Lifestyle
L.A.’s unofficial Statue of Liberty is a Fashion Nova billboard off the 10 Freeway
This story is part of Image’s April’s Thresholds issue, a tour of L.A. architecture as it’s actually experienced.
A landmark is a landmark because it tells you that you’re home now — the piece of earth you’ve chosen to inhabit saying, “You’ve made it back, congratulations.” We identify our cities with their landmarks, and because we identify with our cities, we identify with the landmarks too. They are us and we are them, mirroring each other through eternity. A city like New York or Chicago, with the Chrysler Building, the Bean, etc., has landmarks that exist in the world’s popular consciousness. But L.A.’s most cherished landmarks belong to us and us alone, a secret you’re let in on if you live here long enough and pay attention.
The Fashion Nova baddie in horizontal sprawl off the Vertigo, for example, is an emblem for those in the know. Our twisted version of a capitalist guardian angel, patron saint of spandex in a cropped matching set. Welcome to El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de Fashion Nova. Merging on the 110 South from the 10 East while the sunset burns and traffic thickens is a miracle in more ways than one, and in the spirit of compulsively performing the sign of the cross when you pass a church on the freeway, this billboard is deserving of its own acknowledgment.
It may not be the landmark L.A. asked for, but in Sayre Gomez’s painting “Vertigo,” you begin to understand why it’s the one we deserve. At the opening for “Precious Moments,” Gomez’s solo show at David Kordansky, the room was vibrating. A game of energetic ping-pong unfolded underneath the gallery’s fluorescent light, beams of identification, recollections or stabs of grief bouncing off each piece in the exhibition. People were seeing hyperspecific parts of a city they love reflected in a hyperspecific way — for better and for worse. Recognition has two edges and they both happen to be sharp. Gomez twists the knife deeper for a good cause: He wants you not just to look but to really see.
In his work exist iconic signs of beloved local establishments — like the Playpen — the blinding glint reflecting off downtown’s skyline, telephone poles regarded as totems. The line to see Gomez’s replica of L.A.’s graffiti towers, “Oceanwide Plaza,” snaked through the gallery’s courtyard. Once inside, at least three graffiti writers whose names were blasted on the replica pointed it out proudly, even gave out stickers to take home. The truth can be beautiful and it can be ugly — in this case it’s both — on the flip side showing up in the form of smog, tattered flags and an abandoned graffiti tower that starkly represents the pitfalls of capitalism and greed, a neon arrow pointing to the homelessness crisis.
Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave.
— Sayre Gomez
In the main gallery, I was stuck on “Vertigo.” On the 12-foot canvas, my eye went to the place out of focus: the thin strip of billboard in the background featuring a young woman with sand-dune hips, patent knee-high boots and long black hair laid up on her side, wearing cat ears and a tiger bodysuit as flush as second skin. The model made the kind of eye contact that felt dangerous — might cause an accident if you’re not careful. “#1 Halloween Destination … FASHION NOVA,” it read. I knew her, anyone who has driven through the two main arteries of Los Angeles knows her. The black-and-white smiley motif of the Vertigo, an events space, sat right next to her face, just happy to be there, it seemed, above a painted sign that says “Ready to Party?”
The sky was the color of cotton candy, but the stale kind that’s been hardening in a plastic bag for days after the fair. Something rancid about it. In the foreground of the painting was a car encampment with a tattered floral sheet woven through the windows, cloth tarps and couch cushions creating a shield against the elements. Small plastic children’s toys lined at the top of the car — dinosaurs and dump trucks and sharks — creating their own shrunken skyline in front of the Vertigo, signaling that young kids likely lived there. It’s less juxtaposition for juxtaposition’s sake and more an accurate reflection of the breakneck duality of living in a place like L.A.
Even angels exist within the context of their environments. Our Fashion Nova baddie hangs off the Vertigo, a building that has used its ad space as physical clickbait and political posturing for over a decade. It’s promoting the kind of fast fashion brand that’s been regarded as a case study on the industry’s environmental impact. In the years the billboard has been up, it’s looked over dozens and dozens of car encampments like the one depicted in Gomez’s piece.
She feels dubious, yes. But no less like ours.
