By Stephen Burton | Featuring Brigham Yen
Los Angeles is often described as a collection of suburbs in search of a city.
From the airplane window, it appears as an endless ocean of tract homes, strip malls, and freeways. But in the center of that ocean sits a tiny, struggling, yet resilient island of urbanism: Downtown Los Angeles (DTLA).
In this episode of The Placemakers, I spoke with Brigham Yen, a prominent urbanist and pedestrian advocate, about the rollercoaster history of DTLA.
Brigham paints a picture of a city that once had the largest streetcar system in the world, lost it to the automobile, clawed its way back through smart policy, and is now facing its biggest challenge yet in the wake of the pandemic.
Key Takeaways for Urban Planners:
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We discuss the “Red Car” history, the fentanyl crisis, and why urban grit can be a double-edged sword.
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Prefer to read? Download the full word-for-word transcript of this interview.
It is hard to imagine now, but Los Angeles was not always the capital of car culture.
“We had the largest Red Car streetcar system in the world at one point,” Brigham explains. “We had 1,100 miles of tracks throughout the region.”
Downtown was the nexus of this system. But as the post-war boom took hold, zoning laws shifted to favor single-family homes. The streetcars were ripped out, and the grand department stores—The Broadway, Bullocks, May Company—couldn’t compete with suburban malls.
To survive, downtown property owners tore down historic buildings to create parking lots, hoping to lure suburbanites back. It didn’t work. For decades, DTLA was a ghost town after 5:00 PM.
The turning point came in 1999 with a piece of legislation that should be a case study for every city council: The Adaptive Reuse Ordinance.
This law allowed developers to take historic office buildings—which were sitting empty and rotting—and convert them into residential lofts “by right,” bypassing years of red tape.
“People thought [developer Tom Gilmore] was crazy,” Brigham recalls. “It was a no-man’s land, it was close to Skid Row… there just was no viable way people thought this downtown could be a place that people could live.”
But Gilmore proved them wrong. He converted three buildings into 230 lofts, and they filled up. This kicked off a 20-year boom that saw 80,000 people move into the city center, transforming it into a “Mini-Manhattan” buzzing with energy.
If the Adaptive Reuse Ordinance was the rise, the pandemic was the fall.
Brigham is candid about the current state of the city. While the residents stayed, the 500,000 daily office workers—the people who bought the coffees, ate the lunches, and provided “eyes on the street”—disappeared.
“Downtown Los Angeles has the bones of a walkable city,” Brigham says, but without the density of foot traffic, the balance has tipped.
The “edginess” that once gave DTLA its cool factor has curdled into genuine danger, fueled by the fentanyl crisis and a rise in homelessness.
“It’s a little too gritty. For most people’s taste,” Brigham admits.
Despite the challenges, Brigham remains an advocate for the “walkable island.”
He argues that humans are social creatures who are physically disconnected by car-centric design. We drive to work, drive to the big box store, and drive home, rarely interacting with our environment or each other.
Downtown LA proved that even Angelenos—people obsessed with their cars—will walk if given the chance.
“Good urbanism brings people together,” Brigham says. “It’s more sustainable… it’s healthier.”
The challenge for the next decade will be to bring the safety and the “activators” back to the street, proving once again that the city is for people, not just for parking.
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