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Los Angeles Times
16-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
‘We've always been here': An oral history of L.A.'s Black indoor roller-skating scene
It's a Thursday night and West Coast rap anthems are thumping over the sound system. A group of O.G.s are playing spades at a nearby table. Skaters are lacing up their customized Stacy Adams boots, which are fully equipped with fiberglass wheels. Those already on the skating rink floor are showing off their skills: doing tricks (sometimes with a partner), two-stepping to the beat and whipping their bodies into turns that seem impossible. They dap each other up as they criss-cross through the crowd and sing along to the music. Smiles are imprinted on their faces. Joy fills the air. They are free. Roller skating at a rink in L.A. County is a distinctive experience that you have to witness for yourself. For Black Angelenos, it's a tradition that dates back to the 1950s and remains prominent today despite the lack of rinks in the city. Many skaters say they don't remember the exact moment they learned how to skate — it's just always been in them. If you're Black and you're from L.A., it's just something that you do, they say. In putting together this oral history on the indoor roller-skating scene in L.A., I knew I had to begin with World on Wheels — the last rink in L.A. proper. The beloved Mid-City rink was originally open from 1981 to 2013, then reopened in 2017 with the help of late local hero Nipsey Hussle, before closing permanently in 2020. Most Black rollers have skated at World on Wheels at least once. From there and with the help of popular skating documentaries like 'United Skates' and 'Roller Dreams,' I found rollers who've been a part of the community for decades. Folks like Horace Butler, a member of the Scooby Brothers skate crew, who were a mainstay at World on Wheels. I spoke to Raquel 'Roxy' Young, founder of Roxy's Backyard Sk8 Boogie, and Wayne Davis Jr. (a.k.a. DJ Wayne D), co-founder of the Sk8 Pop Up, who created outdoor skating experiences when rinks shuttered during the pandemic. And I chopped it up with Presha Washington, a longtime team member at Sk8 Fanatics, which has customized skates for everyone from DJ Mustard to Beyoncé and Silk Sonic to Usher (for his Super Bowl performance). In L.A., roller skating for Black skaters is more than just rolling in circles around a rink. Rinks are their church, dining room, daycare center, date night spot, therapist's office and a haven for youth. Roller skating is an integral part of their lives, and regardless of the barriers they face, they are dedicated to keeping the tradition alive. Terrell Ferguson, O.G. Venice skater, dancer, actor and writer, 'Roller Dreams' co-star: I always assumed [that roller skating] was Black people s—. Kind of like basketball. It's just what we do. John Okevu Ojo II, 34, skater and fashion designer: I feel like if you're Black and from L.A., you should know how to roller skate. It's just something within our culture of Black natives, especially pre-Internet, simpler times, when roller skating was such a thing. We had so many rinks in the city and there was a community around roller skating. 29, rap artist: Growing up in L.A., somebody close to you knows how to skate. If you were hanging out and you didn't know how to skate — goofball. Goofy. [laughs] Raquel 'Roxy' Young, 39, founder of Roxy's Backyard Sk8 Boogie, skate instructor and community activist: It was just passed down generations. My mother skated. My grandmother skated, so I was bound to skate as well. I had four children and all of them know how to skate. It's just part of our culture. James 'BuckWild' Rich, 60, O.G. Venice skater, certified skate instructor and performer, 'Roller Dreams' co-star: The one thing that Black people like to do is play music and dance, and skating is a big part of that. Presha Washington, skater and team member at Sk8 Fantics: I've been skating [seriously] since I was 15. Then it just progressed into a lifestyle. It's not a hobby. It's something that's embedded in you and once it's there, it's there. I was skating like four times a week [back then]. My punishment as a teenager was 'You can't go skating' and that was heart-wrenching right there. Jeffrey Young, 67, performer and O.G. Venice skater, 'Roller Dreams' co-star: At one point when [roller skating] was so popular, I was too young to go out on my own because I didn't have transportation. That's when they had that skating rink called Flipper's in West Hollywood. They had a rink in Rosecrans and others, so Blacks were at all these places. We were the majority at every skating rink. You'd see a white or Latino [person] here or there, but we dominated for years and years and years. Connie Foster Wells, 65, former office manager at World on Wheels and retired professional skater: White people skated, but at private functions and outside, and primarily — at least in the '80s and '90s — [on] roller blades. And World on Wheels, at that time, was in the 'hood so they weren't necessarily skating during the regular skating hours. Ashley Imani, professional skater and entertainer: I think [roller skating] initially was a way for