Art in the City of Devils

On any given evening in homes throughout L.A., people aching for self-improvement gather in small groups to discuss art, literature, wine, music or movies they rent on videotape.

I have belonged to several such groups over the years during brief periods of time when I attempted with earnest resolve to acquire a knowledge I otherwise lacked.

That effort ended three years ago in Santa Monica when I was ordered to leave a wine-tasting session after spilling a half-bottle of Chateauneuf-du-Pape on a tablecloth knitted by someone’s granny.

I remember my wife saying as we drove off, “You’re supposed to sip the wine, not guzzle it.” I replied I had been under a lot of stress lately, which is my standard response to marital criticism. Women understand stress.

At any rate, I gave self-improvement another chance recently by attending a series of lectures by art expert Betty Disney in the home of Herb and Marilyn Piken, friends who are under the impression I am urbane and sophisticated when it comes to art.

Wrong on both counts.

My idea of a good painting is a wooden bridge over a stream in which a maiden is washing her golden hair, although sometimes I favor tigers with gleaming yellow eyes on black velvet. God, I love tigers.

When Cinelli, which is my wife’s name, accepted the invitation to the lectures, she said, “You embarrass me this time, shorty, and I’m out the door.”

Even though I have been under a lot of stress lately, I managed to get through the evenings without disgusting anyone, and now I am an expert on post-minimalist, neo-conceptual art. It makes me tingle.

Armed with that new knowledge, I suggested to Cinelli that we visit the Museum of Contemporary Art, which is currently featuring a show called “Helter Skelter: L.A. Art in the 1990s.”

“I don’t trust you,” she said. “I’ll never forget that awful column you wrote on the Japanese sculptors. I’m surprised we’re not at war with them again.”

“If we didn’t create hostilities by vomiting on their prime minister,” I said, “we’re not likely to create them by criticizing their art.”

One is greeted at the door to the Museum of Contemporary Art by a sign that suggests some of the works might be found offensive.

Other than the bridge over the stream and the tiger on black velvet, one of my favorite paintings is that of a lady with a Madonna-like smile exposing a single breast while holding a monkey on her shoulder. The monkey is carrying an umbrella.

I can understand the naked breast, but the presence of the monkey with the umbrella has always been a mystery.

“Nothing is going to shock me,” I assured Cinelli, remembering that painting. But I wasn’t prepared for the guy copulating with a redwood tree.

Let me explain first that the title “Helter Skelter,” as I understand it, is meant to define the chaos artists see in the New L.A.

This one particular artist saw us in his kinetic sculpture as people who, you know, do it to trees. It’s not a pretty sight, but that’s post-minimalism for you.

Sixteen artists are represented in the show and, with rare exception, perceive the New L.A. not as a city of angels, but a city of raping, killing, owl-hating, devil-worshiping, television-watching, dog-kicking perverts.

That’s on our good days. On our bad days, we eat little children and regurgitate money, silly old city.

“I dislike this particular piece of work in mixed media,” I said to Cinelli, “because its phallic imagery perceives a preoccupation with metaphysical idolatry in a cultural biome rampant with neo-hedonistic overtones.”

“That’s the control valve for Sprinkler No. 5,” she said. “I knew I couldn’t trust you in here.”

“Well, I say it’s post-conceptual and I say to hell with it.”

As it turned out, Sprinkler No. 5 was as good as anything I saw, with the possible exception of paintings by Llyn Foulkes, whose works managed to include Mickey Mouse, Superman, Jesus and the whole gang in mocking social commentary on the New L.A.

But art, like death, is subject to many interpretations, and I am willing to concede that a “Star Wars” monster with a pink elephant trunk that sags from canvas to floor may be as representative of L.A. as a David Hockney dreamscape.

However, despite my recently acquired ability to appreciate modern art, I still favor the lady with the naked breast and the monkey on her shoulder holding the umbrella.

But then I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and am not responsible for what I think.