July—2008
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Ramona Crimson moved to the area 18 years ago from Brazil. She welcomes your questions/comments! e-mail

Ready For Home Improvement

Calling the Arts District home for many years and hearing for these many years of how much we need a Business Improvement District (BID), at last, we are close to having one. The proposed BID organization held two community presentations in the beginning of June, and I did attend one of them where most of my questions were answered.

The organization proposing the BID, Central City East Association has been around for over 15 years taking care of business. In checking their website (www.centralcityeast.org) and hearing their presentation there is plenty of hope that we will get a well-run BID experience. A few of their Board members are longtime Arts District property owners. The staff is knowledgeable and educated in Downtown issues.

During the presentation, I was very surprised that there was opposition by a few who seemed to think they were speaking for the 'entire' District. What really becomes apparent is a certain arrogance of the Traction and 3rd area residents. Although they claim they represent the Arts District, they forget the District is more than just the couple of blocks near Traction.

Why do we need this BID? Our streets and sidewalks are dirty. Piles of trash greet you at most every corner. Children attending Art Share have seen more than their young eyes should see in a lifetime. We have all witnessed acts and images of defecation, fornication, blight, feces, urine, discarded couches, trash bags of all sizes, mattresses, bed frames and odd pieces of furniture. There continues to be piles of leftovers, plastic cups and plates and paper napkins from the public feedings at the corner of Traction and Merrick and elsewhere. Encampments, along with a strong street drug trade, crop-up under the bridges, at 5th and Seaton, on 4th Place and in smaller numbers throughout our streets.

The operational clean and safe teams of the BID will address these issues by providing us by maintaining clean sidewalks and streets, discard bags of trash and furniture, get rid of weeds and deter crime and encampments.

I also learned that BIDs are more than just the cleanup crew and bicycle-riding ambassadors of safety. Their voice is heard in the City's working departments and in City process and procedures. A BID can make things happen faster than a group of volunteers.

I'm creating a list of wants, needs and desires. The wish list already includes improved and ample street lighting, pothole repair, street repair and repaving, curb replacements, crosswalk markings, a bike path, a dog park and some green space. Oh, and yes, can we do something about parking, artist housing, L. A. River access, and how about a few more amenities. These are some of the real things a BID can make happen.

The final vote is with the property owners who will be the ones paying the assessment on their owned parcels. So with fingers crossed I hope we get our BID, I for one am so very ready for home improvement.

Ramona Crimson
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"You've told me that one before."

I ended one of my favorite stories abruptly and could not be coaxed into continuing. My storytelling momentum had been lost.

Okay so I may have told that one before but it is a great story and with the years has gotten even better.

For centuries storytellers were revered tribal members. But as a child we are told not to tell stories and are severely reprimanded for any stretch of the truth.

How often have I listened to my Dad's military stories or my mother's personal account of birthing her children. Actually my mother told wonderful stories. During breakfast she would relay her version of the 'Late Night Movie'. Her renditions were spell binding and no doubt better than the actual movie.

At some point we realize we have a collection of our own stories. Stories that become a measurement of time. We get together with old friends and family and retell stories. Stories of our youth and shared experiences. They are retold so many times they become unparalleled.

Over our lifetime we have listened to so many stories, so many repeated stories that we have earned a certain rite of passage.

That rite includes the telling and the retelling of stories.

So go ahead and tell me that I told you that one before.

No doubt it is a good story and I am just excerising my rite of passage to tell it...

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The day our nation buried Ronald Reagan, our 40th president, was a National Day of Mourning.

Postal workers, along with City, State and Federal employees, were given a Public Holiday. Throughout the week, media coverage continued relentlessly as our everyday lives reflected bios, reflective pieces, film clips, and finally full funeral coverage. On that Thursday of the funeral, regular TV programming was preempted so the nation could participate in the loss of the president and bid our farewells.

Not having a Public Holiday, I raced off to work.

Heading east on 4th Street, traveling my usual freeway bound route, I braked for the stoplight on Molino and 4th, and it was then that I noticed the area cordoned off with yellow police tape. In the mix of police cars and officers was the Coroner's wagon. The City Coroner was bending over a blanketed person lying on the sidewalk. Lowering my car window I asked the nearby officer "what happened?" His reply was a straightforward "It's a deceased homeless… male." Near the dead man's body was a shopping cart with a small amount of personal items.

