HE PARADOX OF THIS blogging phenomenomenon is that the more of an actual life you have, the less time you have to spend writing about it.
But since I don't write much about what I do for fun, and since I'm just chillin' at the crib tonight (in part because I'm still tired from last night), I've decided to just take it easy and write about last night's fun.
As usual, I'd not gotten around to making actual plans, so I ended up going out alone. But then, plans are highly overrated, and going out alone can be lots of fun.
There are always at least a couple gallery receptions going on somewhere in the city. That means free drinks and, in the fancier downtown spots, some phat hors d'ouvres. So, for anybody reading this who does not frequent the "art scene" in Chicago or elsewhere, the "scene" is getting plastered on free booze, gobbling finger foods and gettin' your flirt on while occasionally glancing at the paintings on the wall or scratching your head at some silly conceptual installation. Okay, yeah, that is perhaps a bit overly cynical. Anyway, it beats the bar scene.
With openings happening all over the city -- River North, River West, Pilsen, Wicker Park -- I hit the Loop's Fine Arts Building Gallery first. That's a no-brainer, as the FAB is the first building I see when I get off the train downtown. It's also right near my alma mater, and years ago I worked there, at the Fine Arts Theater, an art-house that showed films like The Remains of the Day, The Piano, and Six Degrees of Separation. The place is a really cool, historic building-- used to be a Studebaker factory. It's got ancient manual elevators operated by mustachioed Eastern European guys. It's also got all kinds of interesting nooks and crannies. During lulls in work I used to creep down into the basement (accessible from within one of the theaters), wielding my usher's flashlight, and check out the elevator machinery and boilers and what not. Or sneak into the often-unattended projection rooms as a movie ran, looking at the amazingly complex projectors and the film crisscrossing the room from one platter, through the projector, then out to the other platter. Stuff like that has always fascinated me. Also during my exploration, I found a hidden, unlit stone cellar of unclear purpose (Prohibition-era hooch hideaway? '50s fallout shelter?). It's separate from the main basement and It's underneath, I think, Theater Four, accessed by a secret door and stairway behind the screen. There is more yet to the building that I never got around to exploring.
Only about 8-10 people are present in the fourth-floor gallery: not surprising, since the show is almost over. But the exhibit is impressive, featuring the miniatures, sculpture, and daguerreotypes of Sean Culver,
the paintings and drawings of Sophia Pichinos,
and oil paintings by Janet Doroba.
The tables in the center of the room are still loaded with stuff: fish and veggie sushi (with all the fixin's, including some @$$-kicking wasabi), multicolored shrimp chips (I find out what they are only after munching on a few; normally, I don't eat shrimp or shellfish), green grapes, and insanely chocolatey chocolates with cherry, mint, or other flavored fillings ... mmm. And of course, an assortment of red and white wines, not to mention a bottle of green tea.
I have fun munching, drinking and peering inside the dioramas, some of which are viewed through little peepholes. One of them is a miniature replica of a wood, complete with a little pond. Another, titled "The Optician's Nightmare" or something similar, depicts a dollhouse-sized bed floating in simulated water, over a tiny storefront with minature counters and shelves.
Culver, a tall, salt-and-pepper-bearded man with glasses, is there, listening to a short, lispy-sounding guy, also in glasses who's yakking away at him for about 20 minutes. Figuring the lispy guy is a collector, I let them alone. Then the lispy guy comes over to me and introduces himself as Bart. "So are you an artist too?" (A question I get a lot.)
"'Dilettante' is more the word," I say, only half-jokingly.
Turns out that Bart is an artist and also a big preservation activist. And for the next 25 minutes or so he talks my ear off about how the evil developers ran the local "preservationist" council; how the head is actually a zoning lawyer who's a crony of the pols and the developers. He talks about the elimination of historic districts and landmarks in favor of yet more overpriced condos, big-box stores, and McCoffee joints. And he says he's got lots more info. He asks me if I wrote for the Defender or other minority publications, which I have not but I probably could. I get his card and promise to be in touch.
