Thinkspace before you speak | art by Brian Mashburn & Casey Weldon

What world do you live in? Does it feel like this?

BrianMashburn_4

BrianMashburn_5

BrianMashburn_8

BrianMashburn_6

BrianMashburn_7

BrianMashburn_3

That’s the world of artist Brian Mashburn whose work, according to his website, “is drawn from everyday observations as well as an interest in history, natural science, and philosophy. The heavy mists of Appalachia and smog of southeastern China and Hong Kong further inform his foggy aesthetic.” He lives in Asheville, North Carolina.

I found this world when I visited Thinkspace Gallery in Culver City on April 29 this year. So if this is your world, I love it. Just please take some Vitamin D supplements. I returned to Thinkspace on June 3 and found another world. Maybe this is yours. Take a look:

CaseyWeldon_1

CaseyWeldon_3

CaseyWeldon_4

CaseyWeldon_2

If this is your world, it’s a curious one, which can only explain why so many feline species are in it. Casey Weldon created this world. He graduated from the Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, CA and opened a studio in Las Vegas. Now he’s in Brooklyn, New York.

Maybe neither is your world. And hey, that’s fine by us. You can create your own or you can find one. We happened to have made one of magic and mystery. Maybe you’re a character in one of the five stories. They haven’t revealed their names yet.

— E.K. from Silver Lake, Los Angeles

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.

A man wearing a loincloth with magical energy centers glowing along his body; the four classical elements of alchemy are diagrammed on the right

The Art of Alchemy disappears in 3 days

We’re artists. We’re alchemists. We’re magicians. Playing drinking games with the elixir of life. Designing slingshots for the philosopher’s stone. Maybe you saw us walking through downtown LA on Saturday, January 21 for the Women’s March, or peering at medieval manuscripts at The Art of Alchemy, now on view at the Getty Center until February 12. The mind of separation says these two events are different — marching for equality and human rights vs. strolling through a museum exhibition. Mysticism says that they are not, that even you and the multiverse are the same.

img_0598

Does this mean in essence you are only doing one thing your entire life? We would say yes. You are living. But that is not for us to say — for you. You can answer that yourself. The questions keep us going, as they did for the alchemists of Europe, Egypt, and Asia who the Getty Research Institute says were driven “to transform and bend nature to the will of an industrious human imagination. For scientists, philosophers, and artists alike, alchemy seemed to hold the key to unlocking the secrets of creation.”

You have three days to see their written and illustrated works at the Getty Research Institute, if not for these philosophical concerns then simply for their art. You don’t need a background in art history, alchemy, anything. You just need to keep asking questions.

That’s the only thing we ask of you.

For now.

— Q.D. from Culver City

fullsizerender-4

fullsizerender-3

fullsizerender-2

fullsizerender-5

fullsizerender-6

fullsizerender-7

13_1024_alc073

theartofalchemy

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om
We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.

not her art gallery, not anymore

“That’s her favorite art gallery—I’m not going there anymore,” I’d tell myself despite Corey Helford Gallery exhibiting artists I enjoy like Billy Norrby, Camille Rose Garcia, Herakut, Silvia Ji, and Martin Wittfooth.

I said that for a long time. I wouldn’t even drive within half a mile of her West L.A. apartment after our breakup. And she lived on Venice Blvd. Magnetic repulsion made Washington Blvd my best friend for a while.

Two weeks ago, I told myself, “that was her favorite gallery—and it still could be—but I want to go again,” because Martin Wittfooth was presenting his new series The Archaic Revival and I’d never seen his paintings in person. I’d seen scanned images online, shrunken to display on my computer and my phone. I wanted to view his oil paintings in four dimensions, in real time, in an environment I could inhabit. And I wanted to be free of the mythology that Corey Helford Gallery was hers somehow, when it was for anyone curious about pop surrealist, low brow, street and contemporary art.

fullsizerender_6

fullsizerender_4

fullsizerender_8

fullsizerender_5

I brought F.A. who lived through the mystery, You have until Friday

fullsizerender_3fullsizerender_6

fullsizerender_5

fullsizerender_7

fullsizerender

“Herald,” my favorite piece

fullsizerender

— Q.D. from Culver City, CA

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.

a clean confession about Tarfest

tarfest

Saber-toothed cats, dire wolves, and mammoths did not go to Tarfest 40,000 years ago even though they were in the neighborhood. Tarfest only had its 14th annual celebration of music and art this past Saturday.

Accompanied by F.A. who wrote the first-person account, you have until Friday, I attended to support the galleries LAUNCH LA and KP Projects.

