Send in $3 for a hard copy of this issue with the following content.

Features

Space Marines Sean McWillie’s lastest report on
Training in the Armed Forces pages 5 & 7

Out in the Cold
66º North, Iceland, offers the warmest, and coolest!
wear for cold days and nights, page 8

Columns

Letter from the Editor “Taking Flight”
by Anna McWillie page 4

Chicana Diary “Metro Gallery”
by Mariana Escalante page 5

Happy New Year, Darling! Part 16 “More Rehearsal”
fiction series by Veronica Bennett page 15

Astro Alice presents “Tree Signs” page 15

THEATRE pages 12-14

Reviews Liberace, Rumors, 2nd Thoughts, King Lear, Days of Whine & Roses,
Little Women, and Bang!

Interview Catch & Release’s Rachel Brenna

MOVIES pages 10 & 11

Arrested Development “A Lasting Sane Man” by Mike Malloy

Reviews Miami Vice II, Factotum, Brothers of the Head, and Scoop

Film Clips, MetroLA Rating

MUSIC pages 6 & 7

Manu Chao

Music Notes: Greg Brown, Kelly Richey, Fiona Boyes, and more

ART page 9

Infusion Gallery moves on

Fashion Exhibits

galleries & shows

LIT/WORD page 14

Jasmine in My Hand

Reviews Jasmine in My Hand, A Place Called the Bla Bla Café,
The Flamenco Academy, Chasing the Jaguar, and
Exit Strategies

STYLE page 8

66º North

Kipling Bags

Features

Space Marines
by Sean A. McWillie
Private First Class, Special Operations, U.S. Armed Forces; who left his last year of college at
UC Irvine and post as Associate Editor running MetroLA last August to join the army.

Woke up at 4 to scramble together some acceptable state and appearance. Got word last night that the giant Hungarian guy, the Mexican guy, and I all got cut from the jump because we didn't go to the sustainment - we had been holed up in the hospital getting our eyes scanned for the PRK [laser eye surgery]. If there's a jump, and I don't have to be on it, it satisfies even more. We managed to get on. Consent is the root of all pleasure.

The air was light and my head started to spin from not eating, being awake and in the sun since before it even rose. The lack of oxygen, or the purity of air gave me this subtle teasing fear that I could pass out. But the discomfort was amplified by the one antidote - excitement. My head was a rotting glob of electricity... But I already know what the experience is like, the way gravity works - just thinking that I was worrying, because of the air, because I was up for so long, because I was under the impression that this is something I should worry about doing, when all I feel is eagerness to execute.

And through my milky eyes I see the guy in front of me starting to move up. And I follow, thoughtless. And walk off of the ramp. Tuck my chin in. Count to 4 and feel that amazing pop on “Three.” Pull my glasses out of my pocket so I can see what I need to. Grab onto my toggles and start to steer myself, strafing around another jumper just a few meters away, us making eye contact, co-conspirators in this act of rebellion against Newton’s law.

My feet touch the ground, and because I fought the wind current so persistently, I land more softly than as if my cat was curling up against me. Shaking off the disorienting along with the dirt, I pack up my chute and head back.

It took just 15 minutes to get on the plane, walk off, land lightly, then run full speed back to the rally point - driving home with the AC going full blast, half of my sweat-soaked uniform torn off already.

Then I remembered after tooling back down to base, to my grungy barracks room I can't afford to move out of, taking a nap covered in congealed sweat, that it was exactly a year ago that I was asleep in the plastic chairs of the Los Angeles MEPPS recruiting station waiting to get shipped out. They kept me around another day because I had been rushed through so fast that I hadn't taken my language aptitude test. It was only done a couple days a week. I got holed-up in a hotel room. There was some sort of cute Air Force recruit that I hooked up with, and I didn't even remember her name the next morning.

I got a 140/170 on the test. An 80 gives you Spanish, a 110 will net you Mandarin. When the aliens become a threat and the “Space Marines” need an embedded agent - I will be their man. It's funny, in a way, that I am in French, turning down Arabic. Some tool said that I got French because I wasn't smart like the Arabic class kids. It's the other way around. I gave up getting more pay so I can get a language that will be useful to me independent of the military and take me to Africa and Europe.

