Art attack in Los Angeles

There%26rsquo;s an enormous electronic billboard on the corner of Santa Monica
Boulevard and Bundy. Somewhat predictably, LA has turned stopping at the
traffic lights into an ad break: as you wait, you watch commercials for a
shiny mobile phone for $35 a month, the latest chick flick and a hybrid car
that can go from LA to San Francisco on one tank of good intentions.

Stay tuned and you%26rsquo;ll see Jesus %26ndash; not Christ our Lord, but Rodriguez the tax
attorney %26ndash; and then, as the lights turn green, a fleeting glimpse of
local-boy-done-bad Emigdio Preciado Jr, one of the FBI%26rsquo;s top 10 most wanted.
It%26rsquo;s LA life boiled down to a series of messages from its sponsors, but LA
culture is far harder to pin down.

Because Los Angeles has no centre %26ndash; Dorothy Parker famously described it as
%26ldquo;72 suburbs in search of a city%26rdquo; %26ndash; any visit here is essentially a trip to
the %26rsquo;burbs. Universal Studios is in North Hollywood, the Getty Center is in
Brentwood and the Huntington Library is way out in San Marino. The best
hotels are in Beverly Hills, the best bars are in West Hollywood and the
beach is over in Santa Monica.

And that%26rsquo;s the way it%26rsquo;s been since the automobile and the freeway allowed
Angelenos to commute, with billionaire building contractors such as Eli
Broad selling suburban living as the quintessential architectural expression
of the American dream. The downside was that downtown became a desert, a
nightmare on Main Street, abandoned after dark to the rats and the gangs.

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