Homes That Look Like Big White Boxes Have Taken Over the Westside’s Landscape

The big house on the next block rose in 2014, startling in its size, its whiteness. The design was simple, almost austere—two rectangular stories and a balcony, the stucco expanse broken only by three wood-framed windows. In an older, mostly modest Westside neighborhood five miles east of the beach, it seemed an aberration. In fact, it was just the start. Today clones of that house stand on every street, hulking white squares, sometimes accented with black or gray, sometimes with wood. Inside they have five bedrooms and six baths, open floor plans and floating staircases along with a bonanza of window glass. The realtors’ fliers that regularly arrive at my door announce them as the latest and best in “modern” architecture: “luxury modern,” “coastal modern,” “modern masterpiece,” “reimagined modern designed jewel.”

The Great White Box (as I call this style) is slowly but inexorably transforming where I live. Its cookie-cutter looks and the astronomical prices it commands—most recent peak: $2.8 million—have filled me with wonder. All the boxes near me were built on spec by a constellation of individuals, companies, and mysterious LLCs. How had they all simultaneously decided to build nearly identical houses? In a city where the median home price is about $700,000 and median household income less than $58,000, that’s a 5-percenter question for sure (though—as GWBs spread through Venice, Mar Vista, south Santa Monica, Culver City, West Hollywood, Beverly Grove, and even parts of Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver—not an idle one). It’s pretty clear how a fashion craze takes off: A model or celebrity wears a dress, TV and Instagram explode with images of it, H&M cranks out a version for $29.95. But who and what was behind this architectural steamroller? What human first gazed down the block of an aging postwar tract, slapped his or her forehead, and shouted, “By God, what this place needs is a box!”?

If there’s a specific person or dwelling from whose loins the GWB sprang, I never found it. The realtors, designers, and builders I asked seemed taken aback by the very question, replying with, essentially, “Dunno, but not me.”

“We’re not trendsetters,” said Jay Lappen of the Riviera Property Group, a six-year-old investment company specializing in new construction, particularly west of the 405. Small-scale West L.A. builder Yigal Sadgat was even more blunt: “I have no idea. I just follow what houses in the area have been selling. I put my finger in the air and see which way the wind is blowing.”

The GWB seems not to have been planned as much as to have materialized out of a powerful cultural-economic convergence—think of those spots in the ocean where opposing currents smack to create monster waves. Building big is nothing new. Homes in L.A., as in the rest of the U.S., have been expanding for decades, even as the number of people who inhabit them shrinks.

In 1950 the average single-family American home was just 983 square feet. And even the latest round of local fighting over how big is too big is more than a decade old. The urge to demolish older homes and replace them with something grander spikes during economic booms; cases in point, the 1990s and early 2000s. In 2001 the Los Angeles Times reported that a recent demolition binge of 1,211 homes per year, or around three a day, had created a new sort of “ghost town in the city.” Stupendous, architecturally ambiguous McMansions replaced those specters, especially in some of L.A.’s pricier neighborhoods. In 2008 pushback from preservationists and neighbors left in shadow led the city to pass a “Baseline Mansionization Ordinance,” which aimed to put some limits on home-to-lot ratios. Tweaks and updates to the ordinance followed in subsequent years, each igniting fresh debate.

The current rush to bulldoze ’n’ build has unfolded at an even more frenzied pace. Nearly 8,000 L.A. residences were replaced between January 2013 and June 2017 (that’s an average of five a day, around half on the Westside.) Literally hundreds of the new homes, at $2 million per, have come from a single developer, Aliso Viejo-based Thomas James Homes, which Builder magazine admiringly called “one of the nation’s largest tear-down, scattered-lot, production builders.”

Since developers monitor what sells, these spec houses share a pattern, though three dominant variants seem to have emerged: the Cape Cod, with a steeply pitched roof and “coastal” feel; the Modern Farmhouse (slightly more rustic); and the GWB. All are white, feature open floor plans, and hit new levels of gigantitude. When the anti-mansionization movement began, the median size of a new L.A. home was 3,520 square feet; that’s where these babies start.

