Gentrification Comes to LA’s Skid Row, and the Homeless Get the Shaft
One of the worst things about being rich is sometimes you’re forced to interact with the poor. When not in a sitting in orthopedic chairs in skyscrapers or on Italian leather sofas in luxury condos, the wealthy are often forced to walk on their own two legs—at street level—as if they were proletarian slobs. And this is upsetting, for on a sidewalk, anyone, even the hideously unprivileged, can look you in the eye.
Developer Geoffrey H. Palmer thinks this is wrong. In 2009, the real estate mogul sued the city of Los Angeles and successfully overturned its requirement that he provide some affordable housing in his massive faux-Italian apartment complexes. But while that kept poor people out, it didn’t do anything to address the problem of the poor people Palmer’s wealthy future tenants would have to deal with in the still-gentrifying downtown area.
So when Palmer started construction on two new buildings, complete with a pool and indoor basketball court, he proposed a pedestrian bridge connecting them to minimize “potential incidents that could occur during the evening hours, when the homeless population is more active in the surrounding area.” In other words, the rich will be able to literally walk over the less fortunate.
If you live in San Francisco and like photography, topless girls, or having a good time, you have only one place to be tonight: Sandy Kim, who takes great photos in the process of documenting the kind of carefree life your parents always worried you’d have, is having an art show at the Ever Gold Gallery. She’ll be showing all new work, much of which features the aformentioned topless girls (and some dudes, for you girls and you, ahem, San Francisco men). Sandy’s been taking photos for the magazine for awhile, so she has our stamp of approval. If you need more encouragement, take a gander at these images she sent us that serve as a preview of the show. C’mon, San Francisco! It’ll be fun!
Opening for Sandy Kim
September 5, 7-10 PM
Ever Gold Gallery
441 O’Farrell St
San Francisco, CA, 94102
More of Sandy’s work
New Photos from Coco Young
Coco Young was Ryan McGinley’s "It" model in 2009 and 2010, later becoming the face of Cynthia Rowleyand walking the Marc Jacobs fall 2010 runaway. Those are quite the feats for a 20-year-old in New York City.
Now, at 24, you could say she’s on the road to becoming the “It” photographer, with an intriguing portfolio that I’ve tried to get bored of but can’t. Plus, google her and try not to fall in love with her beautiful face. Totally impossible. And she was kind enough to send us some mostly unreleased photographs to share with you guys.
Coco Young’s photographs employ a particular aesthetic that manages to create a push and pull between intimacy and voyeurism with her subjects—to an almost surreal degree. Sometimes her photos feel way too intimate with a weird-ass sitter presented beyond the point of comfort, and then the next image surprisingly manages to put us at ease with an intricate seminude. You go from seeing a casual portrait of Charlotte Free in a hallway to an Asian man with a Hitler mustache and an awkward bowl cut, to someone climbing up a gravestone as if it were an unholy Kilimanjaro. In a generation filled with daily-life, snapshot photography, Coco Young is doing it better.
Cat Marnell’s Amphetamine Logic: Goodbye to All That (the End for Now)
Amphetamine Logic was kind of making me psychotic.
I sat down for lunch with my agent at an overpriced bistro on Park Avenue South.
"So Cat," Byrd Leavell, literary agent extraordinaire, said. "What’s new?"
"Well," I said, surreptitiously picking a peroxide scab off my head. "I guess I’ve finally burned out like everyone wants me to." I was eating on a steak and trying not to gag while I chewed.
"Hmm," said my agent. "Well, what are we going to do—"
"I don’t know, man," I gulped, and my hands started shaking. "Let me just try to explain the situation. I have no money and everyday eat empanadas from the corner that I pay for in laundry quarters. My apartment looks like a fucking personality disorder. You can barely open the door—"
"Uh huh," said Byrd.
"—I mean there are perfume bottle shards in my feet and there’s blood and oatmeal on the floor—"
"Cat," Byrd said. "You can’t live like this anymore."
But couldn’t I? On the way home I thought about all of the things instead of writing that I’d been doing.
I was Rolling Stone's ”Hot Bukowski.” I was the toast of the town. I was puking flowers afterhours; I was letting everybody down. I read a Tatler article: "London’s Seven Loveliest Lesbians." I mocked a skeleton dressed as Kenny Scharf at Gold Bar. There was ethanol, Adderall, night rainbows, Nalaxone. I sat around stoned in Soho House while the concierge charged my iPhone. I stuffed Artforum in my oven and stacked Richardson on the stove. I saw Pointbreak at MOMA; I saw 3 PM Hunger Games in LA at the Grove: “(PG-13) for intense violent thematic material and disturbing images—all involving teens.” I bleached everything I owned and my knuckles burned and scabbed from the bleach.
I snorted dope in DUMBO and I smoked dust on the beach. I preyed on editors during the day and slept with monsters at night. Life’s never dowdy in an Audi scoring pudé up in Washington Heights, is it babes? I drank Diet Coke and had coke sex and sat in Yorkville townhouse basements playing Mario Kart on a grimy old Super Nintendo. We smoked crack until our fingers turned black and watched Mel Gibson’s Apocalypto. I chilled with famous downtown stupor freaks tweaking and listening to Diplo.
“WHY IS EVERYBODY DRESSED LIKE MR. PEANUT?!" I screamed once at Le Baron. I had about 40 pounds of fake hair on.
"Shhh," Same said. "You are dusted." And though I was confused of course I trusted him.
The Boom Boom Room was always full of doom. Our PCP smelled like burnt balloons. I was dressed Boricua heroin chic. Shaun was asking me if I saw Wu Tang at Milk Studios that one weird Fashion Week.
"Cat." Shaun said.
"Oh Jesus God, does it fucking matter?” I screamed. “Is this a ‘Big Picture’ problem?” The bathroom line disasters are as disastrous as disasters can be. “Shaun, the little coke girls are STARING AT ME.”
“They are staring at us because we know them,” Shaun said. “You’ve had them over to your house to do drugs at least four times. Invite them over. They’re the little LES… dominatrixes. They have tons of tons of drugs and money and they’re nice.”
"OK," I said, and I walked over and did.