A few days ago my adventure consisted of a trip to Los Angeles Museum of Neon Art, a place that had intrigued me for years given the citys long and prolific relationship with all that is gaudy and all that is automotive. One of my first accomplishments upon becoming unemployed was to figure out the days when each local museum offered free admission; most do, often at unusual times such that day, from 6PM to 9PM, the second Thursday of the month.
This museum is small, easily viewed within an hour, if not twenty minutes if youre in a hurry. Ive long had an interest, if not obsession with neon. Its cool, unnaturally luminescent colors draw me like a mindless moth instinctively flutters toward the certain doom of the electric blue bug zapper. Neon says night; it is powerless in the day. Neon says sex, best served at night. Neon says seduction, that precursor to sex. Neon smiles hello, the first step toward seduction. Neon, you devilish siren, you.
Years ago I dreamed of a room in my house, decorated in dark earthen tones, maybe a study, maybe a lounge, finished with beautifully curved art deco or nouveau accoutrements. And, all along the ceiling, shielded by a stained wooden trim, ran pale lavender neon lights, filling he room with an eerie, sensual glow. Sue me and my gay taste.
Upon entering the museum, I was greeted by a pretty woman, several tattoos visible from beneath stylish clothes, obviously bored and waiting for her day to end. Go ahead and go in, she mumbled, hardly looking up from text messaging on her cell phone. Admission is free tonight.
I was immersed in the distinctly harsh buzz of neon, bathed by the peculiar light generated when an electrical current is run through glass tubes filled with the noble gasses: neon, argon, helium, xenon, mercury. Each of the gasses or a combination thereof, produces light of a specific wave length when charged by electricity, producing a palette of about 200 colors. Unlike most museums, which tend to be well lit to provide ample visibility of the art, this one is designed in reverse; darkness pervades nearly all of the space that isnt illuminated by the various installations. The flashing lights and droning hum of electricity gave the place an ominous feel not unlike Dr. Frankensteins laboratory.
The museum was largely devoid of visitors this evening. A pear-shaped, middle aged woman, dressed like a college professor on vacation (fanny pack, Birkenstocks, permed hair) milled quickly through the collections. In the distance I could hear a strange electronic peeeew peeeew peeeew noise reminiscent of a cheap arcade shooter game from the 80s. Unseen feet shuffle nearby me. A video crew was shooting footage of a vintage sign.
I stood before a four foot tall marionette of a devil perched atop a clear plastic box which was framed with aluminum, its arms and head connected by wire to an overhead motors. On the front of the box was affixed red neon flames and the words,
A DIME
A DANCE
which blinked in alternating fashion. The devil puppet was dressed in a hooded robe sewn from crimson satin. Its macabre face was also painted crimson and constructed of what looked like papier-mch, with a hooked nose, baring pointed teeth, small hollow sockets where its eyes should be, looking a little like something from Dantes Inferno.
Curiosity got the best of me so I plunked a quarter into an adjacent coin deposit (apparently a dime isnt enough for the advertised dance), and the otherwise sinister puppet sprang to comical life. The instantly recognizable guitar riffs of the Ventures surf anthem, Walk Dont Run began playing from a tinny-sounding speaker as the motor whirred into action, pulling wires and the grotesque doll into a painfully slapstick dance. Knees bending, arms flailing, ass shaking, guitar walking up and down scales like a Big Kahuna walking up and down his longboard on the face of a wave.
And, just as quickly as the show began, the music stopped, the motor died, and with it, Lucifers little ditty. The soft click-click blinking of A DIME and A DOZEN proved that the bewildering performance I just witnessed hadnt been imagined.
I sat momentarily in a nearby chair to collect my thoughts, peeeew peeeew peeeew still firing monotonously in the background. A tall, lanky man wearing square, thick-lensed Poindexter glasses walked by. He was dressed in a denim muscle shirt that revealed hairy arms, shaved cleanly from the elbows up, tattoos in reverse. An elastic waistband pulled just above a paunchy belly held up tie-dyed weight lifting pants. A black cap, worn slightly askew, covered his balding head. The man shaved his neck too, the open muscle shirt revealing a clean line of demarcation below which a thick pelt of hair on his chest poured out.
He walked toward an orange obelisk-shaped contraption that stood at least eight feet tall which was covered on all four sides by marimbas, both mallets and keys. Curiously, no neon. As the strange man walked toward the piece he triggered motion sensors which in turn caused the obelisks mallets to strike the wooden keys randomly, making very satisfying plunking noises. This created a cacophony of rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, something like a giant wind chime being thrashed in a hurricane. Unable to solve the Sphinxs riddle, the man kept cocking his head side to side, pondering a little like a dog, mentally engineering the sculpture in his mind.
