Dear Miss Valland,

Work it

Junior Party Book © Ruth Lopez

Someone I like who owns a wonderful small business is looking for an office assistant and posts the details on FB along with the note alerting everyone. One of the words describing the person they are looking for—"young"—pops out of the screen and pokes me in the eye. So I write:  "young?" He responds: "yeah, it's entry level." Well, yeah the word "assistant" in the description kind of gives that away.  Here is the thing: There are no entry level jobs, there are only jobs. This is the world we live in now. You are probably thinking that I am bent out of shape because I am now on the other side of "young," but my darling, so are you by another day today and if you wake up tomorrow... We've got to change our thinking. What we need is a complete overhaul of the system, but in the meantime, how about we re-examine our youth obsession? Look, I know it is just another way of saying that the pay is low. But we know how to read these ads. We know, for instance, that a job listing that says the applicant should have a "sense of humor" is just another way of saying that the boss is an asshole.

Journalists are not the only ones who are having to reinvent themselves, but I supppose that's the angle I am speaking from. Fortunately, I diversified more than ten years ago when I was recuited into foundation work. I went from feeling indifferent toward philanthropy to being smitten with that line of work. But I remained attached to journalism. For years I could afford to freelance because I had steady contract work in philanthropy. Then the journalism  portion of my "career" become my avocation. I want to see journalism revived like GM not only because I want my colleagues (and me too) to have meaningful work, but because we need it for our democracy. In the meantime, some incredibly talented people will have to take office assistant jobs and put up with all kinds of nonsense. 

And another work related-bit. Recently I attended a fundraiser at the  MCA for three small performance companies. It was an announcement for a creative partnership that would allow these groups to share a professional fundraiser. A great idea. What bothered me was this notion that this work—grantwriting etcetera—was tedious and that creatives should be creating. One of the companies put on a skit where a dancer is talking on a cell phone while her company is waiting for her to join them. In this faux conversation she mentions how she was lucky to get work cleaning out basements (because of the recent flooding in the area) since there hadn't been much dance work. Yes, it was meant to be funny, but why wouldn't an artist want to know how to write a grant for work? And shouldn't we also be celebrating the fact that a full-time position for an arts management type has been created in this economy with this new partnership? 

Sweet dreams

Have you checked your bus for SLEEPING CHILDREN? Chicago, May 4, 2013. © Ruth Lopez

A woman is playing a banjo and singing "Nothing Compares 2 U" on State Street. She sounds so good, I put a dollar in her banjo case and tell her so. I'm on my way to the Auditorium Theater to see Othello—the Joffrey Ballet's last performance of the season.

There was a winter when Sínead O'Connor's version of Prince's "Nothing..."played over and over in my house and head. An anti-lullaby. I was in the thick of a period of pining and insomnia.  I go out all night and sleep all day...

During that period, I would go for walks late at night along a busy stretch of New Hampshire in DC. That street flowed into the small park in the center of the heavily trafficked Dupont Circle. The route quickly became too short and I got bored doing laps so I broke out of the perceived safe zone down Connecticut a few blocks. Eventually, I fanned over to mellower 19th.  

It was on a Saturday afternoon, while headed towards a movie theater near Foggy Bottom, that a man stepped out from an alley on a deserted side street and blocked my path. "I could kill you," he said. I looked him in the eye and said, "Yes, you could." We stood there for maybe a few minutes or maybe a few seconds. I can't tell you exactly what I was thinking, but I remember that I felt unafraid. Thanks to my attitude, I projected the following message: Be my guest. The man turned and walked away. I use to think that I was courageous because I had stared into the face of danger and stood my ground. By dumb luck, I had make myself less desireable. The fun was in the fear and I was too sad to have any. I still love the song and the banjo player's rendition was exquisite. It was as wonderful a performance as the dancer who played Desdemona. In Shakespeare's play, Desdemona also had a song stuck in her head. Anyways, Othello got her all wrong and snapped her neck. All in all, I have fared very well. And the yearning that robbed me of my rest back then is inexplicable to me now. 