A cube is simple to construct, can be plopped almost anywhere, and accommodates the requisite bells and whistles an upwardly mobile buyer demands

Unlike the Cape Cod and Modern Farmhouse, designed for family living—“My builder won’t do a ‘modern’ here because it won’t sell,” one realtor told me at a Cheviot Hills open house—the GWB targets the two-income, no-kids hipster market. And it’s no coincidence that unlike its McPredecessors, known mostly for their size and opulence, the GWB uses the description “modern” to claim an elite aura and pedigree. (GWB style may be called “modern,” “modernist,” or “midcentury modern,” terms that have real and different meanings but that have become sloppy shorthand for anything with a flat roof and white walls.)

Modernism is one of L.A.’s few native architectural aesthetics, observes Dana Cuff, director of the UCLA architecture think tank CityLab. “The indoor-outdoor living that’s part of the modern tradition is a California model,” she says. It’s also one with zeitgeisty cachet. This popularity has varied roots: Mad MenDwell magazine, Design Within Reach, the casting off of maximalist ’90s glam for simplicity and vast expanses of white, and even the clean, spare lines of Apple products. More to the point, the style’s most passionate adherents are educated, wealthy, and youthful. Mollie Carmichael, a principal at the real estate, data, and technology advisory firm Meyers Research, pointed me to the results of her company’s survey of more than 6,000 new-home shoppers. Younger buyers overwhelmingly wanted a home with a “casual contemporary” interior and “modern” exterior, a preference, Carmichael says, that was especially strong in the “more affluent price points.”

Which brings us to Venice, possibly the GWB’s ground zero. Geometric neomodern architecture appeared here in a dramatic way in 2003 with Mark Mack’s Bay City Lofts, and it was a style well suited to a community that had money, lots too small for sprawling homes, and a reputation to uphold. In 2007, for example, a $2.25 million, three-story modern with a music studio, media room, and roof deck squeezed 3,154 square feet of living space onto a 2,250-square-foot lot. But it was the arrival of tech firms in 2010 and after that brought hordes of modern aficionados, “dual-income, educated, frankly moneyed buyers who were moving to L.A.,” as Joanna Leon, a designer for Riviera Property Group, described them. “Young buyers who loved contemporary design and wanted something that was very highly curated.”

As neomodernism spread through coastal neighborhoods, then into an increasingly large adjacent area that real estate magic made part of Silicon Beach, curation—perhaps inevitably—gave way. The architectural firm Marmol Radziner has specialized in modernist work for several decades and is known for a careful restoration of Richard Neutra’s 1946 Kaufmann House in Palm Springs. True modernism, in which a house and its setting exist in harmony, “is less a stylistic response than it is a way of living…a philosophical perspective,” founder Leo Marmol wrote in an email. It’s “about proportion, efficiency of materials…the relationship of the interior to the exterior garden.” Doing it right, he emphasized, requires “rich, deep, thoughtful design.”

But when 8,000 homes have been torn down to make way for updated models, and the point is return on investment (not artistic vision), rich, deep, and thoughtful is not a viable option. It’s not as easy as you might imagine to make money on a spec house, longtime Westside realtor Ron Wynn told me. He explained the economics: Take the cost of the teardown, the price of construction, the interest on the cash you must borrow to buy and build, and closing costs/commissions for selling the finished product—and putting up a 3,000-square-foot house in a hot Westside neighborhood will quickly set you back a few million. If you want to turn a respectable profit, you need to build something that goes up smoothly and sells fast. A cube is simple to construct, can be plopped almost anywhere, and accommodates the requisite bells and whistles an upwardly mobile buyer demands: en suite bathrooms, big closets, a kitchen full of gleaming quartz and chrome. Standardized plans and inexpensive finishes also save money.

