Lifestyle
Balloon Art You Won’t Find at a Children’s Birthday Party
“It’s funny how little memory I have of balloons growing up,” said DJ Morrow, one of the greatest avant-garde balloon artists in the United States. “It’s almost like because it was around me constantly I didn’t even notice them.” They were, that is, like air.
Morrow, 29, lives in a small apartment in Houston, and makes his living as a wedding videographer. But his true passion, passed down from his parents, is balloons. He has transformed that passion into a career creating ephemeral inflatable sculptures unlike those seen at a typical child’s birthday.
One wall of Morrow’s living room/workshop is taken up by plastic boxes containing his hand pumps, tape measures and thousands and thousands of balloons, organized by color. During a visit in January, a rough draft of his most recent piece sat in the middle of the room: a life-size girl in a blue pinafore dress holding a snarling German shepherd by the leash. Every muscle group of the dog was taut, striated in aggression. Its teeth were bared and its yellowed eyes popped from its face. The girl’s face was a mask of panic.
The piece, titled “The Long Night Takes Hold,” “puts an image to the sense of general helplessness that I was feeling with the incoming administration,” said Morrow, his purple mohawk swept up with a clamshell hair claw.
On a large television screen was a photograph of a dead lamb, on its side, its muzzle bloodied. It will become the final element of the composition, its neck destined for the jaws of the dog.
As Morrow worked, the room filled with squeaks. To recreate the dead lamb, he inflated long white balloons. He began twisting, eyes glued to the screen, hands grasping and inflating balloons as smoothly as an archer draws an arrow from a quiver.
Slowly the form of a lamb’s jaw began to take shape. As Morrow twisted and pinched, and occasionally popped, a head grew.
Morrow is part of a very small cadre of balloon artists seeking to use the medium to express the profound. For Morrow, his ballooning journey began in Rio de Janeiro, where he was born, before moving to Taiwan and later Houston.
His parents were members of the Family of God (now called Family International), the cult founded by Morrow’s great-great-grandfather, David Berg, in 1968. They both worked with balloons. His mother, under the name Miss Sunshine, still does. His father developed a latex allergy and had to quit. (“That terrifies me,” Morrow said.)
At 16, Morrow began learning how to twist from his mother. After two weeks, he had learned her repertoire of swords, hats, dogs and teddy bears — “the standard canon of ’90s shapes,” he said. Hungry for more, he began experimenting with multiple balloons in a single piece. Soon he discovered the work of Matt Falloon and Rupert Appleyard, two balloon visionaries who developed systems to create large-scale sculptures. “Being an autodidact was a big part of the cult’s culture,” Morrow said, “so I really began to expand my balloon knowledge quickly.” (The Morrows left the cult in 2012; DJ now identifies as an atheist.)
In 2019, Morrow twisted a life-size sculpture of a sad clown, his first foray into inflatable pathos. It was inspired by his inner life.
“I was dealing with a lot of depression,” he said, “but, as an entertainer, I was constantly under pressure to put on a happy face.” For the first time, he unlocked balloon sculpture’s gravitas.
The piece wasn’t widely seen. But later that year, when he created a large reproduction of Francisco Goya’s “Saturn Devouring His Son” and posted it to Reddit, it became the top post on the website. “The fact that it got to the number one really opened my eyes to the power of being artistically genuine,” he said. Soon Morrow was twisting balloons into large recreations of Francis Bacon’s disturbing “Study After Velázquez’s Portrait of Pope Innocent X” with the pope replaced by Clarence Thomas.
Since then, Morrow has mounted large-scale exhibitions, including one at the Jung Center in Houston called “Out of the Strong Something Sweet,” which explored his childhood as a member of a cult and featured balloon sculptures of Samson wrestling with a lion.
“It represented to me all the good things that came out of my cult upbringing,” Morrow said. “It was me trying to salvage the good from the experience, as Samson did finding honey in the lion’s carcass.”
Those pieces, like all of his sculptures, began to decay as soon as they were finished. Preserving the balloons is out of the question. “It would be like embalming a corpse,” he said. (Morrow sells prints of photographs of his work on his website. Special editions run between $300 and $600.)
