The first time I remember being in Los Angeles, I was six years old. My family of five piled in Mom's 1957 Plymouth and Dad drove from then rural Alta Loma to Pomona to take the train to Union Station. Leaving our 1963 tract house, carved out of former citrus groves, traversing the rapidly transforming landscape of the western edge of San Bernardino County, riding into the city on lines of steel, we ventured. I will never forget seeing a skyscraper for the first time. Such crossings of time and place, movement across an ever-evolving landscape, these snapshots of memories, random memories, chance memories, cultivated memories -- all come to mind when experiencing Doug McCulloh's provocative (art)work.

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