Month: December 2015

SUCRE

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

Vocalist Stacy Dupree is a mere 25 years old, but she’s already logged more hours playing in a band than most musicians around. The Tyler, Texas, native was a mere 8 years old when she teamed up with her sisters and brother to create a band called The Towheads. That cutesy group later became the indie-pop juggernaut Eisley, the critically acclaimed act that has put out four albums since 2005. But these days, Dupree’s becoming well known for her latest musical project, Sucré. She’s exploring new sonic territory alongside some very able partners—her husband, Mutemath drummer Darren King, and multi-instrumentalist Jeremy Larson.

There’s something atmospheric and overwhelmingly lovely about the band’s orchestral tunes, so it’s no surprise that the  blogs went crazy for Sucré when its first album, A Minor Bird,  was released in April 2012. The origins of the project were as homegrown and organic as the record. “In 2009 or so, my husband and I were in Springfield [Missouri] visiting his family for the holidays,” recalls Dupree. “He was like, ‘Hey, you should meet my friend Jeremy. He’s got a studio down the street.’ After a couple hours, Darren said, ‘Wanna play us something you’re working on?’ I didn’t know what to expect at all; it seems like everybody these days has a studio and is making music. So I didn’t know what was about to hit me, and it just blew me away—I was speechless. It was this classical piece that he’d orchestrated and I thought, ‘Oh my God, this guy is a secret genius.’”

From there, a collaboration between the three seemed only natural. “Immediately I thought, ‘Wow, it’d be amazing to work with him,’ but I didn’t want to get my hopes up. After we left, he asked if I wanted to sing on a piece he was working on, and I was floored. That snowballed into making songs for fun, sending bits and pieces of music back and forth between Texas and Springfield. The record was pretty much made long distance; we got together a couple times in one place, but just for little bitty stretches of time. I’ve never made a record like that before.”

But instead of touring the country in a cramped van in support of the record, Dupree and her husband were nurturing a different side project: their baby, Scarlett. In fact, when we speak over the phone, she’s just back from a family outing. “We had a little playtime in the park: me, my husband and my baby. Sunday funday.” The new member of the Dupree family has certainly made an impact on the way the singer sees her place in the music world. “Having a daughter gives me this crazy motivation to do what I love and to do it well. It might sound typical or obvious, but I just want to be an inspiration to her.”

And while working with a spouse has the potential to be difficult, Dupree is loving the experience. “My band Eisley toured with [King’s band] Mutemath in 2007, and I had so much admiration for him. He was and still is the best drummer and the best performer I’d ever seen live, hands-down,” she explains. “I was really apprehensive about working with him once we started  dating, but the actual recording process was really amazing. I have so much respect for him as a producer. And I love that I can make him be honest with me.

We’re at the point where I really want to know his opinion, and I’ve got a thick skin.” Dupree’s been playing in a band since the dawn of the Internet, and she’s seen the way that a group’s web presence is integral to its success nowadays. “It’s kind of sad in a way that you can’t just be an introverted artist in your bedroom creating records  anymore,” says Dupree. “You have to constantly sell yourself, and everybody’s doing it. There’s this pressure to be visible, and sometimes I’m like, ‘I just wanna delete my Instagram.’ But the truth is, if I did that, no one would come looking for me. I used to be way more introverted, and now I’m sharing pictures of my life, and my baby, and my family. But I think it’s important to give to people, and to share. It’s beautiful in a way.”

Having been on a major label during her time in Eisley, Dupree has certainly experienced both the positive and negative aspects of the music industry. “There’s also the unknown of it all. You’re working for this goal, but you never know if you’re going to get there. I mean, that’s life, I guess: You’re kind of working in the dark. But what I try to stay focused on is just loving to make records. I’ve been doing it since I was 14, and there’ve been so many highs and lows along the way. [Eisley] was signed to a major record label and went on tour with Coldplay, and then our record label asked us to tour  with Hilary Duff. We were like, ‘No. We don’t want to do that; it’s not really who we are.’ And they dropped us like that. So you really have to just focus on who you are and stay true to  yourself.” But she’s at peace with the creative process. “I just try to keep my head down and keep working, and hope it’s well received.

I’m not saying I’m totally void of feeling pressure to advance my career. I definitely have had my struggles along the way with wanting that so badly, and dealing with  disappointment and false hope and all that. But I’m at the place now where I don’t care anymore, and it’s really freeing.”

What’s on the horizon for Sucré? Finishing up their as-yetuntitled next album, and of course, hitting the road in support of it. “That’s our main goal right now,” says Dupree. “We hope to really give this next record a proper run. Because we got a lot of opportunities from the last record, but I got pregnant instantly. So this time, our hope is to make more of a splash.” She’s certainly got no plans to slow down now. “I never thought I’d be working with people as talented as Darren and Jeremy,” she says. “I want to do it for as long as I can.”

 

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WOLVESMOUTH

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

 “I like people coming up and talking to me while I’m cooking,” says chef Craig Thornton. People interest him as much as food does, which is why he started Wolvesmouth, an unconventional, multi-course, serial eating event. “It’s not a restaurant; it’s a dinner party,” states Wolvesmouth’s understated website. Thornton wants guests to arrive and feel at ease, to comment on the music  he’s playing and the art on the walls, and to watch as food gets made and arranged on each plate. “Being able to expose them to all these layers that they don’t normally see changes the whole dynamic,” Thornton says.

He announces his dinners through his mailing list, chooses guests at random from those who respond to the email and hosts the meals in an informal, domestic setting. The undercover location of the dinners has come to be known as “Wolvesden,” and Thornton embraces the term, though it originated with his diners, not with him. Only those on the guest list know where  dinners will be held and there is no price—diners pay what they choose and often choose to be generous. The first time they dine with Wolvesmouth, most arrive as strangers, knowing maybe one other person. This is never a problem. “For the most part,” says Thornton, “these people are already connected through the love of food or social experiences.

