Sitting in the grass across the street on LACMA’s front lawn, I squinted but couldn’t make out so much as I would have liked at Steve Turner Gallery. Because of the slight slope on the hill I was sitting, I relaxed rather comfortably and didn’t feel the need to re-situate myself. I could make out three medium size paintings through the right window of the gallery, yet their rather dull, pale complexion didn’t captivate me to the point where I’d dare to leapfrog through the heavy traffic that still kept the buses moving slow along Wilshire. The cars made it hard to make out faces as well, not to mention the darkness of the street together with the intense light from the gallery left people on their indefinite smoke break back-lit, leaving me to build identities through faded silhouettes.
I could recognize a few familiar faces, being that it was a forever migrating UCLA flock of “art patrons” attending. I may have only been projecting but I thought I saw William Kaminski walk through the door, yet I never witnessed his exit and I only know him as someone who spends most his time outside of the gallery with his cigarettes and elevated presence… I believe I spotted Marcus Perez losing himself conversationally when the traffic stole his attention, although it may have been his older look-alike Jared Pankin, but rarely do we see either of them out at openings. To keep me on edge, there was a very petite man who paced back and forth obnoxiously on his phone, in the muddled up crowd. I found it quite annoying that he would do this in the middle of everyone, and not excuse himself from the huddle; as if the sound of his voice in proximity to the others allowed him to remain intrinsically a part of the scene.
Steve Turner himself seemed to be in a constant state of exit, as his face remained always in center view through the doorway, as if he intended to be the first visual a guest would see upon entrance. But he was too late; the show had unarguably been stolen by a tall maple skinned woman in a black dress with a contemplated Afro with bleached tips. She demanded attention as she stood near the street, with a perspicatious smile that from afar acted as sufficient conversation with me for the evening.
After twenty minutes or so I realized I could not sit there all night alone, the bodies interacting with the lights was too much to resist, I raised myself off the ground and headed to join in on the excitement. After a short walk I handed over my camera to a stranger, and politely asked him to make sure he got all the street lights in the shot as I smiled, and said goodnight to the burden across the street.