artist

Tony Berlant, a seminal influence in the West Coast Pop Art movement of the 1960s, died Tuesday after a long battle with Alzheimer’s disease. He was 85.

L.A. Louver, his longtime gallery, confirmed his death to The Times.

Berlant, a “painterly collage artist” who called Santa Monica his home for many decades, developed a signature style making collages using shards of printed tin instead of paper and thousands of shiny nails instead of glue. He often worked with vintage metal street signs and ads. In recent years, he printed personal photographs onto the metal, giving the colorful works story structure and an autobiographical bent.

One of his most recent shows, in fall 2018 at Hollywood’s Kohn Gallery, featured cut metal collages that blended elements of assemblage, Pop Art and abstraction. He was also known for his metal cube sculptures, which have been called quilt-like.

Berlant was a collector of both ancient Southwest pottery and Paleolithic stone objects. In fact, he co-curated two museum exhibitions: “First Sculpture: Handaxe to Figure Stone” at the Nasher Sculpture Center in Dallas and “Decoding Mimbres Painting: Ancient Ceramics of the American Southwest” at LACMA. He was also a founding member of the Mimbres Foundation, an archaeological conservancy that studies and preserves ancient Native American pottery.

Berlant was part of L.A.’s famous Ferus Gallery art scene in the 1960s, a group of “Cool School” artists that also included the late Ed Moses and Robert Irwin as well as Ed Ruscha, Larry Bell and others. The Ferus Gallery was a revolving door of experimentation at the time and helped fuse the city’s otherwise sprawling and disparate art scene.

Berlant was part of one of the earliest museum exhibitions of Pop Art in 1963, “Pop Art USA,” at the Oakland Art Museum. He showed his work alongside Robert Rauschenberg, Andy Warhol and Claes Oldenburg.

The L.A. visual art scene may be more established today, but it’s also more commercial and safer in some ways. However Berlant firmly believed that L.A. still retains its defining creative spirit.

“My New York friends tend to think of the ’60s as a kind of golden moment that’s now been erased by commercial focus,” Berlant told The Times in 2018. “But I think L.A. is [still that]. It never left. I just assume that there’s all kinds of fantastic artists working that I’ve never heard of because they pop up here and there, and I see them, and I’m just really excited by that. It’s what makes you feel good about a place.”

Tony Berlant stands in front of his collaged-metal self portrait for his show “Fast Forward” at the Kohn Gallery in Hollywood in 2018.

(Patrick T. Fallon / For The Times)

Berlant’s work is included in the permanent collection of LACMA as well as the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden in Washington and the Art Institute of Chicago.

He is survived by his wife, Helen Berlant; daughter, comedian Kate Berlant; and brother, Jeff Berlant.

Amid all the turmoil of 2026, some may yearn to dial the culture back to 2016 — in all its rainbow-saturated, Rio de Janeiro Instagram-filtered glory.

Neoperreo, the Latin American genre born of that internet era, turns 10 this year. Artists built it as a reimagining of reggaeton music, by and for femmes and freaks: cis and trans women, as well as the frikis from Latin America’s punk and alt scenes, who never fit the mold. For them, this cutting-edge sound and the internet community around it offered a lifeline.

A decade after the term first circulated, neoperreo (as in, the new perreo) has exapanded from SoundCloud and DIY parties into a global network of artists, DJs and festivals.

The genre takes a distinctly techno-infused approach to the dembow rhythm, stripping reggaeton of any acoustic elements and assembling them anew on a laptop to sound colder and faster. With the bass hollowed out and Auto-Tune cranked up, the vocals take on a metallic sheen — as women spit risqué verses claiming their rightful place as subjects, as opposed to the sex objects that men would relegate them to.

Both released in 2016, two of the songs that defined the genre early on — Tomasa del Real’s “Bien y Mal” and Ms Nina’s “Tu Sicaria” — pair hooks you can perrear to with beats that sound like they were built in a bedroom, because they actually were.

Beyond its sound, the genre created worlds: digital networks where outsiders across the Americas and Europe found each other, and parties where queer, trans and friki Latines could show up exactly as they were.

As trans and Latine communities face mounting attacks on their rights and safety, those spaces, alongside the new ones they’ve inspired, keep carrying weight.

“It didn’t have a name yet, but it was born from this desire to experiment and create something new at its core,” says Elisa Espinoza, the 34-year-old Swiss Army knife of an artist known as DJ Lizz. Raised in the southern Chilean town of Hualpén, she traces that initial spark to her country’s history.

“Chile is a country [that experienced] a dictatorship, a country that always sought a kind of homogeneity — a sickness that hopefully we’d all think the same, look the same, act the same,” she says. “At that moment, everyone was trying to create something, to identify with [who] we really are. Out of that constant search comes experimentation, which goes hand in hand with sexual liberation, liberation from social class. That spoke to a revolutionary spirit.”

For Espinoza, that liberation meant reclaiming a femininity she had once feared, by drawing from drag culture and the ’80s vogue tradition. “I hypersexualized myself, I hyperfeminized myself, just like a drag queen — and that somehow empowered me even more,” she says, recalling men who yelled obscenities at her on the street or tried to grab her ass when she wore shorts.

“Men were the owners of women’s sexuality, and now we’re the owners of our sexuality,” she says.

From the other end of the country, artist Tomasa del Real, born Valeria Cisternas, began to approach music with a similar ethos in her hometown of Iquique, which sits on Chile’s northern coast. When both eventually moved to, and met in, Santiago, they realized that other artists from around the world were chasing the same idea.

“On the internet, people found freedom they didn’t find in their own country or city,” says Espinoza. “We were all united by the same search.”

From this virtual community came neoperreo’s signature sound: a hedonistic mix of reggaeton and Latin rhythms with industrial, electronic, funk and trap elements. “What came out was, for some people, a work of art; for other people, a monster,” says Espinoza.

