Got Art?

Another work, One Scotch, One Bourbon, One Beer, named for one of John Lee Hooker's plaintive numbers, shows what might be a pair of derelicts bleeding from head wounds, perhaps as a result of a hit-and-run accident or a drive-by shooting. A gaggle of emergency personnel lingers in boredom as if wondering whose turn it is to make the next doughnut run.

Outside her gallery, mounted on the garage walls, are two pillowcase-size vinyl banners, each featuring a close-up photograph of a white cat posing in a garden. I ask Jazzar who the artist is.

"I took those photos," she muses wistfully. "That was my cat, and I found her dead in the yard, which was strange, because she was only six years old. I think she must have been licking one of those poisonous toads. At least I can still see her when I come out to the yard."

The cat is buried in a sculpturally marked grave under an avocado tree next to the gallery. "Her name was Soma, and she had been my panacea," the earthy dealer sighs.