Support did not mean we bought art, because as artists, writers, musicians, photographers we can also support the aforementioned galleries by simply being there. “My presence is my contribution,” a mindfulness instructor once shared with me. And I have found it to be true in any situation. In the context of art and art institutions, that has been my continuing contribution—to show up and view the art in person, and also to show up to the opening reception and meet the artists.

Over the years, my contribution took other forms such as arts journalism or blogging about art (as I am doing now) and also sharing art I love on social media, so that others can glimpse why I might be drawn to a piece—”glimpse” being a deliberate word choice as no one can really “see” art online and feel the full power, texture, and scope of the creation. There are ridges of paint that get flattened when digitized. There are colors that wake up only when bathed in daylight or the lighting in a gallery. There are pieces of art that can dwarf an iPhone or a computer screen. No, online only a JPEG can be seen, not the art itself—which was all the more reason we visited the tents with curated art by KP Projects, formerly Merry Karnowsky Gallery.

fullsizerender_2fullsizerender_1

I’ve been visiting and writing about Merry’s gallery for years so I recognized art by Tara McPherson, Shepard Fairey, Victor Castillo, Mark Whalen, Greg ‘Craola’ Simkins. What I wasn’t familiar with was another Tarfest sponsor, NOMAD: “a printmaking studio and art compound located north of Echo Park in Frogtown. Its vision is to serve the community as a catalyst for creative collaboration and offers space for filming, photo shoots, workshops and special events that does screen printing.”

fullsizerender_3fullsizerender-1

The music stage featured guests chosen by Kevin Bronson of Buzz Bands LA: Dear Boy (headliner), Durand Jones & The Indications, Brit Manor, BRAEVES. Dublab also provided DJ sets from Ale, Mitchell Brown, T- Kay, Slayron, Seano.

fullsizerender

Dance performances by Clairobscur Dance Company, Move The World Dance Activism, and the DIAVOLO Institute happened before F.A. and I arrived, but we had witnessed the kinetic storytelling of DIAVOLO before at Mariachi Plaza in Boyle Heights and the Mimoda Dance Studio.

I also missed James Panozzo of LAUNCH LA that organizes Tarfest every year and “believes exposure to the arts enhances quality of life and strengthens community through the shared appreciation of creative expression in all its forms and hybrids.” After talking to him at many events, I can tell you he is just as inviting as the celebrations of art that he ignites in Los Angeles.

— Q.D. from Culver City, CA

img_1465

F.A. about to peek into the atrium of the George C. Page Museum

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.

I Thinkspace Therefore I Am

We love many art galleries in Los Angeles. And Thinkspace is one of them. I can say that for all of us. If you want to get all post office on me, Thinkspace Gallery is in Culver City—yes—and the art scene is quite alive here. Years ago, I discovered that truth at Scion Space during an exhibition by James Jean. That was my gateway gallery, and I’ve since been a heroin addict of contemporary art.

fullsizerender-4

Will you start snorting Banksy? You’ll only know if you start going. Although I can’t deliver your first hit of art gallery, I can share these videos—that are less than a minute—during the opening night of Bruxism by Allison Sommers and 彷徨 / Wander by Ozabu at Thinkspace.

You see now. Not all galleries are about art dealers and monocles. And not all artists understand that magic and art are synonymous. But we do.

— Q.D. from Culver City, CA

fullsizerender-5

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.

Rasputin never emailed

Friday, I saw an army of amputees in Pershing Square.

They were coming my way while I was drinking coffee. The only thing I could think of was that I had signed up to be an extra for some horror movie, and I’d forgotten. I forget things sometimes. Ask my locksmith.

“I should run,” my left brain said.

“I should see what happens when they get here,” my right brain said.

Fatal fascination, you win this time. I stayed there, sipping coffee, watching the amputees get closer. They were all ages and ethnicities, but the one thing uniting them was their missing forearms and their heads that bowed forward.

As the sun turned up its “fuck you” dial, my skin started cooking, and as the army got nearer, I started seeing the army was not made of amputees but ordinary Angelenos with full-length arms—all folded in half and raising a cell phone. I had perceived their focus on their phones as bowing, and that might have been just as true, for their devotion to their devices.

“Thank you for being here on time,” said a woman sitting next to me.

My heart skipped a beat but I contained my surprise. She wasn’t there a second ago.

“I’m not sure why we couldn’t do this over email,” I said.

“Did Rasputin use email?” Disappointment colored her tone.

“Well, I don’t really like it here.”  

“Hmmm,” she said and glanced at everyone and then at me. I took more than a few glances at her legs that were more slender than mine and her skin that was ivory. I had once wanted straight blond hair like hers decades ago when none of the princesses I saw in books had my afro.

“We don’t want his name mentioned in emails. That’s why we’re meeting,” the woman said and opened up William Butler Yeats’s Mythologies. Letters were circled all over the two-page spread—letters that spelled a city councilman’s name.

