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Byline: Anastasia Kahn
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Chinatown Art Buffet
Chung King Road was a buffet of openings Saturday night, with a variety of gallerygoers overflowing into the street. Like a high school party, there were definite discrepancies between the crowds: academics and LA art stars at Charlie James Gallery; mid-careers with their young families at Coagula Curatorial; and the too-cool-for-school graffiti art horde at Gregorio Escalante.
Charlie James gallery Ramiro Gomez at Charlie James The main artery of the street party oozed from Charlie James, where we shoved and pinched people out of the way in order to enter. The space itself was stifling; half of our experience of “Black is a Color” involved moving from room to room desperately searching for a pocket of air. The mezzanine of the gallery was literally the hottest place in the building—in more ways than just temperature: the darling of the LA art world, Ramiro Gomez, was surrounded by admirers, probably melting and internally screaming for air.
Peter Hesse at Coagula Curatorial (note ghoulish figurines) Unable to withstand the giant oven any longer, we hit Coagula Curatorial, where we perused Peter Hesse’s serene paintings of wood. After noticing we were being watched from above by a pair of ghoulish figurines, we didn’t linger. Not only were we under surveillance, but also the gallery was charging five bucks for refrigerated booze. Sure, it was ice-cold temptation, but slapping a price on beer—ever heard of the starving artist?
Repelled by the thumping house music and snapback hats at Gregorio Escalante, we were ready to pursue a late dinner, when the golden horseshoe of The Good Luck Gallery beckoned. As it turned out, we weren’t the only stragglers stumbling to The Good Luck for something refreshing: Essence Harden from Charlie James soon appeared with her cohort. Doug Harvey’s salon-style group show of zany, outsider art kept us amused until long past closing time—and we scored free ale.
The Good Luck Gallery The Good Luck Gallery -
Cooling Off at the Coolest Pool Party
The aroma of gourmet hot dogs and the hum of pretentious gossip lured us to the Fitzpatrick-Leland house last Saturday, where the MAK Center for Art and Architecture hosted an exclusive pool party and opening reception for Paul Davies. Of course, nobody was actually dressed for the pool, aside from some of the men; the gorgeous, dual-level yard looked like a Tommy Bahama advertisement.
Interior with installation We explored the entire house (designed by Schindler, 1936) and its many precarious ledges and secret balconies. In fact, the inside seemed to push us outside, proving to be the perfect environment for Paul Davies’ vibrant paintings. His work, depicting angular houses nestled among California nature, leaned against the floor-to-ceiling windows, framed by the spectacular views of the surrounding hills. In a room directly below the living-room-turned-gallery, the artist himself hung out with his fawning fans. Completely at ease, he wore a white T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers (even the artist wasn’t dressed for the pool!).
Paul Davies not in swimwear attire As the sun sank, the freshwater pool beckoned somebody to please, jump in! The summer dresses and polo shirts crowded around the edge, dipping their toes, posing with their wine and Ballast Point. Suddenly, two brave souls in swim trunks said, “Screw it,” and took the literal plunge… but nobody joined them, which segued into an awkward lull. “ You’d think since we’re in the pool, someone would bring us drinks or something,” scoffed one. “… like, I want a rosé and a cigarette!” Finally, the gregarious Soliana Habte slipped in and pacified the pool clan, passing around a joint.
Cooling off their toes; still afraid of the water. Finally! A few brave souls! The evening shadows engulfed the Hollywood Hills, the inebriated guests hailed Lyfts, and the guy working the Popsicle cart (yes, Popsicle cart) snuck away for a ciggy. We sauntered back into the real world, delighted to have attended the coolest “pool” party this weekend.
Photos by Anastasia Kahn
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Sippin’ 2-Buck & Chillin’
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.
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.
John McGuire Olsen computer work 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.
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Art Fatigue at its Best
I’ve heard of the phenomenon of art fatigue—getting so sick of looking at art that one more derivative Franz Kline-esque painting will turn you into a raging honey badger.
Plenty to see at the Brewery The first two hours of the Brewery Art Walk on Saturday were delightful, browsing studios tucked down dark passageways or in-between succulent plant gardens. After the first leg of the hunt however, we began to seriously wonder if we actually have taste (what is taste?) or is most of this crap?
