Carlsbad Art and Culture

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The sun glares at me as I creep the smoldering streets of Los Angeles. Cars honk and tempers flare as Santa Monica Blvd. whines with the weight of mid day traffic. Above the dusty clunkers and buffed convertibles, I stare at a long row of red stop lights. Green teases and I whence. Buses abuse like the stinging punches of a schoolyard bully. Empty insults steam out of my lips and I snap. I smack the windshield. I struggle to see the bumper of the car I fallow through the sweaty smear left by my open palm. Upon another stop, I catch a glimpse of giant sign reminding me that traffic is a brief struggle, but in general Life is Beautiful. I smile and click my blinker.

Like the giant billboards that scatter the streets of Los Angles, Mr. Brainwash (MBW) has used West Hollywood as his personal canvas to advertise his witty ideas, ultimately leading to one of Los Angeles’ biggest and most ambitious art shows of the year.

After 2.5 hours of sporadic steps and long waits, I enter the courtyard of a 15,000 sq. foot abandoned building once used as CBS’s Columbia Square studios. I am instantly greeted by a firm man in all black with crew protection boldly printed across his chest. He gives me two drink tickets and I enter the madness. Hipsters, scenesters and socialites mingle with hyper lips and tapping text messages. A giant tree is dressed with hundreds of hanging shoes over a cool jazz band. A behemoth of a to go bag looms over the band with a hefty receipt. A librarian’s worst nightmare piles into a peak of scattered books with ruffled pages and bent covers. Smoke fills the air and ash covers the ground as quick drags push me through the front doors.

I am greeted by a row of silk screened paintings of past and present celebrities all sporting Monroe wigs and Warhol’s pallet. Each clever, but as a whole, slightly redundant. The front hallway, clean and uncluttered, runs long similar to a traditional gallery. The hallway explodes with light as every digital camera in Los Angeles captures the night’s rave in route for late night blogging. Unable to stare without a camera hanging over my shoulder, I shuffle down the stretch to the next chapter.

A giant room invites me and the scent of last minute paint jobs fill my nose. Bright colors and frenzied commotion reminds me of the chaotic playhouse of PeeWee. Unlike the hallway, uncovered wall space is rare. Stenciled pupils stare off the cluttered walls from every direction and the tapped Rockies drool oil at my feet. Giant spray cans shoot Campbell Soup and a stolen Ready Made sits vandalized, but secure in a glass box. The volume of art is shocking, almost unbelievable for a struggling artist. The time, supplies and money invested in this burst of creativity is amazing. Large scale stencils created out of broken records impress as do the scattered side rooms of master paintings gone Pop! Does this artist ever stop? Is an idea ever rejected? For a fairly unknown artist, how does he afford all this?

The rest of the night consists of crawls through narrow hallways and numerous rooms. Icons stare as often as I stare back and my eyes are blinded by the constant flash. Everyday ordinary people and outlandish socialites become an interesting alternative and I log lengthy spurts of raw people watching. I head back to the courtyard where my evening started and stare up at the dark sky. A moment of uninterpreted blank space nourishes my soggy mind which yawns after an aggressive onslaught of iconic imagery. I finish my drink and spot Mr. Brainwash who rolls along due to a recent foot injury. His restricted mobility and French background provoke visions of Toulouse-Lautrec and I chuckle. I extend a hearty handshake and congratulate him before making my exit, impressed, overwhelmed and brainwashed.