The Getty
by Molly-Ann Leikin

J. Paul Getty was known to be a little cheap. I'm told that visitors to his home in England were asked to use the payphone.

When he died, Mr. Getty had saved enough by having his guests call 1-800 Collect, to leave $750,000,000.08 US to the J. Paul Getty Trust. While his children and grandchildren were not thrilled, the City of Los Angeles was.

The new Getty opened in December, 1997, housing, among other things, Van Gogh's "Irises", which was purchased at a close-out sale, when an Australian who bought it, had maxed out this Discover Card, and had to return the painting to Sotheby's. We, that is the Getty, got it for an unbelievable $54,000,000.00 cash, plus tax and shipping.

The Getty museum is the richest in the world, and also owns one of Monet's "Wheatstacks", ($20,000,000.), several Renoirs (call it $25,000,000. between friends) and another couple of billion big ones in assorted do dads from other schools of art that are not so high on my list of favorites.

Phone lines for parking reservations at the Getty had been jammed for months, and the soonest they could find a slot for my visit was three months down the road. This really ticked me off, since I was still moping over not having been invited to the opening, along with His Holiness, the Pope, Lotrell Spreewell, and Beanie Babies.

The day after the Getty opened, I was roaring home on the 405 Freeway, stabbing buttons on my radio, tired of Christmas carols depriving me of my rock 'n roll, and preferring instead to listen to a news station spouting trivia, which included the fact that in the Los Angeles phone book, there are twenty-three pages of Rodriguez's, and twenty of Smiths. This, I thought, would be helpful at my next social gathering, since I had asked people at seven previous holiday parties that week which country, exactly, had Good King Wenseslas come from, and nobody knew.

Anyway, as I passed Mulholland Drive on the freeway, there was the Getty, glowing graciously up on its mountain top. "Self," I said, "let's give it a shot."

Pulling off the 405 at Getty Center Drive, I encountered an unsuspecting young man in several shades of orange, who directed me to the parking lot, where reservations, were absolutely required - like I said - months in advance. Even then, you had to be sleeping with the mayor, and Richard Riordan never sleeps.

"Welcome to the Getty," a shivering, plump parkette said to me. "Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes," I replied, which was not altogether untrue. It just wasn't for that day.

"And your name, please, ma'am?"

"Rodriguez."

Well listen, if there are twenty-three pages of them listed in the Los Angeles phone book, think how many more members of the Rodriguez family are unlisted. Surely one of them was interested in art.

The parkette wasn't absolutely sure I was telling the truth.

"First name, Mrs. Rodriguez?"

"Ave Maria," I said, after my favorite hymn.

Of course, the parkette couldn't find me in her computer, but my Lexus was very clean and I did cop my Patron of the Arts attitude, which included removing a crisp, fifty dollar bill from my wallet. Knowing full well I was lying, and seeing that there had, in fact, been a cancellation, she let me in. Refusing the fifty, she sighed, and said "Take the tram on the right."

Tram?

Los Angelinos have unnatural relationships with their cars, which leads to anxiety attacks about public transportation. But I figured, hey, I got in, baby, don't blow it now. So I waited with hundreds of well-dressed yuppies with designer sweaters and Valium, for the train.

As we rode up the mountain in the gleaming white tram, the sun was beginning to set and the first stars popped out. It was an elegant, clear evening, the first since 1972. Through the tram's windows, I could see all of Los Angeles sparkling on the left, and the whole Pacific ocean, as far west as Japan, on the right.

I actually enjoyed the tram, and thought this must be like riding the New York subway, without handguns.

At the top of the mountain, everyone rushed off to the already-crowded museum buildings, but I was stricken by the spectacle in the sky, and stayed behind, gasping at the shapes of Richard Meir's buildings as the sun set behind them. My eyes were a little teary - weepy, in fact, but it felt good to cry. Chilly as it was, and coatless as I was, I sat down on the stone steps overlooking the ocean and said out loud "this is what life is supposed to be like. This is why we are here."

There can't be any edifice or sculpture more astounding or awe-inspiring than this elegant cluster of five buildings perched proudly on our mountain top, reassuring us there is culture beyond sit-coms in L.A. When I felt fanny frostbite setting in, and the galleries were mobbed as though Mick Jagger was inside instead of Van Gogh, I went into the gift shop, and bought myself a T-shirt so the yawning yuppies in stretch class would believe my story. I also purchased a cup of hot coffee, which I gave to the grateful parkette, and drove home singing "O Holy Night" with my moon roof plus all the windows open wide, and the heat cranked up to eighty-two.

At a traffic light, I called the Getty reservation line, making peace with having to wait four months for a return visit. This time, I promised to look at the paintings.

Thanks, J. Paul. If you ever get back to town, come on over and use my phone. That call's on me.

© 2000 Molly-Ann Leikin

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