One Stop: Pain, Joy, Wanderlust

SINK DEEP ENOUGH into Los Angeles and uncanny vibrancy will arrest the mind with outlandish fantasy. Curiosity pulls one deeper into the unforeseen. The depths of this rabbit hole mystify and the marvel of discovery compels one further. Down the quiet Washington corridor of Culver City the stylized neon beam of a Victorian crown welcomes curiosity—the Royal/T presents its guests to the splendor of the L.A. art scene. Culver City’s manga-spliced J-pop anomaly housed “The Never Ending Story: Fairytale, Fantasy, Obsession” exhibit on the fourth. New York-based curator Laura Hoptman designed a space where the mind-altering aesthetics of surrealism, an acid-trance through “Alice in Wonderland”, and the animated silliness of Akihabara culture could legally find its way into the imagination.

Elegant hors d'oeuvres were balanced by tiny Japanese women dressed as French maids who made their precarious rounds through the evening’s frenzy of “wonderland” cos-players and art house junkies. Stylized blank smiles followed trays of unpronounceable French delicacies as they presented themselves to multi-faceted crowds of “Alice” impersonators. Each costume featured a personal Goth sensibility—pale blues, matte-black lace, and death metal eyeshadow accented curious conversations throughout. This mob of steam-punk psychedelia bridged the boundaries between the life in this L.A. art scene and the contorted displays of surrealist abominations decorating the walls.

The old-world class from steam-engine romances was celebrated in the hand-crafted collections of Jared Gold. A corner of the Royal/T was devoted to the designer’s rich composition of contrasting pastels and 19th century luxury. Gold blends history and modern ideals into a signature—his stylish sense of nostalgia seems to recreate the romantic notions of individuality and expression.


Anthropomorphic phantasms from the most primal reaches of Wangechi Mutu’s day-dreams frolic and haunt the walls of the Royal/T. The divine dreariness of a purgatory creates a space of uncomfortable self-reflection in Mutu’s “Your Story, My Curse”. This mixed media cerebral assault invites the psyche to relive past jealousy, lust, obsession, and fruitless romances. It’s a living nightmare that no one wants to leave. Mutu’s color palette is deceiving—brilliant patterns scattered across each figure recall Gustav Klimt’s charm, but their appeal undermines the menacing drama and growing tension running through the canvas.

Susan Hancock has spent the last ten years bringing together a culturally diverse cast of contemporary artists into a respectable collection of eclectic style. She has spent the last five owning and operating the Royal/T as a means of immersing herself deeper into the art world. The pieces of her collection on display at the Royal/T represent the human facets of suffering, vulnerability, wanderlust, joy, pain, and love in a vibrant dreamscape of vivid ferocity. The fortunate wandering souls that make their way into her gallery have the opportunity of traveling through unique visions—those projecting an aura she takes to, may even have their spirit cards read.

This city grows curiouser and curiouser. For those looking to appreciate the space royal-t.org has everything. The show will continue its outlandish parade through August fourth and can be followed on Twitter and Facebook at RoyalTCafe.

-- Jesse Alvarez
(photo credit: jslander, flickr creative commons)

“The Bare Necessities of (beach) Life”

IN "JUNGLE BOOK" Baloo took little Mowgli around the jungle and explained to him life lessons for survival. Baloo’s message was given in the form of a famous song, and in my opinion somewhat describes the laid back attitude Los Angeles beach dwellers are known for, “look for the bare necessities the simple bare necessities, forget about your worries and your strife…”.

Today I visited Hermosa Beach, I stood there amongst what felt like an entire different world of people. These people weren’t rushing to work, sitting in traffic on the 405, or even glued to their phones shouting as if they were the only ones on the street. They seemed so relaxed and care free with their shades on, a latte in one hand, and a purse dog attached to a leash in the other. As I watched the resident pedestrians in their element I couldn’t help but wonder, don’t these people work or better yet have anything at all to stress about? Or, has Baloo made his way from the jungle to Los Angeles to continue and spread his life motto. It became very clear that he was here, traces of him were everywhere, and these people moseying down the street, on ironically for LA a rainy day, definitely forgot about their worries and their strife.

I can’t talk about LA without mentioning the weather, so I’ll set the scene for you, and you too can understand why this place and these people seemed so abstract from certain realities. It was cloudy and raining when I left LMU, and after a 20-minute drive on south Lincoln to PCH, and despite the clouds now traveling east, looking at the beach you would have thought LA was rounding off a beautiful sunny day. The sky was crystal clear, the clouds that remained looked snuggle soft and fresh out of the dryer. The ocean water was so bright it resembled that of drifting mirrors reflecting what was left of the setting sun. While I’m observing this shift in imagery, from inland to the coast, right by me walks a young woman obviously in her element and a resident of this picturesque neighborhood: Ponytail, Bermuda shorts, and of course the signature shades, latte, and puppy in hand. It’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon and putting all these puzzle pieces together I couldn't help but ask myself, at what point did she wake up today or better yet get dressed? Is it beach resident common knowledge that no matter how a day begins it will inevitably end requiring summer attire? Or, did she wake up, dress April shower accordingly, and race home to change into her “resident uniform” in time to catch the last of the visit from the sun. What’s even more interesting about this scenario is it wasn’t’ just her, everyone that walked past me was visually screaming August. I felt over dressed and all I had on was a light sweater and jeans.

Like I said, Baloo has no doubt paid a visit to Hermosa and made very clear that a stand by set of summer play clothes is to remain on deck. So it my intention to spread his news, that no matter how an LA day begins, if you find yourself near the beach or are wanting to move there, shorts my friends are the bare necessities of life.

-- Erin Golightly
(photo credit: the toe stubber, flickr creative commons)

Defining Modern Art

THIS WEEKEND, I had the pleasure of visiting the Grand Avenue location of the Musuem of Contemporary Art downtown, which forced me to reflect on the relation of graffiti to modern art and the way space is used. Many of the paintings and sculptures that line the walls of M.O.C.A. are ones that would probably be thought of to be universally thought-provoking, but there were a few that I found to be strange additions which seemed to focus more on the process of making the art than the art itself, such as a completely black canvass that was untitled. How are these better than graffiti, and why are these things backed financially? As I walked through the museum, I found myself enamored with the descriptions and the way in which artists pitch themselves, specifically, a modern artist named Pierre Alechinsky who wrote, "When I paint, I liberate monsters. One does not chose the content, one submits to it." With each work of art, I found myself more interested in the writing and attitudes that artists hold towards their work than the work itself.

Upon leaving, I noticed a series of chalk drawings that someone had created on the sidewalk near the parking garage that looked like a series of intricate crop circles. How was this not art? It didn't have the artist's instruction manual. Maybe everything is art, but pitching yourself as an artist is half of the battle. The chalk circles didn't get a description about inner demons, and therefore, people weren't going to pay to ruminate over their meaning. This forced me to conclude the hierarchy at play: perhaps the most talented artists (specifically in graffiti) making statements are not recognized simply because they don't get the chance to pitch themselves. All of the artists in the gallery were supported by huge financial donors, but how does one even get a meeting with these donors? Knowing people.

Maybe the real artists are ones like Prime as featured in Ruben Martinez' "Going Up in L.A.," whose vision for art was not selfish, and even actively wanted to involve other people: "I want to have a big lot when I grow older," he said, leaning forward, a small gold crucifix swinging in front of his dark blue sweatshirt. "It'll have big, long, movable walls. I'll put canvasses up, and have kids and artists there, have it be like a big maze of art. Then, with the money I make in one day, I'll buy some more canvas and change the maze." For "contemporary art", few pieces in the musuem actively involved the spectator, and the descriptions definitely catered to crowds with their undergraduate degrees. The purpose of art is that it is supposed to be universal: it can mean something to anyone. Graffiti is easy to see. It is in our faces every day as we drive to school, work, the daily grind. You don't have to pay a price for it, and you definitely have an opinion on it, good or bad, without needing a paragraph written about it. It just breathes a life of its own without explanation.

Although graffiti art is rapidly gaining recognition with an upcoming documentary on British street artist Banksy, graffiti tours, and new styles popping up everywhere, why aren't these artists getting paid big bucks too?

--Thea Green

(photo: banksky, credit: cannon snapper, flickr creative commons)

Iconic L.A.: Save the Peak -- Final

WELL, WE CAN close the chapter on the fate of "the Peak." L.A. Times reporting this afternoon that Playboy founder, Hugh Hefner, has come to the rescue of the Hollywood sign "anteing up $900,000 to help in the effort to preserve the land surrounding the famed landmark," says the Times. This will be pooled with $500,000 in matching grants from the Tiffany Foundation and Aileen Getty.
And so, as they say in pictures . . .
Fin

-- L.G.
(photo credit: b. rosen, flickr, creative commons)

Hidden L.A: Crime, Chandler & Clifton's

HIDDEN LOS ANGELES' Lynn Garrett, didn't forget to send along the video of crime in 1930s Los Angeles. You'll find it here on her site.

Here some little intro bits . . . "

a really great 30 minute long documentary (shown in 3 parts) about iconic author Raymond Chandler’s take on the corruption of Los Angeles in the 1930s… a paradise infiltrated by dope fiends, smut peddlers, schemers in low places and high, crooked cops and crooked politicians…

And she adds in an email to me:


The 1930s documentary I was recommending to the students about LA crime in the 30s (it features the story about Clfford Clinton’s house being firebombed too)

Enjoy!


-- L.G.

Hidden Venice Beach

MY FRIEND THOM moved from Venice Beach to New York a few months ago, and this weekend he was in town to visit my roommate and me. On Friday morning, we were craving a tasty sit-down breakfast but wanted to find a somewhere walking distance to avoid warm weather parking frustration. We thought of all the places on Abbot Kinney Boulevard since it’s the closest street from our apartment, but Thom knew better—he had a secret up his sleeve that would surely meet our breakfast needs.

Without telling us the specifics of where our destination was located, we followed Thom up and down different streets, to an area that seemed more like a residential neighborhood than a restaurant location. But sure enough we turned one last corner and there it was—The Brick House, literally a red brick building with a small patio facing the street. “This place has great breakfast” said Thom as he looked inside and signaled a waitress.

He was right, the food was great and the patio was as sunny and comfortable as could be. There was only one other group seated outside with us; they wore urban-hipster-style duds of plaid prints and skinny jeans - a common style in Venice. They also had a small dog with them, resting underneath the table as they ate. Wearing sunglasses throughout their meal, they talked with one another over coffee and eggs, and had a cigarette before paying the bill and leaving.

As I looked out at the streets surrounding the restaurant, it reminded me of “Hidden Los Angeles” and all the places that exist here that remain unseen or underappreciated. I have lived in Venice for a while now, and I had never even heard of The Brick House, much less had the urge to give it a try.

I ordered the Venice Eggs Benedict, and was completely satisfied with my choice as it contained one of my favorite foods—artichokes. The more I thought about it, the more this restaurant seemed to epitomize what I love about living in Venice Beach. It’s owned by Venice locals, the best way to get there is on foot, and it’s one of those places that must be found, explored and appreciated, unlike the more popular (crowded) trendy restaurants along Abbot Kinney.

Now I find myself wanting to go there more often and take people there who do not know about it already. It’s close, comfortable, and the food really is wonderful—from a wide assortment of omelets and waffles for breakfast, to burgers as pasta dishes for dinner—The Brick House is truly a hidden treasure in Venice Beach.

-- Lauren McHale
(photo credit: lauren mchale)

Sense Memory: After the Heat

ANOTHER LIFE AGO, it seems, I had to leave L.A. -- flee L.A. would be more precise. The big, sprawling city became claustrophobic -- or at least that was how I saw it at the time. I was finishing my degree, interning for a magazine, selling books at a Century City bookstore now long vanished. It was the latter that was getting to me. Not the routine of the bookseller job; that was pleasant -- shelving books and talking with other clerks about ideas. But the people who came through the doors with pressing needs -- that was wearing. Because the store was adjacent to so many talent agencies, entertainment management glass-and-steel high-rises and a major motion picture studio, there were days that the very air seemed to be sucked out of the entire store -- the entire open-air mall itself -- with demands and temper tantrums and never a thank you. It was a "new breed" of Hollywood and it had big hair, big shoulders and super-size egos.

I'd had enough. I concluded, "L.A. was different. Had changed." I packed up and headed north to San Francisco to try on life there. I enrolled in school and for the first time as an adult didn't have a car. It wasn't as dislocating as I thought, rather it was liberating. I wandered all over that beautiful jewel of a city, across its fabled seven hills. Most weekends, I'd just pick a direction and walk, just to see what I might find. I lived on the southwest end of San Francisco, in the Sunset where I often saw the sun for a mere three hours a day. At 3PM, the fog would float in and hunker down a top the city like a big down comforter. The air smelled damp, metallic and brackish.

I missed the sun. Not the intense heat of late summer, but the hint of real warmth and the gold tones and shadows that late-afternoon sunlight brought with it. But too there was something else missing.

My first visit back to L.A. was in the Spring. A mini-heatwave was upon us. I stood in a friend's backyard for a party; her backyard, a loud, brilliant tangle of bougainvillea and sneaky morning glory. But what hit harder than the fuchsia and magenta petals curling up the trellis or my friends' faces and their stories told in their familiar cadences was something on the air. Literally. The breeze carried a subtle perfume, sweet but not too, floral but cut with sharp spice. Also, there was a hint of smoke. A bitterness. It hung in the air, only disturbed by a breeze. It took me a bit to realize that it wasn't something someone had dabbed behind his or her ear or something cooking on the grill, or something burning, L.A.-style off in the not-too-far-off distance.
It was chaparral, ground-cover -- sage, rosemary. It was a explosion of night-blooming jasmine overflowing a nearby flower-bed. With the cool night coming on the air was full of scent notes, a mix so unique to Los Angeles. Nothing brought the city back to me, my connection to it, as much as this. I was home: the fading light, the cooling breeze after the heat -- and those aromas. L.A.'s scent rubbing against all of us. Claiming us. Lingering.

-- L.G.
(photo credit: flickr creative commons)

Read L.A.: Los Angeles on the Page

I OFTEN SHRUG out of being pinned-down on what L.A. books are my favorite. So this list merely represnts books that, to me, nail some aspect of Los Angeles that I find resonant. A few of them I have returned to time and again ("Day of the Locust" "Hope of Heaven.") The titles are nonfiction and fiction. Photography, poetry etc.



Here they are, in no particular order:
Hope of Heaven -- John O'Hara
The White Album -- Joan Didion
What Makes Sammy Run? -- Budd Schulberg
Mildred Pierce -- James M. Cain
Day of the Locust -- Nathaniel West



Devil in a Blue Dress -- Walter Mosley
Dreams from Bunker Hill -- John Fante
Playback -- Raymond Chandler
Chavez Ravine 1949 -- Don Normark
Days Without Weather -- Cecil Brown
The Other Side -- Ruben Martinez
A Single Man -- Christopher Isherwood
Low Down -- A.J. Albany

Out With the Stars -- Jim Heimann
Tapping the Source -- Kem Nunn
The History of Forgetting -- Norman Klein
The Nowhere City -- Alison Lurie
Imagoes -- Wanda Coleman
Days Between Stations -- Steve Erickson
In a Lonely Place -- Dorothy B. Hughes



-- L.G.

