We needed to escape the house late this morning because of noisy workmen; or, more accurately, because of calm, quiet, dignified workmen with noisy power tools. Ear splitting. So we filled our insulated go-cups with stimulants and fled to LACMA.
Our initial intention of checking out the exhibit of Roman goodies dug up from ill-fated Pompeii (and even more ill-fated Herculaneum; more ill-fated because always second-billed) dwindled away as we lazily munched turkey sandwiches in the Plaza Cafe and debated which U.S. city would be the best to bury in lava for the sake of future curiosity-seekers. (The winner: Orlando, Florida. Imagine the pathos excited two millenia hence by plaster casts of Disney costumed figures.)
Too filled with lunch-gladness to face the sorrows of of 79 A.D., we thought it better to save Pompeii for a future trip. We chose instead to trot over to a couple of galleries where we could enjoy leaning into the gale-force blasts of hue given off by so-called “color field painters” like (fave) Sam Francis, Mark Rothko and Clyfford Still.
No use pencil sketching these guys — too minimalist. Nor any use taking photos of them; half their effect depends on their size. So all I can offer as decoration for this wee post is a photo (above) of a stimulant-filled go cup and another (below) of the glass door of the Plaza Cafe where we had eaten turkey sandwiches and discussed urban volcanic catastrophe. The reason I took the latter photo was the shadow of the door handle on the floor. Who would have guessed that a handle shaped like this would produce a shadow shaped like that? Not me.