Intro and interview by Richard Montoya
Parking in the garment district of LA on a cloudy ass day can be a gloomy prospect—and costly. Crossing unfriendly streets, handing out coin to needy palms up, the streets of LA get no grittier than this.
All my NorCal friends who still think LA is a laidback fake place of palm trees and starlets need only to stroll down Skidrow—this is Bukowski Country motherfucker—try walking here, try living here, try creating art here. If you can do it here, you can do it anywhere. SoHo seems like a distant quaint memory—and sadly is.
Some of the nations top artists are quietly plying their skills in downtown LA—and why wouldn’t they—the hum, the city—the Lower Depths down below are a constant reminder of what waits just outside the door behind the wolfe.
And so—I have always lived and worked in Downtown LA. With that—I make myway up to a 9th floor loft—and like an oasis —the door opens and there is the amazing work and disciplined air of a young artist at work.
Pieces everywhere—the nature of which bellies the young age of a kid barely out of art school—but I got the sense—quick like—this kid may not have to worry about the street down below—but it informs him, he respects it—and we all fear it just enough to keep the paint, the words and the poemsflowing at record speed—in order to out fox the wolfe at the door and the endless hum on the street.