Sure, the Los Angeles Institute of Contemporary Art (LAICA) has a few strikes against it: a) a regional self-help project thrust into the breach where the patronage is historically thin and everybody knows how those things turn out, b) another attempt at art-world democracy and everybody knows how those things turn out (“Say, how ’bout a show of 63 ‘new’ L.A. artists?”), and c) its name (why not just “Mel’s Nonprofit Gallery and Magazine?”). But it’s working, against the odds, not the least of which is endemic misunderstanding. Example: Alan Moore, in his avuncular survey, “New Voices,”in last

Social Notes from All Over: the man with the plaid shirt and one-loop earring stepped out from the gallery to the sidewalk where we were enjoying our paper cups of bourbon and bananas. He pulled a Lucky from his lips and ground it under his boots; then, alluding with a tip of his head to what was back inside, he said to no one in particular, “Toughest god-damned artist in L.A.” Trouble is, not many people knew it and these two simultaneous shows of Charles Garabedian—a mini-retrospective (1962–73) and an overdue commercial exposure—won’t convince everybody. I work at the college, and they all