Art Los Angeles Contemporary, like any other annual or biennial event, feels like some weird version of Brigadoon — a cursed village that appears briefly, and then disappears, doomed to return in more or less the same form, like, forever.
OK well actually this year ALAC wasn’t as cursed as it was last year, when it was at the Pacific Design Center; that was a true clusterfuck. I don’t know if it was just because I went on a rainy Sunday, or if there were actual improvements, but it really felt much calmer and less psychologically draining than last year. That seems to be the consensus. Whatever the case, it’s still basically a horrible way to try and look at art. I mean, openings are bad enough, but this is like… several dozen simultaneous openings, all happening in the same room. Maybe my opinion would be different if I were a collector on a mission to acquire things, but… probably not.
Speaking of horrible things on the Westside, if you ever have to go to Culver City, say, for an opening or something, and you need to have alcohol before, during or after, certainly don’t go to the Mandrake. They don’t seem to know how to make drinks there. Father’s Office, while totally repellant in many ways, made a fair old fashioned. Just be sure to ask them to go light on the simple syrup; they succumb to a disturbing trend that’s following (or perhaps responsible) for my favorite cocktail’s continuing rise in popularity, they tend to put way too much sugar in the drink. Well, at least they didn’t insist they couldn’t make it due to a lack of maraschino liqueur (?!), and instead serving some horrific concoction primarily made of vermouth, as happened to me somewhat recently at a certain Mexican restaurant-cum-nightclub that I won’t name. The fries were delicious, though made slightly less appetizing by the oysters I was watching friends drunkenly guzzle down, with exclamations that they were “sooooo good”. Yuck.