My friend Shirley Manson, the implacable, radical, stalwart lead singer of the legendary band Garbage (she’s Scottish but lives in L.A.) said it’s a sign of intelligence to change your mind—don’t ask what we were fighting about—but if that’s true, then I’m a genius. After little more than a week, I love L.A.! Yes, I’m prepared to eat crow after my last diary entry. From the twisty hairpin turns in and out of Studio City to the wonderful people I’ve met up with and had the good fortune to work with: Wow! Though I still half expect everyone to speak in a foreign language.

I didn’t realize how much I like being behind the wheel, setting aside the harrowing near miss today in a parking garage. I should take note, as the famous Bruce Nauman print decrees: “PAY ATTENTION MOTHER FUCKERS” (namely, me). Every day I drive a different route to work, which would be fine if it were intentional, rather than the result of my dysfunctional, pathologically bad sense of direction.

First time lucky, a non-felt near miss—what I’m told is a classic and common L.A. occurrence. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

There’s even been an earthquake already, with a magnitude of 4.6 on the Gerhard Richter scale, but thankfully there were no reports of damage or injury, and no tsunami was triggered. Coupled with “the second-wettest three-day period on record for downtown Los Angeles since recordkeeping began in 1877,” perhaps I should peruse the Book of Exodus to get a taste of what’s next—locusts, anyone? Time to earnestly address the grave state of today’s climate disruptions.

I’ve just taken a meeting with a producer who happens to work in the complex my exhibition is in, for an Inigo Philbrick scripted project, but only over a coffee, not an idiotically priced $22 smoothie (named after Hailey Bieber) or $40 strawberries at inanely trendy Erewhon. Though I don’t believe in the veracity of soothsayers, when I responded to an acquaintance’s health concerns with, “You’ll be fine, I have a premonition,” she replied that I’d become a “New Age Spiritualist, L.A.-style.” That didn’t take long.

Elon’s pet hybrid supercharging station/film screening/’50s-era diner recreation—the jury is out on whether you can you top up your brain too with a chip implant… Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

I visited Deitch’s second L.A. gallery, the former home of Radio Recorders, where Elvis and Louis Armstrong recorded. Just as notable is Elon Musk’s forthcoming pet project across the street, a Tesla supercharging station in the shape of a UFO that will feature a 24-hour diner and screens showcasing edited versions of Elon’s favorite movies—cut to a length that will match the time it takes to top up a car battery. Will while-you-wait brain-chip implants be on the menu, too? Musk can handily go to Jeffrey to add to his art collection, which includes a Hajime Sorayama (known for his sexualized female robots).

Around the corner, behind locked doors, you’ll find the oh-so-haughty Just One Eye clothing shop, where you should be prepared to pay 100 times more than a Hailey Bieber shake for a shirt—i.e., about $2,000. Owned by Paola Russo, former “artistic director” of L.A.’s famed Maxfield boutique, the place is littered with art, from a ginormous Damien Hirst cherry blossom painting (said to be valued at $20 million) to works by Warhol, Cecily Brown, Murakami, and pricey modernist furniture. The art belongs to the backers of the store, the inimitable Niarchos family (billionaire Greek shipping tycoons), and is not for sale.

My show at the Pacific Design Center Gallery (in the space previously overseen by Deitch during his stint as MOCA director from 2010 to 2013) opened this week without much fanfare—I don’t know enough people here to stage a proper opening—so, like Johnny Appleseed, I’ve been passing out business card-sized invites, rather than seeds and church books, to all passersby. Admittedly, it’s been stressful, as the offer to exhibit came with a stipend but little else in the way of infrastructural support; my emotions have been akin to kernels bouncing in a popcorn machine.

In more general art-world news, Sheikh Hamad bin Jassim bin Jaber bin Mohammed bin Thani Al Thani (HBJ), the former prime minister and foreign minister of Qatar, posted himself on Instagram(!) in his country’s equivalent of the White House Situation Room, along with Sheikh Hamad bin Khalifa bin Hamad bin Abdullah bin Jassim bin Mohammed Al Thani (another former prime minister and father of the present emir, Sheikh Tamim bin Hamad Al Thani), you got that? Mahmoud Abbas, the president of the Palestinian National Authority, is also present, presumably discussing the pan-Arab position on Gaza.

The situation room of the Qatari ruling family, littered with expensive art acquisitions. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

Unlike the rather blasé U.S. version (and most other nations’, I’d gather) you can spot in the room Miró’s 1927 Peinture (Le cheval de cirque), which sold in 2007 for $8.44 million, and Magritte’s 1955 Le Banquet, which went in 2017 for $13.6 million, both at Sotheby’s. It’s unclear if they were purchased at those auctions or subsequently.

To help lessen the blow of his relentless, ultimately unsuccessful legal campaign against Yves Bouvier that featured an army of attorneys (never a good thing), Dmitry Rybolovlev recently offloaded Rothko No. 6 (1951), for which he paid $127 million a mere matter of days after Bouvier purchased it from Sotheby’s for $83 million. This time around, the Rothko fetched an eye-popping $198 million, including the 5 percent kicker charged by Christie’s private treaty department.

My very reliable source told me the buyer was American—meaning that, at this level, where the air is thinner than atop Mount Everest, the prime candidate has to be Chicagoan-turned-Miamian Ken Griffin. For Griffin, with his historically high-performing hedge fund that nets him a yearly income of over $4 billion (for the last few years), the canvas represents not much more than lunch money—heck, he can afford two Hailey Biebers at Erewhon and a sweatshirt at Just One Eye!

Bridget Riley’s 1963 painting and the gate it inspired, which may yet turn into an art installation after I installed it without filing an application. Photo courtesy Kenny Schachter.

On the home front, I refashioned a 1963 Bridget Riley painting into a gate for my New York home, to the dismay of at least one of my neighbors; maybe my failure to pay the yearly block association dues accounts for the complaint filed with the Landmarks Preservation Department. Unbeknownst to me, I live in the Treadwell Farm Historic District (whatever that is). I have applied for ex post facto approval from the city, but figure if the Riley Gate-Gate scandal results in an order to tear down the lovely structure, I’ll chop it up for display in my next exhibition. If that may be of interest to anyone, please do let me know…

Composer Jean Sibelius finally proven wrong after his 1937 comment that he didn’t read reviews of his music, as a statue had never been erected for a critic. That’s been rectified by a pair of Roberta Smith busts. Photo courtesy of Kenny Schachter.

On a final note (for this week), it’s not over till it’s over: Crypto prices have made huge strides of late, inching toward record territory, though the same can’t be said for NFTs. Regardless, every sculpture and painting in my L.A. show is accompanied by a related—but standalone—NFT work.