On August 7th, Downtown L.A.’s The Hive Gallery threw another shindig, and I, as a patron of the arts, made it my absolute duty to attend. This time, it was their third-annual “Bee-Rotica” show with “Erotrospective: The Best of Bluegirl.” Sounds pretty titillating, right?

As with all Hive events, there was a cover charge, but if you dressed in an erotic costume, admission was discounted. Like many events that require forethought and outfit-planning, I decided to just lazily ditch the idea, but there were plenty of people donning “erotic” outfits, or at least dressing according to what I assume was their particular definition of erotic. Who knows? Maybe for them it was just another Saturday.

The art certainly did not take a back seat to the colorful patrons. As always, The Hive has so many artists with new work that trying to explain it all would be exhausting for everybody, but I thought all of the featured artists were particularly intriguing this time around. The middle room, also known as “the room with the band,” featured “Erotrospective: The Best of Bluegirl” in which Heidi Calvert, the curator of Erotrospective, displayed her favorite erotic artwork and artists through different media. The front room showcased the Hive’s featured artists, like Cate Rangel, whose work, like the piece “Annie Come Home,” which depicts a girl in a wet tee-shirt walking down a lonely city street, fell more on the sensual side of erotic. Melody Duenas also showed off her work (and distributed free mini cupcakes) in the front room, and I was taken with the exquisitely detailed portrait “The Sight of the Deaf Boy.” I was most captivated, however, by featured artist Janet Kim, whose art nouveau-meets-pop art style in pieces like “The Rabbit’s Snare” and “Cornered” was highlighted by her unique method of painting with oils on antique mirrors.

The live entertainment more or less followed the theme this time as well. I caught glimpses of the interpretive burlesque show by La Fille, which involved the dancer smearing fake blood on herself in what I assume was part of some narrative I could not glean through my nonconsecutive peaks. I did get a good spot to view the band piEL, whose lead singer was completely naked except for intricate body paint. That alone would be an interesting show, but their music turned out to be pretty badass as well. Bonus.

Luckily, when the heat of so many bodies crammed into one place proves too much to handle, you can seek refuge in the cool, tobacco smoke-filled night air where there is always a small mob of smokers and loiterers bumming cigarettes and lights as they wax poetic about art. It’s all part of a wonderful artistic experience, really.

Make sure to check out Bee-Rotica while it’s around (until August 28th). You don’t have to wear an erotic costume this time, but I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt.

Quick View:
WHAT: The Hive Gallery: Bee-Rotica and Erotrospective: The Best of Bluegirl
WHERE: The Hive Gallery, 729 S. Spring Street, Los Angeles, CA 90014
WHEN: August 7, 8 PM-12:30 AM
EXHIBITION DATES: August 7-28, 2010
WEBSITE: http://www.hivegallery.com

Early on in Bret Easton Ellis’ “Imperial Bedrooms” (his long-awaited sequel to his debut “Less Than Zero”) this old Hollywood joke is shared between characters. Not because it’s funny, but because it offers a hint to the novel’s central theme: the Screenwriter’s Sexual Revenge. A theme that could have been used in so many effective ways to further the narrative Ellis set in place 25 years ago… but ultimately falls flat.

When I was maybe 16 or 17 I randomly picked a copy of “Less Than Zero” off the Barnes & Noble shelf in my hometown. The bright yellow spine beckoned me like a moth to flame, and the title was so very cool. The red and blue colored sunglasses on the cover didn’t promise much, but a quick glance at the back reeled me in. It was about sex, drugs and rock n’ roll set in Los Angeles. That’s all I needed to know, because I was already entertaining notions of moving out to Hollywood after graduation.

Little did I know that the novel I was about to read was already a cult sensation, having spawned a popular movie by the same name starring Robert Downey Jr. It centered on an apathetic, bisexual college student named Clay returning home to decadent L.A. for the Christmas holiday, and followed his downward spiral around the dirty drain of hedonism before leaving it all behind once again. With its blunt style, and casual approach to shocking content, it cemented Bret Easton Ellis as a literary force to be reckoned with. Hedonist. Misogynist. Nihilist. Love him or hate him, it was the spring-board for a prolific career that has produced controversial works such as “American Psycho”, “The Rules of Attraction” and “The Informers” (all adapted into half-baked, but mildly entertaining cinematic versions).

With each subsequent novel, I became more and more immersed in his bleak, twisted universe – a dark dimension disguised as a sexy party where “hope” and “love” are considered vulgar apparitions. His protagonists are superficial, addicted, oversexed and indifferent to any emotions including their own. College students, Wall Street serial-killers, fashion-model terrorists, socialite vampires and mid-life crisis movie producers – all damned by their own infinite appetites for lust and greed. Scathing, gross and sometimes hilarious, his body of work comprised a colorful Rubik’s Cube of doom, which could never be properly aligned no matter how much you read between the lines.

