The Myth of Solid Ground by Chelsea Rector Sarah Conaway, Kim Fisher, Pearl C. Hsiung, Shana Lutker, Florian Morlat, Jon Pestoni, Mungo Thomson, Mary Weatherford at The Pit: Exhibitions & Editions
July 13th - August 24th
Right now, my favorite London-based fashion blogger, Susie Bubble, is on holiday in Santa Monica. “Is it Blackpool? Great Yarmouth? No it's Santa Monica,” she writes.
Right now, my best friend’s plane takes off from Burbank’s Bob Hope Airport en route to Poland by way of Israel.
Right now, Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” repeats in my ear buds.
Right now, I’m writing from a balcony overlooking a rocky jetty in the Pacific Ocean where on July... [more]
Art is what makes life more interesting than art.
Sometime last fall, in a moment beyond reason, I took a two-hour bus ride to pick up a pair of $89 shoes that were then on sale for $14.99 at a Zara near the Santa Monica Pier. The bus ride was my penance for the deal, an enactment of the masochistic conflation of time with money. I read Chris Kraus' Where Art Belongs on the 704 as it lurched the long stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard, jotting crooked notes along the... [more]
Nostalgia and Gratitude, Brokenness and Redemption by Ed Schad Henry Diltz, Walden S. Fabry, Henry Horenstein, Les Leverett, David McClister, Raeanne Rubenstein, Ethan Russell, Leigh Wiener, Elmer Williams, Michael Wilson at Annenberg Space for Photography
May 31st - September 28th
I only need one song to explain how I feel about country music: George Strait’s So Much Like My Dad. A modest hit in 1992, the tune’s not nearly as recognizable as Strait’s other classics. You’ll likely run into All My Exes Live in Texas, but probably not So Much Like My Dad.
A few keys of the piano walk you into the song’s weather: the first few drops of an icy rain, a first snowfall. A brush hits the drumhead and somehow it’s cold. It hits a few more times a... [more]
Surely black, but so lively one cannot catch its true hue. Volcanic glass cooled too fast to crystalize, scientists never can quite call it a mineral or capture its color too closely. Depending on the angle of shimmer however, approximates exist.
Named by Pliny the Elder as Obsius Lapsis, after a dubious claim that it was discovered by a Greek of that name, the gem gained its "d" from a printer’s error. The Aztecs called obsidian itzli, a force that found form in the macahuitl.
A wood sw... [more]
Me and You and Everyone We Kind of Know: Made in L.A. 2014 by Christina Catherine Martinez Juan Capistran, Danielle Dean, Harry Dodge, Lecia Dole-Recio, Public Fiction, Kim Fisher, Judy Fiskin, Magdalena Suarez Frimkess, Michael Frimkess, Mariah Garnett, Samara Golden, Piero Golia, Tony Greene, Marcia Hafif, Channing Hansen, Jibade-Khalil Huffman, Barry Johnston, Gerard & Kelly, Devin Kenny, Gabriel Kuri, Caitlin Lonegan, Tala Madani, Max Maslansky, Emily Mast, Jennifer Moon, Brian O’Connell, Harsh Patel, Marina Pinsky, KChung Radio, Sarah Rara, A.L. Steiner, James Kidd Studio, Ricky Swallow, Clarissa Tossin, Wu Tsang at Hammer Museum
June 15th - September 7th
Comedian Emily Joyce, dressed in a 14th-century bonnet and dress, rolls her eyes, hard. Sticking her thumb out in a gesture of one-dimensional 1990s sarcasm, she paces KCHUNGtv's makeshift set in the lobby of the Hammer Museum. The on-site camera editors are hushed. I walk in just as a big laugh is dying down.
“But seriously folks," she continues, "you gotta watch out who you're makin' out with these days ‘cause we got this Black Plague going around. Nothing more embarrassing than h... [more]
Pay attention or you might miss something. Confoundingly both vague and precise, slightly anemic but convincing enough to pass a physical. Rey Akdogan de-brands and de-materializes that which may be most familiar to a consumer, triggering a visual asphyxiation, that will have you gasping for the nearest billboard.