Eye strain

A few weeks ago in Chicago's Andersonville. 2013. © Ruth Lopez

The electronic billboard near my house on Ashland ("Chicago's first fully digital and eco-friendly...") is, on good days, irksome. Like true hate, this negative feeling doesn't go away but gets stronger and stronger each day.  Do the creative minds in this company really think that using the word green in their name, a green color with their fonts, and embellishing this crap with a  little leaf made of pixels makes them environmentally conscious? I hope not. Because that would make them cynical and stupid. Fucking jerks and their visual clutter. Ça ne fait, I can hear you say Rose. You wish I wouldn't curse so much. And look at this ghost sign revealed by the forces of development. Why does this signage seem almost glam when it represents the visual clutter of its day? There is a philosophical treatise that deconstructs nostalgia you think I should read, isn't there Rose?  You will place an ornately carved ivory bookmark at the start of the chapter on fantasy and delusion. In a few weeks I will be in Cincinnati and, if time permits, I will visit the sign museum where, I am certain I will see objects that only delight. When I get back, construction on this urban lot will likely be in motion, obscuring this refreshing brick wall once again. 

 

Duck a l'Orange

Rubber ducky I'm awfully fond of you. © Ruth Lopez

The huge auxiliary stadium parking lot across the road from where I live is a snow dump site for the City of Chicago. During heavy snowstorms, trucks pull in and out through the night. In the morning, I look out my window at a beautiful snow mountain that will get smaller and dirtier as winter winds down. After a few freak warms days, the mountain shrinks and transforms into mounds of black ice. Shallow pools of water reflect light that catches the eye. Eventually the ice completely melts and the water evaporates and all that is left is dirt and whatever else got scooped up with the snow shovel. These bits made their way slowly to the ground on the snow evaporation escalator. I stretch my legs after meeting a deadline yesterday by poking around the detritus and inorganic scraps at the bottom of the melted snow mountain. There are lots of plastic bottles, a baby pacifier, a small red acrylic heart charm, and this. Happy Earth Day.

 

Pie-94

Pie for breakfast at Norse Nooske Bakery in Osseo, Wisconsin.

 

... Took a long time to learn to feel free

 But here I am Vogueing pretty

In some club deep in this city... (Malcolm McLaren/David Lebolt)

Angel & I drive up to Minneapolis from Chicago to see dancers Cécilia Bengolea, François Chaignaud, Marlene Monteiro Freitas, and Trajal Harrell at the Walker Art Center perform (M)imosa/Twenty Looks or Paris is Burning at the Judson Church (M). This was at the end of January and during the evening, I couldn't tell who was who but I couldn't take my eyes off the stage long enough to study the program. Back home, I'd open my mouth to tell someone what I had seen, but the names had evaporated and all that was left was a collage. The performance was rich with nuggets of brilliance. And what about the other times? It was about waiting for the  next bit, then more waiting and the anticipation, the oddness was always rewarded with something increíble. INCROYABLE, INCROYABLE! Stop speaking French like a Spanaird. Rose, I wasn't speaking French, I was speaking Spanish. Let's pause for 10 minutes, maybe change our clothes, forage for a wig under someone's seat, maybe climb over an audience member, then pause to apply our lipstick practically on their lap. Then let's get back to our conversation, to our dance, to this letter. Enough best moments in an otherwise awkward and long evening to make it worth sitting through again, beginning with Bengolea who comes out wearing  only black leggings and performing a happy go-lucky-turned-manic unwinding dance to a twisted circusy score. Then Harell in a full-on body, peachy-colored leotard (Eurocentrically nude) with soft sculpture high heels attached—he's dancing on pointe underneath. Unforgettable. I've studied their names, locking in the freshness in my brain. In the program there was a short interview with Harrell who said: "I am interested in art that confronts impossibilities...my work often has aspects which require a re-patterning of institutional habits—e.g. immense darkness in some works; unconventional curtain times; unconventional seating..." I unearthed the program the other day from the big day of office cleaning and realized, Rose,  that I meant to tell you about them sooner. The program had been buried under piles of paper and the moment buried under piles of moments. 

Did I tell you about the furrier I met in New York? Winter, 1998. I was walking along Houston and paused in front of this shop window with Barbie dolls, more than a dozen neatly lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, each wearing a fur coat dyed a different color. I was agape. It was incroyable AND increíble AND incredible. This man on the other side of the window  taps for my attention and beckons me to come inside. The furrier is a beautiful Puerto Rican man who was in the House of Xtravaganza; and we talk for a long time. I had seen Paris is Burning and we share Boricua roots. I buy pink fur ear muffs and he offers to make me a matching g-string and Rose, to this day I regret passing up on that opportunity. Every girl should have a pink fur g-string. 

