New LACMA Building

New LACMA Building Unwrapped: Ruby-Hunt on Wilshire

A recent visit to LACMA’s still-unopened David Geffen Galleries revealed an architectural gesture unlike anything else in Los Angeles. Peter Zumthor’s structure stretches across Wilshire Boulevard like a low-slung bridge: no sharp angles, no vertical walls, just a single ribbon of curved, polished concrete. Brutalism stripped of corners and rendered gentle through motion. It’s bold, almost austere—a distant cousin to Louis Kahn—yet somehow it feels as if it would be more at home in the open hush of Joshua Tree than in the roar of Mid-Wilshire.

I kept asking myself: Is this where the ruby lies? Kabir, the 15th-century Indian mystic, wrote of a tiny gem everyone searches for—some looking east, some west—until he discovers it inside his own chest and “wraps it carefully in his heart-cloth.” Maybe the worth of this building isn’t in its bare concrete skin at all but in the private dialogue it provokes. Architecture as inner resonance rather than outer spectacle.

👉 For more on how presence and perception shape our experience of space and form, see my reflection on finding flow in art through Agnes Martin.

That resonance arrived sooner than I expected. One hundred musicians, stationed like bright constellations throughout the galleries, launched into Kamasi Washington’s Harmony of Difference. Six movements—brass, drums, reed, and human breath—braided themselves through the unfinished halls. The marble floors vibrated; strangers shared grins. Through the wrap-around glazing I spotted a river of four-hundred cyclists gliding beneath the span in neon helmets. Density and sprawl, bebop and bicycle spokes—this is Los Angeles, I thought, and the concrete ribbon felt less detached, more like a bandstand catching the city mid-riff.

👉 You can experience the music and the ambiance of the event in this video.

I wondered how my old friends will fare here once they migrate over.

• Will David Hockney’s electric Mulholland Drive still zig-zag like desert lightning against gray walls?
• Will Modigliani’s Young Woman of the People keep her quiet defiance, or will the concrete sharpen her solitude?
• Does Ed Ruscha’s Standard Station need the hush of a white cube, or will it pop louder against these curves?
• Even Giacometti’s spindly sentinels—half air, half bronze—seem to lean forward, eager to test new light.

👉 I reflect more fully on Hockney’s playful vision of Los Angeles in this piece on David Hockney’s vibrant 82 Portraits and 1 Still-life at LACMA.

For now the question hangs, unresolved, like Washington’s final sustained chord. I’ll report back when the galleries open in 2026; until then the ruby stays wrapped, warm against the chest.

Of course, the site is still evolving. Landscaping may soften the rawness, a sculptural intervention might punctuate the concrete, and the crowds will animate every curve. LACMA has always bridged cultures and histories; the new building’s sweeping span could become the next chapter in that story—or a puzzle piece that forces us to ask what an inclusive museum should look and feel like in a city as diverse and complex as ours.

Either way, it already demands attention. Whether it earns affection—that will take time, and us, and whatever treasures we carry inside.

July 2025

Returning to the new LACMA building: When the Curation Becomes the Art

Almost a year ago I left the unfinished Geffen Galleries (the new LACMA building) with more questions than conclusions. I ended that visit wondering whether the new building would earn affection. I promised to return once the galleries opened.

Last week, I did.

What surprised me most was not the architecture itself, though the openness and scale are striking.

The surprise was something I had not anticipated.

The curation.

The building I once experienced as an austere concrete gesture now feels inhabited, almost alive.

I was deeply impressed visiting the new Geffen Galleries at LACMA.

Beyond the scale of the concrete structure itself, what struck me first was the feeling of openness. The entire LACMA campus, with its multiple buildings, feels larger than before. The differences between the buildings’ architectural styles and colors are interesting and somehow flow together naturally.

The Geffen Galleries building unfolds across one vast level into hallways, galleries, and outdoor views. Spacious rather than imposing. Not stuffy. A place that invites wandering.

There is something almost maze like about it. You lose your sense of direction in a good way. You are never quite sure if you have seen everything, which leaves an invitation to return and discover something missed.

A year ago I wondered whether architecture alone could carry meaning.

Returning now, I think the answer is no.

What gives this place life is the curation.

The way artworks are placed beside one another, interrupted, or allowed to breathe turns the exhibition itself into an artwork. The arrangement creates conversations across cultures, time periods, and materials. At moments, I felt the museum was not simply displaying art but creating a musical composition, almost a symphony.

On many visits to the old LACMA there were sections I rarely bothered with, especially older artifacts and sculptures from distant cultures and time periods.

In this new arrangement, if you walk from one side to the other, you cannot escape them.

More importantly, the way these works are displayed makes them surprisingly engaging because everything seems woven together. It is the composition itself that creates the experience rather than individual works standing alone.

I discovered far richer holdings than I remembered.

Some displays are simply gorgeous.

A solitary kimono enclosed in its own space.

The triptych by Francis Bacon, framed in gold and given an entire wall to breathe.

Ancient sculptures suddenly placed in conversation with contemporary forms.

And many others.

The concrete walls, with their washed texture and subtle shifts in color, are artworks in themselves. What I especially loved was how the internal galleries introduced layers of color. Concrete washed with black, deep blue, or rust tones while allowing the original tonalities to come through.

More than anything else, this stayed with me.

The spaces themselves are beautiful, at times even more compelling than the artworks they contain.

I have visited many museums over the years, yet I cannot recall another where the organization of the work felt so intentionally alive.

I think I have part of an answer now to the question I asked a year ago.

Has the building earned affection?

For me, yes.

Not because the concrete changed, but because art, memory, color, and thoughtful curation entered the space.

I wrote before about Kabir’s hidden ruby.

Looking back, I am less interested in finding it.

More interested in returning.

May 2026