art

Flat fields of poppies and ox-eye daisies stretch out to a wide horizon. There are butterflies, vetches, salad burnet. Skylarks sing overhead and a cuckoo calls from the trees near the river. Legend has it that the poet Lord Byron swam here as a Cambridge undergraduate and, 20 years later, Charles Darwin surveyed its beetles. Heading through flowering meadows towards a nature reserve known as Byron’s Pool, I’ve walked a mile from the new £250m Cambridge South station.

Opening to passengers on 28 June, Cambridge South will be the first Great British Railways-branded station. The towering Biomedical Campus next door is Europe’s biggest medical research facility, with about 40,000 visitors a day. The station itself, with its 1,000 cycle-parking spaces, living roof and solar panels, feels like a model for sustainable transport.

Like other scenic medieval cities, Cambridge itself suffers from congestion. Its cobbled alleys are crowded with tourists, its roads gridlocked with cars. But you can reach some wild and peaceful corners without adding to the traffic. There are layers of human and natural history, a newly devised art trail, bat safaris by punt and a peaceful botanic garden near the busy central station.

Cambridge has been my nearest city for the last 15 years. With lots of buses and now three stations, it’s easy to get around without a car. I’ve spent countless days exploring, and published guides to the long-distance Harcamlow Way, a 140-mile (227km) figure-of-eight walking route that loops between Cambridge and Harlow. The best rural bus routes include the busway from Cambridge North station (opened in 2017) to Fen Drayton lakes and bus 1 to Fulbourn for orchid-rich fens and chalk-flowered Saxon Fleam Dyke.

Walking and cycle paths head out in all directions from the new station at Cambridge South, and I am following one of these to Trumpington, stopping for bao buns and peach oolong tea at the Dao cafe. In the village church, I find one of England’s oldest brass monuments. Sir Roger de Trumpington, who died in 1289, is lying in prayer and full chain mail, with a little lion-clawed dog biting his broadsword. Just south of the church, archaeologists unearthed the grave of a young Anglo-Saxon woman, with a delicate gold-and-garnet cross on her chest.

Heading north through Grantchester Meadows, I have a dip in the reedy River Cam, keeping my head above the willow-shaded water. Sun glints off ripples as I swim past waterlilies, moorhens and straggling blue forget-me-nots. Walking on towards the city through Paradise nature reserve, there are birds everywhere: a cetti’s warbler sings loudly from a reedbed and a song thrush from a waterside alder. A mother duck quacks warnings from a nest-topped tree stump as ducklings paddle underneath.

Twenty minutes further on, Cambridge University Botanic Garden (adults from £8.60, children free) is at its fragrant best. Bees are buzzing through sage, lemon balm and lavender in the scented garden; roses sprawl above foxgloves and cranesbill. There are benches in the cow parsley under walnut and cherry trees, where I sit and listen to blackcaps and chiffchaffs. I detour five minutes up the road to buy a slice of apricot tart from Maison Clement bakery and eat it on the train home.

In the last decade or so, several hotels have (re)opened near the central station, from the right-next-door Ibis (doubles from about £80) to the fancy University Arms (from about £175), where Parker’s Tavern brasserie can pack you a gourmet picnic hamper (£45pp) with 24 hours’ notice. Nearby, one of the city’s newest offerings, Hobson by Adina, has studios from about £125.

The next day, I catch bus 13 three stops to the iron age hill fort at Wandlebury, stroll round its wooded ramparts and past flax-blue meadows, sweet with wild marjoram. The grassy track of an old Roman road runs through shady beeches and pink dog roses.

Heading back into the city, I time-travel to Victorian Cambridge, when designers such as William Morris commissioned master painter FR Leach to decorate halls and churches. I thought I’d visited nearly all the city’s 30-odd museums and galleries, but until recently I hadn’t even heard of David Parr House, which is 10 minutes’ stroll from the main station. Parr was a working-class artist, employed by Leach to paint flowers, fruit, foliage and ornate text for Arts and Crafts designers across the country. By 1886, he had saved enough to buy a terrace house on Gwydir Street, which he decorated in the style of the interiors he worked on every day. A visit to the cosy house (from £15) reveals decades of hand-painted decoration and illuminates the city’s social history.

The house is just off Mill Road, now one of Cambridge’s foodie meccas, lined with indie eateries serving noodles, souvlaki, bibimbap, bamya stew or exceptional plant-based tasting menus. Once a rough track to a windmill, Mill Road expanded with the railway into closely packed terraces. Parr’s house stands opposite an old redbrick brewery, now a stylish coffee shop. The house recently produced a new FR Leach walking map, which takes me to All Saints’ church on Jesus Lane, with its red, gold and green decor, and the Michaelhouse Cafe in a converted church, where Leach paintings can even be found in the loo. Down the road, Great St Mary’s has a 360-degree view from the tower (adults £7.50).

After a cone of tangy blackcurrant ice-cream at Jack’s Gelato, I wander down the road to the Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology (free) to see the jewelled Trumpington cross of that young Anglo-Saxon woman, alongside a gallery of Cambridge finds, from stone-age axes to eel-catching prongs. Over the road in the Museum of Zoology (also free), I pass through sea stars and rock pythons to find Darwin’s box of neatly labelled beetles.

As the museum closes, it’s time for supper at Jordanian Little Petra: crisp-and-creamy aubergine fatteh, topped with a jewel-like layer of nuts, parsley and pomegranate seeds, and Bedouin tea, brewed with fresh mint and sage. Finally, heading to the river, swifts are whirling and screaming as the sun sinks behind the colleges.

Iain Webb, community conservation officer at the local wildlife trust, dreamed up the bat safari 15 years ago and regularly guides punts full of nature-lovers along the Cam towards Grantchester on summer evenings (£71 for two). “We need nature more than nature needs us,” says Webb. Despite all the pressures on the Cambridgeshire countryside, it’s a rich, idyllic scene.

A kingfisher flashes past, herons fly overhead with huge, slow wingbeats, and the banks are gold with carpets of buttercups. Daubenton’s bats skim low over the water, while pipistrelles swoop between dark willow branches, flickering in and out of visibility, like creatures from some parallel dimension. A few stars are coming out, the darkling air is full of birdsong, and tawny owlets are calling from a nest among the trees.

Transport was provided by Greater Anglia. Find more info at Visit Cambridge

Barry Manilow has told the story behind his first big hit so many times that I had no intention of bringing up the half-century-old “Mandy” when I sat down with the singer on a recent afternoon at his home in Palm Springs. Among the questions I did ask was how he ended up recording the song that opens his new album, and the answer — as it’s so often been throughout Manilow’s career, beginning with that 1975 chart-topper — was Clive Davis.

“It was all Clive,” Manilow said of “Once Before I Go,” the Peter Allen/Dean Pitchford number that leads off his just-released “What a Time” LP. Davis, the star-making record executive with the so-called golden ears, had been urging him to record the song for years, Manilow told me, which inevitably brought him back to the well-rehearsed tale of “Mandy” — to Davis’ decision that Manilow’s debut for his Arista label lacked a breakout smash and to his suggestion that the singer cut a version of a modest hit called “Brandy” by Scott English.

“So I went in the studio and did it trying to sound like that guy,” Manilow recalled, stomping his foot to approximate a lumbering rock beat. “Clive came in and said, ‘That’s terrible.’ I said, ‘I know it’s terrible.’ But in order to learn the song, I’d slowed it down and changed the key — I found the love song hiding in ‘Brandy,’” Manilow continued. (He also changed the title to avoid any confusion with Looking Glass’ “Brandy,” which had recently reached No. 1.) Manilow played the tune in his more romantic style for the exec. “I’ll never forget it — Clive said, ‘Just do that.’ And that was the record.” He laughed.

“He’s a kind of a genius.”

Davis, who died Monday at age 94, didn’t sing or play an instrument. “I knew nothing about music,” he once said, looking back at his entry into the record business. Yet his instincts made him one of the surest spotters and nurturers of talent in pop history, with a long — and varied — line of success stories that included Manilow, Janis Joplin, Neil Diamond, Lou Reed, Patti Smith, Whitney Houston, Aretha Franklin, Dionne Warwick, Alicia Keys, Jennifer Hudson and Maroon 5, among many others. He even helped the Grateful Dead score a Top 10 single with “Touch of Grey” in 1987.

Davis, who got his start in Columbia Records’ legal department, could identify original voices and seemed to intuit which songs were likely to become hits. Sometimes the hits came from the voices themselves, as in the case of Bruce Springsteen, whom Davis cajoled into writing “Blinded by the Light” for his Columbia debut; sometimes the exec match-made performers and composers, as in the case of “Mandy” or “Freeway of Love,” a zippy Narada Michael Walden jam that launched Franklin’s comeback in the mid-1980s.

A natty dresser with a cosmopolitan air, Davis founded Arista in 1974 after he was fired from Columbia (where he’d ascended to the presidency) amid an embezzlement scandal of which he was later cleared. In 2000, he was ousted from Arista in a corporate shakeup — just months after the label won eight Grammy Awards with Carlos Santana’s 15-times-platinum “Supernatural” LP — then launched a new label, J Records, which scored an immediate blockbuster with Keys’ “Songs in A Minor.”

Clive Davis at the Beverly Hills Hotel in 2020.

(Christina House / Los Angeles Times)

Wherever he worked, Davis’ goal was shepherding hits that spanned formats and generations; he delighted in projects like “Smooth,” the inescapable Santana single pairing the rock guitarist and Rob Thomas of Matchbox Twenty, and a series of Great American Songbook albums by the once-scruffy Rod Stewart. He might also have been the music industry’s biggest believer in ballads, at least among suits: Between 1985 and 1992, Houston alone released almost a dozen of music’s all-timers, including “Saving All My Love for You,” “Didn’t We Almost Have It All” and — perhaps the greatest pop ballad ever recorded — her take on Dolly Parton’s “I Will Always Love You.” (It wasn’t a huge hit, but listen to Houston and Jermaine Jackson’s pedal-steel-drenched “Nobody Loves Me Like You Do,” from Houston’s debut, for an early instance of that crossover ambition.)

One of relatively few nonperformers inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, Davis brought his flair for variety to the party he threw at the Beverly Hilton every year on the night before the Grammys — a famously hot ticket that drew A-list celebs from the worlds of music and Hollywood as well as business and politics. You could always count on the exec to have persuaded some number of the year’s splashiest new acts to perform; this year’s bash, in January, had Sombr, Olivia Dean and the women of “KPop Demon Hunters.” But my favorite part of the show was always seeing which veteran Davis had tapped to mix it up with the youngsters — Diamond or Manilow, for instance, or Johnny Mathis, who absolutely killed in 2015.

Davis horrified many in 2012 when he opted to proceed with his party just hours after Houston was found dead in a hotel room at the Beverly Hilton. In the years after the singer’s death, Davis drew criticism for taking too much credit for Houston’s artistic achievements; to some, he became a symbol of the music industry’s efforts to tone down Houston’s Blackness in order to reach white audiences. Five years ago, I asked Warwick, who was Houston’s cousin, whether she’d taken on any kind of consulting role on “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” the 2022 Whitney biopic that Davis produced.

Bobby Brown, from left, Whitney Houston and Clive Davis in New York in 1998.

(Stuart Ramson / AP)

“Not one thing,” she told me. “I want them to let Whitney rest in peace. Leave her alone. Ten years [since she died] — it’s time to let her sleep.” (In a statement Monday, Warwick called Davis her “dear friend” and said she “can think of no other record man that seemed to have that magical ability to know a hit when he heard a song.”)

I spoke with Davis many times over the years and was always struck by his enthusiasm about music and about his recall of events from decades ago. In 2017, I interviewed the exec alongside Mathis and Kenneth “Babyface” Edmonds about a record the three made together that had Mathis singing newish pop songs like Adele’s “Hello” and Pharrell Williams’ “Happy” — a concept Manilow told me in March he and Davis had been talking about replicating. After my story ran, Davis emailed me and said he’d enjoyed the piece, which had a couple of lines about Davis’ tendency to go overboard hyping his projects.

“Yes, a few of your bites required a personal Band-Aid,” he wrote, “but I did appreciate your perspective of the Mathis album’s quality.”

He knew the music was good; Clive Davis always knew when the music was good.

The Westside subway extension has long been L.A’s most stubborn urban fantasy: an infrastructural mirage chugging toward the sea, and then, with less sex appeal, Westwood. Stalled since the ‘80s, the first western leap of the elusive project is now real. And in the month or so since the Metro D Line pushed beyond Wilshire/Western to three new stations — Wilshire/La Brea, Wilshire/Fairfax, and Wilshire/La Cienega — multiple rides have made the benefits, and shortcomings, clear.

Suddenly the city feels different. Not transformed, exactly. But more connected. The fracturing grip of the city’s incomprehensible expanses, clogged arteries, and stagnant governance — all intimidating barriers to healthy civic life — feels a little looser. The dense belt tying the city together more complete, a critical mass of movement, still expanding, where there used to be a vestigial nub.

