more from venice beach.

In 1997 Mike Sager wrote an incredible piece of journalism covering the gangs of Venice. “Death in Venice” details the lives of two “homeboys,” Yogi and Big Gato.

Sager quotes from a Los Angeles Times article in 1979:

Swept by smog-free ocean breezes, bordered on the south by the affluent playground called Marina del Rey… Oakwood is a strangely incongruous center of poverty and tragedy. While crime and gang violence tear at the community from within, mounting coastal real-estate values threaten to crush it from with out.

Sager:

Lil’ Gato looks up from the floor. He’s remembering something. The neighborhood. The gang. The tradition. He and Yogi are members of V-13, the Venice Gang, among the oldest of the 400 gangs in Los Angeles. Theirs is a gang with history. For more than 30 years, Chicano homeboys have claimed this neighborhood, one square mile of palm trees and poverty in the middle of Venice, California, a little piece of barrio in the heart of California lifestyle.

But as predicted, “mounting coastal real-estate values” have crushed this culture, steeped in history and pride,from the outside in. Now I can stroll down Abbot-Kinney and spoon my Pink Berry while mining expensive thrift shops and perusing art galleries. I feel at ease with the arty street culture as I corral my designer dog onto the sidewalk, and joke with Pete about our fresh jobs and shiny lives.


Sager writes, "Today, everything is different. Gangs are no longer about turf and respect. Instead, they are about drugs and money."

He ends his article inside one of the boy's ramshackle bedrooms. Yogi and Big Gato smoke crack instead of hunting down Culver City gang members. In the old days, shirking this responsibility would have been a sin of dire disrespect & dishonor. But crack, or “rock,” has corroded the complex system of pride and turf.

A few moments pass. Big Gato stares. His mouth is pulled back in a tight grimace, and above his lip are little drops of sweat. His teeth are clenched, and you can see the strain in the muscles of his jaw. Then his eyes drift to the carpet. There are lots of little white pieces of paper and lint and cloth and cigarette ash down there. To him, each pieee ooks like a rock. Could be a rock.

‘Gimme a blast,’ says Big Gato.

‘We was just going to get a 10 from Blinky,’ says Yogi.

‘A 10?’ says Big Gato. He chews his thumb. ‘A 10?’

‘Yeah,’ says Yogi, warming. ‘We were gonna go get a 10.’

‘Well, go get it,’ says Big Gato.

‘What about Culver City?’ asks Tequila.

‘Culver City?’ asks Big Gato. ‘Oh, We’ll get them later.'

if you have time, check out Mike Sager's website. he's an interesting guy. really.

venice.

December 15th marks two years living in this sun washed, palm tree studded part of the country.

As of late thoughts of moving have entered my mind. It is no secret to anyone, friends or family, that I have a bit of a wanderlust in me, unable to be stamped out by age or employment or education or romantic interest...

a few days ago I found myself explaining this to a good friend of mine, a southern california native. "I'm done with this place," I said. He replied "But you still have so much left to see!" He began rattling off all the "must see" spots I have somehow missed.

for the next 30 or so days I want to pose a challenge (to myself) - every day I will see something new in my landscape - big or small, significant or not - be it a new city, like today, or a plant, person, dog, sign, spill, color, gas station... until january first.

the point? appreciation & gratitude & understanding the benefit of standing still and simply looking.

today I tooled around venice beach with peter & sampson.

reading.

Forgetfulness
Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

The worst: reading the same sentence ten times over, only to retain nothing.

Currently I am reading All the King's Men by Robert Penn Warren, and I'm as lost as a goose in a snowstorm... not because it's difficult reading material, but because I can't focus - my mind wanders to the that "love poem I used to know by heart."

Have any of you read it? I would love to hear your thoughts.

rosshalde, herman hesse.

I just completed Rosshalde, Herman Hesse’s fourth novel. Although I prefer his other work, the novel was worth reading, if only to unveil biographical facts regarding Hesse’s life. Like Siddhartha, Rosshalde explores man’s alienation, social paralysis, stagnation, and ultimately rebirth.