“Got it. Look. Is there any way we can move the assignment to another night?”

She gazed at me for a minute and smirked. “You want to make it to your art show.”

“That would be nice.”

“Funny. That’s not the business you’re in. Being nice. I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear your question. You’ll do what we agreed on—on the night we agreed on.” She snapped the book shut. “And we’ll quadruple your pay if he jumps off the Biltmore.”

The coffee in my stomach started chewing into my spine.

No, Lady, Liar, that’s why we’re meeting—you didn’t want to say this over email.

“You don’t have to decide just yet,” Lady Liar said sweetly as a policeman walked by. “Just think about not hustling for a while, and having more time for your art. It’s why you’re in LA, isn’t it?”

The night of my assignment, the Colony on Spring Street was exhibiting my work in a group show and featuring my piece, “I Don’t Drink Johnny Walk Her,” in the main exhibition hall, on the poster, on social media, and on their weekly email. This was new for me—people paying this much attention to my art. Venus, the gallery manager, texted me that I should at least stop by and mingle for an hour.

I didn’t respond to Venus.

I showed up where I was paid to: a fundraiser at the Millennium Biltmore Hotel.

pexels-photo-25748

My name was on the list at the door (as I was told it would happen), and I had no trouble accessing the rooftop (as I was told it would happen) and the councilman met me up there (as I was told it would happen).

He smiled for a moment and then his smile fell away as he took cautious steps to meet me. His hair whipped this way and that and looked onfire, as the wind assailed us, and his jacket fluttered as he gripped the bottom edges.

“I was told you have something for me,” he said.

I nodded and opened a mini wine bottle I’d brought with me in my purse. As I spilled merlot on the roof, I whispered:

brother Coyote, have a drink

prepare the man to carefully think

“Pardon me?” the councilman asked.

I leaned right and looked past his leg and he followed my eyeline until it reached Coyote a few feet behind him. Coyote stared into the man’s eyes. “I don’t understand,” his voice drifted.

“They say if a coyote crosses your path, it’s probably because you’re taking life too seriously, like that ballot measure you’re asking people to support,” I said and glanced at Coyote who hypnotized the councilman.

I walked closer to the edge of rooftop. Below on Olive Street, I saw couples hand in hand, groups of girls who had used too much hairspray, solo wanderers, businessmen with fast feet, and I saw my financial freedom—a broken body on the pavement—the price of coasting comfortably without working, years of just making art, no more dumpster diving and going to the LA food bank. It would just be another sentence to say out loud to this politician, catalyzed by the persuasion of Coyote.

I retreated from the edge and returned to the councilman and said, “And after you put some distance between yourself and the ballot measure…”

I looked at the edge.

I looked at Coyote.

I felt my heart knocking, looking for any way out except this one.

“…you’ll live longer if you leave this city.” The words I really meant to say came out, because they were the words I’d been wanting to say to myself.

The councilman took out his phone, called the LA Times reporter who had interviewed him last week, and rescinded his support of the ballot measure and even invented some reasons why.

“Thank you, Coyote. That will be all,” I said.

The animal stared at me and backpedaled into the shadows until I could no longer see his amber eyes.

LA_1

The following week, the news confirmed the councilman denouncing the ballot measure, Venus also asked me to leave the Colony. She only exhibited artists willing to show up for their career and that included connecting to the people who believed in them. She said I was absent in that relationship, that art was more than a solitary pursuit, that it was channeling something beyond the five senses of a person.

Friday, I returned to the same bench in Pershing Square. The Angelenos roamed again, their lives remote-controlled by the phones in their hands. Once more, Lady Liar materialized without a sound. Her nails had been recently done and were crimson candy shells in daylight.

“My employer is willing to pay ten times what you earned last week,” she said.

“I won’t go that far.”

“You haven’t even heard the offer.” She smiled. “He wants you to teach him the thing you do. That’s all.”

“But that’s not really for sale,” said a man sitting next to us.

He too had somehow arrived here without being noticed.

Lady Liar’s eyes bloomed and she grabbed her high heel pumps and dashed barefoot out of the square.

LA_4

I turned to her source of fright and only saw a thirtysomething white guy with messy brown hair, his hands patiently clasped in his lap. He watched her run without pleasure or astonishment. A pigeon landed nearby and he gave it the same regards.

“Should I be scared?” I asked dully.

“Never,” he said.

“What was that about?”

“I’m a friend of Coyote.”

“He has friends?” I asked.

“Not many. Probably because he eats kittens. Anyway he told me about you, said I should check out your art.”

“My art? Why?”

“I know what an artist can do when I see their art.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m not in a gallery anymore.”

