Atop the ivory tower

Ah, Los Angeles—my crazy, crazy patchwork of a city. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes ugly, always itself. There’s no single vista that could contain all of it...but I will say, this one’s pretty good. And any local worth his or her gross points could probably tell you where I am right now...

...the Getty Center, the newer half of the world-renowned J. Paul Getty Museum. Completed in 1997 as an expanded showcase for the late oilman’s collection while the Getty Villa underwent renovations—it’s since reopened—the Getty Center is the beneficiary of the world’s wealthiest art endowment and arguably the premier art museum on the West Coast.

All the more reason for me to crash it, right?

Built by Richard Meier over two ridges in the hills of Brentwood, the Getty became an instant LA landmark for its unique architecture and the white travertine outer walls that make it stand out on the local landscape like a pearly crown. Here’s the model of the campus…

…and here’s the reality, from within the courtyard.

Not bad, Meier. Not bad at all.

The Getty is loaded with visitor-friendly facilities, such as this touchscreen directory—useful for finding not only specific works but those visitor-friendly restrooms as well! I know I could just talk to a guard when I need one instead, but I get so tired of them asking if I’m Rob’s seeing-eye rabbit. Um,  hello—I’m a patron of the arts, thank you very much.

Or you could just ditch the maps altogether and wander around freely for hours and hours; if you’re the placard-reading type, it’ll take longer still.

This may not be the Art Institute and this definitely isn’t the ’80s, but still, I’m always slightly disappointed when I have a gallery to myself and this doesn’t automatically pipe in over the PA.

There are also the sprawling grounds, with an expansive desert garden, rolling lawns that are cropped so sharply that they’re practically AstroTurf, and a waterfall that ends in a large pool occupied by a hedge maze. Which I’d think would be more of a pain to maintain than either a water feature or a hedge maze separately, but oil money makes anything possible, I guess.

Then there’s the sculpture garden, supplemented by a handful of pieces scattered around the campus. Partial to pop art as I am, I really like Roy Lichtenstein’s Three Brushstrokes here—even if it kind of just makes me want a frozen banana.

Personally, I don’t really understand it when an artist names a piece Untitled; even a ridiculously pretentious title like Symphony in Red, Gold, Four Dimensions, and a Gum Wrapper or whatever seems better than not trying. Take Joel Shapiro’s no-namer here—how hard would it have been to come up with Drunk Asterisk?

Or then you’ve got a case like Fernand Léger’s Walking Flower, where the title is fine but he missed an opportunity to call it Tripping Daisy.

Back inside, in the East Pavilion: You say Salomon de Bray’s David with His Sword, I say Severus Snape’s Awkward Third Year.

Henry Weekes’ Bust of an African Woman? Or Audra McDonald Rolling Her Eyes?

Okay, I guess I can’t quibble with Richard Dadd’s Mercy: David Spareth Saul’s Life here. But, heh, all the image makes me think of is “So which one was the first to say ‘Jehovah’?”

Huh. I don’t see a placard or recognize the artist, but I definitely appreciate a clean, minimalist approach to a kinetic sculpture, especially this one made of polished stainless steel in the shape of a drainage basin…oh.

Moving on to the South Pavilion, then, which houses the 18th-century collection and decorative arts area. Hmm. Nice, high ceilings, good paneling, love the marquetry, chandelier’s okay—a rabbit could really entertain here. How soon can we get it in escrow?

Okay, now here’s a peeve of mine: the depiction of bunnies in human art. This is an 18th-century French silver table centerpiece, and right there in the middle—the head’s facing me—is a “game” rabbit. Why are we always the victims and never the heroes? It’s very annoying and one-sided, but hopefully the Getty has other works that balance out this one.

…aw. Dude.

Well, this piece in the North Pavilion is as good as it gets for us here—Hans Hoffmann’s A Hare in the Forest, where the rabbit just…sits there. Eating. Not being eaten, at least, but hardly a dynamic world-beater either. Bite me, art history.

Time for a little turnabout, then! Another of the Getty’s features is the sketching room, where they provide free paper, pencils, and easels for people to have a go at being artists themselves. When we were here, it was dominated by kids, but it’s open to everyone, including adults—and rabbits!

Hrm. Well, it’s as far as I got by freepaw in the limited time I had before Rob said we should let incoming kids have a turn, but I don’t think I’ll be heading my own gallery show anytime soon. Still, the lady gave me a proper Getty stamp at the bottom, so that’s gotta count for something!

Still, if the true purpose of art is to inspire others in turn, I guess I should dig out my color sticks and start my own rabbit-centric art movement, huh? One fauvist sketch from five years ago does not a revolution make.

And that’s all from the Getty! Rob tried to squeeze in one last shot of that fabulous Meier architecture showcasing the beautiful California summer sky, but I was already heading to the museum store. C’mon, Rob—fancy toys!

LA story

Sorry, Albert Hammond*—it totally rains in Southern California. Although I have to say that for an El Niño year, this one wasn’t too bad; yes, it rained all the way into April, but it wasn’t exactly downpouring for weeks on end, and while the fire-damaged hills had some mudslides, that’s like saying Christmas came in December.

*You too, Tony Toni Toné.

Even so—and the perpetual drought notwithstanding—sometimes we manage a literal Hollywood ending. Somebody release the dove!

I do love this crazy town, but I may be biased—after all, Los Angeles is the only home I’ve ever known. And of all of us, I’m the sole native: Damage is from Fresno in the Central Valley, Rob’s from further upstate, and the others all come from outside California. Yet they all gravitated here. And who can blame them? This, so to speak, is the view from our backyard.