Otherwise they would never have signed up. ”Thornton, who is just past 30, graduated from the Western  Culinary Institute. He has worked in a wood-fire restaurant in Portland and as a line cook at Bouchon in Las Vegas, the restaurant of perfectionist Thomas Keller. “I think with any chef you work  with, you take away less about actual cooking,” he reflects. “You learn more about yourself than anything.” Whether they meant to or not, the chefs he has worked with propelled him to  start Wolvesmouth. They helped him “build that confidence to put it all on the line and trust my instincts.”

Thornton has exquisite instincts. Food bloggers have praised him for the perfect taste textures of his dishes. His composition also always look weirdly aggressive, and seductive. One from 2011, called “Wolves in the Snow,” combined venison, cauliflower purée, and beet and blackberry gastrique splattered across the plate like blood.

When he first started hosting his own, renegade dinners around six years ago, he lived in San Diego. Over the past two-and-ahalf years, since he’s relocated to L.A., Wolvesmouth has become a fulltime endeavor. Thornton visits farms and farmers markets and designs dishes based on what tastes best at the time. “We only want the best, so it takes a lot of sourcing which is half my battle,” he says. He used to only debut new dishes at his dinners. This meant he was creating 70 to 80 new dishes a month. Now, he’s slowed down, and develops maybe 30 to 40. That sounds like a lot, but since his dinners have upwards of 13-courses each and he holds 6-8 a month, there’s plenty of room for “oldies but goodies,” which excites diners who have seen photos of certain hit dishes on his blog or in magazines. Says Thornton, “Now

I am more focused on refining down dishes and making them as good as I can.” He’s refining the social environment too. For instance, he’s become good at composing dinner playlists that loosen up the mood. “There’s a balance to it all,” he observes. “It’s something so simple yet it took me years to fully realize.”

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JOHN MCENROE

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

Avant-garde tennis player, shoot-from-the-hip sports commentator, SoHo art hipster—whatever you want to call him, there’s really only one concise way to describe John McEnroe, and that’s: John McEnroe. From day one he shocked tennis fans with his take-no-prisoners attitude, his outrageous hair, and above all, his seething passion for the game of tennis. Brash, unapologetic, with a dash of tortured genius, there was nothing like him on a tennis court before he arrived, and there has never been a personality quite like “Johnny Mac’s” ever since.

McEnroe screamed onto the scene in 1977 at age 18, an unknown who made it to the Wimbledon semi-finals, and reached theWimbledon Men’s Singles final in 1980, going on to win 77 career singles titles, ranked at No. 1 for four consecutive years, from 1981 to 1984. His 6-1, 6-1, 6-2 defeat of Jimmy Connors to win Wimbledon in 1984 is considered by many to be the most perfect tennis match ever played.

Yet his wins, impressive as they were, were often overshadowedby his wild and unpredictable personality—it was during his1981 first-round Wimbledon match against Tom Gullikson that Johnny Mac would have his most infamous outburst, yelling,“You cannot be serious!” at the umpire. In Taming the Talent , the1990 biography of McEnroe, author Richard Evans wrote that Amadeus  actor Tom Hulce studied footage of McEnroe for his role as the eccentric composer Mozart.

As a player, though, his eccentricity served him well. Early on in his career, McEnroe flipped the script, doing something with his game that would forever change his destiny—serving with his back to the net. It was a tactic nobody would ever have thought to teach, yet it was incredibly effective, enabling McEnroe to pull cloak-and-dagger moves on the court that would leave his opponents stunned. Interestingly, he developed the serve not so much as a game strategy, but because his back was bothering him, “and I found that that motion alleviated some pain,” McEnroe says. Being a left-handed player also gave him an automatic advantage—some say that “lefty” players have greater spatial awareness and creativity when looking at the court. And McEnroe was nothing if not creative in his style.

When McEnroe was at his peak, the game of tennis was very different to how it is today. The rackets were wooden. The game moved at a snail’s pace compared to the 150 mph serves of today. And there was far less money at stake. But what players lacked in speed, brutality and multimillion dollar endorsements, they made up for with personality. McEnroe was part of a generation of players including the volatile Connors, and the cool and collected Bjorn Borg, who heralded the beginning of a new age in spectator sports—the age of sports entertainment. Watching McEnroe play his nemesis Borg was something akin to the WWE, complete with dramatic highs and tragic lows, an Ice Man versus Maverick type battle, to borrow from the Top Gun  vernacular. “Well, unlike the WWE, our matches certainly were not predetermined, and I am biased, but it was an exciting time,” says McEnroe.

Borg and McEnroe could not have been more equal in game, nor more opposite in style. Where baseliner Borg rarely spoke on court (nothing could rattle the so-called “Swedish ice cube”), the serve-and-volleyer McEnroe was known for challenging umpires and officials, and for smashing his rackets.

When he was at his best, his temper made him play better. Which is unusual. Most people, when rattled, play worse. But Mac was the exception to every rule. While his unpredictable and willful nature made him unpopular with some (fans occasionally booed him), there was a poetry to McEnroe’s game.

Being left-handed, and a natural rule-breaker, meant that McEnroe saw possibilities on the court where others saw nothing. He created angles that didn’t seem to exist, serving in ways that actually changed the game, making the court seem bigger than it actually was. McEnroe had the ability to hit the ball lightly, even when guys were smacking it hard at him. And that was the art of McEnroe—inventing angles with the softness of his hand, making the impossible seem easy. When he was defeated by Ivan Lendl in the 1984 French Open and later at the 1985 U.S. Open, the game of tennis shifted. Among the pitfalls of being a champion so young is that, as McEnroe points out, “you think it happens all of the time.” Until it doesn’t. Tennis entered the age of power over poetry, and McEnroe would, over a period of several years, transition into the next phase of his life.

“The void is great when you leave a sport you love, so working as a commentator is a small way of being a part of it,” says McEnroe, who is today known as a professional commentator as much as an athlete. He’s made tennis exciting to listen to, and even become a beloved ambassador for the game, partially, perhaps, because he knows exactly what the players are going through. “I try to put myself into the heads of the players out there and try to figure out ways each can get an edge,” he says, explaining his analyst’s role. “I explain it in a way that’s understandable for new fans and, hopefully, educational for the tennis fanatic.”

