It Was Good While It Lasted. . .

Here I sit without a thing to say. Or maybe too disgusted to say it. The little flush of civic pride sparked by the festive Yuletide lights in the 'hood has been snuffed by a hard look around. Like at the trash in the streets, particularly in front of Brother Gideon's. He's an easy target, but he's got plenty of company. Do we have no more respect for ourselves than this? How can we be the authors of compelling, dynamic, powerful, beautiful creations in a neighborhood where we dump mattresses and old bicycles in alleys and parking lots, strip leaves and break branches off our self-planted trees, allow our guests to leave their beer bottles in the gutter, and, yes, folks, here's the big one: irresponsibly promulgate dog waste. Here, there, and everywhere. Left by my neighbors and some friends (though maybe not much longer) for me to smell, discover, twist an ankle dodging, and all too often step in. This is rude, and the ultimate Diss.

Isn't a large part of being an artist having a larger view? An ability to see more? An appreciation of cosmic cause and effect? So how is it what's close up and personal and obvious gets overlooked?

It isn't that artists don't have the right to be jerks like everyone else. That's every blessed soul's birthright choice to make, no doubt about it. I guess I expect a little more from the creative psyche. Make that: I guess I expect a little. Very little. Enough to keep the dog droppings off the streets, off my shoes, and out of my face.

Yeah, it's enough to bring a person to gag to have to bend over and pick up that steaming, soft, still warm pile of poop, so recently on the inside of your little beloved's yucky colon. But toughen up. It's your little darling(s) out there turning my streets into a toilet and a hazard. Maybe it's time for citizens to make arrests. To document. Yes, omigod, to get involved. To take a stand. To show a little backbone. Let's get this crap off the streets.

And then we'll work on Brother Gideon.

Tim Simmons, for
Society To Optimize Proud Pet Owners On Parade
(STOP POOP)

Greetings From An Outsider
On Home Turf

Apologies once again for the long silence, but spent the last four months traipsing across the plains of South Africa as a photog/impressionist for a well-known naturalist who may not be mentioned at the peril of violating a confidentiality agreement that would make me personally liable for up to $500,000 in damages should I blurt his or her name (see how careful those agreements make a fella?) during the midst of a drunken spree. Makes me wonder if National Geographic can really care that much, or is it just hiss and spit for the drama of it all.

Speaking of which, during the chats at any handy cybercafe, heard of the hiss and spit taking place in my absence, downright heartfelt and not just for drama. All of which reports made me feel like a disconnected outsider, so little did I recognize my old home 'hood.

The continuing issue, which I now suspect will linger far beyond any municipal deadline, is the neighborhood-council-segueing-into-the-redistricting debate.

The final public hearing before the commissioners of the Board of Neighborhood Councils sounded, in several retellings, like a page out of old-time Chicago politics: the esteemed commissioners clearly knew their minds, and no amount of facts was going to change it. What was changed was the agreed-upon boundaries of the different neighborhood councils, overriding the vote of our community, and tossing aside the work of hundreds of volunteers over the past year spent in hammering out the treaties. One good buddy described it as "The fix was in."

Others are delighted that the commissioners had the vision to draw lines where they should have been in the first place, and had the courage to ignore the wishes of the misled citizens of the Downtown Arts District who had voted for joining the Downtown Neighborhood Council. That side of the story reckons we are in the neighborhood in which we belong: Chinatown and Little Tokyo.

To salve the anger of those feeling disenfranchised, a rumor has been floated that we're lucky to be where we are, because the Historic Core Neighborhood Council (the same Chinatown and Little Tokyo) will "explore" the possibility of rent control for us struggling artists.

Maybe I missed a beat somewhere, but I thought the good voters of California two years ago passed a state law outlawing such a practice, the only thing that could break the spine of rent control in Santa Monica, where, alas, it no longer exists.

How does the neighborhood council [debacle][emancipation] (choose one) fit into the redistricting debate currently under way?

Maybe it doesn't. Maybe this visual eye has lost its sense of spatial relationships and is seeing [conspiracy][synchronicity] (ditto) where it doesn't exist. But on the poorly rendered maps on the websites I visited, it appears to me that the neighborhood council lines so arbitrarily drawn may not be arbitrary at all: they are PDC (pretty darn close) to the proposed redistricting lines drawn by Councilmember Nick Pacheco of the 14th District, who wants part of the 9th District -- our part of the 9th -- to be his.

