Reactions to the Modern Wing

Last weekend, I finally made it to the Art Institute to see the new Modern Wing. It has that wonderful newly-constructed smell, and I found the layout and architecture very open and aesthetically pleasing. The third floor houses my favorite modern art, including the Picassos. The first two floors house some very enjoyable art, as well, but I sometimes have difficulty with modern art. Sometimes, I have difficulty accepting some modern art as “art,” and my friend Bala and I are like-minded on this point; frankly, we had a hard time keeping it together in there. We tried to keep our jokes to ourselves, but I’m quite sure I saw some exasperated glances shooting in our direction as we struggled to keep our laughter under control.

There’s a fine line between splattering paint on a canvass and calling it art, and creating a work that actually means something. For instance, some artists really know how to “splatter paint” in a way that creates a profound effect on the viewer—they are deliberate but make it look effortless. There is such a painting housed in the Walker Museum in Minneapolis. I wish I remembered the artist’s name, but it was a completely abstract painting about human atrocities and it created a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach before I even read the placard. That painting has always resonated with me.

But sometimes, I am wide-eyed at what we consider worthy of housing in a museum. During our stroll on the third floor, I overheard a museum guide discussing Duchamp’s famous fountain (which is where my ambivalence to modern art began at the Tate Modern in 2002), and the artist’s challenge to the question “What makes art art?” I never actually knew that the point of a signed urinal, according to the museum guide, was to challenge whether a signature on an object would make it a piece of art (in fact, from what I've read, that wasn't exactly the point of it). How ironic that a replica of the urinal (no one seems to know the location of the original) is now housed in a famous museum. Maybe a signature can make anything art.

Of course, strolling through other areas of the Art Institute, including the ancient Greek, Egyptian, and Asian exhibits, many of those pieces of art are household objects that were used in day-to-day tasks in their respective cultures, as well. Were those household objects considered art in their day? Are they only worthy of that status now because they are rare? It makes me wonder if my manufactured plates, dug up hundreds of years from now, will be considered worthy of preservation in an art museum.

A Brimming Stage

Tonight I reviewed the Joffrey’s Nutcracker, and it was fantastic. That’s about all I will say about it. If you want to know more from my perspective, you’ll have to find some way to get your hands on Clef Notes Concert Journal for the Arts spring issue (yes, that’s correct, the spring issue). I’d like to get my hands on the winter issue, so if you have a copy (or know someone who does) and wouldn’t mind parting with it, I’d love to have a print copy of my articles.

Anyway, I just enjoyed myself immensely at the ballet tonight, and I’m pretty sure Kat enjoyed herself, too (I love that they give me an extra press pass). The seats were amazing, about five rows back from the orchestra pit, and the stage was so huge. For a ballet like the Nutcracker there’s so much activity going on across every inch of it that you can’t possibly capture everything that’s going on at once! Adding to the excitement was the fact that I’m starting to know the company dancers immediately when they enter the stage. I have my favorites (don’t we all?) and not so favorites, and it’s almost to the point where all I need to see is their dancing (not even their faces) to know who they are. I enjoy finding new favorites, and picking out the ones I love from the corps pieces (not that they’re often in the corps). It adds that much more entertainment to my evening.

Anyway, I really just want to plug the Chicago arts scene. I feel like the city is so often tied to its mediocre sports teams, that sometimes people overlook its wealth of actually stellar cultural offerings. We may not be as expansive as New York City, but we’ve got a heavy concentration of artistic venues. I mean, there are so many jazz, blues, orchestra, etc. options, not to mention the local band scene, if you’re into that. The Joffrey’s offerings are self-explanatory, and there are other dance companies worth seeing, too, although their names are not as widely-known. I can't even begin to count the number of local theatre and improv troupes. Plus, we've got a range of film festivals, and the museums include your favorite staples (like the impressionist gallery at the Art Institute) as well as enticing exhibits rolling in and out of the countless city museums. There’s always something new to capture, or something old, as the case may be. Which reminds me that, beyond the world of the Joffrey Ballet, I need to get back into those scenes, myself. I know that if I let the cold temperatures become an excuse, I could lose three months of culture, which sounds much riskier than a little teeth-chattering.

Snowflake-Spotting

We had flurries today! It’s so much easier to be excited about snow when it stalls until December to get here. At work, my desk doesn’t face the window, but one of my supervisor’s does, and I could hardly concentrate while she prepped me for our conference call, because I was so distracted by the snowflakes drifting about just beyond her desk. Granted, they were sparse, yet, I couldn’t help but stare out the window at each tiny little spec of white as it drifted down from the clouds not too far above us.

