Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

After visiting the MOCA and seeing the Geffen, I was exhausted and hungry, but my learning to love LA journey was far from over. As I left the Geffen, I spotted the National Center for the Preservation of Democracy, and I loved the picture in the window. In my opinion, it qualifies as art. The artist who created the poster seemed inspired by Barbara Kruger’s style.

Right next door, I discovered one of the most beautiful Buddhist temples that I have ever seen—not that I am Buddhist or spent my spare time in temples. However, the ornate architecture of the historic Nishi Hongwanji Buddhist temple would inspire even the most devout atheist. This temple was the first home of the Japanese American National Museum, which moved to an 85,000-square-foot pavilion across from the temple in 1999. Many years ago, my husband and I saw the most amazing exhibit there titled September 11: Bearing Witness to History. One of the most difficult, yet moving, experiences was listening to recordings of the passengers on United Airlines Flight 93 when they realized that terrorists had hijacked the plane. The ensuing madness that followed—scuffling, shouting, screaming, praying, and the good-byes—brought tears to my eyes.

Still starving, I stumbled around Little Tokyo determined to find some food. I figured anything was better than the greasy sandwich from EJ’s Grill that I had refused to eat for lunch. I chose Daikokuya because it was one of the few restaurants already open for dinner. When I walked in, I saw that I was the only non-Japanese person in the entire place, which I took as a good sign that my meal would be terrific. I ordered shrimp and vegetable tempura, which came with miso soup, salad, and white rice. I drank the tastiest iced green tea. The entire dinner cost me $14 including tip, and I couldn’t even finish it because I was too full. I highly recommend Daikokuya for its excellent food, good service, and low prices.

As I made my way back to the Metro, I thought about my day. I had done everything that I would do in a different city: I rode public transportation, I occasionally got lost, I visited art museums, I discovered interesting artists, I ate at unfamiliar restaurants, and I walked everywhere. Since I was in the midst of EMAO, I wore a pedometer all day, and I logged 4.95 miles in my Skechers Shape-Ups. At various times, I was tired, cold, or hungry—issues that always occur when I am excited in new surroundings.*

Overall, I consider the day successful. Including food, transportation, and museum fees, I spent a grand total of $23.25. The day was cheap by LA standards although I confess that I used my graduate student ID to receive $5 off the museum admission price. The only thing that burst my renewed love for LA was seeing a junkie on the train. I watched this skinny young man in his dirty, torn jeans and once-upon-a-time white t-shirt. He nervously looked around, dipped his finger into a “pack of cigarettes” and then rubbed his nose with white dust. His eyes darted and I knew staring directly at him was probably a bad idea so I looked over his shoulder. He was trying to be inconspicuous, but it’s hard to miss a twitching addict shoving cocaine up his nose in public.

I sighed as the reality of LA smacked me in the face. I realize addicts are everywhere, but I naively imagine that they hide in the shadows in small towns. Perhaps I am wrong. I was so preoccupied observing the cokehead that I took the wrong train. I had to double-back on the purple line to get back to the red line to return home. When I exited the North Hollywood Metro Station and saw the Amelia Earhart mural, I smiled. Last flight indeed.

I will never love the Land of Angels the way I used to in my youth. One day I will leave … I will take that last flight … and when I return, I will be a visitor. Only then will I once again appreciate Los Angeles for everything it has to offer … because I will no longer live here.

AWW — XoXo

*As long as exhaustion, coldness, and hunger don’t happen at the same time, it’s all good. However, when the triple threat occurs, I become Mrs. Hyde and frighten people.

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I apologize for taking too long to complete the Learning to Love LA (again) series that I started on April 21. I have so many blog ideas that I often get distracted, but I’m determined to finish the last two posts because I love art and because I need to love LA again. For a reminder of where I last left off, I recommend reading Part Three—Visiting the MOCA.

I didn’t know it when I planned my excursion, but apparently when you buy a ticket to the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), you receive free admission to The Geffen Contemporary. A DASH ride away, the Geffen includes pieces from MOCA’s permanent collection as well as touring exhibitions. Of course, I was there to see the Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years. I have selected some of my favorite pieces as well as my least favorite for your reading and viewing pleasure.

