Music in Los Angeles and the Hotbed of Talent: Birthday Weekend

Birthday Weekend

by Armando Ortiz

My extended birthday weekend began a few days before Spring Break, soon after completing my last final at Cal State L.A. Once that was done my brain shut down and all I wanted to do was relax. A day before my actual birthday began, and during the self induced brain coma of not learning theories and ways of teaching, and with a somewhat rested body that had had two days of longer sleep and endless hours of downloading music, a pre-celebration took place. The day before the big birthday a friend, Tom, would be performing at the Hard Rock Café in Hollywood with Rivet, a local hard rock band, with whom he plays bass.

My friend Tom on the bass.

I arrived early to find a spot to sit, but inside the place was packed with people of all kinds eating burgers and other greasy foods. The shatter and murmur of the people was a mixture of English and other languages that I did not have the time to decipher  There was a pit where most of the family tables were located and where the majority of people sat and that's where I stood for a while searching for my friends. I began texting Tom but there was no reply, so I kept walking around the venue until I found his wife, Semmy, at a distance. I approached, announcing my presence and she took me to the green room where Tom and the band were getting ready and chatting it up with the other bands that were competing in the Battle of the Bands, which included Lookin' For Trouble, Take 48 and Kid Gramophone.

Rivet

After a few minutes of being introduced to the other members I ordered a Hard Rock burger, a Cesar salad and a glass of water. It might have been one of the best burgers I’ve had in a while, though it wasn’t able to replace the tasty Tommy’s Burgers' sloppy tastiness  In the middle of the meal Rivet went on stage and began blasting away with their hard sonic rock sounds. Their style resembles a slower version of Queen’s of the Stone Age with a bit of an edge to the lyrics. I left the burger half way and went out to the pit where a mass of people was gathering and swaying to the live music. As everyone stood watching them perform energy began to fill the entire room, these guys were in the pocket and were getting the crowd into their music. Their set ended and everyone cheered them on applauding the four song performance. Returning to the green room greetings and congratulations, along with handshakes were given and the burger that was left on the table was finally finished. All there was left were specks of fries and smears of ketchup. I'd requested to go in late to work that night, and once all formalities were done I took La Brea Ave south to LAX. The drive was about thirty minutes, and from the hilly slopes of Hollywood one could see the grey fog at a distance, but once driving past Jefferson and driving through the oil fields that divide Los Angeles from Inglewood, the watery clouds were beginning to settle. This is one of the few spots in LA that while driving makes you wonder how it must have been driving these areas fifty years ago, when there was more nature and less people. The incandescent street lights gave a light orange glow that perfectly blended into the natural and man-made Los Angeles landscape. The drive to work was smooth and easy matching well with the music that was coming out of the speakers of the car- Lil Keke's Addicted 2 Fame.

            The next day was the birthday celebration which was a bit subdued due to extenuating circumstances that made me want to relax more than go out and party. After completing a tutoring session with my student at the Chinatown Service Center a bee line to the LA Bakery was made, where I bought a delicious chocolate mousse cake. I was going to go home to eat cake with coffee, and relax, maybe watch a netflix film. Nonetheless, after relentless calls and questioning from a friend I decided to go check out a local band called Buyepongo. 

Honduras Kitchen flyer:
Punta Cartel

            I took the 10 Freeway east, and exited Alameda, making a turn at the stop light and then drove to the place, but missed my destination by a few blocks. Driving around the mean streets of South Central was a reality that had to be lived out at that very moment. I finally got to the venue, Honduras Kitchen, at around ten thirty in the evening, which is located on Santa Fe and Slauson. It was my first time there and the parking space in the locale was packed, so the security guard suggested parking the car across the street from where the place was. I contacted my friends, who were inside their car, too scared to go out and blend with the environment. Entrance was simple with a cover charge of ten dollars. Once inside we were told to go to the table that was nearest to the band that was performing at that moment, Cumbia Cartel, who is made up of musicians that are from different parts of the Caribbean and Central America. The performance they put down was good, and one of the guys even had a set of instruments made of turtle shells. Their combination of West African beats with their mixture of accordion like synthesizer at times made for a very enjoyable rhythmic ride. I was transported to a beach, where I drank cold coronas, enjoying the punta/cumbia beats that were emanating from the instruments of those unknown musicians.

