Sippin’ 2-Buck & Chillin’

Sippin’ 2-Buck & Chillin’

The Lodge; AA LA

The hot Santa Ana winds whipped around our bare legs as we searched for The Lodge on Western Ave Saturday evening. Inside, a zillion children were engaged in hide-and-seek and overall hyperactivity, while the adults, mid-career artists, mingled in summer dresses, fedoras and flip flops. This “chill” atmosphere complemented “Colorful Inanimacy,” an exhibition of Jenny Rask’s playful abject sculptures and photographs. Reminiscent of Eva Hesse, Rask’s textile organs of nylons stuffed with clothing, jewelry, even popped balloons, express a tension between innocence and knowledge—like a child’s imagination of human anatomy. Thus, the children outnumbering the adults at this opening was highly appropriate.

Screen Shot 2017 06 07 at 9.58.56 PM e1496897992896 Sippin 2 Buck & Chillin

Jenny Rask at The Lodge

 

 

 

 

Speeding to West Hollywood, we caught the last hour of AA|LA’s “Double-Double.” Sipping on classy 2-Buck Chuck (now $3), we pondered John McGuire Olsen’s portraits of people morphing with their computer screens. For a cosmically ironic twist, as I was attempting to take a picture of Olsen’s work, my phone took a suicidal leap to the cement floor, and the screen shattered. Art! Get it? Next, we stared at Rindon Johnson’s My daughter Aaliya (Norf, Norf), a VR piece on an iPad hanging from the ceiling wrapped in headphones. Are we allowed to touch it …? “Because with art you never know,” we laughed as the curator, Nateene Diu, helped us untangle the piece.

AH LASTNIGHT6.31 Sippin 2 Buck & Chillin

John McGuire Olsen computer work

AH LASTNIGHT6.33 Sippin 2 Buck & Chillin

AA LA

Microphones thudded, and Christy Roberts Berkowitz appeared, draped in a psychedelic cape with a yellow visor strapped to her forehead. Five microphones around the gallery hummed as she whispered indistinguishable words of wisdom into each. She invited us to join in, the sound waves layering to create an auditory dimension in itself. We took turns shouting into the mics and giggling as we heard our echos among the chaos. Exhausted, we sat on the floor and zoned out on Mitra Saboury’s toes trying to squeeze through a light socket.