Awkward Genius: Paul Farmer Then we would stumble upon an artist that wowed us without getting in our faces. Such was the case with Paul Farmer, a North Carolina-based artist cowering in a corner of a hallway next to his work, fingers crossed that nobody would talk to him. Unfortunately for him, we were instantly fascinated by his painting-as-sculpture compositions; paint strips woven together in organic forms. I requested a photo of the awkward genius. In contrast to Farmer’s dimly lit hallway, Oskar Sheldon scored a spacious studio with fabulous lighting that complemented his bold, robust paintings of primarily political satire. We were all interested until Sheldon opened his mouth. Aviator shades, a suit, and an obnoxiously full flute of champagne, “Oh yeah, so like, this piece was based on a prolific acid trip… ” (Way to tap unexplored territory, dude.)
BBQLA opening A pint and an edgier wardrobe ensemble recharged our spirits for BBQLA’s “TEETER TOTTER,” a group show examining the relationship between the figure and abstraction. Most surfaces in the space were strewn with Lay’s potato chips, soy candles in beer cans, and old Easter candy. While perched on a stage overlooking the hot mess of humans below, we observed a guy painting himself three times–we later discovered he tattooed his ass. The absence of dignity at BBQLA was the ultimate cure for the day’s art fatigue.
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For Mature Audiences Only
Thinkspace was infested with BFAs and mosquitoes Saturday night. We waited in line for the bar behind a kid who would not stop bragging about how often Britney Spears comes into his coffee shop—the bartendress was rocking a “Britney Bitch” shirt. “Are you of age?” she demanded of the braggart. With a high-pitched giggle, he admitted he just turned 22. Aw honey. The front of the gallery remained open and sparsely populated throughout the night, while the backroom turned into a college dorm party, with fresh 21 year olds flexing their twiggy little biceps and competing for gallery representation.
Warm and fuzzy I’m normally repelled by cute animal paintings; however, Jacub Gagnon’s, “Short Stories” exhibition at Thinkspace managed to impress. His photo-realistic paintings juxtapose furry cuteness with still-life compositions (a porcupine sitting in a pot surrounded by cacti, Among Friends) or everyday objects (a polar bear with a flare strapped to its head, Polar Flare). It raised the question of, had these been photoshopped instead, would they still be fascinating? Then we saw the deer sleeping next to a candle with a hovering butterfly (Goodnight Deer): Time to go.
We talk about art Around the corner at Luis De Jesus, it was so packed that it took us seven minutes of standing on tiptoe to see over the crowd in order to find the bar. This was a far more sophisticated party in terms of age; mid-career professional artists clinking cocktail glasses with a gang of tipsy elderly ladies. The maturity of the party was also reflected in the topics overheard: Lia Halloran’s ethereal, mural-sized cyanotype prints dominated the conversation, contrasting Thinkspace’s “Pick me! Pick me!” atmosphere. Afterwards, strolling down the cracked La Cienega sidewalk, we expressed our admiration of the senior guests at the reception, still rocking it like it’s the 1970s. Life goals.
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Good Art, Drunk MFAs & Free Bracelets
Saturday evening happy hour was well spent on South Anderson Street hopping between UTA Artist Space, Ibid Gallery and Museum as Retail Space
UTA’s “HeatWave” is an energetic show that explores the influences of pop culture on artists, including a massive painting of emojis by Nate Lowman titled Various Yellow Happy Endings; a black canvas showcasing hundreds of old chewed-up gum called Dresden by Adam McEwen and expressive neon paintings suggesting faces with purple light bulbs for eyes by Jon Pylypchuk. Clusters of young MFAs milled around the space trying to one-up each other or schmooze their way into someone’s pants.
Carsten Nicolai Ibid Gallery posed as a more “mature” alternative to the hyperactive “HeatWave.” Finding Francesca Longhini’s “Baroque Anxiety” a little too tense, we preferred Carsten Nicolai’s “autonomo” in the next room. Nine enormous silver gongs hovered above a field of black tennis balls. As we weaved between the giant plates, an attendant pushed the balls around the space with a broom. The scene resembled an uncooperative Zen garden.
