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Showing posts with label Graffiti. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Graffiti. Show all posts

June 22, 2026

Photo Essay: LACMA Parades Down Wilshire Boulevard to Celebrate New Gallery Grand Opening

OK, let's put aside the fact that I'm mad at LACMA for doing the unthinkable in 2020—demolishing its William Pereira-designed buildings of its original campus, immortalized in Ed Rucha's oil painting Los Angeles County Museum of Art on Fire

Pereira's Bing Theatre was absolutely lovely. I'll never forgive them for what they did. 

But I did join the museum in celebrating the grand opening of its new David Geffen Galleries, which replaced the demolished buildings and expanded the LACMA footprint to the east with a Brutalist, "floating" bridge designed by Swiss architect Peter Zumthor, his first project in the U.S.

Capping off an all-day block party on Saturday was the first-ever—and perhaps annual—Art Parade, a collaboration between LACMA and gallery owner Jeffrey Deitch. Deitch had curated a similar Art Parade in NYC's SoHo neighborhood from 2005 to 2008, but I somehow missed it then. 

I also missed the street procession that brought Michael Heizer's Levitated Mass boulder to LACMA in 2012. So I wasn't going to skip out on this one—despite the grudge I carry. 

Can of Letters, Ben Klevay

February 26, 2026

Photo Essay: An Anti-Frieze Art Gallery Takeover of the 99 Cent Store

The chain of 99 Cents Only Stores went belly-up in 2024, filing bankruptcy and closing and selling off all of its stores. 


But the famed location in the Miracle Mile community of Los Angeles has been reactivated—as a pop-up gallery lasting just one week. 

October 06, 2023

Photo Essay: Pumpkin Rock, Under the Cloak of Fog

Not all my adventures are winners. But sometimes that makes for great content to fall under the umbrella of "Avoiding Regret."

 
Take my recent hike to Pumpkin Rock in Norco, for instance. 

September 27, 2022

Photo Essay: Giant Rock, (Maybe) The World's Largest Freestanding Boulder & Mysterious Alien Beacon

Once thought to be the world's largest freestanding boulder, Giant Rock in the High Desert town of Landers, California has somewhat mystified me over the years...
 
 
...not only as the former site of UFO conventions...

November 15, 2020

Photo Essay: The Abandoned Project to Save Angelenos from Nuclear Fallout (a.k.a. "Tunnels to Nowhere")

A few years ago, a friend posted about a hike he called the "Tunnels to Nowhere"—and I knew immediately that I had to go. 

But there's a limited season for visiting this particular area—when it's not too hot and sun exposed, and not too wet and wintry. 

And of course most of my weekends have been filled with other activities, save for the last 8 months of the pandemic

That being said, I can't remember the last time I went on a proper hike.

I'd gotten it in my head, though, to spend a pandemic weekend with a friend off the beaten path in search of abandoned tunnels along what some people call the "Road to Nowhere." I'd calculated it at around 5 miles roundtrip and 750 elevation change. 

That would've been absolutely doable for the 2010 version of me. The 2020 version of me? Not so much. 

Spoiler alert: I survived the hike. I even completed the whole thing. But not without crying. 

Still, in the end, despite my tears and blisters and bloody socks and embarrassment, it was worth it. 

 
The drive to the trailhead follows the same route as to the Bridge to Nowhere trailhead—following State Route 39 a.k.a. San Gabriel Canyon Road north and turning onto East Fork Road, so named for the eastern fork of the San Gabriel River.

 
But instead of continuing down East Fork, past retaining walls and drainage channels...


...we turned off to tackle the hairpin curves along Shoemaker Canyon Road, named after miner Alonzo Shoemaker, who prospected the canyon during the mid-1800s. 

 
The sign at the juncture warns that Shoemaker Canyon Road is "Not a Through Street"—and true to its word, we hit a locked gate where the pavement ended and parked our cars in the dirt turnout. 

 
This area of the San Gabriel Mountains is part of what was designated in 1984 as wilderness area to preserve bighorn sheep—the Sheep Mountain Wilderness area. 

 
But before conservationists got ahold of it, the Los Angeles County road division set its sights on it for an entirely different purpose. 

 
They were going to blast through the middle of nowhere to create an evacuation route that connected LA with Largo Vista in the Antelope Valley

 
It was during the height of the U.S. Cold War effort to prepare in case of a nuclear bomb attack—which might explain why Shoemaker Canyon Road is sometimes called "Armageddon Highway." 

 
Work on the civil defense project, which was supposed to extend for 25 miles, started in 1956. But by the time construction officially stopped in 1969, only about 4 miles of it had been finished.


Creating all those road cuts through solid rock proved to be too expensive after county budget cuts—and because much of the work on this dangerous terrain was being done by unskilled inmates from the county sheriff's Detention Camp 14, progress was slow-going. 

 
Over the course of its 16 years of construction, the Department of Corrections' involvement in Shoemaker Canyon Road earned it the nickname "Convict Road." 

