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It's the day before the grand opening of the Abbey Apartments, where 113 formerly homeless men and women will try to rebuild 113 broken lives. Mike Alvidrez, executive director of the Skid Row Housing Trust, swings through the sunny courtyard, shows off the TV lounge, then climbs to the fifth floor sun deck where striped patio umbrellas sway in the afternoon breeze. In the distance: a panorama of the downtown L.A. skyline that would make most loft dwellers envious.
But the tour isn't over. Alvidrez moves to another vista point, this one overlooking the courtyard of the Downtown Drop-In Center next door. Dozens of people pack an asphalt lot. One man sleeps next to a bike, its handlebars weighted with belongings. Others sit by pushcarts overloaded with blankets and jackets. On the street beyond lies a woman with even less -- just a cardboard condo, a filthy box that shields her from flies and an even filthier sidewalk.
FOR THE RECORD:
Homeless: An article in the April 25 Home section on new building designs for formerly homeless residents in downtown Los Angeles incorrectly attributed the following quote: "I'm 63. This apartment isn't what I envisioned my later life to be." The quote was mistakenly attributed to Denise Drinkard, 48, but it should have been attributed to Pamela Parker. —
That distinction between basic shelter and genuine home is being made, eloquently, here on skid row, where some of the most compelling housing in the city is being built for those who have none. The Abbey, which held its grand opening April 16, and other recent projects attempt to move beyond the architecture of survival. They represent the architecture of ambition -- the desire to do better, despite the odds. Provide a bed and bathroom, sure, but also furnish residents with security, stability and, most important, hope.
These buildings raise intriguing questions about the power of design to change lives. Can the placement of a lounge really foster social interaction among people who often have lived for years, sometimes decades, in emotional isolation? If the street outside is a vision of urban grit, do residents really want a window to that world? If you put a nurse, a psychiatrist and a social worker inside a home, will residents eventually see them as extended family worthy of trust?
For some initial answers, head to San Pedro Street and the new Abbey, designed by Santa Monica-based Koning Eizenberg Architecture, and the 2 1/2 -year-old Rainbow Apartments next door, by Los Angeles-based Michael Maltzan Architecture. Both are developments of the nonprofit Skid Row Housing Trust, which operates under the philosophy that the most effective and least expensive solution to homelessness is more homes -- not a patchwork of shelters but permanent homes that feel safe, foster healing and, yes, look good.
Rainbow and the Abbey make an effort to have street appeal -- the former with angular orange window shades, the latter with the kind of colorful window graphics and sculpted concrete blocks on the facade that you'd expect to see outside a cafe or Pinkberry knockoff.
The message to the neighborhood: You deserve more than a budget-driven box.
Because most residents have at least two disabilities, and because substance abuse or mental health issues often caused or contributed to their homelessness, crucial services are provided in ground-floor offices. Residents can see a nurse, doctor, counselor or case manager in a setting that looks more residential than institutional. The Abbey's polished concrete floor, board-formed concrete walls, exposed ventilation ducts and splashes of chartreuse paint all feel more like a loft than a waiting room.
"A lot of these folks have been through the system and failed -- the education system, the foster care system, the mental health system," Alvidrez says.
Negative experiences prompt residents to distrust other people. But as they see the same faces day in and day out, they grow more comfortable with staff. They reach out for help, and the neighborhood where they once felt ignored by society becomes the place where they find a new family.
"This isn't just the community where lives fell apart," says Molly Rysman, Skid Row Housing Trust special projects director. "It's the community where they found recovery. This is where people come to start over."
::
The Abbey and Rainbow perform a complex balancing act, allowing residents to stay connected to the outside world while trying to create a physical and psychological haven inside. Each building has a broad, open-air staircase that leads residents to a private second-story courtyard. The street may be just a few dozen steps away, but the heart of the complex feels calm and protected.
Rainbow residents have raised plywood beds where they're growing onions, peas, carrots and more. Built-in planters at the Abbey hold timber bamboo and ornamental grasses -- "more green for a concrete jungle," Alvidrez says.
Each courtyard is meant to be a hub of life, a place where residents can note comings and goings, call out to friends and otherwise have their own neighborhood within the neighborhood. TV lounges and large kitchens with industrial ranges offer a collective retreat, a place to watch a game with buddies or cook with friends. The rooms are built with lots of glass, so passersby can look in, see who's there and say hello. Even the laundry room, so often pushed to the corners in traditional apartment buildings, is centrally located at the Abbey -- another spot to make connections.
Alvidrez and Rysman say it's no surprise that 2 1/2 years after opening, Rainbow has a sense of community that exists in none of the trust's 20 previous projects, many of them rehabs of older buildings. Though studies haven't quantified the connection between design and socialization in supportive housing, officials say the conclusion here is clear: The architecture builds relationships. Residents who once had little or no structure in their lives have formed a gardening group, an art class, a photography club and a women's group, among others.
When they want their own private space, they can retreat to one of 89 apartments with natural light streaming in from the front and back. By making one window a horizontal band of glass placed high on the wall, Maltzan provided another gift: an edited view -- a blue sky full of possibility on most days and, as one resident noted, a gentle moon at night.