Perfect venue… A landscaped alley stretches behind UTA and Ibid Gallery, the perfect venue for cocktails, tacos and people-watching. As the sun set the volume of drunk MFAs in the yard increased, letting their guards down enough to ask their equally-inebriated comrades, how to get into curating? “Just do, man, like, it’s not that hard. . .”
Marvell’s sculptures at MaRS Kristan Marvell’s bracelets We ran across the street to MaRS with our gin and tonics, arriving in time to valiantly fight off rivals for free bracelets crafted by the exhibiting artist Kristan Marvell; their swirling designs around our wrists made us feel like mermaids. While we pretended to be mer-people, in the gallery Marvell’s sculptures pretended to be marble—his chunky monoliths and rippling slabs bear the majestic aura and glossy finish of uncut marble, but are actually made of Styrofoam, a totally underrated medium.
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The Mystic Art Zone
It is the area between downtown LA and the Valley, between suburbia and superstition, and it lies between the strip of Halloween stores and the summit of Griffith Park. This is the dimension of imagination, it is an area which we call Burbank, and we’re at the Bearded Lady’s Mystic Museum.
Around 9:30 Saturday night, a horde of Steampunk costumes, beards with beanies, and wannabe My Chemical Romance band members oozed around the block outside the Mystic Museum on Magnolia Boulevard. We shivered in the 50-degree evening for 40 minutes before entering the magical haven of the Hitchcock and Twilight Zone tribute art show. The museum was overflowing with a sea of supernatural nerds and art geeks alike. The complimentary cheese plate was obliterated in minutes, but the wine was fully stocked throughout the night.
Paintings of Rod Serling, Alfred Hitchcock and Peter Lorre hung between an extensive Ouija board collection, tarot card decks, and pentagram necklaces. Vintage fortune teller games and eccentric magazines were paired with dioramas of classic Twilight Zone episodes (including a chilling reproduction of the airplane in “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet”), a Barbie doll of Tippi Hedren in The Birds (signed by the actress), and some extremely icky, lifelike pig masks of Miss Janet Tyler from the Twilight Zone’s, “The Eye of the Beholder.” Other creepy paraphernalia included taxidermied deer heads and Perez Hilton’s doppelganger.
At midnight, the party spilled onto the pristine, moonlit boulevard and soon vanished. We began the evening desperate for a change of pace from the typical art opening, hankering for zany fun. Between a pet shop and a Halloween store in boring, suburban Southern California, we were not disappointed.
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Make America
Saturday night we went to the LA Art Association’s “Make America” Show at Gallery 825. The original plan was to begin at Wallspace LA, a commercial gallery that typically represents street artists who sold their souls, but after one glance through the windows, we didn’t even enter. Not only was the art bland, but to our horror, the entire space, from floor-to-ceiling-to-furniture, was white! And in this blinding room, the only occupant was a willowy gallery assistant photographing the work. Without crowd or open bar to rescue the scene, we hissed and scampered down Santa Monica in pursuit of Gallery 825.
Upon entering 825, we were instantly comforted by the cracked cement floors, the cheap wine, the hipsters in beanies and the artsy twenty-somethings smoking in the alley. The space was appropriately crammed with dogs and people of a variety of shapes, colors and flavors, all of whom were getting wasted off the free Yellow Tail chardonnay while buzzing about the politically-charged art on the walls. The gallery provided a space for creative venting about the political landscape, specifically the rotten tangerine in a toupee inhabiting the oval office. It was impossible to entirely despair with a Pomeranian dancing around our feet.
One of our favorite pieces was Mads Christensen’s “#45,” a slideshow of U.S. presidents. Every time Trump’s portrait popped up, the computer would glitch and shut down. The portraits were enlarged and hyper-pixelated for an extreme Gestalt effect—a powerful, if obvious, metaphor for what makes America… America. In a weird way, this piece even made me appreciate Wallspace. Wallspace is repellent (to snobs like me), and Gallery 825 is awesome, but take a step back and look at the repellent and the awesome together, they are what make the LA art world great. Bigly.
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The Fun Art Fair!
