Soles not saved by Jesus sandals

Semi-dome, Transit Plaza @ Union Station

I had gobs to do this past weekend especially since I would be leaving for New Mexico on Tuesday. Despite that, John and I had a hankering to take on one of our favorite day trips through Pasadena. We drive downtown and park at Transit Plaza at Union Station, get a day pass and duck in and out of the stops along the Metro Gold Line on the way to old town Pasadena and oftentimes cap the day with dinner at Traxx (consistently a great meal and in a great space: Union Station). In the past we’ve discovered the Museum of the Southwest (at the Metro stop by the same name), Margarita Jones for a memorable chicken mole enchilada and blue cadillac margarita (at the Fillmore stop), exquisitely junkie antique shops (at the Mission stop), and we’ve trekked to the Norton Simon (from the Memorial Park stop). I’m pretty sure the Norton Simon is, architecturally, my favorite art museum very narrowly beating the Smithsonian National Gallery of Art.

As I readied for a day of walking in the bright sun, I chose a breezy skirt, sleeveless shirt and my new blast-from-the-past Jesus sandals. These were sandals popular in the 70’s that I spotted and immediately acquired (”made in Italy” usually closes a shoe deal for me). I was aware there was no insole cushioning, but I figured I wasn’t hiking La Luz trail up to Sandia Peak (for instance), I’d be fine.

We only made 2 stops: the Mission station to hit the antique shops and then to Memorial Park. From there we walked - back-tracking to near the Del Mar stop to try a restaurant nearby and walked back again into Old Town Pasadena and then Metro’d back to Union Station. When we got back on the Metro, I could feel a burning sensation on the soles of my feet. I figured the train ride would lend enough time to rest my feet. And so at the end of the Gold Line and the day, we didn’t go straight for our car, we headed for Olvera Street. It was the weekend before cinco de Mayo and we both knew we had to duck in on the scene. I scarfed a churro against the expected backdrop of mariachi music and we enjoyed the cool breeze and the slant of light at sunset along with the music. I LOVE mariachi music! How can anyone not love mariachi music???

So after a dose of fiesta we headed back for our car and as I walked, the effect of the sandals kicked in. My left pinky toe had just about enough of the strap that harnessed it for hours and I felt an electrical-shock type pain that affected my walk. I tried adjusting my shoe so many times as I slowly walked back to the car clinging to John.

My feet were fine when I got home and out of the sandals and I’ve since put the sandals on sabbatical for my feet to recuperate - couple more days I’ll get back to wearing them a lot (but not for day tripping).

 

Summer Breeze

Just the week before last weekend John and I were trying to figure out how we could make it to two different events scheduled for Saturday - quite a fluke for us - so we were all “sad-clown-face” by Wednesday when both events fell through. And so we coasted into our quiet weekend and puttered into Saturday. Until the phone rang: dinner invitation. Yesss!

I headed out to pick up some wine and dessert: canele and an assortment of cupcakes from Hotcakes on Centinela and we social-butterflied over to our friends’ house for a great visit. I’ll divulge little more other than the fact that I’m still picturing their beautiful piano - seemingly made for the music of Schubert; and being reminded of summer dinners outside on the balcony of the house I grew up in in New Mexico (pictured above).

 

The good, the bad, and the Getty

I thought everyone would be at the beach. It was a hot Saturday and I suspected we’d have a little more elbow room at the Getty with everyone else optimizing a beautiful day bicycling or playing volleyball at the beach. I forget that despite its sprawl, LA is still a crowded place, and I’m not the only one who likes a good dose of ‘Kull-cha’ on their day off. There was a jam getting into the parking structure. Then, after stall surfing to level P5, we emerged by elevator to find a line waiting to take the tram up to the museum: “…half-hour wait for the tram…the second tram is not working…you can walk up in 15 minutes…there’s a cool breeze…” the Getty crowd-wrangler hollered (they couldn’t tell us this when we paid to park?). John and I have been to the Getty many times so we knew we would surgically-strike what we wanted to see -the museum fatigue factor was less daunting. We took on the walk and proceeded past the crowd…we walked…uphill…in the hot sun. By the midway point there was no stand offering complimentary water or the Getty umbrellas for those who alleviated tram demand and braved the hike (with the awareness that the ivory travertine reflects heat, the Getty provides umbrellas for visitor comfort). At this point the tram breezed by and I shouted: “I HATE you!” to the collective that chose to brave the line rather than the heat-scorched, forced march we elected to take (actually, the “I hate you” was more of a soft-shout - for my own amusement and to entertain John).