The signal light turned green, and as I continued to the freeway I could not help but think that 21 years ago (just before the Reagan era) it would have been uncommon to have a deceased homeless person on the street. (See note)

As the car radio droned the solemn narrative of the Reagan funeral, I realized the irony of John Doe dying on the very day the man that put him there was buried with National Honors.

As our 40th president and as California governor, Reagan cut social programs to the needy, cut programs that offered assistance to the mentally ill, cut programs that allowed for the less fortunate to be housed and clothed and the less-than-sane to maintain a reasonable existence with proper medication. This was done by flick of the pen and a comment that "Homelessness was a choice." (As president, he also considered AIDS a choice and as it spread like wildfire through the gay male community, he played a Pontius Pilot role and washed his hands of it).

As Reagan reduced social spending, he increased defense spending and cut taxes for the rich. The Reaganomics theory was to cut taxes for the wealthy (referred to as "trickle down economics") because if the rich do well, so does everyone else.

On my drive home that evening, again I waited for the light to change. The corner was as it always is. The body was gone, the Coroners Wagon was gone, the police cars and officers were gone, and the yellow police tape had been removed. The only remainder of the morning's occurrence was John Doe's shopping cart. The shopping cart was being emptied by a homeless man and he was filling it with his own collected bottles and cans. The National Day of Mourning was over.

Ramona Crimson
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NOTE:
The word homeless has become a catchall phrase for mentally ill, shelter-resistant, drug-dependant, and the generally down-and-out persons who have been shut out of their homes for reasons of job loss, etc.

Los Angeles' 'Skid Row' is by far the nation's largest concentration of homeless people. Several thousand miles away in Washington D.C. the 2005 budget is being hammered out. To this writer's knowledge the current administration has never toured the area that could shed the most light on the homeless situation. And yet, with aggressive ignorance the current administration is proposing $70 million expenditure on the national Samaritan Initiative, targeted to end chronic homelessness within 10 years. A proposal by the Bazelon Center for Health is to increase that budget expenditure.

As a tradeoff for this penny-pinching and impractical solution, the administration is calling for a 1.6 billion cut to be taken from Section-8 housing vouchers.

Local social service providers say that countywide, the Samaritan Initiative would help maybe 100 individuals where the cuts in the Section 8 program would affect over 5,000 families.

ramona

I have lived in the Arts District since 1985. Whenever anyone asks me where I live I proudly answer
"I live Downtown Los Angeles."
To that they generally reply with a question 'you live where?"
Or 'I didn't know anyone lived there'.
I would bet you have had that very experience.

A couple of months ago I was invited to my first Neighborhood Council meeting. It was on Bunker Hill for the then newly forming Downtown Neighborhood Council.

There were at least 40 people in attendance. The attendees represented many different groups. Seniors, youth groups, cultural institutions, homeless, city workers, city officials, artists…some of them worked Downtown, but the majority were residents that both lived and worked in Downtown.
I was struck by the energy in the room. What we all had in common was that we all loved Downtown and wanted to make a positive difference.

A few meetings later I volunteered for the Boundaries Committee. It has since been more work than ever dreamed. But the rewards of meeting my incredible neighbors have made it so worthwhile.

Downtown by it's very infrastructure is the Library, the Museums, the Music Center. It is the Alley in the Fashion District, it is Farmer's Market, it is Central Market. It is the wonderful free concerts held in various
courtyards all summer long.
The scale of Downtown Los Angeles is larger than life
but so is her heart.
Downtown…is residents and it is businesses.
If Downtown means power than lets be empowered
Downtown neighbors are moving forward and are asking us to join them. so we can continue to say proudly
I live Downtown Los Angeles!

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a moving experience...

It seems as a young person out on your own, the moving process is relatively simple. You decide to move gather a few friends and on Saturday with a couple of carloads you are moved have a few beers and by that evening you are  sleeping in your new digs. It is easy and you may do it quite often. Whenever you get bored with your surrounding, want to move in with a new friend you just pick up and leave.

You basically have fewer possessions. At one point in my very early 20's a potential landlord commented they did not like to rent to young people because they only stayed 6 months and then were gone. I remember thinking that 6 months was a long time to be in any one place.

Eventually it takes more carloads and more friends and you are not so quick to throw things away because you realize they are not that easy to replace.

Ultimately the move is a moving van along with several carloads. Finally, you really hate the thought of moving and the word 'move' propels everyone in earshot to quickly conjure plans for 'the move' weekend.

