Last summer I dipped my feet in the cool refreshing waters
of adventure. I traveled south, with
safety points and visits with friends plotted along the way. This summer, I have jumped off the high
dive! I have embarked on a solo trip
cross country and I highly recommend it for everyone! I am a New Yorker. Raised by New Yorkers. We like our delis. Our hard rolls. Our bagels with a little schmear. OK I like it with a
little schmear, just a little,
because I like to taste the bagel, and otherwise all that schmear, makes me
light headed, and lead bellied from that slightly chemical, metallic wrapped,
cream cheese schmeary taste.
I was admittedly afraid to go south last summer. I have seen movies and read books, Deliverance, Sling Blade, To Kill a Mockingbird,
Bastard out of Carolina, The Prince of
Tides, well OK that one is a bit closer to home……You get the message. Right? I did.
Darkness lurking in every small-minded, ethno-centric, bible-bumping,
right wing, Christian zealot corner of every southern town and city. I cannot begin to tell you how much I loved
that trip, the south, the culture, the people, I did however stay out of the
backwoods, and mostly hugged the coast.
From Washington DC to Savannah, Georgia, Tallahassee, Florida through Perdido
Keys, Florida, Mobile, Alabama to New Orleans, Louisiana, I
loved the south!
I am a New Yorker, we like the coast. We are slightly afraid of going in-land. There are not many subways beyond, say
Brooklyn, or Queens. And there is that
train route to New Jersey and Hoboken, but feh, now you are talking state
lines, and it’s almost like crossing borders and what not. Many of us, of a certain age, have ethnic
ties to immigrants, we may believe that one day, if some need occurs, we may
need to go back to our homelands, and we will not want to rough the plains and
prairies, of the Midwest to get there.
We will stay closely rooted to the coast in case we need to make an
exodus to our mother countries, the home land, or our great-great-great grand mother
countries for that matter.
The trip last summer primed me, and I have started my
journey west. Following a Fast and Furious jaunt through a few states,
Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, I landed in Chicago. I sweated over this stop. My first stop a city? I want to broaden my
horizons, not keep them familiar and safe, I work and worry and discuss, but
plan loosely. I am venturing off
independently, so I must carry a great load of angst and a little cooler full
of despair, amidst the art supplies, the backpack and camping gear, the thumping,
rousing, thrill-seeking, warrior that is me, and the multitude of cameras and
gear in my solo wagon train better known as the black Corolla.
So, for the record? Chicago, it turns out, is nothing like
New York except for the tall buildings, wait, I mean the fact that they each
have buildings that are tall. Remember,
fellow history buffs, and everyone else, wipe off your 5th grade
History of the United States acumen.
Mrs. O’Leary, the damn cow, the lantern…Chicago had the, twist of the
word, shine of the light, fabulous opportunity to rebuild, Phoenix from the
ashes, and it is an rchitectural delight of style and design and wonder. Yes, it’s true I took the Chicago Architecture Foundation River Cruise. Magnificent.
I was fortunate enough to contact a friend of a friend
living in Chicago prior to getting into the city. I
called the friend of the friend with reluctance and obligation. Friend insisted. Maybe I would stay at their home? I would
never impose. I am after-all a New
Yorker. My father, would barely feel
comfortable staying with his own siblings as they all grew older. We don’t like to “put people out.” I am starting to learn, us New Yorkers of a
certain age and ilk, aren’t so concerned about putting anyone out, we are more
frightened of the luncheon meats in place of the cold cuts, and why can’t
anyone else make a good slice of pizza?
I know, in Chicago this is blasphemy, it is like speaking of the Yankees
in Boston without a loaded weapon or an escape route. I contacted said friend of friend, and it
turns out I would have spent a week in her care and taken every spectacular gem
she offered of things to do and see from her hands. Somehow or other we started talking about my
journey post Chicago and she mentioned outsider art, in passing. Huh? What?
Cow-a-Bunga and Bongo Bongo!! Did
she just not just say outsider art tour?
I am overjoyed, and happy, and I can’t pretend to keep my no eye
contact, don’t let the neighbors know your serial number, your place of origin,
how you vote or what you ate for dinner poise.
Why do we hang all our dirty laundry on the lines, and scream and fight
in our paper thin walk-ups if we are such secret-keepers? Anyway, I am all beamy excited at the mention
of outsider art. She promises to send me
a link or two, I am thankful and I say good bye.
Somewhere around Gary, Indiana, the orange glow of the toxic
sky, darkens and the rains fall, heavily from the heavens. I stop quickly for gas and throw my phone in
the pocketbook, yes New Yorkese, it’s like a purse, only, well, yeah it’s a
purse, or a handbag, and I travel on.