The stations, too, feel more connected, with art, architecture and infrastructure blending seamlessly into a cohesive experience, a tribute to Metro’s sharpened design approach and its ever-evolving commitment to public art. But above ground, it’s a tale of two (transit) cities. Outdoor plazas lack the kind of textured civic presence that’s been created below. Metro, which has become the most dominant regional force for urban transformation, is still less ambitious once it leaves the station box.

Passengers wait to board the first train to arrive at the Metro D Line at the Wilshire/Fairfax station in Los Angeles in early May.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

Before descending into the new stations, you might want to take a moment to appreciate that they exist at all, surviving, among other trials, a massive methane explosion, federal and local bans, major delays, and a battalion of lawsuits. Then notice how their myriad components work together. Art, for instance, is not simply attached to walls, but forms them, its patterns tracing your descent through space. Lighting doesn’t just illuminate surfaces, but becomes an artful complement to what’s around it. Escalators are not just conveyances, but reflective surfaces forming a utilitarian palette for art and light. The line between each piece becomes blurred, creating a sense that all is working together — a layered place that is intuitively easy to use.

This fluent incorporation of art builds on the long-running L.A. Metro Art program (formerly Metro Art in Transit), which since the early ‘80s has commissioned and installed over 200 artworks across the sprawling system, from mosaics and photography to multi-story murals. In fact, it’s quietly hummed along as one of the most successful public art programs in the country.

Artist Fran Siegel’s artwork at the Wilshire/La Brea Metro station is part of one of the most successful public art programs in the country.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

In many of its earlier iterations, art and architecture were conceived together to create strange, jaw-dropping, one-of-a kind spaces, like Peter Millar and Ellerbe Becket’s Santa Monica/Vermont station. Opened in 1999, this Red line stop featured among other things, a goliath stainless steel wing canopy topping a 42-foot-tall, raw concrete-clad escalator cavern, lit by massive skylights, etched with row after row of enigmatic questions.

Another personal favorite is Stephen Antonakos’ “Neons for Pershing Square,” a postmodern wonderland of suspended neon sculptures in the depths of downtown’s Pershing Square station that creates a kind of 3-D sculpture playing off the ‘80s gridded ceilings and Miami Vice white columns.

Wild creativity aside, these 20th century stations are marked by inconsistency in quality, comfort, and maintenance — and the lack of predictability can be confusing. (Wait, where do I go now?) This includes Metro’s inaugural A line, in which art-driven architecture, though fun, often feels like a quixotic gesture, unable to compete with loud, uncomfortable, concrete-dominated settings.

A man waits for a train on a platform at the Wilshire/Vermont station, which is along Metro’s B Line, formerly the Red Line.

(Brian van der Brug / Los Angeles Times)

Lines opened in the 2010s had their own issues. The Expo line (now the E line), barely 14 years old, features rather tentative wavy canopies and surface wraps and comparatively small spaces for artworks. With the new extension, Metro has found a balance between completely foregrounding art and relegating it to background. The new designs are guided by a “kit of parts,” a shared language of materials, lighting, signage, and wall systems that was developed first by local architects Johnson Fain and later by the global architectural firm Gensler, which served as the D Line’s systemwide station designer.

Yes, I miss the epic scale and immersive feeling of those older stations. But the tradeoff is a cleaner, brighter, more legible and human-scaled version, lending long-needed coherence to both the stations themselves and the system at large. And by the way, the art is still fantastic.

At the descending entryway of Wilshire/La Brea, for instance, the cosmic, angled lines of Eamon Ore-Giron’s “Infinite Landscape: Los Angeles Para Siempre,” which are embedded into porcelain enamel, channel not only the geometric forms of Wilshire’s Art Deco Buildings, but the visceral one-point perspective of a train speeding into a tunnel, and even the angled geometries of adjacent escalators.

Artist Eamon Ore-Giron’s “Infinite Landscape: Los Angeles Para Siempre,” at the Wilshire/La Brea Metro station.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Heading down allows you to ponder its shifting mysteries. Circular abstractions might suggest headlights zooming along Wilshire, or perhaps a train’s fast-approaching lights? Its artfulness expands outward. Frosted glass panels wrapping the entry portal are clad with a similarly mystical language, accentuated by neon strips of light, with the lightweight canopy above reflecting the colorful lines. Art and architecture are working together, each feeding off the other.

A particularly fertile locale for drama at each station are the wide bands of art topping the tunnels themselves: beacon-like destinations for your eyes, not to mention invitations to occupy more of the platform. In the same station, Mark Dean Veca’s “Miracle of La Brea” takes its cues from the curvy ornament and stepped motifs of the nearby Wilshire Tower’s Art Deco façade. Look closer, and those crisp patterns dissolve into swirling, viscous forms that evoke the La Brea Tar Pits, flowing oil, and even barley-shaped references to the area’s agricultural past. The mural’s repeating forms also mirror the station’s rigorous order, its clean, syncopated forms and linear perspectives.

Another hallmark of the new stations is how they subtly make infrastructure itself into art. Celebrating — whether intentionally or not — the improbable engineering feat of carving a subway under one of the most dense, congested, and geologically and politically complicated parts of Los Angeles. Jogging white lines along concourse floors, meant as tactical guides for the vision impaired, rhythmically and playfully lead you forward. Glinting stainless steel railings, gridded perforated metal ceilings, and thin bands of suspended light bouncing off polished terrazzo floors, pull you forward on stairs and platforms, tracing the speed and linear movement of trains. Corduroy concrete walls, etched with endless vertical grooves, give tunnels a tightly rhythmic texture while still exposing their hefty bones.

The Wilshire/La Brea Metro station is part of the D Line extension and features evenly lit spaces, with porous surfaces and long sight lines to improve navigation and safety. Glass fare gate doors organize entry without turning the stations into fortresses.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

The quality of surfaces and experiences has been upgraded too. Unlike most older Metro stations, where low light and heavy surfaces can feel tired and oppressive, spaces are more evenly lit, with porous surfaces and long sight lines to improve navigation and safety. Glass fare gate doors organize entry without turning the stations into fortresses. Glass elevators and large cuts between levels create a sense of connected, kinetic openness.

Sometimes this palette feels too uniform and predictable. The heroic scale and quirkiness of older stations can be more exciting; more unique to their place. A surprise or two never hurt anyone. But overall it’s a good balance of unity, utility and identity, allowing the art to sing, but as part of a chorus, not a soloist.

The tune, however, shifts dramatically above ground. Station plazas wrap handsome modern architecture—clean, controlled, well-detailed portals of beveled stainless steel, frosted glass, and art peeking above entryways and on peripheral panels. But the hard plazas themselves are barren; lacking enough shade, art, greenery and invitation. Benches, where they exist, are tiny and defensive.

Pedestrians walk past the Metro D Line at Wilshire and LaBrea, which features a barren plaza lacking the beauty and design of the art-filled stations below.

(Kayla Bartkowski / Los Angeles Times)

These places seem scared to let people linger — clearly trying to avoid some of the city’s intransigent challenges, like homeless encampments, disorder, maintenance burdens, and controversy. This is understandable, but in avoiding those risks, the areas also avoid the purpose of public space: to create a place for everyone, not just a zone for people passing through.

Yet life appears anyway. At Wilshire/Fairfax, a dance class from a nearby studio recently gathered in a thin sliver of shade around the station. It was beautiful, and improvised, but also indicative of the underlying problem. Civic life was there, but the space had failed to make enough room for it. Imagine if that plaza had real shade, generous seating, creative sculpture, plantings, water, and edges that encouraged people to stay.

Another unresolved question is service. On multiple visits trains were not crowded. They also didn’t come often enough. Ten or 12 minutes of stagnant wait time does not feel like freedom if you are trying to lure Angelenos out of cars.

The last-mile problem doesn’t help. There is no easy parking near stations for those who don’t live close, no seamless transfer or final step. The bikes that Metro provides still have share docks, meaning you’ll need to find another dock on the far end (good luck). This remains, as it should, a system for people who already need transit. But for an institution struggling to add ridership, you wonder if it can become a system for people who have choices.

The Wilshire/La Cienega Metro station is part of L.A.’s new D Line extension. The outdoor plazas are not conducive to community or gatherings.

(Carlin Stiehl / For The Times)

Still, we should not understate what has happened. Los Angeles finally has subway stops that serve some of its densest, most public destinations, and Metro is still growing. The D Line makes the Miracle Mile feel less like a traffic corridor and more like a metropolitan spine. It suggests a Los Angeles in which neighborhoods, jobs, cultural destinations, and sidewalks begin to connect physically and with surprising immediacy. (Twenty minutes from LACMA to downtown feels like light speed!) It makes the city feel more like a city.

It also reveals the imbalance of power and imagination in Los Angeles. Metro, for all its flaws, has the ability to marshal money, planning, engineering and art at a scale the city itself generally cannot. All the more reason to branch more boldly beyond its tracks and stations.

The question remains: Can the agency coordinate with government, developers, cultural institutions, and neighborhoods to make these stations into places rather than portals?

The new stops prove that Los Angeles can design infrastructure artfully below ground. Above ground, however, it too often retreats into caution. The subway has arrived. The city around it still has to catch up.

Instead of the usual phalanx of cars and buses, Saturday evening traffic on Wilshire Boulevard was replaced by massive balloons, mobile sculptures, gaggles of gallerists and an endless array of elaborate costumes.

The first-ever Los Angeles Art Parade, a collaboration between the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) and famed gallerist Jeffrey Deitch, transformed the stretch of Wilshire known as Museum Row into a human-powered exhibition of the city’s dynamic art scene.

About 146 groups, made up of more than 1,400 participants, marched in the parade, with projects ranging from larger-than-life marionette dolls to squads of children in do-it-yourself costumes to mobile re-creations of LACMA’s most iconic art pieces.

The parade followed an all-day block party thrown by LACMA as part of its Grand Opening Weekend, celebrating the new David Geffen Galleries and the completion of the 20-year-long, $724-million campus construction project. Together, the block party and art parade attracted an estimated 60,000 attendees, who swarmed the galleries, danced to explosive DJ sets, and lined the streets to watch the eclectic procession of artists.

People dance during Flying Lotus’ DJ set at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) in Los Angeles.

(Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

According to LACMA Director and Chief Executive Michael Govan, the event was a long time coming and “just the beginning” of how his team plans to use the campus space, which he previously called the city’s “living room.”

“We’re not gonna close Wilshire every weekend, but it’s an example of what we can do,” Govan said. “It’s really exciting to see the building work.”

Following a crowd-drawing DJ set from electronic low-fi hip-hop artist Flying Lotus, Govan introduced L.A. County District 2 Supervisor Holly J. Mitchell. She said the event made her “proud to represent LACMA” and to be a Metro board member, referencing the recently-opened Metro D-line extension, which dropped attendees off a quick stroll from LACMA’s entrance.

“Just seeing you all at this amazing public facility does my heart good,” she said. “This is your local government at work.”

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1. Silhouettes of people watching the parade. 2. A man and woman wearing tulle over them walk in the parade. 3. The crowd at the Los Angeles County Museum of History, Science, and Art (LACMA) Block Party. (Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

As the party raged on LACMA’s campus, hundreds of parade participants hurriedly prepared for their debuts in the corners of nearby streets and parking lots. One group inflated a giant disco ball, while another smeared themselves with body paint next to a line of rehearsing dancers. Elsewhere, a megaphone-wielding leader herded dozens of black cats in the style of artist Gary Baseman into some semblance of order.

Deitch originally staged the first Art Parades in New York City’s SoHo neighborhood between 2005 and 2008. While those took a more art-world-exclusive approach, Deitch said the Los Angeles version was designed with inclusion in mind. The call for parade proposals was open to “emerging and established artists and creatives of all ages and backgrounds,” according to guidelines, as long as the work was appropriate for all ages and didn’t require a motorized element.

“The New York one was much more oriented toward people in the art community. We didn’t put out this kind of open call,” Deitch explained. “This is very different in its openness and its diversity. There are some famous artists and famous choreographers, L.A. legends. But there are also mothers from the San Fernando Valley with their children. I really love that.”

Artist Jordan Rountree’s rolling woodcut-sculpture called the Devil Jack in a Box with Crocodile appeared in Saturday’s Block Party and Art Parade hosted by the Los Angeles County Museum of Art’s (LACMA).

(Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

“It’s just a very open platform, so you don’t have to have an M.F.A. to express yourself as an artist,” he added.

The procession was dizzying in its variety and scale. While many projects leaned into beauty and whimsy, others took a more overtly political approach, displaying anti-ICE messages on T-shirts and signs, sporting trans pride flags, or, in the case of performance artist Amy Kaps, wearing an unraveling U.S. constitution.

Some even referenced local causes, such as the “Boo Boo Bandage Brigade for Safe Streets,” which advocated for fixing sidewalks and increasing accessibility downtown. One particularly moving display by the Pali-Altadena Collective featured participants carrying miniature models of buildings and landmarks lost in the 2025 fires.

Chicana artist Nao Bustamante and Track 16 Gallery brought “Brown Disco” to the streets, which featured a giant gold disco ball and figures from decades of L.A. queer nightlife.