A couple of weekends ago I assisted in moving two separate parties. One on Saturday and another on Sunday. Not sure how that happened. I have skillfully avoided moving people for most of  7 years. But circumstances will arise and it was kinda fun. Both moves were rather well choreographed and rather painless with the exception of the next days' muscle aches and pains.

I admire friends that keep their personal possessions to a minimum. But for the rest of us it is no wonder that storage companies have proliferated the last several years.

Making art requires a certain amount of materials. I have the greatest collection of wood scraps, fabric samples, odd paint colors, metal findings, magazines etc.

One never knows what is needed for that next art piece.

That is my excuse and I am sticking to it.
Ramona Crimson

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An Early Heartbreak-
On Valentine's Day I always think of Dickey Bauman. He sat in front of me in 4th Grade. With his curly hair, freckles and great sense of humor I thought he was a godsend. On that 4th grade Valentine's Day he gave every single kid in the 4th grade a Valentine except for me.

I was, of course, heartbroken.

The idea was that every student gave a Valentine to every other student and the nun was to make sure that no one was slighted.

I felt I had been more than slighted.

The funny thing is you never knew what memories will stick with you. I am not sure I ever learned the lesson that Dickey Bauman was teaching me that day.

The reality was that I got 28 other Valentine cards from every other kid  in the class. Some were given out of sheer obligation but a few were given with mutual regard.

The really cool thing was that I still have a friend from that class who I reconnected with after 30 years, thanks to the internet. So maybe my lesson was to focus on what one receives and not what never happened.

Valentine's Day is really about love of and for friends and I am thankful for the truly wonderful ones I have.

However, I take great pride in the fact that Dickey (now Richard) Bauman grew up to be an incredible photographer.

I like the idea that I recognized a fellow artist even then.
ramona crimson
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length x width = sq. ft.

All in all a great evening and much more fun than just watching the webcast.
Ramona Crimson

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"Artists are weird!" someone commented-

"We are not!" retorted Samantha.

   I was standing on the corner of Traction and Hewitt, with my 12-year-old niece Samantha, an already professed artist,  along with several friends and neighbors. We were wondering what the inspiration was behind a pair of sneakers with their laces wrapped around electrical wires high above our heads.

The time I speak of,  was several years ago. Samantha and her sister were visiting for the weekend and wanted a tour of the Arts District.  Now, I must admit, I had been free-lancing on the Westside for a several  months, after 12 hours of work, I would arrive home exhausted,  park in an underground parking lot, and it is safe to say, my feet never touched the pavement. I had not noticed, what was a gradual decline in this district, over a period of just a few months.

Our walk that day and the talks with fellow residents marked the many changes that had taken place over these months. Vagrants plying their illegal trade from borrowed shopping carts. "The Pointers" (as they were called), a group of unauthorized valets that stood in the middle of the darkened streets. They would point Al's Bar patrons toward a vacant parking space. As the visitor would exit their parked vehicle, the 'pointer' would suggest that they would "watch their car". Of course, for a small donation. The proposition was rarely turned down. Most visitors, understandably, were afraid to say no.

Other area streets were filled with cardboard boxes serving as a shelter for the night; the trees along 4^th Place were merely aerial holding tanks for unlawful possessions i.e. weapons, crack pipes, plundered merchandise. Stolen car batteries ransacked glove compartments were an everyday (and night) occurrence.

For any of us that were here then, it is a time we would rather forget and for those of us that are more recent arrivals, hold these times in disbelief. The neighborhood was under siege. No one had guests park their cars on the streets and no one walked at night alone.

A few weeks later I found out that the tennis shoes were an urban symbol for "drugs sold here". In other words, stand in the proximity of the shoes and a drug vender would contact you. After I knew this, I began to notice them hanging on fences in parking lots, near schools, vacant lots, etc.

Several residents proclaimed enough was enough. They took action. They organized the Neighborhood Walk, reported all crimes to the police,  organized neighborhood clean-up and got to know other neighbors. Within three months we noticed a difference. Within six months we were better than ever.

I say all this to say,  it is happening again. There is a gradual encroachment of cardboard sleeping arrangements, red-eyed pan-handlers etc. Most residents feel that if we did it before, we can do it again.

