Pens and Art do NOT go together like Beans and Cornbread

A few Fridays ago at the Art Institute (free Thursday and Friday nights until Labor Day!). I was motivated to write standing in front of the Sol Lewitt-inspired piece, but I didn't have a writing utensil. Urgh! I zoomed through the museum to the gift shop and bought myself one, grabbing for the pencils first, but I didn't want a pencil, I wanted a pen. So I bought one. It clicks.

Hit up the contemporary wings, I made a plan before I got to the museum that this is where I would spend my evening. The entrance to the first exhibit was a large gold-beaded welcome. Had I been alone in the wing, or perhaps more courageous, I would've spent hours, if not minutes, dancing through them - I did take my time in passing, dragging my fingers through the golden strands. After the bead curtain I was unsure of the exhibit, as the first piece I encountered was a series of line graph drawings terrifyingly reminding me of high school math. Then the graphite wall drawing in the third room captured my full attention. Inspired by Sol Lewitt and applied directly to the wall. Scribbles made to appear like a 3-D entrance into a mysterious pencil-drawn world. Recalled images of MC Escher. Also, I enjoyed the thick acrylic work of Gerhard Richter. "Ice 1" and "Ice 4," the layers of horizontal and vertical paint lines and scrapes changed through and through as though the real frozen tundra abstractly defined - green and floral colors lay barely exposed under the cold harsh blues, purples and grays.

Hairy Who: Imagists from Chicago's Hyde Park area in the 60s. Wow. Fascinating and bizarre stuff. Cartoony. Garish, political images and satire. Bright, brilliant colors.

The room right next door had Keith Haring and David Wojnarowicz, representin' NYC's East Village. Haring is always wonderful, and I had never experienced Wojnarowicz that I remember. His "Queer Basher/Icarus Falling" was heartbreaking and it gave me the chills... A father came in with his two young children, attempting to explain the importance and design of KH. They were uninterested to say the least. To that he said, "This is very important and you will understand that one day when you are older."
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On the train, an hour later, recalling... a security guard kindly asked me to put away my materials, informing me that pens weren't allowed in the museum. He said this very politely, but still I felt the sting of sadness fill my throat and burn my eyes - maybe he saw this because he quickly noted that he was sorry for the inconvenience, but pens just weren't allowed. Pencils were okay, but no pens. It makes sense, pen rarely ever comes out, even with multiple washes it's tough - granted if you washed the art it would be ruined. I murmured, "Sorry. No worries" quickly, fearing that if I said another word, tears would flood down my face. I don't know why, that's just how I felt. I thought about how pencils should be banned too, because they can scar when pressure is added. I didn't say it, but I thought it. That happens a lot, I think of things all the time, but I never say them because I know they wouldn't come out right, they get all jumbled and confused on the path from my mind to my mouth. Such is the curse of a writer, I suppose. My hand is my medium.

Also, I spent a few minutes in front of Dali. Blew my mind away, as always. "Inventions of Monsters" and I think it was "Visions of Eternity." (Much better in person)

Vvrrrrrooooom! Off the train to sit in Wicker Park, by the fountain. It's a lovely Summer evening.

I was overwhelmed with loneliness and I walked around listening to everyone's conversations wishing I had someone to share my musings with. Particularly in the Abstract room. Joan Miro's "Abstraction" and Picasso's "Man in a Button Down Vest, Top Hat, Smoking a Cigar in an Armchair" - or something to that effect, it was long, clever and I couldn't write it down. Abstraction is such a bizarre art form - and I love it! I wish I had been able to write what I thought about it as I thought about it, but I didn't want to break the pen rule, even though I was no longer standing by the same guard. I knew the rules and I wasn't feeling rebellious.

My recalled thoughts on Abstraction. The Picassos especially made me think about this. We are the sum of parts

***Oh geez! A homeless man is very offended right now as he just came and sat next to me on the bench - there are many other benches that are not occupied. He chose mine. Then, he being muy barracho, sang a sad garbled song, swayed and attempted to lay his head on my shoulder. If he even comes back I'm going to - he's walking this way, I'm clenching my jaw tight to show my displeasure of the situation - I wish I could understand Spanish - he did come back. He's back. New bench. He's back. I moved again, next to a normal-looking couple. They said, "Hey. Come sit by us." He was offended, again. And I told them I wish I understood Spanish better, and the guy joked, "I don't think that's comprehensible in any language." He sadly walked away, probably didn't even know his own name. The barracho was lonely, too. It happens. This world is lonely, but I'm alone and I don't speak his language and I was startled and I'm busy writing, no time for entertaining bagged, homeless men.***

that surround our everyday life. The man was pieces of everything he touched. As he touched something it became a part of him. Just like the barracho with his black garbage bag and his blue stocking cap pulled over his eyebrows.

Abstraction. The subtraction and addition of parts and people coming and going through our lives. The paths we take and cross by ourselves and with others. The impact of humanity on one single being has ramifications on the whole society. The arts, they capture this, allowing the work to be interpreted, generation after generation, if they are so lucky to help modern man realize that, "Hey. We've always been this way, and I guess things will never really change." People make mistakes, try to fix them, make them again. Wars, genocides, love affairs. It happens. We forget. We grow old. We grow tired, but we keep on going and we keep on doing. Life happens and it is wonderful! Wonderfully maddening, wonderfully brilliant, wonderfully sad and devastating, but from it all we grow and try to teach ourselves and others of the pursuit to make it the best you can, while you can.

As Bob Dylan's grandmother said, "Happiness is not on the road to anything. Happiness is the road." And as Kurt Vonnegut's uncle Alex said, "If this isn't nice, I don't know what is." And as my brother Alex said, "Do not underestimate the degree of impact your life has on the lives of others."

I never want to be so miserable that I don't want to get out of bed in the morning and see the bright, beautiful sunshiney world.