I was immediately drawn to Richard Hawkins‘ Disembodied Zombie Skeet Pink. The inkjet print transforms actor Skeet Ulrich into multiple dimensions, as the piece has a 3-D feel to it. What I like most about Skeet Pink is that it seems like an odd representation of me and my sister Adrienne. At first glance, it appears dark, edgy, mysterious, but if you look closer, you will discover the playfulness, the sensitivity, the woe. When I turned my back, I could feel Skeet’s empty eyes following me.

Barbara Kruger’s Untitled (It’s a small world but not if you have to clean it) is pop art at its best. At 143 x 103 inches, this photographic silkscreen on vinyl covers an entire wall; it’s impossible to miss. With the magnifying glass held against her eye, the woman seems to stare directly at you and the message seems specifically for you. With “small” and “world” in a much larger font and the half-opened smile, you sense Kruger’s intended irony. Even the title—Untitled—with the real title in parentheses mocks you, but I love it when art and the artist make me laugh.

Jean-Michel Basquiat’s Six Crimee, a 72 x 144-inch acrylic and oil stick on masonite piece, scares me. When I first saw the green imagery with black scrawls that resemble people, I thought—Basquiat looked into my brain and captured my nightmares. The numbers and lines and halos made me shudder. You know how there are certain words that always have a negative connotation? Well, I think the same idea holds true in art. Six Crimee is cold, empty, grim, and frightening. I don’t like it, but I kept going back to see the dark side of my dreams.

Initially, John Baldessari’s Two Highrises (with Disruptions)/ Two Witnesses (Red and Green) appears to be an odd tribute to the terrorist attacks on 9/11—except that he created this 98 x 68-inch piece in 1990. Composed of color photographs and vinyl paint, Two Highrises/Two Witnesses forces you to think about the situation. Where are the people standing? Are they watching the event happen in front of them? Why are their faces blocked out? If red means stop and green means go, what does that say about the two highrises that explode into flames? I don’t have any of the answers, but I enjoy art that makes me question the world around me.

My nomination for the worst piece of “art” in MOCA’s collection (far worse than Cy Twombly) goes to Thomas Hirschhorn’s Non-Lieux (meaning non-site or non-places). Hirschhorn says, “I don’t make political art; I make art politically.” Well, I say he makes crap. Unlike the Baldessari piece, this mountain of candle wax (didn’t my friend make this “art” in college?) complete with a photographic collage and flags bearing the word democracy is a tribute to 9/11, and I’m sure it took a long time to finish. However, as I used to tell my students, you are not graded on effort, you earn your score based on your work. Despite Hirschhorn’s attempt to visually capture the various facets of the aftermath of 9/11, he gets an “F” in my book.

To see more artists and their works, I recommend viewing my MOCA Picasa Web album.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Five—Ending the Day is coming soon! (No seriously, it is.)

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I need to stop taking Facebook quizzes. I’ve cut way back on this addictive habit, but recently, I couldn’t resist finding out “What is your Spirit Animal?” My friend is an owl: analytical, keen, and perceptive. What a perfect fit I thought to myself, this quiz must be accurate. I had to take it.

I wanted to be a big cat such as a lion or a tiger. Strong, fast, beautiful. But no … my spirit animal is a Bear. I figured there was a mistake so I retook the quiz and received the same conclusion. I am a Bear. “You are happiest when you are leading the charge.” (In real life, who follows bears?) I sighed and kept reading. “Whenever something needs to get done you always find yourself in charge, either through your own will or through others seeking you out.”

A sick feeling crept into my stomach. I am always in charge of almost everything in my life. From being a teacher to organizing social events, I do try to “lead with courage and integrity” and my “confidence and charisma cause people to gravitate” toward me. Here’s the problem: I don’t want to be a bear anymore.

There was no one particular thing that made me feel like stepping down from leading others in my life. A series of events occurred that caused me to shout, “No more. I am done. Screw being a bear!”

I no longer want to teach, a shame since one of the reasons I obtained my master’s degree was to be able to teach college. However, after a student committed plagiarism twice in the same term in my freshman writing class, I resigned. Even though I proved the plagiarism, the student only received a slap on the wrist; the offense is not going on her permanent student record. I cannot put up with the politics that come with both private and public education at every level.

