THE 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'm just chillin' at the crib tonight (in part because
I'm still recovering from last night), I've decided to just take it
easy and recap 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 as highly overrated as the potential fun in going out
alone is underrated.
There are always at least a couple
gallery receptions going on somewhere in the city. That means
complimentary beverages 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"
largely consists of guzzling 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 cynical. Anyway, it
beats the bar scene.
With openings happening all over the city
-- River North, River West, Pilsen, Wicker Park -- I hit the
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 in there, at Fine Arts Theater to be exact, which
showed a lot of films of the foreign or artsy variety such as
The
Piano. 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 heavy steel door and stairway
secreted behind the theater screen. There is more yet to the building
that I never got around to exploring.
In the fourth-floor
gallery only about 8-10 people are present: not surprising, since the
show is almost over. But the exhibit is impressive, featuring the
miniatures, sculptures, and daguerrotypes 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. And of course, an assortment of red and
white wines, not to mention a bottle of green tea.
I enjoy 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 miniature 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 closer," 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. Perhaps 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.
I learn that it is she who made the sushi and delicious
chocolates. Probably figuring me for a hungry art student, she fixes
me a plate piled with leftover sushi, which I take it away in a
plastic bag. I forget to ask for some more chocolates.
SO I JET on outta
there and head west to Dearborn and the Blue Line, a few blocks away.
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, nice Fugue in G minor!"
I shout.
"Hey thanks! Yeah, the Little Fugue," he
says with a big grin.
"I love that! Good work."
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 smoke 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 Smokers' Code, not to
mention plain human decency.
The dude is obviously gay and interested. Yet, having had three
glasses of wine, I'm feeling talkative, so we banter a bit. Why not?
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 Myspace page, twice, into my
oldfangled microcassette recorder I carry around. 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 Corners. 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. But it's still the place to go in Chicago for cool
nightlife, for art-related happenings, and just fun people-watching.
The artists who can't afford to live there any more still show up at
the venues and apartment spaces.
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.
I step inside, and to the first guy I see, I yell:
"Encroachment?!"
YES 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, antiwar protests,
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 look like they were lifted
from a bowling alley, vintage dresses, outfits that look homemade.
(By comparison, I'm dressed sort of plain: 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 windows overlooking Milwaukee Ave. I station myself
back in the kitchen section, leaning on the counter as someone sets
down a fresh case of PBR. 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 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 a beautiful, charming six-year old.
Why
am I talking to a six-year-old?
Well, after hanging out back, I re-entered and wandered
over to the now-empty stage, and I listen to 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.
As we play, 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.
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 while 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 about the
dearth of convenient parking. "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 does doggie panting to illustrate it.
Around 10, my celly cell buzzes. Hey! It's a text from Linda, whom
I met last Saturday at BSD:
hi. had fun last week. would
love to get together for a drink.
NOW, LINDA'S A PRETTY and
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, a third-grade teacher in Lawndale, a depressing, blighted West Side neighborhood
that's "always in the news," as she put it.
When I asked
Linda 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 she was pulling my
leg. 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 Linda 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 Linda and her friend. As
it turned out, both were from my neck of the woods -- the south
suburbs. Linda 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 involving "we"
(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 -- especially in the wake of a breakup -- but would never say out loud. Perhaps not great strategy,
but it's honest.
SO ANYWAY, I shoot back to Linda that I'm otherwise occupied tonight, but maybe some other time. I continue taking in the scene at 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.
Caroline sees me gaping perplexedly at the sushi-less fridge. "Oh, I'm
sorry," she 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
of some kind or another, and one of the regulars is a former Seal, so
they don't seem too concerned about intruders.)
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 in the place 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 is there. There's the 50something Jamaican guy whose name
I forget. The Navy Seal guy hasn't made it tonight. But there's Gail, the 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 little 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 too quickly. Which actually 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, even though I shouldn't. Lee
shouldn't've either, because he ends up falling and knocking over a framed
picture. Last time I was here a few weeks ago, Lee was there
showing a bizarre surrealist 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. (Because of the way the trains run in Chicago.) 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 to my neck of the woods leaves from downtown in five minutes. I will never
make it. Maybe I should've taken up Linda on her invitation.
(To be
continued, if I feel like it)
e