The latest exhibit is “California Video“. You can hit the ’skip’ button on this show. I thought the gallery and the attendees altogether were the exhibit. Visitors commuting, paying for parking, braving the tram crowd or the scorched hike to sit down and put on head phones to watch TV?…and, from what I could see, public-access-cable quality shows - (Youtube?). I’m already resistant enough watching TV in my own home, I had zero patience and fortitude to do so at the Getty.

The last gallery of this exhibition, however, offered some engaging works: “Home Movies” by Jim Campbell presented an intriguing, dialectical, perceptual play of viewing impressionistic video through an “aperture grille” (tension mask)-like grid of LEDs. The visual effect made me feel too close and too far away at the same time; Bill Viola’s “Sleepers” was provocative - video of people sleeping viewed on monitors submerged in drums of water? Hmmm…sleeping is a suspended state much like floating in water, however, you can’t breathe under water, it suffocates. I felt like the exhibit needed each drum of water, through which the sleeper was viewed, to release a stream of air bubbles in a breathing rhythm. But that would undermine the artist’s desired effect of tension and make the work outright kitschy; then, as for the video of the melting ice cream cone (by Meg Cranston) projected on the gallery wall (contextualized with a resin-coated collage of images on the floor), I don’t know why, but I could have watched that for a while except that there was no place to sit (sigh). Click here to see samples of what I’m blogging about.

We moved on to a distant corner of the campus we hadn’t explored before. At the library, they opened up a gallery for an exhibit on Bernard Rudofsky and I became a fast fan. I was already dazzled by the backdrop of Bernardo sandals suspended at the gallery’s approach. I was actually eyeing some Bernardo sandals the night before. I remember my sister had a pair back in the ’70’s. I liked them so much I saved my money and bought some cheap knockoffs at Safeway groceries. I was able to wear them the whole summer (everyday probably) before they broke. My sister’s authentic Bernardo’s were much more comfortable though with their supple leather and they never broke. So I scanned these shoes to find my favorite style and presumed they were on display because of corporate sponsorship. In the Rudofsky gallery I found lush watercolor paintings, John spotted the “Casa Frontini” model and said: “this is our house” and around the corner the exhibit continued with Rudofsky’s commentary on fashion and sandal designs - “Oah!” He’s Bernardo!: architect, writer, sandal designer, my new best friend (if he were alive today).

That night I looked up the shoes I previewed the night before. The “Mistral” was the style I had in the ’70’s and it looks as though the remake has a slimmer ankle strap than I remember (white pair pictured). I found a pair by another brand that had the line I remember and a block heel for a little leg-flattering lift (brown pair). I got those instead. As for brand loyalty, I’ll still keep my eye out for Bernardos. I’m worried the pair I got is going to break.

 

So Pale

…so the brewery open-studio gig was this weekend and after attempting to go on the wrong weekend the actual show is, really, anti-climactic (see past post “Back to LACMA”). We both had our own projects at home which kept us in for the weekend except for the SWPL* double header: heading out to Carson for Ikea AND Target. We decided to mix it up with some retail entertainment. It’s such a treat to experience high ceilings and large spaces given our cramped living quarters.

Ikea: I’m incensed - they’ve changed their generic Ikea-techno-elevator-house music loop to top-40-”commercial-tribal”. I hate it. I loved their techno-loop music along with the blue arrows on the floor directing my procession and the taped announcer over the PA while ascending by escalator: “welcome to IKEA…”. It was honest, transparent, and playfully modern; I could, with full awareness, accept my role as a willing consumer with these cues. I would very nearly believe that I could look up the music’s subliminal messages (i.e.”…get the swedish meatballs after you check out…”) on ‘lyrics.com’. It’s really losing its semiotic wit and Whoville edge (I even used their free post cards for greetings and casual thank you notes and they’re gone too!).

Target: Love the lighting there; just the right spread and footcandle bouncing off the white VCT floors - very flattering. No wonder everyone likes shopping there. Also, received my free, nylon, Target bag with this month’s Vanity Fair magazine (in the mail for subscribers). Brought it. Used it. Very attractive graphic too.

 

Chillin’ with the LA Phil.

I just pulled into my parallel park upon my arrival at work when my cell phone rang. It was John: a co-worker of his offered him tickets to the LA Phil. I’m hesitant. I’m thinking: it’s a “school night”, I’ll have to leave work early, what about the commute?, what am I going to wear? We ended the call with a few “well-if-then…s” and a promise to report back. We both took a few minutes to meditate, look up the program online, and come to our senses: “uh - YEAH!” (hey, I’m not a morning person).