Julissa James: I’ve lived in L.A. for 13 years now. For me, the city and the architecture of the city is less the Frank Lloyd Wrights and Frank Gehrys — there’s that — but other landmarks that signal, “Oh, I’m home.” The Fashion Nova baddie above the Vertigo has always been that for me. Your piece is layered and there’s so much more to it than just that, but that’s the first thing I saw and was like, “Whoa. I need to talk to Sayre. We need to talk about ‘Vertigo.’”
Sayre Gomez: It’s like L.A.’s Statue of Liberty. It’s the city of anti-landmarks, you know what I mean? I mean, there’s the Hollywood sign, which I think is so telling, because it’s the remnants of a real estate venture. The city is built by real estate schemes and 100 years later we’re feeling the effects of it. You’ve got empty skyscrapers and a massive homeless catastrophe. L.A. doesn’t really have real landmarks. It has anti-landmarks.
JJ: When did the Fashion Nova billboard above the Vertigo click for you as something that felt representative of the city, or something that you wanted to depict?
SG: My studio is in Boyle Heights, so I pass that billboard multiple times a week. This is my 20th year in L.A. and that building’s always been a big mystery to me. It was empty when I moved here before this guy Shawn Farr bought it and turned it into Casa Vertigo. I think he probably makes more money on it with the ad space than anything. I know nobody who has ever been there. Very mysterious to me. So that’s what I was drawn to.
(Paul Salveson from David Kordansky Gallery)
The Vertigo has always been mysterious to me. And that whole fashion industry is mysterious to me — the kind of shmatta, American Apparel-adjacent, or maybe coming out of the wake of that. These kinds of businesses, or the representations of these businesses, how do they function and how do they flourish? Is it aboveboard? What more perfectly encapsulates that than that building? It’s this weird thing you can’t quite figure out but somehow it has a lot of money and then it’s an event space, supposedly billed as that. Clearly it’s this big ad thing, and I’m very interested in the changing dynamics of capital. The capital of yesteryear, which was based on the brick and mortar, where things are being made in a specific location, maybe on an assembly line or in a specific way, to a kind of capital that is based solely on advertising or on viewership. These beautiful buildings acting as pedestals for some kind of ad space, you know? It becomes an anti-landmark for me. Something where I’m like, “Oh, there’s that thing again.”
JJ: It’s this gorgeous Beaux Arts building …
SG: It’s a Freemason building!
JJ: When I’ve talked to some people about the Vertigo, they’re like, “the Fashion Nova building?”
SG: They always have the woman in the same pose — same pose, different clothes. If you remember before Fashion Nova, they would have these provocative ad campaigns or provocative slogans. “Twerk Miley” was up, remember that? They did a Trump one: “TRUMP NOW.” They did one for Kanye when he ran for president. The 10 and the 110 are literally the crossroads of the city, so it’s really poised to be a special building. It has a special designation because of the location.
JJ: Talk to me about the process of doing this piece. Where did it start and how did it evolve?
SG: I was cruising around that vicinity trying to see if I could get a good vantage point to take photos of Vertigo. And then I stumbled upon this car — the car that’s in the foreground of the painting. Anytime I see an encampment that has kids’ toys, things that reference back to the lives of children, it hits hard. But I like to lay it all out there. I like to make things confrontational. I want it to be difficult. The painting isn’t based on a one-to-one photo [Gomez paints from a composite rendering of images he’s taken around town], but I knew that I wanted to use that car, and I knew I wanted to get the Vertigo building, and so I started just messing around with different iterations. I could never find a good angle to take a good photo of the building, so I just went on Vertigo’s website and I was like, “I’m just using these.” I switched the sky and put a more moody, atmospheric sky in.
JJ: Which I loved, because we know that feeling — you’re merging onto the 110 and you see a beautiful sunset. The euphoria of like, “L.A. is the best city in the world.” But you know what? What I found so interesting about your piece is that it was revealing to me about myself, but also about so many of us that live in L.A. and have lived here for years and have developed a jadedness. When I saw your piece, immediately I was like, “Oh my God, the Vertigo! The Vertigo! The Vertigo!” And then I was like, “OK, wait, hold on, there’s so much more going on here.” But the fact that my eye went to that first instead of the car encampment, the kids’ toys, brought up a lot of questions about my own relationship to the city and the things that we choose to see, the things that maybe we’ve seen so much of that we subconsciously filter it out. Why was it important for you to put these two things up against each other in this way?