Away from tennis, he was already building his sizeable art collection. McEnroe had been introduced to the 1980s SoHo art scene by his friend, the fellow tennis player Vitas Gerulaitis. Andy Warhol painted a portrait of him with his first wide, the actress Tatum O’Neal (they married in 1986 and divorced in 1994). He knew very little about art before that, but found himself drawn to the photorealism of artists like Chuck Close and Richard Estes, as well as figurative works, because “I like to see the artists hands.” He became friends with artist and tennis fan Eric Fischl, with whom he exchanged tennis lessons in return for art lessons. He built a museum-class art collection while pursuing his other passion, rock music, jamming with his buddies Eddie Van Halen, Eric Clapton, Metallica’s Lars Ulrich and David Gilmour of Pink

A husband and father of six, now in his mid-50s, McEnroe remains a polarizing character, albeit one who has mellowed, and who is known for his philanthropy as much as for his fiery character. Most recently, he has started his own tennis academy in his home city of New York, trying, as he says, to bring the “buzz back to the sport of tennis.” Mac became an icon during the period in which all sports were transforming into “sports entertainment,” and was an integral part of that transition. Whether he is on good or bad behavior, McEnroe delivers each and every time. On and off the court, Johnny Mac remains, forever, mesmerizing.

 

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MISTER CARTOON

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

If Mark Machado wasn’t the legendary tattoo artist known as Mister Cartoon, he could have been a poet. Or a rap star. Or a therapist. Or a motivational speaker. Just like the plethora of platinum-selling recording artists he’s called clients over his superlative career (Cypress Hill, Wu Tang Clan and Outkast, among others), the proud Angeleno is a lyrical genius who can casually drop memorable morsels of wisdom on a range of subjects. Like ink on paper (or, in this case, ink on skin), his words stick with you forever. But how did Mark become Cartoon? A visit to his iconic tattoo shop in the heart of downtown Los Angeles provides further insight.

What was it like growing up in L.A.?

I had a dream childhood, raised by a good mother and father who were creative and open-minded. We lived in a neighborhood in the Harbor area, and they encouraged me as a youngster to be an artist. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor either. If we didn’t have any money, I didn’t even know about it because my parents were very private about themselves, and very hard workers. The time I grew up, around the 1970s and 1980s, was a crazy time. A very bad time for fashion, but a great time for music. [Laughs.] I’m 44 years old now, so I caught on the tail end of a bunch of old-school shit, music wise. I got into classic rock from hearing my parents—Pink Floyd, The Doors—then got into funk and disco. I was around when all those sounds were new on the radio. My parents were also big movie heads, so they would take me to see movies that were way too advanced for me, which gave me a really weird sense of humor. I remember seeing The Shining, The Exorcist, The Omen . Me and my cousins would be watching TV and some guy would get hit by a car and I would start laughing and they’d sit there in horror. I would find humor in some fucked-up shit, man. Then there were the street fights, graffiti, the lowrider cars—I loved it all.

Then you received your first paid art job at the age of 12.

That kind of just happened by accident. My old man had a small print shop and he had artists he worked with and they would flake all the time. He started giving me logos, business cards and restaurant menus to design, so I did that and got paid. That’s the only job I’ve ever had. I’ve never clocked in or had a supervisor or anything, which has been both a blessing and a curse. From a young age, I had to be my own boss and was never guaranteed any money.

But you had this incredible artistic talent. Didn’t the money just come?

You know, I was told that I was blessed when I was growing up. I went to Catholic school and people told me that I was gifted and talented, that God had come from the skies and zapped me and made me better than everyone else. I believed that shit for many years, until I got a lot older and started to see that it was less about being zapped from an invisible entity and more about work ethic, follow-through, grinding constantly and stretching the limit. When everyone is going home, I kept working. It’s about doing what the other guy won’t do— visually seeing where you’re going to go way before anyone else can manifest it. This tattoo shop was drawn out way before I ever got picked up. I have to have my GPS set, otherwise I’m just driving in circles. So I started to see that, for me, I wasn’t blessed or gifted or talented. It was something that, through hard work and years of trial and error, I would find my style.

How did you develop your style?

Being untrained with just a high school education, I had to learn everything on my own. When I was growing up, I started going to car shows at high schools and football fields. I’d see these guys airbrushing T-shirts, but they were really corny old men and didn’t have any swag whatsoever. I picked up an airbrush and didn’t have a clue what to do. It took a long time to perfect that craft. It was the late 1980s, so there were no clothing companies. We made our own clothes. We would go to the surplus stores and they’d sell big hoodies there. We called them blanks. We would iron on Old English letters with our street or our crew. We were making our own shit, setting things up for the West Coast. Music was a big influence, too. KDAY was the baddest radio station out there, and it inspired a lot of my artwork, which was a mix of New York graffiti bombing with L.A. cholo/ vato-style fine line. That’s how I started to get my look, by combining those two styles. The characters were a little more 3D, so shit was coming at you more than traditional old-school penitentiary style. As far as inspiration, I don’t really come with a bunch of point-of-reference pictures. Give me a pen and a paper or a can and a wall and I just go off. A lot of other artists are more calculated and do a bunch of premeditative shit, but I just draw off the dome.

When did you first realize that you had made it?

One of the first moments when I knew that I wasn’t going to have to go get a 9 to 5 job was seeing an album cover I did on Sunset Blvd. on a billboard—it was in 1992, the day the L.A. Riots happened. I remember driving from the Harbor area on the 110 Freeway going north and seeing everything on fire and was thinking, “What the fuck?” I got to Hollywood and I drove down Sunset and my billboard was right there. It was for Kid Frost’s second album, East Side Story . I blacked out and couldn’t believe it! I was in the music business now; I didn’t know how to play an instrument or know how to rap, but I was in the game like other artists were. From that point on I believed that anything could happen. Right after I did that album cover, I started doing album covers for Eazy E. Around that time I met my business partner, Estevan Oriol, at a record release party for a group called Penthouse Players, one of DJ Quik and Eazy E’s groups. He was tour manager for a new group that nobody had heard of at the time—House of Pain. They had this new single called “Jump Around,” which did pretty well, I’d say. [Laughs.]

