The Voices of Public Art

There is a long-standing Los Angeles tradition of art serving as the voice of the city’s communities.

When the Brooklyn Dodgers relocated to Los Angeles in 1957, museums like the L.A. County Museum of Art and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion were being built. At that same time, arts organizations were founded (at community behest) like the Watts Tower Arts Center in South Los Angeles after the Watts Rebellion of ’65, and St. Elmo Village, a mid-city community center for artists and the arts education opened in 1969 to encourage and present art in a community setting where artists themselves may live.

“América Tropical,” a mural painted in 1932 by David Alfaro Siqueiros that portrayed his view of U.S. imperialism’s impact on Mexico, was quickly painted over within a decade. But when the whitewash began peeling off in the 1960s, it helped spark a revival in murals that led to the Chicano Art Movement in the same decade.

“Los Angeles has an incredible history of artists who are socially-conscious and arts organizations that are part of their communities, as well as museum spaces and curators whose work is really about reaching broader audiences,” says Damon Willick, chair and professor of art and art history in the College of Communication and Fine Arts. “You can go back to the mid-1960s, when the city was starting to get a feel for itself, trying to assert more of an international presence. You had these little neighborhood art centers and there was an idealism that emerged at that point, and other organizations have taken the baton from those earlier groups.”

That public art tradition remains current and vibrant, as evidenced by Judy Baca’s iconic work “The Great Wall of Los Angeles,” a 2,754-foot wall in North Hollywood that presents a series of images tracing Los Angeles’ history. Particularly, it illustrates L.A.’s complicated history of ethnic peoples from prehistory to the 1950s, including the displacement of Mexican-American families in Chavez Ravine, a precursor to the construction of L.A.’s now iconic Dodger Stadium.

Undertaken in 1976–83, with support from government agencies, community organizations and corporations, the wall represents public art taken to a new level: More than 400 young people participated in painting the panels that make up the wall, which is part of the Tujunga Flood Control Panel of the San Fernando Valley.

Baca, who founded the Social and Public Art Resource Center in Venice, California, still considers it a “work in progress.”

“It matters who is creating public art and who it’s for,” says Priscilla Leiva, associate professor of Chicano/a and Latino/a studies in the Bellarmine College of Liberal Arts. “Particularly in communities of color, public art isn’t just reflecting society, but giving a vision for what we could have in the future.”

Willick is concerned, though, because some of that idealism we saw during the civil rights movements of the 1960s, and then revived again in the decades that followed, has given way to something else in the past five or 10 years: not only a much more competitive marketplace for local artists, but a seemingly growing abundance of art that’s built essentially for snappy online consumption on mobile apps like Instagram, versus art designed to build community in real life.

It could be said that it was clothing designer’s Paul Smith’s famous “Pink Wall” on Melrose Avenue that started the trend in L.A. back in 2005, long before Instagram existed or the notion of a selfie had taken hold. But this past September, the colorful, popular selfie backdrop became seemingly even more famous (or, infamous, depending on who you ask) when an unidentified vandal wrote, “Go f— your selfie” across it.

“There seems to be a lot of street art that emerges just for Instagram-able images as opposed to grassroots social justice issues,” Willick says.

It’s not clear whether or not the brand of Paul Smith, nor the brand of Instagram, has benefitted from the wall or from its popularity amongst young visitors taking photos — but it is clear that the space is indeed being claimed by a new generation for a purpose, perhaps, other than social change or genuine community connection.

“Even as the world becomes more connected in terms of new media, there’s still that grassroots neighborhood desire for art to connect people.”

Scott Meslow ’10, a culture critic whose writing has appeared at GQ, The Atlantic, POLITICO, Business Insider and elsewhere, moved from New York to Los Angeles in 2018 and has been studying the effects of public art both physically and conceptually. He also sees a transformation occurring in the purpose of public art.

“Sociologically and historically, you can really trace what happens in a city by what happens in street art,” he says. “But recently, it seems there’s been a dumbing down of public art. With the rise of Instagram influencers and vacationers using phone filters to just look cool in their sunglasses by a particular wall of polka dots — it’s taking over some of that space of what public art can do.”

Yet, Meslow says, this recent alteration of the use of public art isn’t entirely out of character.