I decided to leave and stood up from the chair, satisfied with my adventure. Have a good night, said the pretty tattooed woman, without looking up, still engrossed in her phone.
This museum is small, easily viewed within an hour, if not twenty minutes if youre in a hurry. Ive long had an interest, if not obsession with neon. Its cool, unnaturally luminescent colors draw me like a mindless moth instinctively flutters toward the certain doom of the electric blue bug zapper. Neon says night; it is powerless in the day. Neon says sex, best served at night. Neon says seduction, that precursor to sex. Neon smiles hello, the first step toward seduction. Neon, you devilish siren, you.
Years ago I dreamed of a room in my house, decorated in dark earthen tones, maybe a study, maybe a lounge, finished with beautifully curved art deco or nouveau accoutrements. And, all along the ceiling, shielded by a stained wooden trim, ran pale lavender neon lights, filling he room with an eerie, sensual glow. Sue me and my gay taste.
Upon entering the museum, I was greeted by a pretty woman, several tattoos visible from beneath stylish clothes, obviously bored and waiting for her day to end. Go ahead and go in, she mumbled, hardly looking up from text messaging on her cell phone. Admission is free tonight.
I was immersed in the distinctly harsh buzz of neon, bathed by the peculiar light generated when an electrical current is run through glass tubes filled with the noble gasses: neon, argon, helium, xenon, mercury. Each of the gasses or a combination thereof, produces light of a specific wave length when charged by electricity, producing a palette of about 200 colors. Unlike most museums, which tend to be well lit to provide ample visibility of the art, this one is designed in reverse; darkness pervades nearly all of the space that isnt illuminated by the various installations. The flashing lights and droning hum of electricity gave the place an ominous feel not unlike Dr. Frankensteins laboratory.
The museum was largely devoid of visitors this evening. A pear-shaped, middle aged woman, dressed like a college professor on vacation (fanny pack, Birkenstocks, permed hair) milled quickly through the collections. In the distance I could hear a strange electronic peeeew peeeew peeeew noise reminiscent of a cheap arcade shooter game from the 80s. Unseen feet shuffle nearby me. A video crew was shooting footage of a vintage sign.
I stood before a four foot tall marionette of a devil perched atop a clear plastic box which was framed with aluminum, its arms and head connected by wire to an overhead motors. On the front of the box was affixed red neon flames and the words,
A DIME
A DANCE
which blinked in alternating fashion. The devil puppet was dressed in a hooded robe sewn from crimson satin. Its macabre face was also painted crimson and constructed of what looked like papier-mch, with a hooked nose, baring pointed teeth, small hollow sockets where its eyes should be, looking a little like something from Dantes Inferno.
Curiosity got the best of me so I plunked a quarter into an adjacent coin deposit (apparently a dime isnt enough for the advertised dance), and the otherwise sinister puppet sprang to comical life. The instantly recognizable guitar riffs of the Ventures surf anthem, Walk Dont Run began playing from a tinny-sounding speaker as the motor whirred into action, pulling wires and the grotesque doll into a painfully slapstick dance. Knees bending, arms flailing, ass shaking, guitar walking up and down scales like a Big Kahuna walking up and down his longboard on the face of a wave.
And, just as quickly as the show began, the music stopped, the motor died, and with it, Lucifers little ditty. The soft click-click blinking of A DIME and A DOZEN proved that the bewildering performance I just witnessed hadnt been imagined.
I sat momentarily in a nearby chair to collect my thoughts, peeeew peeeew peeeew still firing monotonously in the background. A tall, lanky man wearing square, thick-lensed Poindexter glasses walked by. He was dressed in a denim muscle shirt that revealed hairy arms, shaved cleanly from the elbows up, tattoos in reverse. An elastic waistband pulled just above a paunchy belly held up tie-dyed weight lifting pants. A black cap, worn slightly askew, covered his balding head. The man shaved his neck too, the open muscle shirt revealing a clean line of demarcation below which a thick pelt of hair on his chest poured out.
He walked toward an orange obelisk-shaped contraption that stood at least eight feet tall which was covered on all four sides by marimbas, both mallets and keys. Curiously, no neon. As the strange man walked toward the piece he triggered motion sensors which in turn caused the obelisks mallets to strike the wooden keys randomly, making very satisfying plunking noises. This created a cacophony of rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, something like a giant wind chime being thrashed in a hurricane. Unable to solve the Sphinxs riddle, the man kept cocking his head side to side, pondering a little like a dog, mentally engineering the sculpture in his mind.
I decided to leave and stood up from the chair, satisfied with my adventure. Have a good night, said the pretty tattooed woman, without looking up, still engrossed in her phone.
VIEW 14 of 14 COMMENTS
ps. for the record, i still think Bel Biv Devoe is rad.
[Edited on Dec 13, 2005 3:23PM]