Tag Archives: las vegas

Electric Blue Oasis: The Las Vegas Pool as Sign

6 Jun

Tourists en masse pause to photograph the Bellagio’s outdoor courtyard from a stylized, concrete balcony designed to evoke Northern Italy. Below them, five pool courtyards cover the landscaped expanse in a set of varietals: ambient fountains, lap pools with floors covered in contrasting tiles, hidden jacuzzis walled away behind the foliage. Guards eyeball the key card of all pool entrants, leaving the balcony-only visitors to the wishful thinking the Bellagio’s romanticized imagery is designed to inspire.

Pool at the Bellagio, Las Vegas

Emblematic of relaxation and luxury, swimming pools across America dress-to-impress with waterfalls, floating bars and palm tree clusters. The Las Vegas swimming pool goes farther, embodying a highly constructed destination, attitude or theme: replicated Greek and Roman statuary surround “The Garden of the Gods” at Caesars Palace; the Southeast Asian-themed Mandalay Bay’s “The Beach,” offers sand and a wave pool; lush landscaping, faux grottos and cascading waterfalls line the Mirage’s oasis-like space. The city’s known excess sets expectations high for architectural elements, but almost every “pool experience” now goes beyond the standard hotel pool, creating a total environment.

Despite Las Vegas’s penchant for relentless change, a consistent set of elements persevere throughout the Strip’s structural history: casino, hotel, retail, sign, grounds, porte-cochere, parking and pool; Venturi, Scott Brown and Izenour’s 1972 Learning from Las Vegas incorporates an extensive categorization of such features, all of which continue to be found in Las Vegas today. The most notable component to change from definitive to inconsequential is the property sign. LED lights and digital screens extinguished the neon sign’s artistry and impact; themes previously realized through multi-story signs shaped into pink, atomic clouds, stylized minarets and billowing plumes now manifested as sculptural architecture across the Las Vegas skyline, dwarfing the signs that never grew to the Strip’s new scale.

Stardust sign and casino, Las Vegas. Image from playle.com

In contrast, the Las Vegas pool amplified its size and function since the neon era. When casinos began opening along Las Vegas Boulevard South in the 1940s and 50s, the property’s sign was the dominant promotional outlet.  Taking the lead from the classic motel structure, Strip casinos targeting drivers on US Highway 91 used the sign to represent their contents and themes, while the modest, postage stamp pools offered the tempting contrast of glimmering water against the stark desert. Some hotels, such as the El Rancho, positioned their pools as secondary billboards, supporting the property sign out front: the classic desert mirage materialized for drivers as they emerged from the empty desert.

El Rancho sign and swimming pool, Las Vegas. Image from unlv.edu

Although this oasis effect reflects a promotional aspect of the early Las Vegas pool experience, thirty years later, that role transitioned from architectural element to complete representation. A shift in visual cues occurred as the pool’s value to the overall casino image increased and the outdoor sign diminished. The opening of the Mirage in 1989 initiated the trend of entertainment as a significantly more prominent aspect of casino revenues, largely realized through amplification of the casino’s theme; the “mirage” literally became Steve Wynn’s entire, 3,000+ room resort.  The keystone of this tangible fantasy is the pool,  a winding lagoon of electric blue, surrounded by lavish landscaping, a tiki-themed bar and splashing waterfalls. By adopting the iconic desert oasis as its theme, the Mirage built an image with the pool at its core.

Mirage pool., Las Vegas. Image from thedubaipie.wordpress.com

The immersive pool trend initiated by the Mirage spread quickly throughout the 1990s, the pool’s role as sign increasingly strengthened while hotel themes proliferated and expanded; the Excalibur’s fairytale castle, the Luxor’s glass pyramid and Treasure Island’s pirate ships replaced the standard “tropical” and “old west” iconography historically dominant on the Strip. Exterior and interior architecture reflected the new themes at maximum volume, yet little innovation was put towards the property sign, its promotional power diminished by the shift in vistors’ arrival method, from the road to the airplane.

Booking a hotel upon arrival in Las Vegas is a ritual of the past; instead, travel search engines such as Orbitz and Kayak.com represent the new drive-by. Following a series of clicks, the Las Vegas-bound traveler finds the Strip in digital form; here, the property sign is insignificant. Rather, price, availability, and desirable amenities exert comparable power over the internet searcher’s desire to stop. In order to compete in this marketplace, a casino needs a virtual edge that fulfills the old role of the sign. As a component of the casino well served by glossy imagery and barely-clothed sex appeal, the pool became a natural solution.

The new “destination”  theme common throughout the Strip by the late 1990s effectively translated into matching pool environments. In 1998, Steve Wynn transformed an image of the Italian Bellagio resort into drizzling fountains and “historic” two-story building facades, while in 1999, Circus Circus Corporation realized the Mandalay Bay’s Southeast Asian theme by bringing in 2700 tons of a sand. While the more resort-friendly pools instigate total immersion in the “resort experience” as much as they represent the casinos’ themes, the 1997 New York New York casino’s “Park Avenue Poolside” demonstrates one of the most complete embodiments of its place.

