Linda Leigh and I met one spring day in 2018, at an art book library, which was really just a corner in the supply room of Studio 526. The Studio is a community art center inside the social service agency building on San Pedro, downtown LA.
My first week there, I picked up a stapled booklet—Skid Row Zine—from a big pile in the black storage tote. It featured photos and texts by Studio artists.
One poem took hold of me. I stayed with it for a minute, maybe more, until someone had to yell for my attention. (My job was to man the counter and hand over a tool if someone requested. Artists were not allowed in because there had been precedents of sharp objects disappearing.)
The poem was by Linda Leigh. It was about her dad. She bathed him; he let her. They both knew he didn’t have much time left.
My first week there, I picked up a stapled booklet—Skid Row Zine—from a big pile in the black storage tote. It featured photos and texts by Studio artists.
One poem took hold of me. I stayed with it for a minute, maybe more, until someone had to yell for my attention. (My job was to man the counter and hand over a tool if someone requested. Artists were not allowed in because there had been precedents of sharp objects disappearing.)
The poem was by Linda Leigh. It was about her dad. She bathed him; he let her. They both knew he didn’t have much time left.
When I finally met Linda, I was starstruck. I asked if she was the Linda. She turned and smiled behind the pink dollar store shades. We decided we'd work on a project together. The result is Passage.
Stills from the video -
Passage, the event, took place on the ground level of a five-story parking garage on March 28, 2019.
The heavily edited video, documenting my commute and meanderings over three years, was projected onto the wall. Hours spent on streets, underpasses, overpasses, buses, and in parking lots—packed down into 14 minutes.
The crowd gathered. Alone and in pairs. Neon from the signs across the street bled through the windows. Linda leaned against the wall, lost in the pulsing traffic. Her voice, echoey and maybe a little shy, filled the lot:
She took us to the night she looked out at the jet black ocean waiting for grunions. She took us to her parents’ meet-cute. And the many lives she’s lived.
Main Street runs just above Los Angeles Street, where Skid Row begins. It’s an implicit boundary, the edge of a cliff. Past Main, people can’t act weird. They drag their blankets through puddles, urinate, defecate, sleep outside barefoot, but it’s perfectly everyday.
The massive parking garage belongs to the new loft apartment. For residents only. The ground floor is always empty because they can afford to leave it empty. Lunchtime is the peak hour. A pair of musicians practice their set for the red line to North Hollywood. Retail employees drift in with compostable containers. Security knows who gets to stay.
One quick glance is enough.