Buyepongo

Once their set was done DJ Subsuelo began his hour long set, which started out good, but ended up turning into an odd mix of cumbia and house, which was made a bit hectic with the house sound systems which was out of whack. Finally, Buyepongo began their set. They do not need all that sound system stuff to get their groove on because once they start playing the dancing begins and things get off fast with people beginning to move to their groove. The venue was ideal for a band like theirs because the need to connect a lot of electrical and sound devices is not necessary. What especially stands out from this particular band is how well they sound as a whole unit, and the fact that they play a variety of instruments makes them one of the more versatile and original bands in the Los Angeles area. They have soul, grove, estilo, and some firme sounds that will make anyone get up and dance. My good friend Ismael, though, who is more of an observer and an analyzer of people decided to stay in his seat, next to his wife. I went up to the dance floor and asked a lady to dance, who moved like a snake, and swaying like a Heron. She would quicken her pace with her youthfulness, and moved as if her feet were touching fire, with a seasoning of ritualistic fire dancing, I was humbled but was too excited to care because I was in the pocket. There is a sense of satisfaction that comes when thinking of the choice that was made for that day because Buye always puts on bad ass shows, and the fact that beautiful women show up and are down to dancing with anyone is one big incentive to show up and shake one’s skeleton.

House Lounge flyer featuring
all the bands.

            Saturday evening had me at the edge of Maywood. To continue my celebration and for entertainment purposes my friends invited me to dance some Spanish rock at the House Lounge, which changes their name to El Ritual on Saturdays. To my amazement there was a huge Ska concert in the back of the venue, which everyone that entered the club had access too. The bands there were getting down and a giant mosh pit had been made by a giant human circle that moved clockwise. The scene was a bit intimidating, seeing people in their twenties with beer bottles, and Pendleton shirts buttoned up while others wore wife beater shirts made you think twice of where you stepped, but I walked around and found a sweet spot where I could watch the show without being bothered by some crazy mosher that might suddenly push you. I climbed on a platform that was beside a wall and from there watched The South Central Skankers, Matamoska, and Roncovacoco put on a show that was a mixture of punk and symphonic banda trumpeteering that included about two saxophones and one trombone. I went back inside and bought a beer and there found my friend swaying to music from Heroes Del Silencio. Though the mosh pit was big and lots of people would join the pushing and the bumping nothing serious happened. I ended my night by driving west on Washington Blvd to where I live.

Good Micheladas

Flyer for the nigh's event.

            My weekend ended with meeting up with a good friend at Eastside Luv located in Boyle Heights where there was yet another live performance, but this time it was a lady’s show with women that were not only beautiful but very talented. There was a lady whose name I never got who was busting out some amazing mariachi songs, and was being backed up by a female band that played the fiddle, the guitar and a guitar bass. Eastside Luv has one of the best micheladas that I have had anywhere in Los Angeles. The show, which was a 5 dollar cover charge, was really good and made the drive east well worth it. I even got to see Marisoul who makes up part of the La Santa Cecilia, a very talented band that has been touring the southwest for a good minute. My birthday weekend ended, and I had to finally wake up from the brain haze and readjust to the new quarter and picking up from where I left off. 

Me

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fourteen): Los Angeles Pompeii - Street Baseball

Part 14: Los Angeles Pompeii - Street Baseball

By Armando Ortiz

I walked across campus today, from the student union out to the new library. Every step I took brought back reminders of when I’d walk the dry and brittle field. The Southern California summer sun shone on me and the perspiration on my body transported me to that time, when days were hot, and afternoons were spent playing baseball, practicing catch with brown leather gloves, and drinking from the water fountains.

Today, a layer of grey concrete and black asphalt covered it all, like the sweat that covered the body after running up and down the bleachers that were there, the field was not there anymore, but was with me (but my feet were walking on the grass).