I no longer want to allow new people in my life. Although most of my close (aka speed-dial) friends live far away and I am very lonely these days, I cannot risk getting to know strangers. Despite my outgoing personality, I keep most people at a distance. (We bears may seem sociable, but we are “the most solitary of all carnivores.”) For example, if you ask me how I am doing and I change the subject, then I am severely depressed and/or I don’t trust you enough to reveal my inner demons. After losing numerous friends after my sister Adrienne died, I concluded that people prefer my alter ego—happy, confident, friendly, funny Andrea—the Lucille Ball of every gathering. When a friend dumped me this past April after three years of what I thought was a wonderful relationship, I decided the third pig had it right: forget straw and sticks, I am building a wall of bricks around my heart.

I no longer want to plan events—not that I do this occupation professionally, but I organized my 20-year high school reunion from 2,000 miles away. The reunion consisted of five classes since my high school was so small. I spent 11 months of my life on this project, and I don’t regret a minute of it.

However, when a friend of 24 years flaked on her duties as both the co-chair and her class representative without ever calling or emailing me to explain why, the disappointment gnawed at me throughout the reunion weekend. Taking over her responsibilities less than two months prior to the reunion was overwhelming, but she didn’t leave me a choice. I resent her for adding to my increasing workload and for not bothering to explain her actions.

I no longer want to speak to seriously ill people. As president of my nonprofit Blue Faery, I often receive emails and phone calls from liver cancer patients seeking information. I listen to their stories and guide them as best I can. I used to love to help people in this capacity until I became emotionally attached to a patient who died this past July after her second battle with liver cancer. Even though she survived much longer than my sister did, this patient’s death brought back painful memories of Adrienne’s last days of fighting for her life. How can I offer hope when there is still no cure for liver cancer? How can I comfort individuals who will most likely die?

I no longer want to live in Los Angeles. If you read my blog, my dislike of LA is well known. I have lived here 20 years, and I must leave this toxic environment. I have only stayed because my husband, who works in the entertainment industry, did not think he could find employment anywhere else … until he received a job offer in Detroit! So now he is there and I am here, and we are apart from each other. I considered moving to one of the “Most miserable cities in America” but we would end up back here anyway after his job ends.

After seeing me cry off and on for several hours last month, my wise owl friend said, “You give so much to everyone else that there’s nothing left for you.” Other people have said the same thing to me in different ways, but I didn’t hear it until my beautiful owl spoke the simple truth.

Now my least favorite word in the English language—no—is becoming my new mantra: “No, I cannot teach needy students, make new friends, plan any events, or hear sad stories.” Unfortunately, I am stuck in Los Angeles for the time being; however, I have an idea. Most bears hibernate, and the period of time depends on where they live. Considering I live in a warmer climate, I think I can get away with three months or so. Hopefully longer.

The quiz warns that, “A prideful bear is a lonely bear” and I am proud when my efforts at any endeavor garner favorable results. However, I would argue that I stepping back from responsibility requires a certain amount of concession of pride. After all, while I am in hibernation, I cannot predict what will happen, but I’m sure the world will get on just fine without me.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. After I wrote this blog, I discovered that my job assigned me five students to tutor this fall when I was only supposed to receive three. YIKES! My hibernation in this respect will be temporarily delayed.

UPDATE (9/17/10): After receiving valuable advice via blog comments, personal emails, telephone calls, and doctor’s orders, I decided to listen. I am no longer teaching; it is simply not in my best interest at this time.

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I have a confession to make: I like modern art. Not all of it, but more so than most people I know. Even my sister Adrienne thought that the sculptures scattered around downtown Los Angeles were pretentious, ridiculous and a waste of public funds. I’m not fond of many of those sculptures either, but I prefer paintings anyway. To me, art is subjective. Perhaps Shakespeare said it best, “Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye, not utter’d by base sale of chapmen’s tongues.”

One of my favorite pieces of art Blue Clamp by Jim Dine is on display at the San Francisco Modern Museum of Art. I have a print hanging in my office, but it doesn’t move me as much as seeing the three-dimensional work in person. The blue clamp projects outward from the painting, and to me it suggests how delicate our hearts are, how the clamp holds this particular heart in place, how in one quick motion someone could pull out the clamp and the heart would break. A large blue clamp does not hold my heart together, but I often feel that it is bound by a thick rope tied in numerous knots, which keep me safe and to some degree—sane.

