Brave new world. I don’t know what the artistic revolution will look like. Whether we have seen pieces of it yet, or none of it at all. But I do know a few things about it: it has a higher likelihood of being centered in Downtown LA than anywhere else, and it will be entirely new.

The popular has one primary weapon against the new: criticism. Not all critics are artists, but all artists are critics. And there are, therefore, more critics in LA than anywhere. Just like the Flappers were seen as whores by the artists who came before them, this new, no-car LA is radically against the establishment.

An artistic revolution is no different than any revolution: a costly, merciless fight. Even as I write this, I want to put the whole idea away. It forces me to come to terms with the legitimate risk that because of this article, I may have to surrender my career; who knows whether or not people in LA will overcome their dependency on cars, and if not, no one will hire an Assistant Director who doesn’t have one. But, given the little hope of a pro-car future in LA, that is exactly what this is about—walking into the arena with my head held high.

Revolutions take courage and I have no intention of hiding my car-free life. I think for myself despite whatever is popular, for I understand, to the depths of my core, a great truth wonderfully stated in the film Ratatouille by the frigid food critic Anton Ego: