IT was just after dark in this city's desolate downtown, with the tents of the homeless rising in shadows along Maple Avenue and trash skittering across Olympic Boulevard in a light breeze. The only real sounds to be heard were the soft beep-boops of people locking car doors with remote keys.
They had driven down from Brentwood, from Silver Lake and the Hollywood Hills to park on East Ninth Street near one of the only lighted storefronts for blocks. They walked from their vehicles with wine and greeted one another at the entrance with nods and smiles of recognition. They were members of the same audience, patrons of the same art.