There is nothing more desolate than sitting in a plastic chair in a sterile building, fluorescent lights and cold white tile. Nothing. Opening my eyes one time during that 2-day hold in bureaucratic hell, I look in front of me to see a girl I used to [know]. She was joining. We went to college together, transferred from the same school. She was joining to be a translator. We talked. Nothing really changed in her life. Same end as any other relationship I've had - outgrow it and see sincerity sour. But it was still reassuring to know I'm not the only person I grew up around to go and leave. Taking off and having to tell people of my decision burned bridges. I always had found some solace in the false dichotomy of a human being either being strong (or sexy) or smart, but not both. Being given a chance to go and get everything my mind and body could be is something that I don't even have words for. It is liberating.

But being shunned by people that I had thought I had some friendship with, who took out their disdain for the current Administration on me, left me crushed. And while I know for certain that because of how dear some associations people make are to them, there won't come another chance to get these friendships back. I should thank them for revealing just how shallow it was, in that case - because I am not a politician, I am someone who volunteered to fight for a country - and I have the grace to hold my tongue over what my political leanings are.

The 10 weeks of Basic Combat Training at Ft. Benning [Georgia] dragged by. I got a slew of letters from a girl that I was seeing in LA before I left, that I never felt much attraction to except for when the lights were dim and my eyes were shut. And I replied to one of them, realizing with each letter how vapid she was, how wrong it is of me to do things I don't have any sincerity in. And by that, I would like to think that I did right. I got letters from people who read the magazine [MetroLA] I used to work for. And that was good, too. And I got letters from people I knew before I joined, and that was good, too. If I didn't write back much to anyone, it was because there just wasn't a lot that I knew how to say - the experience was like being born again, and my mind was blank from so much to metabolize - my brain and my karma foremost.

But as light as it felt on me, the supposed stress that I never felt registered, a regret over not joining the Marines instead got swept up and washed away mercilessly when the 5 of us PSYOP recruits from a company of 200, composed of "high speed" satellite and computer techs, got left behind as everyone boarded a bus heading to another base in Georgia, us stranded and having to get a ride to the airport some way on our own, with no address to report to or even a phone number to call. We had gotten flak the entire cycle for being "those other guys" - our drill sergeants had less of an idea what our jobs were than we did - and it was culminated in being left behind to go to Ft. Bragg all alone, to a well-hidden little school that is one of 2 job training programs on the base. (Most bases in the US are either for actual units, or for training them, but not both.)

We managed to get over there. I paid for a van to drive us to Atlanta. Sanchez, this tall lanky Mexican guy from Texas who knew more Chinese from being a missionary than Spanish, and I bought a pack of smokes to immediately undo the weeks of indoctrination and deprivation. We ran around, and eventually made it to Fayetteville's tiny airport. With no ride to pick us up, we cracked open a phone book. Called 411. Asked taxi drivers. We weren't due in until the next day. We should have rented a hotel room and picked up some booze. But 4 hours later this E-1 private there rolled up in a white van to get us.

We had this idea of getting holed up in a hotel room. Maid service. Laid back. Class room instruction. No drill sergeants. "You're going to go out to the curb tomorrow and dump all of your *%#@ out on the lot and have it locked up for the next 8 weeks. But you're going to be driving humvees around, shoot machine guns andthe M9 pistol, do a 20 mile land nav course, and kill live animals."

Heart sinking and racing all at once. The attrition that I had always wanted - fire to temper me, some brutal crucible to shape and crack me in the wake of the prolonged absence of any strong male presence in my life beyond corrupt examples of authority figures - which are poor substitutes, which foster cowardice. And on and on.

The days went by slowly. When one person [messed] up, we would all pay - with being called maggots, with being told we were going to be responsible for making those around us die horrible, tragic, un-timely deaths. That we were subhuman, that we were guilty. What got me by easily was just never opening my mouth. But I can say that an individual's behavior will barely have any bearing on the degree and severity of his neighbor's scumbag essence.

