Everything (is not) going to be all right…

“When does enough turn out to be enough– when do we leave reasonably satisfied, and if so, with what messages given to the people with whom we have worked? What is our responsibility to such people … When does honorable inquiry turn into an exercise in manipulative self-interest, even ‘exploitation’?”


                                              * Robert Coles, Doing Documentary Work

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What survived for several months as a collective, familial effort to hold things together among the concrete bridges, ramps, sidewalks and cul de sacs has morphed into something even less optimistic, if that’s a term that could ever be used. Terry and Amy are occupying the narrowest strip of asphalt imaginable on an off-ramp, certain by be rousted out again soon, only to build camp somewhere else in the vicinity or do a spell behind bars; Gracie is now rooming with a couple Craig once denounced as grifters and opportunists; Lynda clings tenuously to a modicum of sane, reasoned hope, with her artworks finally about to go on public display at an Art Walk, on invitation from a local politician’s office. 

Discovering Lynda’s new kitty brings a feeling of hope and tenderness that is  minutes later dampened by Craig’s terse recounting of his recent confrontation with law enforcement nemesis Officer Diaz, which he retells with tired and pitiless eyes as an impasse during which both men reportedly told the other that they never want to see each other again. With their dead-end encampment now overrun with the hoardings of others and no longer the place of relative solitude it proved to be for several weeks, Craig may be getting harassed (two new tickets and counting) out of what he calls Diaz’s “perimeter,” and threatens now to seek less hostile pastures.

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56.11 tent violation, for an abode blocking a remote dead end sidewalk where nobody walks. 

Is this what we want, for Gracie to be holding up a sign when she is 67?

Representation and ownership; the delicate case of W. Eugene Smith’s Tomoko image

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“Even the most compassionate photojournalism is under pressure to satisfy simultaneously two sorts of experiences: those arising from our largely surrealist way of looking at all photographs, and those created by our belief that some photographs give real and important information about the world. The photographs that W. Eugene Smith took in the late 1960s in Minamata … move us because they document a suffering which arouses our indignation—and distance us because they are superb photographs of Agony, conforming to surrealist standards of beauty.”

                                                                                    * Susan Sontag

You will be told we must continuously show these images as a reminder of what must never happen again! These arguments, I believe, are specious when looked at without the filter of the mass media. The classic Aristotelian notion of tragedy, which calls for the dramatic presentation of  “ … incidents arousing pity and fear, wherewith to accomplish its catharsis of such emotions,” seemed prescient in the age of photographic representation. Yet while such photographs may arouse pity, fear or anger, it is hard to imagine what cathartic value the perpetual viewing of, to put things crudely, a dead or dying body might have, regardless of it’s historical or political significance. 

To this end, Sontag has also written:

“To suffer is one thing; another thing is living with the photographed images of suffering, which does not necessarily strengthen conscience and the ability to be compassionate. It can also corrupt them … after repeated exposure to images it also becomes less real … The sense of taboo which makes us indignant and sorrowful is not much sturdier than the sense of taboo that regulates the definition of what is obscene. The vast photographic catalogue of misery and injustice throughout the world has given everyone a certain familiarity with atrocity, making the horrible seem ordinary …” 

Outside the realm of censorship, however exercised, photojournalists, documentarians and defenders of the genre have historically shown little restraint or reflection in the use of more “important” images. Actions against this deeply ingrained sense of representational duty are rare, if not blasphemous.

In 1998, pundits were aghast when Aileen Mioko Smith, the widow of master photo-essayist W. Eugene Smith, heeded the pleas of the Uemura family to bar all future use of one of Smith’s most enduring images, “Tomoko is Bathed by Her Mother.”  The photograph, a classic example of Smith’s unabashedly Romantic sensibility, with trademark high-contrast printing to further enhance the chiaroscuro lighting, had been taken in 1971 as part of an essay on the effects of mercury poisoning in the Japanese fishing industry. The photographs published in Life magazine, and in the book entitled “Minamata,” came to symbolize the plight of the families afflicted with birth defects and other illnesses. Notwithstanding concerns expressed by purists that Smith had engaged in some decidedly questionable journalistic ethics by staging the image in the most dramatic light that could be found, the photograph is held up as a shining example of humanitarian documentary work, nearly as impressive symbolically as it is narratively.

