On late afternoon and evening walks, I continuously become surprised by the plants and animals that catch my attention. It's as if every time I step out for walk, day after day after week after year after decades, a new flourishing has begun and the natural world, perhaps due to its lately acknowledged precariousness, becomes more fragrant, more vivid, more textured. Despite this, accessing this wilderness makes me feel the poignancy of life, especially as this place emerges, struggling, right between the cracks: the divisions and partitioning of a different landscape: that of mis-matched houses, fresh cement and older, broken cement, brightly painted shiny cars or else smashed, plastic toys, stray and blind cats and their counterparts, looking out, recently groomed and curious, the dogs sniveling and mean, stuck with uncaring owners, or else wonderfully mild, tamed, friendly. I've begun to really notice the magnolia trees in our neighborhood. There are so many of them, and though I've seen them before, I never fully appreciated their beauty. They have a light yet distinct sweet scent. They carry graceful strength, clearly seen as their branches rise up, hardy and pliant, blossoming, uprooted and splayed out each spring. It's tempting to chide them for showing off, but this is no work of their own, they reply. Magnolias stand on front lawns and are found within backyards. They take root along sidewalks, branches hovering over the place where people walk and jog, hovering over the streets as cars rush by spouting gas and loud music, releasing pot and pointless conversation into the air, all mixing.
Many of them are North American natives (others can be found in South America, the Himalayas, and East Asia). The magnolias we have here at the edge of Chicago are hybrids of two Asian magnolias (at least that's my hypothesis, drawing from information I've gathered from the World Book Encyclopedia online as well as the Encyclopedia Britannica online). The hybrid, called the saucer magnolia, has light - dark pink flowers.
Much of this past April and so far all of May (save for one day) has been gloomy with a whitish grey pallor blanketing the high sky, the sun only coming out in glimpses. Magnolias somehow know it's time to emerge, so they do, as if deeply embedded in their genetic code, without caring if a new plague has come, not worrying about the hazardous elements threatening its existence. If anything, they're the best example of blind faith I've witnessed thus far. Still though, once released, some petals turn sour, fading into a deadened soft brownish burn, a slow decay noting changes, the added harms to a habitat geographically in place yet so much changed, the rapidity of cold to warm, the moody air.
I wonder if they might retreat and never return. Where will they go off to? Will they wait it out? Reconstruct themselves from the inside out? Will they disappear and leave ashes for us to create a new language from? Will they linger in limbo, become a zombie plant of doom? I bet they'll return, same as always, unchanging in all iterations, scorched by the sun or fully perfect in their incomprehensible belief in the reasonable unknown, its sensory upbringing.
To pay homage to these seemingly uninterested biological beings of form, color, shadow, texture, growth is to say that the fact of being here, present, in life - however long, however short - is nothing short of a miracle, incomprehensible and hellish as it may seem. To embrace that impossibility before it is vanquished. - F
When micro-agressions, intentional or not, spill out of our mouths like bile while giving the weather report.
"And *this mess* coming in from the Gulf of Mexico... a sheet of freezing ice..."
The nonchalance of words like this are easy to brush aside, but for some they linger, festering. When will language become a little more revered, a little more precise, a little more poetic in our day to day? I'm not there myself yet but I yearn for it. - F
I could have shared this in other places, but this, this reminds me of you. The completely exposed ceiling of the gym I go to, which no longer makes me depressed, as it would if I were a child. I just feel nothing, now. They've got no intention of covering it, either. This kind of exposure would be OK if it were intentional. Even if it looked the same, but intentional, instead of whoever just not giving a fuck.