Small, grassy mounds, scattered trees and a yellow volleyball net stretched across the NY NY pool visually cue a condensed Central Park encircled by a line of brick restaurant facades; this is standard Las Vegas pool themeing.  Beyond the constructed details, standard chaises cover concrete pool deck, so densely packed that in the absence of aisles, loungers awkwardly crawl across the chairs to place their towels, Offering space for 840 pool-goers in a hotel that houses over 2000 rooms, the chairs are at a premium reminiscent of New York apartments; once finally situated, the New York New York guests find themselves crammed into the claustrophobic, Manhattan lifestyle, as close to the “New York experience” as many Americans from less occupied areas of the country may get.  The pool, in this respect, offers more immersion in the resort’s theme than the hotel’s purple, art deco-inspired bedspreads or the beer guzzling Lady Liberty sign could ever hope to instigate.

New York, New York pool, Las Vegas

“Park Avenue Poolside” offers little of the traditional experience affiliated with resort swimming pools; relaxation ultimately is not its purpose.  Rather, the Las Vegas pool has become a representation of the hotel in the way the property sign once was, to the point that it inherently embodies the casino’s essence.  In a landscape where every business is selling the same thing, for extreme profits, convincing an audience of business individuality is difficult, and ultimately a deception.  The pool effectively played the role of the sign during the 1990s and early 2000s, becoming a place for immersive signification within the hotel premises. As the most current casinos begin to de-theme their approaches, the next signifier of choice is still unclear but can be expected to create an equally elaborate spectacle.

From the House of Lords to Rehab: Celebrity in the Las Vegas Landscape

30 Apr

“There was a time in fabulous Las Vegas when Hollywood starlets mingled with world class entertainers, when comedians gathered after shows to laugh, drink and dine the night away, when brandy and wine flowed and succulent steaks were cooked to perfection and served not only with a smile, but a meaningful conversation. It was common to see Frank, Dean, Sammy ad Peter singing to guests while the sound of champagne bottles popped and the feeling of good times filled the room.” -Plaque at the Entrance to the House of Lords, Sahara Casino

Sahara Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas.

The Sahara’s House of Lords restaurant discretely inhabits a corner of its disintegrating casino. If the restaurant were representative of the Sahara’s present state, the casino’s closure in less than one month would be surprising—the House of Lords stands in pristine condition, its subtle fountains circulating beneath a shimmering, faux night sky, surrounded by a circle of booths backed with golden minarets. A more recent incarnation of the restaurant that originally opened in 1954, this House of Lords avoids the dire fate of the rest of the casino, which suffers from abandoned towers full of severely aged rooms, a swimming pool surrounded by empty fountains and a row of shops pushing sales of discounted halter tops and rhinestone flip-flops.

The House of Lords, Sahara. Image from vegastripping.com

The Sahara represents one of the last casinos on the Las Vegas Strip with ties to the city’s past image as a haven for celebrities and Los Angeles’s elite to escape Hollywood . Outside of their stage time, performers were known to frequent the casino floors and restaurants, providing an image of Las Vegas as a place uniquely accessible to the stars. The long defunct, tiki-themed Don the Beachcomber restaurant was the best known restaurant in the Sahara for celebrity sightings during the mid-century era, more so than the original House of Lords.

The current House of Lords integrates aspects of its own history with that of Don the Beachcomber to create a constructed time capsule aimed at an audience nostalgic for “old Las Vegas” and its celebrity-filled associations. Its overtly dark lighting, small number of tables, and seclusion within the casino communicates exclusivity, while the circular positioning of the booths creates the sense of intimacy often absent from contemporary Las Vegas restaurants. Photo murals of the casino’s original architecture and the stars who frequented the Sahara surround the room, offering a meager substitute for the unsurprising absence of celebrity presence at the present-day, modest casino.  The mid-century Las Vegas Strip was a place to become glamorous by association; the House of Lords attempts to bring back that moment as best it can within a vastly different Las Vegas landscape.

Postcard image of Don the Beachcomber restaurant, Sahara. Image from hmdavid on flickr.com

In contrast to the more observation-based celebrity experience valued by the Baby Boomer generation, the current Millennial generation now coveted by the Las Vegas Strip casinos integrates participation with their concept of celebrity; these Americans want to be the celebrity. The Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, located several miles from the Strip, embodies this newer attitude, beginning upon arrival at the casino’s porte-cochere. Since the 1970s most casinos have amplified the porte-cochere feature of their entrance: the MGM Grand maintains an enormous, bulbous cover loosely referencing its overblown Art Deco décor, the tropical Mirage incorporates a thatched roof-like texture and oversized flowers, and seventeenth century oil painting reproductions hang salon style from the ceiling of the Venetian’s roundabout.

Hard Rock Casino, Las Vegas. Image from handycrafuniqe.com

Entering the Hard Rock through the back taxi entrance, in contrast, evokes the Hollywood red carpet arrival: shining mirror panels cover the porte-cochere surfaces, accented with white incandescent bulbs that suggest the  camera flashes of paparazzi at-the-ready. The hotel’s website describes the rooms as “designed with the discerning rock star in mind.” Once per week, guests can engage in tabloid-worthy activities at Rehab, the Hard Rock’s enormously popular pool party that initiated a city-wide trend of young adult-oriented pools and pool night clubs. The most prominent image throughout the casino is the Hard Rock’s trademark celebrity memorabilia. Worn jackets, sparkling costumes and floating instruments fill museum-like display cases every several yards: Shaun White’s flag-print jeans from a Rolling Stone cover shoot, Gwen Stefani’s pink, rhinestone halter top, Kurt Cobain’s signed guitar. Famous objects live here, devoid of their owners, the celebrity role open for casino guests to fill.