That’s when Estevan started referring you more tattoo right. 

One of the other bands he tour-managed, Cypress Hill, was the first platinum recording artist that I tattooed. They pretty much introduced me and Estevan to a lot of other rappers. Because of them, I was able to tattoo DJ Premiere, Outkast and others.

A lot of it is through your friends, you know?

Just like how a friend gets you a job at, like, Home Depot. It’s all the same shit! It’s great because celebrities get you exposure, but they come when they come. The rest of the year, it’s just regular Care to share any wild celebrity tattoo stories? One time the RZA flew me to New York and didn’t even show up. He flew me out, and I never even got to see him! I started tattooing where the Wu Tang studio was, and I tattooed a Wu Tang emblem on Method Man. I just tattooed all night in that studio—it was fucking nuts! The tables were wrong, there wasn’t any lighting, all their homies were drunk. It was probably the worst conditions in the world, but I got it done. It was just funny because homeboy went through all that trouble to fly me out, but got too busy to show up. You know, I try to talk celebs out of flying me out to their locations like that. I like to just work at my studio. Otherwise they have to pay to fly me out, fly my assistant out, etc. I always tell them, “I ride like you ride, so are you sure you want to do that? I’m going to be staying at the hotels you stayat, and I’ll need a black suburban to drive me around. You sure?” [Laughs.] It’s better to get tattooed here, honestly.

Do your four kids know that you’re famous?

My kids aren’t old enough to understand what I do. They trip because I’m just dad to them. We’ll walk into a store like Vans and see a cutout of me and they’re like, “That’s my dad!” They’re tripping. I would be a hypocrite if I told them not to be an artist, but a tattoo artist? No. Tattoo shops don’t normally look like my tattoo shop—they’re gangster spots. I think my children will grow up to be creative because they’re around it so much at home. A shoe for Vans is one of many high-profile collaborations you’ve done in recent years.

How do you avoid selling out?

I think selling out is when you put out weak work and you don’t believe in it. If they put you in a jalapeño outfit and make you moonwalk or some shit, you’re out of here. But if you produce some hardcore-looking artwork and place it on something like a cell phone, it’s completely different because it’s still you. When I’m doing something kind of big, like my own signature phone, I’ll balance it out by doing something street and limited edition with Undefeated or Stussy or Supreme. You just have to be careful with what you do. I only do collabs with people who I respect. It’s a balance of going against the grain to come up with that new shit, and keeping people so far in the rearview mirror that they don’t even see what’s coming next. But no one wants to hear Dr. Dre make Techno, so stick to your shit too.

How do you handle fame?

Fame is like being in a circus. It’s just weird. I have to watch what I complain about, though, because my friends will call me out and say things like, “Fool, that ain’t no fuckin’ problem!” I try to stick with the attitude of gratitude, and never take myself too seriously. It’s not just The Cartoon Show, either. Sometimes Estevan’s pushed up; sometimes I’m pushed up. We’ve been everywhere together, even Milan Fashion Week—it’s crazy. Fame is also about making sure that everyone is happy. Being a tattoo artist, you have to know how to get into people’s heads. It’s a constant process, and I wear many hats. I always have to keep a hat in the graffiti world, keep a hat in the lowrider world, keep a hat in the fashion world, keep a hat in tattoo world. They’re all kind of related, but they’re all completely different.

What legacy do you want to leave?

I know the common answer would be that I want everyone to remember that I had original style, but the reality is that it’s impossible to control what other people will think when I’m gone. People will be texting at my funeral. Life goes on. I have to die to move out of the way so my kids could take over. I’m sure when I’m 80 they’ll want me to die anyways! [Laughs.] It’s all about enjoying the present moment. If I can get my kids to not obsess and worry about shit and have fun in life, then I’m happy. I’m only concerned with how my children see me. You never know how much your parents loved you until you have kids.

 

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Posted in Art

SOKO

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

French girls. They carry mystery like a calling card—an allure diffused only by the studied airs and graces of propriety that govern the bricks and mortar of cities. It is a strict politesse of conformity and classicism that too often overshadows the idiosyncrasies of quirky femininity, and it’s the few who break this enchanted seal who win the hearts of many—unleashing their bohemian spirit upon the masses, throwing caution to the wind and sharing a lust for life and its simple pleasures.

Enter 27-year-old Stéphanie Sokolinski, the waifish, French actress and chanteuse perhaps better known as SoKo. “I had an awareness of death so early in my life… I had a lot of heavy responsibilities and awareness of sadness at a young age,” she muses, in candid explanation of the inspiration behind her latest work, a full-length solo album titled I Thought I was an Alien, an oeuvre flowing with equal parts whimsy and melancholy. It was a labor of love; an odious task to whittle down more than 100 tracks to a mere 14 favorites.

Soko first found success in contemporary cinema. After leaving her hometown of Bordeaux at age 16, the pale, raven-haired beauty found Paris and herself. She attended acting classes in the capital, which have amounted to 13 film roles and César nomination to date, the latter a result of her performance in Xavier Giannoli’s À l’origine in 2009.

When SoKo started to write and record songs, it wasn’t long before her soft, lilting vocals caught international attention. Collaborations with The Go! Team and covers sensation Nouvelle Vague went viral, and her cult hit “I’ll Kill Her” dominated the airwaves from Denmark to Australia in 2007, paving the way for tours with MIA, Pete Doherty and Razorlight’s Johnny Borrell.

Those contemporaries aside, SoKo cites Texas-based singer Daniel Johnston as her musical hero and Ariel Pink as a close friend. She dedicated the song “I Just Want to Make It New With You” to Ariel. “When I write,” says SoKo, “I write a song for someone, like a musical letter or poem, as my way to communicate with them. I’ll write it, record it, and five minutes later send it to the person. It’s like making a present that means something. I don’t think I ever wrote a song for no one. Maybe people think I should censor myself, but I can’t do anything else than something brutally honest and raw.”