Black people to escape reality and come together as a community and vibe and party. We were known for having block parties and making the best of what we can in our lives back in the day, especially when there was a lot of racism. Horace Butler, 68, longtime skater and member of the Scooby Brothers skating crew: Back in the day, they were so prejudiced with everything, so we had to find a way to get this frustration out. Jeffrey Young: When you're skating, you're not thinking about life's ups and downs. You're just gliding around and everything's free. The music is jamming and those things are somewhere else in the back of your mind. Ojo: L.A.'s [style] is similar to how we dance, how we step. We have our little walk, our two-step. It's a lot of footwork. It's a lot of getting low. It's a certain confidence. It's a certain swag that you have about you whereas in Georgia, it's more fast-paced. They're not so much trying to get off a style. Whereas in Maryland, it's real smooth, calm, cool and collected. But I feel like for L.A., since gang culture is so prevalent out here too, there's a level of affiliation with how people skate. They're chunking up their hands. They're shuffling their feet. They are wiping their skates off while they skate. A lot of custom skates that people will start off with are Stacy Adams, and if you know anything about [that shoe] within L.A. culture, gang culture, that's like player s—. That's like OGs rocking Stacys with the Dickies creased up, Dickies shirt or fully suited up. Travis 'Smuurdaa' Horne, 34, avid skater, DJ and founder of Sk8Mafia skate family: Everything was to perfection. The skates were clean. You clean your wheels. You clean your plate. We took the appearance of skating very seriously and our skating culture too. We just have a different vibe to what we do. We love to bounce. We like West Coast music. We have one of those complex kinds of styles, but now it's being branched out and a lot of [other] states are adapting to it. Back then, you didn't have that. When you would go out of town, you wouldn't really hear West Coast music [at the rinks]. Wayne Davis Jr., a.k.a. DJ Wayne D., 39, skater and co-founder of the Sk8 Pop Up: You can't go to the rink on the West Coast and play Future because there's a style of skating for the West Coast, and the West Coast music helps with the bounce of that style. You can almost dance to anything, but you can't skate to everything. Roxy Young: We're worried about how we look when we skate. We roll more and slide more to the rhythm. Other areas are kind of more rough and hard, but we glide and slide. People always say they love watching my videos because they say, 'It looks like you're just floating around the rink,' and I'm like, 'Yeah, I am. I'm sliding.' Ashley Imani: We call it sliding because you're able to slide on the side of [the skates] versus going front and back. You can go sideways too. The flavor of it is real gangsta. I'm not gon' lie. It's real grungy, and I think that's dope. You'll see some of the most street dudes come in there, but they're skating and they're in their happiest mode. They're detached from all of that's going on outside. Ojo: My first pair of customs that I got to kind of be different were a pair of Wallabee boots. I want my outfit to complement my customs, so I got all my jewelry on. Manicured up. Skin looking righteous. I'm really here to get my s— off. At the end of the day, I remember certain skaters by how they get their s— off too. Like he did that move on the floor, but he also had a fire fit on. Or shorty was going crazy, and she had the fire fit on. That resonates. J.D. Archer, 26 , avid skater and member of Trendsettas crew: I got my [blue] Stacy Adams boots from Sk8 Fanatics, but I got my skates built by Slydz by Dnice, [which] are Black-owned skate shops. Washington of Sk8 Fanatics: [Sk8 Fanatics] revolutionized the micro fiberglass wheels. Clamp-on plates were attached to Stacys and that's what they would skate on back in the early '50s, '60s, '70s, so it's been around for a long time. In the L.A. culture, Sk8 Man Joe was the first person out here who started that trend, and when he passed away, his son, Sk8 Man Rick, took over the business, Roller Skates of America. Sk8 Man Joe was around in the late '80s, early '90s. Aaliyah Warren, 23, professional roller skater, model and performer: We love customizing our boots, so we get them graffitied and painted. One of the other skaters did some artwork on mine, but Sk8 Fanatics are the go-to. My first pair has the symbol for Sk8 Mafia on it, which is the yellow M emoji. Then I love burgers, so I have a hamburger painted on it [laughs] and the 'Fresh Prince of Bel-Air' [logo], but it says 'Fresh Princess.' I have the Monopoly man spray-painting the word 'skate' and he's running away with broken hearts out of the money sack. Washington: Heel skates are some of the craziest ones [that] we do because every one is different and the fabrication that goes into them to make them functional [is] time-consuming. It can be an actual stiletto heel or a wedge. We've done some for Beyoncé, 'RuPaul's Drag Race' and Ashley Imani. Butler: When World on Wheels opened [in 1981], me and my boys [the Scooby Brothers] did