Hard Rock Casino interior, Las Vegas.

Mr. Lucky’s 24-7 resides in an alcove off of the Hard Rock’s circular gaming area, posing as a “retro” diner from an indiscernible era. Aged signs from motels and restaurants and motels line the walls, interspersed with archival photographs of Elvis, the Rat Pack and the other mid-century Vegas icons seen on the walls of the House of Lords. The most recent incarnation of MTV’s series The Real World, the reality television show in which a cast of seven unknowns become instant celebrities while their lives are filmed for six months, the cast inevitably inhabits the Hard Rock Hotel; countless scenes of these readymade celebrities take place inside Mr. Lucky’s 24-7.

Mr. Lucky's 24-7, Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.

In the background of several shots of the show hovers vintage “H” and “R” neon signs, abbreviating “Hard Rock.” Anyone familiar with the Las Vegas landscape would recognize the letters’ distinctive font; they came from a sign once spelling “Sahara.” The signifiers of celebrity in Las Vegas have been similarly changed: reorganized, restored, polished and painted. Ultimately, indicators of celebrity, both past and present, represent a fascination still ever-present in the American fantastical landscape.

Diamond-Coated Vulgarities: The Wynn Esplanade and Damien Hirst

25 Apr

Damien Hirst’s For the Love of God would be at home in a window on the Wynn Las Vegas’s Esplanade. The Esplanade is an oversized arcade of designer stores, flanked by flowers and butterflies, bulbous chandeliers and draped satin, all created in highly saturated hues and an oversized scale.  In line with the tone set by the resort-casino’s brand, nearly every store and restaurant is merely a name: Louis Vuitton, Stratta, Dior, McQueen, Bartolatta. The Wynn Art Gallery was fittingly replaced by a Rolex store in 2009, due to lack of attendance.

The change of the resort’s name to Wynn aptly demonstrates its relationship to art: originally to be called Le Rêve after casino developer Steve Wynn’s famed painting by Picasso, Wynn changed the name to something more recognizable by his clientele.  As a resort intended to shed the themed environments characteristic of the 1990s Las Vegas Strip,  “luxury” became the focus of the new casino. This form of luxury differed from the version Steve Wynn created for his earlier Bellagio, which evoked the eighteenth century Grand Tour and included art as one component of the luxury experience though its art gallery (more on the Bellagio in a forthcoming post).

The new Wynn, in contrast, rebranded luxury as name cachet, created for those knowledgeable enough to have an understanding and association with the names comprising the stores, restaurants and hotel itself. Paul Verhoeven’s Las Vegas-based Showgirls  (1995) showcases the difference between the various Las Vegas audiences though the lower class character Nomi’s initial mispronunciation of Versace and lack of awareness of celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck’s Spago restaurant, in contrast with lead, affluent dancer Cristal Connors’s “in the know” disposition.

Wynn’s reconstruction of luxury’s signifiers was effective in both enabling his new resort to become one of the costliest on the Las Vegas Strip, and contributing to the “de-theming” future resorts, as seen in more recent casino constructions in CityCenter Las Vegas and the Cosmopolitan.

Damien Hirst. For the Love of God. 2007. Image from wikipedia.org.

Damien Hirst’s For the Love of God would be the ideal for the Wynn Esplanade because of its parallels to the developer’s own history and role as a constructed status symbol within the contemporary art field. The sculpture’s surface appearance alone aligns with the overstated opulence that characterizes the most expensive hotels on the Las Vegas Strip; however, the Wynn’s Esplanade supplies the most concentrated collection of high-end, designer shops that serve as status symbols within American society. The inclusion of a Ferrari dealer and gallery in the Wynn brings this brand of luxury to a visual pinnacle, an American status symbol recognizable by almost anyone who walks into the casino; similarly, Hirst’s use of 8,061 diamonds as an artistic medium and noted £14 million in production costs to construct an art object that immediately bestows a status of wealth and extravagance upon it purchaser. The Ferrari dealership makes high-end vehicles instantly available for the Wynn’s high rollers to purchase with their newfound winnings; how fitting it would be for For the Love of God to be on hand for a similar whim.

In reality, For the Love of God resides far away from the Las Vegas Strip, supposedly purchased by a consortium that included Damien Hirst himself, in a performative display of art market manipulation. Reportedly sold at its projected value of £50 million, the purchase of For the Love of God was covered by news outlets worldwide as an authentic sale, despite the questionable lack of documentation and public details surrounding the sale. This maneuver bears strong resemblance to Steve Wynn’s performance-like implosions of historic casinos on the Las Vegas Strip.  The casino developer’s demolition of the Dunes in 1993 included coordination with the pirate-themed Treasure Island, then also a Wynn property. The implosion’s constructed narrative included the image of a cannonball shooting from Treasure Island to detonate the Dunes. Unlike many closing casinos, Wynn also opted to include the iconic, 18-story sign in the destruction, demonstrating an overt lack of reverence for the earlier hotel’s cultural significance and clear statement of his view on the future of Las Vegas.

