Artist Rachel Harris Debuts at New DTLA Digs Brent L. Smith
L.A. is not known as an artists’ haven, but there’s no doubt it has its virtuosos and mavens burrowed unseen in its gritty boulevards; dwarfed—like the fashion, literary, and garage rock scenes—by Hollywood’s glaring business of cinema. Take note of native Angeleno Rachel Harris, 23, whose first solo art show at the newly-erected Rhabbitat gallery in downtown was as impressive as most artists can only dream. The venue, which sits meek near the intersection of the 101 and 110, was refurbished and constructed by owner Michael Reddin over the last four years. It used to be a machine shop back in the day, and at one point it was even a clandestine headquarters and storage house of medical files for prostitutes (needless to say, there was a lot of restoration to be done). Reddin’s labor speaks for itself, though, as it seems the now neomodern space has always been Rhabbitat—seedy historicity expunged. Rachel Harris’ exhibition was met with some serious buyers during its preview show, selling nearly a dozen of her large-scale, abstract pieces, made from various construction material. The support and enthusiasm for Harris’ work was huge. Unif was in the house, including boyfriend and photographer Derek Perlman (aka Fucktard) who tended the makeshift bar. The place was packed with an air of hippie goth and metalheads with plenty of biker jackets, surfer hair, and occult overtones—juxtaposed by the hip hop hits spun by Shelby Sells. Juxtaposition, in fact, was everywhere.
Let’s start with the surface. Harris’ looks are starlet worthy—piercing blue eyes and dark Delevingne brows—but like her work, she totes an aesthetic that’s all her own. She’s modest, even shy, and like her paintings, her reserve reflects something deeper than mere beauty. “Most of these pieces came out of frustration,” she explained to me. “It’s more a feeling, it’s all about balance. The only way I know it’s done…is when I know it’s done. I could work on something for hours. Some I worked on so many times they don’t even look remotely like what they did when I started.” Something lurks beneath the striking surface of her textured work, reaching at us from the second dimension, reminding us that the beautiful never comes without its opposite. If we want beauty and light, we must also accept the murky and aphotic. The color palette and titles of the pieces (written on strips of celluloid in white ink) were inspired by Norwegian Black Metal and movements of that time. The blend of earth tones radiates a striking, achromatic gloom offset by glimpses of red, blue, and yellow hues. Like nature, there’s beauty in the chaos—an opposing accord of ominousness and awe. The organic (tree bark-like textures) collides with the industrial (chain-link mesh patterns) stamped with names like Electric Frost, Forced Motion, Rusted, Silent Wave, White Devil, and Wicce. Or, I wondered, is the industrial mimicking the natural, reflecting an L.A. milieu as dying, mechanized desert? Lynch’s Eraserhead came to mind. The dark against light binary pervades her work, as do circles that she described, very fleetingly (she hates talking about her art) as “representative for soul.” Staring at the orbs staring back, they hinted the tense, dichotomous possibilities of openness and closure.
It wasn’t long before the booze cart was swamped as the space became more crowded, and the art began bleeding into the partyheads and misfits who kept pouring in, as if the paintings jumped off the canvas, personified as restless grooving kids, iconoclasts, poètes maudits with insatiable lusts for cheap beer and choice whiskey. Living in the negative space. Best dressed went to a wandering, freewheeling toddler in a white polka dot dress. The back smoking patio, enclosed by walls, was complete with a garden and permeated with laughter and spliff smoke. We all chatted openly and kicked around loose rocks and enjoyed the cool cloudy night visible enough for the waxing crescent moon to make an appearance. The downtown skyline seemed so close you could touch it. People were all smiles and good vibes—chill, accepting, and diverse, even to the amazement of some who attended. “Surprising for L.A.,” I overheard someone say. “You’re probably hanging out at the wrong spots,” I responded. “I am. I totally am.” The good tunes kept coming. The art was moving. The communion was palpable. True kinship in a city of disconnection.
Photos: @fucktard666 + @anthonywilliams
Follow Rachel Harris @fiftyoverfive