So I rode with my instincts, and would throw people around on my own - controlling my temper by way of using it at will - even if just to save my own hide. The 5 of us that went through together were joined by 2 active duty females, one of which has already quit the army after failing Airborne school; 3 people re-classing from other jobs, and 65 reserve components who could be commended for joining up to fight but feared for their sheer incompetence and immature attitudes.

Although I made friends, all but a couple of them have fallen out of communication. Being in such close proximity with each other fostered a prison-like mentality through it all. Hoard contraband! [To those not savvy] to the laws of the prisoner, people talking, shanking each other in the back, and all of that quickly became an issue. Every one of the 12 females, save for the 39 year old reservist, slept with at least one of the men in our class or someone found on base. And half of the couples ended up in this laughable state of blissful affliction with the other. With no exception, all of said couples ceased to work out afterwards. Desperation and having no outlet for one's hormones all while under a deliberate “us vs. them” operating environment does that to people.

Having been a year, where I clawed myself to now is somewhere that I'll be happy to have behind me. I would not want this to be all there is [to my life].

Working on the paper was something that I really believed in and provided chances to find out what other artists were doing, and give them all something back. But it was also something that I needed to move on from, as there was so much else in the world to do. Staying with it for too long just wasn't for me, despite what I gave it and the experience it's left me with.

Écrivez-moi s’il vous plaît: Sean McWillie
P.O. Box 72318, Ft. Bragg, NC 28307

66º North Keeping Iceland Warm since 1926
by Anna McWillie

Supposedly Los Angeles doesn’t get cold enough to warrant a sub-zero wardrobe, but having lived here all my life, the winters seem to get colder and wetter every year. And those local getaway ski and snowboard trips - what to wear?! When I found Iceland’s 66º North line of clothing, I got excited about looking hot when it’s cold outside, and so did SoHo, NY last season, when the likes of Quentin Tarantino, Julia Stiles, Scarlet Johansson, and Ewan McGregor stampeded their pop-up store and stockpiled the svelte-cut, hard-core outerwear, the same worn by Iceland’s search-and-rescue teams.

"Prada meets Patagonia," Susy Korb of Harry Winston was quoted in the Wall Street Journal, Jan 28, ‘05. The planet’s biggest deep freeze is reaching out to the world with their fortitude, style, and quality of craftsmanship. Originally designed for fishermen, 66º North has glammed itself up with fitted and sexy togs, wind and waterproof, using high-tech fabrics, like eVENT, with their own special built-in membranes to keep the warm in, the cold and wet out, and breath at the same time. Genius!

To fend off winter chills, the Glymur soft shell pants (Glymur is the highest waterfall in Iceland ) is a no-frills, technical pant with flexibility and a great silhouette. When it’s raining daggers or storming snow, their jackets will take you from peak to pub. The best part of the fleece-lined women's Polartec® jacket is that it turns with your head, expanding visibility far beyond the typical Gore-Tex® tunnel, I am told.

Kill the wind chill this winter with a cool new urban assault piece that will kep you warm whether you are jogging the neighborhood or barreling down Mt. High. Available at Fred Segal and other fine retailers. 66northus.com

Movies

Reviews

Miami Vice II
by Witney Seibold

It may be yet another unnecessary adaptation of a lame 1980s television program, but director Michael Mann (Heat, Collateral), finally managed to do this kind of movie right. Seeing as it was taken from the 1980s, the plot situations may seem familiar, but they never feel contrived. There are action scenes, but they never feel like over-pumped adolescent bullet-fests. The 2 leads are tough and grizzled, but never come across as caricatures. The leading lady is sexy without being vampish. The bad guys are indeed crooks, but never seem like growling supervillains (which is especially impressive, as the crooks are all superrich South American drug lords and growling bald white-supremacists).