SG: Because the Vertigo is something everybody who lives here recognizes as central to a sort of framework of Los Angeles. And I think the encampment has become that as well. It’s connecting these integral components — something that’s more revelatory and more fun with something that’s more grave. That’s what I’m doing in my work at large. I use the sunsets and the beauty to create a dialogue, to entice people to sort of look a little bit at how things are contextualized, how things act, what’s actually happening. I don’t make things in a vacuum. I was working on this show and I was going to really push this agenda of incorporating more of my experience with my kids into the work. That’s also a double-edged sword. I wanted to interject some levity, because the work can get so dark. I wanted to bring in some iconography from their world and things that they get excited about. When you’re juxtaposing that with really stark things, it becomes darker. I want to thicken the stock a little bit. Make things a little more complex.
After a long winter, readers look to summer for a respite — an opportunity to sink into stories that are magical, mysterious and memorable. If some downtime is in your plans, we have some reading to suggest.
Our book critics have previewed what’s coming to the library and bookstores this summer. Here’s what they are most looking forward to reading — and seeing you read too.
Water in the Desert: A Pilgrimage by Gary Paul Nabhan
I love books that explore nature through a sociocultural lens. Lebanese American Gary Paul Nabhan’s new book traces the story of his unusual life. Nabhan grew up along Lake Michigan’s southern dunes and was negatively singled out as a student with “disabilities.” He found his path through ecology, poetry, travel, studying Indigenous Mexican communities, becoming an Ecumenical Franciscan brother and exploring his own ancestry — all of which shape his view that Earth is “the original scripture.” An ethnobotanist, Nabhan was awarded a MacArthur “genius grant” for “insights into the relationship between culture and land.” I can’t wait to read this book. (June 2) — Martha Anne Toll
Muñeca by Cynthia Gómez
Natalia Fuentes has a plan. Violeta, the only child of the Miramontes family and the last in a long line descended from Spanish settlers and Mexican rancho owners, is magically trapped in her own body, and Nati is going to break her out. For a fee, of course. With the help of a doll, she finds a way to communicate with her client, and an unexpected romance sparks between them. But she also attracts the attention of the person who cursed Violeta, and they would do anything to stop Nati from interfering. This gothic horror tale touches on colonialism and colorism, queerness and feminism, generational trauma and familial curses. It’s at once romantic and frightening. We may be only just heading into summer, but this one is already in my top 10 for the year. (June 2) — Alex Brown
The Book of Birds: A Field Guide to Wonder and Loss by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris
Whenever I encounter a belted kingfisher here in coastal Virginia, my spirits rise as I gaze at a bird with a spiky mohawk and an attitude to match. My summer nonfiction reading will kick off with The Book of Birds: A Field Guide to Wonder and Loss by nature writer Robert Macfarlane and illustrator Jackie Morris, which celebrates the lives of declining or endangered birds from kingfishers to avocets, nightingales and yellowhammers. Though British species remain the book’s focus, the joys of bird-watching span the globe, as does this pair’s invitation to revel in and protect the multispecies worlds of which we humans are one part. (June 9) — Barbara J. King
Earth 7 by Deb Olin Unferth
I discovered Deb Olin Unferth’s work years ago via her flash-fiction piece “Likable,” which became a staple on my syllabi. Years later, and now firmly a fan, I was thrilled to learn about her forthcoming novel, Earth 7. A story about a decimated future Earth and those working to collect DNA samples from its past in order to rebuild it, the novel is also about love — between two people, yes, but also the broader, more universal love their work entails. After all, preservation of what was and hope for what will be are both acts of immense care for the world. (June 9) — Ilana Masad
Twenty Minutes of Silence by Hélène Bessette, translated by Kate Briggs
This riveting translation at once slays and reinvents the mystery genre. Set in an affluent villa in Manche, France, this 1955 “poetic novel” reconstructs the clashing narratives around the 20-minute interval between a patricide and the arrival of the police. The titular concept of silence, purportedly about the accomplices’ erasure of evidence, in fact represents a linguistic and structural red herring. The articulate, seemingly uncounseled testimonies of the deceased’s adulterous wife and abused son, along with biased speculations by the chief inspector, his deputy, the journalists and the bookseller, are replete with operatic revelations. (July 14) — Thúy Đinh
Charity and Sylvia by Tillie Walden
