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Last night I counted 9 planes lined up for landing as I watched the electrical Metro lines that split the 105 down the middle. There is a simple phenomena that occurs in this part of the country in the evening and it involves many of the items you might list as "profane" about LA. Congested traffic, awkwardly arranged public transportation, overpasses...the automobiles on the opposite side of the tracks are often invisible when driving the 105, for the Metro, as previously stated, does divide it. But the two lines that run high above the Metro cars reflect the lights of those phantom autos, catching their headlights and shooting them along their wires like so many sparks of electricity. It is magical. Tonight, the airplanes were perfectly lined up, reminding one of Baldessari throwing three balls in the air in attempt at a straight line (1973).
My body feels the way one does after a Thanksgiving feast...entirely full and imobile. These past two days, and indeed these past two weeks, have been an incredible feast, but one of art (topped off by tonight's joint conversation at the Hammer of Ann Hamiliton and Joan Simon) and I am weary. Mary Heilmann, Edward Weston and Edouard Manet roam my living room's coffee table and Hamilton spoke of sound and text as drawing; I am content.
Sydney spoke of being so sure of this, of her love for art and of her being in the right place, that her stomach hurt and body danced. Yes.
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