I am often asked why I ride my bike to work (and if I’ve totally lost my mind or have a death wish), especially in the last few years during the massive construction project along the 405, which has made the 405 corridor bumpier and more haphazard (and hazardous).

For me, riding my bike has always been a mix of personal pleasure and public service. I enjoy the exercise of it, the hour or so of vigorous riding to begin my day. But I also see it as a way to honor that very core Jewish value which we at the Skirball try to impart through our programs and exhibitions: that of taking care of the earth and each other. I feel, perhaps naively, that I’m doing something (albeit a small something) for our planet: a bit less CO2 emitted from a tailpipe, a few more friendly exhales in the direction of the plants along the road, a bit less stress put out into the world.

I start out each early-morning ride pedaling through the dark in Santa Monica with a red light on the back of my bike and a headlamp strung up around my helmet. From the wide and mostly well-marked bike lanes of the Santa Monica streets, I ride through Brentwood and then into the Veteran’s Administration in Westwood. A few years ago, when I was in graduate school at UCLA, bikers were allowed to ride through the cemetery as well, but they’ve since closed the gates and now it’s only possible to ride through the property on the west side of Sepulveda. I find that the experience keeps me thinking about veterans, considering our notions of freedom, and thinking about the sacrifices so many of them have made so that I can live in a free society. Last year, the Skirball began a project with one volunteer arm of the VA hospital, where visitors to the Noah’s Ark galleries could prepare “comfort bags” for veterans filled with toiletries, knick-knacks, and essential items. This partnership was inspired, in part, by my rides through the complex.

After the circuitousness of the VA, my ride takes a decidedly linear turn as I begin to climb up Sepulveda Boulevard. Since freeway lane construction has begun, it’s become a journey filled with potholes, strategically placed orange triangles, and a variety of large trucks, some carrying cranes or huge traffic signals. Sometimes I feel as if I am the last man on earth among the machines, but then I get a wave from a worker in a hard hat or a warning with a flashlight, and I know I’m still among humans. The view in the mornings can be spectacular, and the Getty Center up on the hill looks particularly beautiful as I ride by.

I’ve had a handful of experiences along Sepulveda that I could only have encountered from the seat of a bike. Once I saw two coyotes playing just beneath the shoulder of the road. Dawn had broken and I watched them—somewhat terrified but mostly curious—as they wrestled with each other, snarled their teeth, and pawed at one another playfully. It was exhilarating to be so close to the creatures we so often talk about in Noah’s Ark at the Skirball. I’ve also been witness to a number of brushfires over the years. One morning, when Sepulveda was still closed off to traffic, the CHP officers allowed me to ride through as they cleared burnt branches from the road. It felt a bit like I was riding on the moon. Another time, I accidentally rode face-first into a wire that had been downed after a storm. Two fellow bikers stopped, gave me some tissues, and helped me wash my cuts with water from their spare water bottles before I continued on. It’s like a brotherhood among us bike commuters; we take care of each other because we know that usually the car traffic will pass us by.

The most joy I take coming to work by bike occurs when I turn off of Sepulveda Boulevard into the driveway of the Skirball Cultural Center. From this vantage point, it’s easy to see that the complex was designed to be an oasis in the city between the Valley and the Westside. The beautiful landscaping, the tall trees that line the driveway, the butterflies and birds that flit around the arroyos—all of it provides me with the greatest sense of relief and calm, even though I’m huffing and puffing from climbing up a mountain. The environment at the Skirball is precious, bucolic, a place where not just cyclists but everyone can come and enjoy a respite from the hullabaloo of life in the L.A. megalopolis.

So next time you visit the Skirball, consider biking here. Our food cart serves the best PB&J in town (the perfect mid-ride food!), the iced tea is always freshly brewed, and on hot days the mist from our rainbow arbor is always there to cool you off. We even have a ram in Noah’s Ark made out of a bicycle seat! And who knows, you might just see my bike in the parking lot or catch me whizzing by, smiling as I race down the hill.