“It’s wonderfully artistically enriching,” he said as he worked on finessing the dead lamb, but he admitted that, “financially, it’s not the greatest.” Grabbing another balloon that he inflated, twisted and bent into a lamb’s mandible, he added, buoyantly, “It is beautiful in its absurdity though.”
Three years after my second divorce, with the help of a dating app, I went on 53 first dates in one summer. Fifty-three times, I put on my first-date uniform (nice but not trying too hard), flat-ironed my hair and texted my date itinerary to my friend Karen to make it easier for the FBI to track my whereabouts just in case this was the internet date that finally went wrong.
I had a system. The system involved a spreadsheet. I kept track of what I wore and what stories we shared to avoid repeating myself in case there was a second or third date. There were exploratory follow-up dates, but it usually only took one to know.
The coffees and lunches and dinners of that season flicker in my mind like a rom-com video montage. There were some average dates, plenty of nice-guy, zero-chemistry dates, but a few stand out.
Here are the notables.
There was the extremely tall, minor league baseball player I met at BJ’s in Burbank. He said no more than four words to me the entire meal, but managed to chat up our waitress. I believe he walked me to my car and went back for her number.
The quiet and irritable TV editor I met at Guelaguetza on Olympic Boulevard. We ordered the chicken mole and chapulines. During the meal, he had a panic attack and excused himself to call his therapist. He actually told me this.
The experimental-video director with the white faux hawk I met at Go Get Em Tiger in East Hollywood. He spent the date in an hourlong monologue about his ex-wife Julia, stopping only to show me many, many photos of Julia.
A young man, originally from Phoenix, asked to meet at Soot Bull Jip on 8th Street. A struggling writer-actor-production assistant, he confided that he had looked up my name on Internet Movie Database and noticed that I was a producer. He then proceeded to pitch me an animated children’s show about singing giraffes. He also asked for a ride to Vons. I declined both.
The screenwriter I met at République who, based on his startling non-resemblance to his photo, had obviously posted a picture of someone else on his profile. He brought me three mixed CDs of music based on what he “knew” I would like. It was all Radiohead and Elliott Smith. I adjusted my dating profile because I was apparently coming off as depressed.
There was the nervous and uptight English tutor, with a script in turn-around and a famous roommate, that I met at a Starbucks in Koreatown. This guy corrected my grammar within the first five minutes of our introduction. Then, he proceeded to inform me that rather than be put off by this, I should be grateful for the new information so I could fix my error and not appear to be uneducated.
The trendy, bearded sports photographer I met for a late-night dinner at Fred 62 in Los Feliz. I had high hopes for this guy, and we made plans for a second date. But then things started unraveling once we realized I had already dated his younger brother.
There was also the suave (Hand kiss? Really?) and extremely tan French tennis pro I crossed La Cienega Boulevard for and met for lunch at Thai Vegan in Santa Monica. He was on a nonstop series of calls on his cellphone during the entire meal and then asked for a second date. I said, “Non, merci.”
When describing these guys to Karen, I used their identifying traits to label them. (Stalker Creep. Dude Looks Like a Lady. Mom Jeans Guy.) Like an FNG in Vietnam, it was better not to learn their names.
Due to a story he had shared with me via email, date No. 53 was identified as Naked Drummer. I tried to reserve judgment. Before Naked Drummer came to meet me for our first date, he called at the last minute and said the following:
“I want to recap. I just turned 30. I am currently living with my mother. I play guitar in an alternative folk band. I have a semi-crappy temp job at Disney with no benefits. I drive a green ’97 Plymouth Grand Voyager minivan that smells like weed. If you would like to change your mind about this whole dinner thing, now is your chance.” He described himself as tall, dark and tall.
For some reason, I broke many of my first date “safety rules” with Naked Drummer. I gave him my address. I let him pick me up. When he came to get me, I let him into my apartment. We went for dinner at Noshi Sushi on Beverly Boulevard. None of that is prudent behavior, and I do not recommend any of it except the chu toro.
Naked Drummer was a funny, smart, nice Jewish boy who had been touring in bands in that Grand Voyager since college graduation. On the first date, we bonded over takuwan rolls and our histories as teenage goths. My goth uniform included black Maybelline eyeliner I used a lighter to heat the tip with before application. His goth uniform included an olive-green trench coat he borrowed from his mom. We were a match made in Joy Division heaven. He confided he was an Insane Clown Posse Juggalo, I intimated I was in the Kiss Army. (We were both lying about those last two.)
