THE HIDDEN ARTIST

A.K.A. "THE HIDDEN TREASURE"

Andrea Monroe in front of her "LA Series" Paintings

I'm a busy gal. If I'm not working in the wardrobe department of a TV show, I've no doubt created some other lengthy project to keep me active. Presently, I'm in the middle of an extremely S-L-O-W bathroom remodel. I've waited eons for that room to mutate into the beautiful spa I imagined and now it's happening! Or not. At least that what it feels like when my contractor vanishes for hours and sometimes a day at a time. But like I said, I'm a busy gal and I'm making do with all the semi-construction around me because I'm getting ready to exhibit in The Beverly Hills Art Show! 

Whoopee! (Insert sound of whoopee cushion here)

"So, hey busy gal. Why aren't you excited then?" you ask. Well, I am. And I ain't. I'm just ambivalent, I guess. That pretty much has all to do with why I ended up calling my blog "The Hidden Artist." And no, I don't mean hidden as in "I'm hiding my ass, now come and find me." I mean hidden—like a treasure waiting, hoping, praying, affirming, and exercising extreme patience to finally be found, appreciated, sought after, and financially supported by people who want my art. With that being said, I do have to admit that I'm not a full time artist. That dream slowed down almost in synchronicity with my damn bathroom because of a little sidetrack issue called having to work for a living—you know, the kind that funds the DWP and all the other bozos I have to pay out there. Alas, I really do TRY to be an artist—I do, I do, I do, I do (she said as she mangled her tail). I paint in between my paying jobs. When I have the time to search and prepare, I enter juried competitions and maintain some kind of gallery presence, although much too little to be the discovered artist I would like to be. I'm fairly good with social networking, but have to admit I haven't quite gotten onto the Instagram wagon (YET) out of just plain stubbornness. I also have a metaphysical approach to art in general. I strongly believe that "what you give is what you get." I support other artists whenever possible. I BUY art. I started this blog specifically to celebrate other artist's "hidden" talents. And recently, I joined the board of 11:11 ACC, one of the most up and coming art organizations in the valley, well—just because.

So back to this Beverly Hills thingy. I have to admit, I personally never went to one of their shows. (Insert sound of whoopee cushion here...silent "pft" will do) I'm a bit daft sometimes and often "miss the boat" for one reason or the other. But a dear friend talked me into entering the exhibit, so I did and I got accepted. Getting accepted is a big deal. And yes, in the back of my mind, I'm truly hoping this might be my crowd—that audience with not only appreciation for my and other's works, but the kind with some pockets too. You have to admit that artists cannot live on words alone. To hear someone say that you have talent or are gifted or that they love your work does not a breakfast burrito buy. 

"Little Lovelies" Series by Andrea Monroe

Anyway, I'm preparing for the show. I paid my entrance fee, got my temporary seller's permit, ordered my Square, rented my canopy, and borrowed some display stands. I'm also painting smaller treasures to tie in the larger ones so my work will appeal to pockets big and small. Based on a series I recently began called "The Harlots," I will also have "Little Lovelies" or tinier versions of historic sluts that encompass the style I used in my LA Series. I call this preparation methodical madness. And while doing all of this, I keep flashing on my bathroom—the long wait, all the planning, and the investment. Will it finally pay off in the end? I think so. I can already envision myself, the "Artist Found," seated on the toilet of my shiny new mini spa while I post Instagram photos of my current works. And I think, "Life sure is grand." (Insert sound of whoopee cushion here...long and winded)



Visit Andrea Monroe's website: http://andreamonroe.com
Follow Andrea Monroe on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AndreaMonroeART

THE HIDDEN ARTIST

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A WARDROBE SUPERVISOR

Louis Vuitton Monogram Canvas Gun Fashion by DominaDesignsLA

It’s pilot season in LA. And no, it’s not a smorgasbord of eligible bachelors with private jets parked at the ten-minute-walk-to Van Nuys Airport I live near. It’s the time of year when all the studios and screen writers get together to produce fast and furious could-be TV shows all at the same time. The vast amount of energy and resources used to produce this phenomenon is conducive to everyone watering their lawns simultaneously at the same time and day of the week causing potential and actual pipe bursts (hmm...haven’t we heard that one before). In the costume world of television, it’s when a costumer or assistant designer goes to pull at Macy's or Bloomingdale's and all the 0’s, 2’s, and 4’s have disappeared because some other shows have pulled for the exact same sized actresses before you. It’s when you’re in a costume house like FOX and someone has roped off all the classic designer men’s shirts leaving behind the fashion has-beens hanging limply in the aisle. It’s an explosion of Internet ordering—opening boxes, hanging the crap up, and wondering if you’ll be able to return them in time before you wrap in two weeks, or worse, wondering if the orders will make it in at all. 

