"It was a  fine idea at the time; now it's a brilliant mistake."

When I first heard these lyrics by Elvis Costello years ago I took them literally -- a good idea had gone disastrously wrong. But when I heard the song again last week I liked the idea of a mistake that was brilliant. So often actions we take may look risky or odd to others and yet, in hindsight they turn out to be brilliant. Either they themselves turned out well or they led to other brilliant ideas or outcomes.

Not all of us succeed in every endeavor. And yet, we continue to inch out on that limb. Why? Because that's where the sweetest fruit grows.

Taking risks and trying to live a balanced and centered life do not have to be mutually exclusive. In fact, they may be perfect complements to one another. Listen and act on fine ideas as much as you try out the bad ones, embracing them and hoping that one is indeed a brilliant mistake. That will be the one that takes you out on that limb. And once you are there, grab your reward and bite into the most exquisite fruit of all.

Simply put, we don't do simple well. You know a society has trouble with the concept of "simple" when it takes a magazine (aptly named Real Simple) to instruct us on how to get rid of clutter, organize stuff and re-arrange our lives. Part of the reason we reisist simplicity is that we've been taught to believe that complex equals progress. Look at any recent technology you've acquired and you'll see what I mean. Our phones now come with 100-page manuals. But does that make them truly complex or merely complicated?

Simplicity is complex when it demands creative subtraction. For everything added, something must be removed. Less is more is not an easy rule by which to live.

Another way to look at it comes from the architect Glenn Murcutt who writes, "I see simplicity not so much as a disregard for complexity but as a clarification of the significant."

But how does one know what is and isn't significant? Especially when faced with a blank slate or canvas. It's easier to look at something that already exists and pull from it what appears important. It's much harder to see something that isn't there and decide what to create and make important. Anyone in the creative fields can attest to this.

Silence helps clear a mental path through our clutter and give us clarity. But even that is complicated. All the while we are trying to achieve silence, our ego mind starts in on a long list of questions and doubts. Are we doing it right? Did we leave the coffee maker on? Do we have time for this? Is this working And the chatter in our minds goes on and on.

Silence is simple. To quiet the mind, concentrate only on your breath. The mind goes in many directions, the breath only moves in two. Simplicity -- achieved instantly by just focusing on your breath. Another way to give clarity to the significant.

We all give so much of ourselves during the day to work, to others, to our passions. Take a small amount of time to give back to yourself at the beginning and end of the day. At night, it's hard not to leaf through a laundry list of what happened that day and and that's OK. Use it as time to review the day -- what went right, where you can improve -- then let it go and let your mind be still. For me, this mental closet cleaning allows me to clear away any triumphs or ravages of the day and make room for sweet dreams.

Because at the end of the day all that is required of us is to just be. To simply exist, one must exist simply. Sounds complex, but in reality, it's simple.

Sometimes the lessons we need to learn come from the most random of places. In a coffee house last week I overheard something that jump-started me more than any cappuccino could.

After getting his coffee, a man saw a woman he knew. She was with some other women and it seemed as though they had been there for awhile; the remnants of breakfast were strewn before them. As he was talking to her, he asked what she'd been up to lately. Her: "Oh, a huge project. I've overwhelmed. So much to do!" Him: "Then what are you doing here?!"

He said it with laughter and I don't know if the underlying message struck her, but it certainly hit me. I nodded in silent agreement. How many times have I felt like that woman -- overwhelmed with a project and finding everything to do but it? And because it is almost always my own projects that I put on the side lines, his words were a reminder to get back on track with that which drives me.

We can all make a little more time in the day for those things that are important to us. I think of David Remnick, the editor of The New Yorker, husband and father, who found the time last year, stealing an hour here and there in the early mornings and late evenings, to write an ambitious book on Obama. His focus is inspiring.

Today I had an extra hour between Sunday chores and outings. Instead of filling it with the crossword or killing that hour in a coffee house, I sat down and wrote. Don't get me wrong -- there is nothing better than a leisurely morning with a cappuccino and friends. But when it becomes "just killing time," well, that's a death I don't want on my hands!

Put simply, until I've accomplished what I want, I'm taking my coffee to go!

Case Study House #21 and site of One and J Gallery for one week

In a Talking Heads song, David Byrne sings “as we get older and stop making sense…” Younger, older, there are times in life when trying to make sense just makes no sense at all. These are the times when we do the unexpected, when we take risks and stop worrying about the outcome.

I was reminded of this when talking to Won Jae Park, one of the owners of One and J Gallery from Seoul, Korea. Last week he and his business partner, Pat Lee, came to Los Angeles to set up a pop-up gallery at Pierre Koenig’s Case Study House #21 (pictured above. Photo By Julius Shulman).

A reflection of MJ Kim photographing the work of Teppei Kaneuji

No small venture this. It entailed shipping art from Korea, traveling and staying in Los Angeles for several weeks with family, friends and staff, orchestrating a celebrity photographer to document the installation and a reporter from Chosunilbo Daily, Korea’s largest newspaper, not to mention throwing a jam-packed VIP opening party coordinated by Carl Bendix from JupiterPx. Of it all Park said, “If I were someone who sat behind a desk for a living, looking at numbers, this wouldn’t make any financial sense at all. But we did it for the chance to connect and start a conversation with the people and the art scene of Los Angeles.”

