“There are two modes of transport in Los Angeles: car and ambulance,” Fran Lebowitz once said. “Visitors who wish to remain inconspicuous are advised to choose the latter.” That seems like especially good advice for me because, as much as I admire auto aesthetics, I suck at driving. After being in a vehicle more in the past three weeks than in my entire life, my mediocre skills behind the wheel are beginning to take their toll. Scarily so, I might add—a note of caution to local landowners and pedestrians.

Leaving a prominent collector’s stunning 1950s modernist home, replete with a long sweeping driveway snaking up the side of a hill, I managed to unceremoniously scrape their curb, badly scarring my rent-a-car rim; but, like the oft-told cherry tree myth about George Washington’s verity (which is untrue, incidentally), I cannot tell a lie, or avoid a good story, even at my own expense. So, I made a clean breast of it by texting the owner, and just heard back from them—I’m off the hook, whew.

Dodge trucks are definitely Ram tough. I found out the hard way after crashing into one on the way to work.

After that, I ran out of fuel, but was able to coast into a gas station on nothing but fumes, and later bumped into the back of a truck while crawling in omnipresent L.A. traffic, distracted by something or other. I can now confirm that, as the ubiquitous advertising campaign promises, Dodge trucks are, indeed, Ram tough. This was all five years to the day after my last drink, which was in L.A., funnily enough. The world is a (somewhat) safer place as a result.

Back to my car, or rather what’s left of it: I am such a fan of the unassuming little Mazda Miata that I bought a 1994 iteration for about $15,000, which happens to be the price of a piece of art today from a first-year MFA student. (When did that happen?) My last point on driving: You’re allowed to make right turns on red here; and, if no one’s looking, a left, too (or so they say). Though I’ve yet to have a run-in with the LAPD, they seem pretty lax on this.

Warning! I am going to wring the neck of the next person to confuse me with my near namesake, “The Other Kenny.” Here’s a Scharf-painted van that lives nearby. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

Just as soon as I spied a Kenny Scharf-painted van around the corner from my house, a real estate agent was confusing me with him. I told her we’re through if that happens again. And yes, I’m actually considering selling up (or down) from New York and moving here, though I’m still on the fence.

Brokers are worse than art dealers. For example, I was told a pastiche of a modernist house had a “Mussolini-vibe.” And claustrophobic, low-ceilinged rooms are invariably shot with wide-angle lens, which should be a federal crime. My adorable son just called and said, “What’s the difference? You’re only going to get shorter from this point.”

Another broker—I have about six by now, after hating on L.A. for decades (if you can’t contradict yourself…)—told me about a house strategically situated between those of the star of Weekend at Bernie’s and actress Kelly Lynch and her husband, writer Mitch Glazer (who penned the 1988 film Scrooged, whatever the hell that is), two doors down from Gus Van Sant and across the street from the bass player of Jane’s Addiction. More questionable was the comment, “It’s safe, homeless people don’t like hills.” Lovely.

All the while, in the back of my mind, is the fact that California will collapse like a soufflé and fall into the sea with the next major earthquake. Or so I was informed by a crazed soothsayer that Instagram’s clairvoyant algorithm placed into my feed. Good thing I like to swim.

If you view the earth without water, the state of California sits on a precipice along the coastline of the sea. Good thing I like to swim. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

After two weeks, my exhibition at the Pacific Design Center Gallery (PDC) is going strong, notching a handful of sales. In the previous incarnation of the space, as the satellite of the Museum of Contemporary Art under the auspices of Jeffrey Deitch, James Franco starred in a 2010 show that incorporated his recurring role in General Hospital, blurring reality by appearing simultaneously as a serial-killing performance artist in both the TV show and the gallery. In the same vein, I am writing my diary in real time while gallery sitting.

The soap stint, which was widely panned by critics, culminated with the stunt of Franco leaping off the roof of the PDC to his violent, gory death. Be sure to take a look at this hilariously excoriating blog post: “Specificity compromises spontaneity: James Franco and Jeffrey Deitch go splat at MOCA.”