Dan and I went to the Art Institute last weekend the day before the new John Singer-Sargent exhibition was due to close. While walking through the Ancient Greece and Ancient Roman sculpture and art gallery, we overheard a girl, maybe in her late teens or early twenties, ask this of her friend, who was about the same age: "How do you feel about places like this? Like museums. All this stuff behind glass boxes? Or these fancy displays? I don't know. It doesn't do anything for me. I want to care about all of it, but I don't." We might judge her, laugh at these remarks, sneer at one another despite of her. After all, these are ancient relics! But, like her friend, Dan and I just smiled gently to ourselves and remained silent for bit, thinking. If you think hard enough about it, she's not entirely wrong to feel this way. It reminds me of something the great contemporary philosopher Slavoj Zizek once spoke about in regards to the 2006 film Children of Men: "The true infertility is the very lack of meaningful historical experience, and that's why I like this elegant point in the film of importing all the works of art. All those classical statues are there, but they are deprived of a world. They're totally meaningless because what does it mean to have a statue of Michelangelo or whatever? It only works if it signals a certain world, and when this world is lacking, it's nothing. It is against this background, I think that the film approaches the topic of immigration and so on."
(from Children Of Men, directed by Alfonso Cuaron)
As a librarian, this makes perfect sense.While we review the stimulating and significant value of being able to look at and analyze primary sources, such as original historical documents or even artwork, there is a point when we have to make mention the necessity of secondary sources. Secondary sources, oftentimes written by scholars and academics, of course, and this might be obvious, put these primary sources in perspective and context. Despite this self-evidence, as librarians and any kind of teacher, this fact is still important to articulate. The thing itself - the primary source - might not be enough. How was this young woman supposed to understand the gravity of having an ancient object, such as the statue of Sophocles, without having any prior knowledge of his work? As I gazed upon this relic, I did pity those who never read or intended to read a great work such as Antigone.
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
In my defense, her lack of desire to wonder or know about the art and objects surrounding her was a little bit alarming. Even when I was a child, born here with hardly any knowledge of the classical texts or art, and none passed onto me by my parents (both immigrants), I always felt a need to understand where their importance in this society came from, where it was built from, what need. Simply, I had a feeling that there was more to this life than Cosmopolitan magazine and whatever else seemed "trendy"; though mind you, I keep notes on both.
"No one is an expert on anything unless there's a burning need somewhere to have that particular skill," says the character Danny from one of my favorite films as well as the book it is based off of, Submergence by J. M. Ledgard.
(One day I'll write about the different circumstances which made reading my skill of choice.)
The need, for me, came from wanting to find meaning beyond the surface. Sometimes that comes in a form so different from what we come to see as reality.
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
Ancient Roman as well as Ancient Greek mythology inform much of what surrounds us today, with its influence shown in religious practices and stories, artwork that can be found in its cheapest forms on the lawns of our neighbors, and in much of our literary canons from the past thousands of years. And much of this mythology interests me all the more because of my newfound love for fairy-tales and folklore. There is a close connection between the rich literary canon of the West - usually seen as something elite - and the fairy-tales and folklore of what a lot of people consider to be more connected to the working class and even the poor. To connect these two classes by way of stories that impact one another is absolutely fascinating because it might be something ultimately unifying.
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
photo taken by me, at the Art Institute of Chicago, 09.29.18
The last gallery Dan and I decided to explore was the Medieval Art gallery. One of the most striking objects we came across was this choral book, from sometime during that period (5th to 15th Century), Europe.
Notations were completely different, without circles and stems, and overall the music was less precise in terms of rhythm and dynamics. The singers were more likely to make their own decision on how to interpret the music. This book, if seen in person, is very large, I think even a little over a foot in height; the choir had to share one book, and all had to see the notes on the exposed pages. (The idea of transformation is such a prevalent thought in my mind these days; how like me to see all things meta; across time and all encompassing.)
I did not take any pictures at the John Singer-Sargent exhibition, primarily out of respect for the artist. The audience was allowed to take pictures but when I attempted to do so, the paintings did not have the same effect in any way whatsoever. Sargent's paintings are very large, and the thickness of his paint is so key to the emotion that it draws to the viewer, brushstrokes and such and effused light (excuse my language, I am not a fine arts expert) that the camera on my phone could not do it any justice. They were all striking images, conjuring up emotions not of peace and happiness but of toughness and work, public persona, and the grim notion that tenderness always lies beneath the surface of this calloused reality. I even think I saw suffering in the subjects of his work, despite the luxury the people lived within; suffering from the grueling politics of the day. They were, suffice it to say, beautiful.
