Concrete and Dust:
Mapping the Sexual Terrains of Los Angeles
by Jeanine M. Mingé and Amber Lynn Zimmerman
I pay $1,350 a month to rent my 570-square foot half of a duplex.
We used to split the rent.
People say I got lucky. After all I live in the city of Burbank and I have a backyard. Backyard spaces are few and far between in this city for this price. I get the most pleasure in the manufactured green and brown space, in the quiet, sitting on the metal chair with a glass of wine, a book, and the sun on my face. That pleasure disappears as I hear the neighbors over the fence scream about money or cheating. Because of the tall green fence, I only know them though their anger, or the pop fizz of a beer can. Sometimes, I hear my neighbor’s cats scurry about. I know he can hear my dog bark, my coos of intimate moments, the creaking of the front door as I leave or come home.
Found Object Collage
Behind these barricades, the entertainment magic happens. I hear manufactured laughter, timed clapping. The audience dances on cue, like monkeys for a circus, for the camera.