LOS ANGELES — The thing about being an arts writer is: You get to look at art for a living. And mull it for days.
The thing about being an arts writer is: Days of mulling can turn into weeks or months. Or even a year.
Not to say that this is a bad thing. But sometimes — call it an occupational hazard or free perk, depending — an individual art piece or body of work gets seeded in my brain, its image or soundscape or visceral feeling hovering in my consciousness and commanding attention at the most unexpected times. Like the video snippet of a desperate, shrieking woman embedded in the cement floor of MOCA's Geffen Contemporary — more on that later, but suffice to say her crooning, in Italian, rang in my head for weeks while I shopped for groceries or pumped gas.
