Andres Duany has a great ditty about this that he calls the three stages of gentrification: stage 1, the risk oblivious, the artists and gays; stage 2, the risk aware, the edgy developers and people who want "cool"; and stage 3, the risk averse, the dentist from New Jersey.
Crossroads was a reggae club catering to a West Indian audience in the early 2000s. I had a great day about 20 years ago at an outdoor festival with reggae greats straight from Jamaica.
My dad worked a lot for my grandpa (a contractor) as a go-fer in his youth, so he ended up driving around STL a LOT.
So by the time we were kids, if we ever had to go do something in the city -- a ballgame, going to a park or museum, yardwork at one of the properties he inherited when grandpa died -- we'd be treated to a half-dozen stops, side-trips, and adventures, accompanied with HOURS-LONG rambling lectures on what this and that building used to be.
It's one of those things that's excruciatingly boring torture when you're 11, but you look back fondly on by 38.
Art and artists follow cheap rent anywhere it can be found and moves out when the surrounding real estate appreciates
Andres Duany has a great ditty about this that he calls the three stages of gentrification: stage 1, the risk oblivious, the artists and gays; stage 2, the risk aware, the edgy developers and people who want "cool"; and stage 3, the risk averse, the dentist from New Jersey.
I paraphrased it, but if you want to hear it from the man himself, here is the snippet: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32dd2y8aHP0&t=2412s
Ha. Wow. So I have deep roots with Andres and this quote. Built a whole business back in the early 2000s around this synopsis of gentrification
Crossroads was a reggae club catering to a West Indian audience in the early 2000s. I had a great day about 20 years ago at an outdoor festival with reggae greats straight from Jamaica.
My dad worked a lot for my grandpa (a contractor) as a go-fer in his youth, so he ended up driving around STL a LOT.
So by the time we were kids, if we ever had to go do something in the city -- a ballgame, going to a park or museum, yardwork at one of the properties he inherited when grandpa died -- we'd be treated to a half-dozen stops, side-trips, and adventures, accompanied with HOURS-LONG rambling lectures on what this and that building used to be.
It's one of those things that's excruciatingly boring torture when you're 11, but you look back fondly on by 38.