Become an Explorer

HOLLYWOOD, BEVERLY HILLS and Santa Monica are the top three things foreigners want to see when they visit “the land of celebrities and sun,” more commonly known as Los Angeles. As Angelenos we sigh and grunt when another friend from out of state or country asks to see this Los Angeles which we know to be stereotypical. Yet it’s not that we don’t like these areas of town, rather, that we know there is much more to L.A. than this.

As I began to think about outside impressions of Los Angeles, I thought of my own impressions of other countries I have visited in the world. When I went to London I wanted to see the West End, Big Ben, and Parliament. When I went to Scotland I wanted to see Edinburgh Castle and when in Paris I wanted to see the Eiffel Tower, Louvre and Sacre Coeur . When reflecting on my travel plans, I began to realize that I was more like the aforementioned crowd than I realized because that’s what we all are, tourists in areas that we are not from.

I’ve found that in order to veer off the beaten path of the tourists, guidebooks can be helpful but also seem overwhelming. In my experience the best way to truly see a city is in the eyes of a local or of someone who has held residence there for an extended period of time. Some of my favorite times when studying abroad were from recommendations by the locals, say of a great place to eat or a hidden place with an amazing view, both of which were not frequented by tourists. These new discoveries made me feel like I was truly entering another world and not one where everyone around me was the same.

Moreover, I find that when friends go to London I make a list a mile long of all of my favorite places for them to discover that are off the beaten path because when studying abroad, I explored and would take long walks and see what I could find. Unfortunately, here in Los Angeles so many of us are so busy with our day to day lives that we miss the richness that our city has to offer. But next time, I’m not going to tell my friends who visit, about the typical place, instead I’m going to immerse myself with them and explore my city. Will you?

--Emily Day

photo caption, view from the old los angeles zoo; 3rd and Fairfax
photo credit: omar omar, flickr creative commons

Iconic L.A.: Road, Music & California Love

DRIVING TOWARDS THE beach meant double-sided cassettes spinning verse about “California Love”. Bass-treble gangsta’ anthems that inflated my brother’s bravado as he and his friends took in the babes and waves on either side of that caramel-colored Regal. Gustavo spent these days looking through his rear-view at the chubby mess of bashfulness sitting by the window. In his mind, the over-confident charm he and his friends worked over the sun-soaked girls on each of those trips were actually attempts to mold me. The Aztec gods, Olde English, black and white brown pride engraved on his arms, afternoon rides by the beach, and Tupac’s voice all seemed to influence me—this imagery would prove to shape my sentimentality of Los Angeles, whenever I would acknowledge its claim over my memories.

Tupac as a poet acts as a historian of my time in Los Angeles. His voice has the uncanny ability to surface images and senses that remind me of my first impressions of the city. Growing up I spent most of my time with my older siblings—hanging out, parties, fights, rides and rides and rides all took place within the limits of Manhattan Beach, Inglewood, and Hollywood. Tupac, as well as his friends in the genre Snoop, Ice Cube, Dre all seemed to come together to make a distinctive sound that makes me envision my family at a younger time in their lives. To me, Los Angeles represents my family growing up and driving through it with me. These times shaped my understanding and reinforced their memories with the music that surrounded. It has an aggression that represents the real struggle people face every day in this city, it illustrates the strength that people have developed after dealing with it, but it also reflects the excitement to be had within it.

Take “Dear Mamma” for instance. It reminds me of how my mom would take the bus home from work every day—trying to forget the tension in her soles with each glimpse of L.A. life on the way home. Then there’s artists like Ice Cube who remind me of fights breaking out at barbeques in Inglewood over the stupidest machismo reasoning. A song like “I Get Around” or “How Do You Want It” makes me smile at the thought of laughing with my siblings on the beach. My understanding of what makes Los Angeles L.A. is completely personal. I imagine this to be the case with any local. For my experience, I am left with songs and artists that really represent the impressions that my family created throughout the city. Even though my music taste has grown and developed on its own accord, I still keep these songs dear to my heart because they remind me of myself, my roots, and my relationship to this city.

-- Jesse Alvarez

(photo credits: bixentro, my_tats, didoro flickr photo stream)