Three days of my life have been spent on the computer, on the phone in the attempts to sever all the tiny trails between us and the people that took our stuff.
Jenny saw the spiral I was in. "Let's go get a beer." I wouldn't let her sit next to me at the bar. Bad energy radiates.
Suz and I decided to go to The Getty per Hannah's recommendation. The Getty is a temple white, cool and lofty. Every angle, every turn of the head a feast of perspective and shape. We pointed and stared. LA spread out like a cat in the sun, gray fur of smog bristling above. We walked to the center of the garden cradled on all sides by onion grass. We picked leaves of lavender and geranium, crushed them between our fingers and took deep breaths in.
To get from one place to another at the The Getty you walk between marble slabs. Sound reverberates and notes ascend lightly. Suz and I talked about how houses of religion and government bear such power partly for their buildings' power to dramatically change temperature, mood, sound, light.
Sun warmed and seeking cool dark art we happened into a survey of Ishiuchi Miyako's work. Miyako is a Japanese photographer who grew up in Yokosuka, Japan. She photographed there during adolescence and then again in the 1970s after the U.S. military that had created the city had pulled out and left a ghost town. A video component of the exhibit Yokoshuka Story followed Miyako and her partner as she entered into an abandoned night club and attempted to capture its grief. Elvis and Mildred Bailey played while Miyako meticulously set up shots. Camera, chords, lights and artist navigated rubble in the spots where soldiers used to entertain themselves.
Miyako's mother was a driver for a military truck. She was badly scalded at some point and the two of them spent their last year together cataloging Miyako's mother's scars and her possessions in photographic form. A diffrent room of the retrospective was a collection of photographs of the hands and feet of women born in the same year she was born, 1943.
The final room was a series of close ups of scars. Determined to give each photo its due respect, I only got half way through. Each piece sent a current through that was hard to break away from. In this way Miyako and The Getty brought me back to LA, back to my body, down from anxiety and anger and back to a heartachey reminder of bodily pain and resilience.