The Uemura family eventually prevailed in the first Minamata Disease trial against the Chisso Corporation, but a few years later Tomoko, only twenty-one years old, passed away. In an emotional letter written in 1998, Tomoko’s father outlines how the famous photograph has, over the years since their daughter’s death, become a crucible, outliving it’s original usefulness:

“ … we were faced with an increasing number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the struggle for the eradication of pollution, we agreed … as a result rumors began to circulate … `They must be making a huge amount of money from all the publicity’ … I do not think that anybody outside our family can begin to imagine how unbearable these persistent rumors made our daily lives … in 1977 we were contacted by a French television company who were planning to produce a program entitled `One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth Century,’ and they said it was vital for them to use … Eugene Smith’s `Tomoko.’” I did not want to take part in this program so I turned them down … I wanted Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.”4

In response, Smith, who had worked with her husband on the Minamata project, and had been intimate with the Uemura family, agreed. In a letter to the media, she wrote:

“Generally, the copyright of a photograph belongs to the person who took it, but I think that it is important to respect the subject’s rights and feelings. Therefore, I … promised that I would not newly exhibit or publish the photo in question. In addition I will be grateful if any museums who already own or are displaying the work would take the above into consideration …”5

Aperture magazine, widely respected as among the most excellent arbiters of important photography, dutifully published a response that brushed aside copyright concerns. Instead,  it served to chastise Aileen Mioko Smith for giving away what was not hers, violating a trust rendered sacred forged by an unconditional, long-held sense of protective ownership.  Never! Imagine the precedent! Aristotle himself might’ve appreciate the manner in which the removal of the photographs from public view would provide those most personally affected with the catharsis necessary to complete the dramatization of the tragedy, but it was not to be…

Eugene and Aileen Smith’s Photograph of Tomoko and My Family

by Yoshio Uemura

Tomoko was born on June 13, 1956. A few days after her birth, Tomoko began to exhibit trembling fits. She cried every day and we were unable to leave her side. We thought this strange and took her to various hospitals in Minamata City, but none of them were able to say what was wrong with her. She was later suspected to be suffering from cerebral palsy. However there was really no treatment for her but to give injections to her tiny, thin body.

It was not until November of 1962 that Tomoko was recognized as suffering from congenital Minamata Disease. At this time she already had three younger sisters. On December 26th of that year another sister was born and by 1969 she had a total of six siblings. Despite having so many children, looking after Tomoko took a lot of our time. A single meal would take about two hours for her to eat and so just feeding her would occupy more than five or six hours every day.

The first Minamata Disease lawsuit began in June 1969 and went through forty-nine hearings before the proceedings were concluded with the final judgment being handed down on March 20, 1973. During this period, people from all over the country offered their support and among them were Eugene and Aileen Smith, who had rented a house near ours in Detsuki from Tadaaki Mizoguchi and were photographing the families of the victims of the disease.

Among the many photographs they took, there was one of my wife Yoshiko holding Tomoko in the bath. Yoshiko told me that Tomoko had let her body lie straight without trying to curl up. To be honest, we had thought that the photograph would only take a brief moment so we had agreed to the shoot without giving the matter a second thought. I was told that Tomoko seemed exhausted when she got out of the bath.

The photograph went on to become world-famous and as a result we were faced with an increasing number of demands for interviews. Believing that it would aid the struggle for the eradication of pollution, we agreed to the interviews and photographs and the organizations that were working on our behalf used the photograph of Tomoko frequently in their activities. However, as a result, rumors began to circulate in the neighborhood and among other people around us. “They must be making a huge amount of money from all that publicity.” This was untrue. It had never entered our minds to profit from the photograph of Tomoko. We never dreamt that a photograph like that could be commercial.