If you are intrigued, there are many resources to learn about bike travel around L.A. Check out some of the links below, where you can read about plans for adding bike paths and lanes to existing roads (including Sepulveda Boulevard). The city is undergoing a renaissance of biking, with events like Ciclavia attracting a hundred thousand participants and efforts such as Bike to Work Day and Bike Night at the Hammer gaining in popularity each year.

LADOT updates on bikeway projects
LADOT Bike Blog
California Bicycle Coalition
Ciclavia
Taking bikes on Metro Rail
YouTube video of almost exactly my ride

Listen to Sherman’s “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah” here:

We really appreciated this humor for at least two reasons: First, I went away to a girl scout camp and was so homesick and unhappy, even though the camp was in Staten Island—just thirty miles from my home in Queens, NY, and the whole session was only five days! It was practically over before it started! Second, we had very good friends who were in the sleepaway camp business and they had certainly experienced parents calling after receiving horrible homesick letters. Usually by the time the letters were received, the child was a very adjusted and happy camper. In any case, Sherman’s humor resonated with more than a kernel of truth.

We also had a comedy record album by Vaughn Meader, who satirized the Kennedys (which lost its humor appeal after JFK was assassinated), and we had albums by Shelley Berman, too. I remember one about “the morning after the night before,” in which he pleaded with his Alka Seltzer not to fizz. Hysterical.

These are great family memories. My sister probably still has the albums …

Read more about Allan Sherman’s funny music, but sad life in this piece by the Jewish Journal. Hope to see you at Skirball this Sunday to learn more about this brilliant and complicated man.

Leta Nadler
Skirball Docent

My super panel of graphic novelists.

Ever since I made the decision to leave the security of a paid day job to be a full-time graphic novelist, my goal has been this: to pursue what I love.

When Jordan Peimer, Vice President and Director of Programs at the Skirball Cultural Center, asked me to work on moderating a panel about graphic novels—a subject that aligns perfectly with the current exhibition Gary Baseman: The Door Is Always Open—my first thought was, “Cool, I’m completely not cut out for this.” But after some deliberation, and considering the heavy-handed Who’s the Lars von Trier of Comics approach, I concluded I’d do what I have done my whole career: follow my heart. This has always led me down the path of success, and undoubtedly would not fail me now.

There is a Los Angeles pride in me that has always considered the Skirball to be a hallmark of L.A. arts and culture for the past decade. I knew each member of this panel had to be an Angeleno. The language of making comics is one that combines words and pictures, and I didn’t seek out people who could do one or the other—I wanted both. Hope Larson is one of those intimidatingly brilliant graphic novelists I’ve been yearning to know for years, and I took this opportunity to find out what makes her tick. Malachi Ward has been cultivating a hardcore following over the past few years with his ornate and detailed perspective of the world, and I want to help him grow to stardom. Nick Thorburn made the seamless decision to draw comics and make music—both are beautiful contributions to their mediums; quiet, but aggressive when necessary. I love what all of these people do. I love that they take what could be relegated as mere pop art so seriously, and I know that they’re approaching comics the same way I am. You learn over time to pursue what you love. None of the panelists above chose being a graphic novelist for the glorious paycheck. Like me, they were infected with an affection for comic books that could not be quelled. Attend our May 8 panel, Sequential Smarts, and learn how each of these amazing artists have persevered in one of the most temperamental and exciting art forms of the past few decades.

See you Wednesday! The Gary Baseman exhibition will be open until 8:00 p.m. and we will be giving out a limited number of signed prints, so come early!

Sina Grace

The title of this work—like that of our major new exhibition on the artist’s life and career—borrows a phrase from Gary Baseman’s own father. Ben Baseman used to tell his son, “Gary, the door is always open.” It was a reminder that the Fairfax District four-plex that he called home would always provide protection and loving kindness.

At the Skirball, we have been moved by this father-son anecdote, for its spirit of embrace resonates with our mission of welcome. More broadly, we acknowledge the “open doors” that Baseman perceives between his family heritage and creative output. As the exhibition demonstrates, Baseman explores many facets of his identity as a first-generation American, the son of Holocaust survivors, who was raised with core Jewish values and a great appreciation for the freedoms we enjoy in the United States. In his work, Baseman gives expression to the artistic visions, cherished memories, and deeply held beliefs that stem from this personal life story.

