Art Quirks
What I do like about LA is its high concentration of eccentricity. Quirk can pop up anywhere, of course, but the unique thing about Los Angeles is, here it has financial backing.
Someone will say, “You know what we need? A restaurant that’s completely dark, with no windows whatsoever, where meals are delivered by an experienced staff of blind people. I think the food will taste better that way.” And then someone will actually pay for it. I’m not even making that up— LA has a lightless eatery, which I would investigate were if not for budgetary concerns.
The last few weeks I’ve explored LA’s weirdness through art. Opening nights for exhibits are great. People mingle freely, questionable wardrobe is acceptable, and there’s usually an open bar.
Two weeks ago I visited Ghettogloss to check out their Bronx Zoo exhibit. Called such because of the prominence of gorilla faces in the collection. For months, the gallery invited models to slip into skimpy bathing suits or underwear and pose for artists, but also asked them to wear gorilla masks while doing so.
Featured are the show pieces of the experiment. Paintings, charcoal sketches, photographs and a number of pencil drawings of model after model, transformed into gruesome primate noggins with libidinous limbs and boobs dangling beneath. A little off-putting, but amusing.
And bizarre, in that the pieces manage to disengage knee-jerk male instincts. Normally cleavage and a firm tummy are enticing. Combined with an ape mask, the human form is suddenly a weird collection of bony protrusions and jiggling fatty tissue. The gap between man and monkey seems less than chasmic in the proper context. Which gives the exhibit an A+. Deep thoughts, free liquor, and girls in their underwear. Something for everyone.
"Clown of Doom" by Chet Zar
The following night I drove to Culver City to check out an experimental clown portraiture at the Corey Helford Gallery. Which was, as you might guess, equal parts funny and creepy. Clowns tend to evoke a lot of emotions from people.
I invited friends, and we played a game which should be used in all art galleries: “If you could take any three pieces home, which would you put in your bedroom, your bathroom and over your child’s crib?” Given the answers, it’s probably best none of us have any kids to warp.
Recently I attended a gallery opening for a German artist named “Nomad.” He’s a good-looking guy with parachute pants who picked the name “Nomad” because he was homeless for several years. For about ten slack-jawed minutes I listened to him describe how he eaked out just enough money to fly to America, then plunged into destitute poverty. He lived on the streets of LA, rough-sleeping at construction sites until guys kicked him awake in the morning, shoplifting food out of grocery stores and doing a lot of drugs.
"Joaquin" by Nomad
He gave me some pretty sound advice on being homeless. Here’s one: watch your shoes. If some drunk vagrant steals them while your sleeping, good luck finding a new pair. You can’t exactly stroll into a Footlocker, barefoot and bearded, and assume you won’t draw attention. Eventually Nomad began attending art shows on the grounds that they give out free drinks and have relaxed dress standards. After a few months of that, he had an epiphany: “Hey, instead of being an itinerant drug user, I should stop spray-painting graffiti on walls, and instead put it on paper and sell the stuff for ludicrous sums of cash.” Thus he achieved the American dream while simultaneously validating most modern art critics.
And he was only the second most interesting person there. Because I swear I met Kurt Vonnegut. He’s dead, yes I know that, but Slaughterhouse Five is largely autobiographical, isn’t it? And Billy becomes unstuck in time. The guy at the exhibit had the mustache, the frizzy gray hair, the cynical yet jovial expression, everything. It was Kurt Vonnegut, I’m sure of it. He claimed to be some kind of photographer, but it was only a matter of time before he slipped up and said something about writing for the New Yorker or a witticism about Eugene V. Debs.
The final noteworthy art exhibit is The Lives of Perfect Creatures: Dogs of the Soviet Space Program. Despite the esoteric subject material, it’s by far the most sober and refined gallery I’ve seen. The dark mauve room is furnished with expensive, comfortable furniture you can sink into whilst staring at portraits of Laika, et al. Oil paintings of stately Sputnik-era canines.
"Laika" by M. A. Peers
Impressive, really. Without any cartoonish flourish, the dogs come off heroic yet psychologically complex. Patriotic and brave, but a tad bewildered, maybe even hesitant. Their likeness captured for future posterity shortly before scientists launched them through the troposphere in rocket-powered steel cans.
I’m writing now from the adjacent tea room. I come here, to The Museum of Jurassic Technology, every couple of weeks. Unfortunately I cannot elaborate on the museum as a whole. The entry is a discreet metal door with an old paper card tucked in reading, “We’re Open, Please Come In.” Behind it is a much bigger complex than you might suspect, and a museum I will not bother trying to describe. Suffice it to say, your first visit is about as close to joining a secret society as you can get without actually joining a secret society.
Several of my friends were put on earth to help out with the maintenance. A lot will end up teaching. One or two are here to stir shit up. I’m reasonably confident I’ve been dispatched as some kind of Johnny Appleseed of eccentricity. The idea being, tickle enough brain lobes and someone is bound to fire a random neuron and cure cancer.
Sometimes I feel like I’m on call for an unspecified assignment, and I need to be in the right place at the right time when the red phone rings. Sitting patiently in the shadows of a curio storehouse, sipping tea, making notes, hiding cards.
Waiting.