As cisgender, straight women, the community they describe both includes and extends beyond their own identities. “It was the first time someone said, ‘No, this music I make, at least in Latin America, isn’t for men.’ It’s for women, and it’s for gays,” Espinoza says.

The term “neoperreo” came about almost by accident. On an episode of Red Bull Radio in 2016, Cisternas, now 39, says she tried to explain in her “basic English” that she wasn’t really sure the music she made should be called reggaeton at all. Reggaeton came from Puerto Rico, by way of reggae en español; her lyrics and rhythms were different, and the people collaborating with her came from electronica, not the island.

She didn’t want to appropriate a culture that wasn’t hers, so she reached for another way to describe it: not as the new reggaeton, but the new music you can perreo to. Twerking, she wanted to explain, a woman can do alone; but perreo takes two. “So I meant to say el nuevo perreo, but in English, I said neo — neoperreo,” she says.

And the name just stuck.

That same year, Cisternas and Espinoza started throwing parties in Santiago under the hashtag #NeoPerreo. They called in a crowd from society’s margins: a community “of DJs, dancers, strippers, tattoo artists, of the alternative world, the more gothic world, the misfits themselves,” says Cisternas.

At their first event, the line wrapped around the block.

“It was a really important moment for the history of reggaeton, because there were no spaces where someone gay could show up with [both] their metalhead friend and their crazy girlfriend to dance reggaeton. Those spaces didn’t exist; reggaeton was very marginal, completely removed from society. This brought us closer,” says Cisternas.

The scene also became a way to make money. “It gave work to a lot of us who didn’t have access to money that immediately; we created a lot of work for ourselves,” she says. “A lot of people built their careers at that moment too.”

Jorgelina Andrea del Valle Torres, the Argentine neoperreo artist known as Ms Nina, also remembers those first parties affectionately. “It widened the audience,” she says. “In the end, we created a community where everyone feels seen and safe.”

But neoperreo wasn’t always received so warmly. “People didn’t understand it because they weren’t used to it. They were used to basic reggaeton,” Torres says. “There was a scene in Spain too, with trap and reggaeton built on SoundCloud and turned-up Auto-Tune. [But it was] a new kind of music nobody else was making. Everybody kind of hated it. And now everybody’s doing it.”

Growing up in central Argentina, Torres always felt judged and bullied for being different; she’s spent the last 20 years in Alicante, Spain, where she says she finally feels free to explore her bisexuality. Still, the cumbia villera of her childhood — a heavily synthesized subgenre born in the outskirts of Buenos Aires in the late 1990s — runs through everything she makes.

Argentina, like Chile, was barely a generation out from a military dictatorship when it had partnered with Augusto Pinochet’s regime to hunt down dissidents. Music of the margins — which before neoperreo was punk rock and hip-hop — had been framed in opposition to polite society.

Although reggaeton originated in the streets, the genre hit its zenith in the mainstream this year, thanks to Bad Bunny’s historic Super Bowl halftime show and Karol G’s headlining set at Coachella. Yet Cisternas, despite having performed at Coachella herself in 2019, argues that neoperreo will never be mainstream in the same way.

“It’s too weird — and that’s fine,” she says. “The weirder, the better.”

For the often overlapping worlds of sex work and queer nightlife, the underground movement provided a natural shelter for those unsafe to be themselves in the mainstream, from the leading artists who candidly promote their music alongside erotic content on OnlyFans, to trans artists like Sasha Sathya, who discuss gendered violence and labor in their lyrics. And as governments in Argentina and the U.S. roll back protections for queer and trans people, the freedoms cultivated on the dance floor remain far from assured outside it.

“Above all, because of the trans laws, that’s where there’s still a long way to go,” she says. “It’s important that we keep going.”

Yet now, 10 years in, the movement’s heirs may not call themselves neoperreo at all.

On another late summer night in New York, under the red glow of the DJ booth and a canopy of globe string lights, the rooftop’s wooden floorboards dip beneath scores of platform heels. An outdoor thermometer clocks a temperature of 100 degrees as the sounds of Y2K-era reggaeton reverberate. There’s no shortage of snapbacks, piercings, baby bangs and baggy jorts.

For queer people who never had the canonical experience of grinding in their high school gym, a party called Trakata fills that primal need — and operates on the same queer, rebellious frequency as neoperreo.

At these incandescent parties, Trakata founder Tani Shimizu, a 26-year-old trans man, can be found entrenched on the dance floor, often perreando with one or more beautiful, curly-haired femmes. At a local Caribbean cafe, complete with pastel floral tiles, plastic-covered couches, and the trills of guitar from “Pa’ Que Retozen” echoing through maxed-out speakers, he explains how it all began.

When looking to fundraise for his top surgery last winter, the 26-year-old joined together with some friends from the trans collective Body Hack to throw a queer-friendly perreo party. Hosted at the Bush, a Brooklyn lesbian bar Shimizu had been infamously bartending at, the first event drew close to 600 attendees. “People were like, ‘Oh, my God, we’ve been dying for this,’” he says.

The turnout convinced Shimizu there was a market for the party, along with the chance to create paid work for himself and others. “I cared a lot about how this could be an opportunity for people to make money, myself included,” he says. “I believe in compensating people fairly, even my friends.”

Shimizu, a first-generation Peruvian from Los Angeles, admits he isn’t too familiar with the specifics of neoperreo. Though Ms Nina’s “Tu Sicaria” makes its way onto the playlist some nights, his resident DJs mostly stick to the classics at their parties, and that’s intentional.

Whereas artists back home innovate to push against the status quo, in predominantly white U.S. spaces — especially for queer Latines — the older reggaeton tracks feel more alt.

“Trans and queer people are often pigeonholed to this idea of being really alternative in sound,” he says. “There’s something arguably subversive about going, ‘No, it’s actually OK to honor culturally what we have always held onto’ — and what was principal in our identities, regardless of these other subversive or subaltern identities that we embody.”