the grand opening show. It was so packed. We had on our little outfits matched up. We mimicked the Temptations, the way they were so together. So instead of just doing the moves where you're skating fast around the rink, we actually put our [choreography] together like we were going to be doing it onstage. Back then, there were four of us. Everybody was nice and young. I think I might've been 19 or 20. We were just about that skate game, and it was a wonderful thing. Yonell Lester, 52, skater: My mom initially was a Rosecrans skater, [but] once it closed down, we had to find another rink and we found World on Wheels. My mom started working there part-time because she loved skating so much. She brought me with her every Saturday when she would come to work. That's how I met [Phelicia Wright]. Phelicia Wright, 52, skater and co-star of the documentary 'United Skates': We had so many amazing memories there. I miss the old Saturday night 7-to-12 [sessions]. Me and [Lester] would be out there cutting up. There was nothing like it. Lester: Then there were the 12 a.m. to 4 a.m. [adult sessions]. We had to sneak in because my mom worked there, and I worked there as a teenager as well, so I could come in through the back door. We would roll with the adults like nothing, then of course one of the DJs would spot me and be like, 'Hey! Come to the DJ booth,' and we'd have to pack it up. [laughs] Wright: Every blue moon, they would be in a good mood. We weren't bad or anything. We just liked to skate, and we were very good at it. Ashley Imani: My mom [Connie Foster Wells] worked at World on Wheels from 1987 until it closed [the first time, in 2013]. She was pregnant with me there [and] started having contractions while she was at work. She told me they announced it on the mic and everything. So when I say I'm a rink rat, I'm really a rink rat. She got me skates at like 10 months old and I was there every day. I also lived up the street. My cousins stayed out that way toward World on Wheels and I was the youngest, so I had to go with them. They started going to this thing called '7 to 7.' You had to be 12 or 13 [years old] to go, and I used to be crying because I couldn't go with them. Then as soon as I was old enough to go, I probably went one time, and then they stopped it. It was jumpin' though. Ashley Imani: All the kids wanted to go to the '7 to 7.' The line would be wrapped around the building from World on Wheels all the way down to the Ralphs in the parking lot. Basically, you would stay from 7 p.m. to 7 a.m., and after midnight if you were 17 and under, you couldn't leave. A parent had to come get you. I used to beg to go because my mom was a little strict. They would turn the center circle into a dance floor, while the skaters are skating on the outside. [My mom] would tell me, 'You're not allowed in the center circle if you go,' because kids would be making out. So I would sneak in there because now I'm curious. [laughs] Then they would announce me and my cousins' names on the speaker, like 'Ashley, get out of the center circle!' and I would get in trouble. [laughs] Warren: I'm from Long Beach, so I went to one '7 to 7' night. It was mayhem. [laughs] We were all young and we're out somewhere at the skating rink with our friends doing something that we love. It was just so fun. Foster Wells: They got to stay out late and feel grown up. They were with their friends. They got to get their mack on. It was just like a big, long recess. Warren: There used to be a bowling alley upstairs that was connected to the rink and for the '7 to 7,' not all the time but a lot of the time, they would [make] access for the kids to go bowling as well. Lester: You knew when the '7 to 7' was coming, it was going to be a party for us — the teenagers. They used to have performers like Bobby Brown and EPMD. Remember, Troop came there? Wright: A lot of artists started their careers at World on Wheels. They would have a Friday night skate dance, so the gates would open like a stage, and they would perform up there while we watched them from below. Foster Wells: Public Enemy, I remember I gave them a hard time when they came. We had really close ties with KDAY, and Greg Mack would bring acts there. [On this day] he provided a guest list of the people who were going to get in for free. It was Flava Flav, actually, who said: 'Yo, we Public Enemy.' And I was like 'And….?' [Then he asked]: 'We're not on the guest list?' I looked down [and said]: 'You're not. It's $5.' [laughs] That's how I treated Public Enemy, and I ended up being one of their biggest fans. Queen Latifah [came] to World on Wheels, N.W.A, then later on, I remember Chris Brown came. He was only there for, I'd say, 30 seconds. As soon as he walked in, those girls started hollering and screaming. He turned right around and walked out. [laughs] Ashley Imani: He got ran out the door. Everyone was so in love with him. I performed at World on Wheels in like 2018, before it closed the second time. I for sure would be there [skating too] and they would play my music. I'd go in the DJ booth and say wassup because that's big. I used to come here as a kid [and] now they play my music here. Archer: My favorite memory [at the rink] was the day I