This February, I woke up one morning to a seemingly urgent text from an artist friend of mine. It was an RSVP link to an installation show with a persuasively enigmatic accompaniment: “Reserved a spot. The warehouse is downtown. Might be the last chance to see it. Worth it.”
In L.A., there’s a certain pressure to know what’s fleetingly relevant. “When are you going,” I asked. “Yesterday.”
I drove through the downtown sprawl to arrive at a hangar-sized warehouse on a busy street. A parking attendant ushered me into a lot that was already full. Stepping out of the car, I heard an odd thumping, almost like a faint whale call, emerge from the building. Anticipating more of the exhausting showiness I had just endured at Frieze, L.A.’s largest art fair, I was surprised to see that most of the attendees streaming toward its source seemed like normal people. The line moved fast, and soon enough I was inside.
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