Early morning return from Minneapolis to Chicago and we decide let's drive a few hours and have pie for breakfast at that Norwegian place we've heard about because, other than the cheese castle (at my insistence), there is no other stop to make before home. 

Spring will spring

Chicken farm, Michigan, April 2012. © Ruth Lopez

We walk up the road to get eggs for breakfast. It's cold, then warm, then wet. We wander the greenhouse aisles, plotting and planning and dreaming and itching to put things in the ground.  There might be another freeze. The farmers know. The kind woman at the nursery knows. Purple crocuses come up out of the cold, brown earth. A kept promise. Look. Look, love. Look, it's not just brown and gray. It's ochre, umber, dove, sienna—raw and burnt. The portion of the tree where the bark has peeled away is practically blood red. And every shade of green is about to burst all around us. It told me so. The sun came out long enough for us to remove our layers and take a little nap on the grass. If you listen closely, you will hear green about to burst. You will feel it as well. Vibrating, verdant, vibrant. 

 

Re-member your old loves

On one early Sunday morning in Winter...© Ruth Lopez

In December, The Field Museum announced that the science research budget would be slashed (as in a violent sweeping movement) by  $3 million. And there would also be layoffs because the ultimate goal is to cut $5 million from the annual budget. What's more, anthopology, botany, geology and zoology will be consolidated into one big department. We need these classical academic disciplines to remain distinct and staffed with dedicated researchers. Where would we be if Louis Pasteur hadn't been able to geekout on mold?

I use to work in newspapers where being a generalist was suppose to be a good thing and look where it got us. Cultural departments managed by former sports editors, technophobes in charge of online projects and the visually illiterate in charge of graphics. No offense to my many wonderful colleagues, I'm talking upper management here. It just now occurs to me Rose, that it has never gone the other way; an arts journalist being dumped on a sports desk. It's a bias that probably spared some journalists from misery. The world is run by nutsacks.  

With apologies to the dinosaur-obsessed, and especially my fossil-loving great-nephew Justin, the Field should sell Sue to the Chinese or Russians or Saudis or some American bankster. Yes, I know, Sue is the largest and most complete T-Rex that has yet been unearthed, but let's consider that $8.36 million, Sue's pricetag in 1997, could easily fetch 12 million today—even a few million more given the provenance. An article on the Field's budget crisis by Virginia Morrell in Science, quoted botanist Michael Donoghue, the former directory of the Yale Peabody Museum of Natural History, as saying: "It feels like we're watching the Field Museum publicly commit suicide." I say, do it in technicolor. Maybe Sue is just the main attraction because the 42-foot long bitch is all up in our faces in the main hall. What about the other 250 million specimens in the collection? What's with natural history museum lobbies and giant creatures on enormous pedestals? It's amazing how a facetious argument can start to make sense.

I became a member again a bit ago. Woke up early one Sunday morning with a desire to go to the Field Museum. I wanted to see what they had in their mushroom collection. And the Maharaja exhibit was closing. The doors opened at 9 a.m. and I went up to the membership counter and paid my dues. My old love needs support. There is a Corner Bakery franchise appropriately stationed in the northeast corner of the main hall, and I sat there enjoying my coffee with one of Henry Hering's muses hovering overhead. A singular Sunday morning. I love this soaring space, it's marble floors, marble walls, marble stairs, marble caryatids, marble muses. And you, Sue. 

Support the Field. Protect research at the Field Museum. Sign this petition. xo

I geek any library

"Happy is the man that findeth wisdom," Deering Library entrance, Northwestern University © Ruth Lopez

The renovation of the Deering Library was completed last October, but I got my first look the other day. I'm happy to see the neglected corridor to the art library spruced up with modernist metal lantern pendant lights (not quite artichoke—that would be too obvious) suspended from the tall ceiling of the narrow corridor into the main library.

The traffic flow has been reversed and now this pathway is less desolate.