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SUZANNAH SINCLAIR

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

Artist Suzannah Sinclair spent the past year painting 12 postersized watercolor portraits, all of beautiful women sourced largely from vintage men’s magazines. The images fill a wall, which is what she had intended. Each woman depicted somewhat resembles a young Jane Fonda or Jane Birkin—the well-heeled hippie look. Mostly, they are blond or brunette, some with glimpses of red in their hair, and six of them are probably nude, though it’s hard to know for sure given that Sinclair only shows their heads and shoulders. None of them are quite smiling.

The one called Bonnie, leaning against a wooden beam with sun hitting her hair, comes closest. Paige, who’s in some sort of garden, is the next closest. “They are all almost just the same, different personalities of the same girl,” the artist reflects. “Not awake but not sleepy, not happy but not sad.”

There is a window between the 1960s and 1970s where models in men’s magazines have a naturalness about them— certainly, they are still idealized, but, maybe because the Woodstock, hippie aesthetic had become so widespread, their hair and makeup isn’t overdone, and they capture a certain fantasy of freedom. “In anything from before then,” Sinclair explains, “there’s a little stiffness. And then it’s the 1980s, and things begin to look weird,” overproduced and glitzy instead of earthy. So all her subjects come from that window. Because she works deliberately and with only as much paint as necessary—“I’m definitely a planner,” she says— her images, whether on wood panel or paper, have a quality that recalls the smooth, easy surface of a magazine image.

 

 

She began using old books, fashion magazines and vintage pin-ups as sources while a student at Massachusetts College of Art in the late 1990s and early 2000s. Drawing from already-made imagery dug up in the library was a way to portray people without the pressures of working from a live model. Then a friend’s dad decided to get rid of his lifelong Playboy  collection and the friend bequeathed the magazines to Sinclair. “She gave me bags and bags and bags of them,” the artist recalls. “I think at first I treated them like collector’s objects. Then I started tearing out the pages.” Her earlier paintings have a more linear, straightforward quality. They recall the spare images of Alex Katz, for instance, in which deliberate lines are used to convey every detail. More recent paintings have softer edges and a bit more nuance.

Sinclair is not entirely sure why this particular aesthetic compels her, except that it may have something to do with nostalgia for a time she just missed. “Generations are always fascinated with the generation right before,” she says. People have an urge to excavate and then maybe romanticize the era that produced them.

She is often asked about the “erotic” in her work, a word she hates, even though she understands its relevance. “I’m not unaware of my source material and how I’m choosing to use it,” she says, although, especially now that she’s moved to rural Maine, away from city life and art world distractions, she’s thought more about those issues that might underlie her choice of these particular figures. “When I go into the studio, it’s like I lay down on my analyst’s couch and wonder, Why am I doing this?”

Around 2008, after the seminal WACK! exhibition on feminist art debuted at the Museum of Modern Art in New York, Sinclair remembers seeing the sprawling 1972 collage “Hothouse or Harem” by artist Martha Rosler. It is a sea of nudes, all from the 1960s and 1970s, cut out from magazines like those Sinclair uses. “I remember standing physically in front of it and saying, ‘I know all of their names.’”

She has become intimately familiar with these models’ careers and identities. Yet they are also types, posing in proscribed ways, one looking a lot like another. This contradiction may in fact be Sinclair’s real subject. In her renderings, like the one of flaxen haired Carolyn, who looks like she’s straight out of the cast of Sofia Coppola’s Virgin Suicides , the spark of personality is undeniable. So is the familiar style and posed nature of the image.

“A lot of what I do is in a way trying to explore painting as self-expression, self-portraiture,” says Sinclair. She doesn’t at all mean that her portraits are actually of her. Rather, they explore that question of how the specific desires and affinities of a person, like her interest in these women from men’s magazines of eras past, mesh with bigger realities. How do you express individuality while still acknowledging the ways in which you conform to a social type? There’s no easy answer, which is probably why Sinclair’s project continues.

 

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Posted in Art

TRAVIS LETT

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

“Pickles, hot sauce, salami, beer and ganja.” This is what Travis Lett will say if you ask him what five items are in his home kitchen at all times. Clearly a man who knows how to have a good time, the 38-year-old chef behind wildly popular restaurant Gjelina is enjoying his role as one of California’s top culinary shape-shifters.

For the past five years, Gjelina (pronounced “jelina”) has been hooking up Venice residents and visitors with fresh, integrity driven food that sends taste buds on an unparalleled flavor journey, which is why you’d be hard-pressed to find an empty seat at the frequently packed eatery on any given day. Situated at the corner of Abbot Kinney and Milwood amidst the neighborhood’s bustling shopping stretch, the place is hard to miss, thanks to a mythical “Uniwolfcheetah” illustration drawn on an exterior wall by Mexico-born, Venice-based artist Diana Garcia. (Taking an Instagram photo in front of the drawing after dining at Gjelina is quickly becoming a Venice bucket-list item.)

 

 

Also hard to miss is the handsome Lett, whose effortlessly cool stance, blue eyes and long, dirty blonde locks have caught the eyes of a host of noteworthy publications, including Vogue, who gave him a two-page spread in their January issue back in 2010. But Lett isn’t here to model; the man loves to cook. A few of his menu crowd-pleasers include the Maitake Mushroom Toast with crème fraîche and truffle oil (phrases like “life-changing” and “crazy-good” are often associated with this small-plates order), the Tuscan Kale Salad with shaved fennel, radish, lemon, ricotta salata and breadcrumbs (a crisp and healthy starter must), and the mind-blowing Mushroom Pizza that includes goat and fontina cheeses with—you guessed it—more of that glorious truffle oil. So, what’s the chef ’s secret sauce for success? It’s the fact that all ingredients are locally sourced, not plucked from some fantastical food hub in a far-off land. Lett prides himself on building relationships with those vital, behind-the scenes folks who help him deliver deliciousness on a daily basis.

