After a long, nasty saga that would be best told in the writer’s expletive-ridden prose, Charles Bukowski’s former Hollywood residence was named a cultural landmark in February. Last week I went by the apartment complex to snap some pictures for an essay and was surprised to see that crews were already at work renovating the property. The owner—a woman who wanted to demolish the structures then tried to fight the landmark status on the grounds that Bukowski was a Nazi—is no doubt following the advice of one member of the LA Cultural Heritage Commission: “If it were my building I would market it as the ‘Bukowski Court’ and double the rent. I’m sure Bukowski would have hated that, but hey, it’s Hollywood.”

I was content taking some shots from the sidewalk but when I happened to get the foreman’s attention (by waving frantically) I suddenly realized I had to get inside one of those units. I was pleading my case when a truck pulled up behind me and the foreman nodded towards it, saying I should probably talk to those people, since that was the owner and her brother. I turned around and was looking at the woman who called Charles Bukowski “Hitler number two.”

She didn’t even make eye contact with me, but her brother was nice enough. As soon as I had the word “I’majournalist” out of my mouth, he waved me inside the unit closest to the street.

What can I tell you about this forthcoming rental at Bukowski Court? Small, about 700 square feet, one bedroom. The light fixture in the living room looks new but is a pretty good art deco knockoff. Not a whole lot of light overall; it’s mostly northern exposure and there’s only a handful of very narrow windows. The floors, however, appeared to be original and I think it’s safe to say you’re getting a new stove and toilet.

A hallway off the corner of the living room goes left to the bedroom, straight across to the bathroom and right to the kitchen. When it came to where the magic happened, it was unlikely that it was happening on anything larger than a full-sized bed. A few built-ins; small closet. The bathroom was so stuffed full of building materials I couldn’t really see inside, but most likely no original tile. The kitchen was completely gutted, no counters or anything. But as I walked back towards the front door, I was way more interested in something I noticed outside.

I remembered a piece about the preservation battle written by Mike Schulte in the Architect’s Newspaper that included Bukowski’s poem The New Place:

I type at a window that faces the street
on ground level and
if I fall out
the worst that can happen is a dirty shirt
under a tiny banana tree

Which, according to this photo, is still quite small.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 21, 2008 at 7:50 pm and is filed under building, reading. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.