Cater waiters at the opening of David Zwirner’s new Los Angeles outpost. Photo: Gracie Hadland.
LAST TUESDAY NIGHT, the LA art world converged on Western Avenue—just south of Melrose among a strip of futon stores, smoke shops, and gas stations—to witness the unveiling of David Zwirner’s new outpost. The block was mobbed as I arrived with the artist Larry Johnson. “Oh my god,” he whimpered with incredulity. “This is where it is? I spent my whole life on Western Avenue . . .”
Located at the conflux of Hollywood (a few blocks from the Paramount Lot) and Koreatown, this stretch of Western was once a hotbed for seedy gay bars (Larry favored the Black Lite) and still is for sex work (it’s not uncommon to see hustlers and prostitutes working the boulevard the old-fashioned way). According to the LA Times, the area is one of the densest in the city; the average annual income is $30,000. It’s here that a number of galleries from New York and other parts of LA have moved in the past year or so: Clearing, Sargent’s Daughters, Sebastian Gladstone, Morán Morán, and LAXART among them. Thirty-two-year-old real estate developer Zach Lasry invested in eighteen properties in the area and began courting galleries and other high-end businesses to move in in the past couple of years. Lasry, a thespian manqué, told the Hollywood Reporter that he hopes to bring a “storytelling ethos” to real estate. Something tells me we already know where this story is going.
That afternoon, Njideka Akunyili Crosby and Stan Douglas each gave a walkthrough of their shows to the press. Akunyili Crosby spoke to one of the directors about the new suite of works—domestic scenes, self-portraits, and plant still lifes not unlike the bland LA-lifestyle painting of Jonas Wood. They were installed on black binder clips, suggesting an unfussy DIY spirit. The director insisted on returning to the artist’s background and encouraged the audience to read a biography about the artist’s mother, who served as the director of Nigeria’s Food and Drug Administration. During her talk, an irritated employee kept glancing at the door, which squeaked with each writer’s late arrival. When a teenager wearing a backpack, supposedly from the neighborhood, opened the door to check out what was going on, she and another employee swiftly shooed him away.
We filed into the adjacent space, where handsome caterers in stiff white shirts and khakis were preparing flutes of champagne. Douglas described his work, which was shown last year at the Venice Biennale: constructed images, altered and manipulated to recreate protest scenes from London, Tunisia, New York, and Vancouver. Douglas said he was interested in scenes of “people controlling the streets, not the authorities.” About a photo of Hackney in London, Douglas noted how he had to de-gentrify the setting in Photoshop, editing out the new high-end shops and restaurants that had moved in since the London Riots in 2011. There was a knowing chuckle among the crowd. We applauded and proceeded to the champagne. As I was standing by the valet, I saw a man get out of a car who had once interviewed me for a job (one I did not get). The model-turned-clothing-designer told me his upper-midrange minimalist womenswear brand has opened a store right next door.
That night’s original plans were thwarted by rumors of cat murder by the co-owner of the hip Hollywood restaurant Horses, where the after-party was initially set to take place. In its stead was the trusty Sunset Tower. I tagged along as Larry’s plus-one. What was supposedly a tight guest list seemed in fact to be rather lax—everyone I had ever met in the LA art world seemed to be there. I talked to Alex Marshall, who works for Christie’s, and who reminded me that the millennial developer’s father owns the Milwaukee Bucks. He offered to introduce me to the developer himself, but we never got around to it. I mingled by the pool, where I talked to my former boss, gallerist Brian Butler (about what, I don’t recall), met Barbara Kruger, and John Knight graciously ordered me a martini.
When the party was quieting down, Joseph and John of the Gaylord and I walked down the block to the Chateau Marmont, where a dinner party hosted by Mel Ottenberg and Interview magazine was wrapping up. Real Housewife Lisa Rinna was in a full black sequined outfit with her husband, the actor Harry Hamlin. She said she doesn’t shake hands but was liberal with her fist bumps. I went out to the pool and met the man who is one of four cowriters of the song “Shallow,” Lady Gaga’s hit from the remake of A Star Is Born. I told him I hear people sing it at karaoke all the time. He said it’s about his recovery and pretty much has him set up for life, financially. I found myself genuinely impressed by his success and the strange stupidity of Los Angeles. I sat and smoked on the big cabana chairs, looking up at the Chateau’s glowing neon sign, wishing somebody would push me into the pool.
— Gracie Hadland