Body of Work

When you apply for anything in the art world you have to submit a body of work. Since i haven't been in the art-making business long, my body of work—in any given subject/medium— is about a leg's worth, or arm, or maybe just a finger, not more than that. I don't have a body of work in the traditional sense, something that could perhaps say I'm pursuing a course, and I'm not sure if I'll ever have one. But I thought I'd put a few things that I've done lately out there, and once on the page, see if there's any connecting theme, anything resembling a body (or at least a torso) of work. I think not....but judge for yourself.

Face for sleeping giant at top of Mt. Washington

Caroline Mole Rat 

(naked, in sewer)

 Held Hostage....in Silverlake

 Lord Howe Island Stick Insect crawling up side of house

Wheatpasted Crow at pehrspace

 Oh, and I have to add this sunny photo 

of Maya with Craig and Gabe Matthews

(now there's some bodies of work!)

~~~~

My adorable, licky rat Blu died last week. Tom and I were very sad; she was such a good rat. She kept us clean. Now, we both want another rat, but there's a mourning period. We'll just have to wait. Until then, in her honor, you'll see from this post on, a change in the Rat's Nest. I've gone for a simple blogger format. Good-bye dots. Good-bye Blu, you good rat you.

 Blu

(Oct 2011-Oct 2013)

Along the Arroyo

There's a perfect little spot off Via Marisol in Highland Park, called Hermon Park, not more than ten minutes from my house, with lush lawns, a busy dog park, tennis courts and Art in the Park, home of the Lalo Guerrero School of music, run by the formidable Berta Sosa, a Mt. Washington neighbor. But best of all, and something I just discovered, is a way down into the Arroyo Seco, and onto the bike path. 

(You can't access the bike path at the pedestrian bridge, as Wikipedia claims, but further north, adjacent to the dog park. Watch out, sharp curve here!)

The Arroyo Seco is a stream that starts in the Angeles National Forest, makes its way down the mountain into La Canada Flintridge and Altadena, flowing underneath the Foothill Bridge, under the Colorado Bridge, then into a concrete flood control channel along the Pasadena Freeway, flowing southeast of Mt. Washington, past Hermon, Highland Park, Montecito Heights, Cypress Park, and ending at the LA River, near Elysian Park.

Whew. That's a busy stream, for such a meager trickle once it reaches L.A. But because it runs inside this wide, concrete channel, making the stream seem even more meager, there's plenty of room for biking.

The concrete walls are gray and ugly, but the ride itself is not, as you take the graceful curves and experience another world along the Arroyo. The other day, I rode past Montecito Heights, past my own exit, off the 110 freeway, then turned around and headed north for a mile or so, emerging near the San Pascual Stables in South Pasadena. 

Along the way I kept noticing chipped off indentations in the concrete banks, things that I'd otherwise not notice, save for the fact I'd just read cartoonist Lynda Barry's Picture This, a hard-to-describe illustrated book about the creative mind. She finds images in ink spots and stains on paper (Saul Steinberg found them in fingerprints!), augmenting them just a hair to make a monkey or a buffalo or any kind of  demented animal. And here they were in the Arroyo, chips that were life size, gouges formed by wind or water, or, perhaps, weak construction. 
 
I noticed this one in particular:

What does this look like to you?

A few days later, when it was almost dark, I came back with my partner in crime, Molly. We painted in the indentations:

  

Then I went to work stenciling what I had imagined: 

Africa and the island of Tazarat, Land of the Giant Rat!

(click to make larger)

It got darker and darker and I kept adding more rats, until it became a heavy migration. I'll call this one an experiment, not yet done. Of course there's no Tazarat, except in my mind, and on the digital pages titled "Voyage to Tazarat" in my computer. Now it exists on this wall, as well.

•••

For those of you who follow my other blog, Rat's Nest Comics, here's a new one called "Woman Seeking Treatment." Enjoy.

 

Poster War on the Hill

Most people wouldn't call the NE community of Mt. Washington, 10 min. from downtown LA, a suburb, but sometimes it feels like one, where nothing happens all day except people driving down the hill to work, and 9 hrs later, up again, children coming and going from school, dogs being lost and found, red-tailed hawks flying lazily overhead, moles popping through the earth like thumbs. It's quiet most of the days that aren't garbage days, or DWP days, or days gangs from HP drag race around the sharp bends on the hill. Most days nothing happens. Nothing at all.

Looking down from Mt. Washington:
Heidelberg Park, an 18-acre protected black walnut grove,

and Highland Park beyond

But that's not all days. On the leftover days that aren't dull, there's intrigue, which one wouldn't necessarily equate with the area. I'm not talking meth labs, or screaming spouses setting fire to their houses. No I'm talking about a little intrigue that's been going on on top of my hill, of which, ironically, or perhaps not so, I found myself involved.