Wynn attempted to solicit footage of the Dunes implosion to cinematic studios, to no avail. Ultimately electing to shoot the footage himself, the filmed explosion afterwards became sought after and sold for use in multiple Hollywood films. Martin Scorsese’s 1995 Casino featured one of the most memorable inclusions of Wynn’s footage, in which the implosion represents the Las Vegas Strip’s transition from control by organized crime figures to the corporate branding of casinos.  As a result of Casino and other media portrayals of Las Vegas’s shift towards family oriented experiences in the 1990s, Wynn’s filmed representation became the reality; his themed casinos replaced “classic,” adult-oriented environments, and Americans bought into the rebranded city enough to start bringing their children to indulge in the pirate ships, tropical waterfalls and oversized castles of the “new” Las Vegas, thus making Wynn’s imagery a reality.

The new Wynn Las Vegas differs significantly from the initial version of Las Vegas he set out to create though the Dunes implosion; the influence the casino developer established through his performative destructions allows his powerful image to proliferate, to the point that his name alone is now enough to attract thousands of individuals to his casino daily. Likewise, Damien Hirst’s performance surrounding For the Love of God brought his name the forefront of the media and American consciousness through a similar medium and a comparable level of success within the contemporary art field. The value of a diamond is only a small fraction of the value of a name; it is safe to assume both Hirst and Wynn know this all too well.

Every Signifier on the Las Vegas Strip: Fifteen Days, Endless Simulacra

16 Apr

This week, I begin a fifteen day trip to Las Vegas, Nevada, to seek and document art experiences within the notorious mecca of American popular culture. While turning a critical eye to Sin City and its cacophony is far from novel (someone else also happens to be doing a similar project at this exact moment), the motivation behind this trip is to document the art, architecture and visual culture of the current Las Vegas Strip more comprehensively, and with greater reflection, than is possible in the standard three-day visit.

Over the past several months, I have selected and booked fourteen of the most culturally significant casinos on the Las Vegas Strip,* based on their relationships to American history and culture. As I work my way through this experience, Peripheral Vision be turned over to the documentation process, returning to its regularly scheduled programming after April May 29.

Image from wildnatureimages.com

*The “official Las Vegas Strip” refers to the 4.2 mile portion of Las Vegas Blvd. South between Sahara Ave. and Russell Rd.

Glowing from Afar: The Look of Light with Ulterior Motives

28 Feb

Spencer Finch‘s The Light at Lascaux (Cave Entrance) September 29, 2005 5:27 PM beckons from behind a corner inside Western Bridge. Although only visible through its reflected light prior to physically entering its gallery, the glow of the piece would dominate the entire art space, were it not sequestered. This is because all of the works on view in group show Light in Darkness incorporate light in some form, while also providing the only light in Western Bridge; all utilitarian lights in the space are extinguished for the run of the show.

Spencer Finch, The Light at Lascaux (Cave Entrance) Sept 29, 2005 5:27 PM, 2005 , fluorescent light fixtures and theatrical gels, 15 3/8 x 240 in., Edition of three, Image by justinkrol on flickr.com.

As one of the brightest pieces of Light in Darkness, The Light at Lascaux‘s punch of light radiates from across the exhibition, providing the surreal suggestion of a window in an overtly windowless space.  Inside the gallery, seven angled rows of fluorescent light fixtures covered in a variety of theatrical gels recreate the natural light environment of the work’s title. This simulacrum reconstructs a place and time beyond the present moment: the transitional light suspended between the darkened Lascaux caves and their surroundings, as day moved towards night on September 29, 2005.  The resulting sensory experience is difficult for the human eye to process. When confronted head-on, the light itself seems implausibly created from this foreign, constructed structure, and consequently, gazing into its grid of color is mesmerizing.

Throughout the darkened Western Bridge, other individual works surface as pockets of light: Olafur Eliasson’s Neon Ripple slowly pulsates in water-like rings of light affixed to a disk on the ceiling; delicate bulbs similar in structure to a drink discretely fade and re-emerge in Claude Zervas’s Elba; the single incandescent bulb of Martin Creed’s Work No. 312 flashes from a balcony overlooking the space. This set up fosters a sporadic, attention-driven viewing of Light in the Darkness: as a light appears and disappears, our eyes and body follow the brief spectacle, seeking the source as though it were a spotlight roaming across the skyline. The combined effect of various light sources interchanging throughout the exhibition accentuates the way human perception of light changes upon its liberation from a utilitarian role.

Light’s ability to command attention as a spectacle manifests most prominently in the city of Las Vegas, where artificial light contributes to the creation of an intoxicating environment in the interest of casinos.  Located in the middle of the Mojave Desert, in the daytime, Las Vegas is an unappealing place; piercing sunlight casts a whitewashing sheath over everything it touches, resulting in a highly undesirable cityscape difficult to sell as a vacation destination.

“1957 Las Vegas Strip,” YouTube video by gerlock11.

As the sun sets over the Strip,  the casino signs quietly begin their nightly routine, culminating in an overblown spectacle of illuminated, animated words and symbols when darkness finally falls.  Mid-century Las Vegas experienced the most complete transformation between day and night, from glaring intensity to hypnotic glow, through the use of neon signs to entice drivers from the road into the gambling oases. Similar to The Light at Lascaux’s recreation of a specific place and time, neon lighting enhanced the themed environments created within the casinos: the sky blue lights in a Greco-Roman font comprising the sign for Caesars Palace evoked the colors and appearance Americans, trained by popular culture, could associate with Greece and Rome.