The crowd at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA) Art Parade.

(Ariana Drehsler/For The Times)

“As a brown, queer person, I think that this really brought a light into our community, and now its presence [creates] an intergenerational conversation,” said Track 16 Assistant Director Steve Galindo. “The nightlife scene is how we come out as queer people, so it’s really special to be in the parade.”

For Joie Mitchell, volunteer coordinator for the Bob Baker Marionette Theater, which recently purchased its permanent Highland Park home, the parade was an opportunity to “show up for L.A. and be involved in the art history of this city.”

“Puppetry has been part of the arts for so many years,” added Daisy Hernandez, the theater’s production manager. “It’s a way that people express themselves, just like every other art form. So that’s what we’re here to do: express ourselves through puppetry.”

Spanish painter Nieves González arrives in Los Angeles for her first U.S. solo exhibition having already experienced a taste of fame.

The 29-year-old caught the attention of the art and fashion worlds last year after being discovered on Instagram and commissioned to paint the cover of Lily Allen’s album “West End Girl.” Depicting the singer as a Baroque aristocrat clad in contemporary designer fashion, the portrait helped propel González onto an international stage.

Collectors have taken notice. The 13 paintings in “A Friendship Story,” opening Saturday at Richard Heller Gallery in Santa Monica, have already sold out, according to the gallery, with prices ranging from $4,000 to $20,000.

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Elle magazine dubbed González “Fashion’s Favorite New Artist,” while exhibitions in Rome, Paris, Belfast and Bilbao, Spain, expanded her reputation across Europe.

González developed her classic yet defiantly modern approach while studying at the University of Seville, where Spanish masters such as Diego Velázquez and Francisco de Zurbarán painted in the naturalist Baroque tradition. Drawing liberally from fashion, art history and everyday life, she often dresses the subjects of her portraits in puffer jackets — garments she wears herself during the cold winters of Granada, Spain, where she lives. The material, she said, recalls the sculptural rendering of fabric in paintings by Zurbarán and Velázquez: the folds, the volumes, the high shine.

Nieves González often dresses her subjects in puffer jackets.

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

“It works beautifully from a visual standpoint,” she said, speaking Spanish during an interview at Santa Monica’s Bergamot Station a few days before the exhibition opened. Wearing blue jeans and a pink button-down blouse, she echoed the pastel blues and pinks that appear throughout many of the works surrounding her.

“Fashion inspires me,” she said. “Just as 17th century artists drew inspiration from the fashion of their day — often creating paintings that served as catalogs of current styles — I do the same,” she said. “The goal is to not merely convey a specific message or ideology but to create a testament to a generation and the era in which we live.”

This fall, González’s painting “La Sfida” (2025) will appear in the Städel Museum’s exhibition “Mary Magdalene. Sin. Pray. Love” in Frankfurt, Germany, alongside works by Lady Gaga, Marlene Dumas and Auguste Rodin. The painting depicts Mary Magdalene with long, flowing hair, draped in a regal red garment and clutching a skull — a contemporary interpretation of one of Christianity’s most enduring figures.

“Nieves González is the youngest of these artists and, at the same time, probably the one who most closely follows in the tradition of the Old Masters,” curators Bastian Eclercy and Stefan Roller wrote in an email.

The Santa Monica exhibition marks an evolution from the paintings that established González’s reputation. Earlier works often centered on solitary women posed with the self-possession of royal portraits or religious icons. “A Friendship Story” focuses on relationships between pairs of women, exploring friendship, intimacy, support and shared experience.

For González, friendship is one of the most profound aspects of women’s lives and a subject she felt deserved greater attention in painting.

Victoria Rios, a curator who works with González, said the artist’s paintings “rewrite the narratives of the past, rewrite the history of martyrdom and place women at the center.”

“Nothing in her painting is arbitrary,” Rios said in an email. “Every formal decision is also an ethical one.”

“The horse elevates the art; symbolically, it carries connotations of elegance and nobility,” Nieves González said. “It seemed like a way to elevate the concept of friendship.”

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

González frequently turns art historical conventions on their head. In “Salir a robar caballos: Go out to steal horses,” she replaces the archetypal portrait of a gallant man on horseback with two young women dressed in puffer and vinyl jackets, posed like contemporary Amazons atop rearing horses.

“The horse elevates the art; symbolically, it carries connotations of elegance and nobility,” González said. “It seemed like a way to elevate the concept of friendship. It also has an element of play, adventure and fun, since having fun is part of the bond too.”

The artist also sees her work through a feminist lens.

“We live in a patriarchal society, and so, unfortunately, I belong to the oppressed segment of that society, and my work relates to that,” she said. “It stems from a struggle, an understanding and a process of redefining concepts that we have historically established as normal, natural and habitual.”

“I am interested in portraying us as brave and powerful, sometimes even with an air of haughtiness,” she said.

Another painting, “Something’s crossed over me and I can’t go back” (2026), captures González’s fusion of historical and contemporary references. Two women dressed in green and pink fur cradle each other’s heads, reimagining medieval depictions of cephalophores — Christian martyrs who carry their severed heads while continuing to preach or pray.

The title comes from a pivotal line in the 1991 film “Thelma & Louise,” marking the turning point for Geena Davis’ character Thelma, fully committing to her ultimately fatal adventure with Susan Sarandon’s Louise.

Nieves González, “Holding You,” 2026 (oil on canvas).

(Genaro Molina / Los Angeles Times)

González builds each painting from what she calls a “Frankenstein” — a digital composite assembled from archival photographs, found images and reference material. The painting process then takes over. A mid-project visit to the Prado Museum in Madrid, for instance, might send her back to the digital sketch to pull in a compositional element from Velázquez before returning to the canvas. “The final result often ends up being completely different from what I initially envisioned,” she said.

Heller began representing González, whom he calls an “original voice,” last year after being introduced to her work by another painter.

Staging her first U.S. solo exhibition in Los Angeles rather than New York reflects what he sees as a more relaxed environment for an emerging artist, without the glare and expectations of the New York art world.

“L.A. feels a little less constrained,” Heller said. “It feels a little more free.”

González’s portrait of Allen is currently on view at London’s National Portrait Gallery, hanging in the same room as a self-portrait by David Hockney. She said while it “has been very significant in terms of media exposure,” exhibitions and professional opportunities were already in motion before the album cover brought wider attention.

“I’ve always said that what I want to do in life is make a living from painting,” she said.

Mission accomplished.

PARIS — There’s a present-day answer to the question that was posed in verse by the French medieval poet and street brawler François Villon: “Where are the snows of yesteryear?”

They’re right here, in high summer, on Paris’ oldest bridge, the Pont Neuf, where an enormous art installation, a trompe l’oeil inflatable snow-clad mountain range, has arisen over the river Seine.

Using about 200,000 square feet of printed fabric, Paris-born street artist JR has created “La Caverne du Pont Neuf.” It’s his version of and homage to the innovative work of groundbreaking environmental artists Christo and Jeanne-Claude.

They’re the fabled duo who first wrapped the arches of this same bridge in straw-colored fabric in 1985. Over the years, they also surrounded 11 islands in Florida’s Biscayne Bay with flamingo-pink cloth, hung saffron-colored fabric “gates” in New York’s Central Park, installed a “running fence” of billowing white material across nearly 25 miles of Sonoma and Marin counties and, in 1991, planted 3,100 yellow umbrellas, blooming like 20-foot-tall poppies, through the Tejon Pass north of L.A.

I interviewed Christo in 2011, and he was eloquent about how his and his wife’s work alters perceptions of nature, and about the deliberately transient character of the art itself. JR, an acolyte of their work, told me in an email that “an ephemeral artwork forces you to come now, and usually to come with other people. The visit becomes a shared moment … and this moment becomes a memory.”

In a city celebrated for artworks that have survived for centuries, this installation was very nearly too transient. A kooky hailstorm in late May, a heat wave in June, followed by ruthlessly ripping winds, delayed the opening by days. At last, beginning one midnight, the air pumps began and the work arose like a limestone-colored soufflé. It will be open around the clock until June 28.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose. Back in 1985, Christo’s engineer on the Pont Neuf project, Ted Dougherty, pointed out that above 25 mph, “wind is not our friend.”

The piece works from two vantage points: from afar — visible from a lot of central Paris — and also from inside it, in the “cave” part. Pedestrians crossing the bridge pass through a fabricated interior, a cavern-like space printed in 3D realism and enhanced with a specially designed scent to evoke the dank, earthy aroma of humankind’s early habitations.

JR and Thomas Bangalter in “La Caverne du Pont Neuf” in Paris.

(Tara-Jay Bangalter)

JR intended it to be both. “From the start I designed two works in one. There is the silhouette — what you catch from the quais, from the bridges, from a boat on the Seine or simply walking past on your way somewhere else. That image belongs to everyone, including the people who never chose to look at art that day.”

And then, he said, “there is the inside, which is slower and more intimate, almost in the dark, hard to photograph.” That aspect is “a journey to cross the bridge, to go from darkness to light.”

When Christo and Jeanne-Claude wrapped the arches of the Pont Neuf more than 40 years ago, it took years of planning and permits to make it happen. “La Caverne du Pont Neuf” was a breeze by comparison.

JR, whose other vast outdoor works have delivered double-takes of humans’ scale and their architecture, told me that cities have come to understand “that public art brings people together and that the image travels around the world. Once Christo showed it could be done safely and beautifully, the conversation changed. It was much easier for me to have my project accepted, thanks to them. They also proved the economic positive impact to the cities they worked in. I believe there should be more large-scale, ambitious public art projects.”

It’s one thing to conceive of such a project and another altogether to make it happen — so much technology, compared to, say, mixing paints and choosing a paintbrush. But the science that “La Caverne” required “is the art, not an obstacle to it,” JR said.

“Trompe l’oeil turns adults back into children,” JR said.

(Elea Jeanne Schmitter)

All the canvas, the engineering, the meticulous assembly, the permits — “none of that is preparation for the work, it is the work. Christo taught me this. The process is visible, and even more after the storm we experienced a couple of days before opening to the public. Nature always reminds you who is in charge. When the wind tore the canvas before we opened, we took it down, re-sewed it, reinforced it,” all in full public view.

“Where I stay careful is in not letting the technology become the subject. The augmented reality by Snap’s AR Studio adds to the project, doesn’t take you away from it.”

That air should be JR’s vital collaborator — no complex and costly scaffolding for these magic mountains — is nothing new in Paris.

The first free flight of humans above the earth, on Nov. 21, 1783, sent aloft two men in a hot-air balloon crafted by the Montgolfier brothers from silk fancifully painted in blue and gold with figures of the zodiac. It wafted across Paris for about 25 minutes at about 3,000 feet. Ephemeral, yes — and unforgettable.

Artists and couturiers are fond of the whimsy of trompe l’oeil, the trick of the eye, the illusion of reality. I am a sucker for it, for fashion like that of clothing designer Elsa Schiaparelli. JR has used it often, as a massive-scale magical deception to make the Louvre Pyramid “disappear” into the old Louvre, and opening up an imaginary subterranean world below the Eiffel Tower.

“Trompe l’oeil turns adults back into children,” he told me. “You know it isn’t real, you know that ‘La Caverne du Pont-Neuf’ is not made of rock, that this is printed canvas. And yet your eye wants to believe it, and for a moment you let yourself. That gap between knowing and believing is where the play happens, and people love being inside that gap.”

What is the angriest acting performance you’ve ever seen?

Maybe it’s Joe Pesci in “Goodfellas.” (“Funny how? Do I amuse you?”) Perhaps it’s James Caan kicking the stuffing out of his ne’er-do-well brother-in-law Carlo in “The Godfather.” John Goodman enforcing the rules of bowling in “The Big Lebowski”? It’s in the conversation.

Did Ben Kingsley in “Gandhi” cross your mind? Probably not.

The 82-year-old Oscar winner thinks it should.

I’m Glenn Whipp, columnist for the Los Angeles Times and host of The Envelope newsletter. Don Logan or Mahatma Gandhi? The answer isn’t as plain as you might think.

Not long ago, I spoke with Kingsley just before an Emmy FYC event for “Wonder Man,” the enjoyable new Marvel TV series that finds him revisiting Trevor Slattery, the washed-up, drug-addled actor he first played in 2013’s “Iron Man 3.”

“Wonder Man” follows struggling actor Simon Williams (Yahya Abdul-Mateen II), trying to land a big break in Hollywood while keeping his superpowers hidden. Trevor befriends Simon. Initially he has ulterior motives, but soon becomes Simon’s mentor, turning the series into a look at the indignities that actors face while pursuing their profession.

Taking notes while watching the show’s eight episodes, I wrote, “Ben Kingsley’s seething anger is everything.”

You may remember Kingsley’s bullying and badgering and swaggering menace playing the underworld sociopath in Jonathan Glazer’s 2000 crime-thriller “Sexy Beast,” still my favorite Kingsley performance, one that earned him a supporting actor Oscar nomination. (He lost to Jim Broadbent in “Iris.”)

Is that kind of boiling rage as fun to play as it is to watch?