A green sign for Heidelberg Park sits on top of the hill, and a few yards away, the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy display case that once housed an official poster, describing the flora and fauna in the park. After a virulent wind storm a year ago, the sign fell down and the poster was destroyed. The sign was resurrected, but the display case sat empty for almost a year. 

 empty display case

One day, walking by, I noticed a sepia-hued poster with a drawing of a dirt mound, and inside, the history of "Mound Washington." The author, in perfectly articulated seriousness, explained how Mt. Washington (Mound Washington) was built on top of a garbage heap, part of the city's waste disposal system. It was no hack job; indeed, it was very professional. A few months later, the poster was gone. 

Jump 6 months ahead. 

One night, I pried open the empty display case and cleaned out the remains of the "mound" poster and wiped down the plexiglass, and that weekend, I invited some friends over to help me (cover for me) as I placed a new poster inside the display case. 

Poster

(click to enlarge)

Inside SMMC display case

My poster (which I replaced soon after with a copy) sat for perhaps a week, when, one morning, I noticed the original text had been pasted over with the "Mound Washington" text. It was again a very professional job. The same font, the same paint job as my poster, only the words were different. I'd touched a nerve when I said, "Contrary to popular belief," Mt. Washington wasn't a garbage heap. The new poster said that, "in complete accordance with popular belief, Mt. Washington is artificially, constructed from discarded materials, thus earning the nickname, Mound Washington." A poster war was on!

Of course, I had to retaliate. What caught my eye, and was most impressive, was the fictitious Hugh Washington the author said was responsible for Heidelberg Park. I responded with an expanded version, which I put in the display case over the weekend, addressing the mound issue, and stating that it was Lillian Washington, not Hugh, that was an early champion of the park, as Hugh had been crushed by a horse and carriage.

And so now I wait patiently to see how and when my opponent will strike again. He/she too has to go into the display case unseen, do the pasting, the painting, the sitting at the computer hammering out his/her cause. I expect surprises from this opponent, as I believe he/she has a superior grasp of the absurd. Naturally, I wish him/her well. If you are out there reading this, may the best Mt. Washingtonian win! 

 Waiting for my opponent

• •• •

Here is full text of posters:

Original Text:

You are looking out over beautiful Heidelberg Park, located in the northeast neighborhood of Mt. Washington. In 2003, Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy dedicated this 18-actre canyon as protected parkland. One of the finest examples of black walnut groves in Southern CA, it supports over 100 bird species, large packs of coyotes, raccoons, possums, lizards, rats, moles and other creatures living underground.

Mt. Washington sits at 940 ft. above sea level and was once part of the Rancho San Rafael, population: 15,000 sheep. Today, the area's diverse population champions natural habitat over urban expansion, protecting countless acres from futhur development. Contrary to popular belief, Mt. Washington does not sit on a mound of garbage (Mound Washington), but atop a complex geological system known as the Puente Formation of Rocks, dating back millions of years. 

Replaced "mound" text: 

Mt. Washington sits at 940 ft. above sea level and was once part of the flat, tarry expanse that divided east Los Angeles. The landscape began to transform in 1913, when scrap from the city's overburdened waste and septic disposal systems was used to stabilize the tarry surface into earth suitable for construction. And so, in complete accordance with popular belief, Mt. Washington is artificially, constructed from discarded materials, thus earning the nickname, "Mound Washington."

You are now looking over beautiful Heidelberg Park. When Construction of Mt. Washington was completed in 1917, the park was opened to much fanfare and ceremony, in hopes of convincing naysayers that the mound was now indeed suitable for residential use. In the words of the mound's original visionary Hugh Washington, "To foster their dreams, it is crucial to give children a special place; [the park] serves that purpose."


New text (inserted over weekend):

You are looking out over beautiful Heidelberg Park, which was designated a significant Juglans californica var californica (native black walnut) woodlands and protected parkland by the Santa Monica Mts Conservancy in 2003. One of the park's earliest champions, Miss Lillian Washington [1895-1977] said of the area, "[it is] the finest example of urban wildlife found anywhere west of the Arroyo Secco basin." Enjoy!