Rays of January Hollywood sunshine warmed the rooms at the Highland Gardens Hotel, which hosted the StARTup Art Fair last weekend. The show consisted of an eclectic array of 37 California artists, from sequined taxidermy (Emily Maddigan), to video installations in mason jars (Kimberlee Koym-Murteira), to beeswax and encaustic landscapes (Robin Deneven).
Each artist was designated a hotel suite (including the bathrooms) to exhibit their work. In the late afternoon, while sipping sangria on lounge chairs around the pool, we witnessed a photogenic performance by Jenifer Yeuroukis and StevenMichaelArts. Jenifer, dressed as a disintegrating party queen, crawled at turtle-speed, pursued by StevenMichaelArts, a ghost in a speedo. The glacially slow race around the pool concluded with both artists jumping in the frigid water. Fun fact, adult entertainment star, Ron Jeremy, was watching too.
The beauty of the StARTup Art Fair was its display of every corner of the California arts scene, sans discrimination based on gallery representation or MFA programs, posing a delightful contrast to the stuffy LA Art Show earlier this month. Not only were we actually exhausted after two hours, but we also had infinitely more fun. Instead of cheap Instagram photo-ops and overpriced liquor, there were stickers galore, mini cocktail parties on the balconies, and an overall atmosphere of creative community and comaraderie.
There were the select few, however, who took themselves too seriously (a-hem, Mikey Kelly) who snubbed me when I complimented his business cards because obviously I wasn’t about to feed him my paycheck. Minutes later, I bought a photograph by Audrey Heller of a plastic scuba diver figurine emerging from a pile of goldfish. I never thought my art collection would begin with goldfish, but my logic was, this scuba diver surrounded by cheese makes me feel things, and that’s what art should do; take my money!
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LA (Selfie) Show 2017
Los Angeles was just starting to glow with the encroaching night life as we rushed through the Convention Center, blindly searching for the LA Art Show (more directions please, we are simple beings). Racing against the clock, we chose to begin feasting (or violating, depending on the booth) our eyes on Yi Huwan Kwon’s elongated statues of everyday people, which demonstrate the mesmerizing power of artistic genius. Our gawking and Instagramming of these mindfucking-creations was followed by skimming of the “Pop” Art area, where Banksy copycats metastasized like a disease (Mr. Brainwash, indeed). Out of fear of losing our sense of self-worth and individuality to this uninspired contagion, we hurried to the other side of the showroom where we discovered overpriced quinoa salads.
Yi Huwan Kwon’s elongated statues Gary Lang’s work in the background if you care to know As we paced through the clusters and rows of booths, sifting through forgettable crap and exceptional talent, we couldn’t help but notice (and occasionally participate in) the Instagram photo-ops that had infiltrated the show, such as DOSSHAUS’ walk-in painting of an artist’s studio. The installation was constructed from cardboard and painted black and white, resulting in a 2D-drawing meets 3D-sculpture effect. The amount of labor invested in this booth was astounding, even the artists—the creative collective of Zoey Taylor and David Connelly—were dressed to blend in with their piece. Unfortunately it was swarmed by guests snapping selfies without giving the installation a second of contemplation.
Guilty as charged…me with art… Was the installation’s existence intended for short attention spans with cameras, or for thoughtful interaction? An abundance of pieces in the show functioned as “cool backgrounds” for snaps that will be forgotten by next week. We soon became self-conscious of this phenomenon, and suddenly our selfies from 30 minutes ago triggered a bubbling of guilty nausea. Ten years from now, we will remember Yi Hwan Kwon’s statues, but the backgrounds of our selfies? I can hardly recall now.
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T’was the 16th of December
T’was the 16th of December, and all over Los Angeles
Every creature was stressed, including the angels.
Wrapped like burritos in coats, scarves and hats,
We swarmed Barnsdall Art Park like grumpy old bats.
Isolating ourselves in the auditorium, two-by-two,
We awaited a Happening, we didn’t care who was who.
All of a sudden, the theater went dark.
I noticed Gelare Khoshgozaran swig Maker’s Mark.
“Hey Mama, Hey Mama!” screamed a voice from up high.
As we twisted in our seats, behind the curtain came a reply.
After immersing us in rhymes, taunt and woots,
We were summoned to the stage, causing a stampede of boots.