The truth is that we did not benefit financially at all from the photograph. I do not think that anybody outside our family can begin to imagine how unbearable these persistent rumors made our daily lives. Sometimes we had to face the flashes and hot lights of television interviews, and although she could not speak herself, I am sure that in her heart Tomoko felt that because of her, we –her father, mother, sisters, and brother– were having to go through such pain. As her father, I found the thought that this concern existed in the corner of her mind extremely unpleasant. Several years before she died, she began going to the hospital many times and each time she came home she was smaller than when she went in. She never smiled any more and seemed to become progressively weaker.

Despite this, Tomoko still had a strong will to live and she was treasured by everybody in the family. I regret so much that I could do nothing to soften her pain…the fevers from colds, the suffering, the only slight relief she could get from the injections and medication. The treatments probably provided but slight relief for her. I have now come to believe that the sole thing that sustained Tomoko was her parents and siblings, her family’s love gave her reason for living, and perhaps enabled her to survive as long as she did.

I am sure that it must have pained Tomoko not to be able to express her gratitude to those who helped her come as far as she did, but I think it was the absolute love and affection my wife offered her that made her life worth living. The industry as well as the national and regional government sent us and untold others to the bottom of hell. And the whole lot of them neglected to save lives but instead bailed out the company. And the company that caused thousands to fall victim now survives as though it has never committed any sin.

The court case was concluded, but victory has no value to the deceased and the seriously ill. And even if the government were to apologize officially, this would do nothing in the slightest to relieve the symptoms of the victims. Tomoko died on December 5, 1977. She was 21 years old. All we could do was to hold vigil before Tomoko who had departed us in silence. I could not hear the words of those that paid homage to her in the funeral procession. Their words could not enter my ears. In blank stupor, Tomoko departed to heaven ahead of her parents, leaving behind her sisters and brother…

In 1997 we were contacted by a French television company named CAPA who were planning to produce a program entitled, “One Hundred Photographs of the Twentieth Century” and they said that it was vital for them to use “the picture that captured the environmental problems of Minamata, Eugene Smith’s ‘Tomoko’.”

I did not want to take part in the program so I turned them down. I know what television interviews involve and also, many of the organizations that are working on our behalf are using the photograph in various media, many of them in places we do not know about. I realize that this is necessary for numerous reasons, but I wanted Tomoko to rest in peace and this feeling welled up in me steadily.

Hearing the way I felt, Aileen came all the way from Kyoto to visit me on June 7th last year and she promised to revert all rights of decision to the picture of Tomoko to my wife and I. We later received this promise in writing and a copy of it appears on the following page [below]. I and my family are filled with gratitude from the bottom of our hearts toward Aileen. I thank her deeply for this wonderful gift to Tomoko. I feel that Tomoko is now finally resting in eternal peace. I ask all of you for your support and understanding.

His letter ended:

1. I,  Aileen Smith, return the photograph entitled “Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother” to Mr. and Mrs. Uemura.

2. This means that the right of decision concerning the use of this photograph reverts to Mr. and Mrs. Uemura.

3. In the future, when any requests are made to me concerning this photograph, I will explain the following (see separate sheet) and refuse use of this photograph.

October 30, 1998

Aileen Mioko Smith

Regarding the Photograph, “Tomoko is Bathed by her Mother”

by Aileen Mioko Smith

The photograph entitled “Tomoko is bathed by her Mother” was taken in December 1971 by Eugene and Aileen Smith. At the time, Tomoko was a plaintiff in the first Minamata Disease trial and was suing the Chisso Corporation for damages. Her parents wanted society to know about their daughter and therefore agreed to the taking and publishing of the photograph.

Since 1972, this photograph has been published in Life magazine, a book of photographs entitled “Minamata” (1975 in English, 1980 in Japanese) etc., causing a huge response, and became a symbol of Minamata Disease.

The plaintiffs won their case in March of 1973 but sadly, Tomoko died in December 1977 at the tender age of twenty-one. Despite this, however, the photograph continued to be used as a symbol of Minamata Disease in books and exhibitions, leaving a strong impression on a large number of people. I later heard that this resulted in a certain amount of conflict within the minds of her family, who wanted to see the end of the kind of pollution that caused the problems, while at the same time wished to let Tomoko rest in peace.