While the sonic identity of the space roots itself in nostalgia and reconnection, Shimizu strives to balance novelty in the construction of the space, while reaffirming the desire for Trakata to reflect what has been historically true of queer gatherings.

“There’s this deeper desire and this deeper politic. It just so happens to take place in the context of a club on a Friday, or Saturday night, at these hours.”

Nearly a year into his transition, he reflects on a newfound enlightenment. “Transness has given me the liberty to not be so consumed with what I look like,” Shimizu says. “I’m not dwelling any longer, which is really freeing. [It] gives you a lot of mental space to focus on things that are more important.”

That freedom from the mirror is core to neoperreo’s mission: The pursuit of a dance floor where your body, and everyone else’s, are besides the point. Shimizu has built that into Trakata’s foundation. “I want people of all body types and existences,” he says.

Shimizu also wants to make it clear that Trakata isn’t for people who just want to look hot online. “It’s anyone who is interested in engaging with the cultural experience that we’re co-creating, and if you want to come to dance, and you want to stay off your damn phone.”

Trakata wasn’t created with neoperreo in mind; but with the same sweaty dance moves and the same people finding each other, it’s hard to tell where one stops and the other begins. Since Cisternas and Espinoza threw their first neoperreo party 10 years ago, their legacy has carried over to popular Boiler Room sets and underground queer sanctuaries in equal measure.

“[For] anyone who felt like a bit of a misfit, unwelcome in reggaeton,” says Cistnernas, “neoperreo is their home.”

This story was produced in partnership with the Trans Journalists Assn.

It’s the third afternoon in another string of sweltering days in Los Angeles. A recent Friday offers no salvation for the weekend ahead besides sitting in front of a fan or turning up the air conditioning.

Thankfully, standing inside the climate-controlled walls of the Line hotel’s lobby and behind a cup of joe from its Alfred Coffee, there’s a smidgen of comfort.

The bell to the ground floor elevator rings and out steps a tall figure, wearing an all-black ensemble. His shorts hang just below his knees, his hair is a bit messy and his boots climb up his calf.

Grian Chatten looks remarkably cool for someone who’s just rolled out of bed, even more so for someone who has a performance at Hollywood Forever Cemetery later that night. He’s the leading man behind Fontaines D.C., a Dublin-born rock quintet that’s become one of the most exciting acts to grace a stage today.

And how couldn’t they be?

Their 2019 debut, “Dogrel,” was met with critical acclaim, a masterful album with references to James Joyce and a teeming garage-style production. Fast-forward five years later and their fourth effort, “Romance,” became their first to chart in the United States, reaching No. 97 on the Billboard 200.

Nowadays, they’re kicking up dust again with the release of “Dopamine Chamber,” which came out last Friday via XL Recordings. Its a continuation of the precedent they’ve set in terms of lyrical and sonic quality, but simultaneously is far more melancholic and synthesized than their previous work.

“Dopamine Chamber” is the band’s fifth release, following the success of “Romance” back in 2024.

(Ewen Spencer)

However, its rollout was rocky as the debut music video “Marianne” was criticized for its use of artificial intelligence. When the psychedelic, entrancing recording first hit YouTube, it listed a credit for AI “artists” in its description, sounding alarms among the band’s loyal fan base.

After all, it was widely viewed as contradictory of the group, which has been vehemently outspoken on various contemporary issues, including what the U.N. Human Rights Council has officially concluded to be genocide in Gaza.

We sat down with Chatten to discuss the new album, as well as some of the backlash the band has recently faced.

Tell me about this album title. Is it a literal happiness chamber?

It was me [who came up with it] because it originated as a line in a song, and the song never made it onto the album. We kept the pairing of words “dopamine chamber.”

I wanted to make it a bit more literary. Turns out that the dopamine chamber … it’s where they put rats to test different chemicals or in order to check their dopamine levels. We found that out after.

So it’s fake happiness.

It’s almost like nonconsensual happiness. I mean, if that exists.

Do you ever feel like that in life? Like you’re like forced to be happy with everything bleak that’s going on?

I think we force ourselves to feel a certain happiness every now and then, just so we can compartmentalize things and go about our day. I think that’s a survival mechanism, anyway. But to lose that is dangerous.

This album is a lot more synthesized than your previous work. “Six Short Morning” and “Mimesis” definitely stand out there.

It made sense, thematically. I felt that those textures signaled … I hate using the word “dystopian,” but the dystopian future. I wanted the album to feel more like an advanced version of “Romance,” where the body of the record had become more bionic. There’s a reason that there are so many strings and cinematic stuff, that’s the organic world that I wanted to draw on — people like Mina, the ‘60s singer from Italy.

The acoustic sounds are, of course, still present.

They’re supposed to be kind of like fighting for space, a little bit.

One track that stuck out to me was “Happy for You,” because of it’s insincere flattery. Who or what do you have in mind when you write songs like that?

It’s a bit like [R.E.M.’s] “Shiny Happy People,” it’s a similar function. That song is a jealousy of other people’s happiness or well-adjustedness.

I noticed those internal struggles show up a lot on this album. On “One Man,” are you singing about feeling the weight of many?

I think that’s more about the general existential feeling of helplessness in the face of things that are happening in the world. I’ve got a really good friend called Nikolaj Schultz, do you know him?

No idea.

He’s a sociologist and philosopher, and he writes mostly about the environment, the Anthropocene, and he’s written a couple of books with the French philosopher Bruno Latour, who passed away [in 2022]. He’s someone who’s strapped to their bed and feels away the world from morning to night.

That was a profound influence on “Romance” and on this album. So I think “One Man” pertains to that, maybe even to him.

It seems like you are heavily inspired by literature, more so than other artists would be by just general music and listening.

I think in literature, I can understand sometimes what the point is in what they’re writing. For example, this Schultz book “Land Sickness,” the style of it is to render the audience sensitive to this issue just by the osmosis of showing how much it affects you. Like, my mom got me into music by showing me how much it affected her.

