So many shows, so little time; always the problem in this compact column, but as this one’s my last, which to choose? Nathan Slate Joseph’s exquisite cloisonnes of rust at Sundaram Tagore? H. K. Zamani’s meditations on geodesic tents at Solway Jones? Pat O’Neill’s intoxicating blend of visionary film and absurdly logical woodcraft at Rosamund Felsen? Fellow film-artist Robert Nelson’s photos of the vertiginously ordinary at Another Year in LA? Thomas Pathe’s seductive monochrome surfaces at Bachofner? D.J. Hall’s hyper-realist California girls-of-a-certain-age at Koplin del Rio? Robert Rauschenberg’s last prints at Greenfield-Sacks? Lawrence Gipe’s painterly nods to modernist hope and glory, or Bruce Houston’s miniature send-ups of art-historical tropes, at Lora Schlesinger? The daft cartoon drawings Joe Clower did almost 30 years ago at Cardwell Jimmerson? How about years of Jirayr Zorthian’s artistic dialogue with Richard Feynman, on view at the Armory? Or Steve Roden’s latest excursions into visualizing sound at Vielmetter? More deliciously funky mega-objects by Kristin Morgin at Marc Selwyn? Or simply delicious micro-objects by Robert Graham at Frank Lloyd? Perhaps Lewis Baltz’s “sites of technology,” caught on film two decades ago, at Luisotti? Or Hyoung Tae Lim’s ironically titled “My Name is Korea” photos of dissolute young Seoul brothers at Sara Lee? Well, all of the above.
And, then, the survey of contemporary art from India at Western Project and d.e.n. contemporary is a must-see, as is the survey of abstract tendencies in Latino art at Pharmaka — and as are David Amico’s new paintings at ACE in Beverly Hills, the 1970s canvases of New York abstract expressionist painter James Brooks at Silverman, and the retrospective of post-ab-exer Al Held down at Cal State Long Beach’s museum. For starters. But art life in this town has been crowded and scattered and wildly varied for longer than I’ve been writing for the Weekly, and will continue to get more and more so. And, thus, I’m not leaving the art world, I’m not leaving Los Angeles, I’m only leaving the paper — indeed, for another position that will keep me plugged into this ever-addicting delirium ever more closely, and will allow me to help breed others who can cover a scene in ever greater need of commentators. Who knows, the tyro I edit today could be writing here tomorrow. Just as it should be. Thanks, Weekly family and friends, for a long one.
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