Layers of memories and strata of former realities lie beneath, unexposed to the eye and deep as the Grand Canyon, like the strawberry shortcake that I’d cut for my birthday. Like a time capsule that silently waits to be uncovered, unearthed at once as we walk past once beaten paths.

It seemed like walking through library stacks and passing encyclopedias of instances that were covered within the new structures. Then I imagined giant Caterpillar engines tearing through walls, crumbling adobe foundations and old rail tracks, and within the creamy icing and layers of cake I would find pieces of strawberry. Birthday celebrations and a time of carefree childhood came to be. Rows of dusty tomes describing a Los Angeles that was, with its collective history of gestures and looks, with smiles and frowns, with unknown pine boxes covered in dirt and memories hidden in that forest of the mind like a Pompeii of the American dream, like a desert mirage that dissipates as we arrive.

For an instant, I think of those Shanghaied from foreign lands, desperados enslaved in native shores, of the families that came from distant countries, traditions casting shadow of when the elderly were cared for and plates of food that were always shared. Images instantly conjured up by the mind, but I return to the present, and remember the child that didn’t fear the sun, and the home-runs that were scored during the endless afternoons.

The real libraries of this city are edited by film crews, and bulldozed by giant yellow tractors, reconstructed by unregistered names, making sterilized versions of what was and isn’t, projecting a collective memory of the population, but my experience is here on this land and on that invisible and forgotten field. Memories are like shadow puppets to the mind, every surface has unseen layers of personal experience and every detail is hidden behind a blinding silhouette.

Potter fields talk to us with multi-colored beaded work, Jade bracelets, and Mexican silver coins, click clack against each other inside Chumash baskets, where golden Mormon books, adjacent to iron skillets, porcelain pipes with sage, and tomahawk smokers filled with opium adorned by the scattered burial incense of tobacco, veiled over by cement sidewalks that are imprinted with acronyms of local hoods.

Hieroglyphs spray painted on the walls of crumbling plastered walls testifying of the presence of earth’s gypsies, shadows of the past casting images with the present light on nameless graves where mummified miners lay forgotten. What memories did they take into the eternal time clock?

Walking across campus also brought back that tumultuous time, when glass pipes were used and broken, and jitteriness was a vexing reality, mother would come home tired and unharmed at half past eleven, after the sirens and flashing red lights disappeared from down the street. Unknown shadows would merge with darkness stabbed by the hand of death that quickens time. The glare of the television had us captive and its luminosity kept us safe from the wails of night, its images somehow magically protected the home.

These memories unwove themselves with every step that I took and loosen up the dyes and the fabric that have always been there, like the time two junkies started fighting in front of the apartment and the hollow acoustics that could be heard outside the window, when a head bounced off the concrete sidewalk and the person laid motionless. We would order pizza to be delivered to the unsuspecting neighbor next door.

Now there is more of everything everywhere, throngs of students here and there, countless pedestrians exiting the subway, like a faucet that gushes people. Maybe I’m just getting old, becoming nostalgic for the past, somehow though the memories are there within the layers of experience and within the brush strokes of life’s moment, everlasting, the child inside the adult me, but I am here now.

We walk through every valley on this earth, and in death voiceless bones cannot be silenced and sacred artifacts, like holy temples that stand on perfect space, speak volumes of truth to me and everyone else.

The science building is not there, nor is the library, only a barren grassy field where time went by slowly because the memories we made on fields of grass, will carry us through the golden meadows of time becoming holier than thou art and thou was. And even when we return to the slides of our youth that have been replaced by condominiums images, like Lazarus are revived. It is in those visions, conjured up by memory, despite places covered over by a new strip mall, where we hear the hollow clang of the aluminum bat that sent the ball flying over their heads and it will be like it always has been, with the sun shining over our withering bodies.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Thirteen): Morning Quake - Aftershocks in L.A.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fifteen): D.A.R.E. to Save Each Other - Drugs and Youth in L.A.