“And you think that means you’re not an artist?” He looked worried for the first time. “All right then. Join the rest of these robots.” He gestured to the people around us with his palm. “Start believing that the only thing you are is what people tell you.”

“The hell do you want?” I stood up.

“For you to make art,” he said softly. “For you to explore your other abilities, not sell them to just anyone.”

“You’re asking for a lot.” Clouds parted and the sun stabbed my eyes. I put up my hand to block it and the man was gone, but in the palm of my hand was a date, a time, a location, and a name—Galen Gorry—all written in black ink. I didn’t know exactly where this place was but knew it was somewhere in the Arts District. I made my way out of Pershing Square, thumbing the details into my phone, blending in with the rest of amputees.

— W.R. from West Adams, Los Angeles

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

Help bring us to life.
Enter here with our password.

It is 10 letters long and made of 5 sets of initials.
There are 5 mystery stories on the homepage.
Each author has two-letter initials.
The order of letters is the order of authors.

You have until Friday

“WHO CAN TELL YOU THE MOST ABOUT MAGIC?”

It was one of those text alerts you get from companies—without a 10-digit phone number to call back—only this didn’t sound like any company I knew. And I didn’t see an option to write “STOP” to cancel the SMS service.

“Galen Gorry,” I wrote back.

“NO.”

“I can hear you just fine without YOU YELLING.”

“NO. YOU’RE WEARING EARBUDS.”

A chill up my spine. I took out my earbuds and wrote, “STOP.”

But the stranger didn’t and instead wrote, “YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY.”

“For?”

I stared at my phone for five minutes. No answer. I resumed retouching the photos I had taken of the Santa Fe Art Colony. A few months ago, I had submitted these to a contest for emerging artists. Now I was preparing them from my Tumblr. It was Monday.

Tuesday morning, I drove through two hours of Hell “A” traffic to get to Smashbox Studios—where I do not work as an emerging artist but as a lightning technician for photo shoots—and right when I parked, I got a text alert: “YOU SHOULDN’T CUT OFF PEDESTRIANS LIKE THAT.”

What. The. Fuck. Ten minutes ago, I had turned right on National on a green light while this guy was on the crosswalk. I got pretty close. He slowed down or else I would have killed him. Anyway I was feeling pretty bad about it still, but also pretty creeped out now.

“WHO CAN TELL YOU THE MOST ABOUT MAGIC?” the stranger continued.

“You,” I replied.

“YOU HAVE UNTIL FRIDAY.”

I texted Mike and said I needed to talk to him after work.

But then around lunch, my boss swung by my desk and told me that if I stayed late to work on the Flaunt magazine shoot, I would be working as a photographer from now on. He had just fired the previous one, and he recognized how hard I was working as a lighting technician and knew I had camera skills. But if I didn’t take this promotion, he’d have to find someone else who would.

Half a sandwich was in my mouth, so he let me think about it. I logged on to Tumblr and reviewed the portraits of artists I took at the Santa Fe Art Colony. They weren’t expertly lit and the subjects didn’t have special wardrobe or makeup. But I preferred photographing this way ever since I studied Vittorio DeSica, an Italian neo-realist. I found magic in that rawness and authenticity, and none of that would be in the magazine shoot.

SantaFeArtColony

I left work at my usual time, and at Mike’s downtown loft, we really didn’t talk until after he scratched an itch I had. I put my dress back on and said, “Didn’t you tell me Gorry was the guy who taught everyone magic?” Mike was panting, staring at the ceiling, and wiping himself off with a tissue.

I poured myself to a glass of tequila and looked at some oil paintings, drying by the warehouse windows overlooking Santa Fe Ave. I sort of only liked one of them, and that’s sort of one reason Mike and I stopped seeing each other. Sort of. He also never had any limes for tequila.

“He doesn’t teach magic,” Mike said. “He helps you accept it, once you realize you’ve had it all along.”

“You know magic?” I grinned.

“What do you call what we just did?”

Friday, 8:52 a.m. I left my boss a voicemail that I wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t a complete lie. My knees were red and raw because I couldn’t stop scratching them in between cigarette drags (I emptied my ashtray twice last night). I turned on my coffeemaker and thumbed through people’s Snaps and Instagram posts, until my phone shook and the screen lit up with “WHO CAN TELL YOU THE MOST ABOUT MAGIC?”

My heart thundered and I typed in the four letters I’d been thinking of all night: “I can.”

“YES. NOW GET SOME SLEEP. YOU’LL NEED IT.”

“For?”

I stared at my phone for five minutes. No answer.

— F.A. from North Hollywood, CA

Ξ

Art and magic are no different. But we are.

tamil_om

We wrote the 5 mysteries.

Help bring us to life here.