And at just about the time I thought I had him figured out, when it seemed his bag of tricks would finally become deflated and dusty, he tossed 2005’s “Lunar Park” our way, and completely turned his own world up-side-down – and my head effectively inside-out. This brilliant novel was about a writer named Bret Easton Ellis who is haunted by a book he wrote called “American Psycho”, who becomes a family man in the suburbs in some half-assed attempt to reconcile his relentless demons. Self-deprecating to the point of satire, the novel then miraculously shifted gears from horror story to a bittersweet redemption plot. When I closed that book, I was flooded with conflicting emotions, but none of them were negative. The impossible had happened: I was genuinely moved by the coldest writer in modern American fiction. It seemed as if Ellis had finally turned a corner of some sort. In short, he had elevated his own game.

Unfortunately a photogram is not something you can eat. Nor is it like a telegram unless of course you count the fact that a photogram just may “speak” to you and relate a message. Well what exactly is a photogram you may ask? I was recently educated myself in this matter during the opening of the exhibition “Photograms: Uniquely Simple” at the DNJ Gallery this weekend. A photogram is a kind of photograph, except not really because no cameras or lenses are involved in its making. Instead, a photogram is made when an object or objects are placed “on top of a piece of paper or film coated with light sensitive materials” that are then exposed to film or light (DNJ Gallery Press Release). While the title of the exhibit may imply simplicity, photograms can in fact yield complex images that appear to have intricate designs.

The heat wave that rolled into Los Angles this past week did not stop locals from heading to Hollywood to check out all the cool photograms at DNJ on Saturday night. After climbing the very Grecian looking stone stairs to the second floor, I find the gallery to be packed with spectators. With complimentary Pellegrino in hand, I start to make my way through the small but pleasant space. In the first room is the work of the curator of the exhibit, Darryl Curran. Curran’s personal exhibit is called “The Daily Dose” and it includes 365 autobiographic photograms that were created every day over the course of 2007. By the looks of it, 2007 must have been a productive but fun year for the artist as I can clearly make out most of the objects used to make the photograms—a hammer, leaves, a slotted spoon, a wrench, scissors, paper clips, and buttons to name a few. The pretty, pastel colors used also seem to be an indication that 2007 was a good year. For me, I would love to have some of Curran’s photograms on my bedroom wall. The cheery colors and everyday objects seem to create a kind of calming ambience that would be perfect to wake up to every morning.

Moving on to the main gallery, I am met with a variety of photograms from nine other artists. Some of the first that I notice are the works of Elizabeth Bryant. Sort of reminiscent of X-rays, Bryant’s two “Police Target” photograms show the outline of two men in suits or uniforms who may have swallowed a slew of different objects from knives, to birds, to lizards. These pieces are difficult to describe, so you’ll have to go to DNJ to really see for yourself. While I think of Halloween when the local chiropractor would scan kids’ candy through the X-ray machine to make sure some psycho didn’t give out needle infested loot, I think the artist is trying to evoke a different affect—one that has to do with law enforcement and civil dis/obedience.

Lately I’ve thought it would be awesome to have dog. I can’t afford one, nor legally have one in my apartment. But apparently artist Julia Schlosser doesn’t have these issues. Either that or she is toting around items that belong to a dog in order to make a series of photograms. Her images show a tether and a leash, a dog hair, an e-collar, and K9 Advantix—everything one would need to have a Fluffy, or in this case a Tess, a C.J, and a Lucky (apparently the artist has or knows 3 dogs). These photograms are inventive and cool to look at, even if they make me long for that dog I’ve imagined.

The photogram exhibit will be on display until September 4th so be sure to check it out. Each artist gives new life to objects not normally seen in a creative light. The resulting images are not only interesting to look at, but uniquely developed.

Quick Look:
WHAT: “Photograms: Uniquely Simple”
WHERE: DNJ Gallery, 154 ½ North La Brea Ave, LA 90036
WHEN: July 17-September 4
WEBSITE: www.dnjgallery.net

Oscar Wilde once said “There is only one thing in life worse than being talked about, and that is not being talked about.” For Wilde there were actually many things he considered to be the WORST things about life, but this quote in particular rings true in this town, in this day and age, in the entertainment industry specifically. I mean, with TMZ, the tabloids and paparazzi, not too mention The Emmy’s, The Golden Globes, and The Academy Awards—one thing is for certain—actors LOVE to be talked about and recognized. But with every good piece of press, there is that possibility that there can be bad press as well. Like anything in life, it’s just the way the cookie crumbles. So when a few weeks ago, I was instructed to pull a perfectly thoughtful and positive review of a play because the company practices “safe” theatre, I was and am bewildered.