I’m a wardrobe supervisor in the TV industry. Back in the day, that used to be the person who ran the costume department and held the hands of icons like Edith Head and Orry-Kelly to get their beautiful costume designs onto the screen. Today, especially for modern day television, the designer is somewhat of a glorified shopper because of time and budgetary constraints. The supervisor, sadly, is kind of a bean counter for all the purchases and rentals incurred by the designer and the shoppers. But hey—sometimes we get to order a uniform or two or three hundred that will need to be camera ready in a half hour. Needless to say, each situation varies to the next, but the common denominator in all of them is a Louis Vuitton pistol held to your head (using that as some on-topic designer-y visual). And situations get particularly gnarly when a production decides to cast a 350- pound actress to play a specific role. Of course, she’s to be in uniform—specifically, a pink housekeeping one. That’s when the real shit happens.

Turns out the only order I placed for that pink dress was with one uniform company and it decided not to arrive in time for the actress’s fitting because someone generated it with the wrong shipping address (let’s just say both that company and I are still pointing our index fingers at each other). Now this wouldn’t be so bad if it hadn’t happened on a Friday with only the weekend ahead to find something—ANYTHING—in a handful of stores that MIGHT be open and MIGHT carry XXXL pink housekeeping dresses. Needless to say, after a great amount of effort, I had to accept the fact that I’d been foiled by a simple mistake—no matter who’s it was—of changing one number for another. And for the record, I’d like to say UPS SUCKS. They wouldn’t help me get my package to the office because of a set of unbudgeable rules. I was left to lick my wounds while my pink XXXL housekeeping dress lay folded in a box only some 12 miles away at the UPS hub and me unable to personally retrieve it.

Admitting mistakes to a costume designer is short of laying your head on a platter and offering it up to her for her half-hour union lunch. This is when something called humility is truly put to the test in our industry. You hope you will be forgiven for the fact that you are only human, but alas, TV Network execs, their producers, and directors rule. The costume designer and her subjects are expected to be the miracle workers they were hired to be. I’ve always called that “pulling it out of one’s ass,” but what to do with unexpected constipation? You pray the designer will compromise her—well, design and still look good in the eyes of the Royal Family. You pray she and the higher ups will accept the rental options you pulled before she told you they really wanted pink and after you were so confident it would be delivered to your door. Needless to say, the stress level at every level in the TV industry is extremely high. It’s like being hooked up to an adrenaline generator everyday and subjecting yourself to endurance tests all the time.

In the end, we’ll have clothes on that actress, although it may not be what the doctor ordered. The uncertainty in all of this is will the designer and I be remembered for all the chewed nails we left in the production office and what we delivered at lightening speed to the Network’s fast and furious schedule? Or will we both be wear scarlet hashtags for the rest of our careers—mine saying #Imessedup and hers #shemessedup?

THE HIDDEN ARTIST

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A "SLUT"

The Harlot by Andrea Monroe

You read it right. I said slut. This was not the first time or the exact word my ex-boyfriend used to insult my integrity. What he actually said was HARLOT. Now, who uses that word these days anyway? Him...that's who. But I'll get into the story of why he verbally abused me after we visit all the sexually jousting labels women of the evening have been called for centuries.

Let's begin with a little history. The "oldest profession in the world," according to Wikipedia, is prostitution or the business of engaging in sexual relations in exchange for payment. A person who works in this field is called a prostitute (and otherwise as you will shortly learn). Prostitute is derived from the Latin prostitua, a composition of pro and stature, which means to cause to stand, to station, place erect, in other words "to put up front for sale." Because most of us know what a prostitute (male or female) does, I don't need to get into details. But for the sake of keeping on point in my article, I will address  the names women have been called under the general umbrella of sex for hire.

In alphabetical order we have: ball buster, bawd, bitch, call girl, changa, chippie, cock-chafer, cocotte, coquette, courtesan, cyprian, moll, moxie, drab, fancy woman, flirt, floozy, lady of easy virtue, lady of pleasure, lady of the night, libertine, harlot, ho, hooker, hussy, hustler, scarlet woman, siren, slattern, slut, street walker, strumpet, tart, temptress, ten o'clock girl, third legger, tickle tail, tramp, vamp, wench, whore, and working girl.