And so we went (Wednesday, March 26). I have to admit that an evening out on a weekday does not have the same ‘vibe’ as the weekend. It carries that pall of having to report to work the next day and lacks that sense of relief and celebration that goes with “WEE!”-kend.

Despite traffic warnings (for a concurrent event at Staples Center), we made it in time with a small margin of elbow room. The amuse-bouche for the evening was Franz Hasenohl’s riff on Richard Strauss’s Till Eulenspiegel: Till Eulenspiegel - einmal anders! It was familiar but I couldn’t place it for its Gerschwin-esque play on the piece. It was delightfully comical and I eased back into my seat (3rd row orchestra - just to brag) for the rest.

Next came Mozart’s String Quartet in C major, K. 515. From where I sat, the cello was a little strong, functionally, however, the performance set the scale: tuned the audience for the intimate acoustical scale (and demand: no coughs or candy wrappers) required for chamber performances. The audience, despite a gracious pre-concert address and plea (by Martin Chalifour) not to applaud between movements, applauded between movements (I think he may have given a mixed message). I could see the ensemble players exchange grimaced-smiles as they endured the well-meaninged assault on their performance.

Intermission came. I wasn’t feeling so good. My tummy was gurgling for having a quick bite instead of dinner and “I hear” the acoustics at Disney Hall are ace. I was considering sitting out the second half and wait for John until the end of the performance so as not to compete with the ensemble. I decided to persevere - a worthy decision. The performance of Mozart’s Clarinet Quintet in A major, K.581 left me spellbound. There was a noticeable chemistry among the players (Michele Zukovsky, Martin Chalifour, Gustavo Dudamel, Dale Hikawa Silverman, Peter Stumpf). Michele Zukovsky’s virtuosity (clarinet) was intoxicating and her interludes were well-balanced by the rest of the ensemble (one minor, squeeky critique: some phrasing in the Larghetto seemed to exceed breathing scale and distracted-in an impressive way- just a hint). The Larghetto, especially, was phenomenal. It closed, spinning itself (and me along with it) into that silence and pause between movements. I was suspended and there for a brief, quiet moment I wished and prayed: “…please, no applause…” …and the audience applauded. I sighed and the Quintent proceeded. Overall, the performance was exquisite. I left with the feeling of having seen a really good movie: the story and the plot were focused, the characters were fleshed-out, the acting drew you in. Bravo! What’s more, is, I heard the Larghetto again the next day on KUSC for the “anti-road rage” piece at 5:00 pm. The performance I attended was recorded and I’m pleased to report: you canNOT hear my stomach grumbling (did I mention the 3rd-row orchestra seating?).

Thank you Simon and De-Ling!

 

Back to LACMA…

…so we went back. “We” (now, in this case, meaning John) got the dates mixed up for the Brewry open-studio gig, so after spending about 1-1/2 hour commuting across town then backtracking to salvage our Saturday afternoon, we ended up at LACMA to pick up where we left off from the BCAM opening: the Ahmanson.

We already had that washed-out feeling: that feeling you get, that I’m sure most Angelenos know but haven’t yet found a term for, equivalent to that feeling you have after sitting in a darkened movie theatre for 1-1/2+ hours and walk into the day again (or the night) having absorbed too much of something; that psychic saturation or psychic “bloat” of having seen too many movie special effects or freeway green-and-white-letter signs and billboards - whichever the case, we had to shore up. We got our free tickets (members) and headed for the commissary. We split the grilled chicken-pizza-something and P.S.: no chicken on our pizza (should have showed our member card?), but I delighted in the abundance of artichoke hearts.

Shoring up was a GREAT strategy. I was overwhelmed. After the gift shop and the SoCal exhibit, we headed for the Ahmanson. I didn’t anticipate the scale. As I proceeded from one gallery to the next only to find another parallel series of galleries I had to backtrack and re-orient myself to make sense of the scale of this place relative to my initial understanding of the floor plan. I stopped my march of art ogling to remind myself of my entry. I must have looked out of place looking to distant rooms rather than the kaleidoscope of paintings immediately in front of me. A security guard leaned in as I looked further along at the floor to see where it changed from hardwood to carpet…”Can I help you?” I suddenly became conscious of the bewildered look I projected and laughed: “oh…no…I’m just trying to read the floor plan!” - then, realizing, that such a comment wasn’t helping my case at all. However I think my tone came off as relatively coherent enough. He nodded his head and went back to his post. Then after losing track of John [whom I rely upon to direct my museum-humor relief to: "I don't see a price tag!" "...have the guard open up the case, I want to try them on first!" (the ancient Egyptian earrings)] I was sufficiently distracted enough to resign myself to making it an inventory-and-map visit as opposed to immerse-and-enjoy.

