(June 14. 2007) — Zoopsia—a term which, according to those Tim Hawkinson brochures I snagged on my way out of one gallery, is defined as the visual hallucination of animals. The visual hallucination of what? Definitely not a word you’d need to use in the mundane context of cafeteria conversations. “How’s that chicken sandwich going?” “Doesn’t even look like chicken. I must be experiencing a severe case of zoopsia…” Yeah, didn’t think so. Hawkinson really pushes the boundaries of artistic license by giving his Getty display this most peculiar name. But the peculiarity of the title still understates the hair-raising qualities of the art. Allow me to describe one such piece: from afar, it is merely the underbelly of a giant pink octopus—the majestic expanse created every time this marine monster spreads out its colossal tentacles in shameless display of impatient suckers. But because this octopus has its own wall at the Getty and not merely painted in the back of a Sea World parking lot, a closer look is warranted in finding the source of its popularity. Not only are its suckers made out of cut-out pictures of puckered lips, its tentacles—and the rest of the sea beast itself—are actually composed of fingers, creasy close-ups of patched-up skin and engorged images of the human palm that ultimately form a mind-blowing collage of animalistic physique. Even the color contributes to the unsettling impact of realization, as the animal’s pinkness is merely derived from the homo sapien origin of its parts. And as if the octopus isn’t enough, just a few feet away hangs the white vastness of a reptilian skeleton. Initially dismissing it as another product of minimalist nothingness, I walked away to view the rest of the exhibit. But as expected out of Hawkinson’s characteristic unpredictability, the skeleton is anything but a reptile. The curvature of the skull is actually a man in the fetal position, bent over a lengthy chain of tiny workers rowing away from their giant head—no pun intended. These smaller men were deliberately sculpted to resemble individual vertebrae, hence creating the deceptive aspect of a spine—and all with the use of Crayola Model Magic. Tim Hawkinson once again succeeds in fulfilling his objective as an artist: he takes advantage of a typical cliché and turns it over on its head so that the end product, instead of assuring the audience of some truth, actually deprives them of the grip of logic and leaves them behind with nothing but questions. But is the idea demonstrated by these optical illusions really that restricted to artistic purpose? How different are these hallucinations from the reality of a typical teenage life? Call it the “Matrix” for all you Reeves fanatics, but wouldn’t you agree that many teenagers choose to live a life of ghostly mirage? Trying to cling onto fleeting impressions that leave them no substantial foundation but the pleasure of a moment? I mean, the clichés are everywhere—sex, drugs and rock n’ roll really haven’t changed all that much through time. The superficial is still attractive, the meaningful repellent. And for the unwary viewer, the sting of a giant pink octopus might just be around the corner.