Clustered around our leader, with amber-colored vials
Which tasted like perfume, happiness and …Benadryl?
“To be a citizen is to inhabit a place. Think about where your body is placed.”
Eyes drooped, breathing commenced; whatever we sampled was definitely laced.
Cantankerous bats turned lethargic cats, we were guided to the next level—literally.
A long rope provided, we clung to the fibers; all felt pretty similar-ly.
Meandering along, inside and out, we climbed flights of stairs
To the Los Angeles Municipal Art Gallery, where we entered in pairs.
A fairy in a flower crown bellowed, “Think about a time when you felt love.”
I thought of friends, he remembered her, and the kid next to us picked at their glove.
Next came a game of tug-of-war,
Which became musical chairs; it was laughter galore.
The last chair remained between a little girl and a guy.
Music paused. He stole the seat. Push him off, she did try.
Leaving the park at the end of the night,
Something for once felt inherently right.
During a season rift with deadlines, shopping and politics unplanned,
Artists like taisha we need now more than ever. You had to be there to understand.
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Colette Robbins
Standing erect on pedestals, Colette Robbins’ seven skeletal sculptures twist and bend like limbs, frown and gape like skulls, and yet they are clearly not figurative. Rather, the ethereal totems coax the mind to create fiction from their abstract forms.
“Archaeological Fiction” is the New York-based artist’s first exhibition in Los Angeles, featuring her latest experimentation with the Rorschach inkblot as a gateway for the phenomenon of pareidolia (the human psyche’s attempt to make sense of the abstract). While Robbins previously created inkblot narratives of bicephalic monoliths, “Archaeological Fiction” delves into more subjective territory. Similar to Micah Ganske’s project at 101/Exhibit, “The Future is Always Tomorrow” (2015), Robbins mediates between reality and the viewer’s imagination with 3D printed sculptures; she produces totems from her inkblot designs, finishing them off with coats of graphite powder or acrylic paint. Agenticity (all works 2016), a tall totem glistening with graphite, suggests a stack of alien pelvises squeezing a toothy jack-o’-lantern face. By contrast, its neighbor, Pareidolia, is a petite totem with pitted acrylic skin, reminiscent of a tree made out of ears and a pair of testicles for a trunk. Whereas Ganske’s sculptures provided tactility in his virtual reality installation, Robbins uses the 3D printer to transform the perception of inkblots and enhance the experience of pareidolia.
Colette Robbins, Slippage, 2016, courtesy of Larry Underhill and 101/Exhibit Gallery, Los Angeles. Robbins additionally mines for abstraction from a more organic source, her rock collection. She extracts imaging of their unique contours and shapes, digitally overlays them with her inkblots, and then paints watercolor and graphite illustrations of crusty, fictitious fossils. While the totems invite the viewer’s interpretation, the watercolors are more self-referential, contributing insight into Robbins’ perceptions of abstraction. One specimen, Tangentiality, seems to depict two ancient arthropods clinging to a smooth, teardrop-shaped stone. Another, Stereotypy, features a trapezoidal formation with a rippling surface bejeweled by crystallized, prehistoric barnacles. These pieces contain hyper-fine details of craters and crevices, complemented by delicate, earthy tones, as if Robbins really did dig them up from a period lost in time and space. Robbins’ rock collection is unobtrusively arranged toward the back of the gallery, contextualizing pareidolia in her work.
Seven small, round peepholes into other dimensions accompany the fossils on the wall. Several of these watercolors conversely feature inkblots subtly incorporated in surreal waterscapes. Rorschach Cave Inside presents a sunset on an ocean horizon perceived through an inkblot-shaped window in the cobbled wall of a cave. In a neighboring piece, Rorschach Cave Outside, Robbins reveals the exterior of this grotto, once again appropriating the gnarled texture of her rocks, partially submerged by lapping green waves. The cave narratives are paired with more abstracted images, such as Rorschach Water Hole, in which Robbins realizes an inkblot as a jagged pit in the middle of a shimmering blue sea.
Although the totems and illustrations were produced with cutting-edge technology, they effectively evoke the prehistoric aesthetic of archaeological artifacts. “Archaeological Fiction” may be derived from Robbins’ imagination, yet in her realization of pseudo-archeology, she simultaneously creates personal artifacts for the future to discover.