“If the expression of rage or indignation is completely dramatically justified and that expression of indignation is of enormous benefit to the tribe, yes,” Kingsley answers.

(Larsen&Talbert / For The Times)

Kingsley says Itzhak Stern, Oskar Schindler’s loyal aide and factory manager in “Schindler’s List,” was, “bless him,” all about “contained rage.”

“And a colleague of mine who saw ‘Gandhi’ said, ‘That’s the angriest performance I’ve ever seen on screen,’” Kingsley continues. “That righteous indignation propelled him, and it can be expressed in many ways. Sometimes the safety valve is efficient enough to allow it to come through language and gesture, and sometimes the safety valve can’t hold it.

“That was Don Logan in ‘Sexy Beast.’ No safety valve.”

Let’s circle back to that thought of how rage can help the “tribe.” In “Wonder Man,” Trevor proclaims that “acting is not a job. It’s a calling, the single most consequential thing anyone could ever do with their life.”

“I would broaden the definition and refine it back to its origins,” Kingsley says when I ask if he shares Trevor’s view on acting. “There are images, thoughts and threads that I find nourishing and sustaining, and I treasure them. The tribal storyteller is a very consequential figure in the tribe, and if the mantle of the tribal storyteller falls upon that person’s shoulders, that is the single most consequential thing that person can do in their lives.”

“Trevor expresses it quite differently, and that’s fine,” Kingsley says. “That’s in the script. I honor the lines. But for me personally, as a rather convoluted answer, the tribal storyteller is the hand I hold and the baton I want passed on to me. Maybe it has. I hope I’m worthy, but it’s …” Kingsley widens his eyes and whispers, “Wow.”

“It is the single most consequential thing I can do with my life.”

My wife and I moved from London to Marseille a little over five years ago when our British passports still conferred “right to reside” in France. That first winter on the beach, in short sleeves, as our daughters played in the topaz-coloured Mediterranean and the sun set across an ever-clear blue sky, I understood why this part of southern France has always been popular with artists.

I was recently speaking about this with the painter Fanny Nushka and her sailor husband, Benoît Bouchet, on the terrace of Café la Muse in Marseille’s “coolest” neighbourhood. She said: “It took a long time to go back to blue. It’s like being in Paris and painting the Eiffel Tower. It’s dangerous to paint the Calanques [limestone coves] as an artist from here.”

We moved to Marseille for the same reason that has attracted countless artists: it’s cheaper to live here. Marseille’s affordability enables Fanny to paint full-time and Benoît to sail without being away from his family for weeks. Benoît runs daily catered cruises on a listed sailing yacht, Le Don du Vent. For €135, you get a taste of Mediterranean luxury with swimming, snorkelling and sunbathing in the unspoiled sea coves around Marseille, pausing briefly for wine and a lunch prepared onboard.

Céline Ghisleri, co-president of Provence Contemporary Art, which represents 62 arts organisations in and around Marseille, tells me the city has always had a dynamic art scene. However, the turning point came when Marseille was named European Capital of Culture in 2013. Since then, large institutions such as Frac Sud, Mac and the Museum of European and Mediterranean Civilisations (Mucem) have expanded the city’s offering with bigger exhibitions from more widely recognised artists.

This summer, the Mucem’s exhibitions are Bonnes Mères, a collection of contemporary and historical works on the theme of motherhood, and Clément Cogitore’s fascinating Ferdinandea, l’île éphémère, a body of work centred on the brief existence of a volcanic Mediterranean island. At the end of August, the art fair Art-O-Rama will be hosted at La Friche La Belle de Mai. La Friche (the Wasteland) was a tobacco factory and is now an enormous warren of a multidisciplinary arts centre that is always buzzing, especially in the summer when they set up a movie screen and food trucks on the roof. La Friche is emblematic of the art scene in Marseille: absolute chaos, but somehow it works.

Outside Marseille, Plein Sud, a network of contemporary art organisations between Monaco and Montpellier, produces a guide with travel itineraries. It’s how I discovered the charming Gallifet art centre in nearby Aix-en-Provence, which is only about 40 minutes from Marseille but exists in a completely different universe.

You couldn’t be further away from Marseille’s port city energy than Aix’s daily market at Place Richelme, where you can grab a coffee and, if you are lucky, an outdoor seat at the patisserie and salon de thé Maison Weibel. For lunch, I recommend Drôle d’Endroit (Funny Place). It is tucked down an alley off a sidestreet, but the meals are always pleasing and the atmosphere friendly. Another solid choice is Tita for Levantine street food.

As tiny and quiet as Aix is, it has an abundance of museums, such as the Granet Museum, the Caumont Art Centre and the Vasarely Foundation, but they tend to lean heavily on art that historians have already anointed. For example, it wasn’t until 1984 that the Granet acquired any works by the local boy done good, Cézanne, whose preserved studio is just up the hill.

That’s why it was refreshing to find Gallifet trying something different. The owners, Nicolas Mazet and Kate Davis, have a mission to bring contemporary art to conservative Aix. Located on the ground floor of an 18th-century townhouse, the courtyard’s striking red sculpture of a swimmer mid-stroke, by Diadji Diop, hints that Gallifet is more than just a home (the owners live above the art centre).

This summer’s exhibition features a retrospective of the photographer François Halard, with more than 100 works spanning more than three decades. Until the end of September, Gallifet also hosts a seasonal restaurant and chef’s residency. This year, two Paris-based chefs, Lisa Desforges and Bruno Hammerle, will use Provence’s abundant and delicious ingredients to create menus including entrees such as smoked ricotta gnocchi with peas and a peapod veloute. Gallifet also offers two apartments (from €200 and €160 per night), both decorated with pieces from previous exhibitions and filled with Provençal features such as marble fireplaces and tomette terracotta tiles.

A little further up the Rhône, Avignon nestles against the river, enclosed by preserved medieval walls. The Palais des Papes overlooks the renowned vineyards of Châteauneuf-du-Pape to the north and lavender fields to the south. Each July, the town is taken over by the Avignon festival, one of the oldest performance arts festivals.

After a visit, take a walk along the most picturesque and charming street in Avignon, La Rue Peyrolerie. A winding medieval cobbled alley leads to an equally charming restaurant, L’Épicerie, situated in a square beside a small 14th-century gothic church with an ornately carved walnut-wood door. The cuisine is classic French, served in generous portions by friendly staff. Every time we visit Avignon, we dine here and have never been disappointed, but be warned that the terrace fills up quickly. This is a well-known and well-loved spot among locals. Another safe bet for outdoor courtyard dining is Numéro 75.

The most notable address for contemporary art in Avignon is the Lambert Collection, housed in two stunning 18th-century townhouses, Hôtel de Caumont and Hôtel de Montfaucon. The collection is the legacy of Yvon Lambert, a celebrated gallerist and collector who made his reputation in the latter half of the 20th century championing American artists such as Nan Goldin, Donald Judd, Lawrence Weiner and Cy Twombly. The collection continues to support up-and-coming local artists in its Antechamber of Summer exhibition. This year’s exhibition is by Melika Sadeghzadeh, an Iranian artist living and working in Montpellier.

Just south of Avignon, Arles has at its centre a nearly 2,000-year-old Roman amphitheatre, which hosts plays and concerts. The Vincent van Gogh Foundation and Luma host several exhibitions throughout the year, but the real treat comes in July during the Rencontres d’Arles. For 50 years, venues across town, from galleries to grocery stores, have showcased a wide range of contemporary and historical photography.

Recently, we went to Arles for its Festival of Drawing. After a wander through the picturesque medieval streets of the Roquette district on the east side of town, popping into venues as we went, we discovered the tiny restaurant Páou in the quaint Place Paul Doumer. The menu promised sharing plates starring local produce and wines. So we sat down for another meal at another terrace table, under another clear blue sky.

There are more than 100 Emmy categories, and if you scroll through each and every one of them on the Television Academy’s website, you’re probably one of those people who read the terms and conditions on a document before signing your name.

This hasn’t been the greatest year for television, which has had the converse effect of prompting me to sample more shows than ever in a quest to unearth that one hidden gem that merits a place on my mock Emmy ballot. Truth be told, I’m still looking. I’m sure I’ve missed something. And I’m sure you’ll let me know.

In the meantime, here are my picks for the top 15 categories — five each for comedy, drama and limited series — along with a brief line of reasoning for each. And if it’s predictions you’re after, you can find our full BuzzMeter panel’s choices here. Emmy nominations will be announced July 8.

Comedy series

“Abbott Elementary”
“The Bear”
“The Comeback”
“Hacks”
“The Lowdown”
“Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
“The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins”
“Shrinking”

Sterlin Harjo’s “The Lowdown” feels like it’s on the same trajectory as his last series, “Reservation Dogs,” an under-the-radar charmer that grows in estimation as its audience builds. Noir crime stories don’t come more delightful.

Comedy actress

Quinta Brunson, “Abbott Elementary”
Rose Byrne, “Platonic”
Ayo Edebiri, “The Bear”
Elle Fanning, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Lisa Kudrow, “The Comeback”
Jean Smart, “Hacks”

“Platonic” heightened the chaos and conflict in its second season, affording the gifted Byrne additional room to flex her comic chops. How do you sleep on a show starring a newly minted Oscar nominee?

Comedy actor

Yahya Abdul-Mateen II, “Wonder Man”
Ethan Hawke, “The Lowdown”
Tracy Morgan, “The Fall and Rise of Reggie Dinkins”
Jason Segel, “Shrinking”
Martin Short, “Only Murders in the Building”
Jeremy Allen White, “The Bear”

Morgan acting oblivious is one of the funniest things ever.

Comedy supporting actress

Hannah Einbinder, “Hacks”
Janelle James, “Abbott Elementary”
Ashley Padilla, “Saturday Night Live”
Michelle Pfeiffer, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Sheryl Lee Ralph, “Abbott Elementary”
Jeanne Tripplehorn, “The Lowdown”
Jessica Williams, “Shrinking”

The Padilla Pause is one reason I’m watching “Saturday Night Live” again.

Comedy supporting actor

Harrison Ford, “Shrinking”
Marcello Hernández, “Saturday Night Live”
Ben Kingsley, “Wonder Man”
Ebon Moss-Bachrach, “The Bear”
Nick Offerman, “Margo’s Got Money Troubles”
Stephen Root, “Widow’s Bay”
Tyler James Williams, “Abbott Elementary”

Hernández’s charisma and physical comedy is another.

Drama series

“Industry”
“A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”
“The Night Manager”
“Paradise”
“The Pitt”
“Pluribus”
“Slow Horses”
“Task”

How many Emmy voters finally caught up on “Industry,” the fast-paced drama about a group of cutthroat Gen Zers? Four seasons in, it’s more addictive than ever.

Drama actress

Caitriona Balfe, “Outlander”
Myha’la, “Industry”
Chase Infiniti, “The Testaments”
Michelle Pfeiffer, “The Madison”
Rhea Seehorn, “Pluribus”
Zendaya, “Euphoria”

Now that “Outlander” is over, it’s time to pour one out for Balfe. Over the course of eight seasons, she hopscotched through time, enduring and overcoming numerous assaults and kidnappings, dealing with grief and trauma and enjoying lots of emotionally grounded sex. Balfe has earned a final reward.

Drama actor

Sterling K. Brown, “Paradise”
Peter Claffey, “A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms”
Tom Hiddleston, “The Night Manager”
Gary Oldman, “Slow Horses”
Mark Ruffalo, “Task”
Noah Wyle, “The Pitt”

Claffey turned bumbling into art.

Drama supporting actress

Isa Briones, “The Pitt”
Taylor Dearden, “The Pitt”
Fiona Dourif, “The Pitt”
Supriya Ganesh, “The Pitt”
Katherine LaNasa, “The Pitt”
Sepideh Moafi, “The Pitt”
Karolina Wydra, “Pluribus”

LaNasa should have bumped herself up to lead. As Whitaker explains to Langdon in Season 2’s penultimate episode, Robby’s the Professor of the ER and LaNasa’s Dana is the Skipper. And the Skipper should be lead.

Drama supporting actor

Patrick Ball, “The Pitt”
Diego Calva, “The Night Manager”
Shawn Hatosy, “The Pitt”
Gerran Howell, “The Pitt”
Ken Leung, “Industry”
Tom Pelphrey, “Task”
Carlos-Manuel Vesga, “Pluribus”

Pelphrey has called his desperate single dad on “Task” the role of a lifetime. No argument here.

Limited series

“Bait”
“Beef”
“DTF St. Louis”
“Death by Lightning”
“Half Man”

I put off watching the finale of the punishing “Half Man” for weeks. Does that mean the show worked?

Limited series/TV movie actress

Sally Field, “Remarkably Bright Creatures”
Camila Morrone, “Something Very Bad Is Going to Happen”
Carey Mulligan, “Beef”
Sarah Pidgeon, “Love Story”
Robin Wright, “The Girlfriend”

I like her! Right now (and always), I like her!