Please join us in the coming months for the exhibition Gary Baseman: The Door Is Always Open in addition to a rich array of lectures, films, concerts, classes, and family programs.

Both glowing with pride, Gary Baseman and I celebrate the opening of the exhibition.

Share your ideas via E-mail, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or Pinterest
basemanshome@skirball.org
#basemanshome
If you include your name we will let you know if your idea is picked!

Or comment below and we’ll add your idea to the list.

Here’s a running list of your ideas so far:

• Top of Runyon Canyon
• Burbank Horse Stables (Jennifer)
• On the Monkey Bars at the Willow Elementary School Playground in Agoura Hills (Lisa)
• Waterfall at Temescal Canyon
• Sipping Absinthe at The Edison Bar Downtown
• Walt Disney Concert Hall Rooftop
• Napping on the Metro Rapid 761 (Sara)
• Working behind the counter at Amoeba Records
• Rowing on the canals in Venice
• Standing underneath the Space Shuttle Endeavour at the CA Science Center
• Behind the DJ booth at Liquid Kitty
• Gift shop window at El Coyote Restaurant
• In the lion cage at the Forgotten Zoo in Griffith Park (Pauline)
• On the Ferris Wheel on the Santa Monica Pier (Desiree)
• Fishing off the end of the Washington Blvd Pier in Venice
• Hollywood Sign (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)
• Watts Towers (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)
• La Brea Tar Pits (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)
• Chinatown (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)
• City Hall (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)
• Museum of Natural History (submitted by Annabelle and Audrey, age 7)

The Hall of Toby

What is the origin of the name “Nightmare and the Cat”?
It is a song by an amazing artist who never got signed and never made it on stage. He disappeared without a trace, and Sam and I just loved the song and his lyrics so much, we named our band after him. I’m hoping that one day we may meet him wherever he may be.

How did you meet Gary Baseman?
We met Gary at our friend Carina Round’s birthday party. She had written a song for one of his characters and Gary came out of nowhere dressed in a giant pink ChouChou costume and asked Claire in our band to dance.

Watch a video of ChouChous dancing:

How did Baseman painting on stage while you play come about?
This was a very natural occurrence. I feel Gary has always been making art while we sing and play. Painting was just a grander medium than the usual little sketchbook.

How does his presence on stage affect your set?
Personally, everything goes pretty blank when I’m performing. It’s like a blurry rush of energy and I really enjoy just letting everything go when I’m on stage. I really only look over in between songs as I’m curious what visions he’s seeing from our music. I don’t even know if he knows what to paint before we start! I love it.

Can you tell how your music influences what he’s painting?
I can. Also, I think personality and dynamics in the band can be seen in his paintings. I think our sound is very bittersweet and Gary captures that so well.

Are you ever surprised by the result?
Every time.

Check out Nightmare and the Cat’s video on youtube:

Chris Green, at the entrance to the Red Hook studio suite.

Brooklyn is cool. Way cooler than I am (47, married with child, driver of a Volvo, living in Brentwood—you get the picture). And even cooler than Brooklyn in general is a particular artist’s enclave in a particular section of Brooklyn called Red Hook that is the workplace of designer/puppeteer Chris Green. Chris is none other than the visionary creator of thirty-five-plus kinetic animals—some freestanding with moving parts and others full puppets in the bunraku tradition—that inhabit Noah’s Ark at the Skirball™. Designed in collaboration with the Noah’s Ark creative consultant team led by Alan Maskin and Jim Olson of Seattle-based Olson Kundig Architects, Chris’s life-sized creatures, from Japanese red foxes to South African zebras, are absolute icons of Noah’s Ark. Their beautifully carved wooden heads and outlandish bodies are fashioned from discarded items as diverse as whirling air ventilators and wooden sake cups.