Which essentially opens up all the same old arguments that have been so divisive in the last year during the neighborhood council debates, with a few new twists.

Like most of my neighbors, I suppose, I floated along hardly knowing which City Council District I live in, until a candidate wanted my vote and came down to visit us. The candidate got my vote, I'd made my well-informed choice, and I drifted lazily along, civic duty having been done. Things were going well. The District is certainly vitalizing. I feel pride when we get a little notice and respect, along with a simultaneous pang of anxiety that becoming tony is going to eventually mean a higher rent. Still, it's good to see us progressing in a pretty straight line to a dynamic and engaging community, and if we have the good luck to become a West Coast TriBeCa, then so be it.

But now another decision falls upon us -- or may be imposed upon us. One not as easy as picking up the stylus, poking a card, and simply making sure your chad isn't hanging.

Since redistricting is based on population shifts as reflected in the recent census, some said it makes sense to go with Boyle Heights and the 14th, as it is clear that Little Tokyo and the Arts District are now predominantly Hispanic. (Not PDC.)

Proponents for the 14th, when that didn't fly, have reduced the argument "pro" to sharing the wealth: Us folks west of the river are now white, therefore rich, and we should share the assets.

I'd be happy to share my assets, not out of any socialistic or communistic sense, but out of a sense of caring for my fellow human beings -- if I were in a position to exercise philanthropy. PacBell, MasterCard, Visa and the landlord pretty well dictate where my millions are going.

The "con" argument re: the 9th, where most of the Downtown Arts District currently resides, points to the evils of big business, painting a picture of us being gobbled up by insensitive, uncaring megacorps, one of the biggest espousers of this sentiment being a business person who's always looking for more business.

Ironic, ain't it? And maybe I don't have the complete skinny. As I say, I've been out of town for a while. And those daydreams of returning home to a community no longer locked in the throes of divisiveness were popped in about eighty-two seconds flat, thanks to very vocal neighbors on both sides of the issues.

It's not that one wants to return to the good old days, which when closely examined weren't so good, but merely ignorant: What we didn't know then kept us [happy] [unwitting pawns]. Well, like the story of Pandora, that box of knowledge has been opened and reality is upon us.

Seems like even the most apolitical among us has to choose a side. The wind blowing both ways is too hot and strong to be able to balance on that fence in the middle. It saddens me that we have lost a certain innocence in these last several months. And it also gladdens me, because whenever anyone takes an active hand in their own future, no matter the outcome, that activism is a good thing.

And remember: The last little insect clinging to the inside of Pandora's box, shy about flying out to meet the world, was a butterfly named Hope. These days as I think about the fate of the Arts District, I hope there's a particularly big, fat butterfly out there for us. We need it.

Editor Note: Tim Simmons is traditional oil painter. He has been a
Downtown Arts District resident for a few years, at age 15 he  was
christened "Scratchy"  by friends. His column will appear
from time to time. He  can be reached at LADAD

Archival Scratchy
I Promise My Next Column Will Be Funny

Dynamic times yet again in the 'hood,
spawned, surprisingly, by a movement designed to
solidify and unify us sometimes disjointed and
disconnected folk who proudly live in the Arts District
and other downtown enclaves.

It's time for another one of our amazing
call to arms that we artists-in-residence are famous for.
The issue is the formation of a Neighborhood
Council, as provided by a recent charter amendment
ratified by the good people of the City of Los Angeles.
For the best, specific and most up-to-date info on this
animal, log onto www.lacityneighborhoods.com or read
the thumbnail sketch that follows, admittedly biased,
slanted and disturbed. This is not a column for the
sane, or those looking to read about fluffy bunny
rabbits or cute chipmunks. (That column upcoming.)

That little charter amendment sponsored and
sold to the voters by the recently departed Mayor
Riordan is creating more ill will and divisiveness in
our area than anything in recent history.

How much better, said Dickie, to have our
behemoth of a city broken into small, local districts
called Neighborhood Councils, to whom citizens bring
complaints and/or ideas for improvement. Then the NC
advocates for remedy or innovation with the City Council.

