Every once in a while (on those rare occasions when we’re away from our favorite gun clubs, firing ranges and ammunition shops), I’ll run into one of our ARTILLERY family and friends and s/he’ll ask me what I’ve been up to.  It can be awkward—especially if I’ve just been lying down with an IV in my arm and don’t feel as if I’ve really been up to anything.  And I usually just point to one of my Artillery colleagues or direct them here to this site.  But of course somehow we do manage to get out to this or that (even if our editors have to throw us in the back seat and shovel us onto the curb).  Most of it, though, does not end up on awol; and even when it does, it may cover a single-day/evening event or show that has long since passed.  So before I go into the stuff I’ve been seeing, reading and listening to over the last few nights, I thought I’d let everyone who looks at this site take a look at what’s on my own calendar for the week (and incidentally remind myself of what I’m probably already running late for). 

First of all, I’m listening to Lesley Gore as I write this because I still haven’t gotten over her passing yesterday.  She went too soon with too many songs left unsung; and if you want to know where my critical voice comes from, at least part of it comes from her.  I’m not over David Carr, either; but that’s different—he was just one of those special people who always reminded us to stay true to the story. 

Secondly, speaking of running late, it’s Fashion Week in New York and if I were there right now, I’d be sitting (or standing) in the back row at Rodarte.  (I’ve only had a glimpse here and there; but it’s looking good.)  Christopher Russell just opened a show last Thursday at Morgan Lehman in Chelsea; and if I were in town I wouldn’t miss it.  Also as Randy Kennedy posted in Sunday’s Arts and Leisure section of The New York Times), Lynn Hershman Leeson is opening the inaugural show this coming Thursday at Bridget Donahue Gallery (at 99 Bowery).  All of the so-called internet or cyber-reality art I’ve seen to date pales by comparison with just about everything she did before 2000, let alone what she’s done since.  The new show is titled, Origins of the Species, and encompasses work from the earliest part of her career (e.g., Dante Hotel; Roberta Breitmore).  Of all the artists I’m familiar with, it wouldn’t surprise me if Hershman Leeson were capable of time travel.  Consider, e.g., Conceiving Ada, a film that featured both Karen Black and Tilda Swinton.  (I only wish she’d been around for the origin of our own pathetic species—so she could have stamped it out!)  As for other stuff happening around town, John Cameron Mitchell is reprising the title role in the all-dressed-up-but-you-still-can’t-take-her-home Broadway production of his scalding rock-opera, Hedwig and the Angry Inch at the Belasco and Leif Ove Andsnes will again essay the full Beethoven concerto cycle at Carnegie Hall (I’m exhausted just thinking about it).  And then there’s Stockhausen!  So you know where you’d most likely find me. 

In the meantime, I’m still here in L.A., so I’m heading right now to the Louis Vuitton Series 2 show at 1135 N. Highland Avenue in Hollywood; and I have no more idea of what to expect than you do.  Nicolas Ghesquière has been designing the line for going on two years now; and the most recent collections seemed a throw-back to another time (not necessarily a bad thing; but I am so over the 1960s and 1970s).  I’ll be getting back to you about it.  While we’re still on fashion, I’ll be moving on to the Bernhard Willhelm/Jutta Kraus show at MOCA’s Pacific Design Center bungalow.  Bernhard Willhelm was a probably a Los Angeles designer when he was still in Antwerp; so it’s about time.  But the title of the show troubles me:  When Fashion Shows The Danger Then Fashion Is The Danger.  Really?  I always thought that when fashion shows the danger, then fashion is doing its job.  But maybe that’s why they never seat me in the front row. 

Then I have to see Farrah Karapetian’s show, Stagecraft, at the von Lintel Gallery in Culver City.   Julie Oppermann is opening a show at Mark Moore on the 19th (Counterpoint), which looks to be a must-see.  (I’m still kicking myself for missing Meghan Smythe.)  Cole Case will be at Western Project on the 21st along with Thomas Burke; and Monique van Genderen will be at Susanne Vielmetter (always a must).  Camilla Taylor will also be opening her new show, Cipher, at the Prohibition Gallery on the 21st; so I’ll be there, too.  I’m also planning to sit in on a conversation between David Schafer and Lauren Mackler at the Diane Rosenstein Gallery the same Saturday.  Is it already sounding like too much?  Yeah, I think so, too.  But don’t worry; I’ll be with a doctor or a nurse; and the IV-drip is never far away.

My priority for the day, though, will be The Industry’s First Take 2015 (at the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills), which is being produced this year in conjunction with wild Up.  The program of new operatic and avant-garde musical performance is being delivered in three sessions; and they all sound amazing.  (Consider:  Jenny Olivia Johnson, Paul Pinto, Nomi Epstein, Jason Thorpe Buchanan, Andrew McIntosh, Anne LeBaron.)  I won’t go into detail here; just check out the link.  But I won’t be leaving until the last note dies away.  I’ll also try to make the Andrew Frieder show at The Good Luck Gallery in Chinatown; but you get that I’m running a bit ragged.

Of course film is on my mind (hello DNA; hello cultural decay) with the Oscars about to be handed out this Sunday; but not necessarily in the way you’d think.  I mean, I haven’t even seen half the films up for Academy Awards.  (By the way, I hope you’ve seen Laura Poitras’s Citizenfour—more about this in another post.)  But while we’re all busy re-thinking both the medium and the process, REDCAT’s current production of Mariano Pensotti’s Cineastas sounds more than a little intriguing.  I have to see it sometime this week—it’s closing Saturday night.  His last show was titled (in translation), The Past Is A Grotesque Animal.  Boy he wasn’t kidding; all I know is that the future’s always a bitch.