A good day at the art museum left us brimming with new information and appreciation, and the anticipated tiredness that came with. It's our plan to always go to the Art Institute with two exhibits in mind, see those, and stop wherever our eyes and legs feel inclined. I'll end with this: I am happy that this trip did not require the obligatory gift shop present. Of course, we took a peek in there, but as I get older I'm realizing that the gift shop is NOT my point of excitement as much as it was when I was a child. I surprised myself by buying nothing. Until next time.
In Riccardo Muti: The Maestro Among Maestros: 50 Years and Counting, an article found in the program pamphlet I received as I walked into Chicago's Symphony Center last Friday night, several notes stood out to me. Knowing next to nothing about Muti, the acclaimed international conductor, I found several of his viewpoints particularly fascinating.
The first was this idea that there is an advantage to nations other than the United States (quite an idea, if you ask me). While in Italy, Muti (who himself is Italian) has said:
"We have an advantage here. At every corner, you are surrounded by history, every corner tells you where you come from. It's part of them. In Italian, the word is convivenza, to spend your life together."
Imagine. Italy is so much older than the United States, and indeed, though I have never been there, I can understand what Muti is talking about. From pictures I've seen of Italy, in textbooks and advertisements, etc., the streets are full of old and new art, the place is bustling with culture in the language, the food, and architecture. A moment doesn't go by in Italy when an Italian isn't reminded of what their homeland is made of, in every sense.
In the U.S., a place still very young in comparison, I think we as a nation are still very fragmented. Admittedly, we are a wealthy nation, in social, cultural, and economic capital, but fundamentally we are still just a huge stone slab yet to be carved. Walking around the United States does not, per se, reflect its people. On the two extremes, we have the pastoral (idyllic and not so idyllic) on one end and the industrial world (apocalyptic or post-modern) on the other, and though these two are combining in odd and interesting ways, we cannot say and/or see much else, aside from noting the cliques and subcultures that fade and die every ten years (so it seems). It's worth wondering: what is it that will last? The idea of the cowboy? The skateboarder? The thug? The rich woman in the pearls and fur? Hippies?
What I'm keeping my eye on these days are expressions of the culture that really reflect its diversity by melding those different facets together. Like, perhaps, the art and architecture that reflects numerous different influences from different nations and peoples. This will be harder with food; I'm not a huge fan of fusion. A culture complex yes, but coherent. Right now I think the culture in the U.S. - sadly - is not so coherent.
Another, simpler, point from the article that stood out to me was Muti's idea that to create better art, to be a better artist, and specifically, to become a better musician, one needs the very best quality of life. Which is part of the reason why he works so hard. So he can make money, so his orchestra can make money, so they can have the best lives - take care of themselves, enjoy the finer things, and make wonderful, beautiful music full of understanding and feeling, both. He says:
"I want to make the instrument better and better, and to make the life of the musicians better and better. If you have a better life, you make better music."
The performance began with Sergei Prokofiev's Sinfonietta, Op. 5/48. Hearing it reminded me of fairy-tales, the woods, and forest spirits. All these have been on my mind lately, but truly, the Sinfonietta reminded me of all of it. I marveled.
It was my first time hearing a performance such as this in maybe twelve years. The singular sound of a powerful unity - which now is more like an orchestra that can sing (as Muti has said) - filled me with awe. The Chicago Symphony Orchestra was nothing less than perfect, even for its first ever performance of this piece. I was not surprised to hear the woman next to me say, "How delightful!", as she clapped her hands when the twenty-five minute performance was completed.