 Jina Park, Moontan, 2007

It also didn’t make much sense to start a gallery five years ago heading into a recession and yet it, and the Los Angeles venture, proved to actually make sense. Because the goal was simply to start a conversation and build a community around the art and artists that Park and Lee admire. This might not have been the way to do business 10, 20 years ago, but it is exactly the right way today.

“The artists are more important to us than just their work,” Park says. “We represent people who we like, who have a genuine voice. We want to create a sustainable partnership with artists. It’s not an easy life.  It takes passion.”

Park, a graduate of the Rhode Island School of Design, gets that. But he also understands how to build and promote a business. Last year, after only five years in business, One and J Gallery was admitted into the New York Armory show, the international art happening that has helped launch the careers of many in the modern art world since 1913.

Won Jae Park and Tara Guber at VIP openin, photo by MJ Kim

True to their philosophy, Park and Lee chose to set up their booth as another  pop-up One and J gallery, a community. “We concentrated on showing our artists, not on selling,” Park says. “We came to get noticed and show people that we are serious. We attracted attention and met a lot of great people.”

The idea that it’s more important to build personal relationships in business is at the heart of the Asian mindset. It’s something the western world is taking more to heart, certainly lately. Doing business with a business card or a bottom line isn’t just joyless. It also isn’t successful in the long run. Throw art into the equation and it all just sort of starts making sense.



The man in the yellow tie was quiet. He stood at the entrance of the party, not saying much. Once in a while he rearranged a pile of fine black powder ground from steel rods that sat on the driveway before a strip of white paper. Between arrangements Jongku Kim might take off his boots and walk onto that white paper to add another calligraphic mark or abstract image.

People began to arrive and walk by him on the driveway. They were coming to the Bailey Case Study House #21 designed by Pierre Koenig. They were coming to see the collected works of the cutting-edge Korean art gallery, One and J.  They were coming because they knew, or knew of, Pat Lee and Won Jae Park, the gallery owners. They were coming because they were invited by Bill Turner, owner of William Turner Gallery, one of the Korean gallery's  L.A. connections. Or they were coming because of Carl Bendix, owner of JupiterPx/Ambrosia who was organizing the entire event.

Whatever the reason, the guests knew when they walked by the man in the yellow tie something was going to happen. He was the one to keep an eye on. His relationship to the white paper and the black dust in his metal dustpan poised for action was just too focused. Plus, there was a monitor showing the white paper and black dust set up at ankle height. Video -- today's unpoken symbol that something is of importance.

But until it did, they walked into the house, tiny and very sparse by today’s standards. But they knew they were walking into a piece of Los Angeles history. Which they were. The Case Study Houses were commissioned in the fifties by the magazine Art+Architecture to explore ways to create cost-efficient model homes to supply the large demand for homes from soldiers returning from World War II. They were designed by major architects such as Shindler, Neutra and Koenig. There aren’t many left in this pristine of condition and even when they are, like #21, are rarely open to the public.

 So there was something special in the air already.

Add to this the show of 13 artists from Korea and Japan curated by Gabriel Ritter and One and J. No one knew how this new wave of international art would interact with such an iconic venue. And when installing the pieces, even Lee and Park were surprised by how naturally they fit in.

Even the big ball of tape created on site by artist Koki Tanaka looked right.

And the large photo of a tofu Buddha spouting soy sauce by Tatsu Nishi? Perfect in the kitchen. And appropriately titled -- Perfect Bliss.

Truly, it was meeting of iconoclastic architecture with new wave art and it worked.

And still the man in the yellow tie waited.

And then he waited no more.

Quietly, the boots came off for the last time. He walked onto the paper, his metal dust pan loaded and ready for action. Thoughtfully he alternately created piles with the fine poweder, then calligraphic, Asian characters, then simply, brush strokes.

When viewed in the second dimension – looking down onto the flat canvas – he was creating painting. In the third dimension, it became a landscape of negative and positive space with islands of black floating amid the large white areas. Lines of small characters ran down one side, a message, a thought. Then suddenly, a slash of black powder, an explosion of dust from the pan and then, silence.

A crowd had gathered and uncharacteristically for most Los Angeles parties, was quiet too and seemed to deeply appreciate Jongku’s movements within this living art installation.

Perhaps it was because this artwork was unassuming and yet all about that which we fear most in today’s modern age. Quiet. Space. Emptiness. And the beauty of it.

But it is also about that which we most admire and desire. Risk taking. Zero percent of error. Letting everything be as it is.

The man in the yellow tie walked into the emptiness we fear with no protection, in just his socks. Literally, a man of steel.

There were no mistakes in his artwork because it simply existed for that moment then was gone.

Permanence makes us afraid of risk, afraid sometimes even to attempt moving the black dust that fills our minds around to form something that is new, fresh, different, useful. Seeing it, as Jongku Kim does, in two different dimensions, can help us see the challenges in our lives from different perspectives.

That idea was met with quiet appreciation on this unusual night in Los Angeles, at a glass house in the hills surrounded by art from the past and the present and the possibilities of the future.

The man in the yellow tie knew that anything could happen on that white paper. Why not? It was only there for the night … and so were we.

--Liese Gardner

Photos by MJ Kim