Reader, I married him.
The author is a former writer, director and producer for television. She and Mr. Rosenberg live in South Pasadena. She’s on Instagram: @smacksy.
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
Lifestyle
Poppy Liu wants to remind you how revolutionary I Love Boosters is : Bullseye with Jesse Thorn
I Love Boosters starts like a fun heist movie. There’s a gang of cool ladies from the Bay Area who steal clothes from high-end designers and sell them at a steep discount to their friends and neighbors. But I Love Boosters is also a Boots Riley movie. The film is surreal and bombastic, branching out in a thousand directions and traversing a dozen genres. So it can’t really stay a heist movie.
Poppy Liu drives that change more than pretty much any other character in the film. She plays Jianhu, a garment worker in China who joins the gang and brings with her a bonkers new wrinkle to the story. It’s a role Poppy was made for. She’s made her career playing confident, somewhat unhinged weirdos. She was cast in a lead role in the 2019 sitcom Sunnyside, had other parts on Better Call Saul, The After Party, and Hacks.
Liu joins us to talk about starring in I Love Boosters and the message that she hopes audiences take away from the film. She also chats with us about her upbringing in Minnesota, how she got into comedy acting, her role on Hacks, and much more.
The problem is not where to find photos on Route 66. The problem is putting down the camera, especially during this centennial year, when the road is dressed up with more lights, banners, murals and fresh paint than it has seen for decades.
Stories, photos and travel recommendations from America’s Mother Road
Travelers may be tempted to just keep snapping. But for better results on every level, say hello and ask questions first. Here are a few more photo tips along with an east-to-west gallery of what our photographers and I found on the road:
- You can’t be everywhere at dusk, when the neon signs blaze, so be strategic (and maybe plan for an early dinner or a late one).
- Use a solid tripod (for long exposures), stay off the road, and be sure to try a variety of exposure times. (Neon is tricky.)
- If you see a roadside image that needs your attention, pull over, park legally and step away from the vehicle. The result will be better and all will be safer.
- Besides the freedom of road-tripping, the spirit of Route 66 is about independent businesses bucking the odds on the road less traveled. If we all take pictures without spending, those businesses won’t last long.
Views from Navy Pier in Chicago.
Millennium Park in Chicago.
Route 66 begins in downtown Chicago at Adams Street and Michigan Avenue. Early alignments put it on Jackson Boulevard. Signs mark the spot across the street from the Art Institute of Chicago.
Art Institute of Chicago.
Cigars and Stripes BBQ in Berwyn, Ill., features a Muffler Man smoking a cigar and holding a jumbo bottle of barbecue sauce.
The Gemini Giant stands along Route 66 in Wilmington, Ill.
Atlanta, Ill., is home to the American Giants Museum — which celebrates the Muffler Men and Uniroyal Gals that were common roadside advertising features in the middle 20th century.
Springfield, Ill., is home to the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Museum and Library. Exhibits takes Lincoln from his Illinois childhood through to the Civil War and his assassination in 1865.
A barn along Route 66 near Carlinville, Ill.
The Wagon Wheel Motel on Route 66 in Cuba, Mo.
The Route 66 Car Museum’s collection includes about 70 vehicles, especially American and European sports cars. Pictured is a 1967 Pontiac Bonneville.
Gary’s Gay Parita, once a service station, won fame over the decades for its hosts’ hospitality. It’s still a popular stop, 25 miles west of Springfield, Mo.
Rockwood Motor Court in Springfield, Mo., dates to 1929. It has been restored and continues to operate.
The Meadow Gold District in Tulsa, Okla.
This fiberglass Rosie the Riveter figure went up on 11th Street in Tulsa in 2025.
Buck Atom’s Cosmic Curios occupies a former service station on 11th Street — a.k.a. Route 66 — in Tulsa.
Soda pop bottles line the walls of Pops 66 in Arcadia, Okla.
A car travels down a stretch of the Meadow Gold District in Tulsa, Okla.
The Cyrus Avery Centennial Plaza features a bronze sculpture called “East Meets West,” just off the now-closed Cyrus Avery Route 66 Memorial Bridge.