Here is a recording of the Sinfonietta, not by the CSO, but if you'd like to hear it, you'll hear the birds and the wind and the warmth and romance (something slightly playful) that comes with the bright colors in this beautiful piece by Prokofiev:
After Prokofiev's piece came the haunting and dark masterpiece by Dmitri Shostakovich, Symphony No. 13, Op.113 (Babi Yar). This was a turn from the previous, yet not drastic. The gradual segue-way was in the musicianship of the CSO. When people think of orchestras, or perhaps in my own ideas of the orchestra as caricature, I think pomp and circumstance. There was nothing pompous here. Everything was heartfelt, subtle, and powerful, without anything drastically dramatic. A bit about this symphony. Rarely has it been performed for any audience because of it's political undertones. One of the biggest reasons why it has rarely been performed is because of the lyrics that Shostakovich insisted be sung alongside the other instrumentation. Those lyrics come from a poem by Yevgeny Yevtushenko, who in writing it, was remarking upon the millions of dead bodies in Babi Yar caused by the brutality of WWII. Yevtushenko begins with condemning the place for holding no tribute or monument to the many Jewish people who were killed there. When Russia found out about the piece and Yevtushenko's lyrics, many Russians, including the government, were aghast at the fact that it did not seem give the other Russians who died there any attention. In any case, it seems that it was a little too political to be performed and celebrated as a masterpiece of artistic work. "I am not anti-semitic" - Shostakovich had once said - "because I am a true Russian." My absolute favorite part of the piece, and only because of it's juxtaposition to the rest of the heavy and solid parts, comes toward the end. It is a little theme, I think beginning with just two flutes, that begin a theme that comes in and out until the very end. It is a light flutter, a glimmer of hope, of souls eternal. To hear this narrative sung, this poetic narrative sung, is a very different experience than most of the performances of this sort which might be found today. This is because it is not a theatrical performance. It is an expression without action, with pure words and sound. Here is the piece in a recording by the Philadelphia Orchestra. Read along with the lyrics if possible. When I heard this live last Thursday, I could only listen. I plan on reading Babi Yar in full while the orchestra plays on a night this fall.
I ran away from home a year or so after high school. I left in the middle of the night with all my stuff (some furniture and clothes) and moved into a crumbling down apartment in a not very nice part of the city (just some months after I left, a man hung himself in the basement). The room I moved into was abandoned by a well-known party girl in the city. I didn't know a lot of people. I was frightened. I was shaken up by what I was doing. I didn't really know what it was I was doing or exactly why. All I knew was that, at the time, it was the only option. I felt stuck. It doesn't matter why, it just matters that I moved because I had to do something about that utterly stuck feeling. I took my futon with me to the apartment I was moving into. After it was set-up, I sat on it and took in my surroundings. I let the cold unease of not knowing what lay ahead, with no insurance, no money, no job, let alone not being in college, not having a plan at all, settle into my bones. I did know I had someone who could take care of me for a little while. I probably needed therapy but didn't know enough at that time to seek it out. And even if I could, I wouldn't have been able to afford the travel there or the therapy itself. I chain-smoked my cigarettes with the window open, letting the soft bright light from my room shine out into the frigid air and onto the moving cars, bikes, and bundled up people. At least my futon bed felt clean and fresh. But I was fearful. I was surviving another Chicago winter, but this time away from the only home I knew. I anticipated the next morning as I sat there staring out. I had to wake up extremely early to catch the Pace bus so I could start looking for jobs. But I dreaded it with a heavy depression that crept through my body like death. First of all, I didn't know where I was going to go. Secondly, I didn't know what kind of job I was looking for. I wanted and needed rest, but I didn't know how to go about getting it. How does one "get" rest? It shouldn't be something a person must attain. It should be something acquired over time, something that a person has in reserve for a long day (now, I'm lucky enough to know how that feels). Maybe someday I'll write about rest, but this time my intention is to write about something I found in the garbage. On my way to this apartment, before I even set foot in it, me and my then boyfriend found something sticking out of a dumpster. It was rolled up and we took it out (don't ask me what our rationality was at that time, but I guess we would sometimes look through the city trash for something interesting). The rolled up paper happened to reveal a print of Van Gogh's famous painting "The Starry Night". Or it was "Starry Night Over The Rhone". I can't really remember. Most of it is a blur. I remember the blueness of it. Such a blue.