The concept left some scratching their
heads, wondering how an extra layer of bureaucracy
between residents and City Hall would increase the
efficiency of municipal services or provide a more
responsive ear, but Richie knew how to flash buzzwords
like "neighborhood" and "local control."

As the NCs are defined on the basis of
residents (a proposed NC must have a residential
population of at least twenty thousand), it has left
downtowners slogging through various possibilities and
alliances to cobble together a patch of residents here
and a patch there. The tricky part is to create a
group with a commonality of concerns and ambitions.

This has turned out to be an inflammatory
and divisive effort in so disparate and diverse an area
that ranges from the towers of Bunker Hill to Solano
Canyon to the Brewery to Olvera Street to Chinatown to
Little Tokyo to the Arts District to the Santa Fe Art
Colony to the (sometimes uncomfortable) population of Homeless.

The process of deciding who goes where is
further complicated in that DONE (Department of
Neighborhood Empowerment), the designated organ of the
city to oversee this process, has failed to outline a
solid process by which we can achieve a coalition in a
neighborly way, and has also failed to provide an
intelligent, guiding hand as the problems started popping up.

Pardon me for waxing boring above (and
maybe below), but it's the basis of understanding our
current state, which is neither happy nor pretty. In fact, it's ugly.

Firstly, as DONE in its non-wisdom has
delineated no procedure for deciding who gets to decide
who a neighborhood joins up with, it looks as though
anyone who steps up to the plate assumes the mantle of
authority. It's rumored that the choice of one
well-defined clump of residents is being decided by a
group of a dozen or so people.

And then there are whose who have revealed
they consider their neighborhood their own personal
fiefdom, and become vituperative when others challenge
what was expected to be a foregone choice of NC.
In public meetings, hardworking volunteers
hurl insults and call each other names.

At the moment, it looks as though the Arts
District has two possibilities: the Downtown NC,
pretty self explanatory, or the Historic Cultural NC,
wanting to include Little Tokyo, Chinatown, The Forgotten Edge
and some of their fringe neighbors, like us.

Lost in all the scuffling in the dust is the larger
picture of how our choice of NC could impact
the redistricting coming down the pike as a consequence
of the census. It's rumored that some of our esteemed
councilpersons have patted community members on the
head and told them not to worry their pretty little
heads about all this, they, the councilpersons, know
about these things and they'll happily take care of
forming an NC. Sounds like putting the fox in charge
of the hen house, in view of the impending
redistricting.

So add into the mix that we may not only be
choosing an NC, but also, de facto, choosing (or
re-choosing) our councilperson.

How do you like it so far?

The only neighborhood heard of that has
acted with clear vision and cool heads is the one that
has drawn firm boundaries for the express purpose of
not declaring themselves part of an NC. That's looking
pretty damn good right about now.

Like most things that have to do with big
government, it is a thorny problem which is guaranteed
to have a resolution that will leave many unhappy and
no one really satisfied.

That's business as usual.

It's the personal that concerns me. What
an irony that an endeavor that eponymously, at least,
is meant to reinforce and reaffirm the neighborhood has
set one neighbor against another. If one were
paranoid, one would say the purpose of this exercise is
not designed to unite, but rather to divide and conquer.

It's up to us to not let this happen. Find
out more by logging onto www.lacityneighborhoods.com.
And then participate. If a decision is going to be
made -- and it will -- at least let it be our decision.

Editor Note: Tim Simmons is traditional oil painter. He has been a
Downtown Arts District resident for a few years, at age 15 he  was
christened "Scratchy"  by friends. His column appears from time to time.
He  can be reached at LADAD

Where is the rest of the REAL L.A.?

Apologies to all for the dereliction of writing
duties, but have spent the last six months in a studio
on the wrong side of the Seine, a once-in-a-lifetime
housesitting gig for a visual painter such as myself.
Yes, Paris is grand, better than Rome, where they rush
you along and out of the sidewalk cafes that only
pretend to be made for lounging. In Paris, it's still
possible to sit and read and watch and sketch for a
couple hours with no pressure from the management to
move on.

And speaking of reading, became acutely aware of
an interesting fact while isolated from all things
Los Angeleno in the non-tourist, working class fringes
of Paris. In recent years, thanks to the influence of
my granny, have become hooked on mysteries. Started
out with the masters, Ross McDonald, Chandler, etc.,
where hardboiled L.A. is well and truly represented.
In that time.

