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Los Angeles Times
07-04-2025
- Entertainment
- Los Angeles Times
Bruce Nauman's pensive Conceptual art from the 1970s seems timely again
Out in the back garden of Marian Goodman Gallery in Hollywood, a solid steel square, four feet wide and four inches thick, sits on the gravel covered ground. 'Dark' is a legendary 1968 sculpture, one that caused great consternation when first shown at an annual purchase competition at Southwestern College in Chula Vista, south of San Diego, where it won the $1,900 first prize. Adjusted for inflation, that's more than $17,000 today — not an insignificant chunk of change for a '60s art contest. Some were outraged. A blank steel plate, apparently just waiting to rust? Local sculptor Frank James Morgan, whose conventional portrait busts and stylized bronzes of women had gained some notice, wasn't having it, and he denounced Nauman's sculpture as 'junk' in a letter to the San Diego Union. Artist John Baldessari, a competition organizer just then getting traction for his own Dada-inspired anti-art, leapt to its defense in a three-page, 18 bullet-point text. At Goodman, the sculpture sets up 'Bruce Nauman: Pasadena Years,' a modestly scaled but museum-quality survey of his work from 1969 to 1979, the prolific decade when the now critically lauded artist lived in Los Angeles. (A resident of New Mexico since then, Nauman is 83.) Two dozen works are on view, including sculptures, installations, videotapes, drawings and prints, plus the artist's book 'LAAir,' featuring 10 full-page color photographs said to show the city's famous smog. The book's title makes a droll pun for 'lair,' a villainous place of danger or death, while his vivid, mostly monochrome abstract photographs of poisoned atmosphere wittily recall fashionable Color Field paintings. 'Dark' immediately predated his move from Northern California. The dust-up that ensued among artists and critics was another signal that the region was continuing to mature as a center for the production and presentation of provocative new art. 'Dark' doesn't look like much. The solid but shallow steel box, weighing in at a reported 1.3 tons, was an example of a recently emerging, stripped-down Minimalist aesthetic. The artist's last name is written in block letters along one edge, but there's some confusion over whether the artist or the school added it later as an identifier. There was also the matter of the sculpture's title, 'Dark,' which referred to the artist's claim that the word had been scrawled on the underside of the brute slab. Was the word 'dark' just meant to describe what was under there — darkness, the absence of light beneath a space-gobbling hunk of immovable material? Was it inscribed as a mordant Dada riposte to the shimmering ephemerality of Light and Space art, the perceptual spatial enigmas by Robert Irwin, Doug Wheeler and others who were fashioning the first wholly original art form to emerge from sunny Southern California? Maybe. But encountering 'Dark' now, something else stands out: There is no way for a viewer to know for certain whether the word is really written on the underside, beneath all that obdurate tonnage. None. It's unknowable. A viewer, and not just the gravel beneath the steel plate, is in the dark. Aside from the general 'don't touch' social prohibition hovering in the presence of any art object, lifting this particular weighty slab is impossible. You'll simply have to take the artist's word for it that the declaration is written there. The confrontation with Nauman's sculpture is a blunt exercise in artistic faith — an expression of trust between artist and audience, and an agreement to play together. If you can't grant that, you probably should just walk away from art — this or any other. That contemporary art might be a dubious realm populated by frauds and charlatans seems quaint today, but once upon a time it was a standard assumption. It was there from the beginning. In 1916, at the first large-scale U.S. exhibition of Modern American art held in New York City, the acerbic critic at The Nation magazine gave the stink-eye to claims of the avant-garde's artistic seriousness. 'Many persons are most seriously convinced that the world is flat,' wrote Frank Jewett Mather, looking down his nose, 'the poor whites of certain Southern regions are most seriously convinced that clay is a delicious comestible. But their seriousness doesn't matter, and I think that the seriousness of these Modernists matters very little.' Nauman, at a tumultuous and perplexing period of upheaval politically, socially and artistically, was getting down to basics. For 1968, which has been called 'the year that shattered America,' such a compact of faith at the core of 'Dark' — and a contract between strangers, no less — is no cavalier thing. Neither is it today. Civil rights, gender equality, Vietnam, student protest — so many divisive crises then are being repeated now, in our time of advancing