Miami Vice II is a bit hard to follow, but here’s what I saw: Sonny Crocket (Colin Farrell) and Ricardo Tubbs (Jamie Foxx) work the vice squad in Miami. This isn’t the glitzy, bikini-clad, fun-‘n’-sun Miami we’re used to, but a cobalt-blue nightworld of drugs and hookers. One night they get a call from an undercover informant that he’s been found out, and his case has gone belly-up. It turns out the local crooks have a new technique for identifying undercover agents. They are then deputized by the Feds to go extra-super-undercover to find the source of most of Miami’s drugs. They become savvy drug couriers in a dangerous underground. To make matters worse, Sonny begins having an affair with the drug lord’s manager/moll (Gong Li), and both his partner and the audience can never really tell if he’s doing it to get more info, or if he’s genuinely falling in lust with the woman. There is also a shootout, a kidnapping, and a few other twists that I alternately will not reveal and was a bit confused by.

Mann shot and edited the film in a digital grainy visual style, which may have been a little ugly (I dislike most digital filmmaking technology), but managed to keep things moving nicely. The brisk pacing may have swallowed some of the plot details, but not to the point when anything seemed so unclear as to be hopelessly lost. The screenplay was full of almost Mamet-ian shop-talk which made the world of impatient cops and seedy criminals seem all the more authentic (even more so than the much-praised work in Soderbergh’s Traffic). Michael Mann is a talented film director, and has made a very good and very adult cop thriller out of a cheesy 1980s icon. July 28, Universal Pictures

Brothers of the Head
by Robin Menken

Directors Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe directed two docs about Terry Gilliam: The Hamster Factor and Lost in La Mancha. Their new film, Brothers of the Head, marries their doc style with Gilliam's hallucinogenic expressionism to tell the story of conjoined twins exploited by the world of Freak ‘n’ Roll.

A lawyer (Jonathan Pryce) treks the remote English coastland looking for conjoined twins Tom and Barry Howe. As in Citizen Kane, while the twins play in the background, father Albert (Roger Watkins) sells them to the representative of sleazy, Rock promoter, Zak Bedderwick (Howard Attfield). In this gothic clip, taken from Ken Russell's film-within-a film, Two-Way Romeo, Russell (playing himself) calls their story “the loss and exploitation of innocence.”

The twins - groomed by sadistic manager and musical mentor - are refashioned as punk band Bang Bang. Tom (Harry Treadaway) learns guitar, Barry (Luke Treadaway) channels his rage in wild vocals. They have a verité filmmaker (Tom Bower) documenting their transformation. Investigative Reporter Laura Ashworth (Tania Emery) sells out to their manager, then falls in love with Tom. Barry, captive to their love-making sessions, writhes in jealousy. Yoko-ish Laura tries to split up the band… literally.

Playing their own instruments, the Treadaway twins stare down the camera, as brazen and wet-lipped as legendary Rock Gods. As tow-headed boys, they played in conjoined reverie, as adults, joined at the hip (er - chest), they exploit their homoerotic symbiosis onstage and off. At their first gig, hostile crowds boo the “pooftahs” ‘til the lads whip out their deformity. Then they kiss on the mouth.

Cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle’s faux Ken Russell footage, fake verité concert footage, period-perfect mock photo-sessions, and grainy home-movies of troubled rehearsals, make the band seem all too real.

Their story is told by sister Robbie (Elizabeth Rider), groupies, rockers, managers… everyone but the twins. Notes one hanger-on: “Zak wanted singing Siamese twins - and he wanted them pop.” Bedderwick argues: “I never exploited anyone who didn’t want to be exploited.” No gentle satire, this. August 4th, IFC Films

Factotum
by Matt Dukes Jordan

Four films have been made based on the L.A. writer Charles Bukowski’s work, all by European directors, and for me, the latest entry, Factotum - starring Matt Dillon as the author’s literary alter-ego Henry Chinaski, and Lili Taylor as his love interest - is a bit of a disappointment. Despite the virtues of having a nice look, a non-MTV slow pace, and some fine performances, it just never flies, never lifts off dramatically.

