The Peculiar Allure of Man the Rich and Famous Call Curley : ‘Some people think he’s a grouch, but his friends see through his tough exterior.’

Curley Morrow--gruff, toothless, 70 years old--might seem likely to wander reasonably unnoticed through life.

But Curley, the caretaker and most-of-the time resident of the Zero One Gallery on Melrose, is one of Los Angeles’ underworld celebrities, beloved by a wide collection of artists, rock stars and socialites.

The list of admirers is copious: it is said that rocker David Lee Roth wants to buy him false teeth, but Curley won’t go to the dentist. An heiress who will remain unnamed once bought him cream for a hand rash. When the Blasters played to a sold-out crowd at the House of Blues recently, they finished the gig and promptly headed over to the gallery--to give Curley a concert heavily peppered with Hank Williams, one of his favorites.

Just what makes him such an institution is something of a mystery. On most days, he can be found sitting in the corner of the gallery under a Bob Zoell painting, smoking Salems and drinking beer while watching a parade of hipsters pass through to look at the artwork. Always, his 3-inch television set and new cassette player are close at hand.

To be sure, Curley is not venerated for his chattiness. (“Getting words outta me is like getting words out of a turnip,” he quips.) Take, for example, a brief interview on a recent Friday night:

Reporter: “What do you do around here on a typical day?”

Curley: “I don’t do nothin’ .”

Reporter: “What’s your favorite TV show?”

Curley: “I got no favorites.”

Reporter: “Favorite book?”

Curley: “I got no favorites, brother.”

Reporter: “How much beer would you say you drink in a day?”

Curley: “No comment. I couldn’t tell you . . . probably about a case a day.”

But the taciturn Curley is getting his moment in the limelight this month, as the gallery stages an “All Curley Show,” for which a number of artists were asked to render their impressions of Curley in honor of his 70th birthday.

“He is an art legend,” says Mike Rosenfeld, Curley Show contributor.

Curley, born Arba Junior Morrow in Lancaster, Ohio, never saw it in his destiny to live surrounded by artwork. With a fifth-grade education, he quit school to work as a paperboy and later did a stint in the military that ended with an honorable discharge, according to the “Curley Timeline” that hangs in the middle of the show. He’s drifted through a series of odd jobs: managing a pool hall, running a newspaper stand and cleaning out nightclubs.

What Curley fails to disclose about his life is frequently filled in by gallery owner and friend John Pochna: “He’s read ‘The Iceman Cometh’ nine times.” And: “He’s into ‘Wheel of Fortune.’ ” Or: “He drinks a lot of beer.”

“Some people think he’s a grouch,” Pochna says, “but his friends see through his tough exterior.”

It was when Curley was cleaning out the now-defunct Cathay de Grand, an infamous local punk rock club, that Pochna--sick of the tardy rockers he’d hire to clean up after his gallery parties--hired Curley away. “There were like all these punk rockers barfing and people breaking the toilets, and he’d clean it all himself,” Pochna says. In addition to what Pochna says was a low salary, “He only got two beers.”

As it turned out, Curley could do the work of three rockers in half the time it took them to get the 3,000-square-foot gallery clean.

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Inside Pochna’s cramped back office, which doubles as Curley’s sleeping place, empty cans of MeisterBrau and cigarette butts floating in plastic Winchell’s cups crowd the floor. On the shelves are Curley’s beloved Western novels, crunched between don’t-ask oddities like Manischewitz chocolate macaroons and a book that sheds light on a kinder, gentler Curley: “Doris Day: Her Own Story.”

One event that clearly pleases Curley is the art show honoring him, which ends Thursday. When the concept of a show to commemorate his 70th birthday went out to 40 artists, 40 agreed--and then some. Told only to render their impression of Curley, three themes crop up repeatedly: Beer, cigarettes and The Essential Curley.

“They’re my paintings. I think it was very fine of them,” he says, nodding. “They’re either gonna like them or they ain’t.”

Despite the fact that the “Curley Timeline” outlining the bare-bones facts about Curley’s life hangs smack in the middle of the gallery, much of the artwork reveals just how little is known about this man with a penchant for spewing profanities at anyone bold enough to ask for one of his beers.

There are “Curley Preserves”--a jar filled with dentures, stale beer and soggy Salems. There is a Curley beer can crusher and a “Curley Ant Farm,” filled with yet more Salems. And in photographs, pen and ink and oil, there is Curley being Curley: smoking, standing, drinking and sleeping on his couch in the back office--the only tangible facts that manage to pierce through the Curley Mystique.

In a pen and ink rendering by an artist known as the Pizz, a caricature of Curley stands grumpily with mop in hand. “I don’t know Curley, but I like the Pizz,” says Mary Ann Escalante, who bought the work. She has met Curley once, albeit briefly. “He didn’t say much. He seemed just like that,” she says pointing to her purchase. “Kind of grumpy.”

For some, it is exactly the grumpiness that made Curley’s approval even more worth seeking. “To connect with Curley is kind of hard,” says Rosenfeld, while recalling Curley’s reaction to his oil on canvas of Curley in an Indian hat, a can of Budweiser looming in the background. “It did give me a thrill when he saw my painting and he smiled.”