Venice Art Walls, Living Canvases on the Beach, Turn 50
|A cross-section of the wall|
It takes a lot to call attention to yourself at Venice Beach. Then again, sometimes all you have to do is stand around for half a century.
This year, the iconic art walls of Venice Beach -- 3,120 square feet of concrete canvas that beckon to the artist like a siren song -- turn 50. The walls have outlived wars, the presidents that waged them, recessions, VCRs, disco and TV's Donny & Marie. How can a Statue of Liberty juggling chain saws or a medical-marijuana dispensary compete with that?
Built originally as a part of the Venice Pavilion, a venue for concerts and performances, the walls once stood nearly 10 feet tall. A constant target of illegal tagging over the years, the pavilion soon became known by the moniker "Venice Graffiti Pit." It fell into disrepair and became inundated with homeless people and trash.
Support for the walls ebbed and flowed through time, depending on which way the aerosol was blowing. In the late 1990s, the stage and some walls were removed and several tons of sand were brought in and bermed up to the level of the old concrete tables, some of which are still visible today poking through the surface. The addition of the sand created an elevated knoll that effectively cut the remaining walls down to a height of 6 feet.
Since June 2007, the two surviving walls have come under the strict control of ICU (In Creative Unity) Art. Artists are required to submit a detailed sketch of what they would like to paint and the work must be devoid of any derogatory, racist or otherwise inflammatory remarks or themes. Then, and only then, are they given a permit for a designated time and area of the wall to paint on.
Stash (rhymes with Josh) Maleski, ICU curator of the walls for more than a decade, recalls the backlash against the idea in the beginning. "At first there was some resistance to the idea of controlling the walls, but then artists began to realize that their work was protected much longer. A guy could labor for hours on a piece, only to see it covered up the next day by someone else. The permit system prevents this from happening."
A special permit called a "limited" does not require an approved sketch beforehand and is used for painting on the cones (formally chimneys for the pavilion fire pits) or tabletops.
"It's for people who just want to show up and blow off a little steam," Stash explains -- or, in this case, a little aerosol.
No one contacted by the Weekly could remember a time when the walls did not have paint on them in one form or another. Examination of the walls bears this out. Once a smooth and flat gray surface of reinforced concrete, the wall now more closely resembles the rough and craggy surface of the moon. In some spots, pieces have broken away. Seen edgewise, they tell a story of their own, like the growth rings of a tree. Trapped within the layers are the passions of artists from long ago.
And like all things middle-aged, the walls have begun to swell at their midsections. One of the more popular walls to paint on, the east-facing wall that looks toward the boardwalk, is a full 3 inches thicker than its original 4 inches and is burdened by an additional 8,000 pounds of paint.
The permit process has accelerated this growth by allowing artists to use base coats that are rolled on to serve as a fresh canvas before they begin their work. Where once artists tried to do a "hit and run," applying only a thin layer of spray paint, today's artists add an extra .016 of an inch with each new mural.
At that rate, with an average of four complete coverings per week, the wall will reach the boardwalk by the year 4068, assuming there is anything left to write about.