by Bella Garcia
So, meeting people in LA is hard. I’m an arts writer, I’m on the apps, I go to my local watering hole and sit there as numerous men 20 years my elder shoot their shot and miss. Sometimes I change it up.
A few weeks ago I connected with someone on Hinge and suggested that we meet up at Printed Matter’s Art Book fair in Pasadena. I had wanted to go anyway. I knew I wanted to write about it (if there was anything interesting to write about), and I was hoping to get laid that night—so killing multiple birds with one stone seemed brilliant—at first.
My date, let’s call him Carl, was an artist. I try not to date artists because I write about art, I often hate their work and then it becomes really awkward when they ask me my thoughts and it becomes apparent that I’m lying through my teeth and rushing to change the subject. But Carl seemed pretty laid back (at least through texts) and his work wasn’t terrible—and so I broke my long standing rule and agreed to meet-up. An art book fair seemed like a pretty innocuous place that could interest both people involved in the arts and give us something to talk about in case sparks didn’t fly. I think we were both thinking the same thing.
We decided to meet up on opening night of the fair which touted early access and music acts. It seemed like fun, it seemed easy and it seemed like LA.
I arrived in Pasadena, tried to park my car in the ridiculously small Art Center parking lot, and when no spaces were available I took my luck at trying to find street parking (along with, it seemed the entire rest of Los Angeles)—I did but it made me 30 minutes late to meeting Carl at the entrance.
Flustered and stressed that I was already late—I found the non-laid back Carl, pacing at the front entrance.
“Hey”
“Hey”
“My friends are already inside. They’ve been waiting.”
“Sorry, I texted that I was trying to find street parking. It’s horrible out there. Your friends?”
Turns out, Carl agreed to meet-up with several friends that were already going to the fair and proceeded to introduce me as a local art writer, at which time they all wanted to ensure that I knew about (and proceeded to follow) each of their instagram feeds. Gross.
I followed Carl and his friends around the fair from a few steps behind, trying to take it in and find something interesting to write about—while at the same time (kind of) trying not to lose them in the process.
The fair was exactly what it sounds like—a maze-like set of rooms filled with booths of indie and mid-sized publishers (including an international presence from Germany and the UK) all hocking their wares in a non-hierarchical egalitarian space. It felt like an uber cool swap meet where young white kids in chinos, vans, and a band t-shirt could walk up and down the aisles outfitting themselves with stickers, totes, and pins—which is exactly what Carl and his friends did. I’m not sure I saw them pick up a single book.
We came upon the “zine” room at the fair which consisted of even smaller booths, more stickers and pins—and a live DJ. This is where I left Carl and his friends—as I feigned meeting a deadline the next morning. I’m not sure they looked up when I said I had to leave.
Walking out, I did take the long way, paying attention not to the booths or the books, but the walls—which I had missed on my first pass.
They turned out to be the most interesting thing at the fair. Mini-art installations behind each booth, either placed there by the booth owners themselves, or by some random art student? Hard to say. But they were delightfully surprising. The wall installations actually made the fair feel more punk rock than anything else—illustrations out of tape, hand-drawn messages, composed paper structures—all un-precious, unassuming, random, and perfectly weird—in a way that I was hoping that Carl might be–but wasn’t.
Instead of finding love with Hinge I found it where I normally do, among art and books—staring out at me from behind the main attraction.
Image: Staff