 
In the end, what probably doomed the project was how the interest in civil defense programs (like fallout shelters and such) waned during the Nixon administration—though it would be another 20 years before the "official" end of the Cold War and the fall of the Berlin wall. 

 
There were two tunnels completed between 1956 and 1969...

 
...the first as early as 1961. 

 
Both tunnels are similar in construction...

 
...including interlocking steel beams and raw, blasted-through rock...

 
...although the first one is longer than the second. 

 
Taggers have made their mark on both abandoned tunnels, as taggers do. 

 
The path to the second tunnel was never bridged...

 
...so to get to it, we had to trudge along a horseshoe-shaped curve on foot. 

 
This later tunnel, circa 1964, marks the end of the hike...

 
...but of course we couldn't turn around before walking through to the very end. 

 
The second tunnel appears to be more unfinished than its predecessor, with rebar holding in some exposed piles of rocks and cinder blocks. 

 
It was cool and breezy in those tunnels—not dark enough for a flashlight or headlamp, but sheltered enough to make us feel like we were underground, though we could see daylight at both ends. 

 
The completionist in me was relieved to see everything there was to see, especially considering I hadn't been sure I could even make it to the first tunnel. 

 
But as soon as we hit the wilderness on the other side, where the road just kind of ends unceremoniously, I knew we still had to double-back and retrace our steps back to our cars. 

It was discouraging to have such a hard time on what would be widely considered a relatively easy hike. But if I never hike again, I'm glad that this will have been my last. 

March 15, 2020

Photo Essay: Taylor Yard's Prime Riverfront Property Becomes Parkland, One Parcel at a Time

A native of Ohio, J. Hartley Taylor arrived with his family to Los Angeles in the 1880s and set up shop along the east bank of the Los Angeles River.

He eventually expanded his hog farm and little grocery into a full-on feed mill and grain storage facility—right where Southern Pacific (later Union Pacific Railroad) had laid down some spur tracks.

Despite becoming the largest commercial feed supplier on the West Coast at the time, Taylor Milling Corporation's site got taken over by the rail company in 1911—to be used for a railyard, freight-switching facility, storage space and maintenance and repair facility.

Southern Pacific named their new hub Taylor Yard in honor of the grain merchant and continued to build it out into the mid-1920s.

Although about 5,000 employees worked at Taylor Yard at its peak in the 1950s, industrial use of the site declined starting in the 1960s. It really took a hit from the 1973 opening of the computerized and automated West Colton switchyard outside the city of San Bernardino.

Switching operations ceased in 1985, and the remaining storage and maintenance activities ceased in 2006.



Today, alongside those same train tracks is the first parcel of the former 247-acre Taylor Yard (which once had over 2 miles of river frontage) to be subdivided into parkland—Rio de Los Angeles State Park.



Established in 2007 and sandwiched between three densely populated communities adjacent to the river—Elysian Valley, Glassell Park, and Cypress Park, comprised of both industrial and residential areas—it reuses a couple of the old Taylor Yard buildings for park facilities.



A well maintained, unpaved loop winds through the park, past sports fields, playgrounds...



...and a community-created bench that tells the diverse history of the parkland in mosaic tile.



The hogs have been replaced by wildlife, like jackrabbits and plenty of birds...



...and where grain was once stored and sold, native plants now grow.



It's become part of the Los Angeles River Revitalization plan to restore 11 miles of the L.A. River between Griffith Park and Downtown Los Angeles—a plan that also includes another (future) park, an 18-acre post-industrial lot that was also subdivided out of Taylor Yard.



The Bowtie Project (La Parcela Pajarita) is, fitting to its name, shaped like a bowtie (that is, pinched in the middle) and is also along the east bank of the L.A. River—but unlike Rio de los Angeles, it hasn't undergone any infrastructural improvements (though although an asphalt access road leftover from the Taylor Yard days does run the 3/4-mile length of the site).



There may be no restroom, running water, lights, or electricity—but California State Parks, which owns the Bowtie, has partnered with the non-profit community arts organization Clockshop to activate artist projects, performances, and events at this little-known park.



Since 2014, Clockshop has helped interpret the Bowtie Project as an urban space on the cusp of change—with sculptures being placed and events taking place right alongside the piles of rubble and rebar that remain scattered as reminders of the parcel's former use.



I'm glad I got to see it while I could in this state of limbo—with its LADWP power transmission towers, graffitied foundations, and other relics, still intact.



After all, they might not survive a future park overhaul.



Southern Pacific built the roundhouse/turntable, the remains of which are now located at the park's southern tip, in 1931 to service its freight trains.



Situated above the river's natural flood plain, and somewhat protected by Southern Pacific's levee at the river bank, the Taylor Yard operations were spared from the devastation of the 1938 flooding that wiped out a lot of other businesses and residences erected at riverside.



Now, besides the tagged concrete, invasive fountain grass intermingles with native California buckwheat, mulefat, and yerba santa. In the river channel, invasive giant reeds are trying to crowd out the native willows.