Perhaps the resulting homes aren’t really a “slow, steady cancer upon the landscape,” as Marmol has called them. Yet the irony is that even as historical modernist designs are found wanting—in 2013 the Pacific Palisades Kingsley Residence that was the last unaltered home designed by J.R. Davidson, a Neutra and Rudolph Schindler contemporary, was flattened and replaced by an $11.7 million “modern traditional estate”—the postmodern “modern” flourishes. Still more ironic is that a sophisticated demographic, one whose members wouldn’t dream of buying something that might be called a McMansion, have embraced something equally as generic. “A pile of geometric forms that maxes out the building envelope in order to market at the highest price,” as Cuff put it. “A minimal articulation. The crust of a style.”

Earlier this year I went to open houses at two nearby GWBs, asking prices $2.3 million and $2.7 million. They were big, blandly pleasant spaces, pale wood floors and a palette of black, white, and cream. Every bedroom had a walk-in closet and a bath, and the two master baths were huge, each with a freestanding soaking tub. Multiple sliding doors opened to rooftop decks and rear yards. It was churlish of me—who couldn’t afford either house—to notice the cheapness of the windows, the stark, treeless landscapes. One home’s second-floor deck offered a view of the 10 freeway.

Whatever. A GWB that set neighborhood price records in 2015 sold again this year for $300,000 more. A five-minute walk away, a tiny pink ’50s house with a bay window had sold in nine days for $1.27 million, and the construction fence with a demolition notice was already up.

“The demand right now for a $2.5 million, 3,500-square-foot house on the Westside is tremendous!” Wynn says, practically shouting. “It’s overwhelming!” Architecturally, he acknowledges, maybe GWBs “aren’t so pretty. But builders will stop building them when people stop buying.”

The Veterinarian Brings His Healing Presence to Pets of the Unhoused

 

 

The man standing outside the tent on Skid Row in downtown Los Angeles clearly doesn’t live in the neighborhood. Tall and fit, he’s dressed in jeans and a doctor’s blue scrub shirt and carries a medical bag. The tent, one of many rough structures on the stained sidewalk, sits amid heaped wooden pallets, old furniture and trash. But the man’s eyes are fixed on the dog lounging nearby.

“Hi, how are you?” he says when the tent flap opens. “I’m a veterinarian, Dr. Kwane Stewart, and I offer free pet care to people experiencing homelessness.” He gestures at the dog. “Can I examine your pet?” 

First comes confused silence—you’re who?—then suspicion: Is this animal control, here to take my dog? Finally, a slow nod. Stewart, who calls himself the Street Vet, kneels, pulls out his stethoscope and goes to work.

These Skid Row streets hold the nation’s largest concentration of homeless people who are not staying in a shelter, and at first glance it’s an unrelieved landscape of despair: mental illness, poverty, addiction. But love exists, too, including the love of pets. Across the nation, 10 to 25 percent of the people who are homeless keep pets, and there’s no reason to think the number is lower in sunny Los Angeles. Cats sit on sleeping bags, pit bulls, scruffy terriers and mutts trot alongside filled shopping carts, and chihuahuas ride in bicycle baskets and the laps of people who themselves are in wheelchairs. Various local groups and volunteers help the owners of these animals care for them, with weekly and monthly clinics, mobile spay and neuter vans, handouts of flea meds and food. 

Stewart, 50, has usually worked solo, walking the streets and looking for animals and people in need. “Maybe it’s because when I began this work, it wasn’t uncommon to find a pet that had never received care,” he says. “Everyone I met looked at me as if I’d just dropped out of the sky.”

Stewart grew up with dogs, loved them and science, and by the time he was 10 knew he would become a veterinarian. It was an unusual ambition for a Black track star in Albuquerque. Once, a coach asked about his future plans and laughed with disbelief when Kwane told him. “I’ve never met a Black vet,” the coach said. Stewart goes on, “At the time I didn’t think much about it. But here’s the thing: He was Black himself.” Decades later the number of African American veterinarians is still so small the Bureau of Labor Statistics has reported that it might as well be zero. 