By the time I went outside, sadly, the flakes were gone. Sigh. I can’t wait for those wintry nights, when you’re walking home after a long day at work, and the snow just wafts down around you, landing in soft piles of white. If you read my posts from last winter, you know how snow inspires me. Yes, I absolutely despise digging my car out of the snow, and I am no fan of driving in it (especially in Kentucky—woooaaa, scary--thank goodness I'm not doing that one again anytime soon!). But, God, it’s beautiful. I’ve always been of the mind that if it’s going to be cold, it had better be snowing.

Part of me is also hoping for some sub-zero Thursdays, too. (You just read that and cursed me, I know.) But only so that I can trek over to the Art Institute on their free night and have the place practically all to myself again, like I did last winter. It was unforgettable to walk into a gallery and find the room filled with nothing but me and fifty masterpieces. Seriously.

There’s just no denying it—there’s something magical about winter. Well, there’s magic when you’re looking at it from December’s eyes, anyway. Oh, Chicago Winters. I’ve only seen one of you and we had a very heated (er, frigid) love-hate relationship. Let’s see if I can sustain my adoration for you beyond December, before the appeal of Spring sweeps me off my feet.

Art Haven

Tonight I indulged in the Chicago Institute of Art. Yes, it’s free on Thursday nights, but it’s still an indulgence—it feels so decadent to immerse myself in that kind of beauty and genius. It’s going to be my Thursday night treat to myself once or twice a month. I looked forward to it all week, and I enjoyed myself immensely all evening.


The first time I went was on January 3, with one of my best friends, Wendy, who was visiting for New Year’s. We waited outside in a line snaking up Michigan Ave; I was impressed with the institute’s popularity. Once inside and warm, we moseyed about, primarily enjoying the Impressionists, Post-Impressionists and miniatures collection. That first visit only scratched the surface, but it piqued my determination to start visiting the museum regularly and I could hardly wait to get back on a Thursday evening. And it was such a treat tonight.


There was hardly anyone there! Here I was sauntering about, taking in all this magnificence, and I did’t have feign interest in a mediocre painting while I waited for the crowd to move away from the piece I actually want to see; I didn’t have to battle my way past school tour throngs; I didn’t even have to feel the pressure of that personal space invader who tries to dictate how long you enjoy a particular paining. And when I giggled aloud at those ridiculously adult faces the Renaissance artists painted on their babies, there was no one (or hardly anyone) there to hear me. In fact, most of the crowds were concentrated in the Impressionists galleries, so I just avoided that entire section. Much of the time it really was just the art and me (well, and the occasional curator.) I’ve never had that kind of experience in a museum, much less a museum of this caliber. I’ve never had the silence of a museum like I did tonight. It was all art and no distraction. It was perfect.

Ignoring my most favorite pointillists, I instead threaded through Buddhist and Hindu sculptures, Greek pottery, and the 18th-century galleries. I spent considerable time gazing at paintings with bright colors or colorful characters. I skipped the violent and the drab. I got lost. And then I stumbled upon the American decorative arts gallery…


Needless to say, I now have a new favorite gallery. After my first visit, I was sure nothing could trump the miniatures collection, but once I came across the people-sized versions of the furniture I love in those little glass cases, I was even more entranced. I have a thing for antique furniture, particularly Victorian (okay, so I have a penchant for all things Victorian). Honestly, I can’t get enough of the way the fabric puckers neatly under those fabric-covered buttons that create dimples in chair cushions and sofa backs. And I have a fondness for excellent woodwork: my grandpa used to build furniture, and I understand and respect the level of artistry that goes into those amazingly carved chair legs, desk frames, tables. So, to see the beauties at the art institute was such a treat! There’s a particularly brilliant green sofa with button dimples all over it, framed in a rich chocolate wood. It’s Victorian and looks a tad uncomfortable, but I fell immediately in love with it and wanted to take it home with me (fashion over function, as the Victorians would have wanted it). I should have taken a picture, but that would only have drained its brilliance and shrunk it down to cheap reproduction. That sofa is now among my favorite pieces the museum.


I’d intended to save the best for last, so the miniatures were my final stop. I could spend all day peering my voyeuristic eyes into those tiny parlors and ballrooms. I’m so impressed by the detail. I chose my favorites (two French salons circa 1740-ish and a Victorian parlor) and then made speedy work to leave the museum. Not because I was ready to leave my haven from the hustle and bustle, but because I’d worn about five layers as armor against the -30 degree wind chill outside, and those layers were starting to feel extremely uncomfortable in the nice warm museum. So, I headed back upstairs, reluctantly bundled myself up, and stepped back into reality.