"Knowledge is Power" -- Art in LA

My recent serendipitous encounter with some graffiti in LA (at least to me) got me thinking about all the walls in LA that have some artwork on them. Imagine how many pieces I've yet to find! So, I figured I'll start sharing these views with you.

"KNOWLEDGE IS POWER"



It seems the Pico Union Housing Corporation (PUHC) had something to do with the creation of this piece (notice the board in the student's left hand). PUHC serves the area by creating and offering affordable housing, providing various skill building opportunities, and offering diverse youth programs.




It's an interesting experience to walk through Pico Union. This type of artwork is only a small part of the large cultural community of the area, not to mention its history.





I really like the can in this piece because it speaks about how we create LA through knowledge and by extension art. This spray can with LA's backdrop as its label may not be a colorful statement with extensive detail but it still caught my eye.

Super Bowl Sunday Platter!

Friend's wife hooked this Superbowl platter up! The football--though deliciously tempting--wasn't edible.

The Presidential Primary: Hillary, McCain, or Obama?

I'm at my local barber and we start talking about the propositions on the California Ballot, which naturally leads us to talk about the presidential candidate of our choice. I typically like to hear people out--get a feel for their views. But this was a discussion I'd lose some hair over.


"Two for one ... Get'em while they're hot!
He starts by telling me he's voting for Hillary Clinton because, "It's like getting two presidents for the price of one." I wasn't dumbfounded by his rhetorical banter even though it sounds very much like the rationale one would use to buy a t-shirt at a swap meet. But I'd heard the same argument earlier in the week, only it was from a colleague that makes six figures. The ground-breaking analysis across the board: "Bill. He was a great president. He's got a lot of knowledge and experience. You know he's gonna help Hillary out--they're married!"

People are talking about choosing a candidate based on family relationships. And we've been here before! Remember the big hoopla about little Bush and big Bush (and no, I'm not talking about Monica and Hillary). It's a tell tale sign of the current temperature of our democracy when Bill--or anyone for that matter--can be seen as a proxy for a presidential candidate. Either way shouldn't a candidate be capable of doing the job based on their own merit?

"Mc-Cane"
Now I figure the next candidate he's going to bring up is Obama (since he started with a Democrat). Nope. He continued, "And Mccain, well, he's served the country well and all. But he's ... I think he's a little too old. He's 71. And you know being a president is a stressful job!" WOW! Not only should one worry about family relations but also the age of a candidate. And the grim reaper seems to have a stiffy for older candidates.

Again, I had heard this argument before. People are definitely watching the same news sources for information. The argument is that there's a much higher chance of dying during a term if you're over the age of 65. Wasn't Kennedy 46 when he was assassinated? Lincoln, 56? I think a president has to worry about being too radical for the era they live in and making enemies more than their age. And who the hell is guaranteed tomorrow!? I didn't say this to him though. I wanted to hear more.

Durka Durka!
And then there was Obama. Up to this point, the tone was light, semi-analytical, and grounded in something that felt positive. But once the topic turned to Obama, he looked at my reflection sternly in the mirror, put the clippers down to his side, and said, "He's Muslim. His name is Barack ... Hussein ... Obama. You make the connection." I did, and it was a connection I'd been hearing all week. Being Muslim = being anti-American = Terrorist. He continued by saying how if anyone voted for Obama, our country would be in big trouble, especially with all of the radical political energy in Latin America--and of course we'd be just like them, a communist nation that suffers from civil unrest.

Barack is assumed to be different not because of his race, which people feared was as big an issue as gender for Hillary, but because--of all things--his name, which is linked to Islam and could mean he's a terrorist. And this time, one's daddy doesn't favor the candidate, since Barack's father was reportedly a practicing Muslim.



In the End, here's what I heard ...
It boils down to skewed ideology. Hillary really can't do the job because she's a woman, but she can do it better because of her personal experience and her husband's experience combined. Still the first woman presidential candidate, but at least we also get Bill.

Mccain can't do the job because he's too old, and quite frankly, too Republican for most Democrats--and I think his desire to continue the war in Iraq has gotten some people scared, regardless of party allegiance. Still a white POW, he's just too old to serve this country.

And Obama can't do the job because he's a closeted Muslim, which means he, being a person of color with a different name, could be a Terrorist in disguise. And since 9/11, we're supposed to be wary of Muslims. Still the first black presidential candidate, he's now potentially a Muslim and therefore practically a terrorist.