In fairness, LA isn’t for everyone, especially if you prefer more vertical cities. I actually like the sprawl, the way it can go from urban to suburban to beach in a matter of blocks. But the getting there, well, that’s the notorious rub. The car culture is everything they say it is, from rush hour to the endless paid parking—gated lots, street meters, valets in strip malls. Okay, the latter’s not really common, but I’m bitter anyway.

Yeah, yeah, move it along, my car’s next. And don’t think I didn’t count the change in the ashtray before I got out.

Still, LA has its upsides, provided you’re willing to make the trek. We’ve got art, we’ve got wildlife, and we’ve most definitely got retail! Even in a recession, quirky, niche-y shops pop up like the proverbial Whac-A-Mole, such as West Hollywood’s recently opened Plaisir here. 

Yowza. And to think I really just wanted a cruller.

Then again, I suppose these’ll do instead—cream puffs, color-coded by flavor. I may love this place. Which do I want to try first, strawberry, vanilla, or Irish cream?

And, of course, there’s never a dull moment with “the industry.” In my neck of the woods, you can barely go a day without running into a premiere or an awards ceremony or at least a film crew. Which’ll happen when the Walk of Fame and other Hollywood landmarks are within hopping distance—in fact, Grauman’s Chinese Theatre is right across the street from Rob’s old office.

Okay, I grant you—putting my paws in the hands that exec-produced Arrested Development actually is kind of cool.

What? Has he done other stuff?

But glitz and glamour aside, there’s the pure diversity of Los Angeles as well—four million people of every stripe in the greater city alone, just going about their daily business in all their countless varieties. And what better way to join the throng than by catching the city’s surprisingly clean and drama-free subway?

A rabbit on the Metro may draw stares from people, depending on the time of day, but then I just ask them for 26 Across or whatever, and that usually normalizes everything.

Downtown! When I’ve got worries, all the noise and the hurry seems to help, I know.

Is it any wonder spring is far and away my favorite season in LA? It’s probably just the woodland in me, though.

From Union Station, it’s just a stone’s throw to Olvera Street, the oldest part of town, where the plaza and main thoroughfare have been styled to resemble a Mexican marketplace in all its color and liveliness. You don’t have to come here for piñatas, calaveras figures, or Pulparindo candy, obviously, but it’s a fun, touristy cornerstone of the city just the same.

...or rather, it is at the moment. Increasing rents may force out the current vendors before long, so if you want to see Olvera the way we’ve always known it, you might want to come soon. Paws crossed that it won’t come to that, though!

In the meantime, I thought I’d do my part to help out, however small. Míreme—hoy estoy soy luchador.

Lunchtime! Naturally, downtown LA has no shortage of restaurants, but where do the locals go? Why—the food trucks! Let’s see, did I remember to ask for extra hot sauce?

But if you’re an absolute stickler about health codes, well, we can always go somewhere more sit-down. Like any big city, LA has its share of “ethnic enclaves,” so if you don’t feel like tacos on Olvera Street or dim sum in Chinatown, there’s always sushi and udon in Little Tokyo…

…or tom yum soup and satay in Thai Town…

…or doro wat and kitfo in Little Ethiopia…

…or spätzle and sauerbraten in Alpine Village, if you’re willing to go a little further south of LA proper to visit our German cul-de-sac. No hasenpfeffer, though, or you’re dead to me.

Actually, as long as we’re here, I’m tucking into some strudel. And if my brothers think I’m bringing any of this home, they’re crazy.

So, that’s Mexicans, Japanese, Thais, Ethiopians, Germans...but what about my people? Well, LA may not yet have a predominantly lagomorphic neighborhood, but if we take the 110 to Pasadena, we find the Bunny Museum, a private home that enshrines one couple’s collection of rabbit paraphernalia. It’s a start to preserving our heritage—and in keeping with the Pasadena location, that’s a former Rose Parade float adapted into topiary out front!

Go ahead and make your “multiplying like rabbits” joke—Candace Frazee and Steve Lubanski’s collection holds the Guinness record, at over 25,000 rabbit-related items and growing. You can’t capture that much stuff in one photo, no matter how you try; behind me are just a few hundred of their plushes, never mind their ceramic figures, vintage toys, art pieces, and so forth. Guess I can’t complain about having to share space with six brothers ever again.

Even then, we didn’t see everything; Candace says they have a lot in storage, including at least one item from every century going as far back as a Roman coin embossed with a rabbit! So see—there’s no whitewashing us out of history. Right, my chocolate brother?

But whatever our respective backgrounds, in the end we all wind up the same way, essentially. You certainly get that sense visiting Hollywood Forever, a prime place to see some famous locals who are no longer with us, where Johnny Ramone’s cenotaph is right next to Hattie McDaniel’s grave but both have a nice view of the water.

You could roam around the cemetery for hours, but today I’m really only here for one thing: to pay my respects to the man who did more for rabbit visibility in the media during the last century than anyone else. Thanks, big guy.

Anyway, enough ruminating—ever see the sunset from the Santa Monica Pier’s ferris wheel? We’ve got time for a quick go.

Wow. Almost makes you want to write inspirational verse, doesn’t it?

Then once the sun’s down, we find one more upside to living here: Any given night, there’s bound to be a free screening somewhere. And tonight, it’s the new Glee episode at the Grove! The SRO arrangement isn’t exactly ideal for someone of my stature, but hey, free popcorn!

After all, what is life about if not watching Jane Lynch verbally lacerating her castmates with a thousand happy strangers under the stars on a spring night? Shh, the show’s about to start!

Afterwards, it’s terrace dining while the Grove fountain performs to “Don’t Stop Believin’.” That, I think, just might be Los Angeles in a nutshell.

And, of course, it wouldn’t be LA if the evening didn’t end in a high-speed pursuit. Be cool and forget you just saw me, okay?

Ah, my City of Angels. Can’t we all just get along?