Standing in front of the new bookstore at the T.C. while collector Frederick Weisman shops

The “First Show” closed in February of 1984, to be followed by an installation by Michael Heizer and a small show by Robert Therrien.  A blockbuster conceived by Pontus Hultén, “Automobile and Culture,” ran for six months beginning in July, entertaining and sometimes perplexing crowds of visitors to the Summer Olympics. My duties shifted once more, as a new bookstore had opened in the front of the TC and I became the manager. We did very well selling “Automobile and Culture” t-shirts with the ignition of a ‘56 Ford silk-screened on to them but could hardly give away the fancy auto posters designed by Ivan Chermayeff.

One thing I often remember Richard Koshalek saying was that MOCA was meant to “extend itself out into the street." This was literally true during the “Automobile and Culture” when exotic cars would be parked under the TC’s steel canopy for weekend “Street Shows.” The weekends brought impressive attendance figures, sometimes over 2,500 visitors, but I have to wonder if they came to see the  Lamborghini Countach more than they came to see the art. I thought that the most impressive fusion of art and the auto was Rachel Rosenthal’s mesmerizing “KabbaLAmobile.” On a podium rising from the downtown Department of Water and Power parking lot, Rosenthal chanted amplified 12th century Kabbalistic poetry while a seven car precision driver team, known for their work on James Bond films, traced patterns around her with eerie symmetry. The sounds of the performance -- Rosenthal’s incantations, along with the racing motors and squealing tires – were like the sounds I heard in the alley at night, refined into culture and transformed into a prayer.  

Rachel Rosenthal dressed for KabbaLAmobile - Photo by Basia Kenton

It was during this period that I had my first one-person painting exhibition at Newspace Gallery in Los Angeles. My paintings, which featured traditional subject matter charged by heavy brushwork had nothing to say about where I lived. Kitty Morgan, who reviewed my show for ArtWeek interviewed me in my studio, and then brought up the following question in her review:

 “…how can a contemporary artist living in downtown Los Angeles, who each morning picks his way through empty Night Train bottles on his way to MOCA, paint lovely pictures?”

It was a good question. The painting that appeared on the invitation to my show did in fact feature empty wine bottles, but they had once held Chardonnay and Merlot bought at Trader Joe's in Pasadena, not Night Train. I had tried painting downtown, but the results weren't strong. The one "Los Angeles" painting that I still have a photo of is chaotic and cartoony.

John Seed "Downtown Los Angeles," Oil on Canvas, 1984

 Increasingly, the schizoid situation of being around both poverty and privelige every day began to wear me down. I rarely brought friends to my loft: it made them too nervous. When art dealers Blair Archambault and Mark Moore dropped by my loft they barely glanced at my paintings. Blair was looking out my windows the entire time, making sure that his Mercedes parked across the street wasn’t being broken into. Mostly, I made the effort to disconnect from downtown in my life and my art, but sometimes this was difficult to do. My birdhouse neighbor, Michael Tolleson, was an architect who had transformed his loft next door into a gleaming showcase. He and his girlfriend, Jan Rowton, introduced me to Pioneertown, a high desert town 2 hours from downtown, and I remember loving the quiet and solitude.

One morning, on my way to work, I had an experience so powerful, that I still can’t entirely deal with it. Walking along Los Angeles Street, I saw a blur falling from a second story window maybe forty feet away from me. It was a baby. In a rush of adrenaline I averted my eyes and heard a sickening thud on the sidewalk. The street was crowded and as I tried to keep from vomiting I remember thinking how glazed everyone looked. The people on the street were barely reacting. A cop pulled up, the crowd grew larger, and I asked myself if I had really seen what I thought I saw.  To this day I still can’t call up the details in my mind, but I know what I saw.

In the spring of 1985 Marc O’Carroll, a sculptor who worked on  the installation crew, told me that I could lease an upstairs apartment in a small industrial building that he owned at 37th and Main. The neighborhood was an improvement, although the backyard fence did have razor wire around the top. It was great to have a full kitchen and my own bathroom, and the backyard made it possible to have a dog. I named my mixed-breed puppy “Turrell” after James Turrell who would have a memorable exhibition at MOCA in the Fall of 1985. I would walk my dog over to a shopping center near the USC campus, and pick up an ice cream cone at 31 Flavors. It was still downtown, but I was now 30 blocks from Skid Row.