If you take away the aura of authenticity and coolness created by the fact that Factotum is based on a novel by Bukowski, and just watched this as a dramatic film, would it be a good film? No. The reason is that there’s so little story there; the film is mainly about drinking, working in lousy jobs, hanging out in bars, and so on… the usual mundane stuff of Buk’s stories. Thing is, Bukowski redeems all that with humor and insight. Okay, now look at it as a film that deals with Bukowski. There was good atmosphere and some humor that was quite good. Thing is, the book is very different from this film, so you walk away saying to yourself, “Gosh, why weren’t they more true to the book?”

Director Bent Hamer, from Norway, picked Minneapolis as the setting. I’m a Bukowski fan. I corresponded with him briefly, and I’ve read lots about him, and I don’t believe that Bukowski ever set foot in Minneapolis. The novel is set heavily in places like New Orleans, L.A., Philly, New York - places Buk actually lived and worked. Why not pick some of those towns for the film? Also, the film is set in the present, not the 1940s of the book. That era has a unique vibe and it would have been nice to recreate that as much as possible within a low budget, but Hammer didn’t.

Barbet Schroeder’s 1987 film Barfly with Mickey Rourke is still way better than anything else in terms of depicting the legend and myth that Bukowski built. I wish that Factotum was great because it would be so cool to have another strong Bukowski film to add to and reflect on the Bukowski literary myth. Aug 18, IFC Films

Scoop
by Witney Seibold

Woody Allen is one of the most prolific filmmakers working today; at age 70, the man has made 40 films, 8 of them in the last 5 years. He’s also, like him or hate him, one of the more iconic filmmakers working today. When we hear neurotic characters sputter and stammer their way awkwardly through a conversation, punctuating themselves with hysterical throw-off asides, we pretty much all recognize the Allen stamp. His new film, Scoop, despite dealing with the ethics of investigative reporting, the power of true love over dishonesty, and (literally) escapes from the Land of the Dead, is slight and breezy and fluffy, and even kind of funny. Is it as good as Allen’s last film Match Point? No, it isn’t. Is it even as good as some of his earlier comedies? No, it isn’t. But is it better than some of his more recent failures like Anything Else, Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Hollywood Ending? Oh, most certainly.

While being the volunteer for a magic trick, a young reporter for her school newspaper, Sondra Pransky (Scarlett Johansson, the vamp from Match Point), is visited by the ghost of a recently croaked star reporter (Ian McShane), giving her the scoop that a local son-of-a-duke might be the notorious Tarot Card Killer. She enlists the help of the magician, Sid Waterman (Allen) to investigate. Sid is a bumbling embarrassment trying to pose as Sondra’s dad, and Sondra is a bit bumbling herself. The duke’s kid (Hugh Jackman) turns out to be dashing and erudite and charming, and Sondra easily falls for him. Is she falling for a killer?
The joke is that the more Allen appears in one of his films, the worse it is. It’s not quite true with Scoop, as his young ingénue can work with him well, if not necessarily provide any sort of wicked chemistry. It’s weird to see Johansson, usually a sexpot or a sarcastic, in such a broad comic role, and she can almost pull it off. Oddly, it’s Allen himself that brings the most life to the screen. We’re used to seeing him as the obnoxious whiny lead, or as the creepy romantic interest of some vastly younger woman (Allen and Christina Ricci? Come on!), but as the vaudeville magician with a growing interest in investigation, he’s actually interesting. Scoop is not any sort of jewel in Allen’s crown, but it’s certainly a worthwhile effort. -July 28th, Focus Features