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An Arty Halloween
Aside from the leering ancient goblin who haunted the bar at Richard Heller Gallery, Saturday night at the spooky Bergamot Station was perfect for any art-loving monster with a sense of humor. In order to gaze in pensive awe upon Andrew Ho’s drawings, we were first forced to experience horrific, Lisa Frank-inspired work: black with lurid rainbow patterns, coated in an offensive amount of glitter. Meanwhile, in the parking lot, a family of leopards hung out with their cubs, eating veggie pizza and slurping Tecate (where there’s art, there’s Tecate). Dr. Frankenstein shuffled by with his terrier, grinned at the father leopard playing with his toddler, and exclaimed, “Look what I did with my little boy, I turned him into a doggy!”
Around the corner from Heller’s, we discovered a space as silent as the grave: Peter Fetterman Gallery, where a ghost was dying to tell us about the old photographs crowding the walls. As the clock struck eight, we hurried back to Heller hoping for any last-minute handouts of cheap wine and diet coke—we were not disappointed.
Next we Lyfted over to Arena 1 Gallery, which is hosting a group show, “KAUS: Straight Outta Rotterdam,” as part of their Los Angeles-Rotterdam artist exchange program. It was basically a Dutch Halloween party, featuring costumes such as an ’80s dance instructor in pink leg warmers, a mustached-ship captain, and a three-piece suit made entirely of Pac-Man ghosts. A giant squirrel got a little too excited about reuniting with a bumblebee—his tail swung wincingly close to a freestanding sculpture. We interviewed Vytras Sakalas, a Paul Klee-esque painter who typically spends about 12 years on his paintings and hails the power of magic mushrooms. Lastly, check out Yossi Govrin’s studio: it looks like an Anthropologie window display on crack.
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Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions:
Miha Strukelj
A tram cable traverses The Project Room, a tiny cube tucked behind the main gallery space of Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions. LACE, on Hollywood Boulevard, is the perfect location for educating the public about Los Angeles contemporary art. Sheltered from the hubbub of the boulevard, The Project Room is a haven for imaginary universes such as Miha Strukelj’s installation, Here Somewhere. Open through August 14, Strukelj’s work mediates between memory and imagination in constructing a hypothetical, alternative urban landscape of Los Angeles—specifically an LA with a cohesive transit system.
Miha Strukelj: Here Somewhere (2016),
Installation detail, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions.
Photo: Chris WormaldCharcoal drawings of classic Los Angeles imagery inhabit most of the space, a wilderness of office buildings planted next to towering palm trees with an uncharacteristically quiet freeway overpass snaking through the cityscape. Though all familiar traits of the region, these Angeleno motifs are not anchored to any specific landmark, coaxing the viewer to mentally complete this imaginary narrative with their own idea as to where this generic slice of LA could exist. Strukelj uses not only calculated visual perspective, but also three dimensional ripples in the space, such as the cable stretching across a corner and an abstracted plywood continuation of the street drawn on the wall, carefully arranged on the floor yet seemingly unfinished, like an idea that has not quite been fully realized.
Miha Strukelj: Here Somewhere (2016),
Installation detail, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions.
Photo: Chris WormaldWhile the north and east walls present the viewer with a fictitious Los Angeles in the style of architectural plans, the south wall disintegrates into the skeleton of a road map, transforming from delicate charcoal lines into scuffed, yellow masking tape, a more ephemeral medium, easily removed and re-situated according to re-imaginings.
Miha Strukelj: Here Somewhere (2016),
Installation detail, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions.
Photo: Chris WormaldThe installation omits extraneous details, particularly citizens or cars, which leads the viewer to focus on place, but also leaves a pregnant silence. This is where the west wall comes into play, with illustrations of public transport, diagrams of potential constructions, and a list of regions and neighborhoods in Los Angeles. Strukelj presents a generic Los Angeles cityscape and a suggestion of a coherent metro system, challenging the viewer to use their imagination in combining them.
Miha Strukelj: Here Somewhere, June 29 – August 14, 2016 at Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, 6522 Hollywood Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90028, welcometolace.org/