met Alicia Keys. She was doing a toy drive and promoting her album that was about to come out. At the time, I was staying in San Bernardino, so I took that whole little hour-and-a-half trip in traffic. We were skating and I told the homie, 'I'm about to go up to her, but I need you to record me.' So I went up to her and I was like, 'How you doing, Miss Alicia Keys?' And then some girl came and tapped her on her shoulder and took her whole attention away from me, and [Keys] started talking to her. I was just sitting there like, 'Oh wow.' I started to skate off, [but Keys] grabbed my hand and gave me the biggest f—ing smile I've ever seen in my life. She was so beautiful. I turned into a whole b—. I got to hold hands with Alicia Keys and roll with her. That was the highlight of my life. Ashley Imani: A lot of us are really successful who went there. Like DJ Mustard, he grew up with me going there and he'd DJ sometimes. It created a lot of opportunities. They also held a lot of record pools there, so artists and producers would come to present their music to all of the top DJs in the city because obviously at that time we didn't have the internet in the same way. It was a hub for so many different things. It wasn't just skating. Foster Wells: When it closed the first time [in 2013], I was devastated. Everybody was. I worked there for 27 years. Warren: Due to gang violence around the area, debt and more factors, it closed, but then Nipsey Hussle and a few other investors reopened it in 2017 and oh my gosh, everybody was happy. People were there all the time. Wright: We used to drop our children off at World on Wheels before it closed. Now, the generation after that, they don't get that luxury of feeling secure and safe in a fun place. Archer: Not having a rink in L.A. has been really detrimental to the skating community. When World on Wheels got closed down, I remember some kids were online saying [things] like, 'Bro, this was all I had. I used to catch the bus and ride my bike up here.' Roxy Young: There's another one in the Valley, but we don't claim that because they don't allow [our type of skates]. Ashley Imani: It sucks for me because the closest rinks are in Chino Hills and Fountain Valley. They're about an hour away from where I live, so it's not as convenient as World on Wheels, which I could literally walk to from my house. Some people don't have that outlet anymore, so it's unfortunate, because [skating] has a lot of positives for your mental and physical health. Roxy Young: World on Wheels was part of the community. It's a landmark. Warren: Now since, sadly, World on Wheels closed and Skate Depot closed [in 2014], the Black community had to branch out and go to other skating rinks. I feel like that really helped our community get out there more, because it has always been here but just not in the more suburban areas. [People from other backgrounds] are way more intrigued and are wanting to experience what our skate culture is now. A lot of people didn't even know about this side of skating. [Even] now, they're like, 'Whaaat? Where have you guys been?' It's like we've always been here. Roxy Young: Other races [were skating] more outdoors, but I feel like after the pandemic, they were introduced to our indoor rink skating style. Lester: I still go skating once a week at Fountain Valley [Skating Center] or Holiday [Skate Center in Orange County], depending on what's going on. Then there are a lot of skate functions that people have, so whenever there's a function, we're at the function. Roxy Young: Everybody's been scattered now, so really, the only time that we see each other is when there's a big skate party that is not too far out. Ashley Imani: I'm hoping that we can get a rink in the inner city again so that some of these kids can get some of the same experiences that we were able to and to have more options to utilize their time outside of school activities [and] camp, and so they can have another source of family or community. Lester: Black people are probably going to have to figure out a way to get a rink on our own and come together. Roxy Young: We're going to definitely keep the skating alive, and if that means skating in warehouses or some kind of vacant building and turning it into a rink, we're going to try to make that happen because I'm a native. Skating is my therapy. Butler: We got to do it because it really keeps us in shape. I'm 68 and I'm still the hottest guy at the rink, and every time I go to the doctor, he's telling me, 'Whatever it is you're doing, keep doing it.' The rolling is going no matter what they do. If they push us outdoors to where we're really on the corners, that's what we're going to do, but we ain't never going to stop rolling. It's in our blood. Roxy Young: I grew up as an only child, so I didn't have sisters and brothers, but when I'm part of the skating rink, I have that. I have aunties, big brothers and big sisters that I can ask anything. It's definitely unity- and family-oriented. It's a great skating community that I love being a part of. Lester: To me, skating is family. It feels like home.
Yahoo
03-04-2025
- General
- Yahoo
Black L.A. social spaces flourished after George Floyd. 5 years later, will they survive?