The Round Barn in Arcadia, Okla., stands along Route 66.
National Route 66 Museum and Elk City Museum Complex, Elk City, Okla.
The fastidiously restored U-Drop Inn, a Streamline Moderne filling station and cafe in Shamrock, Texas, is one of the architectural standouts of Route 66. It doesn’t sell gas, though.
Visitors to the Cadillac Ranch art installation in Amarillo, Texas, are allowed to spray-paint the 10 Cadillacs half-buried in the ground there.
The Midpoint Cafe in Adrian, Texas, celebrates the halfway point along Route 66 between Chicago and Los Angeles.
A license plate spotted in Albuquerque.
La Cita, a sombrero-topped restaurant, is one of the most popular eateries in Tucumcari, N.M. It was founded in 1940 and moved to its current location in 1961.
Motel Safari in Tucumcari, N.M., is one among a handful in town that have renovated and upgraded to attract contemporary travelers along Route 66.
Michela Franceschilli and her mom, Carla, came from Rome for their second trip exploring Route 66. They are standing by the Blue Swallow Motel, in Tucumcari, N.M.
From Old Highway 66 near Laguna, N.M., Casa Blanca Road leads to Enchanted Mesa and Acoma Village.
The exterior of Duran Central Pharmacy in Albuquerque.
The combination plate, Christmas-style, at Duran Central Pharmacy.
El Vado Motel is a rescue-and-recovery story on Central Avenue in Albuquerque.
Signs and murals line the roadside as Old Highway 66 passes through Grants, N.M.
The West Theatre in Grants, N.M.
The Painted Desert Trading Post stand west of Chambers, Ariz. The restored building and a stretch of old Route 66 are on private property behind a gate. Travelers call or text a number on the gate to ask for access.
Signage along old Route 66 in Holbrook, Ariz.
The Painted Desert portion of Petrified Forest National Park includes broad vistas and richly varied mineral colors.
Scenes from Route 66 in Williams, Ariz.
Angel & Vilma Delgadillo’s Original Route 66 Gift Shop on Route 66 through Seligman, Ariz.
Aztec Motel and Creative Space in Seligman, Ariz.
Route 66 merch in Seligman, Ariz.
Tin Can Alley is a compound of five rental Airstream trailers in Kingman, Ariz.
The stretch of old Route 66 between Kingman and Topock in western Arizona is known as “Arizona Sidewinder” for its 191 turns, often without guardrails. The old mining town of Oatman, known for its feral donkeys, is on the way.
Oatman, Ariz., is known for its roaming burros, Old West-style storefronts and busy weekends. It stands on a curvy stretch of Route 66 that attracts many motorcyclists and off-road enthusiasts.
El Rancho Motel Sign on the outskirts of Barstow, Calif.
Wigwam Motel off Route 66.
The iconic Roy’s sign stands over old Route 66 at Amboy, Calif., in San Bernardino County. These days Roy’s operates as a gas station, gift shop and snack bar, not a cafe or motel.
The fiberglass statue known as Chicken Boy stands on the roof of artist, designer and gallerist Amy Inouye’s studio on Figueroa Street in Highland Park.
The interior of the Magic Lamp Inn.
The Magic Lamp Inn in Rancho Cucamonga.
Mitla’s Cafe in San Bernardino.
Foothill Drive-In sign on the campus of Azusa Pacific University.
A portion of Route 66 that runs parallel with I-15.
Signs of Route 66 through the town of Oro Grande, Calif.
Elmer’s Bottle Tree Ranch.
The interior of the Formosa Cafe in West Hollywood.
The historic train car at the Formosa Cafe.
Mel’s Drive-In diner in Santa Monica.
Route 66 memorabilia at Mel’s Drive-in diner.
Route 66 Burger at Mel’s Drive-In, a popular stop for Route 66 travelers.
The Santa Monica Pier, which marks the western end of Route 66.
Memorabilia for sale on the Santa Monica Pier.
Scenes from the Santa Monica Pier and the end of Route 66.
A sign marking the end of Route 66 on the Santa Monica Pier.
The entrance to the Santa Monica Pier.
The Santa Monica Pier at dusk.
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