The Oiran and her Pussy by Andrea Monroe

Then there's the historical terminologies: ying-chi—the first Chinese prostitutes, devadasis—women forced into prostitution in the service of the Hindu goddess, Yellamma, comfort women—recruited Korean women sent to brothels for Japanese military pleasure during WWII, auletrides—Greek prostitutes with added talents like juggling, acrobatics, and dancing, ganika—an elite tier of Indian prostitution, zonah—female prostitute of the Hebrew Bible, hetaira—high class courtesan of Athens (so great was her beauty she'd sit as a model for statues of Aphrodite), and oiran—distinguished prostitute of Japan (unlike the Geisha who were primarily entertainers).

Now, back to me. First off, I'm not a prostitute, a hussy, or a whore. Even in my somewhat promiscuous years during the sexually driven 80s did I EVER take a cent for my services—I mean affairs. Come to think of it, if I had, I'd probably be a pretty wealthy woman today (after investments in Apple, of course). But alas, I'm just a working girl of a different kind who also paints—AND tolerates insults given by frustrated ex-boyfriends. So, why did he call me a harlot? I'm still not sure. We'd been bantering in emails about something that seems so meaningless now. But I do think he got himself fueled over a FB profile picture I'd used—a selfie created by Photo Booth on my Mac of me haughtily looking at the camera, arms sorta crossed in front of me to push what little I have in the my chest area up into suppulent bosom-ness. Here's the "come hither" photo below.

I'm asking you—is this too over the top? Do you see any nipples showing? My tongue is in my mouth, right? I think its perfect for someone who is newly divorced and over fifty. That decree alone gives carte blanche to any middle-aged woman who hopes to appeal to the opposite sex. Plus—a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do to get a little nookie—I mean, attention around here. All kidding aside, my self-portrait did not warrant anyone calling me a name nobody has used since 12th Century England. Needless to say, his doing so kinda pissed me off—like to no end and back and to no end again. But instead of pin balling it out there in the twilight zone of anger and despair, I decided to take that negative energy and make it (better yet—paint it) into something more positive. Thus, The Harlot series was born.

Mind you, the series is a work in progress. I've only painted three so far—two of them are pictured here. I have every intention of doing more that will evidently reflect a mixture of history, color, pattern, and my sense of humor. The only problem I foresee in getting any done in a timely manner is I have my regular non-prostitutional day job to attend to and the fact that I really don't have any more ex-boyfriends to insult me. Sometimes one just needs that little blast up the ass to get a painting off the ground. Until then, I may not be up for sale, but the paintings are. 

Prints of The Harlot series are available for purchase on Etsy. The original paintings (that are NOT small btw) are available through me at dreymonroe@gmail.com. 

THE HIDDEN ARTIST

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF A "THRIFTY" WARDROBE STYLIST

I know a woman with an amazing theatre background from the east coast. You'd automatically think, "Ah—she must be so cool and stylish," but to see her at first glance, you'd think she never shopped at any place but WalMart—and I mean the sale rack at WalMart. I've stood next to women dressed in Prada jackets all the way down to Gucci shoes. Most of them set off their outfits with some version of the same stupid brown leather bag stamped with someone's (but I won't say who's) initials all over it because they believe their image can only be dictated by the small percentage of fashion designers who sell them their identity. Be it WalMart or Barneys, there are a lot of women (yes, and men too) who lack something called style.

Style, according to Merriam-Webster, is a distinctive manner of expression, or custom of behaving, or a manner in which something is done, created, performed or worn. I don't know about you, but that screams uniqueness to me, not cookie-cut, regardless of who's name is on the label and no matter what the current fashion trend is. Don't get me wrong. I'm not down on fashion, the trend, or the designers who produce it. I just can't, nor will I, pay top dollar for something I most likely can create on my own. That's where thrift shops come in. Without getting into whether they are for profit or not, I personally want to thank God for Goodwill, Out of Closet, NCJW Council Thrift, Valley Thrift, and Salvation Army to name just a few.

Perhaps, you're muttering under your breath, that people like me are blessed with something often referred to as "a sense of style." Granted, my background experience is heavy with retail fashion work (both high and low) and I've spent most of my life here in Los Angeles working in the TV industry as a costumer. But my so-called sense began with these words, "I don't give a shit what you think." Of course, that mindset can be pretty dangerous when used out of context—like blurting out insults at your supervisor during a morning meeting. Although, I never did that, I haven't cared much for following the herd, especially when it came to how I dressed.