Akdogan here takes the logos of the international German-based discount supermarkets Aldi Markt and Aldi Sud as her point of departure. Aldi operates in seventeen countries worldwid... [more]
A girl snaps her own photo in a dressing room, each mirror perfectly angled to show every surface at once. The back and sides are hanging out with the front; her eyes are multiplied to better see the new multitude of herself. She's peeled and spread out, projected onto the picture plane of her phone like those flattened globe maps that make the earth look like a bubbly 'M' scrawled on a middleschooler's notebook.
There's something almost folk-arty about it, isn't there? Depiction that doesn't... [more]
Whether we express ourselves through slogans on a t-shirt, music, or conversation, we are essentially tragically—often comically—groping in the dark, giving our best guess, clumsily trying to make connections with each other, with nature, and with ourselves. Fleeting or faulty, the mere attempt to make them can lead us to the most authentic and intimate moments life brings. Stanya Kahn’s work here is full of restless encounters between people, desperately casual and casually serious.... [more]
Most of the rituals of living life are laid bare in the Museum of Contemporary Art's retrospective of Mike Kelley at the Geffen. Traumas bubble up from the basement of our pasts. Memory is found to be faulty and capable of being reorganized by desire. Patterns of life held dear today are found to have disturbing origins in history of violence and exploitation. All delivered with laughter, diabolical and absurd, the kind that comes from camp's exaggeration and annihilation of form. Kelley was rauc... [more]
It was a very nice hospital. It had a view and a private sitting area in the room. I had tubes sticking out. Some to drain fluids, others to pump fluids in. I was given observation and pain management, modern medical euphemisms for the twin social ailments of boredom and drugs. I ended up staying an extra night. Doctors often keep business hours and no one else was authorized to release me. Either as apology or just further negligence, I was treated to an extra night of pain management, melting... [more]
“You will hear people say that poverty is the best spur to the artist. They have never felt the iron of it in their flesh. They do not know how mean it makes you. It exposes you to endless humiliation, it cuts your wings, it eats into your soul like a cancer. It is not wealth one asks for, but just enough to preserve one's dignity, to work unhampered, to be generous, frank, and independent. I pity with all my heart the artist, whether he writes or paints, who is entirely dependent for subsiste... [more]
Who needs the sun?
The dappling of sunlight through the branches of trees plays on pavement with incredible beauty. The shifting leaves shift light and the ground brightens and shadows with each rustle like the ambient waves of a gentle lake reflecting a midday sun.
Coming out of photography, artist Anthony Pearson here etches plaster to mimic the play of light. He used to solarize photopaper and sometimes cast bronzes out of that. All very process oriented, swirling and tweaking the formal re... [more]
Remember the ritualistic daubing of perfume in preparation for a type of tryst, a slow, light movement on fingertips over the erogenous zones—perhaps more crass, but no less spiritual in its fervor—when one either anticipates, or more likely hopes to conjure the promise of carnal knowledge.
Maybe no one actually does this. The last person I saw do this to herself was a celluloid bimbo in a horror movie. Rest assured, she got hers in the end, according to the gospel of this moralisti... [more]
If you've ever heard the song 'Stay' by Rihanna, a song that Patti Smith covers sometimes during live performances, then you know the power of a few short piano riffs. There's a bridge in 'Stay,' Rihanna sings, “when you never see the light it's hard to know which one of us is cavin.’” Cavin’ as in caving-in. We cave in when feeling becomes all too intense, whether by longing, astonishment, or joy. In Rihanna's ballad 'Stay' and in aspects of the three-person group show A F... [more]
FAIRWAYS: ALAC, LA ART BOOK FAIR, AND PARAMOUNT RANCH
Andrew Berardini rounds up the weekend's events
Polar vortex is only a distant poem to Los Angeles. Uttered on the news by harried meteorologists with names like strippers, the weather here is droughty for caring locals, simply sunny for everybody else. Yes, one of the many good reasons we live in Los Angeles is the definite lack of polar vortices. Not a few of the farflung, chilled by arctic weather, flock to Los... [more]
Polar vortex is only a distant poem to Los Angeles. Uttered on the news by harried meteorologists with names like strippers, the weather here is droughty for caring locals, simply sunny for everybody else. Yes, one of the many good reasons we live in Los Angeles is the definite lack of polar vortices. Not a few of the farflung, chilled by arctic weather, flock to Los Angeles this weekend, for one of our three fairs, two for art and one for art books. Not quite an Art Basel Miami Beach (mercifully... [more]