Interesting how the support of the war in Iraq boils down to lives lost, cost, and the notion of spreading or not spreading democracy (and the effective way of doing that). While back at home our war against terrorism is subtle, often beginning with religious beliefs--and terrorists are identifiable by the color of their skin and attire (rarely do we think of Timothy McVeigh or Ted Kacynski as your prototypical terrorists).

Yea, race is that subtle in our country. And sexism and ageism is right up there with racism.

Layla. Got me on my knees girl!

Friends dog. Six years old, she was recovered from the pound, nursed through pneumonia and is now one of my favorite walking buddies!

Graffiti in LA: Some views in K-town

Was meeting with a potential employer for lunch the other day and came across these sights near the corner of Olympic and Serrano in Koreatown. Don't know who the artists are, but if someone does--give 'em props for me.

Magnificent!

A co-worker screams, "Oh my God! Look at those clouds!" Glad I had my cellphone.

Watts Towers in Los Angeles: Revolutionary Vision

So my Nana and my Nina have this story of how, as young adults, they would wake up to the sounds of a hammer hitting metal. Imagine that one day a neighbor down the street starts hammering away on some personal project of his. The hammering goes on for years, all the day long, day in and day out. Clanging metal becomes part of the regular sounds of the neighborhood along with farm animals, kids playing in the street, and the occasional car horn. Preferring to work alone, the guy seems a bit "out there", but friendly, 'cause he collects a number of items from the local community and integrates them into his little pet project, which he liked to call, "Nuestro Pueblo" ("Our Town"). My Nana and Nina were two of the townspeople that exchanged bottles, plates, and other items with the man, sometimes for a penny or more. They'd use this extra income to go to the "show." And while the shows are long gone, and the community has changed, this guys art--and items my family gave him--remain part of his project to this day.

So yea, one day the hammering came to a halt. And there in this residential neighborhood of the 1950's stood 17 interconnected structures, two of which are taller than seven stories. That is the story of how the Watts Towers in Los Angeles, California, affected people like my Grandma and my Godmother, the people of "Nuestro Pueblo".


Simon Rodia built the Watts Towers between 1921 and 1954, and--withstanding the pressures of change and time--they have stood there ever since. The structures were made with such materials as steel pipes and rods, wire mesh, mortar, porcelain, tile, and glass. The structures are decorated with items that children and the local community brought to Rodia and also with items he found in the neighborhood and surrounding areas such as bed frames, recognizable soft-drink bottles (some bearing the logos of 7up, Squirt, and Canada Dry), ceramic tiles, scrap metal and sea shells.


The story goes that Rodia built the towers with no predetermined design and only used hand tools like hammers and window-washers' equipment. The towers are on the National Register of Historic Places, and are designated as a National Historic Landmark. Not only are some of my family's dishes part of this nationally recognized historic structure, but--more importantly to me--this structure, the time period it was created, and the community of the time is just another piece of LA that makes up part of my family's history.

Family visits: Flies, Sighs, and Eva Mendez' Eyes

It's always great when family is over and we talk about all the funny things we've done over the years, especially as kids. Growing up I had an uncanny resemblance to the character, Piggy, from the movie, Lord of the Flies (circa 1990). We saw it on its release date when I was ten years old. Let's just say that I looked so much like Piggy that people were pointing, gawking, and whispering to one another--"that's him"--as I left the theater. Thinking it was funny, I popped the collar on my brown leather jacket and played the role of a celebrity as my family looked on (and egged me on). We relished every second of the misguided attention, barely able to hold our gut-busting laughs and smiles till we got to the car.

So as I share with you some of the following stories, it might be helpful to imagine a young boy looking very much like Piggy, walking around, getting in adventures, and ... being the fool my family loves (and groomed).

"Make a run for the border"
I'm 11 years old and visiting my Nana and my Godparents in Hemet. We're at Taco Bell grubbing on tacos. My Nina heads to the restroom and tells me to hurry up and meet her outside in a few minutes. I quickly devour my last two tacos, leave the table, and walk toward the soda machine for a refill before I head out.

Next thing she knows, I'm walking up to the car with a big grin, all happy-go-lucky like I've got a gift for her. "Nina, I got something for you. Yoooou forgoooot somethiiiing." I hold up a purse. She looks at me and screams, "What are you doing!? My purse is right here!" There's a split second when I asked myself the stupidest question--"well then who's purse is this?" Uh-oh. Then fear.

She grabbed me by the hand with her forceful stubby little fingers and we rushed back inside, heading directly to our booth. The lady hadn't even returned to the table. We put the purse back and hastily left the place ... Laughing hysterically, we're red as tomatoes. Sigh ...