Independently, each sign was a glowing, aesthetic spectacle, illuminating and darkening in such a way that passersby absolutely had to look. Together, the mass of flashing lights coalesced into a cloud of color and activity that transformed the city from a place unpleasantly bleached lifeless from the sun, into a series of intoxicating, coercive light forms that invited visitors to experience everything before them.


“1957 Downtown Las Vegas at Night,” YouTube video by gerlock11.

Contemporary Las Vegas casinos have largely replaced neon signs with LED billboards at the entrances to their resort complexes. Despite the spectacle inherent to overblown, new technology, many people yearn for neon’s return, seeing it as indicative as “authentic” Las Vegas. Although LED lights can more perfectly replicate specific images though digital projections, the recreation of a particular environment is lost through this more directly representational presentation. The LED lights introduce a harsh, chaotic barrage of images that fail to offer the attractive, hypnotic effect of repetitive, animated light sequences.

The unique properties of neon signage produce schematics of light and movement that cannot be replicated in another medium; the inherent nature of this form of light itself contributes to its attraction to the human eye and mind. Similar to the effect of The Light of Lascaux from across the building of Western Bridge, the delicate compositions of particular light formats draw the human eye to the light’s source, creating a relationship between light and viewer that goes far beyond the mere illuminated room.

Beyond the Beautiful Parking Lot: Lewis Baltz’s Prototypes and the Las Vegas Studio

13 Jan

In Chicago there are two exhibitions of late 1960s architectural photography approximately two miles apart: Las Vegas Studio: Images from the Archives of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown is on view at the Graham Foundation while Lewis Baltz: Prototypes/Ronde de Nuit is presented at the Art Institute. Comparing Las Vegas Studio’s documentary photographs to Baltz’s “Prototypes” seems like it should be a straightforward endeavor. The two sets of images focus on commercial architecture of the west, including signs, parking lots, roadways and building facades. Elements of the New Topographics movement strongly affiliated with Baltz’s practice can also be found among Venturi and Scott Brown’s photographs of the automobile-focused architecture of the Las Vegas Strip. Yet, instead of highlighting these similarities, viewing both exhibitions in rapid succession more clearly highlights the visual distinctions between a group of artistic images posing as documentary photographs and a body of archival photographs presented as conceptual works of art.

Lewis Baltz’s forty Prototypes hang single-file, in numbered order, around the perimeter of a single gallery in the Art Institute’s Modern Wing. Rigid uniformity dominates the space: each silver gelatin print is identical in size and frame, all titled according to the city in which they were taken. The persistent sunlight, stark commercial buildings and absence of people in the images definitively allude to the weather, sensibility and sprawl characteristic of the west coast. Other than this the Prototypes provide minimal details that distinguish the individual California cities from one another.

Lewis Baltz. "Laguna Niguel." 1970. Gelatin silver print. Laguna Art Museum Collection, Anonymous gift, in memory of Beula Prince © Lewis Baltz. Image from artblart.wordpress.com

The notation of arbitrary specifics as the works’ titles causes the images to be positioned as documentary in nature, but this stylization is then contradicted by the way Baltz presents his subjects within the photographs. Each image appears carefully constructed with precise attention paid to the basic photographic elements of composition, contrast and clarity. In Laguna Niguel, a forgettable building shares the stage with an equally banal parking lot, causing neither to be shown it its entirety. Instead, the forms of the building and parking lot together create the work of art; the photographed objects dissipate into a two-dimensional construction as abstracted from reality as the man-made landscape that serves as this artwork’s medium. Through its deep contrasts, isolated lines and highly conscious framing, in Laguna Niguel, the real elements of a city turn into elements of art abstracted from reality.

In contrast to the minimalist installation of the Prototypes, Las Vegas Studio appears ornate in its hanging throughout the rooms and stairwells of the Madler House residential building housing the Graham Foundation. Although Venturi and Scott Brown primarily intended for the images in this exhibition to be used as documentation for their 1968 study of Las Vegas, seeing the photographs independent from the final study raises the question of how they function as works of art in their own right.

It is known that the group visited Ed Ruscha’s studio immediately prior to their arrival in Las Vegas; they also directly reference the artist’s empirical approach in the panoramic, street level series of images titled “Ed Ruscha” elevation of the Strip, an imitation of Every Building on the Sunset Strip. Despite the influence of Ruscha and the use subject matter similar to the pursuits of New Topographics artists, most of the photographs in Las Vegas Studio are overtly aesthetic and composed; highly saturated colors, strategically illuminated neon lights and unexpected juxtapositions between commercial elements suggest the architects aimed to accomplish more than merely document the landscape before them.