Tillie Walden’s long-anticipated Charity & Sylvia is a graphic biography in five parts, tracking the love story of two women who openly lived together for 44 years in Weybridge, Vt., in the 1800s. Walden builds on an archive of letters, journal entries and various biographical material to offer this moving portrait told in vignettes, most captured as delicately drawn, copper-tinted, nine-panel comics. Family affairs, religious musings and intimate scenes between the two women are set against the backdrop of a young country, and state, moving through constant, and colossal, transformation. The effect is a slow, dense, contemplative read — a rare gem of a book. (June 16) — Tahneer Oksman
Names Have Been Changed by Yu-Mei Balasingamchow
There have been a slew of entertaining novels in the past few years about average people stumbling into criminality — think Kirstin Chen’s Counterfeit and Nina McConigley’s How to Commit a Postcolonial Murder, to name just two. But I’m especially looking forward to Names Have Been Changed. Ophir, the Singaporean protagonist, is on the run from the law for her involvement in a money-laundering scheme, and she podcasts about it from an undisclosed location. This picaresque is off to a rocking start, the first-person narration is charmingly self-effacing, and the story promises depth as well, exploring the emotional toll of being a fugitive. (June 23) — Leland Cheuk
Dead But Dreaming of Electric Sheep by Paul Tremblay
Paul Tremblay has made a career out of reinventing himself as an author with every novel, and in his upcoming Dead but Dreaming of Electric Sheep, he does it yet again. The book is a creepy and unexpectedly humorous science-fiction romp about a young woman who takes a job using a cellphone/remote control to pilot a man in a vegetative state from California to the East Coast while the man goes through a surreal nightmare. A master storyteller, Tremblay’s b(l)ending of genres here truly is a perfect beach read. (June 30) — Gabino Iglesias
Country People by Daniel Mason
I so loved Daniel Mason’s North Woods, which spans four centuries in the life of a Massachusetts house, that I’m eager to read whatever he writes. Country People is quite different. His first contemporary novel spans just one year — the length of a visiting professorship that brings Kate and her family from California to Vermont. The hope is that her husband will finally finish his long-overdue dissertation on Russian folktales, but instead he gets pulled in by some colorful locals and a bizarre, fantastical legend. It’s apparent from a quick peek that Mason has fun exploring marriage, friendship, parenthood and the beguiling allure of storytelling and fantasy in this upbeat romp. (July 7) — Heller McAlpin
An Infinite Love Story by Chanel Cleeton
An Infinite Love Story is a sweeping romantic drama with a touch of magical realism from the bestselling author of The Lost Story of Eva Fuentes. Chanel Cleeton is one of my auto-buy authors — and I was hooked on this new book immediately. Cleeton’s ability to pull readers in quickly and deeply through her storytelling makes her a go-to author for an immersive reading experience. Set during the Space Race of the 1960s, this story follows the wife of an astronaut who is lost in space, who refuses to believe her husband is gone forever. Vivian and Joe’s love is unforgettable, and so is Cleeton’s writing. She had me from the dedication. (July 7) — Denny S. Bryce
The Great Wherever by Shannon Sanders
After winning the LA Times Book Prize for her story collection Company, expectations were running high for Shannon Sanders’ first novel. A playful and poignant intergenerational saga about a haunted farm in which ancestors watch over and critique the living for posterity and entertainment, The Great Wherever leaps over that bar. The story pays tribute to the lasting legacy of Sanders’ ancestors (land that’s been in the family for a century), while creating something inventive and new. From an undead perspective, haunting is believably bittersweet; it’s “better than the best reality TV,” but “lesser, of course, than the thrill of both seeing and being seen.” I was hooked from the first sentence. (July 7) — Carole V. Bell
Data Empire: The Power of Information to Organize, Control, and Dominate by Roopika Risam
Data centers have been making me anxious for a while, largely because of the environmental impacts — the massive draw on the electrical grid, the millions of gallons of clean water they require for cooling, the massive carbon footprint. The harm caused by data center infrastructure is only part of the problem, though. Roopika Risam’s newest book, Data Empire: The Power of Information to Organize, Control, and Dominate, explores “how data has always been the seed of power,” tracing its centrality from Mesopotamia to today. A book that promises not to just show how empires have collected and weaponized data over the ages, but also how we can resist, is an easy must-read for me. (July 14) — Ericka Taylor
Catch the Devil: A True Story of Murder, Deception, and Injustice on the Gulf Coast by Pamela Colloff
