“Who is Steven Arnold?” was the question heard most frequently at last week’s opening of “Los Angeles 1955–1985: Birth of an Artistic Capital” at the Centre Pompidou. The LA art world descended upon a freezing Paris expecting to see works by the usual suspects but was surprised at the inclusion of the late gay genre photographer that they’d never heard ofone of Mike Kelley’s curatorial suggestions. With only eighty-five artists and 350 works representing thirty years of art history, literally dozens of visiting art-world heavies debated who should maybe have had his coveted spot: Charles
NOT EVERYONE IN HOLLYWOOD becomes a superstar overnightsometimes appreciation comes from a whole new generation. For all his talent, Rudolph Schindler never achieved tremendous acclaim in his lifetime. Maybe he was too scruffy in his trademark open-neck shirt and sandals; perhaps his perfectionism kept him from taking on the predictable, repetitive projects that would lead to a successful “look”or was he just too easily pinned down as a hard-to-pin-down dreamer? Finally, he committed the ultimate Tinseltown sin: His artistry outweighed his schmoozing.
Unlike fellow émigré Richard