Due to the investigative nature of some of my writing, I’ve become the art world equivalent of a 60 Minutes correspondent. Some intel I’ve recently unearthed includes a number of fake Kusama paintings that have hit the market with forged labels from OTA gallery (branches in Japan, China, and Singapore), replete with typos in the spelling of the gallery’s website. Word to the wise: do your own research!

Kusama-rama: There are as many punters landing in L.A. as dots in a Kusma room. But buyer’s beware: There are a ton of fakes flooding the market with obvious red flags that can be seen by those cautious enough to look past the dots. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

Then there is the private art dealer who convinced a certain European gallery director to procure unauthorized prints from famous contemporary photographers to sell to unwitting collectors. The employee got caught. After his crime was discovered, it also came to light that he surreptitiously plundered crates in the gallery’s storage, leaving the empty boxes behind to accumulate warehouse fees. It didn’t end well is all I can say.

The Getty deinstalled Charles Ray’s sculpture of a naked boy dangling a frog from his outstretched arm from the museum grounds last June, after a long-term loan, leaving one less thing for QAnon conspiracy theorists to fixate on. These cultists believe that a satanic cabal of child molesters operates a global sex-trafficking ring and has it out for Donald Trump—and they contend that thousands of kidnapped kids are being held hostage beneath the Getty. With the election looming, it’s safe to say we are doomed.

I hear Larry G’s upcoming Basquiat exhibition has only one painting for sale, though I’m sure he’ll manage to shake a few more loose by dangling too-good-to-refuse offers. It’s quite poetic that Gagosian is recreating his first Basquiat show. At a sprightly 78 years young, this may very well be his last.

LA baby! Still loving LA but homesick. Badly. Mainly missing my art more than the New York but ready to get home next week

As much as I hate being referred to as a gossip columnist—I previously mentioned my penchant for gainsaying myself—I can nevertheless state that celebrity curator about town Hans Ulrich Obrist has signed with a mega Hollywood talent agency, after strutting before the cameras while modeling for the clothing brand Loewe (helmed by art-loving designer JW Anderson). Oh, and a consistently reliable source informed me that lothario Lucas Zwirner is dating dealer-collector Adam Lindemann’s oldest daughter, from his first marriage. I’ll leave that one alone, other than to say I wish them and their respective families well.

Andrea Mina, a former high-stakes gambling pal (with his family’s money) of Inigo Philbrick who took over Inigo’s apartment after he went on the lam, called to blow the whistle on another art world scam involving speculation, lies, and deceit (I’m shocked), then had a change of heart mid-course and ghosted me. He certainly stirred my curiosity. Rest assured, I’ll keep digging. Mina’s stepfather, Jacques Séguin, is a French heart surgeon who, after performing thousands of open-heart surgeries, made a fortune developing the first non-surgical valve replacement.

Séguin featured in a previous Artnet column I penned, in which I wrote: “Another Wool, previously auctioned at Phillips for $2.2 million, was last week on consignment from Jacques Séguin (the heart valve inventor, not Patrick the Prouvé market inventor) for $6 million. Both paintings went unsold.” After publication, Jacques doused Philbrick with a drink at a packed Cipriani restaurant to express his gratitude (for sharing the info with me).

The endless view from my bedroom desk. Who wouldn’t want to move?

Admittedly, I’ve been counting the days until my return to New York next week, but that’s more a case of being homesick for the plethora of art that I cohabitate with than the city, per se. I should rent a house here for a few months or a year before I move—the problem is that I can hardly countenance guests, much less a tenant, in my home.

Granted, the pace of L.A. doesn’t exactly suit my aggressive nature, but on the other hand, it offsets my long-term hypertension. I’ve even grown accustomed to saying hello to strangers on the street and have found myself paying lip service to the C-word—the artistic community that seems to crop up at many of the openings and studios I’ve visited thus far, that is.

Have I been born again? To find out, tune in next week for my final diary installment, as visitors to Frieze have begun to file into L.A. like a relentless line of ants following a trail of pheromones.

Frieze’s forced march.