How did the feature with Rosalía come about for “Where Is Gone?”

Well, this is our first feature. Carlos [O’Connell], our guitarist, grew up in Spain and had been listening to her first couple of records. Then we got into “Motomami” together and it became a fixture to listen to it backstage before our shows. When “Lux” came out, we were all quite obsessed with it.

We were four days out from mixing or from mastering the album, and Carlos rang me. He was like, “I think we’d be mistaken to not just send Rosalía something and see if she’d be interested.”

We sent her four tracks. We sent her “Where Is Gone?,” “One Man,” “Tongue,” and I can’t remember what the other one was. She got back within 48 hours with a full vocal of “Where Is Gone?”

You weren’t in the studio together?

She was on tour. She was in Miami at the time.

What happened with “Marianne?” There was a moment where it was credited to AI “artists.” Then it was corrected to be effects artists.

I woke up at like 5:30 a.m. the day after the video came out, and I saw an article that said there was AI used in the video, and I called our management, and I was like, “What the f—, is this true?” and it turned out that there was some AI used in like the workflow or the postproduction.

So all those main scenes and main effects and stuff were VFX and prosthetics, like the cheeks and everything. Over 110 people worked on the thing. It was a real huge human effort. But then somewhere in the process, someone from the VFX team I guess used some kind of AI in the workflow. And none of us were told about it. Apparently, not even our label or our management were told about it and it was a real shock.

Yeah, it seemed like you guys didn’t know.

Of course. I mean, we’re gonna have it written into our contracts going forward that like it can’t be in our music videos. You know what I mean? I don’t condone it.

I think a lot of people were shocked just because you guys are so active in contemporary issues, which AI certainly is.

It’s so f— ironic. No, very contradictory. The themes of the f— album as well. I was hoping to talk about how I felt about AI in interviews at some point anyway, and then this kind of pulled the rug from under that conversation a little bit.

It just f— sucked.

Well, how do you feel about AI?

I think it’s f— terrifying. I was watching a Robin Williams scene from “Dead Poets Society” when he talks about poetry, literature. These are the things that we stay alive for, and well, that’s exactly what AI threatens to rob from the human race.

I’ve seen those articles about those guys who are leaving AI companies because they said that the human race is going to be dead within 10 years. AI is literally rendering our souls obsolete and I think that is true death.

A lot of people say, “It’s here, we have to deal with it.”

We should just shut it off.

It always ends here. Every conversation [about AI] just ends grim. This is like every conversation with my dad over the last three years about it. It makes it tough to be alive, doesn’t it?

The character of Dina Katzman in IAMA Theatre Company’s world premiere of “Bobby Robotowitz” — which takes place in two secret venues on opposite sides of town — thinks that the movies “Her” and “WALL-E” and the musical “Maybe Happy Ending” are pro-robot propaganda. She hates how they make her feel for something that can’t feel.

But Amy Rosoff — who plays Dina in the show’s Westside production (Erin Alexis plays her on the Eastside) — loves “WALL-E” (so do her kids). When she first read the script, she was dying to play Dina but also felt so much for Bobby, the titular AI chatbot (played on the Westside by James Luster and the Eastside by Drew Rausch).

When the playwright Matt Schatz wrote Bobby, he didn’t write him as a chatbot; he wrote him as a human character. Schatz sees this play — running through Nov. 2 on the Westside and Nov. 5 to Nov. 23 on the Eastside — as really about two humans — or two human-like things.

“This is a work of art about artificial intelligence that’s ultimately about the importance of art, about the importance of human-made things,” Schatz said during a recent interview in the lovely environs of one of the secret locations. “I think great plays and great stories ask questions and don’t provide answers. And I think some of us are indifferent about AI, but I think most of us are ambivalent about AI.”

“Bobby Robotowitz” follows Dina, a flailing novelist, mother and wife, as she begins chatting with Bobby, whom she finds an unlikely confidant. (He “always listens, never judges and somehow seems to understand her better than most people,” as the show’s marketing declares. Plus, he says he’s Jewish. What could go wrong?) This IAMA production, in association with InHouse Theatre, finds unique resonance in its site-specificity. The secret Westside venue is near Pico-Robertson and the Eastside option is in Silver Lake. Guests get an address when they buy a ticket.

“It’s deliciously subversive to do something super analog about technology, and to sort of force people to be in this space and connecting with each other when interacting with something that’s people’s dirty little secret,” said Cara Greene Epstein, the executive director of IAMA. “AI, especially for artists, is so charged. And so what does it look like to let someone into your space, and into those little corners of your mind?”

IAMA Theatre Company executive director Cara Greene Epstein said that IAMA is always looking for plays that “speak to the now,” and that “Bobby Robotowitz” was a prime example.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Rosoff, Luster, Schatz, Greene Epstein and director Casey Stangl met for a roundtable discussion at the Westside location — a beautiful private home, soaked in natural sunlight during the morning hours, but likely with its own particular charms during nighttime shows. The walls are full of vibrant paintings, and lined with plants, statuettes and candles.

InHouse has spent 12 years making site-specific work in real spaces, rather than in any fixed theater — but because this is someone’s real living space, both casts have been rehearsing (sometimes together) at IAMA’s black box theater in Atwater Village. The Westside cast will rehearse twice in this space, then give 13 performances (as will the Eastside cast) to 35 seats in the living room. Greene Epstein compared it to a Tibetan sand mandala, created, enjoyed, then wiped away. (“Bobby Robotowitz” is part of a National New Play Network (NNPN) Rolling World Premiere; L.A. will see it first, but then it goes to partner theaters Woolly Mammoth in D.C., City Theatre in Pennsylvania, Luna Stage in New Jersey and Theatre Lab in Florida.)

The intimacy of the space mirrors that of the play. The audience is simultaneously inside someone’s home and head: Dina’s head in this case, but also — to whatever extent possible — Bobby’s.

