PST, At Last

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Detail of Chris Burden's Urban Light (2008) at LACMA

Having finally fulfilled my most ardent art wish of the season—to sample some of the fruits of the Getty’s Pacific Standard Time initiative, wherein dozens of exhibitions across Southern California have been organized to explore various aspects of the Los Angeles art scene between the years 1945 and 1980—I thought I would share some of my impressions. First, a disclaimer: my experience of PST was hardly exhaustive, limited as it was by time (five days) and reach (I was on foot, meaning that more far-flung exhibitions in Pomona and Orange County had to be missed).

My first stop was the Los Angeles County Museum of Art where Edward Kienholz’s Five Car Stud (1969-1972) was on view in the U.S. for the first time since its inception. The work is highly controversial, and wall texts detailing the convergence of Kienholz’s practice with the Civil Rights movement felt strained. But no matter, the work is spectacular. In contrast to the roped-off presentation of Kienholz’s Roxys (1961-62) at the David Zwirner gallery in 2010, Five Car Stud was entirely open for viewers to explore, which is as it should be. I was startled initially at the almost seamless incorporation of viewers into the work; from a short distance it was sometimes difficult to tell who was a visitor and who (or what) one of Kienholz’s cast figures; we are implicated. I left the installation with sand in my shoes, an apt metaphor for the way the work sticks with you.

Next stop was LACMA’s California Design, 1930-1965: “Living in a Modern Way.” The highlight there was a recreation of the living room from Charles and Ray Eames’ iconic 1949 Case Study House #8. Not yet having had the opportunity to see the living room in situ (the house is currently undergoing restoration, which is how the objects came to be on display at LACMA), this was a real treat.

The Getty’s anchor exhibition, Pacific Standard Time: Crosscurrents in L.A. Painting and Sculpture, 1950-1970, is, as some have complained, canonical, which is to say that it rehearses all of the accepted categories of postwar LA art—hard-edge painting, ceramics, assemblage, finish-fetish—in more-or-less predictable ways. Nevertheless, it was a pleasure to see some of the very good examples on view there. I was surprised by how fresh some of the hard-edge painting looked, especially canvases by Helen Lundeberg. Assemblage was well-represented by Berman, Kienholz, Conner, Herms, Saar, et al. I had heard great things about Ron Davis’s resin paintings, two of which were included in the exhibition, but was disappointed to discover that their optical tricks are more impressive in reproduction than they are in person. A related exhibition organized by the conservation research arm of the Getty about the production of De Wain Valentine’s Gray Column (1975-76) drew attention to the ways in which so-called finish fetish works sometimes fail to live up to their artists’ (and viewers’) expectations. These works rarely look as finished in person (especially some forty to fifty years after they were made) as they do in reproduction.

Other highlights: 18^th Street Arts Center’s Collaboration Labs: Southern California Artists and the Artist Space Movement, a small exhibition about alternative art spaces (organized, fittingly enough, by just such an alternative art space); the Pasadena Armory Center for the Arts’ exhibition of work by Robert Heinecken and Wallace Berman (works by these artists can currently be seen elsewhere in LA, but for sheer quantity, not to mention the brilliance of the juxtaposition, this show is a winner); and MOCA’s Under the Big Black Sun, California Art 1974-1981, an exhilarating survey which is long on video art, and perhaps too short on wall texts (there was some cell phone audio available for select works). At UCLA's Fowler Museum, serendipitous timing brought me to Mapping Another LA: The Chicano Art Movement at the same time that artist Don Juan (Johnny D. Gonzalez) was discussing the inspiration for his mural, The Birth of Our Art (1971).

The MAK Center for Art and Architecture at the Schindler House organized an exhibition about architectural historian and activist Esther McCoy, which wisely let McCoy do most of the talking. Of course, the Schindler House’s attractions are not contingent on the exhibitions it shows. In fact, it might be at its best when it is between shows, as it was on my two previous visits. The house was built by Rudolph Schindler in 1921-22 as a home for two couples (of which he and his wife were one). One of the most amazing things about visiting the house, which, despite its humble materials—concrete, wood, glass, and canvas—is somehow magical, is that visitors are permitted to wander freely through its rooms, both indoor and out. The interior rooms were conceived as artists’ studios, the outdoor patios as living rooms (complete with fireplaces), and ‘sleeping baskets’ on the roof as bedrooms. Always surprising is that even the bathrooms at this historic house are available for visitors’ use, but this laissez-faire approach seems totally compatible with the bohemian spirit of the place. The Schindler House is emblematic of the richness of Los Angeles as a destination for art and architecture enthusiasts even after Pacific Standard Time wraps up.

Slide!

I tried to see Carsten Höller: Experience at the New Museum one weekend shortly after it opened. This is the show that includes a slide that transports you from the fourth floor to the second without the hassle of stairs or those freakishly large elevators. It also includes a sensory deprivation tank and a carousel.

 

It is no exaggeration to say that I had never before encountered anything even approaching a line at the New Museum during paying hours (Thursday evenings are free). This is one of the great pleasures of the New Museum—despite uneven exhibitions and awkward architectural proportions, it is delightfully jostle-free. Given the carnival-like amenities proffered by Höller, however, I should not have been as surprised as I was to see a line stretching down the Bowery. On that particular day, I simply shrugged my shoulders and walked away, not wanting to deal with the line and the crowds that it augured. There would be plenty of time to see the show.

Ten weeks later and out of town, I am on the verge of missing "Experience," which closes on January 22 (part of the show will close on the 15^th, the exhibition’s original closing date). I will have a brief window in which to see it when I return; the question is, do I want to? (Of course, the question of whether I want to attend the exhibition is different from the question of whether I ought to.)

A colleague related that when she attended, she was told upon entry that she would not be able to ride the slide on account of the crowds. The slide is more or less the only element of the exhibition that really appeals to me. This seems like awfully skimpy motivation when one considers that a slide can be found at pretty much every playground in town. The lines of people waiting to pay $16 to ride this particular slide affirm that the Duchampian gesture—a urinal in an art exhibition becomes art by virtue of its recontextualization—is alive and well, but it has been stripped—dramatically so—of its ability to shock. What is left when the subversive thrill is gone? I’ll be sure to let you know … if I decide to brave the end-of-exhibition lines, that is.

Postscript, 1/13:
A like-minded perspective.