Abandoned luxury towers morph into showcase for graffiti sprayers
It was a billion-dollar aspiration meant to transform a neighborhood.
A trio of shimmering skyscrapers would feature luxury condos, a five-star hotel and an open-air galleria with retailers and restaurants. Among the amenities: private screening rooms, a 2-acre park, pet grooming services and a rooftop pool. A celebrity fitness trainer would help curate a wellness lifestyle for residents.
The vision was called Oceanwide Plaza, and the CEO said it would “redefine the Los Angeles skyline.” An executive for the design firm said it would create “a vibrant streetscape.” The website said it would be a place of “rare and unexpected moments.”
All these statements, some would say, proved to be true. Just not in the way originally imagined.
Funding for the venture quickly evaporated. The towers went up but were unfinished and empty. Plagued by financial and legal issues, the plaza was in a quiet limbo for five years.
Until, recently, an underground community pulled it into an unforeseen spotlight.
Now, those skyscrapers have become a symbol of street swagger, “bombed” with the work of dozens of graffiti writers and artists. Their aliases cover windows that rise more than 40 stories, visible from the nearby highways.
“Everybody's talking about it, of course,” said Ceet Fouad, a French graffiti artist based in Hong Kong, known for his commissioned murals featuring cartoon chickens. “We said it's amazing what's happened — we dream to have a place like this. In the middle of Los Angeles? It's the best promotion you can have.”
The sentiment is obviously not universal. Many
Angelenos see the graffiti as unconscionable vandalism, encouraging waves of crime. Those who live near it say it has jarred their sense of safety. Civic leaders see it as an immediate hazard to the neighborhood as well as to trespassers, not to mention a worldwide embarrassment.
Others have admired the work, some traveling to see the embellished towers for themselves and ruminate on what they represent. Maybe it is the irony of a city desperate for housing. Or maybe it is a statement about greed and wasted opulence. Perhaps emblematic of a Los Angeles spiraling into chaos.
Most would agree that the takeover was cunningly bold.
Vandalism and trespassing had occurred at the plaza over the past few years, city leaders say. But things quickly escalated in late January. New graffiti appeared, and a subculture took note that no one was bothering to clean off the fresh paint.
“It's pretty unheard-of to paint a skyscraper, so it was
like, `Oh, man, let's go take advantage of this and do it while it lasts,'” said Misteralek, one of five graffiti artists who described the scene inside the towers to The New York Times. They spoke on the condition that only their artist names be used because their activities were illegal.
Misteralek managed to get inside with the early wave. It took him about 40 minutes to leave his alias in red and silver.
“We were so happy to be there because I was like, `Tomorrow, they're going to barricade the whole thing.' But then people just kept doing it.”
Social media posts heightened the buzz. Few knew anything about the history of the towers. But getting into the place seemed strangely simple.
Crews were trudging up together, their backpacks rattling with spray paint. Some lugged up gallons of paint and roller brushes. Security guards on patrol were easy to evade.
Inside, they saw loose wires dangling from ceilings and rebar left exposed.
Ladders and buckets littered the concrete floors. Bathtubs were full of rainwater.
“We got a little lost at first; it's kind of like entering a little city,” said a graffiti artist who goes by Aker and managed to paint his alias twice. Although advice was passed around (bring water, the flight up is killer), he said there was no coordination among artists, just individual ambition.
“You either get in or you don't,” Aker said, “and you don't want to miss your chance.”
The names of artists and crews proliferated, the morning sun revealing new additions each day.
By the time BASE jumpers managed to leap from the towers in mid-February, city leaders were scrambling to figure out their role in a private property gone wrong. They had a responsibility, they said, to keep people safe and set an ultimatum: The plaza owner, Oceanwide Holdings, a conglomerate headquartered in Beijing, was ordered to secure the property within a matter of days.