The definition of safe theatre, according to the theatre banning my review is this: a place where actors can perform with the understanding that there will be no reviews whatsoever, therefore allowing them the comfort of knowing that nothing unpleasant or otherwise will be noted, documented or published about their performance. What’s more, advertising prior to the show is strictly prohibited in the world of safe theatre. Now hold on just a minute. If this was a workshop, rehearsal-type of performance no reviews or advertising would make sense. But this performance ran every weekend for about a month, not too mention there was a $15 strongly suggested donation at the door. This show had all the signs of being a normal performance, yet no one was to know about it and no one was to review it. Something fishy seemed to be going on.

I figured I’d ask a couple theatre folks from around town to see if they’ve ever heard of this kind of enforced censorship. First I ask Jane Whitty, an administrative intern at The Antaeus Company in North Hollywood Arts District. Whitty admits she has never heard of a theatre company making the choice to ban reviews, though she does know actors who have made personal decisions not to read the reviews of the shows they are in. I thought Whitty made a perfectly valid point by stating: “as with all art, you can’t improve without a great deal of (ideally constructive) criticism and critique. To deprive a performer of that, in the name of protecting them from negative feedback, seems misguided.” Rochelle Perry, a member of Write Act Repertory Theatre in Hollywood claims Write Act welcomes reviews for fully produced productions though understandably asks that the press not review workshops or staged readings. Meredith Lockwood, also of Write Act, agrees that reviews should be held for preview or tech nights, but beyond that, Freedom of Speech should reign.

Growing up, I remember a certain drama teacher who didn’t believe that the arts should be judged since there was no way to rank an actor like there is an athlete. Needless to say, it didn’t stop her from holding a drama competition at our school every year where there were awards and favorites, and yes, poor little hearts and dreams that were shattered and broken. Let’s face it, most of us can tell good acting from bad so why not recognize those who excel as actors? When I was young and foolish (oh wait, still am) and an aspiring thespian, I wanted to believe acting was a part of my soul, like I HAD to do it or else I would just waste away, completely unfilled. Now I realize that there could in fact be a slew of other occupations out there for me and maybe, just maybe, I only liked acting because of the pats on the back I’d receive after a show. Maybe there was a little something wrong with me like my parents didn’t praise me enough as a child or something and I needed to hear that I had done well onstage. I think maybe a lot of actors are this way—sensitive, fickle, creatures with low self esteem. So, I can almost understand the idea of “safe” theatre or at least see how it can be beneficial to ban reviews in hopes of keeping actors sane and focused. But what I really like to think is that actors perform because they are artists who revel in the idea of creating life onstage (or in front of a camera) and sharing it with the real world. Every good play should have a story, a message, and it’s an actor’s duty to communicate this message with humanity. At the same time, the audience plays a role by choosing whether to absorb the message or reject it—be delighted by it, or disgusted. Be touched or concerned or want to discuss it for hours with other theatre goers after the curtain drops. Or even write a reflective review! It doesn’t matter HOW the audience reacts. It only matters that the opportunity is there for the taking—for theatre to impact, touch, and affect the lives of all who encounter it, one way or another. When a theatre company takes money from the public but denies audience members the right to discuss the play’s merit in a written review, then the purpose of theatre is diminished, therefore rendering the play, the actors, director, and entire crew’s efforts seemingly useless.

What are your thoughts? My ears are open to any critiques.

Lindsay’s arrest on July 24th 2007 for drunk driving was an unwanted punch-line to an already overlong joke. Before my current “glory days” at Forth, I was a cheap entertainment journalist, desperate enough to do a stint at the National Enquirer but contemptuous enough to piss people off and not keep the job for longer than a month. I never DID publish a single word with them, and in hindsight getting paid to sit at a desk in their corner and pretend to look busy was the easiest money I have made so far. Back in those days, I was hungry for dirt, worms and all, and my research into the ’07 Lohan case yielded some shocking revelations. Revelations that a sorry excuse for a rag like the Enquirer could not comprehend.

If the Santa Monica Police Department’s blood-tests of the troubled starlet were true, it would indicate that she was not only above the legal blood/alcohol limit and had traces of cocaine in her system, but that she also shares the same basic DNA of “Periplaneta Americana” …also known as the American cockroach. Such insight suggests genetic tampering for “youth retention” purposes, or perhaps some extraterrestrial origin that we are too afraid to contemplate. Either way, this information spells trouble, as Lindsay’s resilience could render her indestructible to the penal system, tabloid criticism, and worst of all, fire and pitchforks.