The front doors to this Gothic wonderland had been closed since 1970 when the entrance shifted the brutalist cocoon of an entry way of the library's extension. The music and art collections were left behind (appropriately don't you think Rose?) The Deering Library was built in 1933 by James Gamble Rogers (1867-1947). Rogers studied at Yale, then the École Nationale et Spéciale des Beaux-Arts in Paris. He returned to his alma mater to create a library and other structures in the  Collegiate Gothic Style. I like all this stone and wood and rib-vaulted ceilings but most of all I love the windows by  G. Owen Bonawit. So great to see the space reimagined with clear and complementary signnage and warm, strong light.

Fire lit.

Pamphlet, 1963. Recent acquisition.

Hard to imagine this harmless design passing the squeamish  literalati squad in educational publishing today. Not much has changed on the issue of motivation. Students must want to learn. How does a teacher whip up "the anticipation of future pleasure and satisfaction"? Besides offering praise one might "tempt pupils with an "image" of their unfulfilled potentialities."  I have been playing both student and teacher lately as I low-rez it as a self-directed learner (with high-minded resolutions). The lessons bleed into my  work/practice as well.

It was Einstein's 134th birthday yesterday and one of the memes floating around was his face w/ the quote: If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, what then is an empty desk a sign? I liked it and shared it even though I had spent the morning clearing my desk and office in preparation for the next round of study and projects. Einstein was so damn quotable. He would say that he wasn't particularly talented, just passionately curious. Passion and Curiosity. Don't leave home without them.

There is a balm in Pullman

Facade detail, Greenstone United Methodist Church, Chicago © Ruth Lopez

Look at this church in the Pullman historic district. It's made of Serpentine, a jade-like stone used as a building material in the late 19th century. In this early morning winter light, its mossy tint is remarkably vivid. Near the main entrance, where a shadow cast from the wrought iron railing folds over each step like a carpet, I hear a faint yet unmistakable spiritual. I go inside and slip in the back pew. It's Sunday and this sacred space has come to life although, counting myself, there are fewer than 20 people scattered among the cherry wood pews. The church is celebrating Black History Month with an overview, as the pastor's message is titled, of "The Negro Spiritual: A National Treasure." In between vintage recordings, the pastor talks about the songs and reads various politico's proclamations giving African American Spirituals National Treasure status in 2007. It's a joyous listening party. Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, the paster sings and swings her voice low making the song's hidden meaning visibly audible. Don't get noticed on your underground train ride to freedom.

The church is warm in temperature and vibe.  The  reddish pews and  beams above are aglow as light pours through the stained glass. The rose window, with its pane segments of various solid jewel tones, is  Victorian minimalism. I can hear you now Rose, "Don't be an oxymoron."  But look, the windows were created with the idea that many faiths might use the space and it really is oddly unornately ornate. 

The church was designed by Solon Spencer Beman (1853–1915), who was also the architect of the Pullman Palace Car Company buildings and its town—the first planned industrial community in the country. He would go on to design the factory for Procter & Gamble in Ohio. And he also made my favorite space in the loop—the Fine Arts Building. In a tribute to Beman after his death, Louis Sullivan wrote about Beman's enthusiasm and perseverance. "Whenever and whatever he was doing, that was the one important thing that he had done in all his life. And yet I never knew him to be satisfied with anything he had accomplished." Why are we so hard on ourselves Rose?

The Serpentine came from an area in Pennsylvania where most of the quarries have now closed. When Pullman was being built in 1880, the bricks for the buildings were made from clay dug from the bottom of  Lake Calumet.  Pullman was built on what was  once the shore of that large inland lake The lake is still there although it's been halfed by landfill and otherwise completely polluted and obscured by the surrounding industry.  Last summer, when I was swimming in the lake on the Michigan side, I walked into a clay slick. I was cooling off after picking berries. Another thing to harvest as soon as the water is warm enough for swimming.

Pullman was profitable through the mid-1920s then got sucker punched by the depression then the automobile.  It made its last car (for Amtrak) in 1981. I was surprised it lasted that long. On the way home, I drive by the Port of Chicago and then go into South Chicago passing a store that rents tuxedos for "Weddings Baptisms Funerals Proms."

Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole

Pablo Picasso. Minotaur and Wounded Horse, 1935. The Art Institute of Chicago, Anonymous gift. © 2013 Estate of Pablo Picasso http://www.artic.edu/ Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York.