"Riviera Casino, Las Vegas, 1968." Students and Professors of the Las Vegas Studio. 1968. Image from johndan.com

Particularly in the context of being framed, matted and hung salon style for exhibition, the Las Vegas photographs appear as though they aspire become works of fine art, rather than documentary footage. Their titles are straightforward and factual like those of the Prototypes, but unlike Baltz’s approach, the meaning of the Las Vegas Studio pieces still gravitates back to the physical subjects; a photograph of the Riviera’s parking lot and sign is entirely about the Riviera’s parking lot and sign. Although this gleaming image is easily among the more beautiful photographs of a parking lot ever created, the work of art is signifier of the casino, more similar to the physical Rivera sign than to the the parking lot of Baltz’s Laguna Niguel. Hardly a failure, the fact that the Las Vegas Studio images aptly represent the landscape of Las Vegas at the time of Venturi and Scott Brown’s seminal study demonstrates the inherent success of the project; when viewed in tandem with Baltz’s Prototypes, the questions raised by each exhibition diverge but ultimately offer a more complete view of their place and time.

Pop Culture on the Rocks: Lost Guggenheims, Fallen Showgirls and the Liberace Museum

20 Oct

The last time I visited the Liberace Museum, an older woman invited me to try on a giant, patchwork coat. Providing the requisite opportunity for participation the way almost all American museums now do, this coat allowed visitors to feel the added weight Liberace experienced while parading across the stage in one of his elaborate garments.  The woman overseeing the coat was a museum volunteer and clearly a lifelong Liberace fan.  As I tried on the 40 lb garment and posed for the camera, she let us know the coat’s cacophony of shimmering  fabrics were handmade by another volunteer and consisted of fragments from the ensembles of former showgirls.

The room in which I tried on the coat was the highlight of the museum: the costume gallery. Spread across two buildings in a strip mall on east Tropicana Avenue, the Liberace Museum showcased five primary collections; biographical photographs, a handful of vehicles, and a melange of pianos were displayed in the building nearest Tropicana Avenue, while the space on the other side of the parking lot housed the costume collection and selections of Liberace’s Baroque home furniture.

Costume gallery, Liberace Museum, 2008

This week, the Liberace Museum closed indefinitely. While many news sources have reported on this closure since its announcement in early September, I suspect few people under the age of fifty actually visited the physical space.  Dave Hickey’s seminal essay “A Rhinestone as Big as the Ritz” in 1997 book Air Guitar: Essays on Art and Democracy provided incentive to visit and reconsider the value of Liberace to American society’s acceptance of the gay community. Likewise, Lady Gaga’s popularity and overt derivations from the piano star’s approach to celebrity suggest Liberace remains relevant to contemporary audiences (see Eric Felten’s “Lady Gaga and Liberace: Separated at Birth?”). Yet, the two instances I visited suggested there was not an enormous body of Las Vegas visitors clamoring to get into the modest space so far east on Tropicana Avenue that the museum ran free, hourly shuttles to and from the hotels on the Strip.  The one occasion I took the shuttle back to the Strip (as opposed to taking a $30 cab ride or renting a car; public transportation is reportedly not for tourists) the only other party enjoying the footage of Liberace performances shown on the shuttle’s TV was a group of three from Australia visiting Las Vegas for a week.

Liberace Museum, 2008

In general, Americans do not visit Las Vegas for the form of culture found in museums. Some have suggested that the closing of the Liberace Museum might be attributed to its isolated location, away from the tourist areas of the city. While the free shuttle was one solution to this concern, the closure of museums throughout Sin City over the past decade demonstrates that its site was not the only reason for the Liberace Museum’s demise.

In some ways, museums seem a natural fit for Las Vegas between of the constant flow of people in and out of the city and the high concentration of resident performers, architects, designers and other creative individuals required to support the entertainment excess for which Vegas it is known. Considering how the shopping, dining, sexual opportunities, spectacle and general branding as a place where one can do anything without regret play a significant role in Las Vegas “culture,” it is easy to forget that gaming is the single reason for the city’s position as a destination in America.  Gambling makes all other things Las Vegas is known for possible, and ultimately, all roads in the city’s tourist districts lead to (and are paid for by) gaming.  This situation creates an interesting relationship with culture, particularly because Las Vegas has spent so many decades creating a culture around gambling that makes it appealing to a mass audience, as opposed to only those who consider themselves “gamblers.” Contemporary popular culture is essential in Las Vegas’s ability to sell itself, and hence the city is designed to reflect the most present of moments in American consciousness.

In the 1990s Sin City capitalized on the public desires for “edutainment” and family friendly activities through the addition of cultural amenities to casinos.  A few remnants of this era still exist, including the Bellagio Gallery of Fine Art and the Mandalay Bay’s American Zoo and Aquariums Association accredited Shark Reef. The Venetian Casino opened two museums affiliated with the Guggenheim and designed by Rem Koolhaas in 2001: the Guggenheim Las Vegas and the Guggenheim Hermitage.  The Guggenheim Las Vegas exhibited only The Art of the Motorcycle before its closure in  2002. The Guggenheim Hermitage lasted until 2008, showing works from the collection of its namesake Russian institution and the New York affiliate by big-name modern painters, such as Picasso, Lichtenstein, Mondrian and Kandinsky, among others.

Guggenheim Hermitage, Venetian Resort Casino, 2001, image from rex-ny.com

When the Guggenheims opened in the Venetian, they made sense in terms of the casino’s theme through their adherence to the American perception of Italy as a place for high culture and artistic mastery. Yet the permanence and preservation that  define museums are antitheses to the way visitors approach Las Vegas, as a place without a past, consequences or a future that is definitive; anything can happen with a roll of the dice. Likewise, museums defined by history struggle to find a place in the community (both tourist community and residential community) of such a place; here, “Las Vegas history” is merely a theme equated to the “French Riviera,” “Old West” and “Tropical Islands” represented within the casinos .