Stewart graduated from the University of New Mexico, got his DVM degree from Colorado State University College of Veterinary Medicine and Biomedical Sciences, and headed to San Diego. He spent a decade there treating a suburban clientele with “bottomless bank accounts.” Then, in 2008, he relocated to Modesto, in California’s Central Valley, for a job as the veterinarian for Stanislaus County. And everything changed. 

The Great Recession flattened Modesto, a city of around 200,000, with plummeting home prices and 17 percent unemployment. And when humans go broke, animals often pay the price. Pet surrenders surged until the area’s aging shelter, built for 200 animals, held twice as many, and its euthanasia rate became one of the nation’s highest.

“I was destroying 30 to 50 animals every morning,” Stewart says softly. “Healthy dogs and cats. It was killing my soul. I felt like God was keeping score and I was losing. I didn’t go to school all those years to destroy animals. I wanted to help and save them.”

At first that meant he helped a homeless man he encountered almost daily by treating the man’s dog, which suffered from a bad flea bite allergy. Then he held a free clinic at a local soup kitchen. And then, on his own time, he began to walk around Modesto and some Bay Area sites looking for pets to help. He moved to Los Angeles to serve as chief veterinary officer for the American Humane Association, which makes sure animals are treated well on film sets, and his ramblings shifted to San Diego and Los Angeles. He wore scrubs to identify himself, carried a bag filled with meds, vaccines and syringes, nail trimmers, and he did what he could, free of charge. 

He was stunned by what he found. Like many people, he questioned why homeless people had animals to begin with—if humans couldn’t take care of themselves, how could they be responsible for pets? And yet they were. In fact, numerous academic studies over the years have revealed the vital role pets play in the lives of unhoused men and women—providing structure, purpose, meaning and love. “Researchers have consistently found very high levels of attachments to pets among the homeless,” Leslie Irvine, a sociologist, writes in her 2012 book about the phenomenon, My Dog Always Eats First.

Stewart agrees. “Pets were a lifeline to the people I met,” he says. “Most of them were great pet owners. They did remarkably well with the resources they had, and made sacrifices for them well beyond what you or I would. The bond between them was on a completely different level. They needed each other.”

 

For five years, his efforts were a kind of secret hobby that he says even his family—he has three children—didn’t know about. Then, in 2017, he and his brother, Ian, produced “The Street Vet” as a reality TV series­—it has aired on broadcast TV in Scandinavia and Eastern Europe and in the States on a Utah cable channel­—and Stewart acknowledges he’s now a “media personality.” These days he’s founding a new veterinary practice in San Diego and writing a book about his experiences on the street.

Last September he started a nonprofit, Project StreetVet, raising money on GoFundMe to cover the cost of treating pet medical problems beyond the scope of a sidewalk exam. He has occasionally volunteered with larger organizations assisting people who are homeless. Though he says “there are probably more efficient ways I could spend my time,” he likes doing it his way. 

“The wound is healing well,” he reassures a man named Ben, whose pet rat had been attacked by a cat. (“I’ve seen birds and snakes, but this was my first rat.”)

“The puppies look great,” he tells Julian, a tattooed man who has lived on the same stretch of pavement for two years and whose dog recently gave birth. (He also vaccinates the pups.) 

Stewart marvels at the generosity of a young man named Reggie, who lives in a school bus and uses his own cash to make lemonade that he gives away to his neighbors. Stewart vaccinates the man’s dog, Daisy. “You’re doing a good job,” Stewart says.

“Oh, this is such a blessing,” the young man replies. 

