L.A. Story

Monday, I went on a solo adventure. C had work and I had cabin fever, an even more apropos term since her place is nestled in a mini-forest and looks like a treehouse.


no, that's not her actual house



First stop was the Geffen Contemporary at MOCA to check out the WACK! Art and the Feminist Revolution exhibit. So far as I know, it's the first comprehensive "retrospective" of early feminist art. I'd seen a lot of the pieces either in books or postcards or flyers. One piece was straight from the Art Institute of Chicago. I was impressed with the depth and breadth of the exhibit, but I just wasn't as WOWED by the content anymore. Maybe it's because I've seen so many of these that I'm over-saturated and under-whelmed? Or that these once revolutionary themes have since been adopted, adapted, re-interpreted, and simply played out over and over in contemporary artwork? Or have I just become a lazy, apathetic feminist? The exhibit takes up like 2/3 of the entire space, so gallery burn-out may also have been a factor. For working in museums, I have an embarrassing low tolerance for them. If art was food, this was a 24-course tasting menu, when I was in the mood for tapas. If I had more time, I would go back.



I also didn't really get the title. My slang-ridden vocab immediately thinks of, "Yo, that show was WACK. Lame. Played out." Or else comic action, like onomatopoeia. I know I'm missing some reference. Was that an acronym from the 60s/70s?

There are/were some amazing panels and lectures with the show, including Angela Davis (!) and a discussion on visual culture, race, and globalization. I would have been really amped to go to some of those.

I also discovered a Francesca Woodman catalog in the giftshop... for a mere 75 bucks. Flipping through the book, which is amazingly detailed and is basically her whole life in 250 pages, I saw with clear eyes how much of my college work (and countless others, I'm sure) was a sad attempt to mimic hers, which, as much as I adore her photos and always will because of the time in my life that I discovered them, they're still the work of a college student. Like hearing Bikini Kill for the first time when you're 14, then listening again ten years later and still loving the truth and passion and energy, but realizing the structure of the music is actually rather plain. Yeah. Still want that shit, though.

Anyway. I digress.

Oh, but let me digress a little bit more. The exhibit occupying the remaining 1/3 of the museum space was really, really interesting: Critical Space by Andrea Zittel. She talks about the "social construction of needs" incorporating architecture, design, fashion, environment, sustainability, and efficiency. I thought the pieces were smart and had a sense of humor while tackling head-on a lot of "big" issues, without being so overt about it. Juxtaposed with the Wack! exhibit, where nothing is subtle, it's a very austere, almost serene space.


from the MOCA site

MOCA was very conveniently located in Little Toyko, next door to the Japanese American Museum and across the street from the shopping plaza. Bliss! I showed impressive restraint, however, and bought nothing save for the most gigantic smoothie I've ever had for $4.50.



From there, I wandered up 1st Street, towards downtown, which I didn't realize at the time. (I took a cab down to MOCA because time was running short, so I didn't have the greatest sense of where I was.) When I think L.A., I never think downtown. Apparently no one else does either, since it was pretty empty save for the business folk and homeless people. Saw City Hall, the Courthouse, Civic Center, Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, some other theater, and the Disney Music Hall designed by Frank Gehry. Spent some time hanging about the Lipchitz sculpture fountain outside Chandler Pavilion, which must be on some must-see list for Japanese tourists.



As usual, my camera was just an extension of my head, and when it wasn't attached I must have had a really dopey, dreamy look on my face because people kept talking to me. One guy jokingly asked if I wanted to carry his suitcase since I looked so comfy lugging my giant-ass tote bag, while another chipper fella — who looked like someone I know, so I guess I was staring at him — asked if I got any good shots, then left saying, "My, it's a beautiful day." What?? Where am I?? Who knew L.A. was friendly. Granted it really WAS a nice day. Sunshine trumps urban ennui.





Just when I was feeling that uncomfortable, stressful kind of lost, and about a minute from dropping another $20 on a cab, Mike Mo called and came to the rescue. We went for tasty Mexican eats and beers. Then I came home, talked to my boy, watched Saw, and went to sleep.

Good day! I said it last time, and I'll say it again: I kind of miss L.A. Still not for me, though.