The role of Las Vegas’s history is made clear on the Zeigfield Stage in the Bally’s Casino, where Jubilee! continues as last remaining showgirl production on The Strip.  Similar to the fate of its museums, Las Vegas has seen a dramatic loss in the showgirl productions that once dominated the city, beginning most prominently with the closing of the Stardust’s famed productions in 1999 and the end of the Tropicana’s Folies Bergère in 2009. 

Jubilee! perseveres in an almost parodic production that includes an original “Titanic” number that borders on the absurd; when I attended a performance earlier this year I found myself surrounded almost entirely by tourists from Asia.  The vintage styling of the rhinestone costumes, pronounced smiles and homemade backdrops now appear more like the “living history” component of a historical museum than a contemporary performance. If the inclusion of former showgirl outfits in the participatory coat at the Liberace Museum isn’t evidence enough, the showgirl production’s relationship to museums is made even more pronounced by the opportunity to take a formal tour of the Jubilee!’s wardrobe and sets on select days of the week.

Jubilee!, Bally's Casino, image from nytimes.com

As a physical manifestation of popular culture and mainstream American interests, Las Vegas is known to exist in a state of constant flux. Even the community-based Las Vegas Art Museum shut its doors in 2009; hence while Liberace’s legacy may have suggested the museum he built would have an endless audience in Las Vegas, the city in which his career was cemented, a part of me was not surprised when the announcement came that it too would disappear. Las Vegas is not nostalgic, only temporal.  Popular culture does not remember; if it did, at least a portion of the hoards of Lady Gaga fans that visit Las Vegas annually could be expected to flock to Liberace’s pianos and costumes as a means for better appreciating their favorite star.  Instead, I suspect a very small minority of the Little Monsters even know who Mr. Showman was.

Ultimately, the outcry of the press regarding the Liberace Museum’s closure has been surprisingly pronounced for an institution that received relatively little notice when it was doing anything but closing. While there is a natural inclination blame the Las Vegas environment for its lack of recognition of the past, that would be the easy way out. Las Vegas, as a money-driven city, feeds from mainstream trends and culture.  In the case of the Liberace Museum’s closure, the question to ask is the following: what it is that prevented us, the Americans who created what Las Vegas has become, from remembering to visit, or simply remembering at all.

Continuing Education: Las Vegas Studio at MOCA-PDC

20 Apr

The 1960 version of Ocean’s Eleven captures the original form of the Las Vegas Strip on film: the elaborate neon, the intimate lounges, the Rat Pack performances and black tie clientele. The special features of the film’s DVD include interviews with cocktail waitresses who worked at the Sands, Flamingo, Sahara, Desert Inn and Dunes casinos during the period of the movie, nostalgically reflecting on this lost era in light of what Las Vegas has come to mean today.  Inevitably, these women express their reservations about the larger scale, the commercial attitudes and the touristic focus now characteristic of the Strip; all were in agreement that the past Las Vegas was preferable to the present.

Trailer for Ocean’s Eleven (1960)

Now on view at MOCA- Pacific Design Center is Las Vegas Studio: Images from the Archives of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, which includes photographs, diagrams and films from the architects’ 1968 project that ultimately resulted in the book Learning from Las Vegas (1972).  The Las Vegas of these images is essentially the Las Vegas preferred by the casino cocktail waitresses; as Christopher Hawthorne describes in his review of Las Vegas Studio,

“What comes across in these photographs is an almost overpowering sense not only of freedom and discovery but also of innocence — although the innocence may well have been at least partly strategic, an element of the architects’ self-mythologizing impulse. Still, Las Vegas in these pictures seems remarkably light on its feet, unburdened by the elaborate, elephantine casino-hotel complexes that now line the Strip.” (Culture Monster 3.30.2010)

Experiencing the exhibition, or even just the catalog, Hawthorne’s point is clearly taken; the photographs are stunning.  Intended as a formal study, Learning from Las Vegas presented the illustrative photographs in an empirical manner. Ed Ruscha’s books, including Every Building on the Sunset Strip and Twentysix Gasoline Stations, were explicitly referenced as sources of inspiration for the project in terms of providing objective views of commercial buildings. The second, most common edition of the book was created with the intention of being affordable to students.  Consequently, the photographs and diagrams were primarily small black and white images with limited contrast; a small number were printed in muted colors in order to minimize printing costs.

Las Vegas Studio: Images from the Archives of Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown installation view, MOCA, Pacific Design Center, Los Angeles

Walking into the MOCA space, the vibrancy and clarity of the archive is shocking to any eye accustomed to the way these images were presented in the book.  The majority of the exhibition is hung salon style, across a single wall, adding to the overwhelming impact.  Within individual images, the hues are noticeably warm, even among the few photographs that had the benefit of being printed as full pages or in color. The rosy tint of Caesars Palace Signs and Statuary could not had been inferred from the image’s stark counterpart seen in Learning from Las Vegas; the book’s text never suggested the sky might be shockingly orange behind an image of the Stardust Casino as it was being defined as a “decorated shed.”  Learning from Las Vegas communicated its intricate arguments through relatively banal, objective images, but from the original photographs we see exactly how romanced the architects were by the Strip; indeed,  Las Vegas was beautiful.