Los Angeles Rain: Poem

Los Angeles Rain

by Armando Ortiz

Standing under the cover of night

watching the rain clouds paint

Downtown L.A. with Dodger grey

Palm trees sway goodbye to another day

as electric ensembles purify the streets

under the shimmering incandescent lights,

Wheels swish through water and disappear from sight

the rhythm of the acoustic ensemble continues

liquid cymbals splashing throughout the night,

Someone steps outside their tiny room and with all their might

remember their first winter storm in L.A.

and begin to play their trumpet to clear skies nigh.

Beijing Winters

Beijing Winters

by Armando Ortiz

Winter evenings in Beijing are frigid

Nights bring freezing winds

And though at noon the skies are clear and sunny

You don’t want to be outside for too long.

Red is everywhere during this time

And sticks with crab apples sealed fresh

Inside hardened caramel sugar abound

And seasonal preparation for the New Year begins

Bringing red pasted banners and signs on the sides of doors.

Though the eye is blind during these months

The flavors that season the soul are many.

Handmade noodles made to order are at hand

Which are served on steaming white bowls

Topped with thin slices of beef

And a fried egg on top for an extra 5 mao.

A stew of mutton innards quickly warms up the body

I don’t know if it still exists, but when I was there

One could feast on instant huoguo on a side street

Where I ate it on tiny chairs and miniature tables.

It’s also the time when one takes liberal servings

Of dumplings of all kinds; cabbage and pork

Pork and chives, mutton and onions and the veggie and egg kind.

It’s during the night that the dry steppe air of the north passes through the city

And which is further squeezed of its humidity by the centralized heating

With its miles of hot tubes, that connect to a network of pipes

That pumps hot oil and water from a coal furnace that keeps blocks and blocks of people warm

And with severely dry throats.

When those nights of lonesomeness get intertwined with nightmares

It’s as if one were being choked by the devil’s hand

And one awakens desperately reaching for water.

Winters in Beijing also bring into focus

The celebration of the longest night

Which I did once outside a pub, while eating

Grilled chicken wings and drinking Yanjing beer.

The celebration of the longest night and the birth of spring.

When preparations for Chunjie begin to appear.

People bundled up in layers and layers of thick cotton and synthetic wool

Prepare to go back to their hometowns,

And the long lines at the train station are common.

It’s the sign of optimism that we all have survived the terrible winter

And begin to celebrate by buying rolls and rolls of firecrackers and rockets

That for a week will light up the midnight sky, and all the ghosts

That are fast asleep will awaken and be sent back to where they belong,

And we triumphantly declare to spring to open herself and begin forth

The colors of life and the blossoms of spring.

Winters in Beijing are long,

But now they seem short and distant,

Like an old recurring dream that disappears with every waking moment.

The first snowfall that blanketed the school benches,

And topped the pine trees melt from the memory

As the changing jet stream shifts from Northwesterly to Southeasterly direction.

Sebastian Orth: Tattoo Artist and Writer

     I had the good fortune of meeting Sebesatian several times. Some of the more memorable conversations I ever had with any tattooer took place inside his shop. In the midst of Tibetan images and classic works of art by other tattooers that hung on the walls is where he spoke eloquently on the many different histories that exist in every valley on earth. He recently published Many Stories: The Point of the Needle, and in this short video he briefly discusses his book and how the psyche is transformed once one gets a tattoo. Great explanation to something that is mysterious yet modern, mythical but imbued with symbolism.

Gustave Moreau: Hieroglyphic Myth and Modern Symbols

(Jupiter and Semele, 1894-95) G. Moreau

Gustave Moreau: Hieroglyphic Myth and Modern Symbols

By Armando Ortiz

(Fairy and Griffon) G. Moreau

                Understanding Moreau’s works of art and how I came about learning of his work came full circle when realizing that the cover of Bolan’s 2666 was taken from Moreau’s epic piece Jupiter and Semele, where the symbolism and message being projected from his painting are both religious, cryptic, political and imbued with so much epic mythology that to come to a full understanding of them is quite a challenge. The cover and the novel it protected fit well with the apocalyptic story that is told inside. Nonetheless one comes to understand that even in darkness there is a flicker of light that either shines a light that reveals a hidden path or it simply lights the cigarette of someone who is just standing on the sidewalk contemplating the darkness. Though subconsciously I had been exposed to his work during my reading of Bolano, it was only while reading James Joyce’s Ulysses that I became interested in knowing who was Gustave Moreau. The quasi introduction came about as I was engrossed in the midst of a conversation on art and literature that one of the characters in Ulysses was having with one of the main characters in the novel,