And being well aware that the tradition
continues, have read Robert Crais with his Elvis Cole
series set in Hollywood; Michael Connelly, with his
central city L.A.P.D. Detective Heironymous (Harry)
Bosch living in the area of Mt. Wilson Drive hanging
over the Cahuenga Pass; ground-breaking John Morgan
Wilson and his Benjamin Justice series set in West
Hollywood, appropriate for the first HIV-positive, gay
protagonist; and the venerable Walter Moseley writing
about Easy Rawlins and Watts of the '40s and '50s.

These writers, one and all, detail in
heart-warming familiarity the grit and truth of L.A.,
something I yearned to visit on re-read while residing
on foreign soil. Alas and alack, what I never realized
before is that in all this gritty writing set in real
and gritty L.A. there has been no writing limning the
real and gritty Downtown Arts District. When I was
thirsting the most for an evocative dose of the
neighborhood, which is certainly worthy of literary
notice, discovered there has been no lionizing of our
humble but fascinating home District, even by Connelly
and Wilson, who should have copped to the dramatic
potential, having both been reporters for the
L.A. Times, a stone's throw away.

Was decrying the shameful void, when what do I
stumble across upon my return to beautiful downtown
warehouses but that this situation is about to be
remedied. While attending the opening of the
District's Lili Lakich's brilliant show at Cal State
Northridge, was informed by a fellow Lakich and mystery
fan that a new series is about to be launched, based in
ever-lovin' gritty L.A. with a licensed investigator
named Tonto Goldstein who has a fondness for the
Downtown Arts District. In fact, in the second novel,
the mystery begins with a friend who is a loft building
owner in the District.

Now, it's nice to make progress on one front.
And it's made me greedy. As I'm convinced the surest
path to preservation and respect for our lifestyle in
the District is promotion, let me challenge all of us
to find some way, every day, some how, why not now, to
spread the word of our viable art presence here.
Educate, elucidate and indicate. The more well-known
we are, the more respect we will get from the likes of
film crews and politicians and anyone else who wants to
ignore us, deplore us, and mop up the floor with us.
We are here. It is important that we are here. And if
we are dancing to a different drum, there's one thing
that Paris reminded me of, now and forever: vive la
difference! So let's give 'em hell, Harry. And Elvis
and Benjamin and Easy and Tonto.


...a little clause stating that artists-in-residence
would be excluded from the protection of rent control.
The summer solstice has come and gone, and the
dog days of August approach, then the traditional
giving up of wearing white after Labor Day, unless
you're lucky enough to live in the Downtown Arts
District where we don't worry about artifically
mandated conventions. Nosiree bob. We worry about
real life issues. Like rent control. Like doing our
share of community service. Like being a good
neighbor. Like considering the literal price for
starting to become tony, nascent shades of SoHo.
Like formulating a vision for where the 'hood is going.

Not to the dogs...We've already achieved that
humanizing aspect of the neighborhood. What's
startling is to see that the variety of dogs strutting
on leashes is as varied as the humans. Some smart and
sassy and classy. Some wildly invididual. Some
well-behaved. Some looking for a bar fight at every
encounter. And some with the luck of trust-fund
babies. And to pat ourselves on the back, after
efforts began about a year ago to clean our own streets
on a regular basis, enlightened masters and mistresses
are (mostly) bussing their dog droppings. It is a fine
thing to realize people are educable.

So if we keep developing a sense of community
and a sense of community responsibility, it can only
bode well for all of us. Right? Maybe. Turns out
being a good neighbor, being committed to community,
working to better our neighborhood, breeds an
ungrateful child.

In distressed urban area after urban blight,
traditionally, artists looking for big studio space at
cheap rent have gone in where others feared to tread --
and some still do; talk to just about any Westsider --
and colonized and civilized and beautified one dank
area after another. They persevere, they improve, and
work like hell to bring light and life to a district
where there was none.

And the thanks for having done so? An
astronomical increase in rent. Fellow artists on
Seventh Street are mad as hell and are not taking it
anymore. They've hired lawyers, and there's talk of a
federal lawsuit. Why? Because when developers propsed
regulations to the City of L.A. permitting warehouse
conversions into lofts, they very cleverly inserted a
little clause stating that artists-in-residence would
be excluded from the protection of rent control.