“The public square has always been a place for debate to hash out these issues,” he says. “Television and now Twitter have amplified this.”

If Instagram represents an insertion of commercial media into the public art picture, companies and brands are moving into the space, too. To an extent, the Dodgers have been playing in this game for a while. Despite their origins in a neighborhood in which Mexican-Americans were uprooted, their brand has become identified with the Latino community by the organization’s outreach into the community and their “Los Doyers” identity.

“As ‘Los Doyers’ fandom and Doyers culture proliferates across L.A., it’s a vehicle for Latino/Latina and Latin-x fans to claim space the same way murals function as a way to claim space,” Leiva says.

But other companies that have previously only danced with the notion of moving into the public art space are rushing in wholesale now. As an example, Meslow noted the Beyond the Streets installation that opened in May 2018 in Chinatown, an immersive museum experience sponsored by Adidas Skateboarding that brought an estimated 60,000 visitors together for music performances, film screenings and panel discussions.

Corporate involvement is a sign of the times, says artist Alex Poli ’93 (aka Man One). He believes corporate and digital intrusions on public art need not be all negative. To him, both creating and engaging the masses with art — whether it’s in person or online — is part of what makes the possibility of social change appealing.

Growing up in Los Angeles, he developed his love for art and his skills as a graffiti artist on the streets of L.A. He honed his talents as a fine artist and his understanding of art history at LMU where he earned his bachelor’s degree in fine arts. Today, he’s an award-winning illustrator, muralist, mentor and entrepreneur active in both the local and global art communities.

“In my head, when I create a piece of art, whether it’s on the street, or anywhere else, I think it’s going to live for a very long time there,” Poli says. “I do whatever I can to make sure that it does. Everything from getting permits, where possible, to coating the mural with anti-graffiti coating so that if it gets tagged it can be easily fixed.”

Sometimes, ensuring the permanency of one’s public art also means working directly with unlikely partners and platforms that have emerged in order to bring the power of art to new audiences. He has collaborated with a number of corporate clients in order to facilitate graffiti workshops, and his work has been commissioned by the likes of Coca-Cola, Disney and EA Sports, sometimes for commercials or projects that can be viewed on — of all things — YouTube or Instagram.

“What I’ve learned in my experience as an artist is to always branch out and do different things and try new things,” Poli says. “I’m not afraid to do that, and to see what’s next.”

He says that approach has helped him reach critical new fans: the next generation of would-be artists, especially youth from minority communities who traditionally have been underrepresented in terms of both representation and access to art.

“Particularly in communities of color, public art isn’t just reflecting society, but giving a vision for what we could have in the future.”

If murals first appeared as a form through which to express a community’s public voice, then, as perhaps like the Dodgers, that’s an opportunity football’s Los Angeles Rams also have recognized, in their case by actually employing a public artist, Kristy Sandoval.

“Murals are a way to start a conversation,” says Sandoval, who frequently leads workshops at LMU on designing the developing of a mural as a medium of public communication. “By asking what people would like to see on their walls, I end up learning a lot of history, and the demographics, of the community: What are their concerns? What are the issues in the area?”

This interaction allows her to connect her public art to a community’s goals or needs. For example, in her hometown of Pacoima in Southern California, the poor air quality is an issue that’s come up at community meetings and has shown up subsequently in her art.

She has been active painting and leading youth arts education programs in Pacoima and the San Fernando Valley for 10 years since returning from art school in San Francisco.

As for those complicated relationships and unlikely partnerships with some of the newer powers-that-be in town? The Rams commissioned her as their spokesperson last year for their “Mis Rams” community art campaign, which involved asking fans to submit art that reflects what it means to be part of the Los Angeles community as part of the team’s celebration of National Hispanic Heritage Month. As part of the campaign, they also commissioned Mexican-American L.A. graffiti/tattoo artist MISTER CARTOON to create a design for the Rams’ helmets.

Recognizing how both athletics and art can help bring people together, Sandoval felt it could be an opportunity for change — and for unity. The same goes for Poli, former LMU soccer player turned artist-activist.

Indeed, it was muralists who took to local walls to express their excitement after it was announced that NBA All-Star LeBron James would be joining the Los Angeles Lakers on a four-year, $154-million deal last July. And even though the works were both vandalized and restored by community members, for Willick those interactions are as important a part of L.A.’s art history as anything else.

