Jewish Book: Saving Myself, a Los Angeles Childhood
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A Los Angeles Childhood – Pastels, The Red Wheelbarrow and Dorothy’s Gallery - Oooh La La! Part II
Tuesday, 28 June 2011 18:16

I get on the 69 bus to the Bastille, on my way to my friend, Dorothy Polley’s gallery, called, what else, Dorothy’s Gallery, on Rue Keller, a 7 block walk from the Bastille. (www.dorothysgallery.com). The current exhibit is called American Summer, painting, photography, film & music.

The front room features the Polaroid photos of Maurizio Galimberti, with a documentary to watch, which I do. He and his assistant go out to photograph, for instance the Flatiron Building in New York, or Lady Gaga, taking pictures, up close, in order and placing them out just as taken. This is a bit hard to explain. You can probably Google him and see what I mean. He talks about mathematics, geometry, rhythm and movement. He speaks of his shadow or a building’s shadow, an object and how it is something that is always with you or the thing. It’s worth checking out.

Henry Miller’s work has certain icons in it, ones that repeat and repeat throughout his work. One work, After the Quake, is most interesting, imagist work. There are works by Grace Slick, Jimi Hendricks, Janis Joplin as well as a DVD from acid rock Woodstock and a couple, Clark and Pougnaud, photography and painting, with children in unusual surrealistic settings.

I think about Miller’s icons and wonder what are mine? So far, the common images in many of the pastels are musical notes and lightning bolts. I’m sure I’ll add to that.

After the opening, Dorothy, Kennedy, her Boston terrier, and I go out to have sushi nearby in the Bastille area. We catch up. She wants to know all about the memoir, my readings, interviews, the entire process, all of it. We agree to meet for dinner again next year and I catch the 69 bus to Chatelet where I walk for about 6 blocks and pick up the 38 back to my street.

It has been a good, productive day. I am happy to settle down, eat some cherries, Skype my heart sister, Pat, who shows me my dog, who gets her up every morning at 2, sometimes 3 and 4, and eventually talks her into getting up at 5am. “I haven’t killed her yet,” she tells me and adds that she will be happy when I get home and Alice B is back at her own home. I expect to find her there when I get home from the airport.

My friend Martha has been working in her garden all day, running errands, and we Skype about her day. I show her my most recent pastels, as I have done with Pat.

Now it’s time to fold down to sleep.

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