American Selections from the Samuel P. Harn Museum of Art Book

On Friday mornings I taught a diary-writing class at the art school. Attendance in it was the kiss of death for anyone expecting to succeed within the institution. The diary-writing class attracted mostly girls, of course, who'd drifted foolishly into art, thinking art might be a medium for change or self-expression. Girls who'd slit their wrists and been hospitalized for mental illness. Unlike the girls who'd go on to good careers making videotapes of lawn-sprinklers, the diary-writers wondered why there were no senior female faculty at the school and why the Institution's only black employees were security guards and secretaries. The diary-writers wondered why the institution's only class on "feminism" was perennially taught by men. They wondered why the works of major 20th century black writers were referred to at the school as "crappy."

Still, in Los Angeles, it was possible to make a lot of money. Neoconceptual art-school art was flourishing around the world: it was a blue-sky opportunity. LA artists rightly saw themselves as trained professionals: like doctors, lawyers and other lapdogs of the ruling class, they referred to what went on inside their studios as their "practice." Once inside the loop, there was very little competition so long as you abided by the rules: 25% percent of institution graduates obtained major representation within their first year out of school. Meanwhile in New York, artists who'd worked for twenty years languished without galleries.

At that moment in LA it was also possible to make a lot of money buying real estate. Since this required a certain curiosity about neighborhoods and human nature, it interested me much more than artistic practice. And so I bought and sold. Meanwhile colleagues who'd arrived here from New York were establishing great careers as curators and critics. Anyone from a decent northeast college willing to work a New York 60-hour week could become a leader in their field. You didn't have to be that smart, or rich, or lucky. In Los Angeles, anything was possible.