Tucked away on a quiet part of La Cienega Avenue in the Culver City Arts District, Black Image Center feels reminiscent of a collegiate Black student center. On a recent Tuesday, five people were gathered for the center's daily community co-working series. Laughter and casual conversation swam above the sound of the clicks of their laptops. But instead of a 100-page reading or an mind-boggling problem set, they were working on creative pursuits — editing a photography-forward zine, working on the treatment for a music video project, polishing a fashion journalism article — and consulting one another on them. "I've seen the daily magic that goes down at a place like this," said Julian Samuels, a longtime volunteer at Black Image Center, who called its offerings "really rare in L.A." Black Image Center, an organization dedicated to providing photography resources to Black Angelenos, was born from a group of six photographers and creatives who connected over Instagram in 2020. After securing nonprofit status, Black Image Center opened in a physical location in Mid-City in May 2022. In addition to a free 35mm film refrigerator, visitors can use both a normal and large-format printer free of charge. The open-format space boasts a cozy book nook with scores of Black photography books. The space regularly hosts sold-out photography workshops, in addition to having hosted more than 50 artists-in-residence, according to co-founder Maya Mansour. So members of the Black creative community were shocked and disappointed when Black Image Center recently announced on Instagram its imminent physical closure. 'None of us could've done what we did without you. Personally speaking, y'all are the reason I feel empowered to keep a camera close by,' commented photographer Adam Davis beneath Black Image Center's post. Asked about the closure, Samuels audibly sighed, saying, "Oof. I understand it as a necessary transition. That being said, I can't lie. I'm feeling pretty sad about it." In the March 14 announcement, the organization said it was 'stepping into a new space, without physical walls, but with endless room to grow." During a recent conversation with The Times, Mansour pushed back on the notion that Black Image Center is closing for good. But the closure of Black Image Center's physical space echoes that of other small businesses in Greater Los Angeles that have served as Black community hubs beyond their primary offerings, with many owners saying the initial support garnered during the height of the Black Lives Matter movement has since waned. The Salt Eaters Bookshop, an Inglewood feminist bookstore, transitioned to a virtual model at the end of 2024. Bloom & Plume, a coffee and flower shop, closed its Echo Park doors last August. The artist Noname's Radical Hood Library in Jefferson Park, while hanging on, has been transparent on social media about financial instability and started a Patreon account in an attempt to offset costs. The Times spoke with some of these business owners, who said their desire to provide for their community was often in direct contradiction to business operations. Although Black Image Center hasn't struggled to get people into its space, a lack of capital resources has put a strain on its small leadership team. 'It's really hard and it doesn't work most of the time,' said Mansour of her experience with Black Image Center. 'You just kind of stretch yourself in ways that you didn't know that you could.' Mansour cited several factors that contributed to the founders' decision to not renew their lease come May. For starters, where the founders had a clear creative vision — the "magic" that is evident when you walk in the room — they lacked business acumen. To this day, Mansour said Black Image Center doesn't have a clear business plan — something that she hopes will have time to develop without the pressure of maintaining a physical space. 'Having the brick-and-mortar really does kind of put your back against a wall in a way that you have to kind of get it together,' said Mansour, who over time stepped into the role of executive director despite the group's original nonhierarchical vision. Also, at least three of the six original founders have stepped away from Black Image Center, said Mansour, and the center relies extensively on a small group of volunteers to maintain its robust programming schedule. 'None of us really went into this expecting it to blow up in the way that it did,' Mansour said. 'I kind of promised myself: At the end of this lease, it's probably going to be time to reevaluate. Like, what can I do for this thing?' Mansour's experience was preceded by that of Asha Grant, founder of the Salt Eaters Bookshop, which opened its Inglewood doors in 2021 and closed at the end of 2024. Like Black Image Center, the Salt Eaters Bookshop was Grant's brainchild during the COVID-19 pandemic. Grant was running the Los Angeles chapter of the Free Black Women's Library — and accumulating hundreds of books — when a GoFundMe campaign gave her the capital to open a physical bookstore. 'It was one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life,' Grant said of running the store. 'More people than I'll ever know showed up for me and showed up for our community.' Grant described her vision for the Salt Eaters Bookshop as being someone's bedroom but with a lot of books in the space. Zora Neale Hurston wallpaper lined the walls, vintage Ebony magazines were on a coffee table once owned by Grant's grandmother, and an autographed Destiny's Child picture hung near the register. If it were a song, Grant said, it'd be Brandy's hit 'Sittin' Up in My Room.' But while visitors to the shop were embraced in a cozy hug, Grant, who was supporting the store full-time, was struggling to breathe. 'I was constantly negotiating how to keep doing what I love and what I know our community needs most, while also not being a martyr for the cause,' said Grant, who also pointed out the irony of her store offering free hygiene products while she herself lacked health insurance. Like Black Image Center, Grant decided to close the Salt Eaters at the end of her last lease cycle. Selling books wasn't covering rent. Over the course of the store's existence, Grant had launched two GoFundMe campaigns and thrown rent parties in addition to hosting events and renting out the physical space. Grant called turning to the internet for help 'emotionally draining.' Also, a nearly $4,000 plumbing issue in 2023 almost forced the shop to close. Grant said she didn't have the energy to apply for grants, and for years, she was clouded in a looming sense of dread. 