discovering this as a
process—explaining why many people remained in poverty—proved more challenging,
as the photographers discovered: ‘To document a condition is not to explain it.
The condition is a symptom, not a cause; more precisely, it is the outcome of a
process.’ The Survival Programmes
photographs in themselves were, ultimately, unable to develop a narrative that
entirely succeeded in explaining inner-city poverty, although the interviews
helped. They hinted at a sort of self-perpetuating ‘culture of poverty’
exacerbated by families unprepared for the form of social change that the
political class deemed to be good for them.” (68)
“Documentary photographers committed to exploring the
condition of those living in poverty have struggled to understand its nature.”
(68)
“Many of the issues that photographers have sought to
address in the medium’s first 150 years have been driven by outrage at various
forms of what the economist Amartya Sen calls entitlement failure. Sen used the
term to imply that problems faced by the poor were not necessarily of their own
making. His context was famine, but the same thinking might easily be applied
to landlessness, drug addiction, domestic violence, poverty, foreclosure and
inner-city housing.” (69)
“Whenever we want to write
principles of ethics and there is a major differential between the powerful and
the suffering, then the weakest are the optimum test of rightness or wrongness
… the challenge for us who are interested in intercultural communication is
to say how we can articulate an ethics that enables us to actually make the
minority, or the weak or the suffering, the optimum standard.”
Does God only help those who help themselves? 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 their 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?
At the scene of an encampment raid which resulted in several arrests and incarcerations, a young LAPD officer remarked that he and his fellow HOPE officers were “social workers with guns.” That most of those arrested that day have been engaged in an endless cat-and-mouse game with authorities in the same location since that incident (of last December) raises questions about not necessarily the intention but the efficacy of the effort there. In the media, the urban poverty and homeless problem has devolved into a dystopian morality play. Unmediated, it is laden with harshness. That is why it is so good to find so many well-intended, even passionate people working on untying this most Gordian of knots.
I used to bump into Lydia and her partners on Broadway Street during the years 2007-2009. Big Gulp cups of liquor took the edge off life on Skid Row, and they’d move up to Broadway Street when they preferred to pass the day somewhere less violent.
Consoling one another while talking about a fire that had destroyed most of their possessions.
Evelyn demonstrates a stabbing they witnessed on Skid Row earlier that day.
At that moment, in that encounter, what is there for the photographer to do more than respect the space needed for the subject to feel ready… contextualized by their surroundings. appearing authentically self-actualized and comported at the moment their gaze finds the lens and our own gaze (the viewer of the resulting image).
Borana girl with grandmother. Sololo, Kenya
Then we tend to read all kinds of narratives into the image based on prior knowledge. So it’s a lot to ask of someone when that moment occurs, and while it’s often a furtive moment (taken away in silver halide crystals), there are times it pulls at the heartstrings as you wish you could be sure you were conveying the gratitude you felt for the privilege of being allowed to render the fossilized image…
Karimojong family, Uganda
At the same time, they are just “snaps” to the vernacular crowd, which is everyone else, including some in this group portrait…