“Art has to reveal to us ideas, formless spiritual essences. The supreme question about a work of art is out of how deep a life does it spring. The painting of Gustave Moreau is the painting of ideas. The deepest poetry of Shelly, the words of Hamlet bring our mind into contact with the eternal wisdom, Plato’s world of ideas. All the rest is the speculation of schoolboys for schoolboys.” (Ulysses p.185)

(Death on the Pale Hore, 1865) G. Dore

I wanted to learn more on this artist, but this was only one part of the puzzle because aside from his name I was aware of two other Gustave’s that also made masterpieces in their perspective fields of art and in their time, and these are Gustave Dore who is best known for his etchings and engravings of master works such as Don Quixote, Divine Comedy, The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, and The Raven. I discovered Dore while reading 2666 where his work appears several times, becoming in a way an apocalyptic and quasi mystical message of the world that Bolano was depicting. It was then that I was able to appreciate many of Dore’s pieces of art, especially those depicting legions of angels and the fallen angels casted as demons.

(Mermaids/Whitefish, 1899) G. Klimt

Gustav Klimt who is best known for painting people that looked to be both floating in a dream world and going down the current of time had a certain appeal when I first saw his work, and as time has gone bye an appreciation for his genius has only increased. But both these artist will be touched upon on a later time. The fact that there are a number of accomplished artist with the name Gustav is enough to make anyone that likes connecting the dots spend months on end studying the lives of these artist. Nonetheless, their names do partially open the door to a better understanding of the late-19^th and early 20^th century art world.

                 

                Gustave Moreau’s art is very apocalyptic and what really stands out is that many of his paintings are watercolor, a medium that was not used much those days. It is one thing to paint landscapes with oils and mix white into different colors, but with watercolor one builds colors on top of the blank paper, and once that lightness is gone it is hard to recapture.

“It is in them that Moreau displayed his boldest technical freedom and the most remarkable facets of his personal style. <<Watercolor makes a man a colorist,>> said Delacroix. This is true of Moreau.” (Jean Selz p. 56)

(Persus and Andromeda, 1870) G. Moreau

His work is very compelling. The hues and combinations of colors are key to his art. In some areas he seems to have saturated the paper with multiple layers of color to the point that backgrounds turned purple or brown, all of which was contrasted by peach colors or faint limes and deep blue colors that make up his skies.

(Phoebus and Boreas, 1879) G. Moreau

“In the room that housed them (Moreau’s paintings) there was an auto-de-fe of vast skies all aflame; globes crushed by bloody suns, hemorrhages of stars flowing in purple cataracts on somersaulting clusters of clouds.”  - J.K. Huyusmans

His technique makes you think of light, and how when we look out towards the horizon is virtually impossible to assimilate to a painting, because though one may try, light and refraction plays a big part in the way we see light and color, and yet Gustave succeeds in this exercise with his paintings.

“Moreau undoubtedly saw in his painting much more than they were able to express. The dream he had of them was a vision more literary than pictorial. In his descriptions of his paintings he went so far as to mention elements which could not be represented graphically, such as fragrant smells and sounds. In this respect the careful notes which he wrote to explain his most important painting are very revealing.” (Jean Selz p. 36)

(The Apparition, 1876) G. Moreau

One need not worry about reading his notes on the paintings he created. Though it might reveal the artists worries and thoughts about what he wanted to accomplish on canvas. What he managed to paint is something that is very much along the lines as one of those songs that one just likes to listen to over and over. There is a connection in this case with his creation and the outside which still happens even today. Some might ask, well, what is so special about that, and I say that the same concerns that people back in his day had still have, and though the symbols used today are slightly different there is that concern of whether this life is a dream or not and lies beyond.