'My whole existence can't be making sure everyone is well and I'm suffering myself,' said Grant, who began a master of library science degree program in January after closing the shop in December. Although a message on the Salt Eaters website reads, "We are transitioning to a virtual model in 2025!" Grant, in practice, maintains an affiliate webpage for Salt Eaters on the online marketplace With time, she said she hopes to restart her virtual book club series and sell books on her own website. Part of the strain is that small Black businesses are infrequently just small businesses; owners also labor under what Jazzi McGilbert, founder of the bookstore and concept space Reparations Club in Jefferson Park, calls "an unrealistic set of expectations." "There's so many things that we end up carrying. Even just the psychological components of people having a hard time, and they come into our spaces to seek that relief," said McGilbert, who has cried with her customers. On one occasion, McGilbert dog-sat for a customer, something she said she was happy to do yet cheekily notes is not a service that could be found at, say, the Apple Store. "Sometimes, I think these spaces are asked to hold a lot of things that really our government should be providing," she said. "There should be more spaces that are equipped to hold people, you know, bringing back the town square. Libraries and other spaces shouldn't feel sad and underfunded. They should feel like exciting, generative spaces that people want to spend their time in, and that requires funding." Unlike Grant, McGilbert strayed away from crowdfunding, as she doesn't see it as a sustainable business model. But over the years, she has learned to make business adjustments to stay viable while still prioritizing a sense of community. For example, she will cancel an event if it doesn't meet an RSVP minimum. Also, a select number of events — rather than all of them — are priced on a sliding-scale model. McGilbert said Reparations Club has grown year over year, and she is interested in adding a cafe element to the shop in addition to expanding the business hours. But at the same time, she said rent has increased significantly over the past five years. With the lease being up in September, McGilbert is constantly questioning 'how to keep Rep Club solvent and not at my expense.' 'I don't know what's next for us, and I don't know if we're next on the chopping block,' she said. McGilbert said she suspects that part of the reason that Reparations Club has been able to survive is because it opened in 2019, before the official March 2020 start of the pandemic and the wave of racial reckoning and investment in Black businesses that occurred after the murder of George Floyd. 'I think we saw a lot of businesses open because we, maybe wrongly, maybe hopefully, assumed that would remain,' McGilbert said. 'I think that part of what has happened here is that that support comes in waves, and because it necessitates Black people to be experiencing some kind of trauma to get that support, I don't think that's viable long-term.' Maurice Harris, founder of now-shuttered Bloom & Plume, experienced a similar surge and waning of support. "We were considering closing when COVID happened," Harris said of Bloom & Plume, a coffee and flower shop that opened in January 2019. "What kept us open was George Floyd." In addition to the two months after Floyd's murder by police, Harris said his shop was most profitable the month he announced its closure in August 2024. By then, he said, minimum wage had skyrocketed to $17.28 from $12 when the shop opened; meanwhile, a drip coffee at Bloom & Plume increased in price by less than a dollar over the same time period. "That's a huge discrepancy," said Harris, who employed five people and did not pay himself over the course of the shop's lifetime. Despite partnering with his brother, a corporate banker, on a business plan, Harris said Bloom & Plume struggled to break even during its entire five-year run. Although Harris' inspiration for opening the shop was to provide an elevated, beautiful experience for everyday folks — "actually stopping and smelling the roses is an important part of sustaining your life," he said — its demands were ultimately "fighting against" his job as a luxury florist, his main source of income. "Can an actual mom-and-pop small business afford that?" he said. "Probably not as much." While not operating for profit, the Black Image Center team also felt the impact of the cultural shift away from supporting Black businesses, said Mansour, with many of the corporate sponsorships initially sustaining the center now gone. 'We've just been so focused on maintaining our physical space that we have really just been working paycheck to paycheck, grant by grant,' said Mansour, who works independently as a photographer in addition to running the center. With mounting pressure, Mansour said she is 'excited' about the lease ending and "creating this really natural opportunity for us to do this internal restructure.' 'There's a lot of ego involved in the conversation around running your own business,' Mansour said. 'I think that when you're doing something where the intention is service, you really have to know when it is your time to bow out and make room for other people who are better at being of service in that way.' Grant, who experienced this same wave of emotions mere months ago, agreed. 'You don't want to give up on your dream, but then I kind of realized that I already achieved my dream,' she said. 'I've already experienced it. I know what it feels like. I can feel proud about that and that I'm not a failure. Whatever I need to do is whatever I need to do.' Mansour said there isn't yet a clear plan or timeline for what's next for Black Image Center, but that the founders would be looking to establish a new executive board. In the meantime, people can visit Black Image Center for its signature community co-working series until the space closes on April 10. 'Like all good things, it's going to take time, because we want it to be good,' said Mansour of Black Image Center's next phase. 'We're not really putting any pressure on ourselves, because there's been a lot of pressure on us the last five years.' Sign up for The Wild newsletter to get weekly insider tips on the best of our beaches, trails, parks, deserts, forests and mountains. This story originally appeared in Los Angeles Times.
Los Angeles Times
03-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
Black L.A. social spaces flourished after George Floyd. 5 years later, will they survive?
