W
hen I was sixteen, living
in Los Angeles, artistic
and cultural institutions
were thin on the ground.
At that time, in 1973,
there was no MOCA, no
Eli Broad Foundation, no
Getty, no Hammer. The
Los Angeles County Museum of Art, surrounded by the
prehistoric La Brea Tar Pits, consisted of one building,
known as the Ahmanson, not its present-day compound
of seven buildings. Across the street, on Wilshire Boulevard was another oasis, a tall white gallery devoted
to handmade items called The Egg and the Eye which
exhibited ceramics and woven textiles from around the
world along with the work of American craft artists. Two
of them I would, one summer south of the border, come
to know well, as the reader will see.
HYLAND