Limited series/TV movie actor

Riz Ahmed, “Bait”
Charlie Hunnam, “Monster: The Ed Gein Story”
Matthew Macfadyen, “Death by Lightning”
Mitchell Robertson, “Half Man”
Michael Shannon, “Death by Lightning”

The young actors on “Half Man” — Robertson and Stuart Campbell — outshone their well-known counterparts.

Limited series/TV movie supporting actress

Linda Cardellini, “DTF St. Louis”
Grace Gummer, “Love Story”
Laurie Metcalf, “Monster: The Ed Gein Story”
Cailee Spaeny, “Beef”
Joy Sunday, “DTF St. Louis”
Constance Zimmer, “Love Story”

Both Cardellini and Sunday for “DTF St. Louis”? No way, José, you say? Yes way, I say. All the way!

Limited series/TV movie supporting actor

(Larry Horricks / Netflix)

Jason Bateman, “DTF St. Louis”
Stuart Campbell, “Half Man”
Richard Gadd, “Half Man”
David Harbour, “DTF St. Louis”
Charles Melton, “Beef”
Nick Offerman, “Death by Lightning”

The mutton-chopped Chester A. Arthur joins Ron Swanson’s ’stache in television’s facial hair hall of fame.

What does it mean to lack ambition in a country that worships wealth? It means you are a capitalist wallflower, a laggard with a serious character flaw. No field of endeavor is immune from this attitude, the art world least of all. But artists with a desire for riches and fame must not declare their intentions so brazenly. At a time when the plastic arts are about as marginalized as they ever have been, and media buzz is generated by dead painters whose works sell for enormous sums at auction, creation in and of itself has little value unless it is lashed to something marketable.

With his new novel “Contrapposto,” Dave Eggers has written a big-hearted, deeply moving story about the choices artists make, or don’t make, to square up their own notions of success and happiness. The book is dual bildungsroman, following two friends across the long span of their lives from adolescence to their 70s, as they fall in and out of each other’s lives, make their way in the world, and fumble around for meaning and purpose in their art.

The protagonist in “Contrapposto” is Rob “Cricket” Dibb, an underclass Midwestern kid, raised by a single mother in a North Indiana suburb that’s about as nowheresville as it gets for budding artists with dreams of glory. Cricket doesn’t dream big. He’s just trying to endure without bodily harm, seeking refuge from his mother’s abusive boyfriend in the basement with his grandfather Silas, who teaches him about jazz and the beauty of a glorious sunset. He draws so he doesn’t have to think. Immersion in art is his escape hatch from the dreariness of his pinched world: “The drawing meant nothing, would never mean anything to anyone, but it was true to how he saw it. His hand had recorded what he saw and felt about this thing. He was an ugly, common creature who could occasionally freeze time. That was enough.”

Cricket’s apprenticeship is decidedly informal. No full scholarship rides to Bard or Pratt for him; instead he saves up to enroll himself in a life drawing class in Chicago, where he discovers the beauty of applying rigor and rules to his work, how to break down pictures into the geometry of circles and squares, planes and angles. “He measured proportions and improved,” writes Eggers. “He grew more confident with each pass on his drawing, and realized … that much of the rightness of the drawing, of any drawing, came through time and diligence and discernment.”

He meets his slightly older schoolmate Olympia, one of Eggers’ most beguiling creations, when she implores him to scrawl scatological bathroom graffiti on a playground structure in Old-English typography. Unlike Cricket, Olympia is earnest and sincere about her art in the way that only a young person untainted by cynicism can be. She claims to inhabit the soul of Albert Camus, and flings around aphorisms about art that fly over Cricket’s head. She is an aesthete, someone who likes to go to the race track just to revel in the colors on display there. She wants to create an art scene in their little world. “You know all the great art movements have friends at their core, right?,” she tells Cricket. “A lot of time they’re jammed together by some critics and the artists reject the name and the association. But think about Patti Smith and Sam Shepard. Did you know they dated for a while?”

Cricket is beguiled by her, and Olympia in turn is taken in by Cricket’s talent. When the local library pulls a few of Cricket’s semi-nude life drawing portraits down for fear of offending their patrons, Olympia becomes his advocate and champion. In contrast to Cricket, who skates along with no end plan, Olympia is a committed careerist, an artist who insists on a captive audience to justify her work. She wants to earn money as an artist; Cricket just wants to be left alone. This push and pull between the two frame Eggers’ novel across the six decades of his narrative.

One of many joys of “Contrapposto” is observing Cricket’s artistic awakening via the mentors who guide him into his artistic consciousness. Marcus Carpenter, a wizened sage in battered work boots (one imagines him as the art world analogue to the late novelist Jim Harrison), is the moral conscience of the novel, fighting the good fight for personal expression and railing against the “new, paradoxical tyranny wherein those without technical skill terrorize those who possess it.” Carpenter plucks Cricket from arts college and its meaningless pontificating to his “atelier in the corn,” a ramshackle Victorian where Cricket learns how to transmute what he sees with color and light. “The talented have talent,” Carpenter tells Cricket during one of his endearing rants. “The untalented have theories.”

From there, Cicket’s life is a crooked line. He doesn’t abandon art, but he can’t summon the urge to sell himself or his work, to graft his joy in making things onto the caprices of the marketplace. As Eggers jumps through time, we find Cricket working as an intern in an art gallery, an arid, lifeless space where nothing inspiring can possibly exist. As a young man he works as a ship-breaker in Turkey; in middle-age, we find him in a coastal town in Cambodia, making replicas of great paintings for tourists. Olympia, his elusive love and sporadic muse, flits in and out of his life as she works her way up the tiers of the art world’s ziggurat. She gently berates him for his timidity: “This is how artists have power. We sell work. You’re implying there’s nobility in powerlessness. That’s been an idiotic trope for too long — that participating in the business side of it taints you. Do you know how dumb that is? That artists have to be these fragile little wood nymphs that are too precious to touch the money?”

As “Contrapposto” arrives at its beautiful, life-affirming conclusion, we are left pondering the significance of artistic endeavor in a world that commodifies everything, including our bodies and brains. At a time when even the greatest achievements are debased in a culture that gives equal weight to meretricious novelty, is it even worth the trouble? Eggers’ brilliant novel has the answer: Follow your bliss. In the final analysis, it is all that matters.

Weingarten is the author of “Thirsty: William Mulholland, California Water, and the Real Chinatown.”

Glenn Close is not going to be ignored this time around, as the eight-time Oscar nominee will finally receive recognition from the academy this fall.

I’m Glenn Whipp, columnist for the Los Angeles Times and host of The Envelope newsletter, working up a healthy World Cup fever even if it’s just an excuse to head to Lucky Baldwin’s for a pint or two and watch Cristiano Ronaldo one last time.

But let’s circle back to American football and my digital cover story with “Beef” stars Cailee Spaeny and Charles Melton, who watched a Super Bowl together, though they were cheering for different teams.

That Super Bowl in question was Super Bowl LIX, pitting the Philadelphia Eagles against the Kansas City Chiefs. Melton hosted a watch party, and since he considers Kansas home and played football for Kansas State University, you might think he’d be rooting for the Chiefs.

Nope.

“When I was living in Germany, I fell in love with Donovan McNabb,” Melton, an army brat, tells me, name-checking the longtime Eagles quarterback.

Spaeny, it turns out, was the only Chiefs fan at the party. To enter Melton’s home, she had to step on a doormat that was fitted with a red-and-white Chiefs jersey. (“It got real dirty,” Melton says with pride.)

Melton and Spaeny enjoy a relaxed and playful give-and-take, borne from the months they spent preparing to play Austin and Ashley, a Gen-Z couple working at a Montecito country club, dreaming and scheming toward upward mobility in “Beef.”

(Erik Carter / For The Times)

The most memorable episode they shared found the couple in an overcrowded, ninth-circle-of-hell emergency room with Ashley, uninsured, experiencing severe ovarian torsion. Her concerns are dismissed and she begs for someone to save her.

“Unfortunately, it’s an all-too-common experience,” Spaeny says. “I probably have a conversation once a month with female friends who go to the doctor’s office and are gaslit by the system, just being made to feel like what they’re experiencing isn’t really happening or they’re making it up. It’s scary.”

Still, being “Beef,” the episode has its share of mordant humor, like the scene where a nurse asks Ashley to rate her pain, zero being pain-free and 10 being excruciating.

“Oh, I thought it was like Letterboxd,” Ashley replies, referring to the movie review social platform. “Two-and-a-half stars out of five is average.”

“My whole life I’ve been a six or seven,” Melton says, noting his own personal pain scale. “I’ll have a cold and I’ll be like, ‘Six or seven.’”

“That sounds like you,” Spaeny says.

“I can get pretty dramatic,” Melton says. “It’s really like the end of the world when I’m sick.”

Spaeny deleted her Letterboxd account because she gets anxious about anything online containing reviews.

“It takes two buttons to click on a movie that I’ve been in and see what people say about me,” Spaeny says. “So I forgot my password and left it that way.”

Melton is an enthusiastic adopter and says he has twice shared his four favorite films, a feature where actors, usually on the red carpet, list a quartet of beloved movies. (Here’s one at the “May December” premiere where Melton enthuses over “The Matrix,” “In the Mood for Love,” “Brokeback Mountain” and “Persona.”)

“I saw them at another event and they were like, ‘Charles, so good to see you.’ And I was like, ‘Do you want my four favorite films?’ And they said, ‘No, you’ve already done it enough,’” Melton laughs. “What can I say? I love movies!”

Nearly a dozen A-10C Thunderbolt II attack jets landed at RAF Lakenheath in the U.K. earlier on Friday, sporting mission marks from operations in the Middle East as well as their distinctive nose art. The photos were taken by aviation photographer Andrew McKelvey, who told us that 11 Warthogs landed at Lakenheath at about 3 p.m. local time. McKelvey was kind enough to share his photos with us.

According to the Coronet East X account, the jets belong to the 75th Fighter Squadron and arrived through Aviano Air Base in Italy from Muwaffaq Salti Air Base in Jordan.

One of the most interesting shots shows one of the jets with an F-15E tail marking, green footprints of the Air Force Pararescue Jumpers (PJs) and the words “So others may live,” which is their motto. As we have previously reported, A-10s took part in the daring mission to rescue two F-15E crewmembers whose Strike Eagle was shot down over Iran, acting in the Sandy low-altitude escort role for the rest of the rescue package. One A-10 was struck by Iranian fire and crashed. The pilot survived.

So it is possible that the Warthog with this marking took part in the F-15E crew’s CSAR operation or another one that we do not know of. We reached out to the 75th Wing for more information.

Following a long aviation tradition of personalizing aircraft, the Warthogs are emblazoned with colorful nose art that includes Nintendo game characters homages like Ridley the giant purple space dragon, ‘Diddy Kong,’ King Dedede, Samus Aran, Star Fox and Little Mac. Non video game references include Macho Man, Doc Holiday and the Reaper.

We have previously noted that personnel have applied nose art as part of other deployment to Muwaffaq Salti, which appears to be becoming something of a trend in the region. F-15Es from RAF Lakenheath are well known for their often comical nose art designs and the practice is now allowed after the USAF forbid it unless under very particular circumstances for many years.

The mission marks show a mix of weapons used against Iranian targets. They include Small Diameter Bombs, GBU-12 Paveways, Advanced Precision Kill Weapon System (APKWS) laser-guided rockets, AGM-65 Maverick air-to-surface missiles. Miniature Air-Launched Decoys (MALDs) and generic bombs that probably signify Joint Direct Attack Munitions (JDAMs). The A-10 notorious gun is also represented.

There are also a couple of target type ‘kill’ markings seen, as well. This includes a pair of boats and a truck that appears to have made a giant secondary explosion, based on the mushroom cloud marking.

As we have previously reported, the venerable Warthogs were pressed into service helping to destroy the Iranian Navy, strike Iranian proxies in Iraq and Syria, and take part in the aforementioned rescue mission, among other tasks, as part of Operation Epic Fury.

All this took place as the seemingly ceaseless debate between the Air Force and Congress about the future of these jets and their survivability in future conflicts rages on. We recently wrote that an amendment added to the House Armed Services Committee’s version of the National Defense Authorization bill threw a lifeline to the jets. It called for the Secretary of the Air Force to keep supporting A-10 training, testing, experimentation, maintenance, and sustainment efforts through to the planned retirement date, as well as preserving lessons learned and operational expertise from A-10 missions to help shape future replacement systems.

Regardless of what ultimately becomes of the A-10, the markings seen in these pictures shows they still provided a lot of value in this most recent fight.

Contact the author: howard@twz.com

June 12 (Asia Today) — Nam June Paik connected Seoul, Tokyo and New York by satellite in 1986.

His project, “Bye Bye Kipling,” brought Korean traditional dance, American popular music and Japanese avant-garde art together on one screen in real time. The work directly challenged British writer Rudyard Kipling’s famous line that East and West could never meet, presenting instead the possibility of communication across borders and cultures.

That history of encounter and exchange is at the center of “Road movie: Art between Korea and Japan since 1945,” now on view at the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Korea, in Gwacheon. The exhibition marks the 60th anniversary of normalized diplomatic relations between South Korea and Japan and traces 80 years of artistic exchange since Korea’s liberation in 1945.

