Patrick Martinez: Artist Guest Lecture
Courtesy of the artist.
Cost: Free
Patrick Martinez maintains a diverse practice that includes mixed media landscape paintings, neon sign pieces, cake paintings, and his Pee Chee series of appropriative works. The landscape paintings are abstractions composed of Los Angeles surface content; e.g. distressed stucco, spray paint, window security bars, vinyl signage, ceramic tile, neon sign elements, and other recognizable materials.
is a column that revisits once-popular companies and brands that have seemingly disappeared.
Before the bullet journal, the pricey Japanese planner Hobonichi Techo, and the pocket-sized, collector-friendly Field Notes, many of todayâs self-defined superorganizers had a Trapper Keeper.
You might remember the three-ring, color-coded, Velcroed school binder, whose ubiquity in the 1980s and â90s makes it a byword for nostalgia. For a whole generation, it was our first information organization system, a childâs garden of productivity.
The Trapper Keeper was itself well planned, the work of market research by a Harvard MBA working at the paper industry titan Mead. It quickly filled the vacuum heâd identified, and its name became synonymous with its category; the company told
Frank Dunnigan, WNP member and columnist. -
A few months ago, we looked at some long-gone neighborhood businesses whose owners lived among us. Today we look at even more favorite places, including some owned by people or corporations from beyond the Avenues.
Adeline Bake Shop A West Portal fixture (plus downtown locations) for fifty years. Owned by the Lembo family, living nearby on Wawona Street, Adeline had the best Danish pastry in the neighborhood, but their last shop closed in the late 1990s.
Bino s Northwest corner of 32nd Avenue and Noriega Street: Classic tablecloth-style “dinner house” restaurant, operated 1951-1981 by 30th Avenue residents Anita Bino and her husband Louis (formerly of Grison’s).
PETERSEN
Hunting and Woody Woodpecker pecking were the order of the day at Elmer Fudd High School as 30 students, mostly girls, tapped away at manual Underwood typewriters.
It was second period. Rain drummed on a
steel-gray December
Forty words per minute was a distant dream for my typing class.
Our teacher, Mr. Butts, interrupted my reverie. He was scratching away on a ukulele, ordering us to keep the beat as he played âSplish Splashâ and âYakety Yak.â
I had just come from first period, welding class. Sparks had showered down the back of my neck and tried to convince me to seek a less painful way to make a living.