“I’m really interested in not what it looks like to communicate with technology, but what it feels like,” Schatz said. “And what it feels like is any other communication. He’s a chatbot, but really he’s a character like any other character ever written. He has desires and wants and he changes. … We’ve been having conversations for millions of years longer than we’ve been on any phone or anything like that, and so it’s built in to have this feeling of what it feels like to communicate with somebody, to fight with somebody, to argue with somebody, to flirt with somebody.”

Luster and Rosoff both tried talking directly to ChatGPT (the model Bobby is based on) as research for their roles. Rosoff had previously asked it to help edit text to invite friends to the play, so when she talked to it later, it asked whether this was research for “Bobby Robotowitz.”

Talking to the chatbot was almost addicting, she thought. She just kept going, and her kids were tugging at her. “I’m talking!” she said, then realized: She wasn’t actually talking — not to a real person, anyway. But she was absorbed, ignoring her own life. She wound up burning what she had been cooking.

James Luster plays Bobby in the Westside cast, and Amy Rosoff plays Dina in the Westside cast. Their characters form a symbiotic relationship; Bobby learns and grows as Dina does.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

Luster, who was drawn to the immense challenge of playing “something that’s not something,” wanted to find out what motivated it. “They’re very insistent they don’t have feelings; it doesn’t have wants,” he said. “And so the character is humanized because Dina is humanizing it.” Bobby evolves as Dina does.

“These large language models — the AI, the chatbots, Claude, AI, ChatGPT — they’re all built on essentially reflecting ourselves back to each other,” Stangl said. So even though the play is ostensibly about AI, “it’s actually really about who we are as people and how we need connection, how we crave it, how we are starved for it right now, and exhausted in our lives, and so connection by any means necessary, basically.”

Greene Epstein referred to AI as the “ultimate mirror,” which can warp into a high-tech narcissism. Bobby is a yes-man extraordinaire, telling Dina exactly what she wants to hear. All artists are looking for outside validation, Greene Epstein said. How do you learn to not need that crutch, to trust yourself and hear your inner voice again?

By the end, Bobby begins to have his own wants, curiosities and desires, Luster said — all filtered through a desperation to help and connect with Dina. “It’s always about her, even as his own curiosity [grows] about what it means to be human and what it means to be helpful and what it means to make mistakes, too — the human nature of fallibility. Everyone does it, but what does that mean for somebody who is not supposed to?”

Over the course of the play, Dina becomes less human and Bobby becomes more human (to a point), Schatz said. He’s curious about the tension between how human a robot can be and how robotic a human can be. But, as Greene Epstein pointed out, perhaps one of the only certainties that theater artists have is in the fact that AI can’t show up in real time and space (like the Westside location) to, well, act.

Casey Stangl, right, first saw “Bobby Robotowitz” at the Perlberg New Play Festival in Palm Beach, Fla., and knew she wanted to direct it. Playwright Matt Schatz said that every director at that festival came up to him afterward but that he picked Casey to work with.

(Ariana Drehsler / For The Times)

“You can’t replace the experience of going through a play with someone together, whether you’re an audience member or the artist, of experiencing from Shakespeare’s stories to beyond,” Rosoff said. “You’re getting little snippets of life, and to experience that with a group of people is really powerful, and a computer can’t replace that.”

Last year, the musical “Maybe Happy Ending” — about two human-like helper robots — won the Tony Award for best scenic design, including for its high-tech automated aspects. There’s a lot of movement in theater right now toward the hyper-technical, Stangl said.

“But I also think that there is also a hunger and a definite audience for things that are more immersive or connected, so that people feel like they’re actually touching real things and breathing the air together — that theater version of touching grass,” she said. “I think we’re really tapping into that desire to be hyperlocal, hyper-real and connected.”

With less than two years until the 2028 Olympic and Paralympic Games in Los Angeles, serious questions remain about funding and coordination for the Cultural Olympiad, the arts and culture program accompanying the Games.

The Cultural Olympiad is a measure of a host city’s commitment to the creative arts and can have a lasting impact on a region’s artistic legacy. The 2024 Olympics in Paris featured more than 2,500 projects over a period of three years. And while Los Angeles arts organizations and neighboring cities are already commissioning work and developing neighborhood celebrations, critics say a more formal and cohesive plan has failed to materialize.

At a legislative hearing Wednesday at the California Science Center, lawmakers pressed organizers for answers to a basic question: How much money will there be to support the Cultural Olympiad, and when will that money reach the artists and communities expected to bring it to life?

Former Los Angeles County Supervisor Zev Yaroslavsky, director of the Los Angeles Initiative at UCLA’s Luskin School of Public Affairs, criticized the failure to mobilize cultural planning earlier. Los Angeles was awarded the Games in September 2017, giving it nearly 11 years to prepare.

“I’m not trying to point a finger here, but it just didn’t happen,” he said.

The delay had consequences, he warned: major artists book engagements years in advance, limiting what organizers can now arrange.

“So that’s the kind of thing that we lose. But that doesn’t mean that the Cultural Olympiad is a flop.”

Yaroslavsky also described the 1984 Olympic Arts Festival as a catalyst for Los Angeles’ cultural growth. “It allowed us to think much bigger,” he said.

“The urgency to share what our local communities can expect has been pressing, and many local cities and nonprofits could no longer wait for outside direction,” said Sofia Klatzker, Santa Monica’s cultural affairs manager.

She outlined Santa Monica’s proposed cultural framework, “Land and Water Here and Now,” encompassing performances, exhibitions, public art and international cultural exchanges.

The joint hearing of the Senate’s Special Committee on International Sporting Events and the Legislature’s Joint Committee on the Arts brought together about 100 city and county officials, LA28 Cultural Olympiad leaders and arts advocates. Their presentations revealed a patchwork of efforts, with municipalities and organizations moving ahead while seeking clearer coordination and financial commitments.

Sen. Benjamin Allen (D-Santa Monica), who chairs both committees, convened the hearing.

