12 January 2014 6:00 PM, PST | Vulture | See recent Vulture news »

It’s a couple of days into the New Year, and Jeffrey Deitch is in Los Angeles, that city that he, in three years as director of the Museum of Contemporary Art—and like so many swashbuckling, top-of-their-game Manhattanites who moved out West before him—ultimately failed to seduce. His plan was to transform the museum into a House of Deitchism: crowds, excitement, music, dancing, James Franco and Marina Abramovic, graffiti writers mixing it up with Andy Warhol’s soup cans, Kenneth Anger and the sisters of fashion label Rodarte. In short, the entire theatrical, multidisciplinary, occasionally pervy, finger-on-the-pulse aesthetic-­entertainment complex that he’d helped stir up in New York, where for four decades he’d cavorted stylishly with a march of boldface names. It was a very New York concoction of cool.But it didn’t go over so well at MoCA, where his sensationalist instincts rankled those »

- Carl Swanson

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