The Art of California Dreaming

By Kit-Bacon Gressitt

Have you ever contemplated one of those modern paintings, the kind with an angry splotch of color in the middle of a stark canvas or a confusion of scrawls resembling either Einstein or a toddler’s doodles? You know, the type of art that elicits comments such as “Oh, the stunning textural voids!” or “What an explosive discharge of coloristic energy!” or “The work is imbued with such somber expressivity.” I always figured that sort of art must have some crucial message — if only I were sophisticated enough to receive it. But inevitably it leaves me mournfully resigned to “I don’t get it.”

I used to ponder such art when I’d cut school, escaping the bovine roadblocks surrounding Long Valley, New Jersey, and take the Erie Lackawanna into Manhattan to meet guys in museums. I’d sit there in my hiking boots, ankle-length skirt with appliquéd mirrors and Indian gauze blouse, trying to look somberly expressive and hoping some gorgeous man, preferably a starving artist from Greenwich Village — Hoboken, if all else failed — would notice that I appreciated the stuff.

Hours of wanton staring at Jackson Pollocks and Cy Twomblys left me with the same derelict of understanding — no epiphany for me — and produced not a hunk to seduce me into his garret and boxer shorts (briefs were of course déclassé). I invariably turned homeward to merely imagine the dramatic effect art’s message would have had on my suburban teenage life and the debauchery, on my burgeoning womanhood.

I finally gave up on modern art and tried the Metropolitan Museum. The pickings seemed better — more guys with accents. It was there that the unrequited itch of my museum window-shopping ended one bright afternoon while I was stoop-setting at the Met with a hot pretzel. I had decided to pose for likely prospects on the museum’s steps in hope of catching one’s glance on the way in. Instead, I caught a scoop of steamy pigeon poop on the shoulder of my Indian gauze blouse. It was the type of guano that results from supping on the rotting bowels of a city: an explosive discharge of coloristic caca. With tortured vanity, I cut a quick path to Penn Station, determined never to return to my truant haunts.

Funny, as it turned out, my youthful failure to fathom the essence of abstract expressionism did not after all leave a stunning void in my intimate affairs. I discovered other ways to meet men, indifference proving the most effective. It sent them into a frenzy from coast to coast.

In the mid80s, I had one such encounter with a victim of my nonchalance in front of a David Hockney in Los Angeles. Now, Hockney I can enjoy. For him a tree is a tree, albeit a bit surreal.

Well, I suppose I had lapsed into a mood of indifference, and the fellow was on the scent — like Jack Nicholson on a comely female. I could not shake the guy. He trailed me throughout the museum, the legs of his leather pants slapping with every step. Why anyone would wear leather during July in LA is one of those mysteries Woody Allen would have resolved with a good joke, had he not taken to boinking his stepdaughter. But then, he couldn’t be bothered with California.

I, in contrast, took California very seriously. It was a place to which I wanted to belong. I’d escaped my roots and a husband here. In California, I felt on the verge of titillating independence. No obligations or affiliations to define me. No significant other to say, “She’s with me.” Indeed, I could for once be with no one. I had only to figure out the place. I needed first, though, to get past the East Coast thing. It was like a scarlet letter emblazoned across my chest, an unyielding fetter restricting my words and deeds to those of my socio-geographic heritage. People at work would say, “You’re from the East Coast, right? Yeah, I can, like, tell.”

Tell what? I had no accent, no siblings named Muffy. When I got to town I bought an old VW. I learned to eat sushi without gagging. I gave up my seasonal wardrobe. I had a fling with a Westwood shrink and got a tan. I made friends with lesbians and drank bottled water. I bought expensive running shoes, though I’d deftly avoided running since junior high. I went to an acupuncturist, a black fellow from Newark who’d had no trouble finding his niche.

So why couldn’t I? Why couldn’t I grasp the rhythm and syntax of California? Here they “took” things that back East I convened. They “did” things I was used to eating. They ate things I expected to find in fiberboard! The natives were talking to me, but I just didn’t get it.

As I pondered my failure to acclimatize to my new homeland, the leather pants caught up with me. He wanted to talk Hockney with someone who truly appreciated the artist’s pathos. He could tell from my aura that he, Hockney and I were at one. If we could just join our collectiveness in a more personal space. Perhaps we could pursue our unity at his place?

“Come home with me. I’ve got a Hockney in my al fresco salon. We’ll do some sushi, some Pellegrino. Confab on his juxtaposition of photorealism and the surreal. Babe, I’m here now. No games. I want you. Let’s have sex. Then we can hot tub.”

Now the leather was a turnoff, and his lack of connectives made for disturbingly staccato conversation. But suddenly an ethereal connection arced between us. In a blast of regional enlightenment, I realized this guy was speaking Californian — and, and I could truly hear him! I finally got it! The stunning textural voids spoke to me. The explosive discharges of coloristic energy, the somber expressivity, they all made sense. Perfect sense!

The paintings? No, I’ll never understand them. But at that moment I realized I would surely make it in California, because at long last I knew its true essence: In California, hot tub is a verb.

Love,
K-B

Note: Image of Autumn Rhythm by Jackson Pollock courtesy of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.