Most Americans Have Pets. Almost One Third Can’t Afford Their Vet Care

Since mid-2020, more than a thousand low-income families have brought their sick and suffering pets to the nonprofit Pet Support Space, housed in a tiny Los Angeles storefront. One 14-year-old dog had a tumor that a veterinarian had quoted $5,000 to remove. A four-year-old pit bull had been vomiting for days, a cat’s painful bladder stones required surgery, a pug limped from the foxtail embedded in its paw. Skin and ear infections abounded. Neither the animals’ problems nor their owners’ inability to afford help for them was a surprise.

recent nationwide study found almost 28 percent of households with pets experienced barriers to veterinary care, with finances being the most common reason. In low-income households, the researchers found, financial and housing insecurity can increase the risks that animals will not receive the care they need. Sociologist Arnold Arluke, author of Underdogs: Pets, People and Poverty estimates that 66 percent of pets in poverty have never seen a vet at all.

The “why” behind those numbers is complex. Of course, money is the primary problem. Veterinary care is expensive. A majority of practitioners work in for-profit clinics, consolidation in the industry has increased emphasis on profit margins, and vet prices have risen faster than the overall rate of inflation. That has checkups starting at $50, dental cleaning going for $70-$400, and blood work and x-rays at $80-$250. If a dog breaks a leg or eats a sock, surgery costs begin at four figures.

High prices aren’t necessarily about greed. Michael Blackwell, a former Deputy Director of the Center for Veterinary Medicine at the FDA, is the chair of the Access to Veterinary Care Coalition (AVCC) that was formed in 2016 to study this very problem. Veterinary training, he said, teaches vets to practice a “gold standard” of care, which means running every possible diagnostic test and pursuing every treatment option, even when a client’s budget is limited. (Many pet owners don’t know they can decline a recommended procedure, such as blood work, and even fewer are willing to decline care for fear of looking heartless.)

Some private vets offer struggling clients discounts, added Jeremy Prupas, DVM, Chief Veterinarian for the City of Los Angeles, but they themselves carry an average of $150,000 in student loan debt, so they simply “can’t carry the immense existing need on their own.” Telling clients you can’t help them because they have no money is one of the leading causes of burnout in the veterinary profession, according to Prupas. Pet insurance might help defray costs but requires monthly premiums and comes with such a complicated array of deductibles, co-pays, caps, and exclusions that one how-to guide recommends hiring an attorney to review the policy. Credit cards designed for medical care financing, if one can qualify, can carry punishing interest rates as high as 26.99 percent.

Equally critical is a long-term failure on the part of the animal welfare movement to consider, much less prioritize, the needs of low-income pet owners. Since the 1990s, the rescue/humane world has poured vast amounts of funding and energy into cutting shelter euthanasia through adoption, but far less into helping those without money take care of the pets they have. “If you can’t afford an animal,” the thinking went, “then you shouldn’t have one.”

“Until recently, we focused on shelter-centric challenges,” acknowledged Amanda Arrington, senior director of the Humane Society of the United States’s Pets for Life Program, which assists low-income pet owners. “There was a lot of judgment and making determinations on who was or wasn’t deserving of support and resources that was influenced by what I think a lot of society is influenced by, which is classism and racism. We conflated a lack of financial means and access with how much someone loves their pet or desires to care for it.”

In fact, owners can be punished because they can’t afford veterinary care — “most humane neglect cases stem from an inability to get care for a pet,” said Prupas. In Michigan, for example, failing to provide an animal with adequate care, including medical attention, is a misdemeanor that can carry 93 days in jail and/or a fine of up to $1,000. With a second violation, it becomes a felony.

The distorted belief that ‘those people’ don’t care about their pets has never been true.

What exists for pet owners in poverty is a patchwork of low-cost care options, ranging from local efforts — such as Emancipet in Texas and the Philadelphia Animal Welfare Society — to well-funded national enterprises such as Pets for Life, which operates in several dozen cities. The great majority, however, offer only basic services like sterilization, vaccination, and flea treatments. “We are not a full-service veterinary clinic and do not treat sick or injured pets,” warns one low-cost option on its website. Another suggests that needy people travel, since “vets in smaller towns may charge lower fees,” or start a GoFundMe. As a result, many types of care are largely unavailable: emergency care (by some estimates one in three pets will have an emergency need each year), management of chronic conditions such as diabetes or kidney disease, medication, dental care (dental disease affects perhaps 80 percent of older dogs), and the mercy of humane euthanasia (which can run $50-$300).