“Working with the community of farmers I have gotten to know over the years has shifted the way I look at food, the way it’s cultivated, and how it should be cooked and served,” he explains. In addition to celebrating the roots of naturally flavorful foods and the farmers who raise them, Lett’s own past is a key source of inspiration for both his cooking practices and visual projects. “Growing up in New Jersey, I ate at a lot of pizzerias and sub shops,” he reveals. “Working-class Italian food was a big part of my early influences in food.” Gjelina’s crispy, thincrust pizzas honor that time in his life, and are infused with a dose of bold, modern ingredients that exercise innovation.

The restaurant’s artistically inclined, decidedly rustic interior was heavily influenced by Lett’s stint as a fine art student at the University of Colorado Boulder. “We are constantly trying to make sure that the overall experience at Gjelina feels artful and creative,” he adds. “More than look at a dish as art, I believe the food is a component of the overall installation.” After eating subs, chilling at pizzerias and creating art, Lett traveled to Los Angeles in 2003 to help open a now-shuttered sushi restaurant called Tengu in Westwood. The gig led him to the neighborhood’s W Hotel, where he became NineThirty’s executive chef at just 24 years old. It was there that he began crafting what would become his signature style: farm-to-table dishes that showcase seasonally sound ingredients of supreme quality. He moved on to become a private chef, eventually meeting real estate investor Fran Camaj, who was set on opening a restaurant in Venice.

 

 

 

A longtime supporter of the beachside city, Lett partnered up with Camaj to open Gjelina in 2008. “I live in Venice and am passionate about servicing this community,” Lett says. “There was no other option but Venice.” Now a veteran in Cali’s thriving foodie playground, he’s witnessed the scene’s gradual shift in awareness over the years.

“It’s way better, he notes. “Ten years ago, there were very few neighborhood joints with killer food—everything was either fine dining or slop. Now, there are a bunch of cool mid-level places to eat that are casual but have serious chefs and food.” As more West Coast mom-and-pop joints focus on sophisticated cuisine, Lett also approves another rising interest that he’s been promoting from the start of his career: “The more chefs become interested in farm-to-table sourcing with both meats and produce, the more it will incentivize growers and ranchers to participate in localized food systems and grow with more intention and increased awareness on their overall impact,” he adds. “This movement is here to stay.” On the flipside, one flashy food development he can do without includes the ohso-trendy efforts of molecular gastronomy. “I could easily never see a foam or culinary ‘dirt’ again and it would be too soon,” Lett quips. “Leave the liquid nitrogen alone, guys!”

Stay tuned for more from Lett’s flagship restaurant and nextdoor annex, Gjelina Take Away (GTA), which is a deli-style take-out option for on-the-go types. It’s also a great alternative for people who aren’t lucky enough to secure a spot in Gjelina’s main dining room. (Fan favorites include the Brisket Banh Mi, the Pork Belly Sandwich and the Squash Blossom Pizza. Expect to utter all the aforementioned food glory phraseshere, too.) If you can’t find Lett at either establishment, go for a scenic drive by the beach. Who knows, maybe you’ll spot him “flying down the Pacific Coast Highway on my ‘65 Panhead,” as men who take their ganja with hot sauce often do.

 

Photography by Stefan Kocev

 

Photography by Stefan Kocev

 

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FRANKLIN SIRMANS

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

“It’s all about looking and knowing,” says Franklin Sirmans, who has been head curator of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s contemporary art department since 2010. We are walking through Lost Line , an exhibition mostly organized by Sirmans’ colleague, Rita Gonzalez, on the second floor of the museum’s Broad Contemporary Art building—or BCAM, as everybody calls it. But even if Gonzalez spearheaded this show, it does what the contemporary department has been doing for the last four years: exploring connections between art from now and then in the museum’s collection, trying to figure what the museum has, and should have, and what the work can say together.

This may sound like a run-of-the-mill undertaking, but it’s actually not. Often, when you visit a “from the collection” show at a major museum, you feel that history is set, its major players chosen, and that you are simply being shown some of its highlights. Lately at LACMA, shows from the collection have been flexible propositions about how history might work. This openness feels almost radical.

We have just looked at a panorama by Argentina-born, Londonbased Amalia Pica, a younger artist new to LACMA’s collection. It spans the length of half a wall, and it’s made up of grainy, letter-size photocopies that come together to show a woman standing on a rock with a megaphone at her side. She stares out at a landscape much bigger than she is. On the adjacent wall hangs a framed letter and image detailing a work Terry O’Shea made in 1972. Sirmans tells me the story, versions of which I have heard before: O’Shea, who had won the museum’s Young Talent Award, had produced a geometric resin sculpture, then drowned it in the La Brea Tar Pits, those bubbling pools of tar adjacent to LACMA’s campus. Pica wasn’t even born when O’Shea threw his sculpture into the pits, but her work, like his, suggests the impossibility of competing with the grand bigness of the natural world. Making loose, cross-generational connections like this is something Lost Line  does nicely.

“We’re dealing with 1968 to the present, and having a building with 1968 to the present, and having a building that’s theoretically just dedicated to contemporary [art], it’s very exciting,” says Sirmans, referring to BCAM, which opened in 2008, thanks to financial Backing from philanthropist Eli Broad. “How do we deal with this? How do we acknowledge how contemporary art changes?”

Sirmans, who grew up in a 1980s New York where he likely saw Keith Haring drawings on subway walls out of the corner of his eyes, became fascinated in high school by Jean-Michel Basquiat’s merging of street, expressionism and tribal history. He studied English literature and art history at Wesleyan, where he wrote his thesis on Basquiat. Then he took a job in finance. But because of his thesis, Thelma Golden, then curating a Basquiat show at the Whitney Museum, asked him to write a chronology of Basquiat’s life and work for the catalogue. So began a career that took him to Milan, where he was U.S. news editor for Flash Art, to DIA Beacon outside of New York, where he worked in the publication Office. In the 2000’s, he curated or co-curated shows like OnePlanet under One Groove at the Bronx Museum or Make It Now: New Sculpture in New York  at the Sculpture Center. Then, in 2006, he went to the Menil Collection, a private Houston museum, to serve as curator of modern and contemporary art.