Film Clips

My Super Ex-Girlfriend
It’s about a fellow (Luke Wilson) who begins dating a mousy and kooky woman (Uma Thurman) with odd habits. She soon reveals that she is the city’s local superheroine G-Girl. Our hero cannot deal with her neuroses, though, and dumps her for someone more his speed. Superpowered revenge tactics ensue, including burning embarrassing insults into his head with heat vision, and throwing his car into orbit. There’s something peculiarly dated about Ivan Reitmans’ new film. The structure and the dialogue, and the presence of a smut-talking best friend all make the film feel as if it was written in 1985, and is just now getting released. If you’re into goofy ‘80s romantic comedies, you might be into it.
Monster House
This film had received a lot of hype in the last few weeks, and I am here to report on its quality (as with any film surrounded by an advertising juggernaut, thoughts of its quality will obviously be called into question). I can happily report that it does not suck. It’s pretty enjoyable, the computer animation was done well enough not to be bothersome, and some Spielberg-ian childlike wonder is actually accurately captured by its only mildly obnoxious 11-year-old leads. The film’s finale is a little too much sound and fury and chase and escape, but up until then, it will have your attention. I’m sure it’s better in 3-D, though.
Lady in the Water
I think the key to enjoying M. Night Shyamalan’s Lady in the Water is to pretend that the writer/director is not trying to be deathly serious about the whole matter. He is obviously trying to make a Tim Burton-like fable about the power of storytelling, but as a thesis or treatise, the whole affair is a bit silly. Bryce Dallas Howard plays a sea nymph who appears in an apartment’s swimming pool. She must act as muse for one of the tenants (Shyamalan himself), then leave, but cannot because of a big monster lurking nearby. She then enlists the help of the building’s manager (Paul Giamatti) to assemble a mythic group to help her return to the sea. The film is a lot like Scream, in that the characters recognize that they are in a film-like situation, and it works on that level. Just ignore the stuff about Shyamalan martyring himself for his Big Ideas, and you’ll be fine.

Wanted: A Lasting Sane Man

Bob Newhart was the subject of a documentary entitled The Last Sane Man, and that’s a good assessment of his sitcom persona. On several TV series, the comedic actor played a thinking, reasonable everyman surrounded by a bevy of nutcases. We watched Newhart suffer predicaments created by his wife, patients, neighbors. And almost invariably, he would be stuck with the task of undoing these jams.

But Newhart’s character would occasionally create his own messes, and thus his sitcoms didn’t strictly adhere to the “Last Sane Man” premise – to this writer’s knowledge, no show has been wholly “LSM.” But then along came Arrested Development in 2003, and its first several episodes promised to give us the sanest sane man of them all: Michael Bluth, sympathetically portrayed by Jason Bateman. But if it were ever the show’s intent to be an LSM comedy, it abandoned that premise shortly into its first season. Then the show was cancelled midway through its third. Arrested fans and critics (and they are legion) say the series’ ratings troubles were all the fault of the Fox network, which changed the show’s night and slot.

But could a little more Michael Bluth sanity have caused the show to prevail? With Arrested Development’s aborted third season due out on DVD this month, and with recent news that the show will be re-broadcast over the internet, viewers can again ponder where the show went wrong.

Arrested’s first episode quickly establishes that Michael Bluth is the only family member fit to run the family business after his pop’s impropriety has the patriarch incarcerated. Who else could possibly manage the Bluth Company? Certainly not the alcoholic mother, the failed magician brother, or the overly cause-conscious sister. Nope, it’s got to be Michael, the perfect embodiment of Rudyard Kipling’s “If.” He keeps his head while all about him are losing theirs. And the world would seem to belong to him.

But somewhere along the way, Michael’s family members began rubbing off on him. Before the first season was finished, he was brawling on the courthouse lawn with his brother. And in the second season, Michael was bungling matters in nearly every episode (though still never to the extent of other Bluths). He got drunk at his mother’s alcoholism intervention, made out with a preacher’s wife and hired his sister to break into his ex’s apartment.

Still, the show’s writers kept Michael the responsible one, relatively speaking. So if it wasn’t part of his characterization to be a crackpot like the rest, why not keep him utterly and totally rational? Why not make Michael a shining beacon of level-headed sanity in a sea of senseless stupidity?

Perhaps it was easier for writers to construct the episodes’ often complex plots if Michael too could be responsible for mix-ups and harebrained schemes. But it leaves television still lacking its hero of unadulterated sanity. There have been other half-hearted attempts over the years – 1970s Britcom Fawlty Towers has hotelier Fawlty (John Cleese) straightening out pickles caused by his guests and staff (including one very imbecilic bellboy). But Fawlty too was occasionally culpable in this pickle making. Ditto Hank “King of the” Hill.