The exhibition features about 200 works by 43 artists and artist teams from both countries. It was jointly organized by the Korean museum and the Yokohama Museum of Art. The show first opened in Yokohama late last year and drew about 37,000 visitors before coming to South Korea.

Featured artists include Nam June Paik, Lee Ufan, Lee Bul, Jung Yeondoo, Koki Tanaka, Jiro Takamatsu and Takashi Murakami, along with other major figures in contemporary Korean and Japanese art.

Paik is one of the central figures in the exhibition. He studied aesthetics and art history in Japan in the 1950s and later built close ties with Japan’s avant-garde art scene. It was there that he met Shigeko Kubota, his lifelong partner and artistic collaborator.

Alongside “Bye Bye Kipling,” the exhibition presents Kubota’s video work “Broken Diary: Korean Trip,” which documents Paik’s return to South Korea after 34 years abroad.

The exhibition, however, does not focus only on well-known artists. Its first section, “In Between: Zainichi Koreans’ Gaze,” examines the lives of Korean artists who remained in Japan after liberation. Cho Yanggyu’s “Sealed Warehouse” depicts a dark, enclosed labor site and reflects both the reality faced by Zainichi Koreans and the wounds left by national division.

The exhibition also explores the growth of artistic exchange after South Korea and Japan normalized diplomatic relations in 1965. Works by Lee Ufan, Park Seo-bo, Yun Hyong-keun, Jiro Takamatsu and Kishio Suga show how artists in the two countries influenced one another as modern art movements developed across borders.

Later works by Masato Nakamura, Takashi Murakami and Lee Bul show how artistic exchange expanded in the 1990s from official institutions to personal networks and collaborative relationships.

Lee Bul’s “Cyborg W5” presents a futuristic but incomplete body, questioning boundaries between humans and machines and between male and female identities. The work reflects the shared concerns about technology and identity that shaped Korean and Japanese contemporary art after the 1990s.

The exhibition’s final section shifts from past exchange to present-day solidarity. Koki Tanaka’s “Vulnerable Histories: A Road Movie” links the massacre of Koreans after the 1923 Great Kanto Earthquake to more recent anti-Korean demonstrations in Japan, asking viewers to consider histories of discrimination and exclusion.

Jung Yeondoo’s “Magician’s Walk” reflects on landscapes after the 2011 Great East Japan Earthquake and explores the possibility of empathy and solidarity with the suffering of others.

The exhibition also extends to the museum’s outdoor sculpture park in Gwacheon. Six sculptures by Korean artists based in Japan and Japanese artists, including Duckjun Kwak, Quac Insik and Lee Ufan, highlight the museum’s role as an important site of Korean-Japanese artistic exchange.

Kim Sung-hee, director of the National Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art, Korea, said the exhibition revisits “historical moments experienced by the two countries and the traces of artistic exchange formed within them.”

Kim said she hopes the exhibition will offer visitors a chance to rediscover “the status and possibilities of Korean and Japanese contemporary art.”

The exhibition runs through Sept. 27.

— Reported by Asia Today; translated by UPI

© Asia Today. Unauthorized reproduction or redistribution prohibited.

Original Korean report: https://www.asiatoday.co.kr/kn/view.php?key=20260612010003954

In “Rheology,” Shayok Misha Chowdhury, an experimental theater artist, and his mother, Bulbul Chakraborty, a theoretical physicist, bridge the language of their different disciplines to explore a subject dear to both of them: loss.

Chowdhury, author of the play “Public Obscenities,” a 2024 finalist for the Pulitzer Prize, and the director of the sensational off-Broadway production of Jordan Tannahill’s “Prince Faggot,” is as tenderly devoted to his mother as the young Marcel was to his own in Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time.” The idea of his mother dying is insupportable to Chowdhury, but given that she’s in her 70s and he’s in his 40s, certain terrifying realities must be faced.

“Rheology,” which is receiving its West Coast premiere at REDCAT (in a brief run ending Saturday), is the piece they’ve created to prepare Chowdhury for that fateful day. This strikingly staged Bushwick Starr, HERE Arts Center and Ma-Yi Theater Company production is an interdisciplinary experiment that is as playful in its methodology as it is serious in its research aims.

Chakraborty, a professor at Brandeis University, starts off with a physics lesson. Her subject is sand, and she poses a simple question: Is the sand pouring through the hourglass sitting on the counter before her a liquid or a solid?

A charismatic teacher, she knows how to Socratically engage a room. Her welcoming manner draws out from the audience the different ways sand behaves both like a solid and like a liquid.

Shayok Misha Chowdhury, in rear, and Bulbul Chakraborty in “Rheology” at REDCAT.

(Roy and Edna Disney CalArts Theater [REDCAT])

Rheology, or the science of how a substance responds to external stress, is her chief interest. Her research, focused on soft condensed matter, has been seeking a comprehensive theory to explain the curious elasticity of such material. A photo of a sand dune, in which she’s seated alongside Chowdhury as a toddler, helps illustrate her point that sand can flow like a liquid yet retain its shape like a solid.

An onstage sandbox is more than just another visual accompaniment to her talk. It’s a source of both elemental mystery and childlike wonder. But elucidation is her motive. She enters the box with her bare feet, noting the way the sand flows around her toes yet supports her weight in observation of the rule that “every grain has to be in force balance.”

She writes equations on the board to explain these findings, equations that begin to glow as the production moves from the realm of pure science to the more slippery domain of art. The transition, like all aspects of this piece, is frolicsomely conducted.

While pouring sand from one container to another, Chakraborty appears to be overcome with dust. For a moment, it’s not clear if this is part of the show or a medical incident until Chowdhury, discreetly occupying a seat in the audience, asserts himself as the director. He asks his mother to run through the death scene with a different sequence of movements and introduces the accompaniment of George Crotty on cello to liberate her performance.

They are rehearsing not so much Chakraborty’s end but Chowdhury’s reaction. He assumes he will fall apart and vows to die himself out of heartbreak. Chakraborty wants him to carry on his work, just as she carried on her research as a mother with a young son who would wail uncontrollably when she would drop him off at daycare.

She recounts that his emotional outbursts were so extreme that it was painful leaving him behind. But she was assured that he was handling the separation. For proof, she was taken into a private teacher’s room, where through a one-way mirror she saw him compose himself shortly after her departure and start to play with the other children.

Mother and son enact a similar situation where, after a more permanent leave-taking, she can catch a glimpse of her son recovering himself sufficiently to survive her loss. Chowdhury, a queer artist who enjoys sampling performance modes, adopts the figure of the grieving Bollywood widow. The effect isn’t to lampoon but to confront his raw emotion and to test his capacity for resilience.

The experiment might sound sentimental, but Chakraborty, the production’s secret weapon, maintains a scientific restraint, albeit one suffused with maternal anguish. The way she listens to her son, takes in his feelings, gently suggests other possibilities of response and treats his experimental theater piece with the same dignity as her own research is incredibly moving to witness. Her performance won an Obie Award, and though she insists that she’s not an actor she demonstrates a sincerity and collaborative grace that many veteran performers would envy.

As it unfolds, “Rheology” can seem piecemeal, even haphazard. There’s an informality built into the production, but it’s somewhat deceptive because the mercurial staging is extremely precise. Chowdhury’s direction has visual panache. Kameron Neal’s video design transforms Krit Robinson’s part lab, part lecture hall set into something kaleidoscopic.

When mother and son sing songs from the famous cycle by Bengali writer-composer and Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore or hold a deathbed conversation in Bangla, the piece spins further across time and space. Empiricism gives way to surrealism. But the world, as any scientist probing into the atomic level can attest, contains more secrets than meets the eye.

Fragile matter is Chakraborty’s specialty, and her expertise is put to novel use in shoring up her son’s tender heart.

More than any other artist in the 20th century, David Hockney defined Los Angeles in the public imagination. When he first arrived in January 1964, age 26, his mental image of the city had been forged not by art but by Hollywood movies, which he had watched as a young boy in Yorkshire, England. In later life, he often recollected the sharp-edged shadows cast by the Californian sunlight in movies such as Laurel and Hardy’s “Big Business.

Before he ever went to L.A., Hockney — who died Thursday at 88 — knew that he would love it. Writing about his first descent into the city, he recalled how “as I flew over San Bernardino and looked down — and saw the swimming pools and the houses and everything and the sun, I was more thrilled than I’ve ever been arriving at any other city, including New York.” By this time, the glamour of Hollywood had been compounded by other influences, including the homoerotic magazines that an American friend had given him at the Royal College of Art in London. Titles such as Physique Pictorial, published in L.A. by the pioneering “beefcake” photographer Bob Mizer, held out a promise of California as a paradise of rippling men and permanent sunshine. A darker, no less thrilling image of the city had arisen from Hockney’s reading of “City of Night,” the 1963 novel by John Rechy that tells the story of a hustler in the gay underworld of downtown L.A.

Los Angeles itself felt young to Hockney. He loved the light, the architecture, the sense of space and the sense of possibility — not least the possibility of greater sexual freedom. West Hollywood boasted a large gay bar, the Red Raven on Melrose Avenue, that was unlike anything he had found in London or New York. There was also the lure of the beach, with its pageant of sculpted physiques. Venice Beach struck him as a more body-beautiful version of London’s Portobello Road.

Before long, his work shifted from generic fantasies of the city (a young man showering in Beverly Hills, for instance) to vivid portrayals of its real-life pools, palm trees, architecture and people. American artists such as Edward Ruscha and Edward Kienholz were producing their own canonical images of L.A. in these years, but for Hockney, there were no artistic precedents — “no ghosts,” as he later put it — to live up to. “People then didn’t even know what it looked like,” he once said. “And when I was there, they were still finishing up some of the big freeways.… I suddenly thought: ‘My God, this place needs its Piranesi, Los Angeles could have a Piranesi, so here I am!’ ”

He was true to his word, even if his luminous, serene images of the city were a far cry from Giovanni Battista Piranesi’s feverish visions of Baroque Rome. “Beverly Hills Housewife” (1966), a portrait of a pink-dressed collector in her modernist home, marked the onset of a realist style that would define Hockney’s work for the next decade. This era gave rise to paintings that became icons of their time and place. Among them were “A Bigger Splash” (1967), which was based on a magazine cover that he came across on a newsstand, and “Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy” (1968, sold last year at Christie’s New York for $44.3 million). Inspired by Hans Holbein, this portrait of the English novelist and his artist partner was one of the first celebratory portrayals of a gay couple. Hockney would later recount how Isherwood proclaimed: “Oh David, we’ve so much in common; we love California, we love American boys, and we’re both from the north of England.” Hockney’s beloved American boy at this time was Peter Schlesinger, a young artist he had met while teaching at UCLA in the summer 1966 — and a recurring presence in the early L.A. pictures.

According to Norman Rosenthal, who curated a major survey of Hockney’s art at the Fondation Louis Vuitton in Paris last year: “It is astonishing that a boy from a poor family in Bradford became the person — partly because of his gayness, but also his talent — who defined what everybody now thinks of as California. L.A. had no real image in the world before then, unlike New York.”

Despite his enchantment with Los Angeles, Hockney didn’t settle there until 1978, after a decade of bouncing between America and Europe. In the summer of 1979 he moved into a house in the Hollywood Hills, and soon adorned its pool with swishing strokes of blue paint. In the early 1980s, he converted the paddle tennis court into a studio. The meandering routes and Mediterranean scenery of the Hills were a fresh source of amazement, giving rise to monumental depictions of Mulholland Drive and Nichols Canyon in a newly abstract style.

By this time, the city was deeply familiar — a second home — and he had a close circle of friends around him who included the patron Betty Freeman (subject of “Beverly Hills Housewife”), the designer Gregory Evans, the gallery owner Nicholas Wilder and the film producer Joe Simon. “L.A. had represented a whole new world for him,” says Simon, who remained in regular contact with the artist until his final days. “He just loved the light. He was like a kid in a candy store when he first came. But David was all about the work. Everything came back to that.”

In recent decades, Hockney’s name had become synonymous with the landscapes of his native Yorkshire, which he began painting prolifically in the early 2000s. But Los Angeles never lost its newness and promise. His house in the Hills remained a sanctuary until his final years, when he was too frail to travel. L.A. was where he had come of age, and it remained an indelible part of his life and psyche — not least in terms of its egalitarian spirit and its tendency toward the horizontal. “The great thing about Hockney was that he spoke to everybody,” says Rosenthal. “Few artists of his world and his generation could do that.”

James Cahill, a novelist and an art critic, is the author of, among other books, “David Hockney” and the forthcoming “The Beverly Hills Housewife: Hockney’s Californian Muse and the World Beyond the Pool.”

David Hockney, the innovative and prolific British artist who arrived in Los Angeles in 1964, soon celebrating its sun-drenched life and landscapes in colorful, wildly popular paintings, has died.

He was 88.

Calling himself “an English Los Angeleno,” Hockney immortalized the city’s sparkling swimming pools, palm trees and beautiful young men, then went on to experiment with intricate photo collages, portrait suites, painted and filmed images of Yorkshire landscapes, iPad drawings and more.