Abbey residents rave about additions such as ceiling fans and personal mailboxes. And then there are the doorbells -- tiny but powerful symbols of civility and control, of what it means to have a real home.
But the tour isn't over. Alvidrez moves to another vista point, this one overlooking the courtyard of the Downtown Drop-In Center next door. Dozens of people pack an asphalt lot. One man sleeps next to a bike, its handlebars weighted with belongings. Others sit by pushcarts overloaded with blankets and jackets. On the street beyond lies a woman with even less -- just a cardboard condo, a filthy box that shields her from flies and an even filthier sidewalk.
FOR THE RECORD:
Homeless: An article in the April 25 Home section on new building designs for formerly homeless residents in downtown Los Angeles incorrectly attributed the following quote: "I'm 63. This apartment isn't what I envisioned my later life to be." The quote was mistakenly attributed to Denise Drinkard, 48, but it should have been attributed to Pamela Parker. —
That distinction between basic shelter and genuine home is being made, eloquently, here on skid row, where some of the most compelling housing in the city is being built for those who have none. The Abbey, which held its grand opening April 16, and other recent projects attempt to move beyond the architecture of survival. They represent the architecture of ambition -- the desire to do better, despite the odds. Provide a bed and bathroom, sure, but also furnish residents with security, stability and, most important, hope.
These buildings raise intriguing questions about the power of design to change lives. Can the placement of a lounge really foster social interaction among people who often have lived for years, sometimes decades, in emotional isolation? If the street outside is a vision of urban grit, do residents really want a window to that world? If you put a nurse, a psychiatrist and a social worker inside a home, will residents eventually see them as extended family worthy of trust?
For some initial answers, head to San Pedro Street and the new Abbey, designed by Santa Monica-based Koning Eizenberg Architecture, and the 2 1/2 -year-old Rainbow Apartments next door, by Los Angeles-based Michael Maltzan Architecture. Both are developments of the nonprofit Skid Row Housing Trust, which operates under the philosophy that the most effective and least expensive solution to homelessness is more homes -- not a patchwork of shelters but permanent homes that feel safe, foster healing and, yes, look good.
Rainbow and the Abbey make an effort to have street appeal -- the former with angular orange window shades, the latter with the kind of colorful window graphics and sculpted concrete blocks on the facade that you'd expect to see outside a cafe or Pinkberry knockoff.
The message to the neighborhood: You deserve more than a budget-driven box.
Because most residents have at least two disabilities, and because substance abuse or mental health issues often caused or contributed to their homelessness, crucial services are provided in ground-floor offices. Residents can see a nurse, doctor, counselor or case manager in a setting that looks more residential than institutional. The Abbey's polished concrete floor, board-formed concrete walls, exposed ventilation ducts and splashes of chartreuse paint all feel more like a loft than a waiting room.
"A lot of these folks have been through the system and failed -- the education system, the foster care system, the mental health system," Alvidrez says.
Negative experiences prompt residents to distrust other people. But as they see the same faces day in and day out, they grow more comfortable with staff. They reach out for help, and the neighborhood where they once felt ignored by society becomes the place where they find a new family.
"This isn't just the community where lives fell apart," says Molly Rysman, Skid Row Housing Trust special projects director. "It's the community where they found recovery. This is where people come to start over."
::
The Abbey and Rainbow perform a complex balancing act, allowing residents to stay connected to the outside world while trying to create a physical and psychological haven inside. Each building has a broad, open-air staircase that leads residents to a private second-story courtyard. The street may be just a few dozen steps away, but the heart of the complex feels calm and protected.
Rainbow residents have raised plywood beds where they're growing onions, peas, carrots and more. Built-in planters at the Abbey hold timber bamboo and ornamental grasses -- "more green for a concrete jungle," Alvidrez says.
Each courtyard is meant to be a hub of life, a place where residents can note comings and goings, call out to friends and otherwise have their own neighborhood within the neighborhood. TV lounges and large kitchens with industrial ranges offer a collective retreat, a place to watch a game with buddies or cook with friends. The rooms are built with lots of glass, so passersby can look in, see who's there and say hello. Even the laundry room, so often pushed to the corners in traditional apartment buildings, is centrally located at the Abbey -- another spot to make connections.
Alvidrez and Rysman say it's no surprise that 2 1/2 years after opening, Rainbow has a sense of community that exists in none of the trust's 20 previous projects, many of them rehabs of older buildings. Though studies haven't quantified the connection between design and socialization in supportive housing, officials say the conclusion here is clear: The architecture builds relationships. Residents who once had little or no structure in their lives have formed a gardening group, an art class, a photography club and a women's group, among others.
When they want their own private space, they can retreat to one of 89 apartments with natural light streaming in from the front and back. By making one window a horizontal band of glass placed high on the wall, Maltzan provided another gift: an edited view -- a blue sky full of possibility on most days and, as one resident noted, a gentle moon at night.
Abbey residents rave about additions such as ceiling fans and personal mailboxes. And then there are the doorbells -- tiny but powerful symbols of civility and control, of what it means to have a real home.
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