There may be some invisible traces of Taylor Yard at the Bowtie, too—maybe arsenic, lead, or anything else that might vaporize into visitors' lungs (e.g. tetrachloroethene/PCE and trichloroethene/TCE, both used at the roundhouse). If necessary, future soil remediation will be funded by the sewer lines that run way below the surface of the park.



The Bowtie Project—formerly known as the Bowtie Parcel—is one half of the Taylor Yard's subdivided Parcel G, designated Parcel G-1. The other half, G-2, lies inaccessible on the other side of some concrete barriers and a chainlink fence.



You can get a little close to the G-2 parcel by climbing down the steep concrete walls of the channelized river. G-2 is the last undeveloped remnant of Taylor Yard, purchased by the City of L.A. in early 2017 for $60 million.



It's slated to open as the 42-acre Taylor Yard River Park in the year 2028—envisioned to be the "crown jewel" of the revitalized river. A pedestrian bridge connecting Taylor Yard with the west bank has been in the works for a long time, so maybe that'll come around the same time?

Honestly, I can't complain. A lot has changed with the Los Angeles River since I moved here 9 years ago. A lot more people know we actually have a river.

Now we're just working more on getting access to it.

For more history on Taylor Yard, view the Historic Resources Survey Report here [opens in new window]. 

Related Posts:
Photo Essay: An Abandoned Streetcar Route Now Connects Both Sides of the LA River

September 09, 2019

Up Above and Down Below At Great Basin National Park, No Longer Underwater

I'd wanted to visit Great Basin National Park ever since I learned that this part of the country had once been underwater.



It just took me eight years to get there.



I'd planned on making the drive from Ely, Nevada last year, when I was on my traincation...



...but the Universe had other plans for me...



...and saddled me with some kind of viral infection that knocked me down for the count (and that I barely survived long enough to make the drive to Vegas for my flight back home).



This time, I was with friends who were doing the driving—and it's a good thing, because as we drove up to the Wheeler Peak vista point and parked at the Summit Trailhead for an easy hike to Stella Lake, this time altitude sickness set in.



I tried taking my time through the grove of Quaking Aspen trees (Populus tremuloides)—but at nearly 10,000 feet of elevation, it was too much for me.



My arms felt light lead as I held up my camera to try to catch a speckle-winged rangeland grasshopper (Arphia conspersa) showing the green underside of its wings.



There are bristlecone pines up there—and I spotted a few telltale bristled cones on the ground—but we were too far from any official groves to reach and explore them.



I quickly succumbed to the altitude sickness anyway, lying down in the backseat of our van and gasping for air.



Sometimes I am too delicate for the adventures I'd like to do. But a fellow hiker on the trail said my reaction was common among those who live at sea level.



Fortunately, I felt much more comfortable at the 7000-foot elevation at the entrance of Lehman Cave.



As we descended into the "rooms" and passageways once formed by water, starting with the Gothic Palace...



...I could admire the crystallized stalactites without distraction.



I could gaze up from the Music Room's "pipe organ," 125 feet below the surface, with a 51-foot "ceiling," feeling dizzy and short of breath only in response to its beauty.



Unfortunately, to accommodate tourists like myself, much of the rock (including stalactites and stalagmites) was blasted ages ago and reused to build walls, doorways, and benches (including those of the "Panama Canal").



In an event space once called the "Skating Rink"...



...the points of stalactite formations were chopped off so as not to stab anybody in the head (or poke their eye out).



The only other way in was a belly crawl through a passage known as "Fat Man's Misery."



It's now called the "Inscription Room," in honor of the names and initials written on or burned into the ceiling with graphite, charcoal, or soot—not the marks of any First Nations tribe, but of attendees on Absalom Lehman's tours
from 1885 to 1892.



Back then, it was known as “Lehman’s Wonderful Cave.” And although well-meaning stewards have tried to scrub some of the signatures off, they're now considered a protected cultural resource.



That being said, we were not welcome to add our own inscriptions, and instead were shuffled off through the Cypress Swamp and on to the Grand Palace...



...where we spent a lot of time admiring a marbled formation known as "cave bacon."

Since its discovery by white settlers, Lehman Caves has fascinated people so much that they've thrown parties—and even weddings—down there.

In the mid-1960s, the Army Corps of Engineers designated a room specifically for civil defense shelter use, stockpiling two weeks' worth of rations that included tinned crackers, water cans, medical supplies, and radiation monitoring equipment.

But the cave-dwelling packrats had a field day with the supplies.

And by 1979, the rations hadn't been needed—so they were removed, unused, as efforts shifted to conserving the caves rather than using them for government purposes.

At a constant 50 degrees F, it's certainly comfortable enough down there for hiding out.

And as the longest known cave in Nevada, there'd be plenty of room.

It's no wonder they don't let you down there on your own. You'd get lost. And maybe consumed by bats or pseudoscorpions.

It's worth making the advance reservation for the 90-minute tour—or, in our case, showing up at 7 a.m. to try to get same-day standby tickets.

Related Posts:
The Impersistence of Memory: A Return to the Reopened Mitchell Caverns
Alone in A Crowd, Naturally.