Generally, the copyright of a photograph belongs to the person who took it, but the subject also has rights and I think that it is important to respect the subject’s rights and feelings. Therefore, I went to see the Uemura family on June 7, 1998 and promised that I would not newly exhibit or publish the photograph in question.

For the above reasons, the photograph entitled “Tomoko is bathed by her Mother” will not be used for any new publications. In addition I will be grateful if any museums etc. who already own or are displaying the work would take the above into consideration when exhibiting etc. the photograph in the future.

October 30, 1998

Aileen Mioko Smith (Copyright Holder)

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Set to the rousing Gospel at Colonus, all the faces of One of Us…

Open the shelters, the funding is there…

Her message was loud and clear, though most of the people in attendance at the Los Angeles Housing+Community Investment Department’s celebration of 25 years of achievement in the fields of affordable housing (and homelessness, by proxy) weren’t in the mood to listen … with $1.5 million already allocated to enhance the emergency shelter system into a year-round program, Laura Rathbone arrived to plead that there be no more excuses. She wasn’t on the agenda, and my request to have access to the microphone (I intended to turn my time over to her) was shushed due to “time constraints.” Laura, denied the opportunity to explain the situation in more measured tones, and maybe a little put out by the fact that she had been running all over the city on a daily basis trying to find someone who could unlock the Armory doors, went all Norma Rae…. Lives were on the line– just as there are lots of people who refuse to go into the shelters for a variety of reasons, there is also a segment of the homeless population who do not want or cannot cope with living out of doors. If only the powers-that-be would listen, and realize that hundreds, even thousands of people are on the streets because of decisions like this one.

The thing that sticks with me the most after watching this a few times is how the officials around the perimeter of the rotunda just carried on as if nothing was happening. Laura was just speaking the truth, trying to help people who due to the closure of the Sylmar Armory suddenly have to fend for themselves outdoors. Besides the obvious irony of turning a deaf ear while the gallery is filled with larger-than-life portraits of the class of people Laura was speaking for, it’s absurd that not one person in a position of authority approached her to find out more, to see if there was any validity to her claims, to even recognize that there was a problem. This was during an event focussing on the city’s commitment to finding affordable housing and lifting the homeless up. Yet when my wife went to ask if they could turn down the music that had been cranked up to drown out her voice, she was told “no, there’s a time and place for everything.” Real solutions to homelessness in this city thus remain elusive, or at least move along at what must seem a glacial pace to the marginalized, afflicted and dispossessed.

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With curious uniformed officers in pursuit, Laura was long gone by the time we gathered for this photograph with members of the North Valley Caring Services and the Museum of Social Justice. It felt great to be surrounded by so many dedicated activists, family and friends including Richard Conner, a gentleman of many talents.

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All the photography displays in the world won’t make a bit of difference if those in power don’t take action… big, beautifully printed photographs become just entertainment for the elite to feel good or bad about. Case in point– I took Gracie to a neighborhood council meeting last December, where she spoke out about her predicament and pleaded for understanding. Two weeks later she was in handcuffs and carted off to jail…


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Three questions

In preparation for an exhibition on homelessness currently in the planning stages at the Museum of Social Justice in Los Angeles, I was asked three very simple and direct questions, which challenged me to define the motivations and expectations of the One of Us project:

1.     Is there one thing, or one experience that tangibly crystalized the dedication that drives you to pursue this project with such ferocity? Or is there a significant experience you can point to that initiated your motivation to provoke change in how homelessness is treated in Los Angeles?

Homelessness in Los Angeles is a humanitarian crisis that can’t be ignored. Supervisor Mark Ridley-Thomas recently characterized it as the defining issue of the time, and better late than never, it is good to find so much activity and mobilization going on now. I’m personally motivated by a sense of outrage over the passive-aggressive way much of society deals with the homeless population, and alarm at the way the problem has been allowed to fester and grow. The relationships, trust and even friendships I’ve established with an odd fraternity of homeless individuals (and activists) in my own community has only reinforced and illuminated these beliefs.

