High Performance magazine didn't just document the L.A. art scene. It lived inside the chaos of it. If you look at the covers from the late seventies and early eighties, you aren't just seeing graphic design. You're seeing a visceral scream from a community that didn't care about the traditional gallery walls. These covers weren't meant to sit pretty on a coffee table. They were meant to poke you in the eye.
The magazine started in 1978. Linda Burnham founded it because nobody else was taking performance art seriously. It was the "wild west" of the art world. Artists were using their bodies as the primary medium. They were bleeding, shouting, and pushing boundaries that make today's "edgy" content look like a Sunday school picnic. When you revisit these covers now, you realize how much we've lost in our era of polished, algorithmic aesthetics.
The Raw Power of the High Performance Aesthetic
Performance art is notoriously hard to capture. It’s fleeting. Once the act is over, it’s gone. High Performance solved this by making the magazine itself an extension of the performance. The covers often featured grainy, high-contrast black and white photos. They felt urgent. They felt like something you weren't supposed to see.
Take the early issues. You might see a close-up of a face distorted by pain or a body frozen in a moment of extreme physical tension. There was no attempt to make it "commercial." The typography was often bold and utilitarian. It functioned more like a protest poster than a lifestyle rag. This wasn't about selling a product. It was about documenting a moment of cultural friction.
I've talked to collectors who still hunt for these original issues. They don't want them because they're "vintage." They want them because they represent a time when art felt dangerous. Today, everything is curated for Instagram. Back then, it was curated for the people in the room who were willing to get uncomfortable.
Recreating the Radical Spirit
When people try to recreate these covers today, they often miss the point. It isn't just about the filter or the font. It’s about the intent. The original creators didn't have Photoshop. They had X-Acto knives, waxers, and a lot of coffee. They were working with physical materials to describe physical acts.
Why the DIY Approach Worked
- Authenticity over perfection. The imperfections were the point. A crooked line or a messy halftone screen added to the grit.
- Artist-led design. The people making the magazine were the same people doing the performances. There was no "marketing department" to tell them to tone it down.
- Limited resources. Scarcity breeds creativity. They used what they had, which resulted in a distinct, stripped-back look that defined an era.
If you’re a designer or an artist looking at these covers for inspiration, don't just copy the layout. Look at the tension. Ask yourself what you’re trying to say that people might find difficult to hear. That's where the real magic of High Performance lives.
The Los Angeles Context
L.A. in the late seventies was a strange place. It was the shadow of Hollywood. While the film industry was busy manufacturing dreams, the performance art scene was busy deconstructing nightmares. High Performance captured this duality perfectly. It gave a voice to the feminist artists, the queer artists, and the political activists who were ignored by the New York-centric art world.
The magazine acted as a bridge. It connected the isolated pockets of the L.A. underground. Without it, many of these performances would be lost to history. We’d have no record of the seminal works by artists like Chris Burden or Rachel Rosenthal. The covers served as the front door to this underground bunker.
What We Can Learn From the Archives
Looking back at these archives isn't just a nostalgia trip. It’s a wake-up call. We live in a time where content is optimized for "engagement." High Performance was optimized for impact. It didn't care if you liked it. It cared if you felt something.
Lessons for Modern Creators
- Stop being so safe. If your work doesn't occasionally make someone uncomfortable, you’re probably playing it too close to the vest.
- Focus on the physical. In a digital world, things that feel "hand-made" have more weight.
- Build a community. High Performance succeeded because it was for and by the artists. It wasn't an outside observer. It was part of the tribe.
The radical nature of these covers came from a lack of fear. The editors weren't worried about losing advertisers or getting "canceled." They were worried about the art not being seen. That shift in priority changes everything about how you design.
The Legacy of the Magazine
High Performance eventually evolved and eventually stopped publication, but its DNA is everywhere. You see it in zine culture. You see it in the DIY aesthetic of early punk flyers. You even see it in the way some modern digital artists are trying to break the "clean" look of the web.
The magazine proved that a small group of dedicated people could shift the cultural conversation. They didn't need a huge budget. They just needed a clear vision and a lot of nerve. The covers remain a testament to that bravery. They are ghosts of a time when art was a contact sport.
Go find a digital archive of these issues. Spend some time with the images. Don't just scroll through them. Really look at the compositions. Notice how they use negative space. Notice how the subjects stare back at the camera. There is a directness there that we rarely see in contemporary media.
If you want to apply this to your own work, start by stripping away the fluff. Remove the unnecessary shadows, the "perfect" alignments, and the stock-photo energy. Find a single, powerful image that tells a story. Use a font that feels like it was stamped onto the page. Most importantly, have something to say.
The best way to honor the legacy of High Performance is to stop consuming and start creating something that actually matters. Don't wait for permission. Don't wait for a budget. Just start making something radical.