"What I miss?"
It's 1988, I'm eight years old, and the movie is Rain Man. I really wanted to play a round of video games and wouldn't stop asking my mother for quarters. She finally gives in, purses her lips and says, "And that's it! Don't ask me again!" Victory! I slip out of the theater and head for Pole Position--"prepare to qualify." I went through the dollar in less than ten minutes, and didn't want to go back for the life of me.


I finally head back, but it's dark and I can't see much. Squinting, I look up the row of seats and see my empty aisle seat, my mother next to it, and her boyfriend. I sit down, take a humongous drink of our tasty beverage, and lean towards my mother to ask her, "What I miss?"

And there beside me, in the dark of the theater is this strange woman. It wasn't my seat. It wasn't my soda. It wasn't even my mom! I put the drink down in the cup holder where I found it and say, "Oh I'm sorry" to the woman, who is holding her beau's arm like its a lifesaver, and then slipped out. Seems there were two showings of Rain Man that day and I had returned to the wrong theater. "Aye Chingao!"

"Deja Vu"
So I'm 27 years old and it's sometime in October (2007). I enter the theater after getting a drink from the concession stand. The movie, We Own the Night, had just started, but the scene is poorly lit so I can barely see a few feet in front of me. My mother has this habit of sitting near the handicapped seating (she likes to put her feet up on the railing). So I look towards the railing and see this women there with her feet up, chomping away on popcorn, her purse to her side.

Now, the movie starts with Eva Mendez and Joaquin Phoenix in this pretty racy scene. They're getting down! And I think Eva Mendez is fricken GORGEOUS so I'm not really paying attention. I sit down next to the lady and I figure I'll throw out an off-the-wall comment. I get a kick out of making my mom laugh.

So I turn to the lady with her feet on the railing--which I could have swore was my mother--and tell her in this forcibly-perverted way, "Man, I'm missing the best part!." I laugh in a low tone, expecting my mother to laugh with me. Nothing. Not a peep.

Yea ... I immediately knew it wasn't her. Silence is Golden. And I didn't dare look in her direction! Once the screen lit up a bit, I slowly craned my head in an unnatural arc, trying to be all subtle and non-threatening, easing my eyes a little to the right. Confirmed. By then, I just wanted to get out of there. I stood up slowly, without looking in her direction, scanned the darkened theater, and moved to where my real mom was. I told her what happened. And we busted up for a good five minutes into the movie. (DOH!)

Pico Union Treasures

Was on the tour of Pico Union with the LA Conservancy and I forgot my camera -- of course. Still managed to snap this with my camera phone.

Sent a couple of pics to moms. Seems she's always wanted a wrap-around porch. Nice!

Identity and Activism: Marjane Satrapi and Karen Brodkin

Saw the movie Persepolis today with some friends. The film is animated, primarily black and white, and has subtitles, but it's uncanny how easy one gets lost in the narrative. Persepolis is the story of Marjane Satrapi, a young girl who grows up in war-torn Iran during the Iranian Revolution (1978-82) and becomes an empowered woman right before our eyes.

The main characters in Persepolis are highly developed and idiosyncratic. An example of this development is Marjane's grandmother--sitting with her on the sofa in the poster above--whose class, sass, and wisdom is marvelously true-to-life and often humorous in the process. The dialogue too is warm, natural, and riveting. It moves Marjane's growth and maturation along, while also highlighting the multi-faceted experiences of war, tragedy, and human empowerment throughout. Persepolis underscores the force of narrative, which--shaping and empowering the mind and spirit--compels individuals, whole families, and communities to struggle to eliminate unjust practices taking place in the world. Often chaotic, this internal and external world influences the outgrowth of one's identity just as much as the narratives one is exposed to. Adapted from a graphic novel, Marjane's Persepolis is a must see.

The Power of Narrative in Los Angeles

The role that narrative plays on shaping a person's identity and their subsequent activism in political arenas was a recurring theme throughout the day. Earlier I attended a book talk with UCLA Anthropology Professor, Karen Brodkin, who introduced her book, Making Democracy Matter, and discussed some of the interviews she had with local activists working as organizers in LA's labor and immigrant rights world.

The event was titled, "What Makes a Social Movement a Movement?: Identity and Activism in Los Angeles". One of the major issues Brodkin highlighted is the role of activists in bearing witness of right and wrongdoing through action and also storytelling. Brodkin also believes that activists provide alternative interpretations of the typical and modern and therefore remake it. The power of their narrative is how they connect non-activists to activists by demystifying various lived realities and--because they have a foot in various worlds--are capable of bridging different and complex worlds.