darkness, with Ukraine and Gaza replacing Southeast Asia. Nauman's sculpture is thoroughly non-figurative, but its inescapable social and political dimensions resonate anew. So do those of 'Performance Corridor,' a baffling installation made when Nauman moved into a Raymond Ave. studio the following year. He was 27, with a wife and son, and they shared a rambling Craftsman house nearby, owned by curator and art dealer Walter Hopps, with artist Richard Jackson. Hopps was a wealth of information about Dada godfather Marcel Duchamp, whose now legendary 1963 retrospective he had organized for the Pasadena Art Museum. Nauman paid close attention to Duchamp's penchant for an art of puns and conundrums. As a sculpture, 'Performance Corridor' might be even more initially mute than 'Dark,' but it ends up speaking volumes. The corridor, eight feet tall and 20 feet long, is built from ordinary wall board and exposed two-by-four struts. One end is flush against a gallery wall, and looking into the unembellished corridor from the open end isn't promising. Roughly shoulder-width, it invites one person at a time to walk down the hall looking straight ahead. Arriving at the blank gallery wall at the end of a restricted, uneventful walk, one's immediately puzzled thought is, 'Why am I here?' And, after all, that is the question, isn't it? The performance in 'Performance Corridor' isn't something Nauman is doing, beyond performing a set-up for any art viewer to be nudged into wondering: Why am I here? Existential inquiry is an artistic staple, but typically it tends toward big gestures and grand declarations — see extravagant and flamboyant Abstract Expressionist paintings of the late-1940s and 1950s for examples. Nauman's, however, is refreshingly without illusions or pretensions. Also in 1969, although not part of the fine Goodman gallery exhibition, he sketched out a paradoxical skywriting sculpture that wasn't executed until 40 years later, when finally, it was performed in 2019 from a small airplane flying over Pasadena's Rose Bowl. 'Leave the land alone,' the ephemeral skywriting said in puffs of wispy smoke. The aerial sentiment about environmental degradation below also artfully invokes individual human mortality, when just a slight pause precedes the final word. Leave the land — alone. Nauman's skywriting drifted for a moment in the late-summer breeze, then disappeared. Marian Goodman Gallery, 1120 Seward St., Hollywood, (310) 312-8294, through April 26. Closed Sunday and Monday.
National Geographic
14-03-2025
- National Geographic
The Mexican health spa Rancho La Puerta has helped shape modern wellness travel
Before sunrise, I shuffled into a gazebo, clutching a weak cup of coffee and a portioned banana chunk, joining 15 other guests bundled up against the desert chill. After briefly learning about the 5-mile trail ahead of us, the other hikers suddenly bolted forward in a mad rush for the mountain. Welcome to Rancho La Puerta, where the day begins with gusto at dawn. At this Tecate, Mexico, wellness resort, guests are encouraged, if not explicitly instructed, to join daily early-morning hikes during their week-long stay. As avid hikers (my husband Scott and I had recently completed the 10-day Tour du Mont Blanc in the Alps), we expected a leisurely pre-breakfast walk that aligned with the resort's ethos of mindfulness and tranquility. When our fellow hikers sprinted for the hills, we were caught in an unexpected race to the top. For the next six days, we huffed and puffed up and down Mount Kuchumaa, trying to beat our previous day's finishing time (and yes, our fellow hikers, too). Rancho La Puerta's founders might frown at our competitive mission. These daily 'health walks,' which have been part of The Ranch's programming since it opened in 1940, were designed to encourage movement and connection — with the environment, other guests, and oneself. Though there wasn't much talking during the 6 a.m. hike, we had plenty of time to connect during communal meals, where the most common ice breaker isn't 'Where are you from,' but 'How many times have you been here?' Answers of 20 to 30 times are common, as are guests who stay for multiweek (and sometimes multi-month) stints. According to Barry Shingle, director of guest programming, The Ranch boasts a whopping 64 percent return rate. What draws guests back to this wellness oasis in the desert? We'd have to consider its origins. (Related: On the botanical wellness travel trail in St Lucia) Rancho La Puerto has an interesting past, including a diet where people lived on three pounds of grape juice a day. Photograph Courtesy Rancho La Puerta The visionary beginning Rancho La Puerta was founded by an unlikely couple on the Baja peninsula in the mid-20 century. Edmond Szekely, a Romanian philosophy professor with an expiring US visa, and his new wife, Deborah, crossed the southern border to avoid returning to Eastern Europe, where Szekely, a Jew, was not safe. They settled in a rented shed at the base of