Lola’s pad truly was tripped out. Not surprising, since she, herself, was a trip without luggage. In a warehouse district, tiny joint, studio-like apartment decked out in retro-activist aesthetic — posters of Angela Davis, H. Rap Brown, Malcolm X.
In all corners loomed some of the strangest sculpture he’d ever seen, concrete renderings of melted wax faces and figures. The place was black as night. Day-glo lit. Continue Reading →