I left Los Angeles a little over a year ago after spending nearly two decades there. The first few years were an adjustment; after that, I fell in love with the place. Handling an Ed Ruscha title this week reminded me why. Ruscha didn’t just photograph Los Angeles—he caught the rhythms and feelings of the city, the odd angles, the way sunlight can make even a quiet, empty balcony feel like a place.
His bookworks are a big influence. The simplicity, the restraint, the nerve it takes to publish a book “about nothing.” And every time one passes through my hands, I’m right back in my old L.A.: art openings that felt more like neighborhood gatherings, where artists and art nerds and dealers and collectors and people who just liked strange, beautiful things all mixed together without (or with) trying too hard.
Ruscha’s books—especially the L.A.-centric ones—shaped the way I look not only at Los Angeles but how I look at printed matter, photography, and the idea of place in art. Some Los Angeles Apartments, Every Building on the Sunset Strip, and Nine Swimming Pools still hit me the same way: as books that go beyond their supposed simplicity and serve as reminders of a city that rewards anyone willing to slow down, pay attention, and let it seep in.