Vermouth, the principle character, finds himself cemented into a life of bored contentment. He views travel to India as his saving grace, and finally, at the end of the book he heads off in an orgiastic spree.

Reminds me of something an old man said to me when I first came to California – he pinched his leathery face and muttered, “So you moved to California, hmm? They should put signs on the borders of California, New York and Florida stating: this state doesn’t work either.”

speaking of which,

project # 3: on strings.
our professor had us invent a specialty shop - we could choose anything we wanted... I chose mobiles. I named my store "on strings." we had to create an logo/identity system.

“A mobile is a very modest thing.” –Alexander Calder

Graphic design weds the logical to the artistic. Designers must use reason to achieve their desired goal, but not without exercising creativity and aesthetic consideration. Mobiles echo this fragile balancing act. Hanging structures must subscribe to mathematical laws, specifically rules of weight, balance, and suspension. Despite these considerations, however, mobiles are not machines - beauty and form are of utmost importance. To create something floating yet grounded, stable yet dynamic, functional yet beautiful - is no easy feat.

I have chosen the mobile as my specialty item because I believe these hanging structures are of signal importance, both figurative and literal. Mobiles offer a sliver of stability & beauty in a chaotic, often ugly world. If this is too hopeful, too elusive, mobiles at the very least offer the idea of stability & beauty, reminding us of basic priorities (balance, beauty, stability). These whimsical, suspended forms allow us control in an uncontrollable world, the chance at reciprocity and balance among the chaos and the noise.

This project’s path reflects a mobile’s very construction. Creating “On Strings” has been a complex, convoluted process, yet surprisingly simple- even “modest”- in its result.

30 Days of Daily Design: Round Up

personalized cards.

in my imaginary "on strings" store i will hand write thank you cards to each customer!

thank you for entering my imaginary world just right of weird and down the street from crazy. my hypothetical thank you so very, very much.

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images from: Sarah Lee on Flickr.

graphic design.

as much as I like to uphold the idea that graphic designers are artists, delicate & sensitive & creative - who wouldn't want that special brand of celebrity?! - I am as of yet undecided.

graphic design weds itself to public opinion. this is an inherent process, the organic result of commerce - clients, work, publication, and the like. often the designer caters to his or her own aesthetic taste, and not the needs of the client, transforming graphic design from a service to a vehicle for artistic expression...

I realize this is a vast, controversial subject, but regardless I pose a question: is graphic design art or is graphic design a commercial skill? are both mutually exclusive? or interdependent?

can you have one (art) with out the other (science)?

is graphic design an art or a client dependent service?

image: logic + emotion blog.

sunday aftermath.

christopher david ryan.

i will never stop loving that man.

in las vegas for the weekend.

stress.

image by: olly moss.

tgi-fing-f!

i can't believe i am saying that.

who feels the same?

hopeful.

another photo of mum & pops.

The Discovery of Sex

We try to be discreet standing in the dark
hallway by the front door. He gets his hands
up inside the front of my shirt and I put mine
down inside the back of his jeans. We are crazy
for skin, each other's skin, warm silky skin.
Our tongues are in each other's mouths,
where they belong, home at last. At first

we hope my mother won't see us, but later we don't care,
we forget her. Suddenly she makes a noise
like a game show alarm and says Hey! Stop that!
and we put our hands out where she can see them.
Our mouths stay pressed together, though, and
when she isn't looking anymore our hands go
back inside each other's clothes. We could

go where no one can see us, but we are
good kids, from good families, trying to have
as much discreet sex as possible with my mother and father
four feet away watching strangers kiss on TV,
my mother and father who once did as we are doing,
something we can't imagine because we know

that before we put our mouths together, before
the back seat of his parents' car where our skins
finally become one-before us, these things
were unknown! Our parents look on in disbelief
as we pioneer delights they thought only they knew
before those delights gave them us.

Years later, still we try to be discreet, standing
in the kitchen now where we think she can't see us. I
slip my hands down inside the back of his jeans
and he gets up under the front of my shirt.
We open our mouths to kiss and suddenly Hey! Hey!
says our daughter glaring from the kitchen doorway.
Get a room! she says, as we put our hands
out where she can see them.

By Debra Spencer

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