At 940 ft. above sea leavel, Mt. Washington is part of the Puente Formation, composed of plutonic, volcanic and metamorphic rocks that make up the slopes of northeast Los Angeles. Contrary to popular opinion, it was Lillian, not her husband, Gen. Hugh Washington, who laid by hand the narrow highways and byways, which brought accessibility to the area after Hugh was crushed by a horse and carriage on the dirt road known as present-day San Rafael Ave.

Animals in the 'hood

My next door neighbor continues to feed the skunks and possums, there's chickens in these them hills, and strange reindeer have been spotted, but I'm thinking differently about wildlife these days. Instead of this highfalutin attitude of "undisturbed in nature," I say, "Welcome, all ye animals to the 'hood."

The regulars at Thea's

Old possum with skunk friend

Mt. Washington Chicken

This fine specimen was just sitting there, not moving a muscle...

I mean who am I to talk? I have rats for pets. 


The Rat's Nest would like to introduce its readers to its two newest members—Blu and Lily.

 Blu is blue

Lily is shy

I haven't had pets for awhile, or been responsible for anything livelier than a house plant. I hope I'm up for the task. These rats are wild little things; I've got to keep an eye on them or they'll disappear down a hole or out the door. They're hard to capture...by hand or in a photograph:

But it's nice to have rats for the Rat's Nest again. They can always be counted on for some good laughs and bringing new life to this old blog. More to come. 

(P.S. In case you're wondering, Lily and Blu are kept in a cage, but they get out to play a few times a day...)

Cherish

In high school, Ricky Julliard, the only bona fide genius of our class, sat me down one day and taught me the theory of relativity, or at least what I could understand of it. What stuck with me was how he described energy—that energy couldn't be destroyed: once released, it moves on in different guises. We were talking about nuclear fusion, not death, but I've thought of Ricky often whenever I ponder where the essence of a person goes after he or she dies. For instance, my mother, where did her sweet nature go? For a non-believer, I find myself bypassing the more reverent explanations, say, God and heaven and all that rigmarole in which I find myself unsure. I'd like to think that Ricky was right, that energy moves on and informs us in different ways, and thus, a life that might have been cut short is still alive, in one form or another.


When Keith Rohman talked at his son Jack's memorial service, of how he had believed with all his heart that Jack would do something to change the world, and now that will not be, I wanted to cry out: but wait, he will, he has, he already has. I believe that; even though I didn't know Jack in recent years, from what Maya and her friends—amazing, cosmic kids up here on Mt. Washington and beyond—say, Jack's wit and humor, his intelligence and kindness, have changed their lives forever.


Keith appealed to all of Jack's friends to honor him: "Cherish your lives, cherish your friends, cherish your families," he told the young people gathered there, "Do not think there was anything you could have done." His call reached hundreds of those at the memorial who loved Jack and will continue to ring out among us here.

Sam says yes to friends.

She rides the lion—at least it's not a car

As I was trudging up the hill to my house today, I had the illogical expectation that someone would pass by and give me a ride, the same expectation I used to have as a kid of five, hoping someone in a big limousine would drive by and adopt me. It's similar to the childlike and illogical expectation I have now hoping that someone—Obama? Tony what's his name? Steven Chu?— will make the oil spill go away and the environment, the sea turtles, the birds, the marshes, be okay again.

Meanwhile, I still keep driving. But today, I walked. I headed down to Highland Park—the northeast community below Mt. Washington—because my husband's going out of town for a week with the camera and I needed to load up on pictures. I hadn't expected to walk so far—my goal was the art gallery down by the railroad tracks.

But after I got there I kept on walking and ran into a guy at the burger stand on Figueroa. His name was David, the same as my brother.

 

 David from the San Fernando Valley in Highland Park, looking for trouble?

David my brother in India, looking for Nirvana?

 (photo credit: unknown)

This David, from the Valley, was on a job; when I told him I'd put his picture on my blog, he asked, "What's that?"  He'd never heard of "blogs" or done email, and didn't know how to get around a computer. When I told him he could get a Pell grant to study computers, like at the school where I teach for instance, he scoffed; he'd learn the computer on his own, little by little, he said. It dawned on me that Highland Park, although only a few blocks from home, is another hood altogether—one where I'd be prudent to keep my illogical expectations to myself.

By the time I'd finished walking I was almost two miles out—the way back, mostly up hill. Now where's that ride? 

Some shots of Highland Park, day and night:

Ruby at Society of the Spectacle on York Ave.

The Shop at Ave. 50th and Fig

Hand display at Time Nails

Torres Barber Shop

El Takitaco parked near Food-4-Less on Fig.

(More photos are on my fb page under "Highland Park" Album)