Hypothetically, I'd like to take you through my day at the thrift store. To begin with, we must start with the attitude "I don't give a shit what you think." That means not caring what your friends think of you for exposing yourself to such degradation or you minding who you might be shopping next to in that isle of moth-holed sweaters because you WILL most likely run into some woman who is having a small episode with Tourette's Syndrome. Basically, you create a bubble around yourself and begin your hunt. For me, the hunt is in the kill. The kill, to be specific of me only, is a designer item or something of great quality that is in good condition in my size and is under $15. Back in the day, I could bring home bags and bags of clothing being the size 8 I was. Naturally that made me broke, but "KILL! KILL! KILL!" was my motto. Now that I'm older, menopause does not a thrift store junkie change—only her body. Thus the kill means A LOT more to me if I find something in a large/extra-large or size 14.

Now, that we have your new attitude in check, there a few basic guidelines to help you find your kill, or kills (given you are lucky enough to be smaller than myself). Know what neckline looks best on you. Deep U-shapes and V's look great on me. Round looks nicer on other women. I don't buy tailored collars, but mandarin style. For one, a tailored collar is way too conservative for someone who doesn't give a shit what other people think. A mandarin style is—well, different. Next, know what it is you want to show off and what you want to hide...like those muffin tops. Something blouson and gathered into a hip band is a perfect camouflage for that. Have a general idea of what your flattering colors are. Are you Spring—bright, sunny, turquoise, salmon, watermelon, or Summer—pastel rose, periwinkle, sage, or Autumn—earthy, natural moss, terra cotta, rust, or Winter—crisp, distinctive jewel tones, black, and white? Learn a little bit about fabric. Used to be we only had purity to contend with—wools, silks, and cottons, then came polyesters and rayons. Today there is so much crap out there that it makes me want to scream. Basically, they will found in Chinese manufactured labels from cheaper department stores like WalMart, Kohl's, Target, Sears, etc., but they've made their way to H&M, Forever 21, and even Chico's. Basically, I still go for the pure—cashmere, wool, cotton, and silk, which is finally making it's way back to replace those hideous polyesters. As far as brands go, Banana Republic, J. Crew, Gap, some Target items, and Ann Taylor are pretty good mid-range labels to buy. If you are familiar with the designers carried at Nordstrom, Saks Fifth Ave., Barneys, specialty boutiques, or even some of those at Macy's, you've pretty much made a score. 

For some women, classic styles are best. Let's face it, how many different ways can one fashion a button-down cardigan? You might as well hold on to those for half a century. For people like me, a little quirk is better—a zipper at the shoulder or an asymmetrical body. My only advise is to steer away from trends that thankfully left the current market. Like those oversized butterfly sleeves or the irregular printing technique on pressed-in wrinkles that found its way to every high and low-end department store a few years back, or worse, those God-forsaken cardigan sweaters with all that stupid front-flowing lapel work. What? Three years of that shit wasn't enough? Jeez. But do use some fashion faux pas to your benefit. Those extremely oversized XS tops from two years ago will fit a larger woman today and have her in the current style trend at the same time.

And here are some thrift store hints. The more organized the store, the quicker the shop. Places like Valley Thrift, some Goodwill stores, and NCJW Council Thrift Stores itemize by colors and length of sleeves. Sometimes you might even find a plus-size section set apart from all those anorexic fitted styles. Keep in mind that places like Out of Closet and Salvation Army aren't as organized, but they tend to have "designer" sections and with a little bit more patience you might still find a treasure in the mill. 

In closing, I want to say the best part of thrift shopping is recycling it back in—and its guilt free because you didn't spend hundreds of dollars. Fashion trends are so short-lived now. It used to be our country's world status and economics dictated womenswear—hemlines, shoulder pads, and hats. But today, anything goes. And if anything goes, you might as well have a little fun creating something yourself. As for me—I'm gonna leave this world when I'm done dressed like little ol' me...or better yet, Iris Apfel.

Iris Apfel courtesy of Vanity Fair Magazine.

THE HIDDEN ARTIST: Chloe Cumbow

CONNECTION TO NOHO:  She was a "geeky teen who used to live there"

MEDIUMS: painter, photographer, textile artist, and jeweler

WEBSITE: https://www.flickr.com/people/chloe-and-ivan/

Chloe Cumbow is about as hidden from the world as any artist can be. A somewhat recent L.A. returnee, she settled in Reseda where you will find evidence of her beautifully painted utility boxes that have begun to dot its streets. Chloe can be seen in the late hours of the night perfecting the wings of a swallow flying among the oranges of one her box paintings or removing yet another sad incident of tagging on her most recent box of the world map gloriously painted upon it. She's at every local art event with her Nikon camera, snapping pictures of other's works and the onlookers enjoying them. She draws on the lives of artists like a sponge—learning from them and living among them. But the best association that can be made to Chloe Cumbow is Fun-A-Day. 