So the reward some are getting for pioneering guts and
imagination is rent increased beyond affordability. In
our own District, artists who have lived here ten years
are being squeezed out of their building by the new
owners with increases of forty percent, in one fell
swoop. Like, instantaneously. Like, you're here
today, and have to be gone tomorrow.

So what's to do? Well, we've shown in the past
we can rise to the self-protective, community-
preserving occasion. Recalling that (1) people are
educable (see above); (2) artists can activate
political power (as the School Board found out); (3) we
are interested in continuing as an arts community
(remember the open loft art tour of 2000); and (4) when
we take action, we get results (the recent elections),
perhaps it's time to do something, before any more
buildings change hands and incoming corporate landlords
feel they can dismiss us, now that we have created a
gold mine for them.

We now have a new councilperson for most of the
Downtown Arts District, Jan Perry. Maybe it's time to
welcome her to our lifestyle and neighborly concerns.
Remember: it's their building today, but it might by
your building tomorrow. Let's take a page from the
book of corporate politics: if you don't like the law,
change it. We can do it. Start calling, writing and
pestering everyone you can to change the
artists-in-residence regs to have us included in rent
control. It may take some time and perseverence, but
we know we have that. And we know the effort will be
worth while. It might just save your life(style).

Guerilla art has returned to the District, and it is fun.

It started with a message hoisted atop the old Santa Fe Freight Building, the future home of SciArc, proudly enigmatic,
and at that point, sorry to say, easily ignored.  Then came the second rooftop message, something about a single white
male will purr for you, and a little clearer, I thought, with some curiosity as to where this would lead.  Soft porn?
Social Service?  Contemporary comment?

Comment it seemed to be, with the next missive posted on the curve of the fence at Hewitt and Fourth, unfortunately
so wordy that I never got the full sense of it driving by, and never had the chance to stop before it was taken down so shortly.

 Then in the same retro '80s see-Spot-run Helvetica font, a quote attributed to Wim Wenders springs up on the fence of a
small weedy lot at Rose and Traction exhorting us to be who we are.  Certainty of authorship was proclaimed by same
professional presentation, black letters on white, with an occasional red letter in the text.

 Was it a game of scramble?  Should I be taking note of the red letters?  Were they somehow significant?

 Then T-shirts were anonymously handed out with matching script, bearing proclamations like "am living," "am talking,"
"am breathing," "am thinking," you get the idea.  All wearing the tees claimed ignorance of their genesis, and who am I to
call anyone else a liar?

The next step was a series of sandwich boards placed in the field north of SciArc and pointed toward the school, across
which was printed "it wasn't me" in letters thirty inches high.  This was a well constructed installation, sturdy, and on new wood.
After a few days the message was altered to "it was me", leaving a whited-out gap where the "n't" used to be.
 
 Hard to tell if this is where it happened, but seems like a second layer of guerilla artists jumped on board, because new letters,
same font, slightly larger, different colors, appeared tacked on to the end so it now read "it was meat",   whatever that means.
Maybe it was a case of artus interruptus, because a few days later another modification was made, covering over the pertinent parts of the "m" in "meat" so it now read "it was neat".  Then another modification that lasted a nanosecond popped up in the
middle of a rainy night.  This time paper had been pasted over the pertinent parts of the "t" in "neat" so the proclamation now
was "it was neal"?

Well, maybe Neal was watching closely and didn't want to be busted, because that last little re-write didn't see the light of day.

In fact, during said stormy night all modifications were yanked off so the next day the semi-original "it was me" glistened in the
drippy dawn.  Which reconstruction itself lasted only twenty-four hours, as someone in the next wee hours reclaimed the
sandwich boards, leaving behind the supporting two-by-fours in a pile of kindling as forlorn as chicken bones flung in the yard. 
I don't think there's any message to be divined from this scattering, but with art, you never know.  Have to admit this mysterious series is intriguing and smile-making, and has brought more than two strangers together to discuss its provenance.  This is the type of event that stamps the Downtown Arts District as unique.

This burst of guerilla art, with its high standards and respect for property -- no destructive spray paint here; this artist was
responsible for his or her own benign canvas -- is a complete and tantalizing pleasure.

