Los Angeles was so crazy when I visited in February. Every time I got on a freeway, I thought that for sure I might never make it to my next destination, that I might die right there on the road. Between how fast other people drive, the size of my rental car, and the overall pace of everything being about three times the pace of what it was three years ago, I had to abandon the premise of safety all together and imagine I was existing in an alternate timeline: one where I never left the city, never had a elementary-age kid, never made new friends and never tried to focus on one thing for more than one hour. I did find my way around to a few artist’s dates, the best of which was the Felix Art Fair, an unexpected and welcome end to a fun trip, my annual three days away from my daughter.
When I left her, I cried, and I was ecstatic, and then I cried again since it was my birthday. Before school, we ate cake in my bed, and she brushed my hair, mused about the grays, and asked me, in a sing-songy way, whether I was one, was I two, was I three, and I cringed as she went up the digits, one by one, before landing on my age: forty-seven. Then I took the plane and gratefully landed in Burbank, drove to my friend's house, and spent two glorious nights in her guest bed, which was more comfortable and quiet than my room at home.
I was in town to celebrate, and my friend (thanks, Lindsey!) gifted me brunch and a ticket to the Felix Art Show, which she had already attended. I spent Friday and Saturday eating amazing food (thanks Geena, thanks Caroline!) and gossiping endlessly (thanks Nancy!) and drove around in more traffic than I remembered, while trying to find clothing stores that closed and eating homemade hummus in my rental car. By the time I got to West Hollywood on Sunday, I was again a pro at navigating Los Angeles’s urban sprawl.
The parking structure was huge, and the mouth of it led to a shopping center: Walgreens, Sephora, Forever 21, etc. I spilled out of it and snaked through the crowds, down through an incredible amount of scaffolding, past the person selling $5 tee-shirts, and crossed the street to the Hollywood Roosevelt. For three days, the hotel hosts art galleries in the rooms on the cabana floor: a square of tiny spaces and patios that surround an outdoor pool. Upstairs on the tower floors are more galleries in larger rooms and suites, all housed by galleries and the artists they represent.
For the first hour, the galleries were underwhelming: a bunch of abstract art that seemed like placeholders for work coming in the future. This was my first time at Felix, which pops up here annually, but I sensed that artists are still recovering from the pandemic. It was just a gut feeling, but something was missing, almost hollowed out, from the vibe, that at least presentationally – (a hotel? with rooms taken over by artists?!) had sounded amazing.
I had originally planned on attending only the Other Art Fair, which I had never been to during the seven years I lived in LA. This show, much more focused on sales to the visitors, had a different energy: it was more like a conference of artists who had brought wares to sell directly to people and less like a craft fair; more like an artist outlet to showcase works to people not usually interested in the art world at large. Guest artist Anna Marie Tendler was taking portraits on a Victorian-inspired set in the corner of the space: her oversized green bow flapping over her long brown hair, and the green color matching a pinstripe that ran down the side of her pants. She coached a couple on the couch, suggesting they lean into each other or look directly toward each other as she snapped their photo. The woman in the couple glowed, simply vibrant, and her husband (I assume) seemed bashful but game. I imagined how they got there: the wife booking the spot, convincing her husband to take the photo with her, and him being one of those husbands you hear about who happily goes along with their partner’s whims because he knows that her happiness is, in part, what he lives for.
But this show also lacked the DIY energy I’ve come to expect from events associated with the word “other.” I also missed a vibe of inventiveness that I rely on visual art to produce.
As I wandered the cabana rooms at the Roosevelt, I wondered if artists, outsider artists, and represented artists, like mothers, are tired of performing what the world expects of them. Maybe they also have a limited amount of energy and financial resources and feel, even years after quarantine came to an end, that the pressures of suddenly being cut off from one's community, all public spaces, and all potential to grow beyond what already had been proven to be able to be capitalized, had squelched their abilities to think outside of the box.
Just as I was about to give up, I ran into two paintings by Alise Spinella from 2019. Abstract art isn’t my expertise unless it utilizes a sense of absurdity, but Joan Mitchell has made me more curious about the work of abstraction, so my eye gravitated to the line and shape-based drawings, which suddenly seemed representational. What were these if not different takes of an emotional state; some attempt to track the make-up of the human experience: a kind of random, somewhat bulky, lopsided things with four corners that you’d be hard pressed to call a square.
I appreciate the endless possibilities of paintings that might be created using just this framework: a muted but diverse color palette and a system of lines, squares, and open spaces, all trying to make sense of each other. The works were represented by the Timothy Hawkinson Gallery, and I chatted with the person from the Gallery at the fair. Instinctively, I asked whether the artist’s current body of work was the same size, and he said her next show would be similar in content but that the pieces would be on smaller canvases. This made sense as works that seemed to be about mental space: we simply all have less of it now.
Want to see Spinella's work and discover the other artists who captivated me during my LA art escape? Follow along at @theartmonster for visual inspiration and quick artist references that complement this essay. For Art Monster paid subscribers: Continue reading for three more artists who transformed my experience at Felix, including insights about creative practice, identity, and finding kindred spirits through art...
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