The Last Bookstore, Los Angeles

From the weekend

We’re in the last stretch of wrapping up now, which is strange because we’re not actually wrapping up. Because we are applying for two different visas, the chances of something working out are not insignificant. We’re leaving everything as is, mostly. We stopped buying plants some time back but I transplanted the Poinsettia we got for Christmas. If it doesn’t work out, A will come back and sell+ship everything. Whoever comes next will enjoy the garden. (I hope.) For now, the house pretends we’re going on holiday.

We ate ramen for lunch in a small Noho restaurant, drove to Hollywood Boulevard but were exhausted at the thought of negotiating Pre-Oscar roadblocks, bickered but rescued our moods and went to The Last Bookstore. I bought a book of Yusef Kommunyakaa poems as a gift because we’re not buying books for ourselves at the moment. We have too many to ship as it is. For myself, I went to the little yarn store upstairs and bought yarn because that I can carry more easily. Madelinetosh DK, four hanks. A lady, perhaps in her sixties, was helping her daughter start a project. She advised me about yarn, showed me pictures of her projects. Her husband came in later and told me it was their anniversary. “and this is what she wanted to do…” with a smile. The family left, cozy. He seemed proud, even after all these years, or maybe pretending real good. I like to believe he wasn’t, that he was genuinely pleased to be with this slightly loud, very talkative woman who helps strangers in yarn shops choose their yarn, and shows them pictures of her shawls and caps. The kind of person that even hermit-like i start speaking to, because on a clear Saturday afternoon, a conversation with a stranger can be, easy. But the one i liked more is the quieter one–

The  woman who manages the shop, silver-hair in a bun, red kaftan, knitting something lovely and delicate in cream lace. She asked me why i was going to India: ‘Work or vacation?’ I told her. She said ‘that’s hard!’ and we moved on to talking about knitting versus crochet. She had to wind my hanks of yarn into balls using this contraption called a Swift. I left, giving her more time to do it and went back later. ‘Safe travels, anu,’ she said as i was leaving the shop, remembering both my name and my story. For a second, i had to catch my breath, get busy photographing something to sidestep tears at this random kindness.

Then we drove around some more, went up Mulholland drive, and finally ended up at a market cafe in Atwater Village. It was lovely—there was a live band—Jo loved it, was rapt, wanted to dance, didn’t want to leave. Casual conversations, books, hillside drives, music.

She wound the yarn for me using this:

The Last Bookstore, LA by Anindita Sengupta

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At the Museum of Contemporary Art (MOCA), David Altmejd‘s ‘The Egg’: it’s a prone human body, decomposing, which squirrels have appropriated as their home.

The Egg (2006) by David Altmejd. Credit: http://www.art21.org
The Egg (2006) by David Altmejd. Credit: http://www.art21.org

“I like the idea that actual meaning comes from matter. I like the idea that matter is intelligent. Some artists think that meaning comes before the object and that the object is a tool to communicate that meaning, but I don’t like that. I believe in the power that art has to generate meaning. I believe in the capacity of art to build its own intelligence. It’s not just an illustration, that’s very reductive.” (StudioInternational.com)

Also, a roomful of Rothkos.

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Yesterday, we went up Mulholland Drive again. Uncertainty is a wide lens. I keep wanting to see the tableau.  The city was shrouded in fog, the lights of Downtown hanging in the air, disembodied, ghostly.

 

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