In the fall of 1992 I once again found myself at a loss as to what to do with my life. It had been a almost two years since I gave up pursuing a career in law enforcement; I was losing interest in graduate school, and my brief stint as a radical labor organizer was coming to an unceremonious end.
Clearly my life didn’t have a theme that was driving me forward to some great meeting with Destiny. Nor was I satisfied to simply make a living, pay my bills, and work at being a productive member of society, while making the big questions such as “What is the purpose of my life?” a part-time pursuit, like most functional adults do.
I also had no interest in making a family, nor did I have a “significant other” who might steer me in that direction. I had nothing and nobody to nudge me in any particular direction. To be honest, however, there was almost certainly a significant chunk of my character that wouldn’t take direction from anyone if it were offered. I was going to find my own way, dammit, and when I do, I will know it’s mine.
So in the latter half of 1992 I turned to that great refuge of misfits since the beginning of time, “The Arts.”
At the time I was living in the northern San Fernando Valley, near California State University, Northridge, from which I had graduated in 1988 and where I was giving a go at graduate school, studying Speech Communication on the recommendation of a friend-of-a-friend.
For those who are unfamiliar with L.A.’s physical and cultural geography, “the hill” refers to the Hollywood Hills, which divides metropolitan Los Angeles from the San Fernando Valley. On the southern, metro side of the hill are the world famous communities of Bel-Air and Beverly Hills. On the Valley side are less famous cousins like Encino and Sherman Oaks. The iconic Hollywood sign faces south, over Hollywood proper, and its ugly prop backside faces North Hollywood in the Valley.
The thing you have to understand about the San Fernando Valley is that, despite the fact that it is a part of Los Angeles, it is a suburban cultural wasteland. When I looked around me, I couldn’t find “Art.” The San Fernando Valley doesn’t inspire artists. At best, artists are inspired to create parodies of the San Fernando Valley and its vacuous, materialistic, desperate, terrified sense of value and values. Artists love to hate the Valley.
Being naive and inexperienced, I didn’t think the Valley was getting a fair shake. I thought there must be art and artists in the Valley, and they were simply being overlooked by the elitist hipsters over the hill. I came up with the idea that what the Valley needed was a publication to champion art and artists of the Valley and the fact that such a publication didn’t exist was evidence that such a publication was needed. It didn’t really occur to me that the opposite was more likely the truth — that the fact that such a publication didn’t exist was evidence that it wasn’t needed. But I was naive and in need of a mission, and perfectly capable of making my own logic to meet my needs.
So with logic and letterhead in hand, I set out in search of Art in the Valley. What I found was a small community of people who were equally deluded or inspired as I, and together we helped create the NoHo Arts District.