“Moreau did not remain enslaved to those traditions (Impressionist movement of the late 19^th century) so greatly respected  by the painters who, like him, were devoting themselves to interpreting scenes drawn from mythology or the Bible……… he sought to express personal thoughts and to develop ideological themes. The need to invest even the smallest detail of a picture with significant symbols that his most understanding admirers occasionally confessed that they could not decipher them.

                In order to grasp how the painter was able to fuse his intellectual vision with his particular type of pictorial expression, it is necessary to examine his work from the beginning of his career.” (Jean Selz p.6)

Roberto Bolano's Savage Detectives: Book Review

The Savage Detectives: A Review

by Armando Ortiz

In his famous novel The Savage Detectives, Roberto Bolano sheds light into the lives of many Spanish speaking poets that make up the worlds of Arturo Belano and Ulyses Lima’s circle of friends and acquaintances. These two main characters embark on several journeys that parallel the experiences of those in the Odyssey and in a way resemble the young and adventurous life of Arthur Ribaud, who despite the works he produced at a young age decided on a life in the African frontier, working as an arms dealer, adventurer and desperado. The presence of Pynchon’s Slothrop of Gravity’s Rainbow is there as well since he too is on a journey or more like an escape, wandering around the earth in search of something. Bolano describes the youthful experiences of these two poets, and those that form a loose circle of poets called the Visceral Poets.

As he details the lives of Belano and Lima one is taken on a 15 year journey where one sees the vicissitudes of poets that have decided to take on the adventure of life and all its risks. Both of these poets experience love. Separately, they encounter their own rejection. Other times, they share drinks with other poets and desperados. They live the life of vagrant poets that take them throughout Central America, Europe, Israel and Africa. Through their adventures and as time passes they continue to live their lives as wandering barbs, diving into the underworlds of Communist plotters and freedom fighting vagabonds though always keeping a fierce independence, knowing very well that all that is available to them is their freedom and mind.

They come to discover the real rivers of humanity that flow from South America all the way to the borders of the United States that by the 1980’s were becoming more and more intense. The civil wars happening in several countries would eventually make the routes for other illicit activities. They discover that even in tough circumstances poetry can be a common ground for even violent people and artists who the thought of poetry or writing never crosses their mind. They carry that impulse to create within them as does the light that shines in darkness. In the book the real artist can live the life of a thug, and might not be at all linked to a creative group. 

There are various camps of writers and artists in the book but the main group presented is an insignificant speck when compared to the larger camps of writers that existed back in the late-60s in Latin America, and the world at large. In Mexico, there were two large groups of writers, one was supported by the governments which represented the established powers of government with their censorship, and the media that published and made writers famous. The other group was made up of leftist writers and were supported by foreign governments or by a small circle of leftist elite who’d been allowed to have the opposing voice. However, Bolano presents an alternative group-other poets from the lower ends of society, who express themselves with raw sentiments and navigate the world of poverty and struggles. These poets, despite their modest means, make their presence known throughout time. Going against everything that represented money and power, and living out their lives as artists, and crashing literary events that they felt were masked to represent writers that were not talented. Their unsettling sentiments create havoc and chaos to the literary establishment.

The Savage Detectives lacks the violence and is not as dark as 2666 but it definitely demonstrates Bolano’s ability to capture a reader’s imagination and take them on an epic journey. One learns of Lima and Belano via others who have met them and have had conversations with them; poets, revolutionaries, prostitutes, house wives, professors, lawyers, vagabonds, swindlers, editors and cops. Through those descriptions we are able to piece together the rough outlines of two men who decided to be poets. 

Their lives became one epic poem that unfolded with one journey after another, an adventure begun with every ending adventure. We see two young adults dive into their journeys head first and with fists flying. Towards the end of the book these two are mere shadows of who they were and now have to deal with the realities of age, the mind’s exhaustion and the quest for more journeys and adventure. Yet they continue on with their lives in search of that thing that keeps their flicker ignited, that will satiate their thirst for poetry, literature, life and adventure.