But something glimmered at me. After an eyeful of Mannerist paintings with their brilliant, jewel- tone colors, heroic proportions, and emotional exuberance (pathos in some, saucy grins in others) carrying a bristling secularist undercurrent, I forged ahead to a gallery of fin de siecle works where my eyes perched upon “Snowy Rooftops” by Peter Severin Kroyer and I was enamored. It whispers. It whispers with a controlled palette of sepia, snow, and dark, with the subtlest, even-more-quiet-than-subtle cast of rose; with its transcendent subject - framing the quiet rooftops of an architecture that suggests a density and industry and a “busy” below; and with the painting’s modest proportion of (8 x 10?). It’s a minimalist composition, which prefigures Diebenkorn’s Ocean Park works, and frames a meditative, atmospheric quality equal to a Rothko yet the Kroyer painting is representational. I risk the “tut-tut” of modernists when I dare say, that when I see this painting, I can’t help but think the “non-representational” of 20th c. art is a crutch. To be able to look at the real world and interpret it and render it - and capture the interpretation visually and successfully evoke something ‘other’ and even transcend, all within the confines of recognizing a subject and offering familiarity - is rather magical.

So I found this painting and I paused. I breathed. I went and found John - resting on a bench in the Mannerist gallery - to share it with him. He liked it too.

 

Fear mongering and “the MAN”

The democratic primary IS the general election. McCain doesn’t stand a chance. All this twittering we’re hearing over Obama having a better chance to beat McCain than Clinton presumes McCain is viable and it’s a media ploy to hold the democratic primary and the “election in general” in a state of tension. Although such projection is based on exit polls, remember that exit polls cast John Kerry as winning the last general election before W’s team fixed that crisis. Exit polls are irrelevant.

What I feel is driving this is the MAN: the white-male controlled media and the older white-male vote. The media’s interest in holding the political scale steady between Obama and Clinton is they’re gaining audience - it keeps us tuned in as viewers, listeners, readers, to glean the language and the argument as to why our favored candidate is viable. And let’s face it, THIS is the real power structure: the white-male owned media: audience pays the MAN. Older white males in this country are not evolved enough to accept women in positions of seniority. This is still a glass-ceiling nation. Case in point, David Geffen debriefs to Maureen Dowd: “…I think that America was better served when the candidates were chosen in smoke-filled rooms.” There’s no doubt in my mind he’s picturing cigar smoke (…and sometimes a cigar is NOT a cigar). And so, with a similar bristling as Geffen, the tendency of the older white male voter is to keep Clinton out of the presidency. Additionally, the fear tactic used is: Obama can carry the vote in the general election against McCain, Hillary can’t - why? because of the older white-male vote. Despite this, Hillary is holding her own in the primary.

Ultimately, if you ignore the vapid, double standard by which Clinton is criticised (”shrill”, “wrinkled”, “I can’t stand her” (do you live with her?)) She really is the more seasoned of the candidates. She knows the playing field (which has carried her in the primary) and she’s not campaigning on the youthful idealism of “change” when stability hasn’t even been achieved yet. With America at war and entrenched in recession, W is once again the “decider”: “it’s the economy, stupid” and the Clintons know how to fix it.

Obama? My vote is yours in 2016! Hail to the Chieftress! says me!

 

Makeshift Urbanism

Low-profile weekend: no travel, no events, but that’s the point. It occurred to me many years ago that people take pictures of themselves on vacation and visiting the sites as if their daily lives aren’t anything to look at. So when I set out Sunday afternoon to walk to my neighborhood stores for some retail entertainment and groceries, I brought my camera. Unfortunately I got out late in the day and was feeling a little too rushed to take as many pictures as I would have liked. Nevertheless I snapped a photo at the fence between Target and Studio Village in Culver City where everyone hops - because the parking is too crowded at Target, or they need to shop one of the stores at Studio Village too and only want to park once, or, like me, they choose to walk.

