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.

A Miniature Life

After a long day in the office yesterday--

[It wasn't really that bad. Management was gone at the Cubs game all day, so those of us left behind acted like 2nd graders with a substitute teacher, making it really hard to do actual work... I goofed all day, too, it was great! Although I did manage to make quota. Yes. I have an adult job where I have to make quotas. Actually it makes me feel like I work in a factory. My fingers are crippled after 8 hours typing, and I have tyrannysaurus arms from bending at the elbows for the majority of the day. OH! And right now I'm at a cofffee shop b/c the internet at my house is shotty. Filthy says it's Comcast's fault. I say it's Filthy's fault for spending bill money on dildos rather than giving it to the Man. Annnnnnyway, I'm here to do my weekend work. 20 profiles for time and a half (only 8 hours, but still, bettah than nothin'). I can't seem to sign in to the company website... I can't figure out what I'm typing in wrong, and no one is in the office. Early out. Awesome! I got Chipotle for lunch and it was delicious. So, it's looking like I'm going to go in tomorrow morning after my long run and type like a madwoman so I can party the rest of my weekend away. --------- Also, this cat baristo (? are male coffee bar attendants still considered barista?) has amazing musical tastes... keeping it funky fresh and flipping it back old school, Doors to J5. I like!]

-- I went to the Art Institute. It's FREE Thursday and Friday nights. Oopa! And I really had to pee when I got there, so I headed down to the bathroom (Now early ninties Radiohead - I might steal this kid), did my biznass (you don't really need to know this, but I'm taking you on my journey. Come along), and bobby-pinned my bangs back b/c they were sweaty - ew! I was going to go upstairs but then I saw there was a Miniatures collection (!!!!) and I think I heard someone say once that it was a pretty cool collection, so I wandered in. Sure enough, it was great!! GREAT! So intricate. The detail on most was 1' = 1". Oh, and they were of rooms through the ages: English, French, American (great halls, libraries, dining rooms, parlors of sorts), then a Traditional Chinese Interior, and Traditional Japanese Interior. I was really very impressed, and I read that the woman... Mrs. James Ward... ahhh, somebody was very demanding that every last detail matched the real thing, same wood used in real thing and so on. Blah blah blah, really detailed. Impressive. So I've said. What I'm getting at is that it was so real I really expected (AHHHH SMOKEY ROBINSON! not in the displays, in the shop) the little man from Indian in the Cupboard to come running through holding a mini scalp. Ha ha ha. No, he wasn't violent, but he would've been in the Colonial American displays. I really wanted to see some miniature ghosts, or another thing, I was wishing I was very, very tiny and I could live in these rooms. I would love it, but then I thought how terrifying it would be to have GIANT people looking in at me and saying, "Oooh! Look at the chandelier. This chandelier is my favorite! And the little chess set. OOoh! Look at this chess set!" There was a group of 4 12yo in front of me and they were very excited.

I like strolling through museums with my arms crossed thoughtfully inspecting the pieces.

After the miniatures I began to make my way to the stairs only to be stopped by the TOUCH GALLERY! I love touching things!! I love it, love it, love it!! They were busts - sexy, sexy. So I touched a marble one of some guy, I forgot already so he wasn't important. He could've had a big nose, and perhaps was bald, or maybe it was a woman. YES! It was! And she had a bun, and some guy that was in love with her when he was in art school in Paris in the early 1900s sculpted her with such fine detail. Then there was a limestone/granite Chinese guard with the scowl and bun... I'm seeing a theme. Joan of Arc was bronze, I touched her crown and put my hands around her neck. Then there was this bronze lady WITH a marble veil. I liked the combo, but didn't. Then there was another bronze bust, but of a guy, and he had the big nose, so I stole it (his nose, like you do a baby).

Photography wasn't anything special, so onward and upward to PAINTING!

I like the paintings where I would like to either be in the scenery, or watching the painter paint. Specifically seascapes. Also, there was this one of a chariot race, I forget who did it, but the horses were painted with such terror in their eyes, and the fine detail of the foam. It exploded off the wall. Merh merh merh. I started to get tired/thirsty when I was up there, slowing going into delusion, so I left.

Walked to the Blue Line, took it to Damen, walked home. Went to run/gym. Walked home. Went to the grocery store. Ate a dinner of this wonderful egg dish that is pretty much the only thing I make besides banana bread, and drank some Yellowtail CabSauv. Yes. I know. I am so fancy. I can barely handle it myself. Then I went to bed. My life is sooooo exciting!

In other news, I have to write a 5-ish minute play for the children, using sock puppets. I believe it is going to revolve around Porter (67, fancy. Wears a top hat, monocle, cane), Camilla Cavendish (45, fancier. Exciting) and HR Sockston (a sock monkey). So, we'll see what happens with that. I'm not sure of the plot yet, since it does have to be G rated. I'm pretty excited. And I want to design a little theatre... so that's tomorrow, after work, MEEEEH!

Sunday, my friend wrote this one man show that's going to be amazing, so I'm going to see it with another friend. Sometime I've got to fit in Anne Sather's and her cinnamon rolls, as I'm having withdrawls. And that is all.

I probably won't write for another week, as I seem to have no spare time on my hands anymore. It kind of makes me happy that I'm doing so many things, but at the same time I used to consider myself a pretty lazy person, and now I have no time to be lazy. I guess the only thing I've been lazy with is my personal writing, and that makes me sad. Although I do compose things in my head, which some people might call "thoughts," but I formulate stories... hmmm... Now I must go home and collect my loan information (ARGH!) so I can consolidate them all into something I will never, ever be able to pay off... I love that my math skills made me think I had $10,000 less to pay, and then my credit report broke my heart. I'm never going to see the other side of the world (HERE COMES MY BABY! I LOVE THIS SONG> KEEP SEEING THIS PICTURE OF YOU!!! HERE COMES MY BABY!! HERE SHE COMES NOW!! AND IT COMES AT NO SURPRISE TO ME, WITH ANOTHER GUY!) I gotta go.

Consolidate. Wine. Guitar. Laundry. Wine. Fold. Wine. Guitar. Wine. Pass out. Sounds like a FUN FRIDAY NIGHT!! I gotta rest up for tomorrow. I'll be 23 in 12 days. Hoo-de-hoo!

Too-dah-loo!!