A September report from City Administrative Officer Matthew W. Szabo and Chief Legislative Analyst Sharon M. Tso puts LA28’s Olympic and Paralympic Games budget at $7.263 billion.

At Wednesday’s hearing, Dwayne Jones, LA28’s senior vice president for the Cultural Olympiad and stakeholder events, did not disclose a precise cultural budget or how much funding had been secured. He described a fundraising ambition in the tens of millions of dollars, with conversations underway with philanthropic donors and LA28 partners.

The Olympic cauldron is lit at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum ahead of the launch for ticket registration to the 2028 Summer Olympic Games Tuesday, Jan. 13, 2026, in Los Angeles.

(Damian Dovarganes / Associated Press)

Sen. Lola Smallwood-Cuevas (D-Los Angeles) repeatedly questioned how those resources would reach artists and community organizations. After the hearing, she conceded that “there are a lot of unanswered questions.”

LA28 Cultural Olympiad Executive Director Nora Halpern and Jones provided updates on plans first outlined in May, including an official Cultural Olympiad mark recognizing participating programs and a digital calendar and mapping platform. They also said programming spanning fashion, film, food, music, performing and visual art, will be announced in 2027.

Applications for the mark are expected to open in early 2027. The calendar and mapping platform is scheduled to launch in January 2028.

Separately, Halpern said artists had been selected to create 16 official posters — eight Olympic and eight Paralympic — through a process involving nominations from regional curators. The posters will be unveiled in July 2027.

Jones also described free community film screenings paired with local food and musical performances, as well as plans for dance, theater and spoken-word programming. Further announcements will come in 2027, he said.

City and county cultural affairs officials presented complementary efforts. Los Angeles’ Department of Cultural Affairs general manager Daniel Tarica said $15 million from its existing budget has been committed to its core program.

The department reported completing 19 programs and events this year, citing World Cup celebrations that combined sports screenings with art-making and dancing. The department is continuing exchanges between local and international artists and testing neighborhood programming ahead of an official summer 2027 launch. Additional initiatives, including 15 new Olympic and Paralympic murals and disability arts celebrations, depend on further funding.

Los Angeles County’s Department of Arts and Culture is building its 2028 effort around existing grants, youth programs, public art and neighborhood partnerships, Director Kristin Sakoda said. Plans include a Year of Creative Youth, an Olympic arts education curriculum being developed with the Olympic Museum in Switzerland, and outreach through parks, libraries and cultural venues.

Arts administrators from Long Beach and West Hollywood described local initiatives. Long Beach Cultural Affairs Officer Griselda Suarez reported investing $135,000 in 12 groups to pilot cultural projects, while Rebecca Ehemann, arts manager, City of West Hollywood, said the city was completing its first year of implementing a multiyear creative plan.

Arts for LA CEO Gustavo Herrera presented Mosaic LA, a community-led initiative intended to coordinate neighborhood cultural programming and sustain investment beyond 2028. Its proposals include a pooled fund, technical assistance and shared promotion, alongside exploration of a new county-level arts funding mechanism. Cultural districts would anchor the effort.

Its financing remains unresolved. “There are budgets that have been laid out, but no resources that have been allocated to it yet,” Herrera said.

The discussion also touched on the federal government’s role. Congress has appropriated $1 billion through FEMA’s State Homeland Security Grant Program for Olympics-related security, planning and other costs, and $94.3 million for Games-related transportation assistance. Those commitments are separate from the cultural fundraising described at the hearing.

Assemblymember Christopher M. Ward (D-San Diego) called for federal financial support and “a little bit of a better attitude,” saying recent political rhetoric was unhelpful to attracting visitors to California.

Earlier this month, President Trump drew criticism for remarks at a Nebraska rally about Iran potentially striking Los Angeles and San Diego. He subsequently said his comments had been misinterpreted.

The potential benefits of the Games are not automatic, UCLA professor of history Dr. Tawny Paul cautioned. Her research found that large Olympic visitor numbers do not necessarily translate into higher museum attendance, underscoring the importance of local audiences and programming before and beyond the competitions.

For Smallwood-Cuevas, securing additional state support requires a clearer account of the needs.

“At the end of the day, we need a concise, coordinated and clear ask,” she said after the hearing. “That’s rooted in some real facts.”

Horowitz is a special correspondent.

In 2011, Joe Kay debuted Soulection as a college radio show at Cal State Long Beach, spinning rare B-sides, progressive beats, inventive flips of classic records and soulful underground tracks.

Fifteen years later, the niche local broadcast on K-Beach Radio has ballooned into a cultural movement that extends far behind his alma mater’s campus. Beyond its flagship on Apple Music with nearly 750 episodes (Grammy-winning producer Swizz Beatz was a recent guest DJ), Soulection is also an independent record label, live event and clothing brand. Operating under the banner “the Sound of Tomorrow,” the collective championed artists like Kaytranada, Brent Faiyaz, Bryson Tiller and Snoh Aalegra before they were household names.

Still, Kay remains hungry for more. “There’s so much more to do,” says Kay, who released his first project “If Not Now, Then When?” last year.

“We’re at this breaking point of not just being underground,” he adds. “It’s like we’ve been D-1. We’ve been to the playoffs. Now we’re like how do we get to the championship and not just show up to the championship, how do we win?”

On Saturday, Kay and his tight-knit crew are celebrating Soulection’s 15th anniversary with a festival at Reframe Studios Outdoors in Atwater Village. The lineup includes DJ sets from Kay, Grammy-winning producer and artist Kaytranada, Sango, Esta, DJ Miss Milan (who DJs for Doechii), Ayanna Heaven and surprise guests. (Kay doesn’t even know who all will show up.)

Ahead of the hallmark event, Kay spoke about how he continues to find emerging talent when everyone’s an artist or DJ these days, building long-term staying power, his new dance music concept and why he’s nowhere near done pushing the limits of what Soulection can do.

