Los Angeles
Golden Hour
A Day of Sun in Los Angeles
On Saturday, I watch the day break over I-581. But the light does not break, does not shatter; it seeps into the darkness of the windshield and gradually washes over the ink in the rear-view mirror. The soft lavender glow in the distance illuminates more than the wires of LED billboards and motel signs. In the car, at daybreak, the sun shines pink and orange and light blue on the dashboard. The silhouettes of the hills jut up from the ground and create a sharp distinction between earth and air, and I float in between.
Sunrise, however, is its own event. As the sun begins to peek over the layer of fog hugging the horizon, I don’t believe that the red pool I see is truly the sun. I look around for what could be creating such a reflection in the window. When I look back, the sun has risen farther up, unmistakably large and round and present. The sun in California does this often — demands attention, reminds me that it is a celestial object. I keep glancing into the light when I know I shouldn’t.
As we enter the mountains, the sunlight becomes steely gray. It bounces off the dust in the air and shrouds everything in a layer of film. The light around me is so bright, so harsh, that I can’t see the burnt-orange chaparral until I am in it.
Once I’m past the fog of noon and in the heart of LA, the heat of the sun contrasts with icy gray clouds, turns everything white and almost unbearably vibrant. The sun finally takes a backseat and allows me to marvel at the trademark palm trees, the well-manicured rose bushes, and the adobe mansions that line the road. I bask in the warmth of the car, marveling at the scenes of luxury and labor that surround me. I recall every movie that has romanticized this city of dreamers, and I, too, start to dream of a potential life here.
During sunset at Santa Monica Pier, the sun grows again, honey-yellow at this hour. For the first time, I watch the sun dissolve into the coolness of the ocean and leave its colors behind. At the beach, I realize that I don’t need rose-colored glasses to fall in love with Los Angeles. The sun bathes everything in pink for me, and I begin to believe that Los Angeles is a world of possibility, that things can be good and golden if I stay its light long enough.
In a neighborhood in Echo Park, one Los Angeles citizen takes this power of the sun to heart. Randlett Lawrence, known as Randy, has created a towering sculpture of glass and water to hold the sun. I text Randy as I climb up the staircase to his house, and he arrives at the door in seconds. Wearing paint-speckled jeans and a tie-dye shirt, Randy is all smiles as he escorts me back onto the street to view his work, titled the Phantasma Gloria, from the outside. As we walk, he begins, “The nature of this medium is such that its appearance changes a great deal depending on what’s happening in the sky and, most importantly, where you’re standing.” He pauses before adding, “Like life itself,” and grins.
When the sun shines through the Phantasma Gloria, the work comes alive, brilliant and burning. The mosaic, created from hanging teardrop bottles, wire, and beads, stretches for fifty feet in Randy’s backyard, bathing the grass in rainbows and shadows. Other curiosities litter his grounds: sculptures, potted plants, stencils, and artwork. Though I was warned to watch my step, I cannot keep my eyes off the movement of metal and glass above me. While I walk around, I am filled with a childlike wonder as I squint at the sun folding in and around the bottles. Randy has created magic in his garden — and he knows it.
His inspiration was a crystal ball, a “convex, spherical lense,” as he tells us. The teardrop bottles, like a crystal ball, allow the water inside to hold two shining lights — “two tiny suns in two tiny, shrunken skies” — one of which is upside down, and one which is spun on its vertical axis. Randy spews out this explanation of optics with ease, stumbling over words only because of excitement and laughter. He pulls us around to each colored bottle, gleefully demonstrating the intricacies of his artwork.
But the display is more than a product of a hobby. While Randy insists that he is not particularly religious, he appears to be a believer in the sacred. Together, the bottles of the Phantasma Gloria depict the Virgin of Guadalupe, honoring the symbol of California’s United Farm Workers movement. He speaks of the Virgin of Guadalupe with stars in his eyes, waxing poetic about the beauty and strength of female figures. His choices, from the symbolism of the goddess to the origin of its name, are intentional, building off one another to form a mirage of glitter and shadows.
“At first you think the sky is your medium instead of a brushstroke, and then you realize, the sky is your master,” says Randy. “You can’t walk away from it. You have to find out what it can do. And that’s what I’ve been doing for the past twenty years.”
As we prepare to leave, a young man and his daughter climb up Randy’s stairs. The man introduces himself, and he says that he had visited the Phantasma Gloria when he had moved into the neighborhood. His daughter, a three-year old, comes out behind his legs when he says it’s her first visit. Randy grins and begins to show her his collections of suns.
“The sun is pouring down colors on us, but you still have to drink. You can still die of thirst. You have to avail yourself of all these colors. The sunlight is free — so what are we doing with it?”
I change “where I stand” on our drive back north. The air is straw yellow, moving across feathery clouds and hills of farmland. When the sun falls low enough to enter the window, we put on our visors and sunglasses, and we watch its light glint off wind turbines and car hoods. We keep driving, and the sky turns light orange and white and spills onto the mountains, desaturating the landscape. The Bay Area turns blue. A curtain of fog closes on the sun, and I close my eyes.
Words: Anjika Pai
Photos: Jane Huynh