“We’ve tried everything,” said an anonymous source working at the undisclosed treatment center Lohan was located in ’07, “Electro-shock therapy, synthetic cerebral injections, even exorcism.”

Exorcism?

“Well, yes, a priest was called in and performed a seven hour purification.”

And the results?

“He packed up his things and shook his head.”

If such reports were true, if she was really locked up in some secret facility in the outskirts of the Utah desert region, and if she was really beyond the helping hands of science and Jesus… the question for 2010 is: what now? At 24 years-old, Lohan has already been to rehab three times, faced two DUI arrests and served approximately 84 minutes in jail. Her recent 90-day sentence is either the poisonous crescendo to a cursed life, or the set-up for a sordid porn to be shot on prison guard’s iPhones — maybe both. How long will this poor fair-skinned creature be left to wallow in such heartbreaking conditions? Would you let your dog suffer this long? Or would you take pity and finally have her put down, the humane way? Here’s a glass of warm milk, Lindsay, good girl Lindsay, drink every last drop Lindsay…

“Just look at her mug-shot,” James Butts, chief of the SMPD told me in a phone interview after her ’07 arrest, “Look at her expression. I’ve seen hundreds, maybe thousands of mug-shots in my day, but this one really stands out.”

How so?

“Just look at how her eyes are pleading to us. Her eyes are begging us, please, please world, please believe in me. Don’t give up on me yet. I am a mixed-up little girl and I have a lot of love to give…” Butts cleared his throat and resumed a professional tone, “At least, that’s what I see.”

The jury is out on whether Lohan is, in fact, mortal, or if when she dies she will simply implode and instantly re-appear in some other terrestrial form, like a jellyfish or a cloud. Reincarnation is NOT the prevailing theory at the local church, as His Eminence Roger Cardinal Mahony attested over the phone. As the archbishop of Los Angeles, Mahony speaks for nearly five million members when he says, “Nonsense. This girl is flesh and blood. If we burned her at the stake, she would very much catch fire and not come back.”

Could Lindsay have been sent among us to be punished for all our sins?

“If you are insinuating that this troubled young woman is the Second Coming, I am afraid this interview is over.”

Well, if God’s first and only son was a poor carpenter who partied at weddings and hung out with prostitutes, is it really such a leap in logic that perhaps his only daughter might come in the form of Lindsay Lohan?

“My son, there is no redemptive quality within that girl. If anyone has sent her among us, it was the devil.”

Brittany may have shaved her head and flashed her hot-pocket all over town, and Paris may have released a porn and done her stint at prison, but all of these things seem to pale in comparison to Lohan’s current state of affairs. She has remained in the unflattering limelight long after her peers have all but faded into irrelevance. Perhaps Brittany and Paris were mere test-patterns, perhaps Lindsay is the devil’s TRUE magnum-opus — as the Archbishop would attest — his David or Sistine Chapel of cocaine sluttery. It is true that Lohan is not the first and only celebrity train-wreck to hit rock-bottom. Robert Downey Jr. is no stranger to the Man Downstairs himself, but Downey is removed from Lohan by one slight distinction: he can act, and act well, whereas Double L has freckled cleavage and… that’s about it. Watching the verdict being laid down on her on CNN was like watching an anguished baby seal realize that the club looming over her head is not for providing shade, after all. Her pathetic balling showed signs of some base instinct still kicking around her addled head, a tiny echo of an ember of the little girl who once had a bright future in front of her and has no idea how it all went wrong.

Surely if the actress was a 24 year-old black male, none of this would have happened. She would have been maced, tasered, arrested and thrown behind bars back in ’07 faster than she can do a bump in the bathroom at Hyde. Her privileged stature has gotten her this far, and how much mileage is left in her withered karma is hard to say. It is the opinion of this humble journalist that the collective media perform a “Lohan Blackout” effective immediately. No more reports, articles, pictures or sound-bytes. No updates, interviews, rumors or hearsay. Maybe, just maybe, if we all ignored her she would cease to exist… poof …out of sight, out of mind. The real question remains: how can we expect Lohan to overcome her addictions when WE are incapable of overcoming our own? Can it be that we are all locked into some kind of sick, symbiotic relationship from which there is no escape?

Deep thoughts and heavy questions on a topic that has as much nutritional-value as a worm’s semen. But in 2010 America, worm-semen can be quite the lucrative commodity, and a strung-out 24 year-old girl the perfect target for our sins.