When I arrive, 30 minutes north of Chicago, in a Hotwire bargain mystery
hotel, that seems a bit closer to the city than it is. I am looking forward to
sleep and the next days adventure. I
missed the message from friend of friend of the spouse variety, who I enjoyed
charming and open conversation with a couple of months earlier, in the safe
hamlet on the river with a train line ready in a heartbeat for quick and timely
escapes, in New York. He leaves a
message, inviting me to stay with them, and jokes about the depressive impact
this faraway suburb will have should I refuse.
I appreciate the humor, the invite, but without a frame of reference for
how faraway I am, the inviting hotel suite quickly comforts me into sleep.
I start my first day in Chicago on a photography quest to
find a small piece of myself in the outlying ethnic neighborhoods and I am not
let down. I feel “home” here. The buildings, and homes, and churches are familiar. That sense of community and shared communal
struggle with making ends meet, getting ahead, providing for family, is evident
throughout. The great American dream is
alive and well in these urban immigrant enclaves and it fills me with calm to
witness as an “outsider” with the inside scoop. The knowledge of simple beginnings and
immigrant struggles to provide a better life for your children and your
children’s children is deeply engrained in my heart and soul.
Next I make it to Millennium Park and get up close to the
steel and silver shine emanating from the sculpted masses that were created
from the hearts and hands of Frank Gehry and Anish Kapoor. There is whimsy and light heartedness and a
calling out for interaction and connection.
You cannot get close to these two diverse sculptures without entering
into a relationship with each artist. I
think back to a comment made by a friend just a few days earlier. “Touching the hand of God…” I have a new perspective of this quote, the idea, I think of the artwork of Michelangelo, the great artists, through the ages. Connections larger than life. The electricity is everywhere here in
Chicago. And of course it is where
electricity was first showcased to the masses at the 1893 World’s Fair. Surely that spark is from coming into contact
with something so much larger than ourselves, even larger than Frank Gehry, or
Frank Lloyd Wright, or Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Mies, known as one of the pioneering masters of modern architecture, surely was on to
something when he said, “God is in the details.” The details of Chicago cannot be captured in a small personal essay.
A visit to the Art Museum makes me tingly with joy. This does not happen frequently. Or ever, well maybe on some occasions....
I am walking around this city with the biggest goofiest smile. All day.
Like some simpleton. Honestly. If
anyone from New York saw me, I would be banished from the borders. Surely I look like I just had a big piece of
clown pie and what is the joke? I am
elated. And it doesn’t end. By the time I am finished tripping over the
joy and brightness of the city, and finally safely on the River Tour, I call
friend of friend thanking her for the links and the advice. She recommended seeing the exhibit,
Impressionism, Fashion and Modernity at the Art Institute of Chicago. I can’t say enough about this show. The size and scope, stellar! There is an unfinished piece with two panels, one that reaches
close to the heavens or so it seems, by Monet, and costumes throughout. Suddenly I am transformed to Paris in the
late 1800s, pure magic! And even as I stumble through the crowds, giddy with joy, I can barely get close to some of the art. I buy the book, to have this collection, and can't wait to look deeply at the works, and the history. It is truly amazing and even more so because I have been immersed in research regarding a Russian mystic and her salon on the Rue Saint Dominique at this precise time. I am enthralled with the serendipitous nature of this exhibit and I half expect to see the name of Madame Swetchine, appear in the descriptions.
As I am thanking friend of friend, I ask
for a dinner recommendation, she offers two.
One is for a Blues restaurant in Marina City, known as the the corn cob buildings, or that's how they were described to me, and well, absolutely! The corn cob buildings!. She explains the lobby is filled with
outsider art and it might be a great place to start. As I approach, I notice it is The House of Blues, and I am slightly
discouraged, as I think of this as a chain, like going to The Hard Rock Café,
or maybe even Applebees…silly, foolish me.
I walk in and want to start screaming like a love sick Paul McCartney
fan circa 1967 or so…but that’s ahem, well before my time…The lobby doesn’t
just have outsider art. It is some
crazy, wild, earlier unknown at least to me, mecca. A shrine!
Hanging on these hallowed walls is the art, a massive collection of
originals from MoseT, Annie Tolliver, Dr. Imagination and so on and so forth. I am not a screamer, squealer, look at me in
public type a gal. I am able to maintain
my NYC stance somewhere, thank you very much.
But it will take several states and a whole lot of trouble to wipe this
grin off my face soon. And oh, by the
way…troubles?….I got the Blues CD collection to carry me right on through to the
other side of any troubles….
Southern outsider, self-taught artists…..you cannot but see
the hand of some god or another at work here.
It is truly spiritual, and electrically charged. And I have that dumb-founded smile to prove
it.
Next stop….Wisconsin….
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