You have a right to a safe and clean environment, but sometimes it takes a few phone calls.
Ramona Crimson
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Echo Park Lake….. I walk around its  sweet waters a couple of times a week-

  It is one of the many green spots near Downtown. It is a virtual oasis with ducks, geese and maybe a hundred different types of trees. There are other walkers, runners, and people enjoying this green space. On weekends, there are even paddleboats available for rent. Moreover, it is drivably close.

  On the south side of the Lake, on any given weekday, anywhere around 7:30 a.m. there hums a steady flow of traffic. All traveling eastbound, streaming into Downtown Los Angeles. The daily Downtown working folks. They stream in with the early morning light and as daylight dims, they will just as assuredly, stream out again.

  Los Angeles has tried for years to cast a positive image on her civic Downtown. However, when the subject of where one lives enters a conversation, I will answer "Downtown Los Angeles". There is always a blank stare. I will quickly add that,"….it is near Civic Center." and there is still  a blank stare.  I also try, "Near Little Tokyo!"  At some point, there is the inevitable "You live where?" and the favorite, "Aren't you afraid?" and the inescapable "I haven't been Downtown in years."

  It seems that most people think of Downtown as a maze of one way streets, a hub of international danger, a crazy industrial network of humanity, and maybe, just maybe, during the week, it is.

  However, on evenings and during weekends, it is none of the above. As of Friday afternoon, it is quiet. It becomes a sort of industrial countryside.

  I, for one, love these quiet times. I like the fact that I can run up to Bunker Hill Market in the late evening, cruising through green lights, windows open, radio blasting, accelerating through the 2nd Street tunnel. Hardly a car in sight, couple of people here and there

  The recent long Memorial Day weekend was especially quiet. Even as Crazy Gideons limped through  these quiet days, an ever-vigilant parking enforcement guy puttered down the street. Being a long holiday weekend, I'm sure his ticket quota had not been reached. He was on the lookout for not only parked cars, but cars posed for any serious violation.

With the whole of Downtown Los Angeles' streets empty, our vigilant parking guy knows where to go to find parked cars. So with hope of making his quota, he putts over to the Los Angeles Arts District. 

At least someone knows we live here.

Ramona Crimson

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A Live Performance-

Last Saturday evening,  a group of friends and I went to see Paul Mackley in his performance of "The Fever" by Wallace Shawn at Cafe Metropol. The performance started at 8 p.m., we gathered in front of our building at 7:30 p.m.  Surprisingly we were all on time.

As the five of us continued up the block, we laughed, talked and caught up on events of the week that had just passed.   At one point the conversation shifted to the film crews that were filling the street.   They  were obviously going to be working into the night. The compressors were rumbling,   the crews were bustling,  the off-duty officers were directing traffic,   huge 'Brazil' like cords snaked through the street.     We hate them... we love them....we have friends that work in the industry...they disrupt our daily lives.....one friend  comments  that the City of Los Angeles issues more film permits for the Downtown Arts District than any other area in the city.   I did not know that.....another of us pauses and asks an obvious question. "Does any of that money go back into our area?" We all had opinions, but no one knew the answer.

We arrived at the cafe with plenty of time to order coffees and decant the bottle of red wine we had brought. I was thinking about how nice it was to just walk to this wonderful venue,  no "drive time", no looking for a parking space, no designated driver. It is so un-L.A.

As we got comfortable, the theater experience began.    A lone actor appeared, no props, except for a large paper cup  of coffee. The character begins to tell us of a gift that he received as a child.  As the character   opens the gift,  a smaller package appears and then another smaller package and so on, until he gets to the real treasure with anticipated delight.  As I am caught up in his performance, my mind drifts.  I think of our neighborhood and how some first time visitors see a  rough industrial facade, and how the press always mentions how grimy the streets are. This is what the film crews wants to see... what the camera sees......But for those of us that live here,  we know the treasure that is held inside the outer wrappings.  It is our friends, a community,  that  we have made here.

For over 60 minutes the actor held his audience in the palm of his hand......when the performance is over, the audience leave with good-bye's, and promises of get togethers, breakfast meetings, phone calls and e-mails.

We all trailed out the front door and we noticed a "For Sale" sign on the huge, one square block,  commercial buildings.  A member of the crowd comments    "I think it is going for  around 3 to 4"  "You mean million?", we ask as we gasp.  A few moments of silence and someone says, "We just have to make more money!" We all cheer the thought and start our walk home.

Ramona Crimson