It’s so absurd, when you attempt your errands by foot, how many obstacles there are in connecting from place to place. Sidewalks generally frame shopping centers rather than connect into them. There are townhouses across the street from our neighborhood Ralph’s with a signal crossing at the traffic light, but no sidewalks to lead you in. You walk on the asphalt along with the other cars driving in and nipping at your ankles. Landscaping and plantings are installed as well with the intent to control circulation and enforce pedestrian movement off-premises. Nevertheless, despite the cost of gas and despite the obesity epidemic and, probably because of any liability issues that go along with owning a parking lot or a crosswalk, we live in an urban environment that keeps us in our cars.

So anyway, I like this patch of fence. The ground is path-worn here and the fence’s paint is worn off from the repeated hurdle-overs to reveal its pewter-toned steel. I’ve even spotted small pieces of wood sheathing placed here to assist one’s step when the ground muddies from rain. I have, on a number of occasions, waited for others to make their way over before my turn over the barrier. I feel like I’m participating in a collective small choice: amidst these loomingly large corporate stores fencing off their big parking lots there is this pinhole leak of rogue pedestrians subtly creating (and polishing) new networks and connections. It’s just a small act of freedom in this car-encapsulated, calorie conscious, litigious world we live in.

 

Logan Riff

Did you know that Evelyn Wood, “speed reading” guru, was from Logan, Utah? I just learned this ‘googling’ trying to glean some poesis from our trip to this small town in northern Utah. We were there for a family gathering and for a seminar at Utah State University which made it worth while (many thanks to those bright and wise individuals who contributed and from whom I learned). Over and beyond that however, due to weather and schedule demands, I didn’t get a chance to walk a neighborhood or see their art museum (@ USU) or even see, what appeared to be, the imposing mountains that embrace this town. So the richness, which I’m sure is there, that those who live there know, was not apparent to me. And so I’m reminded of one of Woody Allen’s quotable’s: “I took a speed-reading course and read War and Peace in twenty minutes. It involves Russia.”

Here’s the “Russia” (Rush-”uh?”) on Logan:
Saturday evening? Hmmmm…LDS temple or Logan Lanes (bowling)? The LDS temple is prominent and competes with the surrounding mountains (kind of like this). I know cathedrals and temples, in general, dominate their settings, but what I saw lacked a sense of proportion. It looked more like the fly tower to the auditorium of a theatre but, architecturally (formally), there was no auditorium. The LDS fly tower’s twin towers are lighted hauntingly at night like ojo de dios as if to pose the question: are you sure you want to go bowling? As for the bowling, the parking lot looked as crowded as an after-Christmas sale at any-mall USA. Which brings me to my third observation, once again, based on my marginalized experience of the place: after “information overload” (an Evelyn Wood term) of a full-day’s seminar I was ready for my spirit of choice - a white wine spritzer of pinot grigio (aka “peanut gringo”) and lime-flavored sparkling water. I went to an Albertson’s and then to a Smith’s and found the same scenario: no liquor (no prob.) but no wine either. There is, however, an aisle for beer. Beer aisle and no wine?…I suddenly have the urge to ‘google’ the results of the democratic primary in Utah. The results were just what I suspected.

 

…que Serra, Serra…(opening reception at BCAM)

…whatever will be will be and what’s done is done. But aaah! Serra! I loved walking through those monumental, warm folds of steel. I so wanted to run my hand across the surface and pull a henna-colored, granule film of rust onto my hand. The steel looked so warm from its rusty patina it looked more like teak or Phillipine mahogany than the 2-inch fold of solid steel. I felt like I was swimming in a Rothko painting. What blunts this experience, however, is transcendence has a ceiling : ( -Much like seeing the majestic Orca at Seaworld whose fin is weakened for want of swimming the great distances of the ocean, Serra’s sculpture is caged. It does not enfold you and shelter you against the stark contrast of the metropolis or the universe we marginally know through the lense of the sky - it, itself, is housed. Both, however, still have entertainment value and, if given the choice, go see the Serra.

As for entertainment value, John and I had a great evening. We headed for the reception tent first for some sangria and munchies. I was impressed. The space was beautifully lit with light that was scrimmed and projected and included an uplit runway, and a jazz combo played; altogether creating a space that was subdued, relaxed, still festive, but still allowed for conversation. We had an engaging chat with the couple we shared a table with. The subject of the Broad’s had him sharing what he knew about Hearst and J. P. Getty’s wealth. I hope I can find that movie he mentioned: The Cat’s Meow.

 

From reception-event central we proceeded to the new building. Upon my approach it looked as though Piano (I love that name) internalized and projected all those Pompidou Centre-adjacent Tschumi follies onto this BCAM building. The stairs connecting the floors outside and the shock-scale freight elevator inside along with the expressed structure along the way added a Tschumi-folly zest to the stalwart, travertine-clad building.