These shows are missing out on a very winning formula. The “Last Sane Man” premise should appeal to every one of us; we all feel we are unswervingly right, while those surrounding us are grossly wrong and to blame for our failures. But it should appeal even more to those of us who actually are right – those of us who act responsibly, smartly, and with rationality. What an empathetic joy it would be to see such a character weekly contending with ignorance and irresponsibility and emerging triumphant at the end of each half-hour.

Had Arrested Development been rescued from cancellation oblivion – as was murmured about – by either Fox, Showtime or ABC, this diatribe would have been an open letter to plead for some Michael Bluth sanity. But because the show was indeed deep-sixed, this is merely a lamentation of what could have been. - Mike Malloy

Art

Infusion Gallery Moves On

Two years ago, the NoHo Arts District lost a pair of its most active visual arts supporters. That's when the husband/wife team of Dover and Jill Abrams moved their fine art gallery from the Lankershim Arts Center to a downtown Los Angeles location on the newly-formed Gallery Row. Leaving the Lankershim name behind, they called their new venture the Infusion Gallery and opened the doors of a 10,000 square-foot building at 828 South Main Street in Nov ‘04.

Serving as both gallery and living quarters, the location provided them with an opportunity to expand their business plan. Artists from around the world have exhibited at Infusion in the past 24 months along with a generous sampling of work from local L.A. artists. The venue regularly hosts events for the nearby Fashion District, several entrepreneurial curators, and various corporate entities.

Now, with continued growth along Gallery Row and increased support from the community, the Abrams are changing location again, this time to a more intimate 3,000 square-foot store front at 719 South Spring Street, just a few blocks from the original Infusion Gallery. While the official date for the location switch is November 1, the Abrams have already performed an extensive renovation and moved into the new gallery space. The doors will be open after September 5, Tues-Sat, noon-6pm, and will host"First Saturday" receptions. Both spaces are open for the Downtown Art Walk second Thursday of each month.

Three resident artists provide the hub of artwork offered at the Infusion Gallery. Dover and Jill are artists as well as gallery owners, Dover with his painting, sculpture and music, and Jill with her ceramic and wire sculpture. They're joined by fine art photographer Charlie Morey, a former Artist-in-Residence at Yosemite National Park, who maintains the Infusion Gallery website as well as creates the gallery's promotional materials.

Exhibitions of Fashion

If you want to know of our fashion future it is a good idea to investigate the recent design of couture past. Los Angeles is privy to the premiere of 2 major fashion exhibitions this fall.

Lacma The Los Angeles County Museum of Art, is offering highlights that illustrate the changing mode of the ideal body and silhouette. Breaking the Mode: Contemporary Fashion from the Permanent Collection opens on September 17. Co-curated by LACMA’s Costume and Textiles Department Senior Curator and Department Head, Sharon S. Takeda, and Curator Kaye D. Spilker, Breaking the Mode illustrates how designers of the 1980s and 1990s rebelled against the principles that ruled 1950s high fashion. The exhibition features iconic designers Azzedine Alaïa, Hussein Chalayan, Rei Kawakubo, Christian Lacroix, Hervé Léger, Martin Margiela, Alexander McQueen, Issey Miyake, Franco Moschino, Thierry Mugler, Junya Watanabe, Vivienne Westwood, and Yohji Yamamoto, among many others.

Skin and Bones: Parallel Practices in Fashion and Architecture is an exhibition and publication that explores both visually and intellectually the creative process and alliance between the art of fashion and of designing architecture. It opens at MOCA The Museum of Contemporary Art on November 19. Curator Brooke Hodge enlightens us to the fact that despite obvious differences between these two design disciplines, i.e. the light versus durable materials used or the intimate versus monumental scale ,“... the point of origin for both practices is the human body. Both protect and shelter us, while providing us with a means to express our identities...” - Lauren Michele, Creative Director and Curator of The Museum of Fashion Designers and Creators (MODAC) Los Angeles. modac.org

Style

Kipling Pouches

Purses that look like clothing, that is the trend, and Kipling, traditionally a luggage outfitter, is leading the way in a new line of purses that accessorize a nice pair of jeans or a classic jacket, in muted colors and soft fabrics that are great for tucking under the arm, scrunging under a seat, or doubling as one!