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Photographs and words can only interpret and represent, and in actuality there are already more than enough dramatic photographs of deprivation and suffering, and enough anecdotal information and demographics to convince the powers-that-be to do the needful. The media, myself included, have been complicit in this. With the notable exception of the few instances where photographs, reportage and even Art have had a direct, measurable effect on its subjects, the ubiquity of coverage has only added to an overwhelming sense of intractability and despair, perpetrating harmful stereotypes and further serving to objectify the homeless as some homogeneous societal woe.

What harm can there be in listening to and learning from those who are actually living this nightmare on a daily basis? The concept of soliciting the personal stories and portraits that became One of Us arose out of a longstanding collaboration with Wade Trimmer, director of the San Fernando Valley Rescue Mission. Wade encouraged me to pursue our common interest in “humanizing” the homeless, a phrase that on its face seems redundant and offensive because it infers that each person encountered in this work is not unquestionably and obviously quite human already. So we want to remind the public of this simple fact of humanity; the motivation for this approach lies in the desire to change the conversation surrounding homelessness, to bring it back to a human level, to perhaps nudge anyone who encounters the material to feel more inclined to enact real, sustainable solutions.


2.     If you were to ask the participants of “One of Us” what the most important message we need to convey would be, what do you think they would say?

The conversations we recorded with more than 40 individuals provide a wide variety of answers to that question. Taken collectively, they present a pretty comprehensive catalog of the causes of homelessness and the many obstacles that make it such a difficult situation to rise above. At the risk of overusing another cliché, in the context of “giving voice to the voiceless” as a path toward human autonomy and dignity, the most important messages I heard were connected with the longing for understanding and empathy from the general public and law enforcement. 

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Each person’s story touches on this in some way, whether it is boyish, twenty-something Jesse who dreams of becoming a doctor or nurse while currently living in his car in the parking lot of the Walmart store he works in, or Nancy, an elderly Southern debutante whose safe world was turned upside down after being victimized by real estate fraud. Ultimately it doesn’t matter how many stories are told, how many “likes” their images collect on social media, or any of that. They just need affordable housing.

3.     What is your favorite image and why?

There’s a big distinction between the studio-lit portraits made in locations where the people were for the most part comfortable and knew they were in a safe place among friends and allies (possibly having just eaten a warm breakfast and used the portable shower unit), and those taken out in the streets and encampments. While I’m gratified that so many of the close-up portraits reveal a sense of common humanity that transcends their economic or living conditions, my favorite picture is often one I have just recently taken, portraying both personal and symbolic meanings. 

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Right now an image I feel conveys some measure of universal hope, if not redemption, is that of Gracie holding up the tiny portrait of a baby girl recently born to her street-mate Emmy. The baby was the only survivor of twins, and Gracie was noticeably proud to have been anointed her “honorary grandmother.” As tragic as the circumstances surrounding the child’s birth may be, and as uncertain as the future is now for Gracie, Emmy and the rest of the people in this one camp—a microcosm of homelessness in Los Angeles—there is still the desire to sustain a sense of familial belonging.

Dislodged

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How much trouble can one life endure in just 66 years? The joys, the meaningful pleasures, the temporary reprieves from the sameness of living out of doors, these can’t take root when you are suddenly forced to abandon your base camp on the sidewalk next to the 7-11, and follow police orders to clear out in 30 minutes or else… so it was this morning when Gracie suddenly came chugging around the corner into Craig and Lynda’s encampment, pushing a loaded shopping cart in an agitated state. Lynda was sound asleep (so it seemed when I dropped bag of nail polish, this one donated by a student). Craig, thinking with his heart first, quickly said yes when Gracie indicated she needed to move everything into their space, like pronto

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Things did get a little testy when Craig arrived on his bike to help with the move. After a minute of watching her pull back tarps and stuff items into milk crates and carts, he let Gracie know that she would have to take a quick inventory and thin out her belongings, if mainly to avoid upsetting the apartment building dwellers in the cul de sac, who were giving tacit approval to the presence of the little makeshift duplex. (Earlier, while discussing which local stores had the cheapest groceries, Craig told me he was planning to go behind the chain link fence and tidy up the strewn rubbish)

