Monday Night on La Cienega

Under a blue velvet sky of a summer's evening lies Los Angeles' broad La Cienega Boulevard, a street of restaurants in unearthly shapes, of neon in colors not known elsewhere, of low white buildings--a street, in sum, of vast self-assurance. Of all the streets in the endless palm-and-asphalt plains that stretch from Pasadena to Long Beach, this is where the Los Angeles art galleries cluster, and every Monday night a large crowd gathers to go to them. From all over come matrons out for culture, art students, kids on an inexpensive date, a scattering of beatniks. There are even some artists, recognizable by their uniform: paint-splattered jeans, workmen's shirts, big brown belts for hooking thumbs into.

The Tradition. The idea that every Monday night should be open house on La Cienega began two years ago when two dealers decided to hold simultaneous Monday night openings in the hope of attracting bigger crowds. In time other galleries decided to stay open too, and now none dare to close on Monday for fear of public wrath. Monday night on La Cienega is quite possibly not only the best free show in town but also one of the most popular institutions in Los Angeles County. It has its own traditions: a sculpture of a crouching nude girl outside one shop bristles with notes that have been tucked under her arm, into the crooks of knees and elbows. The young lady has been adopted by the La Cienega crowd as a bulletin board through which friend can tell friend which gallery he may be in at any particular time.

Last week the 22 exhibitions ran the gamut of modernism, from a show of Arp and Henry Moore sculpture at the distinguished Felix Landau Gallery to paintings by Pop Artist Billy Al Bengston at the Ferus Gallery. Billy Al does canvases with titles like Rock, Troy, Tyrone, Sterling. One called Fabian consists of large master-sergeant stripes against a background of orange and blue-grey doughnut shapes. It is social comment, Billy Al explains: everyone wants to be topkick. At the Heritage Gallery, a lumpy figurative painting by Rod Briggs lets out wails every time a viewer's shadow falls upon its built-in electric eye.

Misty Idealism. Even though jammed galleries do not often bring big sales, the dealers on La Cienega are apt to speak of Monday night with a sort of misty idealism. "The Monday night promenade," says Jerry Jerome, a onetime furniture salesman who is now co-owner of the Ceeje Gallery, "helps us to familiarize people without any sense of artistic values with what is being done here." It is, of course, a big two hours between Henry Moore and Billy Al, and just where the La Cienega crowd's values lie at closing time, no one can say. But it is certain that the crowd will be back on future Mondays, for art and people and that velvet sky make a subtle and charming combination.

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