In a Tunnel With Trash on My Mind

I was sitting in a tunnel composed of 50 bags of trash when it occurred to me I probably didn’t have the proper attitude toward art.

I find it difficult, for example, to think of used condoms and empty chili cans as evocative of contemporary society in whatever form they might be presented.

It could have been, I suppose, that crawling on my hands and knees to get into the tunnel in the first place twisted my disposition toward the art which at the moment I was experiencing.

Whenever my back hurts, and that’s most of the time, it is impossible for me to enjoy any physical form of entertainment, including but not limited to disco dancing and crawling like a dog into a Great Tunnel of Trash.

This was not the only form of trash around me that had been recycled into art in a gallery on South Sepulveda.

There was trash in Styrofoam containers, trash in plastic cubes and trash hung from the wall on red plywood and riddled by .45-caliber bullets, the latter of which is a favorite of the artist, who calls himself Arte.

“What do you think?” he asked, as I sat in the tunnel scowling.

I didn’t know what to say. I had never sat in a tunnel of trash before. As kids we used to shoot rats with a .22 at the Oakland City Dump, but I was never tempted to crawl in it.

“Do you like it?” Arte asked anxiously.

“It’s like being in a cathedral,” I said. What the hell. If I were committed to truth I’d have entered the priesthood.

Arte’s real name is Arthur Gross. He is a nice boy of 23 from Philly who dresses in a suit and tie and says please and thank you and gosh. He is also the high priest of trash.

I was at the Thinking Eye Gallery at the suggestion of a neighbor who saw me throwing out the garbage one day. She was jogging by and stopped to tell me about the trash-art exhibit.

Well, actually, she didn’t stop, she continued to run in place as she spoke, which is an acceptable form of communication in an era that places fitness above articulation.

“It’s really (puff) marvelous art (puff),” she said, speaking of Arte’s exhibit, and then bounced off like Tigger in the Hundred Aker Wood.

The passing snippet of intelligence, however, piqued my curiosity. There are art galleries and art shows all over town and this was my opportunity to be a small part of L.A.’s rush to culture.

Also, this is an important era for trash. According to some, trash disposal is listed among the top four problems in America, right up there with crime, poverty and coming-of-age movies.

The city at this very moment is considering ways to force householders to separate their trash into recyclable and non-recyclable units in order to limit waste and facilitate re-use.

Environmentalists are said to be ecstatic over the prospect, but since environmentalists are known to swoon at the sight of fornicating flatworms that doesn’t mean a lot.

Arte is more entrepreneur than artist. He was a business school graduate casting about for ways to make money when he was taken, as he suggests, with a divine vision. A beautiful bag of trash appeared before his eyes.

I know exactly how this works because the late Colonel Sanders told me once he had a similar experience.

A fried chicken appeared in his dreams and a voice imparted the secret blend of herbs and spices that made the Colonel a rich man. He died despite his wealth, but that couldn’t be helped.

At any rate, the “force of the universe” focused on Arte and a voice told him to go forth to Beverly Hills, package their trash in plastic bags and sell it as art.

“This,” The Voice said, “will enhance the environment and make you big bucks.”

The Voice may not have put it exactly that way, but that was the idea.

So now Arte sells Beverly Hills trash in various forms for up to $2,500, and art galleries are happy to exhibit his work.

Cans and used condoms are, by the way, included in his repertoire, but garbage is out. Rotting art has yet to be discovered as a marketable form of expression.

“In Texas,” he says happily, “they brought me their own trash. I put it in bags and sold it back to them for $100 each.”

Well, gosh, that’s Texas for you and L.A., too, and I say if the kid is smart enough to realize it’s not what you sell but how you sell it, Viva quien vence , baby. Long live the winner.

I didn’t say it in the Great Tunnel of Trash, but then my vision was clouded by pain.