The final piece of the care gap is a practical and cultural disconnect. Because many economically challenged neighborhoods are “vet deserts,” with few if any practitioners, it’s not easy to find care, and reaching it can require wrangling an unhappy animal over distance and/or arranging private transportation. Keeping an appointment at an office with weekday-only business hours or a once a month clinic can mean losing a day’s pay. Paperwork raises the fear of immigration status inquiries. The veterinary profession also remains one of the country’s whitest: Just as people who feel alienated or unwelcome don’t utilize human health care options, pointed out Arluke, they don’t utilize care for their pets.

The result has been suffering: most directly for animals that remain untreated, die from what vets call “economic euthanasia” (putting an animal down because treatment costs too much), or end up in shelters. Fear of a looming vet bill, and the mistaken belief that all shelter animals receive medical care, is a prime cause of owner surrender.

But people pay, too.

Some sick animals can infect their humans. Roundworms, for example, can pass through contact with pet feces and cause lung, heart, and eye problems. Blackwell reports meeting an optometrist who practices in a low-income Florida community who has seen increasing numbers of children with roundworm larvae in their eyes.

The psychic toll is just as real. Families in poverty who love their pets and for whom “they offer an emotional core and possibly one of the only sources of joy” face “mental and emotional” devastation from the unimaginable choice of weighing that love against potential financial ruin, said Blackwell. Professor Katja M. Guenther, author of The Lives and Deaths of Shelter Animals, called the rupture of an animal-human bond “a kind of community violence” in a 2021 webinar.

Change seems increasingly possible. Covid-19 and the country’s recent racial and economic reckoning has prompted humane organizations to examine their assumptions and biases about who has the “right” to a pet’s love, and, said Arrington, there’s increasing recognition that “racial and economic injustice really impacts animal welfare.” Meanwhile, AlignCare, a new program out of Michael Blackwell’s Program for Pet Health Equity, is trying to create a national model of something like Medicaid for domestic animals. Under the program, families already found to be struggling (because they participate in SNAP or a similar program) and who ask for help at a shelter or veterinary clinic will be signed up and paired with a veterinary social worker or support coordinator. They’ll then be directed to a veterinarian who has agreed to offer preventative, dental, and even critical care, for a reduced fee; AlignCare will pay 80 percent of the cost. After three years of pilot programs in 10 disparate communities, it’s taking on its biggest challenge yet, Los Angeles, where one in five people live in poverty.

AlignCare won’t offer “gold standard” care, instead emphasizing preventative, incremental, and cost-saving measures (such as offering telehealth appointments and limiting diagnostics that won’t change treatment options) when possible. But it will expand the human safety net to include the animals most of us now consider part of our families. And while the effort is currently funded by grants from Maddie’s Fund, the Duffield Foundation, and Petsmart Charities, Blackwell’s goal is “community ownership:” The combined involvement of local vets, city animal services departments, social service agencies, rescue and community organizations, pet food and product manufacturers, and affluent pet owner-donors can make the model self-sustaining.

There is no perfect solution for low-income pet owners who need help accessing veterinary care. But growing awareness of the problem is a big step forward. “What we call ‘animal welfare’ is changing,” said Lori Weise, whose nonprofit, Downtown Dog Rescue, runs the Pet Support Space. “The distorted belief that ‘those people’ don’t care about their pets has never been true. People can’t afford care. Sometimes they don’t even know what’s out there; they themselves have never been in a hospital. As more people are brought into the system, we’ll see the first generation to get proper veterinary care.”

 

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