I have been a fan of Pamela Colloff’s investigative journalism since 2018, when ProPublica and The New York Times Magazine published a narrative feature on junk forensic science. Her first book builds on her 2019 feature about a con artist who became one of America’s most prolific jailhouse informants. Despite his reputation as a liar and grifter, prosecutors were all too willing to believe the “useful” stories he spun — including about defendants who were ultimately sentenced to death. Unfolding in cinematic detail, Catch the Devil offers a riveting and disturbing account of the potentially fatal consequences of a criminal legal system that is more concerned with securing convictions than determining the truth and delivering justice. (July 14) — Kristen Martin
Yellow Pine by Claire Vaye Watkins
I’ve been an admirer of Claire Vaye Watkins since her debut book, the story collection Battleborn, was published in 2012. As good as that book was, I was blown away by her novels, Gold Fame Citrus and I Love You but I’ve Chosen Darkness, both of which brought the American West to life with Watkins’ formidable wit and audacity. I can’t wait for her new novel, which follows a single mother living in an intentional community in the Mojave Desert. Watkins is known for taking risks, and she never repeats herself — I’m betting that her latest book will showcase her genius at storytelling and her love for the rugged landscape of the West. (July 21) — Michael Schaub
Dèy by Edwidge Danticat
Edwidge Danticat is an author whose work truly captures the Haitian American immigrant experience with prose that is so languid and all-consuming that one never wants to be released from its grasp. In her first novel in over a decade, she offers a beautiful exploration of migration, gentrification and political instability. The title — Dèy, the Haitian Creole word for “mourning” — immediately caught my attention, as many Americans are in this state today, for their own country. The novel introduces us to Magnolia, a successful real estate agent in Miami whose outlook on life changes after she is caught in a mall shooting. A story that allows us to reassess love and grief, Dèy is a novel of now. (Aug. 25) — Keishel Williams
A marquee for The Late Show with Stephen Colbert at the Ed Sullivan Theater in New York City.
Angela Weiss/AFP via Getty Images
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Angela Weiss/AFP via Getty Images
The Late Show with Stephen Colbert ends its run on Thursday night. Our critic-at-large, Eric Deggans, will be posting his takes on the last episodes right here.
Most TV shows wrapping up after more than 10 years in the game would start off their finale week with an avalanche of clips capturing the most impactful moments from the program’s long run.
But The Late Show with Stephen Colbert is no ordinary program.
So Colbert kicked off the show’s last four episodes Monday, with a “best of the worst of” episode, featuring a bunch of comedy bits so awful they mostly never aired at all. Which was really a sideways strategy for paying tribute to the show’s staff – who packed into the seats at the Ed Sullivan Theater in New York for this cavalcade of awful, shouting out comments on stuff like video clips featuring a fake ad for “erotic body gravy” that Colbert originally declined to air because the good-looking actors featured in it just looked like “soft core gravy porn.”
Words cannot describe how right Colbert was then.
There was more: A Graphics Graveyard bit featuring a never-aired image proclaiming Hillary Clinton the 45th president (they had hoped to use it during live election coverage in 2016 – sad trombone sound here). A middling field piece featuring Colbert and a staffer buddy surprising a perplexed woman living in the apartment where they once stayed in Chicago. And longtime staffer Brian Stack playing Shrieking Joe, a Kid Rock parody so abrasive that ratings took a nosedive whenever he was on – a trend I don’t expect to end with Monday’s episode.
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It all unfolded in a way that left this critic feeling like he crashed the show’s last office party – watching lots of mildly funny material that probably hits a lot harder when you know the office drama behind making it.
As the show counts down its final nights, Colbert has tried hard to deflect anger, sadness or lionizing of his work. So I can see how an episode like this might have felt like a saucy way to redirect the inevitable nostalgia. But Monday’s episode didn’t give fans much to celebrate, beyond the obvious camaraderie the staff enjoys, even now.
In the end, as David Letterman’s former bandleader Paul Shaffer joined Colbert, the band, a bunch of dancers and one of his writers to sing a fish-themed parody of Shaffer’s 1982 disco pop classic “It’s Raining Men” – by the way, it’s not hard at all to believe that Colbert’s writers rejected this bit four times since 2011 – it all felt like a bit of a missed opportunity.
Here’s hoping the next three episodes give fans what they really want – a chance to celebrate the final hours of one of late night’s best satirists.
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