Hence my excitement over visiting Chris in his Brooklyn studio while on a family trip to the East Coast last week. My mission was to check in on a new family of animals that Chris is working on: four mountain gorillas who will be coming aboard Noah’s Ark permanently this June. These adorable gorillas have movable arms and hands, and bodies made from repurposed material. Their heads, made of basswood, are carved by Chris’s gifted colleague and studio-mate, Eric Novak.

One of the gorilla heads in process; carved by Eric Novak.

Each time I’ve visited Chris’s studio over the past seven years I’ve felt like I was entering Geppetto’s workshop, and this time was no different. It’s a magical place, with dusty tools and gadgets of all sizes and puppets of every conceivable style—some created by Chris and others by Eric or one of the other designers who share the two-story workspace, capacious by New York standards.

Not much light enters the bottom floor and the air smells a bit musty. (Chris points to a thigh-high water line on the metal front door that remains from the recent flood that Hurricane Sandy brought, which left them stranded and without power in Red Hook for weeks.) But somehow, the studio feels cozy and welcoming, with the puppets silently ushering in visitors from the wall on which they hang. As Chris describes the effects of Sandy, I think of the Noah’s Ark flood story and coincidentally glance up at a fanciful wooden boat suspended from the ceiling, which clearly weathered the storm unharmed. Maybe Chris is a little bit Geppetto and a little bit Noah.

Chris Green’s work space, Red Hook studio.

On this particular visit, amidst the other puppets and sculptures, I spot early prototypes of animals that made their way into Noah’s Ark when it first opened in 2007: the metal frame of an East Asian Sika deer hanging casually on its side near a computer, a coyote model on a worktable amidst a small cast hand. It’s all a bit surreal, in the neatest possible way.

And at the epicenter of the studio experience for me is Chris: this lanky, gentle, and quietly phenomenal artist whose soulful, whimsical puppet creations have moved us deeply since we first encountered them in 2005, introduced by our Noah’s Ark exhibit developer, Marni Gittleman. Chris—in his Red Hook studio surrounded by a chocolate factory, a fish smoker, a welding company, and other makers and artisans—is the real deal. He’s the best of Brooklyn.

Chris Green’s work space, Red Hook studio.

Puppet by Eric Novak.

Puppet by Eric Novak.

Reading Hand-Drying in America, please excuse my messy desk.

I first experienced the work of Ben Katchor more than a decade ago when I read his graphic novel The Jew of New York, a wild tale about a scheme to carbonate Lake Erie and pump seltzer water directly into the tenements of New York City. I loved both the creative wit and the spare drawing style that brought this tale to life. I am very excited to finally meet the man behind the many tales when he appears here next week in a rare Los Angeles appearance.

I had a chance to chat on the phone with Ben recently and I asked him how he started doing graphic novels. Here’s what he told me:

I was exposed to comic strips as a child, growing up in New York. They were always something that existed outside of the certified educational system, a kind of forbidden literature for children. By the time I got to high school I outgrew them in terms of stories, but I still liked the drawing. I realized that the drawing was the thing that really interested me.

So I ended up studying art in college, but I felt in painting there was something missing for me, and that was the human voice. I realized there was a form that combined both, and that it was a form I had read as a child: comics. It worked more like theater or movies where you can have a text line running along a picture. I just went back to it as an adult. Some people responded more to the stories in comic books, and they became writers. I responded more to the way they created visual worlds. The form of the comic book itself is an incredible idea. Like the notations of staged drama, basically, like the way you would notate a play with text and image. I didn’t see a future for me in galleries with paintings hanging on the wall. I love that my art can be reproduced so very cheaply.

Find out more from Ben when he speaks at the Skirball next week. See you there!

Every family’s seder is different, from the Haggadah they choose to read from to the seder plate on which they present the holiday’s symbolic foods. To celebrate this uniqueness, a few members of the Skirball staff share the story behind their seder plates, starting with mine!

I have always liked the bright and cheery design of my mother’s seder plate, and assumed for all these years that she had gotten it as a newlywed when she and my father were married. I discovered this year that she actually purchased it herself when we moved from New York to California when I was a child.