With so many artists and works to choose from, I find it difficult to only select a few for my blog; therefore, I recommend viewing my MOCA Picasa Web album to see more art from this impressive collection or visiting the exhibition Collection: MOCA’s First Thirty Years online at the Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA).

Cuban artist Ana Mendieta has several works on display in MOCA’s permanent collection. Although I am not fond of some of her performance art, I stared at her series Silueta Works in Mexico, an examination of death and how the body becomes one with the earth.

I thoroughly enjoyed James Rosenquist’s Vestigial Appendage. The painting covers one entire wall at the museum, and I wish I could explain why I am so attracted to it. Rosenquist’s ability to capture sex, beauty, capitalism, and American pop culture using brilliant colors and unusual positioning is just breathtaking.

I am also a fan of Wallace Berman’s photography—especially his Black Piece and Silence series. Here is a close-up view of one small part of Black Piece #2 or #3 (I cannot remember).

Stepping into Doug Wheeler’s RM 669 is like walking into a peaceful fog. He states, “I make things that you experience and then it’s in your mind,” and indeed he accomplishes that goal with this sensory illusion of stepping into another dimension. I have heard critics say that modern art should be “an experience.” If that is true, than Wheeler is one of the best modern artists of his time; however, you cannot hang his work in your home.

Of all of the modern art that I saw/experienced, my least favorite artist is Cy Twombly.
Honestly, I do not get the point of his “art.” Anything that looks like something a kindergartener could scribble on a chalkboard is a waste of space. In addition to this Untitled piece, I recently saw another Twombly work at LACMA, and it looked exactly the same.

You may not agree with my comments, but isn’t that the point of art? To discuss, argue, learn, like, love, and remind all of us that there is some beauty in this ugly world even if we define “beauty” differently.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Four—Seeing the Geffen is coming soon!

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I have no sense of direction, but luckily, downtown Los Angeles is laid out on a grid system. Numbered streets run east and west while named streets run north and south. I often confuse the order of the named streets (e.g., Hope, Grand, Flower) so I definitely walked the longest way possible as I left Pershing Square (A) to find the Museum of Contemporary Art (B). I reminded myself that getting lost in a “new” city is exactly the point of being a tourist.

For example, I immediately stumbled upon LA’s Grand Central Market, which is a huge place full of restaurants and fresh-food stands. Since I had forgotten to eat, I decided to try EJ’s Grill. Initially, I wanted a slice of pizza, but against my better judgment, I opted for the chicken pita sandwich. Trying new food is part of the journey—right? Well, the “sandwich” was disgusting: dark-meat chicken mostly covered in fat swimming in three tablespoons of mayonnaise with one shred of lettuce. I gagged after one bite. I returned the food and got my money back.

Satisfied that I didn’t have to pay for a crappy meal, I vowed to eat somewhere else at the end of the day. With the taste of fat and mayo still clinging to my tongue, I searched in my purse for some gum. No luck. I could have stopped and bought a pack, but I didn’t want to waste anymore time.
Determined to get to the museum, I moved on still trying to figure out the best way to reach MOCA, which sits on Grand Avenue above an overpass.

I soon found myself walking through the 3rd Street Tunnel, which is practically underneath MOCA. I’m sure I have driven through it before, but being on foot was a new experience. Despite the cars zooming past me, the tunnel was quiet. Too quiet. The smell of exhaust filled my nostrils. Graffiti covers the sidewalk. One particular scrawl caught my eye, and I thought how it was similar to some of the modern art that I’ve seen in the past. I couldn’t resist taking a picture.

I exited the tunnel and began a short climb. My thighs began burning. My Skechers Shape-Ups are working. Soon, I saw Walt Disney Concert Hall, a place where I have seen many shows. I watched as tourists took pictures of what has become one of the ugliest, yet best known, buildings in Los Angeles. Despite architect Frank Gehry’s tacky exterior design, Yasuhisa Toyota’s acoustics are to die for. I highly recommend seeing a concert here—just close your eyes and listen.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Learning to Love LA (again): Part Three—Visiting the MOCA is coming soon!

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