Three or four drinks later, I'm checking out this real cute Asian lady who's in the gallery. She looks to be about 40ish and is with one of the other attendees of the show. She had been talking earlier to the server guy about him coming to work for her in some capacity, whatever it is that she does. Bart knows her, and he introduces us: Judy's her name. She says she and Bart attended the School of the Art Institute together, and she graduated in 1974. Sensing that I might be flirting with her, she laughs: "You probably weren't even born then! I could be your grandmother." Could've fooled me. Anyway, I was indeed born in 1974.
I learn that it is she who made the sushi and delicious chocolates. She makes me a plate piled with leftover sushi and I take it away in a plastic bag. I forget to ask for some more chocolates.
SO I JET on outta there and head to the Blue Line, a few blocks over on Dearborn. On Adams just before Dearborn I hear someone playing a flute. What's more, it's the Little Fugue in G Minor, one of my favorite Bach pieces. So I cross the street and head over to the flautist, who's sitting out on the sidewalk. He's a black dude with thick black-framed glasses (he reminds me of Rog from "What's Happening"). By the time I get there he's switched to the theme from Mission Impossible.
I throw a dollar into his cup. "Hey, you were playing the Fugue in G minor!" I shout.
"Hey thanks! Yeah, the Little Fugue," he says with a big grin.
"I love that! Good work! But I gotta go. Take it easy."
As I walk away the guy launches into "My Heart Will Go On."
Down in the subway tunnel, waiting for the Blue Line, I light up an American Spirit, disregarding the "No Smoking" signs. I'm gonna have a half cig, that's all: why is that such a problem? A guy comes over and asked me if I could spare one. Which I must, according to the Universal Smoker' Code, not to mention plain human decency.
The guy is obviously gay and interested. Yet, having had three glasses of wine, I'm feeling talkative, so we banter a bit. Since he has an Eastern European accent, I ask him where he's from, and he says Bulgaria. Yuko's his name, deejaying and making trip-hop music is his game. I have him say his email address, twice, into my microcassette recorder. Who knows? He might have some good stuff.
We continue yakking on the 10-minute train ride to Damen. He exits at Damen with me, asks me where he can get rolling papers. I point out the mini-mart next to Filter. I then go about my way toward Green Lantern Gallery, a loft space at 1511 Milwaukee. But first, I pause outside the Double Door to finish the Spirit and just look around at the bustling nightlife surrounding Wicker Park's famed six-cornered intersection. The hipsters and artists can rant on and on about how the place has become gentrified beyond belief -- and it has, even within my short memory of the place, which means the last ten years -- but it's still the place to go in Chicago for cool nightlife, for art-related happenings, and just fun people-watching. Although many artists can't afford to live there any more, they still flock to the galleries and lofts for shows and parties.
Like the one at Green Lantern. As I enter the building and climb to the second floor, I hear the sounds of a madcap marching band: blaring trombones and tuba over a pounding tribal drumbeat. As soon as I step inside, I know who's playing.
"Encroachment?!" I yell to the first guy I see upon entering.
INDEED. I've seen environmental encroachment twice before. They're band geeks gone bad. They do wacky music and performance art with costumes and puppets. They do parties, festivals, protest marches, Burning Man.
The airy loft apartment is full of mostly twentysomethings but some older folks as well. The majority are dressed in dorky anti-fashion: chicks who could be bike messengers, multicolored hair, black-framed glasses, piercings, odd-colored shoes that belong in a bowling alley, vintage dresses, outfits that look homemade. (By comparison, I'm dressed sort of plain, even Gap-pish: black sweater, black leather jacket, black beanie and plain secondhand jeans. And my real cool but beat-up olive Adidas hikers -- oh thank God for those, those have taken me through miles and miles and miles, through city and suburbs and forest -- and my olive Swedish schoolboy satchel. But I really need to get jiggier on the wardrobe tip, to dress with a bit more flair. For a creative guy I tend to dress pretty uncreatively. I don't really like shopping, not even at thrift stores.ee is playing in front of the stage, which abuts the huge picture windows overlooking Milwaukee Ave. I station myself back in the kitchen section, leaning on the counter as someone sets down a fresh case of Pabst Blue Ribbon. I just keep quiet and observe and listen as the band plays and partygoers get down.