Sirmans began thinking about Los Angeles before he knew he would move here. Still at the Menil, he had been asked to write an essay for the Now Dig This: Art and Black Los Angeles 1960 – 1980 catalogue. Now Dig Thi s would open at the Hammer Museum in 2011, feature primarily assemblage art—works made by piecing together found objects and disparate materials—and trace the post-1960 influence of L.A.’s black artists. Instead of writing about those artists or assemblage specifically, Sirmans chose his subject the curator Walter Hopps. Perhaps because Hopps had been the Menil’s first director, his approach to exhibition- arranging was on Sirmans’ mind.

Hopps, the son of L.A. surgeons marked by his thick hair and thick-rimmed glasses, studied microbiology in school but had already begun his love affair with art history—school trips to museums had led to visits to local collectors’ homes. He married an art historian he met at UCLA, Shirley Nielson, at the base of the Watts Towers in 1955 and opened Ferus Gallery in 1957. The space would offer Andy Warhol his first show and champion the smooth, cool light and space art that would become a SoCal trademark. It also introduced some West Coast found-object art, though Hopps would promote that art to greater effect later, organizing, among others, an exhibition of black assemblage artist Noah Purifoy’s work at the Washington Gallery of Modern Art in 1968.

“Though I came to the guiding light late,” Sirmans wrote in the now-published catalogue, “I imagine that when curators of my generation were young and dreamed of being curators, visions of Walter Hopps danced in their heads.”

Hopps was a “curator’s curator,” says Sirmans. “He had this commitment to really clearly asking, ‘What does it look like?”” Hopps organized the first retrospective of Marcel Duchamp, the artist perhaps best known for the urinal he turned 90 degrees, named “Fountain” and exhibited at the Society of Independent Artist in 1917. The influence of his pragmatic radicalism on artists in the U.S. was undeniable, but no U.S. curator had paid him such close attention before. “[Hopps] would say, ‘This person is worthy of this sort of treatment,’ and because you give them this sort of treatment, you’ll learn from it,” says Sirmans.

If you read the press announcing Sirmans arrival and departure from the Menil and announcing his arrival at LACMA, words like these appear: “quirky,” “mash-up,” “diversity,” “reinvigorated,” “fresh,” “range of interests.” Collectors and members of art collector committees who have gone on tours with him will say they “like the way he talks about art,” and what they seem to mean is that he makes art—even iconic, canonized objects like Mondrian abstractions or Rauschenberg combines—seem openended and unpretentious but still genuinely interesting.

When Sirmans arrived at LACMA, the museum was in flux. Michael Govan had been director for just over two years. BCAM had just opened, its third floor filled with flash, expensive work from Eli Broad’s collection. Christine Kim, formerly of the Studio Museum in Harlem, had recently joined the contemporary Department as well. “Michael [Givan] said, ‘Dive in,’” Dirmans remembers. So he, Gonzalez and Kim worked through the collection, assembling a show they would title Human Nature. “We had four rooms to say, ‘This is how things were different [after 1968’],’” says Sirmans/ The first room included Bruce Nauman’s Walk with Contrapposto, a video in which the artist sways his hips in an exaggerated way while walking along a narrow corridor, and a photograph by Hannah Wilke of herself topless with kneaded erasers stuck to her face and chest, wielding two toy guns. Starting with work like this, that deals with rawness and embarrassment, rather than flashier pop- or minimalism- informed work from around that time, felt like an announcement that LACMA was going to do things differently.

Right now, Sirmans, who is working on the Ends and Exits  show on art from the 1980s scheduled to open this spring, has images of work by savvy appropriation artist Sherrie Levine and the sometimes abject, sometime elegant Robert Gober on his office wall. Works by both of them will go into the show. And he’s been looking at Basquiat again, as he crafts yet another essay on the artist. Recently, he spent time in front of “Gold Griot,” now owned by The Broad Art Foundation in Santa Monica. The work features paint stick on horizontal panels of wood, depicting a wildly grinning man with a skeletal torso, wide eyes shaped like sunflower seeds and teeth that look like blue, red and white

“Seeing it again now, I see how much the head is a split between an African mask and something like a carnivalesque costume,” says Sirmans. “You know it better every time you stand in front of a painting. Each time of writing is a time of trying to reckon with it, saying to it, ‘Tell me something else.’”

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RUDI KONICZEK

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

Vancouver Island is home to countless artists—from painters and potters to carvers, jewelers and glass blowers. A restorer of classic automobiles—defined by the Classic Car Club of America as distinctive in engineering or coachwork—might not be an  obvious candidate for inclusion in this group. Rudi Koniczek, however, more than merits it: The cars he restores are significant examples of 20th-century automotive art.

On its own, the Mercedes-Benz 300SL, under whose spell Koniczek fell as a young man, would qualify as art. “It’s one of the sexiest things I’d ever seen,” recalls Koniczek, now 64, interviewed recently in his casual, comfortable workshop near Victoria. So sexy, it turns out, that the car steered a newly immigrated Koniczek down the road to becoming a mechanic and, eventually, a world-renowned 300SL restorer. With its low, wide stance, long nose and top-hinged, gull-wing doors, the300SL combines the attributes of elegance and sportiness with performance that remains impressive by contemporary standards. It dashes from zero to 60 mph in about eight seconds and can attain a top speed of 150 mph.

From its introduction in 1954, the Gullwing appealed to celebrities of the era, with Sophia Loren, Clark Gable and Pablo Picasso becoming owners. Contemporary owners include designer RalphLauren and Jay Leno, who has written extensively about his car. Oprah Winfrey sold her 1954 Gullwing in 2008 to benefit the Arts and Culture Workshop at the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for Girls, which she established in South Africa.

Other famous Mercedes owners bring their precious vehicles to Koniczek, including celebrities and heads of state, but he won’t name them out of respect for their privacy.