Since his Pop Art paintings in the early ‘60s at London’s Royal College of Art, Hockney was rarely out of the limelight and, more important, rarely out of fresh ideas for how to draw, paint, film, print, photograph or otherwise express his creativity. The David Hockney Foundation owns more than 8,000 of his works, including about 200 sketchbooks, more than 230 self-portraits, opera designs and portraits of family and friends.

Hockney loved Hollywood — the people and the place — and liked to say he was brought up in England and Hollywood because of the time he spent at the movies. His peroxide blonde hair reportedly was inspired when he was a student and saw Clairol TV ads claiming “blondes have more fun.” But it was his interest in everything from Elvis Presley to the Hubble Space Telescope and his sense of humor that set him apart. Time Magazine art critic Robert Hughes once called him “the Cole Porter of modern art.”

He was open about being gay, even when homosexuality was outlawed in Britain. His early love affair with artist Peter Schlesinger, a younger man he met when teaching a summer drawing class at UCLA in 1966, inspired Hockney’s monumental 1972 painting “Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures),” a centerpiece of Jack Hazan’s 1974 film “A Bigger Splash.” The painting’s 2018 auction at Christie’s drew a record $90 million for a living artist.

He was a dedicated reader and student of art, paying homage in his work to Picasso and Cubism as well as to Monet, Matisse, Van Gogh and Cezanne. A lover of opera, he often had it playing loudly in the studio and enjoyed taking visitors on curated car trips through the Hollywood Hills or Malibu while listening to Wagner. He designed sets for major companies in Los Angeles, Chicago, New York, London and elsewhere over the years, and some of his set models were later shown in museums.

David Hockney’s work “Gregory in the Pool (Paper Pool 4)” is part of his solo exhibition “David Hockney: Perspective Should Be Reversed” at the Palm Springs Art Museum in Palm Springs. (Courtesy of the Palm Springs Art Museum)

(Courtesy of the Palm Springs Art Museum)

His solo shows drew enormous crowds to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art as early as 1988. In 2017 a major retrospective of his work, keyed to his 80^th birthday, was presented at New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, Paris’ Centre Pompidou and London’s Tate Modern. Chronicling Hockney’s arrival as an important artist in the “ravishing” Met retrospective, the New Yorker writer Andrea K. Scott called it “a revelation.” It was, she wrote, “a retort to all the eye-rollers,” including herself, who dismissed his work “as, at best, a guilty pleasure.”

In 2012 he received the coveted Order of Merit, which Queen Elizabeth II presented to him at Buckingham Palace.

David Hockney was born the fourth of five children to a working-class family in Bradford, Yorkshire, on July 9, 1937. He has said he started “making marks on paper” at 8 and received private painting lessons before moving on to Bradford School of Art in 1953. The first painting he sold was a portrait of his father in 1955. He attended the Royal College of Art in London from 1959 until his graduation in 1962 and received the school’s Gold Medal.

After college he did not slack off, noted his biographer Christopher Simon Sykes. In his 2014 book, “Hockney: The Biography,” Sykes pointed out that the artist’s first flat had a chest of drawers near the bed on which he had painted, in large capital letters, the words “get up and work immediately.”

David Hockney in 2017.

(Catherine Opie, Courtesy of Regen Projects, Los Angeles and Lehmann Maupin, New York, Hong Kong and Seoul.)

Hockney lived by that command for the rest of his life, turning out canvas after canvas, photo after photo. In the ‘80s came his extraordinary multi-image photographic collages of friends including writer Christopher Isherwood and artist Don Bachardy and such landmarks as the Brooklyn Bridge, Grand Canyon and Pearblossom Highway.

“The Polaroids started oddly enough when I’d just finished a long period of work in the theater, which is of course playing with perspective and illusion,” he once told The Times. “People say, ‘You are a painter, and photography is a sideline.’ But nothing is a sideline for me.”

That included his continuing fascination with technology. The artist’s long career swept in artworks made not only on cameras and canvases, but on such things as fax machines and photocopiers. Hockney liked to experiment, whether it was with state-of-the-art printing devices or centuries old painting techniques. He went several times to a show of portraits by Jean Auguste Dominique Ingres at London’s National Gallery in 1999 and was greatly taken with the photographic’ quality of Ingres’ 19th century drawings. Certain that Ingres had used something optical to achieve that quality, Hockney bought himself a camera lucida, a small device that works like a prism. He then applied Ingres’ methods–as Hockney imagined them–to his own portraits of friends and family, and in 2001, he published “Secret Knowledge,” exploring his theories on early artistic uses of optical devices.

His death was confirmed by the Associated Press and New York Times.

Isenberg is a former Times staff writer

In less than a month, Riverside’s Mission Inn has gained a new owner, lost two prized pieces of art and sparked a heated debate over the line between private property and community history.

The stage for this controversy was set in early May, when hotel owner Kelly Roberts decided to sell the Mission Inn to the Yuhaaviatam of San Manuel Nation, the tribe that owns the Yaamava’ Resort & Casino in Highland and the Palms Casino Resort in Las Vegas.

But it wasn’t the sale (for an undisclosed amount) that started arguments. It was Roberts’ removal of two beloved paintings from the hotel before the sale closed.

A painting at the Mission Inn in Riverside titled “Charge Up San Juan Hill” is taken down on March 20, shortly before the hotel’s change in ownership.

(James Ranger)

One is an alpine landscape called “California Alps” (1874) by William Keith, which measures roughly 6 feet by 8 feet and was displayed in the lobby near the front desk. The other painting, “Charge Up San Juan Hill” (about 1900) by Vasily Vereshchagin, was displayed on a wall of the steakhouse near the lobby. Both paintings had been a part of the hotel for more than a century.

“It was like a slow-motion version of the Louvre Museum heist, pulled off on a sunny day in Riverside in view of guests, staff and visitors,” wrote David Allen of the Riverside Press-Enterprise.

“There’s an outrage among members of this community,” said Mike Marlatt, a Riverside attorney and former board member of the Mission Inn Foundation.

The issue appears to be what agreements Roberts’ late husband made when he bought the building more than 30 years ago.

Former Riverside redevelopment official Ralph Megna, who facilitated the 1992 sale to Duane Roberts’ Historic Mission Inn Corp., wrote on Facebook that “What Kelly is apparently doing at this point is just pillaging the place in violation of those agreements.” But on a phone call, he was less absolute. He said the original pact included an agreement intended to protect about 180 movable pieces of art and artifacts from removal, but that “there’s shades of gray here.” Megna added, “We trusted people. Good faith turned out to be not so good.”

Duane and Kelly Roberts, photographed in 1998 at their home in Laguna Beach. Duane, who reopened the Mission Inn in the early 1990s, died in 2025.

(Glenn Koenig / Los Angeles Times)

Roberts’ family attorney Alan Jackson, however, said “Kelly is not pillaging anything.” He maintained that when Duane Roberts bought the hotel, “he bought every single item. Every single item was the Roberts family’s personal property.” When Kelly Roberts sold the hotel last month, Jackson said, she was free to keep or sell any of its contents.

In that deal, Jackson said, “the buyers would not close” until the paintings and a sculpture of Duane and Kelly Roberts were removed, because “they’re expensive.” Also, Jackson said that Duane Roberts, “before his passing, made it very clear to Kelly and the family that those are two of his favorite paintings ever.”

Jackson declined to say where the artworks are but said “they are in her possession” and “she has no intention of ever getting rid of those ever.”

The iconic spiral staircase in the rotunda of the historic Mission Inn.

(Gina Ferazzi / Los Angeles Times)

The hotel’s new owner, the San Manuel Investment Authority, declined to address questions about the sale agreement. But in a statement, it said it is “committed to collaborating with the Mission Inn Foundation and the City to respectfully steward and preserve this historic landmark, recognizing its deep history and significance to the Riverside community.”

Despite accolades from groups including Historic Hotels of America, tensions between the Roberts family and Riverside preservationists have risen in recent years. In late 2024, after more than 30 years renting space within the hotel, the nonprofit Mission Inn Foundation and Museum was unable to agree on a lease extension with hotel management and moved to a building on Main Street. Foundation leaders did not respond to messages seeking comment.

“The Mission Inn is so foundational to Riverside that any significant change brings real concern to me and makes me uneasy,” said City Council member Philip Falcone, 28, who has been leading tours of the inn since he was in high school.

The Keith painting is “quintessential California, a romanticized view of the Sierra Nevada range. William Keith, the painter, was friends with John Muir,” Falcone said. As for the San Juan Hill painting, it connects neatly with the history of Theodore Roosevelt, one of nine presidents who have visited the inn.

A guest takes in the view from the Spanish patio at the Mission Inn.

(Gina Ferazzi/Los Angeles Times)

The hotel is largely the creation of Frank Miller, who bought Glenwood Cottage, a modest boarding house, from his father in 1880. Then Miller enlisted investment help from his friend, railroad magnate Henry Huntington, transformed the boarding house into a hotel and renamed it. Over time, Miller built it into an architectural wonderland filled with art and antiques gathered in the U.S. and Europe. By 1931, the enterprise filled a city block.

“It’s a unique property,” said David Stolte, president of the Old Riverside Foundation. “It’s a National Historic Landmark. It kind of sits at the intersection of private commerce and public benefit. The original owner, Frank Miller, intended it as a public space, essentially a cultural museum, in addition to his business of running a hotel.”

After Miller’s death in 1935, the hotel’s reputation spread even further, attracting dignitaries of the day — and the future. It served as the site of Richard and Pat Nixon’s wedding in 1940 and Ronald and Nancy Reagan’s honeymoon in 1952. But by the 1960s, it was much diminished, and a later owner, Benjamin Swig, had sold close to 1,000 antiques and artworks to help pay bills.

By the mid-1980s, the hotel had passed through a period of city ownership and was closed. By 1992, more than $50 million had been spent in restoration and renovation, but the project was scuttled by a bankruptcy. That’s when Duane Roberts, who grew up in Riverside and made his fortune selling flash-frozen burritos, bought the property and reopened it.

Duane and Kelly Roberts, residents of Laguna Beach, also established the hotel’s annual Festival of Lights, an Inland Empire holiday tradition. The hotel today includes 238 guest rooms, four restaurants, two lounges, two chapels, a spa, pool and candy shop.

Besides their stewardship of the hotel, Duane and Kelly Roberts became known as major donors to the Republican party. In 2017, Politico reported that Kelly Roberts was in line to be named the Trump administration’s ambassador to Slovenia, but turned down the post.

After Duane Roberts died at 88 in November, Riverside buzzed with questions over the fate of the hotel, prompting another Roberts family lawyer to offer public assurances.

“Nobody’s buying this hotel. Mrs. Roberts is keeping this hotel,” attorney Patrick O’Brien told a TV news crew in late November. But on May 4, Kelly Roberts and the San Manuel Investment Authority announced the pending sale.

Festival of Lights, Mission Inn’s popular holiday tradition, was created by Kelly and Duane Roberts after they reopened the hotel.

(Allen J. Schaben/Los Angeles Times)

Then on May 20, guests spotted workers removing the two paintings from the lobby area. Longtime hotel-watchers said other items had disappeared in recent years, including an 1876 Steinway piano; a statue of the goddess Pomona; William Wendt’s painting “Houses at Arch Beach”; Ilya Repin’s 1884 painting “Portrait of Madame K.”; and the hotel’s Taft Chair, a sturdy oak armchair commissioned by Frank Miller in 1909 to hold 335-pound President Taft. But the midday, presale removal of the Keith and Vereshchagin paintings prompted immediate outcry.

It was “traumatizing, seeing that stuff on display for so long and then seeing it come down,” said James Ranger, a veteran hotel tour guide and Mission Inn Foundation docent. After all the time and money the Roberts family invested in the property, “leaving on this note puts a sour taste out there,” he said.

The sale closed May 29. Though the Roberts family’s attorneys have insisted that the buyers and sellers are in accord, preservation advocates in Riverside have called for a review of documents associated with Roberts’ purchase of the property.

Meanwhile, the hotel’s new era as a tribal holding begins. Besides the two casino-hotels, the Yuhaaviatam of San Manuel Nation owns several other hotels, including the Waldorf Astoria Monarch Beach Resort & Club in Dana Point. As for the Mission Inn, the tribe has signed on Boston-based Pyramid Global Hospitality to take over management, and several changes are already evident.

Notably, the Roberts’ names have been dropped from the signage. Kelly’s Spa has become simply the spa, Duane’s Steakhouse is now just the steakhouse, and Casey’s Cupcakes, a hotel shop founded by Kelly’s daughter Casey Beau Brown, has closed. The Festival of Lights will continue, a spokesperson said.

Stolte said the Old Riverside Foundation believes the tribe will be “great stewards” for the Mission Inn.

“I wish that their welcome to Riverside was a little smoother,” he said.

Staff writer Alex Wigglesworth also contributed to this story.

A model suing Kanye West is speaking out about the alleged assault that lawyers for the rapper argue was his 1st Amendment right.