I can't wait for the next chapter.

Am I on Mars?
Wandered into the sunlight on a recent Saturday and felt a little like Alice must have felt when she stepped through the looking glass. There were civilians ambulating around the Arts District, looking relaxed and interested, heard to comment: "Gee, it's not as dirty down here as I thought." "Gosh, some of these lofts are pretty nice." That reinforced my sanity a bit, because neither comment could apply to my live/work space, so at least this invasion had not snatched up my body.

Then realized that a wild and wooly rumor was true:
the Open Studio Art Tour had actually happened. Feeling present at a historic event, I eavesdropped wherever my ear could snake its way in, and sniffed out the following: Hagop, the developer restoring the old Santa Fe Freight Building to a state of glory for the Southern California Institute of Architecture, explained the mega-bin on the property was being filled by homeless in the neighborhood to whom he would give a donation for delivering bags of trash.

Now, if that isn't solving two currently thorny problems in one fell swoop, then my hair isn't curly. Cars by the dozen stopped in the middle of the street to ask cheerful people carrying blatantly affirmative picket signs ("Yes! Ask me!") where they could park, as everything in a three block radius of Traction and Hewitt was packed tight. On a weekend day, no less.

An artist on the way to Little Tokyo for dinner at the end of the day ecstatically informed her three companions that she had clocked in 388 visitors to her loft. I'm thinking maybe the next time rumors of an Art Tour start flying around, I might sign up for it. Because I got this spooky feeling that the Downtown Arts District, home to perpetual malcontents (my kind of people), refuge of happy hermits, haven for the reclusive and misunderstood, incubator for the fledgling artist, and one of the highest per capita of cranky talent in the country, just might be coming into its own.MARCH/APRIL RANT

Here's my rant. Middle of March, beware the ides, aka the IRS.
Yes, it's tax prep time once again.

I'm a law abiding citizen. I pay my taxes, modest though they be. Frequently, I'm tempted to use my taxpayer status as a political tool, but always chicken out, because I heard tell of times from the '60s and '70s when people chose not to pay taxes, or at least that portion of them that went to fund that little containment called Vietnam, and I heard of the hell they went through, including jail, probation, ostracism, and being permanently on several Red Flag lists.

If I had a spine, I'd do the same thing on funding for the arts, with a twist. I'd reduce the taxes I pay by the amount the NEA has cut grant money these last several years. I figure by next year, the government would owe me, come April 15. Alas, no guts, no glory.

Lacking guts does not mean I lack anger, especially at a time like this, when there are so many good folks in the District working a day job to support their art, to raise families and maintain a life, and then somehow squeezing in extra hours every week to do that community service called Organizing An Open Studio Art Tour.

There's nothing wrong with volunteerism. This a good thing. But how about a little support from the Philistines? How about a little appreciation for those of us who have chosen a chancy lifestyle to advance the culture and improve society through art, rather than through corporate buyouts or forming another multi-layered, bureaucratic HMO? I hear tell those people get lots of consideration from the IRS, and lots of incentive from the federal government.

Or maybe I've been misinformed. Maybe it isn't true that the L.A. Times has been stripped to a pitiful shell of its former self, fit for nothing more than sale (to a much smaller newspaper), so the top executive can announce immediately and with great security his resignation, failing to mention the millions this deal nets him (deductible as a business expense to the corps involved, i.e., a government subsidized retirement/reward). This is sure to improve the quality of life for us. This surely benefits society. And maybe it's not true that our taxes support the airlines, sugarbeets, pigs, soybeans, and such a list of pork barrels known and unknown they defy count, no doubt many teeming with redeeming social value.

But what has more redeeming social value in any society than a healthy state of its arts? A quick fifteen minute review of world history shows that as art in a society was suppressed/repressed/starved or forced into a general state of decline or censorship, so followed a grim and trying time for the citizens of that society, and a sharp diminution of progress. The arts are a vital and integral part of the evolution and development of any culture.

So where's the support? The helping hand? Why is it that people who are chronically sleep deprived have to lose even more sleep to promote and make available to the world such a necessary, fundamental entitlement as art.