Flamboyant, irreverent and an engaging conversationalist quick to laugh and jest, Koniczek seems to derive great joy from life,  and anticipates his clients will do the same. Before accepting a commission, Koniczek insists potential clients travel to Victoria for a few days to become acquainted. Sharing conversatio  over a few meals, Koniczek decides whether expectations and enthusiasm for the project are mutual, and if there’s a basis for  friendship. Occasionally, Koniczek declines to offer his services.

Besides overseeing the restoration of more than 100 300SLs to date, Koniczek and his craftsmen restore a plethora of significant motoring icons, including Mercedes-Benz models from the 1920s and 1930s, Bugattis, Talbot-Lagos and Lagondas.

 




 

The list of countries from which cars arrive testifies to the quality of his work, with clients in the United Kingdom, Switzerland, Hong Kong and the United States. Koniczek never advertises, relying on the strength of his reputation. With 63 cars waiting to receive attention, the business plan seems to work.

Koniczek’s childhood  as difficult. Born in Germany in 1949, he immigrated to Canada with his family in 1953 and settled in Toronto. His German heritage prompted bullying by his classmates. Recalling these experiences provides the foundation for one of the truths that guide his life: “Never hurt anybody, and never be hurt by anybody.”

 An apprenticeship with Mercedes-Benz showed his talent and skill. Koniczek eventually became the national troubleshooter for the company, traveling across Canada to repair vehicles and training others in the mysteries of fuel injection and diesel  engines. In 1969, he made his first trip to Victoria, a journey thatchanged his life.

Koniczek left Mercedes-Benz in 1971 to work for himself and returned to Victoria, where he opened Autohaus, a shop dedicated to the service and repair of European cars. Despite its success, Koniczek decided to follow his heart and turned to the restoration of Mercedes-Benz 300SLs. “Always follow your passion” informs every aspect of his life and is often mentioned in his conversation. “What I do isn’t work, it’s a way of life, and money will follow passion. And if it doesn’t, you’re still having fun,” he says.

Once a car arrives at Rudi & Company, the teardown begins. Depending on the condition of the vehicle, a full restoration can take up to 18 months and cost around $300,000. In the calm, bright workshop, 300SL components are quietly being repaired or refurbished. Says craftsman Ross Morrison, “The cars are so valuable, it is necessary for everyone to maintain focus. A moment’s inattention can result in damage that can be expensive to repair.”

Eight craftsmen work with Koniczek, the least experienced of whom has been with him for 18 years. Once a car is completed, Koniczek and the owner will take it on a 300-mile drive on  Vancouver Island. If satisfied, he delivers the car with a one-year warranty.

Gooding & Company, a premier international auction house, recently sold a special lightweight 300SL that had passed through Koniczek’s care, after having been discovered in a rat-infested  garage in California. The pre-sale estimate was shattered, with the car realizing $4.62 million when the bidding ended.

“Rudi has gained a reputation for quality craftsmanship and  integrity. His business stems from a distinct passion for the cars, which is abundantly present in each finished project,” says Gooding & Company specialist Paul Hageman, who adds that Koniczek is widely regarded as a leading expert on the 300SL.

The most important thing he can pass on, says Koniczek, is his passion for life, particularly in relation to young people. Since the early 1970s, Koniczek has welcomed students doing work experience into his shop. Two have made a career with Koniczek, working with him over 20 years. Students who go elsewhere are offered Koniczek’s support in finding the career that will best suit them, as whatever they do should “not be a job but a lifestyle,” he says.

With a happy marriage to Patti, seven successful adult children, and his professional success, Koniczek is a man—and an artist— who seems to have found both recognition and contentment living the values he espouses.

 

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SHELTER HALF

Posted on by Stephanie Janssen

LOCATED IN THE LA BREA DESIGN DISTRICT IN LOS ANGELES, THIS INNOVATIVE CONCEPT STORE BRINGS TOGETHER BRANDS, ARTISTS AND CRAFTSMAN THAT SHARE A SIMILAR AESTHETIC AND SPIRIT. IN THIS INTERVIEW, CO-FOUNDER DAVIDE BERRUTO DISCUSSES THE STORE’S PHILOSOPHY AND EVOLUTION

Why did you start Shelter Half ?

A desire to create both a venue for commerce based on collaboration and free creative expression as well as a “shelter” where people can come together to discuss and further new ideas about furniture, art, food, music, etc.

It is very rewarding and refreshing to be able to do something fun and creative with people I love, without the pressure of a business plan, without having to be overly concerned about being commercial… Shelter Half is remarkably different from all the other spaces on the street, because it can afford to be more conceptual and does not have to invite participants solely based on the selling potential of their “products” but rather there is an interest in their point of view, in what they have to say through their products or art.

How do you pick the people and products you feature at Shelter Half?

We work as a team and we began by inviting people to participate based on our personal taste, our extended network of friends and the intent to foster a diverse community. We put up a playground and asked people if they wanted to come and play. We are excited to see that now after a few months, more and more people are showing up on their own and asking if the can come and play too.

The items in the store are all produced in the U.S. Why is this important to you?

I think it is important to take time to think about how things are made, where they are made, why they are made, how they are designed and if they have longevity. There is both a long tradition of craftsmanship and quality in this country and an incredible ability to innovate. I would like to be able to celebrate both at Shelter Half.

Besides being produced in the U.S., is there a point of view or aesthetic that ties all the items in the store together?

I would say that there is a loose plot line that can be felt, but it is hard to describe—it’s vintage, it’s modern, it’s about comfort and aesthetics, but also taste, quality and honesty.

 


 

 

You are also the CEO of Environment, a sustainable furniture company. How is the philosophy of Shelter Half similar or different from Environment? What made you shift from a focus on furniture to also selling items such as apparel, accessories, food, photography and more?

I would not call it a shift in focus, but rather an inclusion of other important elements that, as a friend of ours put it, results in “strategies to improve the quality of life.”

Shelter opened last December as a three-month pop-up, but you have since extended it indefinitely. What will happen next?

The most interesting and inspiring aspect of this project is that it is intended to be fluid and we can let it evolve without too many constraints into what it is supposed to be.

 

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