The Savage Detectives is a remarkable novel that seamlessly fits within Bolano’s larger-than-life world. Bolano’s skillful use of language creates a palpable texture in his writing, immersing readers in vivid imagery. It is evident that Bolano aimed to create a lasting work of literature. Moreover, his profound understanding of the power of the Spanish language allowed him to captivate the imaginations of readers within Spanish-speaking communities, while also introducing readers from different backgrounds, different nations and language, to a world that might have remained hidden in plain sight.

A Drive to the Coast: Part 7

Part 7: Dawn Awakes

by Armando Ortiz

Sculptures create artificial shadows where white plaster bodies and papier-mâché skulls animate themselves under the bonfire and painted murals transform into the plastered walls of sacrificial ball courts.

Everyone embarking on the night’s journey rowing Mayan canoes of brown mahogany

They kick comets from here to yonder. Heads roll to their destiny.

Charon leading the procession of pasty white skeletons

Souls crossing lakes where caiman float prancing through valleys of spears swiftly hopping through old growth forests like jack rabbits that disappear into the chaos of nature’s pulse.

Persephone greeting the agonies of people whose journey continues to drown rivers, and we speak to screaming spider monkeys.

Peace is found inside Tibetan skulls that are traded at midnight along the trampled caravan roads, and grains are poured out from the heads of pious souls.

Boat burials take us to destinations that are as old as clouds that hover over unknown trails where spotted orcas and elephant seals guide spirits and morning vapors ride the fog of night.

Even after life, our trajectories are clearly uncertain, and the bubbles of our childhood will one day cease to be.

The pitch black pumas of yesterday become the third eye of the rising Huitzilopochtli.

Mocking birds coo their calls, reminding us that this night is not eternal.

The huitzi sounds, and the hum of tiny lustrous birds welcome the morning dawn revival.

A sunrise in pause gleams of morning light approaching, yellow needles piercing the armor of demons, vanishing with buckets of spiraling fire and everything is engulfed by morning’s dawn.

Streets polluted with plastic bottles and trails trampled by rising pedestrians. All is flooded in beige, and contrasted by morning shadows.

We follow the giant green serpent and hide with bushmasters waiting to pounce.

Devouring all under their view under that golden dinar that never loses value.

Purple violets surround opposing yellows in pink and everyone emerges with a stretching pose. The prickly pear cactus sheds a morning drop.

The sun sends thunder in waves repeating the cycle and we ride the ocean of snakes while our mother rides the carp of dawns orange that takes worshiping parties to a day of pleasures and mourning.

We bathe in the amber nectar of gods.

Laurie Lipton: Artist in Los Angeles

Lauire Lipton, Los Angeles Exhibit

by Armando Ortiz

            A few days ago I visited the Laurie Lipton exhibit being held at the ACE gallery in Los Angeles which is on Wilshire Blvd a few blocks west of La Brea. After decades of living abroad the artist decided to return to the states and make Los Angeles her home. The current exhibit she has on display is superb. Her style and the medium she uses are at the height of any master artist’s abilities. The space where her exhibit is being held is huge, and at times it left like it was an extension of the LACMA.

Her images are amazing and she certainly took a lot of time making the intricate designs come to life. The quality of her work shines through all the bleak subject matter. It shows what American contemporary society and western culture is and brings up questions as to what our realities ought to be. She showcases the daily grind of life, of money making, survival, and the machine that is churning away at our being. Our soul, and death, in this case, time and consumerism, is the all-consuming knitter of reality. Like Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son that eats all there is, her images also unveil the grotesque that exists in our daily life. Her current exhibit is a critical take on capitalism and modernity with the age old subject of death.

            Quality aside, her take on city life and that of Los Angeles is quite superficial. If what best describes Los Angeles is fake and superficial and one’s existence in Los Angeles correlates with her personal vision then ones reality is truly sad. Nonetheless, that is what her work portrays, a superficial take on the anxieties of a few people in this city. The majority of the people living here hardly have the problem of dressing up in the morning and walking their dog along well-manicured lawns. And though many might be slowly murdering themselves to death by the many plastic surgeries they have and the daily grind that takes place, it does not represent the majority’s experience. She presents something that is and at the same time isn’t, because in reality the death that takes place is usually unknown and her work seems to muffle that reality even more.

