La belle et la bête

Dogs lead a charmed life here in Paris. Notre chiens are among our most exalted citoyens. They are treated with greater respect and trusted far more than our politicians and our priests. We welcome them into our restaurants, our taxi cabs,all our parks and even some of our museums. They are not appendages to our lives but an integral part of our national identity.

Not so with my good friend David Schoffman and his Boston Terrier in Los Angeles. In California it's children who are treated like pets. They raise them like poodles preparing them for the ultimate dog show which they call the SAT's (pronounced ess-ay-Tees. Unlike our Baccalaureate, these SAT's are a gâteau wrapped in a ribbon with a fresh appetizing truffle on top.

That is to say they are extremely easy and reflect nothing of a child's intelligence other than their talent in taking a silly test.

Dogs on the other hand are treated like adorable lepers, restricted from intimate contact with humans and all other life forms. Leash laws are strictly enforced and if you don't pick up your dog's caca within 3 seconds of its descent you will enjoy the severe approbation of your neighbors and perhaps a visitation from the local constabulary.

Such is life in the laid-back anything goes West Coast of Les États-Unis. 

There are other anomalies within this alleged shangra-la. I'm told that among the artists in Los Angeles the most valued (and potentially monetizable) quality is silent obedience. A top down critical structure is in place where collectors curate shows and build museums and the creative community ignores whatever conflict of interest that relationship may imply.

This doesn't seem to bother my well-heeled colleague David. Ever since he began to wager consistently at le piste de course he has managed to remain independent of the creative/industrial complex. He's a capable gambler, neither charmed nor cursed but he has developed a reliable system by which he can be assured a steady and substantial income.

Compared to Paris, the L.A. art scene is a place where the tail wags the dog. The inevitable question therefore arises:

If Schoffman can stand aloof as he tracks to the track to earn his daily tonic, why does his work still look so damn predictable?