During the day, you'd be forgiven for passing by the newest theater in downtown Los Angeles.
It is not hidden in an alley or obscured by a nameless door. No, this performance space is essentially a theater in disguise, as it's designed to look like an electrical box, an invention so real that when artist SC Mero was installing it in the Arts District, police stopped her, fearing she was ripping out the copper wire. (There is no copper wire inside this wooden corner.)
Open the theater door and discover a place of urban charm, where a red velvet door and crimson wallpaper invite guests to come and sit inside. That is, if they fit.
With a mirror on one side and a clock on the back, Mero's creation, about 6 feet tall and 3 feet deep but smaller inside, looks something like an intimate, private boudoir—the kind of dressing room that wouldn't be out of place in one of Broadway's historic downtown theaters. That's by design, says Mero, who cites the ornate, romantic atmosphere and color palette of the Los Angeles Theater as a primary inspiration. Mero, a longtime street artist whose guerrilla art regularly dots the downtown landscape, likes to inject fantasy into her work: a sewer pipe giving birth, a ball pit for rats, or the transformation of a dilapidated building into a “castle.” But just as often there is some hidden social commentary.
With his Electrical Box Theatre, situated across from the historic American Hotel and Wurstküche restaurant and sausage bar, Mero set out to create an improvised performance space for the kind of experimental artists who no longer have an outlet in downtown galleries or more refined stages. The American Hotel, for example, the subject of the 2018 documentary “Tales of the American” and once home to Al's Bar's punk rock ethos, still stands, but it's not lost on Mero that most of the neighborhood's artist platforms today are softer around the edges.
Ethan Marks inside the SC Mero theater inside a fake electrical box. The piece of guerrilla art is near the Hotel Americano.
(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)
“Many galleries look for what can be sold,” says Mero. “Usually it's paintings and wall art.”
She dreamed, however, of an anti-establishment place that could be attractive and erase the boundaries between the public and the artist. “People can feel intimidated going up on a stage or in a cafe, but here it's right at street level.”
It's already working as planned, Mero says. I visited the box early last week when Mero invited a couple of experimental musicians to perform. Shortly after trumpeter Ethan Marks stepped onto the sidewalk, one of the American Hotel's current residents leaned out his window and began vocally and jovially imitating the fragmented, angular notes coming from the instrument. At that moment, “the box,” as Mero casually calls it, became a true community setting, a participatory call-and-response pulpit for the neighborhood.
Clown Lars Adams, 38, watches from the SC Mero cinema inside a fake electrical box. Mero modeled the space after historic Broadway theaters.
(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)
A few days earlier, a rideshare driver noticed a crowd and stopped to read his poetry. He told Mero that it was his first time. The unscripted event, he says, was “one of the best moments I've ever experienced in creating art.”
“That's literally what this space is,” Mero says. “It's for people to try something new or experiment.”
Marks embraced the opportunity to perform for free within the theater, and his strident, freestyle style equally complemented and contrasted the sounds of the intersection. “I was delighted,” he says, when Mero told him about the scenario. “There are so many unexpected things in it that, as an improviser, it really keeps you in the moment.”
Mero, a downtown resident for more than a decade, has become something of a neighborhood advocate. The area is arguably not back to its pre-pandemic heights, as many office floors sit empty and a series of high-profile restaurant closures hit the community. Mero's own gallery on the corner of Spring and Seventh streets closed in 2024. Downtown also saw its perception affected last year when ICE descended on downtown and national media incorrectly portrayed the neighborhood as a center of chaos.
Artist SC Mero investigates her latest project, a fake electrical box in the Arts District. Mero has long been associated with street art in the neighborhood.
(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)
“A lot of things have changed in the 13 years I've been here for the first time,” Mero says. “Everyone felt like it was magical, like we were going to be a part of this renaissance and Los Angeles was going to have this epicenter again. Then it went down. A lot of my friends left. But I still see the same beauty in it. The architecture. The history. Downtown is the most populated neighborhood in all of Los Angeles because it belongs to everyone. It's everyone's center, whether they like it or not. And I feel like we're part of history.”
Current art in the city center ranges from high-end galleries like Hauser & Wirth to the graffiti-covered towers of Oceanwide Plaza. Courageous spaces, like Superchief Gallery, have been vocal about the struggles to stay afloat. Meanwhile, Mero's art remains a source of optimism on the streets of downtown.
In Pershing Square, for example, is their “Spike Café,” a mini tropical hideaway atop a parking sign where umbrellas and finger food paraphernalia have become a prettier nesting spot for pigeons. Potentially seen as a vision of beautification, in contrast, for example, to nature's intrusive spikes that aim to deter wildlife, “Spike Cafe” has become a statement of harmony.
Elsewhere, at the corner of Broadway and Fourth streets, Mero has taken over a once-historic building that was burned and left to rot. Mero, in collaboration with street artist Wild Life, has turned the ruined space into a fantastical retreat complete with a knight, a dragon and more: a decaying castle from a bygone era.
“A lot of times people say, 'I can't believe you get away with this!' But most people haven't tried to do it, you know? Mero says. “It can be moved easily. It is not an obstacle for anyone. I don't feel like I've done anything wrong. Not having a permit is just a technicality. “I think what I'm doing is right.”
Musician Jeonghyeon Joo, 31, plays the haegeum outside SC Mero's latest art project, a theater in a fake electrical box.
(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)
After initially posting his electric box on his social media, Mero says he almost instantly received more than 20 requests to perform at the venue. Two combination locks keep it closed and Mero will give the code to those he trusts. “Some people want to come play the accordion. Others are tour guides,” Mero says.
Ultimately, it's an idea, he says, he's had for about a decade. “Everything has to work, right? You have to have enough funds to buy the supplies and then the skills to do it.”
And while it's not designed to last forever, it is bolted to the sidewalk. As for why now was the right time to release him, Mero is blunt: “I needed space,” she says.
There are concerns. Perhaps, Mero speculates, someone changes the combination on the lock, taking it from their own creation. And the more attention paid to the box through media interviews, means it may come under greater scrutiny, with the risk of city authorities confiscating it.
However, as a street artist, Mero has had to accept impermanence, although she acknowledges that it can be a pain when a piece disappears in a day or two. And unlike a gallery owner, she feels an obligation to modify her work once it goes out into the world. Although his “Spike Café” is about a year old, he says he has to “keep taking care of it,” since pigeons are not exactly known for their order.
But Mero hopes the box will have a life of its own and sees it as a conversation between herself, local artists and the city center itself. “I still think we're part of something special,” Mero says of living and working downtown.
And, at least for now, it is the neighborhood that is home to possibly the most unique performance venue in the city.
