This past weekend, I went into LA for a night on the town. We snuck into the MOCA's weekend gala; much credit goes to the crafty Daniel and Katie for sneaking us past security. I figured it would be especially difficult blending in with the fashionably upscale museum patrons considering I was wearing my finest U.S. Census t-shirt, but never underestimate the ability of Pitzer graduates to finagle something for free. Of course, the only thing classier than going to an art museum is sneaking into an art museum, so I felt especially swanky in spite of my attire. The Lorna Simpson exhibit lives up to every crazy stereotype that modern art is: identical photographs with non-corresponding text, a video installation piece featuring sixteen sets of lips of people of different racial backgrounds humming, and a huge black wall with nothing but a tiny clipping from a newspaper article on it. We'll just call it "interesting" and move on. On the other side, I very much enjoyed the bizarre hodgepodges of pop artist Robert Rauschenberg. The pieces were gigantic aesthetically-pleasing collages of random crap glued together. Now that? Is art.
After enjoying the main show, we went outside to listen to a crappy techno DJ. No one was dancing, not that it seemed particularly encouraged in this setting, so we decided to shake our booties. In no time,
we became the main show. Stuffy, older people blatantly turned their chairs and encircled us, gawking at us as if we were also an exhibit. I got such a kick out of noticing hundreds of people point at and discuss us. Undoubtedly, these people came for some kind of cultural experience and we provided a glimpse into the confounding behaviors of youth culture.
Forget paying for the MOCA - the MOCA should be paying us.
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