Until we moved, my mother never needed her own seder plate. In New York she attended first her grandmother’s, then her aunt’s seder—large family affairs conducted mostly in Hebrew that continue to this day. When we moved to California, in search of warm weather and business opportunities, we were forced to leave that family tradition behind. I know the move was bittersweet for my mother, as she was very close to her family, but I think this plate represents her hopefulness about starting a new tradition with her children. I have to say, she has done an excellent job, because Passover at my mother’s house is something we look forward to every year.

“Our seder plate has great personal meaning since it was made by friends, Leslie Gattmann and Eugene Frank, who operated a ceramic Judaica business for many years. Each piece was lovingly handmade and hand-painted. We use it every year at our family seder, which includes many great traditions from beating each other with green onions during the “dayenu” song (a Persian custom that we simply had to adopt) to raucous searches for the afikomen (dessert matzoh) by the youngest guests, who are now grown men.

As I unpack the seder plate each spring, I am reminded of how fast time passes and feel fortunate that we continue to celebrate this glorious festival of freedom with close friends and family. The plate also reminds me of the many guests who are no longer with us, but whose spirits hover in the open doorway when we welcome the prophet Elijah.”—Adele Lander Burke, VP Learning for Life

“This is the seder plate I grew up using. It was purchased from the gift shop at Temple B’nai Israel, where I was bar mitzvahed and which I later learned had some significant artwork on display from the Jewish Museum. One interesting thing about this plate is that in the last ten years—since my mother has gone vegan—the foods it serves have morphed somewhat so as not to include any animal products. Our Passover meal has gone from very traditional to very non-traditional. One year she replaced the shank bone with a ‘bone-shaped’ tortilla chip!”—Jason Porter, Assistant Director, Education

“For the past thirty years, my mother has used this plate for our seders. When I asked her about the story behind it, she at first sheepishly replied, ‘There’s no story, I’ve just had it for a while …’ After some questioning, however, the stories came bubbling out.

My mother bought the plate when she and my father were married, and used it at their very first seder together. My father was not raised Jewish, so this plate and the seder they created together had particularly important significance for them. It represented their commitment to passing along the history of the Jewish people—their struggles and triumphs against oppression—to my sister and me. Every year, when I help my mother set the table, we pull out the seder plate and set about arranging the traditional Passover foods: zero’ah, maror, haroset; karpas, and beitzah. My mother is never quite sure which order these go in, so our seder plate arrangement usually looks different every year. My mother’s haroset is the prized piece of the plate: full of color and texture, it is sweet and slightly bitter, and the recipe—like the arrangement of the plate—changes slightly every year.

But the larger significance of this seder plate is the story it tells, not only about our Jewish ancestors, but also my family’s. True to the tradition of Passover, every year we welcome our friends, significant others, and visitors—most of whom are not Jewish—to join us for my mother’s delicious home-cooked food and to participate in this piece of Jewish tradition. The changing roster of guests and personalities makes for a lively affair. The dining room becomes filled with conversation, laughter, copious amounts of food and wine, but also the somber memory of a time when we were not free, and an appreciation for the privileges we do have.”—Kasia Gondek, Program Coordinator

“My earliest memories of Passover took place here in Los Angeles, at my maternal grandmother’s home at 81st and New Hampshire, with my uncle leading our family seder. The fine china and linen, new clothes and shoes, retelling of the Passover story, and gathering together with family and friends are all very fond memories that continued first in my parents’ home and for the past twenty-six years at my home. When I began doing the purchasing for Audrey’s Museum Store at the Skirball, I was exposed to a vast selection of seder plate styles made from a variety of materials. Ten years ago, on a buying trip to New York, I came across this silver seder plate. The elegant European style was a perfect complement to the silver kiddush cup my husband and I purchased on a family trip to Israel in 1987. This year we are delighted to surround our elegant seder plate with wind-up frogs, representing one of the ten plagues, to help teach and create special memories for our seventeen-month-old granddaughter.”—Pam Balton, VP Special Projects

Earlier this month, our President and CEO, Uri D. Herscher, shared his seder plate on the blog. Does your family’s seder plate have a story? Let us know in the comments! Wishing everyone a Happy Pesach!