Jennifer An, an actor and model who competed on the 13th season of “America’s Next Top Model” in 2009, detailed the alleged assault — that she says happened in 2010 — in a new interview with the BBC’s “Fame Under Fire” podcast that was released Wednesday. In 2024, An filed a lawsuit against the “Heartless” rapper alleging he choked her and used his fingers to simulate oral sex during a music video shoot for La Roux’s “In for the Kill.”

“He had me sit in the chair in front of the camera, and I didn’t know what was going to happen. I was given no direction,” An told the BBC. “I was just told to sit in this chair, and then playback started, and then all of a sudden he just reaches a hand out and starts choking me, and I’m just not sure what’s happening, and then he pulled his other hand out and starts choking me with both hands and then starts smearing my makeup all over my face and sticking his hands inside of my mouth, which simulated oral sex.

“I remember feeling so suffocated, unsure, scared,” she said. An said she was 24 years old at the time of the alleged incident, her first foray into the industry. She told the outlet that, as it was happening, she hoped someone on the production side would call a halt to it.

“I remember him looking at me, like really intensely, and licking his lips a lot, my face was like so close to his,” she continued. “He reached a point that — I assume — he was very happy with himself, and he yelled something like, ‘This is art! I’m Picasso.’”

La Roux said she insisted the alleged assault be left on the cutting room floor, and in a 2024 Instagram exchange with An, the artist said, “I could never forget that, it was horrific,” according to court documents.

During the podcast episode, the BBC correspondent Anoushka Mutanda Dougherty asks if she can see the direct-message exchange between An and La Roux. She then reads aloud a message in which La Roux said, “I was in the room behind the monitor, begging the directors and everyone else to do something, but everyone was scared of him and did nothing.”

La Roux told An that West whispered to her, “I bet you think I just put women back about 10 years.” She said that she responded, “You just put women back about 500 years.”

Representatives for La Roux did not immediately respond to The Times’ request for comment.

The case has not yet gone to trial. In a motion to dismiss the civil suit — which was filed under New York City’s Gender-Motivated Violence Act and remains pending — attorneys for West didn’t deny the incident took place but, rather, argued that it was an artistic performance and therefore protected by the 1st Amendment.

Attorneys representing An in the case, Melissa Berouty and Christine Hintze, told The Times in an emailed statement: “While we respect the importance of artistic expression and the protections afforded by the First Amendment, dismissing this case on that basis would set a dangerous precedent. It would effectively grant immunity to perpetrators of unlawful abuse so long as their conduct occurred under the guise of artistic expression or within an artistic setting.”

They further said that An’s claims are supported by affidavits and written communications from multiple eyewitnesses, including La Roux.

What was the moment from the season finale of “The Pitt” that finally broke you?

Was it the shot of the day-shift staff watching the Fourth of July fireworks from the hospital roof, the sound of “America the Beautiful” playing in the distance? Maybe it was Dr. Al-Hashimi (Sepideh Moafi) crying in her car, realizing she can’t work around the seizure disorder that makes her a liability in the ER. Or perhaps it came when Noah Wyle’s Dr. Robinavitch (a.k.a. Dr. Robby) swaddled Baby Jane Doe, telling her that “everything’s gonna be just fine,” because she has “so many wonderful things to see and so many people to love.”

But what opened the floodgates for me, after the last half-hour of the episode left me completely dazed and dumbfounded, was Drs. Santos (Isa Briones) and King (Taylor Dearden) exorcising the day’s demons by belting out Alanis Morissette’s “You Oughta Know” at a karaoke bar and demonstrating that primal scream therapy is alive and well three decades into the 21st century.

Which is all to say: “The Pitt” is the only television show I’ve watched that gives me the same feeling I have when I read a great, immersive novel. When the end is near, I’m bereft. I’m Al-Hashimi in her car, wanting to pound the dashboard. I do not want to let these characters go. They’ve given me 15 hours and I still crave more. I would devour a series of short films about odd couple Santos and Whitaker (Gerran Howell) sharing an apartment or a summer spinoff showing Dr. Abbot (Shawn Hatosy) working off-hours as a SWAT medic. Anything to fill the long, “Pitt”-less weeks between seasons.

Instead, I’ll just have to content myself with scrolling through social media, watching fan-made videos of Dr. King self-soothing her way through the day, (this one, set to Vince Guaraldi’s score from “A Charlie Brown Christmas,” is the absolute best) and taking in the compilation of the show’s cast asking, “What’s the status on Baby Jane Doe?” in their best Katherine LaNasa Pittsburgh accent.

“The Pitt” won five Emmys from 13 nominations, including best drama series, for its celebrated first season, a 15-episode run that began with Dr. Robby up on the hospital roof talking down Dr. Abbot after an intense shift. The season ended with Dr. Abbot returning the favor after Robby and his staff ground their way through a day that included a mass shooting, a child drowning and a patient assaulting LaNasa’s no-nonsense charge nurse.

How do you follow that?

For a few episodes this new season, it looked like “The Pitt” wasn’t up to the task. We watched the ER staff dealing with a series of bloody, messy (the disimpaction!) medical maladies, an avert-your-eyes spectacle that felt like the writers were trying to one-up themselves and find the worst possible affliction to make viewers double over. Worse, the thrill of discovery that kept us invested throughout the first season, the slow drip of information about the characters, wasn’t quite there. Something was missing, and it wasn’t just Dr. Robby’s motorcycle helmet.

But the luxury of having 15 episodes is that the writers can take their time laying the groundwork for the story they want to tell.

And what a story it was.

Over the course of the season, we watched Dr. Robby disintegrate, his mental health more precarious than ever because he has done nothing to address his apparent PTSD. “You need help,” Dr. Langdon (Patrick Ball) tells Robby, confronting him in the finale. “Be honest with yourself.”

Robby isn’t the only one struggling, as Dr. Abbot puts it, to “dance through the darkness.” Langdon is back, managing his sobriety. Dr. Mohan (Supriya Ganesh) is having panic attacks. Santos is still dealing with self-harm. Dana remains haunted by that Season 1 patient assault and now carries a syringe containing a heavy sedative just in case somebody emerging from that overcrowded waiting room crosses the line again.

“I’ve seen so many people die that I feel like it’s leaching something from my soul,” Robby says. “I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.”

And there you have it, the subject of Season 2 of “The Pitt.” Medical professionals are gasping for air, and the American healthcare system, with its focus on profit above all else, is failing them and the patients they treat.

Remember Orlando, the patient with severe diabetic ketoacidosis who arrives at the ER after fainting? Orlando had to ration his insulin because he lacked insurance and felt he had to cut corners. He ends up leaving the hospital early, fearing the cost of treatment. Later he returns, having fallen (jumped) from a catwalk at his construction job, fracturing his skull. But good news: He now qualifies for Medicare and Medicaid due to long-term disability.

It’s a tragedy, one of many reasons the season finale shot of the ER staff holding back tears as they watched the Fourth of July fireworks felt like a body blow. “America the Beautiful”? How can that be true when the current administration is seeking $1.5 trillion for defense spending — nearly 50% more than this year — while cutting healthcare and social safety nets? How can that be true when an act known as the “Big, Beautiful Bill” removed funding from an already frayed healthcare system and exacerbated the shortage of care in rural areas of the country?

That one scene, the culmination of hours of careful, patient storytelling, said more about the disconnect between American ideals and America’s reality than anything else I’ve read or watched this year.

Give “The Pitt” all the Emmys. It has more than earned them.

The park’s emblematic 1914 Botanical Building is open again after major reconstruction that ended in late 2024. The Mingei International Museum, which focuses on global folk art, won Michelin praise in 2023 for its eclectic restaurant, Artifact at Mingei (which serves lunch Tuesday through Sunday, dinner Thursday and Friday).

The park’s museums and other institutions cover art (fine, folk, contemporary and photographic), natural history, anthropology, flight, model railroading and all the imagined worlds that come with Comic-Con (which opened its museum here in 2021).

The Old Globe theater complex includes three stages. The big lily pond between the promenade and the Botanical Building may be the most wholesome over-the-counter tranquilizer in town. The Centro Cultural de la Raza, housed in an enormous former water tank, covers Chicano, Latin and Indigenous culture. The park’s Japanese Friendship Garden & Museum fills 12 acres with greenery, koi ponds and bonsai displays.

If you’re planning to hit several museums over a couple of days, look into a park Explorer Pass, which might save you money.

About parking: In January, after years of free parking, the city imposed a fee system charging non-residents $10-$16 per day and residents slightly less. San Diegans rose in outrage, and in late May city officials announced a plan to end the parking fees by Jan. 1, 2027.

A MUCH-loved English lido is set to finally reopen – after being forced to close last year.

The 90-year-old Stroud Lido has just received funding from the local council for urgent repairs.

The Stratford-based pool initially closed 10 months ago as it needed to undergo structural and mechanical repairs.

In early 2026, it was announced that lido would not be reopening and would be closed indefinitely.

Since its closure, locals have been campaigning to save the lido with over 100 written requests from residents to see what the future of the pool would be.

In a huge U-turn, Stroud District Council has now approved the funding needed to repair the pool.

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Work is set to start immediately, so the lido could open as soon as July 29 – failing that, it’s scheduled to reopen on August 14.

Initial funding to upgrade the lido was estimated at £5.1million, but has been brought down to £476,000.

The pool may need to undergo more repairs at a later date.

On its Facebook page, Save Stroud Lido said: “We are absolutely delighted by last night’s decision and can’t wait to see families, swimmers and young people enjoying the Lido again this summer. 

“And now the focus turns to getting the works completed and the gates reopened as quickly as possible. Because this is more than a pool.

“It’s part of Stroud’s identity. A place for fun, friendships, exercise, memories and safe outdoor swimming for generations to come.’

The Stratford-based lido first opened to swimmers in 1937 at a cost of just £20,000.

It’s a 50-metre long cold water pool with six swimming lanes and has a 10-metre high diving board.

Usually the pool is only open for the summer season and is open for around 100 days starting in May.

Maybe you can use a laugh this morning. Maybe you’re still deep in your feelings, thinking about the “Hacks” series finale and that shot of Hannah Einbinder looking at Jean Smart on the dance floor, grief seeping into her eyes. Maybe you’re lamenting the chaos at our treasured national parks. Hell … maybe you took out a loan to buy a tomato over the weekend.

If you’re feeling down, Gary Oldman would like a word. And that word is: Hufflepuff.

I’m Glenn Whipp, columnist for the Los Angeles Times and host of The Envelope newsletter, back in your inbox for the next few weeks as we navigate our way through Emmy season.

Digital cover story: The world according to Gary

(Jennifer McCord / For The Times)

Gary Oldman is a Hufflepuff.

Never mind that the 68-year-old actor, who played the rebellious, impulsive wizard Sirius Black in the Harry Potter film franchise, couldn’t tell you the difference between a Hufflepuff and, say, a Gryffindor.

When journalist Josh Horowitz reads a list of core personality qualities — loyalty, hard work, patience, fairness, dedication — and asks Oldman if that describes him, he nods his head.

You’re a Hufflepuff.

“I’m a Hufflepuff?” Oldman says, trying the word on for size. He likes it. “I’m a Hufflepuff!”

This video clip is a favorite of mine, one I could watch on a loop for the sheer delight Oldman takes in pronouncing the word Hufflepuff.

It’s easy to see why Oldman takes such pleasure in being a granddad these days, one of the things we talked about at length not long ago for an Envelope digital cover story. He can access his silly side with ease.

I asked Oldman about the upcoming HBO “Harry Potter” television series, a decade-spanning endeavor that will spend a season adapting each of J.K. Rowling’s seven fantasy books.

“I’ve seen a trailer for it, and I think it’s a great idea,” Oldman says. “They’re doing the whole book, which I love, because there were a lot of wonderful things, fabric and character detail, we had to lose for the sake of telling the story in two hours.”

Would Oldman be keen to don a distressed velvet overcoat again and participate in the reboot?

“I don’t think they want any of us from the movies contaminating or muddying the waters,” Oldman says, pleasantly. “Besides, I’m too old.”

But with AI, is anyone too old now? Oldman could drop into “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” and look like he hasn’t aged a day since the movie was released 22 years ago.

“I don’t know where we’re going with it because it seems to advance every week,” Oldman says. He ponders the advances made since Martin Scorsese used digital deaging in his 2019 film “The Irishman.”

“I think that was the least successful thing about it,” Oldman says of the technology, “and I’ve been a huge Martin Scorsese fan forever. Ultimately, I don’t know why they wanted to make [Robert] De Niro’s eyes blue.” He pauses, considering the change and why it bothered him. “I guess it’s a blue-eyed Irishman. If I had one negative takeaway, it would be that.”

Oldman prefers directors like Christopher Nolan, whom he worked with on the “Dark Knight” movies and “Oppenheimer,” who think technology should be used sparingly to enhance the storytelling.

“Otherwise it leaves me a bit cold,” he says. “You’re just looking at ones and zeroes.”

“I don’t want to be replaced entirely,” Oldman continues, shaking his head. “I don’t think anyone does.”

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