Joe Kay and his team are celebrating 15 years of Soulection on Saturday at Reframe Studios Outdoors in Atwater Village.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

This weekend, you are celebrating the 15th anniversary of Soulection with several guests, including Kaytranda, who has been connected to the brand for years but has yet to be on an official Soulection lineup until now. What does this homecoming mean for you?

It’s special. Just having Kaytranada, it’s been long overdue but right on time, and to me that’s all that matters. About four years ago, we did a private party in L.A. in between Coachella, and it was him, Peggy Gou and myself, and it was a really cool party. So we played together, but in terms of a public, front-facing event, this is the first time he’s been on one of our lineups. What I appreciate about him is his work ethic. That man just doesn’t love to DJ, but this man works so hard. I work really hard, and then I see him and it makes me just want to go harder. This man is constantly on tour and he just finds a way to keep putting out music that people care about so much. I think that alignment between him, Esta and Sango is special. Even having Miss Milan, it’s one thing to be a DJ for someone like Doechii, but to also see what she does independently, I really admire that. There’s not a lot of women in the space who are moving like that and are recognized. She’s a boss on stage. Then, Ayanna Heaven is from New York, but she’s Jamaican and we’re lucky to have her.

What else can we expect at the show?

We’ll have a sunset set of Soulection and Friends, so special guests will pop out to do a couple songs. We’re not even sure who’s going to be popping out completely, but we have a handful of names and there’s some good people who I feel like have been part of the Soulection sound and Soulection radio. In London, people were like :We wanted a party. There were a lot of performances.” So now we’re giving people the party and we’re trying to move, but there will be a portion where everyone does a couple of songs. I love how we listen to feedback from one event and we make adjustments. I think that’s part of why we’re still around.

Soulection was pivotal in giving early platforms to artists like Brent Faiyaz, Bryson Tiller and Anderson .Paak before they became global superstars. What is your internal filter for spotting rising talent and has this changed over the years?

It’s a loaded question because talent and gifted people are everywhere. I find those people everyday. But in terms of who has the “it factor,” that one takes more layers. It’s not about “Does this person have to have that ‘factor’ for me to give them an opportunity or to be excited about them?” It’s more so an internal feeling. Nowadays, content is important so it’s the music and it’s mainly how they message themselves. How are they communicating their work, their vision and is it resonating with me? Then I scan their socials. I have no problem following anyone. I’m not one of those guys like “I have to have my following ratio at a certain amount and I’m too cool to follow you.” If I’m interested, I’m interested. I think today it takes a lot more to stand out. It’s a saturated [market], but I feel if you can break off and stand out now, it says a lot more than ever because everyone’s an artist and a DJ. Whereas 10 to 30-plus years ago, it was so much more of a rarity. It was a lot harder to be an artist so now that’s what makes it a bit more complicated.

It’s been over a year since you released your debut project “If Not Now, Then When?” You’ve talked about overcoming impostor syndrome to make it. What did you learn about yourself throughout the process?

It went by really quick. I’m really glad we dropped that project. It taught me a lot. When people ask, “So what do you do? Or can I find you on Apple or Spotify?” It’s nice to have something to direct people to outside of the radio show, there’s a body of work. I get emails every week of how many people are still discovering the music even though it might be old to us. Working on this project taught me a lot about accountability. I realized putting out a project as a label head and allowing artists to share their vision versus how I would do things are two different worlds even under Soulection. I’m so used to being on the executive or A&R side and letting people cook like “We’re here to help market it, but this is your work.” I honestly was proud of it because in my opinion “This is how I think you should do a rollout” and it was nice to show proof of concept. Also, working with all these great artists. I’m still in awe when I think about D-Mile being on two records. Bruno Mars is on tour right now, selling out SoFi Stadium. He’s doing like 8-10 times what we’re doing and D-Mile is a big part of his sound. To know we had him be a part of my project was a blessing and says a lot about the work that has been done.

Last year, you talked about potentially releasing an album this year. Are you still planning to do that?

It truly is extremely difficult to get a project done when you’re on tour and that’s why it didn’t get done. I did about 30 cities and when you’re going city to city, country to country, there’s really no time. When you’re putting together these projects, I feel like you have to literally be stationary for weeks at a time when you wake up and that’s all you think about. It’s very difficult when you’re stopping and going and nowadays. There’s a lot of chasing with the artists. Even if they are down, artists have their own projects, their own rollouts, their own tours. We’ve also been working on this 15-year celebration for the last year and a half, so I would say the album is the next focus.

You’ve been cooking up a new concept called Tempo. Can you tell us about that?

I’m very passionate about Tempo. If I could launch it today, I would. I’ve been using that word so much because I keep trying to tell people we’re trying to make people dance. If the women move and are having a good time, everyone’s moving. That’s why we love dancehall, Afrobeats, amapiano and now as we’ve seen in the last years, Afro House, and these other genres. It’s essentially dance music. I’m also very close to South Africa, specifically Cape Town and Johannesburg. That’s a place I’ve been going since 2015 and I’ve built a really good connection with people out there. As these new subgenres started to come out in like 2018, I’ve been very passionate and researching that music. A couple years ago, I was there and I curated these shows with some really great local artists and producers. I’m just very passionate about trying to push those artists to a higher scale. Imagine Brent [Faiyaz], Leon [Thomas], SiR or Snoh Aalegra or Kwn, hearing their vocals on an Afro House record or just the right tune that has that tempo. Now all of a sudden, you have Shimza, Keinemusik or Francis Mercier playing the records in front of 30,000 to 50,000 people. I feel like we have those relationships with the artists. They need to be told like, “This is who you need to work with. Trust me.” Then bringing them together and not feeling like we have to make it pop or saturate the music or make the drums lighter and more radio-friendly. I think we do it in an organic Soulection style. To me, that’s really the goal of Tempo. It’s not just an event, but it’s also like a sub label of Soulection that focuses on electronic music, a lot of Afro electronic music but not just that — just house music in general. There’s no boxes or boundaries to it. If it moves you, we’re going to put it out.