The first couple people I recognize are Dave, proprietor of Butcher Shop/Dogmatic -- which I visited last week for the first time -- and a girl, who was also at BSD, who I also see at just about every other art happening I've been to, but whose name I forget.
The third person I see is the equally ubiquitous Lee Groban.
That's Lee on the right and antisocialite Liz Armstrong on the left, apparently ignoring him. (This pic is from some other party; I stole it from Liz' Flickr site). Here's another one, a mask of his face:
Like Savoir Faire, Lee is everywhere. He is a poet, artist and instantly recognizable scenester. He can usually be seen at art-related events chatting up girls half his age as he clutches a beer or a joint, swaying precariously -- and sometimes, falling down. He speaks fondly of his beatnik/hippie days in Brooklyn and the Bay Area.I try to talk with him, with little success, over the noise of horns and drums and dancing around us. From what I can make out, he says he's going down the street to Gallery Chicago (where I'm also going) in a bit. He recently had something done to his teeth and was advised not to smoke, so he hasn't bothered securing his usual supply of groovy greens for the folks at GC. "But I guess I could still do hallucinogenics," he slurs.
"Ever do 'shrooms?" I say, just out of curiosity.
Of course, he says. And I may be getting this wrong, but I do believe he said: "Although the last time I tried it, it was more of a body high. You know, not the kind where you see God."
I continue to just observe and soak up the sights, the sounds, the scene. After ee is done playing, I go out on the balc in back and have another Spirit and talk to Caroline, the impresaria behind Green Lantern, and some dude. The only other girl I bother talking to is beautiful, charming, and six years old.
How'd I start chatting up a six-year-old? Well, once back inside the loft, I wander over to the now-empty stage, to watch a guy strumming a guitar and a girl trying to sing something (apparently they're trying out a new song; no one's listening). I pick up a drum and bongo along with them for while, just because I feel like it.
A few colorfully dressed little kids are running around near the stage. I think it's awesome to see kids at art events. How fortunate they are to grow up in a milieu of art and creativity and grown-ups who are not quite grown up, i.e., fun and interesting. One of the kids, an absolutely adorable blonde, blue-eyed moppet, tells me she's six. Her name is Darby Crash -- after the lead singer of the Germs -- and she's there with a babysitter, she says drinking a Pepsi (which is no doubt part of the reason she's so hyper). She does some gymnastics tricks for me. She tells me she lives in the neighborhood, and I remark that she lives in a pretty cool place. But she wrinkles up her nose and complains: "We had to park aaallllllll the way over here," she says, tracing out a little map on the stage next to me. "And walk aallllllll the way over here." In case I"ve missed the point, she pants like a dog.
Around 10, my celly cell buzzes. Hey! It's a text from Laura, whom I met last Saturday at BSD:
hi. had fun last week. would love to get together for a drink.
LAURA'S A PRETTY, somewhat nerdy dark blonde, one of the first individuals I met at BSD last Saturday. She was dressed like a teacher. The reason, I soon found out, was that she's a teacher. Specifically, she teaches third grade in Lawndale, a depressing, blighted West Side neighborhood that's "always in the news," as she put it. When I asked her where the beverages were kept, she told me to go to the "beer machine" in the back. Scarcely believing this, I wandered on to the back of the gallery (a former meat packinghouse or warehouse or something), saw no machine, and then decided Laura was bullshitting me. I went back, feigned a dirty look, then strode away and ignored her a few minutes. Eventually I came back and playfully chastised her for screwing with me.
But Laura insisted the beer machine was real. She led me to the back, then up a flight of concrete stairs. At the top -- voila -- an ancient vending machine stocked with Miller ("Henry Miller," the hand-scrawled tab read), Beck's ("Bleck's"), Old Style ("Mold Style"), Heineken and a couple others. So it was real! And a buck per can.