I wish every single one of these artists well in their endeavor on June 24. I will attend and appreciate everything that transpires. But I won't be able to stop myself from wondering how much bigger, better and easier it would have been with a little support from a very Big Brother, a Big Brother whom I am compelled to support.

Whatever happened to quid pro quo?

"Scratchy" Simmons lives in the Downtown Arts District.
and is  writing a series of murder mysteries about a dame P.I. from L.A.
Mr. Simmons is currently taking a breather from the art world. 

jan-feb 2000

Here I sit without a thing to say. Or maybe too disgusted to say it. The little flush of civic pride sparked by the festive Yuletide lights in the 'hood has been snuffed by a hard look around. Like at the trash in the streets, particularly in front of Brother Gideon's. He's an easy target, but he's got plenty of company. Do we have no more respect for ourselves than this? How can we be the authors of compelling, dynamic, powerful, beautiful creations in a neighborhood where we dump mattresses and old bicycles in alleys and parking lots, strip leaves and break branches off our self-planted trees, allow our guests to leave their beer bottles in the gutter, and, yes, folks, here's the big one: irresponsibly promulgate dog waste. Here, there, and everywhere. Left by my neighbors and some friends (though maybe not much longer) for me to smell, discover, twist an ankle dodging, and all too often step in. This is rude, and the ultimate Diss.

Isn't a large part of being an artist having a larger view? An ability to see more? An appreciation of cosmic cause and effect? So how is it what's close up and personal and obvious gets overlooked?

It isn't that artists don't have the right to be jerks like everyone else. That's every blessed soul's birthright choice to make, no doubt about it. I guess I expect a little more from the creative psyche. Make that: I guess I expect a little. Very little. Enough to keep the dog droppings off the streets, off my shoes, and out of my face.

Yeah, it's enough to bring a person to gag to have to bend over and pick up that steaming, soft, still warm pile of poop, so recently on the inside of your little beloved's yucky colon. But toughen up. It's your little darling(s) out there turning my streets into a toilet and a hazard. Maybe it's time for citizens to make arrests. To document. Yes, omigod, to get involved. To take a stand. To show a little backbone. Let's get this crap off the streets.

And then we'll work on Brother Gideon.

Tim Simmons, for
Society To Optimize Proud Pet Owners On Parade
(STOP POOP)

December greetings from Scratchy,
or how to bypass the slide into home base with Dick Clark.
Maybe.

Interesting observations abound this holiday season. Even here in the bowels of real life, where we are too focused, driven, and dedicated to be distracted by the plebeian, we prove that even real artists are subject to the usual human foibles, like competition. Not always a bad thing.

Without that competitive fire in somebody's breast, the 800 Traction building would be standing by itself, a splendid monument to the spirit of the season, but lonely. However, the sight of all that seasonal wattage inspired a neighbor or three to light up the street from their own outlets, and even conjured up an antique Santa sleigh disappearing into a rooftop. Other venues in the district have popped up with with their own bright spots. All to the good, and well done, we say.

Then there is the more universal competition, like in our work, where we compete with everybody in the frickin' universe, starting with ourselves, expanding to our district, our town, our state, our country, our world, and as some of us believe, our universe. (Rumor has it the Mars lander was shot down because Christo -- or whoever -- wasn't ready for the unveiling.)  Competition in this arena is the guarantee against complacency. Definitely a good thing.

So we agree competition, per se, isn't always a bad thing. So let's celebrate it. Let's transmute it into a virtue. Let's morph it into a stunning accomplishment. Let's transform it into a celebration of lights.

And let's start appreciating some or those other maligned human traits. Like vanity, a powerful motivator for self improvement. And sloth, which provides time and opportunity for the subconscious/right brain/cosmic current to fight its way to the surface. And pride, fergawdsakes. How can any of us go forward as artists if we didn't have pride, i.e., the ego to think we can do this? And how about lust? As in for life?

Well, that's it. My holiday wish for all of you. You are hereby sent a large dollop of each of the above to keep on keepin' on, now and in the future, do not pass Dick Clark, do collect $200, and squander it (there's another one) on yourself.

Sentimentally (for once and only),

Tim

 

Editor Note: Tim Simmons is traditional oil painter. He has been a
Downtown Arts District resident for a few years, at age 15 he  was
christened "Scratchy"  by friends. His column will appear from time to time.