A couple months ago, Curbed LA ran an article called “Downtown LA’s New Mixed-Users Are Full of Empty Storefronts.” Essentially, it was an observation piece commenting on the fact that though the focus in urban real estate development over the last several years has been trending in the direction of mixed-use residential / retail projects, the retail components of many of those projects often sit unrented, indicating that we may, perhaps, have gotten ahead of ourselves. Maybe the demand for commercial space just isn’t as high as we had originally assumed? The author then floats the idea that developers might have to lower rents.

The article really got under my skin. There’s no denying that those retail spaces do indeed sit empty, and as an advocate for urbanism, I felt threatened by the possibility that the author could be right. Mixed use developments are the fabric of the universe that I’ve chosen to immerse myself in and love so much. In addition to encouraging walkability and reducing reliance on cars, they also serve as neighborhood gathering places and are fundamental to the serendipitous encounters that spark new relationships and make life delightful in cities. If the reason that the retail spaces in these new developments sit empty is indeed that there’s not enough demand for them to justify the cost, then my very way of life is at stake.

I lashed out on Twitter like someone had challenged my religion:

Though it might not be apparent through my bitter sarcasm, I stand behind that tweet. I live in the neighborhood, so Curbed’s article obviously wasn’t the first time I had noticed that those retail spots weren’t renting; I had always just assumed it was because the buildings were ugly. And not just ugly — soulless too.

If you’ve read this blog before, you’ve probably stumbled across my posts about Distractionist architecture. If you haven’t, in a nutshell, I’ve nicknamed the style of mixed-use development commonly seen in LA these days “distractionist” due to the fact that most of a distractionist architect’s work goes not into designing a decent structure, but into designing all kinds of shapes and colors — the distractions — that hide the soulless building underneath. (Side note: the Wikipedia page for Greeble sums this practice up quite well.)

Distractionist buildings are the direct result of developers who have no emotional attachment to the neighborhoods they’re building in. They don’t care what it feels like to live in the neighborhood, so they create structures designed to maximize profit over quality, hoping to draw in tenants by mooching off the neighborhood’s existing character without having to contribute to it themselves. Instead of hiring architects to design something special, they use prefab plans to cut the project’s costs at the expense of its authenticity and soul. Given the result, my angle has always been, “What self-respecting business owner would want to open in a space like that?”

Nobody just opens a business. The amount of thankless work and exhausting effort required to start one means the only people who do are those who are truly passionate about what they’re doing — people who have invested their entire being into their idea. That being the case, what kind of emotionally invested person would want to dilute the product of their passion by settling for a space that cheapens the vision they worked so hard to create? That’d be like if Apple packaged their iPhones in ziplock bags.

At the time I read the Curbed article, this is where I stood. I was convinced the author was wrong about the empty real estate, and I had some pretty strong ideas as to why, but at the same time, I didn’t exactly have any proof other than my own gut reaction to show for it. Fortunately, something came my way.

Last weekend, I took a trip to San Francisco. The Hayes Valley is home to one of my favorite bicycle shops, and every time I’m up there I try to dip in to say hello and see what they’ve been working on. This particular time, I happened to strike up a conversation with the manager. Much to my delight, she informed me that they’re tossing around the idea of opening a new location in LA. Elated, I asked where they were looking.

“Probably the Arts District,” she replied. “But we’re having a bit of trouble finding a space.”

Needless to say, that was interesting to me. “What do you mean?” I asked her. “What have you looked at so far?”

She went on to tell me that their real-estate agent had sent them a space to look at, but when they ventured down to check it out, they found it to be “sterile” and “just not a good fit for the company.”

“Was it One Santa Fe?” I asked her.

It was.

The controversial One Santa Fe housing complex with its empty ground floor retail.

Though I can’t exactly say that I’m happy my favorite bicycle company is having trouble finding a location close to me, these last couple nights I’ve been able to sleep easy knowing that my hunch about all that vacant real estate was correct all along. The thing I love so much about that bicycle company is not the bikes themselves, but the feeling that the company gives you when you interact with them. The entire brand has been shaped with intention, and a huge portion of that comes from the physical space they’ve created for it. In San Francisco, their shop is the bottom floor of a quaint, 3 story, 2-unit apartment building. It feels personal and it feels unique; the experience is one of a kind. A giant, generic, mass-produced space in Los Angeles simply wouldn’t be able to convey that feeling in the same way, and the brand would lose a huge part of what makes it so successful.

So, are there a bunch of vacant storefronts in Downtown Los Angeles? Certainly. But is that a sign of lower-than-expected demand for retail space? Not exactly. It’s just that demand is not for any old space — it’s for high quality space, and that’s something most developers in the area just aren’t providing.