Because of the near- or below-zero wind chill that night, I decided not to bother going to see Ami and Radiant Darling at the Viaduct; I'll have to catch their next show. I hung out and drank PBR's and smoked a Spirit and chatted with Laura and her friend. As it turned out, both were from my neck of the woods -- the south suburbs. Laura had grown up minutes from me over in Chicago Heights, although she'd gone to the local Catholic high school. She was very friendly, although perhaps a bit neurotic: When we got on the topic of blues clubs, she said she'd never go to Buddy Guy's downtown, because parking's scarce and she was afraid to use public transit. "All the crowds, the people, the lights ...." she groaned.
"What do you mean? There are lights everywhere," I said.
"Yeah, but fluorescent lights."
Later in the conversation, after we'd both had a few brews, she made some sort of statement that it'd be nice if "we" could go somewhere or do something (I forget exactly what) and I asked her, "Who's 'we' -- you and your friend?"
"Nooo!" and then, with a wistful look: " Oh, I guess I want to feel like part of a 'we,' again."
I admit, that made me think "stalker" for a second. But then, after all, she was just voicing what so many of us feel but would never say out loud. Perhaps not great strategy, but it's honest.
SO BACK TO Green Lantern. After awhile, and a PBR, I decide to set off for Gallery Chicago. I bid Caroline adieu and look around for my sushi.
No sushi! Someone's made off like a sushi bandit.
"Oh, I'm sorry," Caroline says, sounding embarrassed. "I've got some Thai food. Would you like this instead?" She opens her fridge and takes out a bag containing three cartons. "It's tofu. It's pretty good."
I take it, thank her profusely, and then leave.
SO I HIKE SEVEN BLOCKS south on Milwaukee, past storefronts and over the winding river of headlights and taillights that is the Kennedy Expressway, the downtown Chicago skyline looming ahead. At Gallery Chicago, the door's open as usual. (Gallery owner/painter Ken Hirte is an Army vet and one of the regulars is a fellow vet, while yet another is a former Navy Seal, so they don't seem too concerned about intruders. In any case, I'm sure they could deal with any who showed up.)
We pass through the small storefront gallery and into the studio/living space in back: an unevenly lit, warehouse-like space of brick and exposed beams, decorated with a jumble of finished and unfinished paintings and sculptures. In the back is a kitchen space, an entertainment center with couches, an office space and a bed. The only enclosed room is the bathroom. There's a basement workshop, too, into which I've only peeked a couple of times.
Ken says hi. Most of the regulars, including Lee, are gathered around the kitchen table in back. As usual, it's an older crowd -- but I feel quite comfortable around an older crowd. Vito Carli had just left, Lee tells me. Plexiglass art genius Walter Fydryck s there. There's the 50something Jamaican guy whose name I forget. The Navy Seal guy hasn't made it tonight. But Gail, a 40?something white woman whom I last saw at the AfroPunk show last May -- moshing with all the kids. Now that's cool. But tonight she's pretty much 3 1/2 sheets to the wind and doesn't recognize me. A funny-smelling cigarette of some sort is being passed around, and I assay to take a puff but grab it so clumsily that it burns my fingers and I drop it -- plus exhale all the smoke too quickly. Which is okay with me, as I'm already quite sorted; smoking and drinking together never seems to work well for me anyway.
As usual people are talking politics. I have a couple glasses of Ken's homemade wine, which I know I shouldn't. Lee shouldn't've either, because he ends up falling and knocking a framed picture over. Last time I was here a few weeks ago, Lee was there showing a bizarre film he and a friend made in Brooklyn, featuring himself reading his poetry against dilapidated urban backdrops, backed by trippy music. In one shot, the funny-without-even-trying Lee, looking like a demented, bearded tree-person, is shown duckwalking in circles, lying on the ground in front of a dumpster, and, through trick photography, leaping around upside-down. All the while, reciting his poetry. All you can say is: Wow.
It's 12:15 when I realize I have to leave. But I don't want to. I'm flirting with Gail and I'm listening to some intriguing political conversation between the Jamaican guy and Ken and another guy. And so the moment passes. And next thing I know, it's 12:45. The last train home leaves from downtown in five minutes. I will never make it.
I'm homeless for the night. Again.
(To be continued, if I feel like it)
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