Tucked away on a quiet part of La Cienega Avenue in the Culver City Arts District, Black Image Center feels reminiscent of a collegiate Black student center. On a recent Tuesday, five people were gathered for the center's daily community co-working series. Laughter and casual conversation swam above the sound of the clicks of their laptops. But instead of a 100-page reading or an mind-boggling problem set, they were working on creative pursuits — editing a photography-forward zine, working on the treatment for a music video project, polishing a fashion journalism article — and consulting one another on them. 'I've seen the daily magic that goes down at a place like this,' said Julian Samuels, a longtime volunteer at Black Image Center, who called its offerings 'really rare in L.A.' Black Image Center, an organization dedicated to providing photography resources to Black Angelenos, was born from a group of six photographers and creatives who connected over Instagram in 2020. After securing nonprofit status, Black Image Center opened in a physical location in Mid-City in May 2022. In addition to a free 35mm film refrigerator, visitors can use both a normal and large-format printer free of charge. The open-format space boasts a cozy book nook with scores of Black photography books. The space regularly hosts sold-out photography workshops, in addition to having hosted more than 50 artists-in-residence, according to co-founder Maya Mansour. So members of the Black creative community were shocked and disappointed when Black Image Center recently announced on Instagram its imminent physical closure. 'None of us could've done what we did without you. Personally speaking, y'all are the reason I feel empowered to keep a camera close by,' commented photographer Adam Davis beneath Black Image Center's post. Asked about the closure, Samuels audibly sighed, saying, 'Oof. I understand it as a necessary transition. That being said, I can't lie. I'm feeling pretty sad about it.' In the March 14 announcement, the organization said it was 'stepping into a new space, without physical walls, but with endless room to grow.' During a recent conversation with The Times, Mansour pushed back on the notion that Black Image Center is closing for good. But the closure of Black Image Center's physical space echoes that of other small businesses in Greater Los Angeles that have served as Black community hubs beyond their primary offerings, with many owners saying the initial support garnered during the height of the Black Lives Matter movement has since waned. The Salt Eaters Bookshop, an Inglewood feminist bookstore, transitioned to a virtual model at the end of 2024. Bloom & Plume, a coffee and flower shop, closed its Echo Park doors last August. The artist Noname's Radical Hood Library in Jefferson Park, while hanging on, has been transparent on social media about financial instability and started a Patreon account in an attempt to offset costs. The Times spoke with some of these business owners, who said their desire to provide for their community was often in direct contradiction to business operations. Although Black Image Center hasn't struggled to get people into its space, a lack of capital resources has put a strain on its small leadership team. 'It's really hard and it doesn't work most of the time,' said Mansour of her experience with Black Image Center. 'You just kind of stretch yourself in ways that you didn't know that you could.' Mansour cited several factors that contributed to the founders' decision to not renew their lease come May. For starters, where the founders had a clear creative vision — the 'magic' that is evident when you walk in the room — they lacked business acumen. To this day, Mansour said Black Image Center doesn't have a clear business plan — something that she hopes will have time to develop without the pressure of maintaining a physical space. 'Having the brick-and-mortar really does kind of put your back against a wall in a way that you have to kind of get it together,' said Mansour, who over time stepped into the role of executive director despite the group's original nonhierarchical vision. Also, at least three of the six original founders have stepped away from Black Image Center, said Mansour, and the center relies extensively on a small group of volunteers to maintain its robust programming schedule. 'None of us really went into this expecting it to blow up in the way that it did,' Mansour said. 'I kind of promised myself: At the end of this lease, it's probably going to be time to reevaluate. Like, what can I do for this thing?' Mansour's experience was preceded by that of Asha Grant, founder of the Salt Eaters Bookshop, which opened its Inglewood doors in 2021 and closed at the end of 2024. Like Black Image Center, the Salt Eaters Bookshop was Grant's brainchild during the COVID-19 pandemic. Grant was running the Los Angeles chapter of the Free Black Women's Library — and accumulating hundreds of books — when a GoFundMe campaign gave her the capital to open a physical bookstore. 'It was one of the most challenging and rewarding experiences of my life,' Grant said of running the store. 'More people than I'll ever know showed up for me and showed up for our community.' Grant described her vision for the Salt Eaters Bookshop as being someone's bedroom but with a lot of books in the space. Zora Neale Hurston wallpaper lined the walls, vintage Ebony magazines were on a coffee table once owned by Grant's grandmother, and an autographed Destiny's Child picture hung near the register. If it were a song, Grant said, it'd be Brandy's hit 'Sittin' Up in My Room.' But while visitors to the shop were embraced in a cozy hug, Grant, who was supporting the store full-time, was struggling to breathe. 'I was constantly negotiating how to keep doing what I love and what I know our community needs most, while also not being a martyr for the cause,' said Grant, who also pointed out the irony of her store offering free hygiene products while she herself lacked health insurance. Like Black Image Center, Grant decided to close the Salt Eaters at the end of her last lease cycle. Selling books wasn't covering rent. Over the course of the store's existence, Grant had launched two GoFundMe campaigns and thrown rent parties in addition to hosting events and renting out the physical space. Grant called turning to the internet for help 'emotionally draining.' Also, a nearly $4,000 plumbing issue in 2023 almost forced the shop to close. Grant said she didn't have the energy to apply for grants, and for years, she was clouded in a looming sense of dread. 