Abstract

The walk from my home on top of San Francisco's Nob Hill down to my studio at its bottom is a lesson in class and status in America. As each few blocks take me down another rung on the socioeconomic ladder, I move from the clean, well-tended streets at the summit through increasingly littered, ill-kept neighborhoods where property values decrease as the numbers of potholes and homeless people increase. At the bottom of the hill sits the notorious "Tenderloin," a district that houses what the Victorians called "the lower orders," where the desperate and the dangerous hang on every street corner waiting for the local food kitchen to open its doors.

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