When I think about how my good friend Currado Malaspina is coping with the aging process, when I think about the accumulated wisdom one would expect from an acclaimed French artist and intellectual, one inevitable question comes to mind.
When does the ego die?
Malaspina has been spending more and more time in Los Angeles working on his bizarre series of watercolors depicting the entire breadth of Washington Boulevard. I've been watching his legendary bombast temper into something more nuanced, more lyrical, though certainly not any less aggrandizing.
I confess that with all my years of living in southern California, it has only been through Currado's operatic sweep through our grungy streets that I have discovered the beauty of our sun-drenched, casually designed concrete hodgepodge of urban utilitarianism.
I'm astonished by his energy.
In the case of Currado Malaspina, the ego remains undiminished.