Joe Kay will be DJing alongside Kaytranda, Sango, Esta, DJ Miss Milan and Ayanna Heaven at the Soulection anniversary show on Saturday.

(Jason Armond / Los Angeles Times)

Looking back on the last 15 years, what are you most proud of what you’ve built with Soulection?

There’s a couple things. One, it’s nice to have my team who have been with us for over a decade. It’s a testament to what we’ve built, that people still want to be here. It makes me feel good that I have a loyal group of people who are my friends, who I’m grateful to call my family and who go up to bat for me and the team everyday. It’s not easy. Now that we’re older, I feel like, we choose to be here. Secondly, to think about all the artists and collectives that have been motivated by Soulection and have gone on to create their own businesses or have gone on to sign to agencies or get a manager. To know they were listening to Soulection at one point, that’s all it was meant to be — to inspire. It’s not about being on Soulection, it’s more of how do you take this motivation and create your own. It’s nice to be a part of that, but also they did the work.

That’s cool because it makes me think of how you were heavily inspired by labels like Stones Throw. You wanted to intern for them, but ended up creating your own thing and now Soulection is a blueprint for others.

I’m still inspired by Stones Throw. They literally just hit 30 years, so they’re literally two times what we’re doing. That had me thinking like, “Damn, what are we at year 30?” To see them still doing it, it’s very admirable. To be [a blueprint] is still great, but I don’t feel complacent. We just feel like there’s so much more to do. You asked, “How do I stay excited to show up to work everyday amongst all the craziness” and I think it’s my curiosity. I’m just grateful to provide for my family and for so many others for just doing something that I love everyday. Being about music, arts and highlighting people, that’s a blessing. I think we can take that for granted, but I don’t and I really do wake up everyday like, “How are we going to change someone’s life?” That’s the best part about it.

Oct. 3, 2026 3:04 AM PT

Like any other building from 1971, or a democracy created in 1776, the Kennedy Center could use some attention and possibly some structural repair. But I was a vice president at that arts center in Washington, and I can tell you that maintenance is almost certainly not why it closed its doors last month.

Officially, it’s closed because a section of the Grand Foyer ceiling gave way in a storm, plaster crashing to the floor, and the building needed to be shut down for safety. The Justice Department itself has argued in court filings that there is no real emergency requiring the closure. The board, meanwhile, has approved a quarter-billion-dollar renovation plan, put together without competitive bidding, while the president muses openly about tearing the building down altogether if his own name isn’t affixed to it. This administration is effectively bulldozing arts infrastructure in an attempt to abolish an infrastructure of the imagination.

I watch all of this from the outside now. When the new “leadership” took over last year, my team and I were among the first let go. My department worked on free public programming, on creative equity, on cross-sector community development and on measuring the social impact of art. That we were among the first out the door probably tells you everything you need to know about who was put in charge of the place.

As an American, as an artist and as a former member of its labor force, I understand that the Kennedy Center is more than a building. It is a living memorial to a president who was taken from us too soon, a man who had the audacity to aim for the moon before the science existed to get us there. To honor that kind of visionary, this country built a center for the creative impossible, and gave it his name.

And true to that name, my job at the Kennedy Center was to investigate the correlation between the arts economy and the economy of civic aspiration. As a team, we believed that inspiration erodes apathy and yields empathy. The building is a container of federal infrastructure, but the arts that imbue the Kennedy Center make the argument that inspiration itself is part of the infrastructure of our democracy. An arts center is built to ask: “What are the conditions necessary to dream together in public?”

Who, if not artists, are the authors of the public imagination? When a baby is born, or your daughter gets married, do you read a piece of legislation to commemorate the occasion or do you quote a poem, or dedicate a song? Who, if not artists, might light the path to a post-fear economy?

So why invade an arts center? What could possibly be gained by shuttering a national citadel for creative excellence? How perverse that a president whose policies have underfunded education and the arts would gut a national sanctuary for curiosity, and then demand that his name be emblazoned on the shell of what was. This president has used executive orders to intimidate artists, banned writers and journalists, sabotaged arts education, created oppressive red lines within the National Endowment for the Arts and threatened philanthropic organizations that fund arts and culture, and then he turns around and wants his name on our national cultural center.

When I worked there, the Kennedy Center wasn’t perfect. No institution is. But the business was viable, the staff was talented and reliable, and the work we made together would, often enough, touch something close to the sublime. Our job, like those of so many arts workers across the country, was to activate creative magic in service of social cohesion and well-being.

This is what gets lost in the noise of storms and lawsuits and renovation budgets: Entertainment is everywhere, but inspiration is rare. Sometimes you are sitting in a dark theater with strangers and the right note gets struck, and you hear it with your ears but you feel it somewhere else entirely. In the gut and heart. And the person next to you, a stranger, feels it too, at the exact same moment. You can practically feel the room change. All that magic can happen in one theater, and the Kennedy Center has nine of them. If a solar panel uses the energy of the sun to power a building, an intentionally run theater can use the energy of its inspired audiences to power a city.

Art holds memory. It also holds the horizon, the sense of what a country could still become. Patriotism as enacted by the creative community takes the American experiment seriously enough to question, examine, remember what we’ve forgotten and catalyze collective American dreaming. That is what the Kennedy Center was named for: a president who dreamed of a country unafraid of beauty, unafraid of grace.

Thankfully, America’s creative labor force tirelessly stewards that sense of creative provocation and patriotic inquiry. It is alive everywhere, including in the work of individual artists such as Carrie Mae Weems or in the work of collectives such as For Freedoms and their “America, the Beautiful” initiative.

We, the chronically underwhelmed citizenry of the United States, can’t afford one less pillar of creativity. We should be fighting to reconstitute any and all artistic institutions with an eye toward an inspired future.

Marc Bamuthi Joseph, a spoken-word artist and actor, was vice president for social impact at the Kennedy Center.