Little charms that dangle, the more personal the better - and Kiplings little mascot monkey couldn’t be cuter. Add your own charms to the sturdy burnished-brass patina chains the purses feature. The “Diva” line bags are squashy, comfy, and totally neutral to make your outfit standout. These bags are made with the same quality as their great luggage designs, with quality zippers and lots of hidden pockets to keep you well-organized. Light-weight, they are keepers! Look for Kipling’s new handbag line at fine retail outlets and department stores. - AM

Lit/Word

Jasmine in My Hand by Mus White

It comes as no surprise that this first first time novelist has translated Hans Christian Anderson from the original Danish and compiled a bibliography of photographically illustrated children’s books. While this novel is grounded in real world life, like revealing snapshots, there is also fairy tale quality to the story of Pia and her poetic interior musings of the mind manifested in the written words.

Pia has an outwardly impoverished but inwardly rich childhood in Copenhagen, struggles in young marriage and motherhood with location changes and career shifts, ponders a privileged marriage in Los Angeles and accepts the privilege, angst and grace of aging.

Mus White’s written word makes us truly aware of this female, the jump and flow from childhood to being a grandparent, in her seemingly effortless interweaving of good story telling. It also makes sense that she probably really did work for the juvenile probation department of Los Angeles and opened a gallery and had mixed feelings about struggling with her first child while uprooted from Seattle to Sweden, treasuring the birth of her second, when life had become more known, and both horrified and ecstatic at the thought of being the grandmother of twins. It is a real life rich with fodder for fictionalization and for transporting us through yrical words. Sunswept Press, 2006 - Lauren Michele

Reviews

A Place Called the Bla Bla Café by Sandy Ross
The place to be in out-of-the-way Studio City c. 1971-82, The Bla Bla Café featured soon-to-be superstars like Jay Leno, David Letterman, Robin Williams; playing with award-winners Al Jarreau, Keb’ Mo’, and Sting; and Ross was a booker there with owner Albie Hora! This new and first book release by Ross chronicles the hostoric café with photos and interviews with artists who played the club. Evidence that the Valley was and is truly a bredding ground for talent and creativity! SLR Productions bla-bla-cafe.com.

The Flamenco Academy by Sarah Bird
Unlikely candidates for friendship, two U.S. college students are united in their passion for the sacred commandements of flamenco as they embark on a roller coaster of love, discipline, and history, and fall deep into the flamenco revival movement sweeping the nation. One is headstrung on stardom, the other fallen for an ultra-sexy young guitarist. Mystery, storytelling, betrayals, and the rules of the Andalusian dance: stomp with anger! are the tenets that brings this love triangle to a brilliant denouement. Five time novelist and columnist Bird sings this story from Austin, Texas. Alfred A. Knopf, Jun ‘06.

Chasing the Jaguar by Michele Dominguez Greene
First novel from Emmy-nominated actress, this hip Nancy Drew-esque, young adult mystery features a 15-year-old Mexican American girl, a curandera. Feel god, self empowerment is the message triple artist Greene (also just released CD Luna Roja feat. authentic folk/Latin fusion grooves) delivers. Mexican/Nicaraguan roots shine through to reveal hope, dreams, and plans for a brighter future. Harper Collins ‘06.

Exit Strategy Thinking Outside the Box by Michelle Cromer
Last August, Johnny Depp attended a private ceremony for Gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson. His ashes were fired from a cannon atop a 153-foot tower of his own design (in the shape of a double-thumbed fist clutching a peyote button) to the tune of Bob Dylan's “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Apparently this event was not as unusual as it seemed. Cromer’s new book unearths that today many people are reconsidering traditional cemetery burials as evidenced by the growing number of creative artists honoring the deceased - interviews with some in this book. Cromer is a partner at Sanders Wingo Advertising, Texas. In ‘03, she founded Pink Crosses to help families of the more than 300 women who have been murdered in Juarez, Mexico. She lives in El Paso, Texas & Ruidoso, New Mexico. Tarcher/Penguin Oct ‘06. - AM