            Her topics though they reveal the prevailing anxiety of life in the city are rather bland because there exist death and there exist Death. Death is what everyone has to face and has to come to grips with. On a daily basis there is exploitation in this city, and on a daily basis a type of violence takes place and these are things she refuses to touch on. Her preoccupation with death as the horror at the end of the tunnel and how it ultimately is above time comes through her work. The skulls that emerge from her mind and onto the paper are great, but it’s a reality everyone has to face. Death is a whole different matter when one considers the exploitation of illegal workers, the risk that sex workers face, the violence that gangsters and thugs exercise on their enemies and the random unknown victims that never make it on to the local news. It’s as if she herself is consumed with the idea of consumerism, media and modernity while refusing to touch on justice, love and life.

            She’s a great artist, no doubt about that, but there is something missing. She uses graphite/ pencil to render amazing images that reveals the worst of modern society. The mechanizations behind what we perceive to be reality seems to control the reality that we are experiencing, which at this time of year with the presidential election looming just over the horizon and the media frenzy surrounding really shows that politics are about- image over substance, and showcases our anxieties of our waking life. Yet, where is life in all of this, and what about the other reality? Aside from the “office workers” waking up in the mornings and having their cereal, and the “house wives” walking the isles there are people who are working their tail off and yet are managing to live a life that is worth living. Out of the 24 hours of time that we have in a day only eight are dedicated to work, and another eight are dedicated to sleep and in between all that there is time to spend on hobbies, time with family, listen to music or go to the beach. Her work makes it seem as if everyone in the city lives to work and does not work to live.

            The horror that she experiences in her daily life are not what kids living in the poor neighborhoods experience. Theirs is a more raw reality of what city life is all about, and consumerism, the media, plastic surgeries, white collar office work, and wealth are not a part of their reality. Living in the midst of drug dealers, trannies walking down streets, amongst the general violence and poverty that they experience is a reality that they deal with and yet continue to push through in their life. It makes one wonder if Laurie is living in Los Angeles, the city, or the Los Angeles that is made up of hills, Hollywood stars and lofty lofts that are more like fortresses, because she only reveals a partial slice of a city that is far more complex than she creates on paper. But I am sure that this is not the case, because despite of what she has experienced in this city, she probably has favorite music that she listens to, enjoys a walk by the beach, and finds pleasure being with close friends.

            Nonetheless, there is more to her art, and maybe what isn’t spoken is her ultimate goal. Some of her pieces are very Gustave Dore-esque like her presentation of The Consumption, where a shopper is faced with an endless row of items to purchase. Her skulls are life like, and her images come alive through our own anxieties with death. I certainly work eight hours job, but I also go to school, read books, listen to music, dance, enjoy nature and have moments of bliss. And these things are lacking in her work. It’s as if the grotesque is presented in all its glory, but the missing piece to what truly is real has to be there because there are those that don’t go with the waves that society conjures and certainly do not experience a life the way she makes it out to be.

            

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Thirteen): Morning Quake - Aftershocks in L.A.

Part 13: Morning Quake - Aftershocks in L.A.

by Armando Ortiz

Back in the mid-eighties there was an earthquake that happened early in the morning during school hours. The ground began to move side to side, like a rocking chair, and I began to run, but running was like racing across an old suspension bridge. Then the teachers began to yell to get on the ground, which I immediately did. The swaying seemed to last forever, the ground seemed to rock up and down, the telephone cables were swinging round and round but without anyone jumping over them, and the red rubber balls seemed to be confused and could not stop rolling in circles. The earth was churning and something was brewing under the earth. That day we came out early from school. I had to wait for an hour or two on the playground. My cousin came and picked me up, we both hurriedly walked back home.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Twelve): After the Rain - Winter in L.A.

Growing up in Los Angeles (Part Fourteen): Los Angeles Pompeii - Street Baseball