“When I think of sports teams, the L.A. Dodgers emblem is now appropriated by so many street artists as a sort of symbol of the city, and pride of place,” he says. “Even as the world becomes more connected in terms of new media, there’s still that grassroots neighborhood desire for art to connect people.”

But if corporations not only attempt to speak to the local communities as the Dodgers have done historically, but now venture into the practice of employing the community-based artist himself and herself as the Rams have, is that a good thing?

Perhaps, says Leiva. Given that murals have been banned for so long — with the ordinance lifted only six years ago in 2012 — she says it’s most critical that we return to our roots as the “mural capital of the world” as a means of telling the history of L.A. and its people: “These are voices that can only be found here.”

There is a long-standing Los Angeles tradition of art serving as the voice of the city’s communities.

When the Brooklyn Dodgers relocated to Los Angeles in 1957, museums like the L.A. County Museum of Art and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion were being built. At that same time, arts organizations were founded (at community behest) like the Watts Tower Arts Center in South Los Angeles after the Watts Rebellion of ‘65, and St. Elmo Village, a mid-city community center for artists and the arts education opened in 1969 to encourage and present art in a community setting where artists themselves may live.

“América Tropical,” a mural painted in 1932 by David Alfaro Siqueiros that portrayed his view of U.S. imperialism’s impact on Mexico, was quickly painted over within a decade. But when the whitewash began peeling off in the 1960s, it helped spark a revival in murals that led to the Chicano Art Movement in the same decade.

“Los Angeles has an incredible history of artists who are socially-conscious and arts organizations that are part of their communities, as well as museum spaces and curators whose work is really about reaching broader audiences,” says Damon Willick, chair and professor of art and art history in the College of Communication and Fine Arts. “You can go back to the mid-1960s, when the city was starting to get a feel for itself, trying to assert more of an international presence. You had these little neighborhood art centers and there was an idealism that emerged at that point, and other organizations have taken the baton from those earlier groups.”

That public art tradition remains current and vibrant, as evidenced by Judy Baca’s iconic work “The Great Wall of Los Angeles,” a 2,754-foot wall in North Hollywood that presents a series of images tracing Los Angeles’ history. Particularly, it illustrates L.A.’s complicated history of ethnic peoples from prehistory to the 1950s, including the displacement of Mexican-American families in Chavez Ravine, a precursor to the construction of L.A.’s now iconic Dodger Stadium.

Undertaken in 1976–83, with support from government agencies, community organizations and corporations, the wall represents public art taken to a new level: more than 400 young people participated in painting the panels that make up the wall, which is part of the Tujunga Flood Control Panel of the San Fernando Valley.

Baca, who founded the Social and Public Art Resource Center in Venice, California, still considers it a “work in progress.”

“It matters who is creating public art and who it’s for,” says Priscilla Leiva, associate professor of Chicano/a and Latino/a studies in the Bellarmine College of Liberal Arts. “Particularly in communities of color, public art isn’t just reflecting society, but giving a vision for what we could have in the future.”

Willick is concerned, though, because some of that idealism we saw during the civil rights movements of the 1960s, and then revived again in the decades that followed, has given way to something else in the past five or 10 years: not only a much more competitive marketplace for local artists, but a seemingly growing abundance of art that’s built essentially for snappy online consumption on mobile apps like Instagram, versus art designed to build community in real life.

It could be said that it was clothing designer’s Paul Smith’s famous “Pink Wall” on Melrose Avenue that started the trend in L.A. back in 2005, long before Instagram existed or the notion of a ‘selfie’ had taken hold. But this past September, the colorful, popular selfie backdrop became seemingly even more famous (or, infamous, depending on who you ask) when an unidentified vandal wrote, “Go f— your selfie” across it.

“There seems to be a lot of street art that emerges just for Instagram-able images as opposed to grassroots social justice issues,” Willick says.

It’s not clear whether or not the brand of Paul Smith, nor the brand of Instagram, has benefitted from the wall or from its popularity amongst young visitors taking photos — but it is clear that the space is indeed being claimed by a new generation for a purpose, perhaps, other than social change or genuine community connection.