The transit map Theodore Twombly would have used to get around L.A.’s subway system of 2020-something.
[Graphic: Geoff McFetridge and Untitled Rick Howard Company LLC]
"Her is set in Los Angeles, that bastion of car culture—romanticized, impractical, or otherwise. And there’s no absence of traffic: Specks clearly made to signify automobiles move serenely along ribbons of highway. (The infrastructure’s there, too: One of the lead character’s memories of his ex-wife shows the two gently battering each other with orange traffic cones, on their heads, on an abandoned freeway ramp.) But within 10 minutes of the movie’s beginning, we understand that our protagonist, Joaquin Phoenix’s Theodore Twombly, commutes to work on a spotless, warmly lit metro.
So does everyone else.”
[Image: Warner Brothers Pictures]
This week, the New York Times published an in-depth look at homelessness in New York City. It follows the story of Dasani, one of the city’s 22,000 children without housing, humanizing the statistic that the city’s homeless population grew by 13 percent from 2012-2013 alone.
But in most other cities and states, homelessness has actually decreased over the last year and the last half-decade. Just two cities—New York and Los Angeles—account for a fifth of the country’s entire homeless population.
Read more. [Image: Reuters]
An artist’s quest to make art tailored to the Internet, in the physical spaces of modern Los Angeles, London, and Newcastle.
See more. [Images:INSA/UNGA]
The space shuttle Endeavour is on its last mission today, a 12-mile creep through Los Angeles city streets on a 160-wheeled carrier. It is passing through neighborhoods and strip malls, headed toward its final destination, the California Science Center in South Los Angeles. At times, the shuttle has barely cleared trees, houses and and street signs along a course heavily prepared for the trip. The move will cost an estimated $10 million, according to the Exposition Park museum. Gathered here are a few images of Endeavour’s last journey.
See more. [Images: Getty Images, AP]
[Images: Flickr/bixentro, Slake]
On Wednesday, April 29, 1992, I left Emerson Junior High School in West L.A. and took the RTD bus — colloquially, the Rough, Tough, and Dangerous — to Fairfax and Wilshire. I walked the two blocks north to the barracks-style community Park La Brea where I lived with my single mother, and, once inside the gates of what I’d begun calling the White Man’s Projects, plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV.
Angelenos are used to the odd car chase, mudslide, earthquake, or fire disrupting regularly scheduled broadcasting, so it was with something like ennui that I flipped through the live footage of urban infernos on every channel — fire, fire, DuckTales, fire, guh. I stared at the helicopter shots in a trance until something slipped the bolt of my attention and I realized I was looking down on the roof my apartment.
I jumped up off the couch shouting with pride, and then with confusion. How disorienting to see the city, the neighborhood I knew down to a molecular level, from this new vantage point. That landscape I’d prowled so often that I would have noticed a new cigarette butt, a different blob of gum, a new tag or sticker, was here somehow changed, shrunken in scale but magnified in importance through the looking glass of the tube.
For the next five hours I watched the stores, malls, and streets where I’d grown up burn to the ground — and with them the protective walls around my adolescent idyll: the corners where we’d joined Hands Across America were now homicide crime scenes; the area of Koreatown where my mom worked now looked, in the aerial shots from news choppers, like the neighborhoods in Baghdad we’d gotten to know so well the year before. But none of this footage felt far off, abstract, as the Gulf War had. It was personal, the topographic map of my own memories. It was also right around the corner, and the fear came knocking.
Read more. [Image: Reuters]