Chloe at work on her utility box in Reseda

Chloe gave Fun-A-day to Reseda by way of Rhode Island. She learned of it from someone who brought it there from Philadelphia, where it was originally created by a group called The Artclash Collective and is now in its twelfth year. The premise is simple. After the holidays, wintertime is sluggish, so why not do something? They invited people to participate in Fun-A-Day by encouraging them to do one creative thing EVERY day for the month of January, only with these few rules: it is free to participate in, you can make anything (art, written word, music, etc), it's for all ages, it's not juried, and it's noncommercial—meaning no judgements and it's not done to make money. After the month has passed and the participants take their thirty items or the one item they spent thirty days making, they install their own work at a designated pop-up gallery that has been publicized, and have a no-admission-paid art opening for the community. This is usually scheduled for sometime in February with dates and location TBD. Why do this? Cuz it's FUN!

A participant in 2015 Reseda Fun-A-Day

It takes a lot of hutzpah to put on any event, but just because Chloe is, well—Chloe, she's been able to oversee three of these by now. She does so with diligence, dedication, and the determination to keep Fun-A-Day as it originated—with the same rules and allowing the participants to be hands-on and not mandated by anybody else's guidelines. It's sorta like letting go of all formality—having nature take its course as a free-for-all. But it works and it's fun at the same time. I sat in on the planning committee for the upcoming Fun-A-Day and listened as Chloe asked the group to think about the diverse mini events they might have within the main one—what musicians to invite to play, the possibility of poetry slams, perhaps some belly dancing, who would help with promoting it, and who would volunteer snacks and beverages. The show of raised hands was all the evidence needed of who would follow the leader. From the looks of that meeting, this Fun-A-Day is certain to be much more than just fun!

Chloe Cumbow is a strong example of what community should strive to be. During our interview, she said, "Home is where I live." If you think about that statement, she's absolutely right. We don't just live in our apartments or houses, we live in community with others—our social family. Thankfully, Chloe is helping to remind us of that by being that family and making it fun at the same time.

Learn more about the history of Fun-A-Day at Artclash.com. Everyone and anyone is invited to participate in Reseda's January event and you may learn more about that by visiting its Facebook page. 

2015 Reseda Fun-A-Day

 

THE HIDDEN ARTIST: Preston Craig

CONNECTION TO NOHO:  Former gallery manager of the Lankershim Art Center under the umbrella of the L.A. Printmaking Society

MEDIUMS: Acrylic and digital paint

WEBSITES: http://www.prestonfinearts.com and http://www.twistedteddys.com

My interview with Preston Craig, otherwise known on all his promotional material as Preston C., was set at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf on Ventura Blvd. Although I had some difficulty locating this CBT (for I rarely dose myself with caffein at any coffee establishments), I didn't have any difficulty finding the 6'5" artist as he sat waiting for me near the window. Preston had been referred to me by an artist friend. She told me if anyone needed recognition, is was this man who had recently created a series called Twisted Teddys. Twisted Teddys, I asked? Yes, she said, you know—a teddy bear drug addict, a teddy bear dominatrix...teddy bears like that. Sounded twisted to me. But as it turned out, Preston's Teddys aren't that twisted after all. The "twist" comes in how he plans on using the images of them. 

"Napa Red" by Preston C.

First, a little about Preston. Originally from Louisiana, he earned his MFA from the Academy of Art in SF and a BA in Applied Arts from the University of Louisiana and has traveled the world to do his scenic work. To look at his fine art examples though, you wonder how the same artist would paint a series of Teddy Bears. 

"Gangsta Teddy" by Preston C.

As it turns out, these chubby characters, painted in the guise of an image we hold dear to our hearts, were the brainchildren of Preston's master's thesis project. He needed a relatable model to bring awareness to social issues he has cared deeply about for a long time. Thus Cruci Teddy, inspired by his Catholic upbringing, addresses childhood sexual abuse, Gangsta Teddy; gang life, Homeless Teddy; the increasing homelessness in LA as well as everywhere, and Porn Star Teddy because he knows personally of porn stars who have gotten trapped in the lifestyle and can't escape. The list goes on. He went on to say that the imagery touches on our childhood innocence that sadly gets tugged in directions we sometimes can't control because of of our environment. Ultimately, it is Preston's goal to have his otherwise not so innocent Teddys marketed in several forms, from trading cards to plush toys, to help support and benefit non-profit organizations with programs that address these social issues.  