After the Serra experience on the ground floor we took the passenger elevator up to the 3rd floor entourage: Basquiat, Rauschenberg, Johns, Kelly, Schnabel, Twombly, Baldessari, Koons, Warhol. I was surprised Warhol’s Jackie Kennedy portrait grabbed me the most: a photo taken of her unaware and with an expression of quiet grief is repeated and gridded out onto a larger canvas. There is a Chinese philosophy that believes that all moments are eternal and our lives are a process of actualizing these moments. In repeating the moment of this photo, Warhol dissects its eternity frame by repeated frame. What’s even more striking is this “aura” is created by mechanical reproduction. The play of ink in each silk screened copy inflects the expression on her face and the quality of the print: sometimes vivid, sometimes blurred…somehow casts this eternity in slow motion.

We ducked out to take the stairs down to the second floor and found a balcony that provided great views out into the city. The second floor wasn’t as much fun as what came before: “dog run” took up way too much real estate for its flimsy content and vague wit; however a lot of people, myself included, delighted in the big table and chairs installation. I couldn’t help but wonder if our sense of scale trumps our sense of smell for triggering memories.

Overall, the building is a manageable scale and provides a clear sense of orientation for the visitor - which I like in a museum. Navigating a building and pacing your visit and gaging your procession can easily compete with and distract from the subject at hand (my first visit to the Metropolitan for example). The building’s galleries are phrased around a service core and opens up to views to the north and south. By night, that south view offers glimpses into the museum from Wilshire. I also liked the diffusers in the floor. Traipsing through the galleries, the softest updraft of fresh air prompts you out of museum fatique - which is a very modest effect with BCAM.

We headed out for the coffee and cookie scene between buildings (BCAM/LACMA) (and now for something completely kitschy…) for a quick pick-me-up and then hoofed it over to catch the last open moments of LACMA’s galleries. We scratched the surface of an exhibit on German Expressionists which included some examples from the Bauhaus, Otto Wagner, Loos, another gallery with Picassos and I caught a Stella with a side glance over my left shoulder into a distant gallery as we were ushered out. I’m definitely going back.

 

Museum of (Jurassic Technology?)

John @ MJT entrance, 9 Feb. ‘08

Walking into the Museum of Jurassic Technology is like walking into a Terry Gilliam movie: collaged, quirky, and a bit incoherent. The difference, however, is that I liked the museum. Despite being a bit dog-eared with missing or out-of commission exhibits, the museum envelopes the visitor into its intimately scaled, dimly lit galleries and enchants with its lush layers of sound and visual tricks (mirrors and lenses bouncing light and overlaying reflections). I particularly liked the gallery of stereoradiographs. A series of flowers, rendered in a 3-dimensional, gossamer play of light -coalesced with a background of choral music playing in the gallery, the music somehow seemed to resonate with the pictures. I could almost see the flower’s petals flow and dissipate like tendrils of white smoke as if animated by the sounds.

The smell of scented candles upstairs lead us to a tea room -a room which vaguely reminded me of Saenredam’s paintings (minus the cathedral scale of course): white interior, vaulted ceiling, suffuse with sunlight. This space could use a little more polish though. The ceiling has patches of smoke stains (a previously-placed candle sconce?) and our table hadn’t been wiped off in a while.

The tea and cookies were just the right boost to absorb what the rest of the museum had to offer. We moved on to the theater to see a 45 minute film called Levsha: a Russian tale interwoven with the interview of a craftsman who creates micro-miniature works. By the end of the movie I was thinking, “…yeah, that’s about right…” - the way it caps the experience of the museum which I can best describe with a “huh?” I would very nearly suspect this film was directed by Mike Myers’ character from Saturday Night Live: Dieter - a german aesthete whose comment on surreal, disturbing, and non-sensical videos was: “gorgeous!” (said with an erudite, raised eyebrow).

Overall I felt like I was walking through someone’s house-sized curio cabinet. Forget the pomp and starchitecture of today’s museums. M.J.T. amuses, enchants, and, best of all, makes you go “huh?”

Museum of Jurassic Technology
9341 Venice Blvd.
Culver City, CA 90232
mjt.org

Recommendation: use the parking structures in downtown Culver City (first 2 hours free) and walk over to the museum (crossing Venice Blvd.); also, plenty of great restaurants in downtown Culver City all in walking distance.