Mount Kuchumaa, a land sacred to the Indigenous Kumeyaay people. Fortunately, the couple's new home turned out to be a fertile oasis. Szekely quickly mobilized the small group of followers he'd gained as a speaker to visit him in Tecate. Early guests paid $17.50 a week to pitch tents and listen to the professor's revolutionary ideas about healthy living. His message — emphasizing organic food, clean air and water, safe sunbathing, and a low-fat diet — resonated in the World War II era. A 1949 San Diego Union headline read: "Romanian Professor Founds Cult Across Border at Tecate," describing a "health cult to end all health cults," where guests survived on three pounds of grape juice a day, raw produce, and vigorous exercise and sunbathing routines. Today, that article is placed in every casita with a note from Deborah, who is still involved in Ranch operations at age 102: "I cried when I first read it, but as the years passed, I realized that most of the health precepts he thought so strange have become the accepted way of life today." There's an active daily schedule that includes everything from water aerobics to yoga to arts and crafts. Photograph Courtesy Rancho La Puerta The Ranch today When Edmond left Tecate in 1969, Deborah took over. Today, she and their daughter, Sarah Livia Brightwood, continue to run The Ranch in a slightly softened iteration from its austere beginnings. The founding principles are still present in the morning hikes, lectures, and emphasis on self-growth, with a sprinkle of comfort (and, even wine these days). Perhaps most importantly, the infamous caffeine ban was lifted (coffee lovers should visit the on-site cafe). The once-strict vegetarian menu now includes seafood, and cookies make a splash — and disappear quickly — every Friday. The Ranch diet is lacto-ovo pescatarian, meaning eggs, dairy, and seafood are in, but meat is out. Fruit, vegetables, and legumes are plentiful and often sourced from the property's organic garden, where guests can take cooking classes with visiting chefs. Breakfast and lunch are served buffet-style and dinner is a pre-set coursed affair. Most guests visit from Saturday to Saturday and enjoy an active daily schedule that includes everything from water aerobics to yoga to arts and crafts. Each week, a rotating cast of visiting experts lead sessions on topics such as gut health, life coaching, and dance. Between activities and spa services, it's easy to become so busy at The Ranch that you forget what's missing: Wi-Fi is limited to a few of the 86 casitas, cell service is nonexistent, and phones are discouraged except for photos. "Health walks' have been part of The Ranch's programming since it opened in 1940. Photograph Courtesy Rancho La Puerta While digital detox resorts are now common, Rancho La Puerta was one of the first escapes to prioritize mindfulness and face-to-face connection, as well as locally grown organic food, daily exercise, and life-long learning. (Related: Why you should head to Tuscany for a spiritual reboot) While we won't miss the grape juice cleanses, repeat guests often cite the friendships they've forged at The Ranch as their top reason for returning — many book the same casita, the same week, every year to reunite with friends made while building prayer arrows or pressing tortillas on their first visit. Those moments of using your hands — and not just for texting — is something we can all stand to do a little more of. The Ranch has successfully shaken off its initial cult label, but the magic that draws people to this desert sanctuary remains as powerful as ever. In an age of constant connectivity, Rancho La Puerta offers something increasingly rare: A chance to disconnect from technology and reconnect with ourselves, each other, and the natural world — just as its founders envisioned more than 80 years ago. How to do it When to go: The climate in Tecate is mild year-round, though summers can get hot and there are occasional frosts during winter. The dry air gets chilly at night and warms up significantly during the day, and the temperature rarely exceeds 90°F. Annual rainfall averages just 12 inches, so you'll rarely need to pack a raincoat. The Ranch is busy all year, but spring and fall are the most popular times to visit, when garden produce is at its peak and the temperature is comfortable for outdoor activities. Getting there: San Diego, the closest airport, is about an hour from the property. The Ranch provides regular complimentary shuttles to and from the airport on Wednesdays and Saturdays. The Ranch is about three hours by car from LAX. In addition to a passport, visitors crossing via land need a Mexican tourist visa, known as a Migratory Form (FFM). You can process the visa online in advance or at the border (this can take some time and is not recommended). The FFM costs $40. Lizzy Briskin is a New York City-based travel and food writer. Her work appears in Real Simple, Food Network Magazine, Bon Appetit, Wirecutter, Insider, and Shape.
