I love Venice Beach. I always dream of living there, in a pastel-colored beach bungalow with wine spritzers in the fridge and banana trees and hibiscus flowers growing against a rustic picket fence — and then I remember it’s L.A., not Hawaii, and the rent usually runs between $3,000 and $5,000 a month.
So I enjoy Venice when I can, the way everyone does, walking up and down the boardwalk, giving dollar bills to stoners who don’t deserve it and painters and singers who do. I take in the salty smell of the ocean, as well as the stench of the teenagers who don’t have a place to take a morning shower. I enjoy watching the waves roll in an out, but also the skater guys ordering slices of pizza in front of me.
It’s a magical place. A colorful place. And a sad place. I guess I love that it can be all of those things. Not many places can.
This man is a painter. Above, he shows off his self portrait, but these are also some of his painted motorhomes below. I love them.