As Gracie sorted fretfully, a guy in a small pick-up stopped to offer three full McDonald’s breakfasts he had somehow inherited, and just around that same time another group of Good Samaritans came over to offer us more food, and were directed over to Terry and Amy’s side. Craig and Mike ate lustily but it was all lost on poor Gracie who now had to wrack her brains and shift into full survival mode again… 

A few hours later her blond ponytail was seen bobbing along the sidewalk under the freeway bridge. “Turns out it was a false alarm,” she said into the car window, without sheepishness and still a little beside herself, before continuing along on the way to pick up her clothes at the corner laundromat.

Ties that bind…

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Craig and Lynda are now resigned to avoiding the constant hassle of the overpass life, sharing a dead-end side street butted up against the chain link fences meant to keep people away from the freeway. This new spot is equidistant between where the others still stubbornly squat near the money-generating ramps on busy Nordhoff, and the saving grace of the old Methodist Church and community center run by the North Valley Caring Services a few blocks east. Even though Craig, Lynda, Gracie and rest are loathe to take advantage of the food pantry, breakfasts and other services, it’s not an exaggeration to say that with Manny and others so ready to come to them, their proximity to the mission is almost comforting in itself.

It wasn’t surprising to find Gracie relaxed and pleased to greet company, sitting alone in Craig’s tent, spirits buoyed by her new status as the “honorary grandmother” of a baby girl recently born to Emmy, the raw-boned gal who along with boyfriend Mike were caught up in the ultimately unhelpful New Year’s Eve crackdown that put most of the group (including Mike) in the clink. Now living close to Gracie on the sidewalks off Nordhoff, the couple are part of what Craig somewhat emotionally refers to as their family, which includes everyone mentioned so far plus Terry and Amy. “We’ve had our spirit broken,” he confesses, “but we got it back.” 

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Gracie Crilley wants to help get Emmy into a drug addiction program, so she can get off the street and care for her child herself. 


But there’s more… there’s always more…


The child’s twin did not survive until birth. This happened outside, on the ramp, though in the overall scheme of things was not overly dramatized, and everyone soldiered on. Emmy’s aunt in Santa Clarita has taken the baby in, hence the  studio portrait Gracie pulled out of her shirt to proudly share. The printed photograph stabs at the heart, a throwback to a simpler, pre-digital time It will not lose it’s preciousness even as it weathers and fades, as a possession stored in a refugee’s belongings must do, and relatively quickly. Slipping back into the first-person witness of the human condition, I feel an uncomfortable sense of awe at the resilience and capacity to endure hardship my friends often show. What I am moved so much by is not Gracie’s cracked fingernails, or the depth-of-field you can achieve with an iPhone, but her happiness while sharing the news, the photograph, the experience of being a grandmother. Don’t believe this photograph. Or at least believe that for a few minutes, Gracie was smiling.

Can somebody please get this woman (and her family) a place to live?

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Mercy

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Manny Flores and his outreach team from the North Valley Caring Services bring warm meals, hygiene kits, human kindness and even prayer to people living outdoors. Encampments, alleys, sidewalks, the wash, even groups camped inside the bushes of public parks are visited each Wednesday night. It requires just the right blend of missionary zeal, street cred and unconditional love to gain and keep trust. Some of the spots, such as the  “Trails” encampments that line the 405 freeway, are home to the hardest cases of chronic homelessness, notorious for tough, sometimes fatal living conditions. Deaths among the homeless and other street dwellers in this repressed section of North Hills are surprisingly common, and Manny talked about some recent incidents while driving his loaded-down pick-up through the night traffic between spots.

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Randy, an elderly gentleman surviving the elements and lung cancer, talks to volunteer Lauren Rathbone and her service dog, and unburdens himself to a sidewalk ministry.

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MOTEL LIFE

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Outreach includes regular visits to families who have secured temporary shelter in motels along Sepulveda Boulevard, through a voucher program provided by  Los Angeles Family Housing. Kids and adults congregate on the balconies as doors open to greet the visitors. One of the motel rooms we visited housed a family of ten…

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Heart

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