Modern Lovers on  Valentine's Day.  Sitting in the Ryerson Library post press preview of Picasso and Chicago which opens on the 20th. Every now and then we need an exhibition on Picasso to remind us that he is still so very important. Important or successful or a maniacally prolific, groundbreaking talent.  Superlative whatevers. Even today, I marvel at the output. His dramatic style changes came with new lovers and new studios.  The exhibition at The Art Institute of Chicago pulls together more than 250 works from their collection and then about 40 on loan from collectors including three important works from the Philadelphia Museum of Art. But the focus here is on Chicago as the birthplace of Modernism in the U.S. The Art Institute acquired a Picasso (the blueish guitar player) in 1926, three years before MoMA broke ground. One more quick observation; we at DMV love the obsessive curatorial quality to exhibit bits and pieces related to the artist—here the small, vintage cans of paint made by the French company Ripolin. Pablo liked the stuff.

 Every year, somewhere in the world, a Picasso exhibition is born. At this moment, there are two shows. Across the pond, The Courtauld Gallery presents Becoming Picasso: Paris 1901 with the focus on the "birth of Picasso's genius." The unexamined life of Picasso is not worth living?

 

The fabric of our lies

Field Museum, 9:10 a.m. © Ruth Lopez

Sunday morning puttering, up hours earlier than usual, I  go to the Field Museum to see the Maharaja exhibition before it closes and just as the museum opens. It's snowing lightly as I make my way through Grant Park. Like most Sunday mornings in most cities, the streets are oddly vacant. As is the museum at that hour. I go to the Hall of Plants first, and have the place to myself.

The Maharaja show was organized by the Victoria and Albert Museum and I expected that the British Empire's toybox could show "The Splendour of India's Royal Courts"—as the exhibition is subtitled—better than any institution. As a consumer of English-produced costume dramas, I've noted the presence of characters—either shown or referred to—who are always off to India to tend to business. In other words, I know little about the British Raj. Common travelers' wisdom-cum-cliché, until recent years, was that the best food in England was to be found in the curry houses of London. Colonialism is nasty business, but at least the English got better food. What did India get?  You can't expect a show like this to answer the question but it can prompt it and others.

Hindi ghazals, piped into the galleries by an omnipresent sound system, set the pace for languid looking. Turban jewels, 18th century boy dresses, 19th century watercolors—one particularly lovely one of a woman flying a striped kite. The music seemed to get sadder and sadder. Mournful is very close to soothing in sound. The universal language of the pain of longing and the joy of loving.Where is a smart audio guide when you need it? The Field, which is laying off scientists and curators, can't be expected to produce teaching guides but the V&A must have created some interpretive materials. I like shiny objects like everyone else, but I prefer mine with a side of context. 

British rule in India ended in 1947 and the show ends right around there too. The last gallery focuses on the mid-century modern Maharajas. Yeshwant Rao Holkar, the last ruler of Indore, had his portrait taken by Man Ray. His home was designed by German industrial designer Eckart Muthesius (1904-1989, and son of the more famous architect Hermann) in 1931. Muthesius designed the interior of the Minik Bagh Palace in the International style down to the door handles and hired one of my favorite designers — Eileen Gray — along with Le Corbusier and Marcel Breuer and various French masters of Art Deco.  I would love to see an exhibition on the dismantling of this place. In 1971, India abolished all royal titles. In 1980, Holkar put his vast furniture and art object collection up for auction at Sotheby's in Monaco—a historic event for design collectors. The  Manik Bagh Palace belongs to the Indian goverment now and houses the ministry of finance.

There were also images of the massive Umaid Bhawan Palace in Jodpur, built  between 1929 and 1943. Photo captions noted that the palace was built to give people jobs during the time of famine. But the Maharaja could just as easily have paid the villagers to build themselves better houses and schools instead of a 347-room behemoth. I was reminded of a visit to various historic houses in Charleston. At each place, the tour guide would say something about how the  slaves of that particular house were treated as family. Slavery was bad but these slave owners were good. Oh, the lies we tell ourselves. This latter palace, like many of the serf-built great houses of its former ruler, has been forced to operate as a hotel in order to survive. I'll send you a postcard when I get there, Rose.