 

"Steroid Teddy" by Preston C.

After my meeting with Preston, void of any coffee at all by the way, I gave some thought to the cross-over of his fine art landscape and portrait paintings to his pretty controversial hipster-looking Teddy Bears. I realized this gentle giant had done something he probably hadn't expected. He grayed a fine dividing line between people of all ages—the ones drawn to his more conservative work and the young who only wish they could paint like him—by bringing them together about the social issues that affect us all—whether we have had personal experience with some of them or second-hand exposure via media attention. I guess Teddy Bears are kinda like the heroes of our childhood, but take a look at Preston's. Maybe his Teddys will be the heroes of our future—a more, helpful, integrated, and aware one—I would hope. 

THE HIDDEN ARTIST: Dietmar Kohl

CONNECTION TO NOHO:  Long time artist and resident who enjoys tea and pie at Republic of Pie

MEDIUMS: Photography and fashion design

WEBSITE: http://dkohl1.photobiz.com

 European transplants, especially artistic ones, have always interested me, both in Chicago where I'm from and in Los Angeles where I've resided for over twenty-five years. In my opinion, there's something quite different about them—some kind of class or style that most Americans don't have. Of course, they've always been opinionated about almost anything American, but for me it was a refreshingly different perspective on what many Americans, including myself, often dismissed or took for granted. But nothing prepared me for what I would learn during my interview with Dietmar Kohl.

I'd been slowly meeting Dietmar on Facebook. What attracted me to him were his photography posts of downtown Los Angeles. The guy definitely had an "eye" for content as well as composition, but more importantly, he possessed the rare gift of being able to get close to his subject matter. So, I made an appointment with him on one of those now seasonably hot Los Angeles October afternoons at the Republic of Pie on Magnolia. We sat on a truly spring less couch in the back of the restaurant—you know, the kind you can't get out of because your butt has landed closer to the floor than you expected. At first, Dietmar was a bit shy with me and spoke quietly. He wore a black ball cap he'd studded with skull and nailheads that he wanted me to see and told me he'd been designing hats like it, as well as leather jackets, for a store on Melrose Ave. And then we talked about his photography.





Dietmar is originally from Vienna, Austria. He came to the U.S. during the early 90s with a resume and portfolio full of fashion and graphic experience, then married the woman of his dreams. But misfortune struck. His wife later died of a rare lung disease and Dietmar was struck by a car, which disabled him for a period of time. Slowly, he has been recreating his life and getting back to fashion, but he is always photographing—everything, everywhere, and anybody, especially those who many Angeleno's choose to ignore—our homeless residents of the streets, viaducts, abandoned buildings, and bridges.

Turns out Dietmar has been not only photographing the homeless since the 90s, but he's been getting right next to them too—so close in fact that he can fully empathize with their plight, know a little of their histories, and enable them to trust him. Now, who does that? All we do is hurriedly flip coins in their direction or complain they are eyesores in the light of  the gentrification happening around us—and that's spreading like a bad rash. But did you know mental institutions deliver mentally ill patients to the streets in vanloads because they can't care for them anymore? Did you know that although many of us got through the economy downturn in 2009 that the repercussions of all those jobs lost, the houses taken away, and even the economy's present revival (which has become quiet evident with the insane rental increases and new construction) have those people still kicked to the curb?

Did we ever consider that the "filthy miserable lechs" laying on skid row in downtown Los Angeles are there because they've been treated as nothing more than subhumans, offered no place to sleep, let alone a decent place to clean themselves in other than a cold concrete institutionalized shower room? Dietmar told me these things because he's been close enough to see them in these horrid circumstances. And after awhile—after he can actually call these people by their names given to them at birth, he photographs them.

I think there are many reasons to write about Dietmar today. He is wonderfully talented and deserves recognition for all his work. I mean, the man isn't even from America and he has more soul for the human race than any American I know. It is my hope that Dietmar's photographs will get into everyone's faces, especially these iconic and sad documentaries of our brothers and sisters. I pray they will be used to bring more awareness and fundraising to give these poor people back their dignity by giving them a place to rest and clean their bodies. Dietmar said we all live in a ghetto and it's so damn true. All we have to do is open our eyes and see it all around us. But we have to do more. We have to get so close we can touch them—like Dietmar Kohl has.