'My whole existence can't be making sure everyone is well and I'm suffering myself,' said Grant, who began a master of library science degree program in January after closing the shop in December. Although a message on the Salt Eaters website reads, 'We are transitioning to a virtual model in 2025!' Grant, in practice, maintains an affiliate webpage for Salt Eaters on the online marketplace With time, she said she hopes to restart her virtual book club series and sell books on her own website. Part of the strain is that small Black businesses are infrequently just small businesses; owners also labor under what Jazzi McGilbert, founder of the bookstore and concept space Reparations Club in Jefferson Park, calls 'an unrealistic set of expectations.' 'There's so many things that we end up carrying. Even just the psychological components of people having a hard time, and they come into our spaces to seek that relief,' said McGilbert, who has cried with her customers. On one occasion, McGilbert dog-sat for a customer, something she said she was happy to do yet cheekily notes is not a service that could be found at, say, the Apple Store. 'Sometimes, I think these spaces are asked to hold a lot of things that really our government should be providing,' she said. 'There should be more spaces that are equipped to hold people, you know, bringing back the town square. Libraries and other spaces shouldn't feel sad and underfunded. They should feel like exciting, generative spaces that people want to spend their time in, and that requires funding.' Unlike Grant, McGilbert strayed away from crowdfunding, as she doesn't see it as a sustainable business model. But over the years, she has learned to make business adjustments to stay viable while still prioritizing a sense of community. For example, she will cancel an event if it doesn't meet an RSVP minimum. Also, a select number of events — rather than all of them — are priced on a sliding-scale model. McGilbert said Reparations Club has grown year over year, and she is interested in adding a cafe element to the shop in addition to expanding the business hours. But at the same time, she said rent has increased significantly over the past five years. With the lease being up in September, McGilbert is constantly questioning 'how to keep Rep Club solvent and not at my expense.' 'I don't know what's next for us, and I don't know if we're next on the chopping block,' she said. McGilbert said she suspects that part of the reason that Reparations Club has been able to survive is because it opened in 2019, before the official March 2020 start of the pandemic and the wave of racial reckoning and investment in Black businesses that occurred after the murder of George Floyd. 'I think we saw a lot of businesses open because we, maybe wrongly, maybe hopefully, assumed that would remain,' McGilbert said. 'I think that part of what has happened here is that that support comes in waves, and because it necessitates Black people to be experiencing some kind of trauma to get that support, I don't think that's viable long-term.' Maurice Harris, founder of now-shuttered Bloom & Plume, experienced a similar surge and waning of support. 'We were considering closing when COVID happened,' Harris said of Bloom & Plume, a coffee and flower shop that opened in January 2019. 'What kept us open was George Floyd.' In addition to the two months after Floyd's murder by police, Harris said his shop was most profitable the month he announced its closure in August 2024. By then, he said, minimum wage had skyrocketed to $17.28 from $12 when the shop opened; meanwhile, a drip coffee at Bloom & Plume increased in price by less than a dollar over the same time period. 'That's a huge discrepancy,' said Harris, who employed five people and did not pay himself over the course of the shop's lifetime. Despite partnering with his brother, a corporate banker, on a business plan, Harris said Bloom & Plume struggled to break even during its entire five-year run. Although Harris' inspiration for opening the shop was to provide an elevated, beautiful experience for everyday folks — 'actually stopping and smelling the roses is an important part of sustaining your life,' he said — its demands were ultimately 'fighting against' his job as a luxury florist, his main source of income. 'Can an actual mom-and-pop small business afford that?' he said. 'Probably not as much.' While not operating for profit, the Black Image Center team also felt the impact of the cultural shift away from supporting Black businesses, said Mansour, with many of the corporate sponsorships initially sustaining the center now gone. 'We've just been so focused on maintaining our physical space that we have really just been working paycheck to paycheck, grant by grant,' said Mansour, who works independently as a photographer in addition to running the center. With mounting pressure, Mansour said she is 'excited' about the lease ending and 'creating this really natural opportunity for us to do this internal restructure.' 'There's a lot of ego involved in the conversation around running your own business,' Mansour said. 'I think that when you're doing something where the intention is service, you really have to know when it is your time to bow out and make room for other people who are better at being of service in that way.' Grant, who experienced this same wave of emotions mere months ago, agreed. 'You don't want to give up on your dream, but then I kind of realized that I already achieved my dream,' she said. 'I've already experienced it. I know what it feels like. I can feel proud about that and that I'm not a failure. Whatever I need to do is whatever I need to do.' Mansour said there isn't yet a clear plan or timeline for what's next for Black Image Center, but that the founders would be looking to establish a new executive board. In the meantime, people can visit Black Image Center for its signature community co-working series until the space closes on April 10. 'Like all good things, it's going to take time, because we want it to be good,' said Mansour of Black Image Center's next phase. 'We're not really putting any pressure on ourselves, because there's been a lot of pressure on us the last five years.'