~~~

Lately, I've been admiring those stalwart National Geographic Society photographers; you know the ones, the men and women who sit in wait for hours, days, weeks, for certain animals to show up. That's how it's been in our back yard for the past week, waiting for the baby coyotes to appear. I was beginning to think I'd hallucinated seeing two of them, and then I saw one crossing below our house at sunset: he hurried along the path, and then out of nowhere, another baby coyote came to greet him, just like that! They leapt at each other with their over-sized baby mitten paws and quickly disappeared together under the brush. Needless to say, I didn't get a picture.

Soon after, I heard a rustling in the bushes from the same direction where the first coyote had emerged...

A big fat skunk came waddling by, right under my nose, timing its sojourn just right. Fatso was on its way to Thea's, my next door neighbor, to chow down on the cat food she leaves out for the neighborhood strays (which—is it just my imagination?—have been diminishing in number). I hope the baby coyotes don't get wind of that food. Like all wild things, they'll need to stay clear of humans if they're going to survive.

The subject of Steve

Steve is passionate about Hemingway, but his wife Vivian is too tired after work to show much interest in literature. When they joined my class a few months ago, I noticed something was wrong with Steve, the way he stared down at his workbook, his head stuck in one position, not moving. Vivian was always helping him, like you'd do a young boy at his homework, which was pretty annoying, especially when she told him the answers. The last time I called him up to the board, he wrote the word "enchanted" in giant, erratic letters, as if he himself were under some kind of spell.

He reminded me of my friend Estelle Carlson's husband in his last years, struggling with Parkinson's. At the same time, Estelle had been diagnosed with ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease). She'd been my son's second grade teacher, an artist, weaver, designer, world traveler. I always blamed what happened to her (and to him, too) on the DWP electrical towers situated directly across from their house. Numerous articles have examined how radiation from EMFs can be harmful to those in close proximity, but it's one of those things impossible to prove. Walking by Estelle's old house on top of Mt. Washington, I'm struck by how much those towers dominate the skyline.

DWP electrical towers on top of Mt. Washington

During oral exams at school, Vivian was her usual convivial self, answering all the questions correctly, in proper grammatical English. We somehow got on the subject of Steve and she covered her mouth, like some women do when they laugh, but she wasn't laughing. She told me Steve was sick with Parkinson's. She blamed it on the chemicals he'd used in his silk screening business. She had to do everything for him now. Medicare only covered the cheap meds, which weren't effective, and she dreaded the day he'd lose his memory altogether. I sat there in my teacher's chair not knowing what to do, thinking, I could never do what she's doing. The next evening it all made sense. I was more attentive this time, helping Steve with the answers to give his wife a rest.

Steve and Vivian