"Stardust Hotel and Casino, neon sign, Las Vegas," 1968, photo by students/instructors of the "Learning from Las Vegas Research Studio", © Venturi Scott Brown and Associates Philadelphia , image from moca.org.

The idea that the Las Vegas Strip had an aesthetic quality in the 1960s is now acceptable, thanks to a combination of Venturi, Scott Brown and Izenour’s book and general nostalgia, as communicated by both Hawthorne and the Las Vegas cocktail waitresses. Since the Learning from Las Vegas project, the Strip has evolved substantially. Venturi and Scott Brown returned to Vegas in 1994 at the invitation of the BBC and determined that many of the elements from their initial study had changed:

“The Strip has seen a considerable reduction in the number and size of its signs and a parallel evolution from signography to scenography, or from the decorated shed to the duck. Vivid examples of the trend toward scenography include the MGM architectural lion’s head, the Luxor Hotel pyramid, the Excalibur castle, and, most vividly, the Mirage lake cum volcano and Treasure Island Caribbean town.” (“Las Vegas After its Classic Age”; published in Neon, Artcetera, Winter 1995-96; Republished in Iconography and Electronics Upon a Generic Architecture by Robert Venturi. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1996)

The change in architecture from the decorated shed so instrumental to Learning from Las Vegas, to its “duck” antithesis relates to Hawthorne’s assertion that the Strip has lost its lightness over the past 40 years.  While attending panel presentation “Ugly and Ordinary? Las Vegas Studio” at the Pacific Design Center a few weeks ago, I noticed a sense of disdain for the current state of the Strip; the only references to the contemporary Las Vegas during the discussion included a mention of “cultural slumming” by one of the panelists. Yet, to conclude “Las Vegas After its Classic Age,” Venturi and Scott Brown leave readers with only a question: “Would an analysis of our recent journey, from Las Vegas Strip to Las Vegas Boulevard, prove as instructive as the first for architecture?”

Although many dismiss the current Las Vegas Strip to be a large-scale, corporately owned shopping mall, reconsidering commercial, populist architecture is the mode of thought that characterized the original Learning from Las Vegas. The newer things to be learned may extend beyond architecture, but the prevalence of contemporary artists working with Las Vegas as a subject suggests the application of a critical eye to the Strip is still worthwhile. Dave Hickey writes in his essay “Deciding About Las Vegas,”

“…Vegas can’t be framed, only cropped. The worst snapshot can be the best photograph of Vegas because there is everything to see and, dauntingly, nothing much to look at there, except for people looking and people being looked at–and the setting for a thousand dramas. There is no ‘outside’ position. When you are in Vegas, you are onstage, in a theater in the round, a city-sized rococo stage setting, with a professional chorus. You and your fellow revelers are the actors, and as Warhol said, either everyone is a star or no one is.” (The Book on Vegas 27)

"Las Vegas," Lee Friedlander, 2002, gelatin-silver print, 16 x 20 in., image from artnet.com

The drama Hickey references in this essay from the early 2000s is similar to Venturi and Scott Brown’s reassessment of the Strip in 1994. Since that time, Las Vegas has continued to change, now progressing from the dramatic theming of the 90s era towards a de-theming brought on by the Wynn resort and CityCenter projects of recent years.  Since the 90s, contemporary artists ranging from Doug Aitken, Lee Friedlander and Thomas Struth to Olivo Barbieri, Liz Hickok, and Marc Dombrosky have worked with contemporary Las Vegas as a subject for consideration. Knowing this in tandem with the body of photographs and films in Las Vegas Studio demonstrates that the constant change of this city is what may offer the most to explore. Despite the accompanying appreciation for its beauty, nostalgia for “classic Vegas” is limiting when it prevents critical reflection on the present. Perhaps one of the most important modes of thought to learn from Las Vegas is the acceptance of changes that reflect the aspects of culture we otherwise refuse to see.

Bifocal 8: Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball and Casino Architecture

31 Mar

“The intricate maze under the low ceiling never connects with outside light or outside space. This disorients the occupant in space and time. One loses track of where one is and when it is. Time is limitless, because the light of noon and midnight are exactly the same. Space is limitless because the artificial light obscures rather than defines its boundaries.”

Excerpt from Learning from Las Vegas (Revised Edition) by Robert Venturi, Denise Scott Brown and Steven Izenour, Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1977. Print.

Image: Poster for Lady Gaga’s “The Monster Ball” tour; image from popdirt.com

Bifocal 7: Back to the Future and Modernist Space

3 Mar

“Empty space becomes both fertile and intimidating in modernist special effects, like an extension of Wagner’s blackened gulf between audience and the lit stage at Bayreuth. The blank and unobstructed suggest absence as presence. This exposure was an invitation to add more special effects. After World War II, these modernist spaces were filled very quickly. They were scripted to meet the consumer side of entertainment that continued to grow. Finally they became very busy scripts indeed, particularly after 1955.”

Excerpt from From the Vatican to Vegas: A History of Special Effects by Norman Klein, New York: The New Press, 2004. Print.

Video: Back to the Future Part II (Robert Zemeckis, 1989).

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