After some urging, I took it with me. That print was the first thing I placed on the wall of that empty room. I placed it onto the dry wall and slowly, quietly, pressed in each thumbtack. Finally, looking up at it from my bed, I remember feeling, amidst all that fear and uncertainty and thoughts of a dire, useless life, a peace - a calm - that filled the air. That even if I had done this horrible thing, even though I may not make it in the world, even though I didn't know what was going on or what I was doing, that I could feel. I felt love and kindness and gentleness along with all the confusion and sorrow of wanting something that I couldn't describe because I didn't understand and didn't have the words for my own thoughts. The print of Van Gogh's painting gave my soul a focal point for a subdued excitement that maybe not now, but some time, everything would be alright. I knew nothing of Van Gogh (I don't know much now either). But I realize that art took me away from that scary place and placed me outside of it, somewhere bigger, somewhere where I was able to connect with the world in a way that just... made sense. In memoriam of that time, here are two versions of "Vincent" which touch my heart: the original by Don McLean and a cover by James Blake.
I walked to Walgreens this afternoon, my path along the sidewalk of the busy Cumberland road, with my earbuds in. I walked fast, got what I needed from Walgreens, and walked back, not minding my surroundings too much. However, I did notice on the way back a big sign I've seen a million times. Because there are two types of pictures that I've discovered that I'm drawn to, so far, on Instagram, I deemed this one not Instagram worthy. I'll explain in a moment.
This is a sign in front of these huge, bland, depressing buildings right next to and across from where I live. Instagram has the potential to create a nation of aesthetes, with each user posting a picture aesthetically pleasing, as if everyone has taken an amateur photography class. The pictures are comforting, with the right colors and filters, the right angles and proportions to whatever is being shown. The other type of picture is of something arresting, a clear snapshot of what might appear to be ugly, meant to magnify something actually quite beautiful, unless it is already beautiful. Or else it's just selfies and people showing off what they've been doing or their new shoes. I'm not excluding myself, by the way. But this sign is upsetting to me. It makes me feel queasy and sad and desolate. First of all, the font. The font, I believe, is Old English Gothic Type, or something close to that, a font which I love and which reminds me of the New York Times, or invitations from the Royal Family. But I would wager that the owners of the Catherine Courts have no meaningful ties to Great Britain, and that less than one percent of it's tenants do either. The style of the buildings have no relation to the English or their architecture either. The buildings are brick laid, square, looming and humongous, with tiny windows out of which fluorescent lights might as well sizzle and pop. Also, the fact that these courts need a phone number written so large that passers-by, either by car or by foot, can call in order to rent, suggests that the turnover of such a place is high, because who would want to actually settle in a place like that? Who? Who is the question. Who lives there? Dan did inform me on one of our walks last week that Catherine Courts was once a rehousing building for people left over from the projects (yes, that would be the projects in Chicago, also known as Cabrini Green). But that was a long time ago he said. The courts in Catherine Courts include one smallish fairy-tale courtyard (not kidding, this almost saves it), a tennis court, a pool, and an area to grill in the summer. They also have gravel parking lots full of really nice cars, which is a little questionable. Places like this, which are scattered all over the United States of America, make me feel like a lost child, with nothing to grasp onto, and confused. My only hope is that within those apartments are women, men, children, and young adults, and pets! Yes pets, that have every opportunity to take Instagram worthy photos within the walls of their home. While the soon-to-be Prince Albert in Daisy Goodwin's "Victoria" believed that the National Museum in England would create a nation of aesthetes for being admission-free and open to the public, so too do I hope that citizens of the U.S. become aesthetes as they walk freely outdoors or wherever, and perhaps open their eyes, and furthermore, their minds to some of the uglier parts of the "landscape". Seeing might do something, perhaps something much more thoughtful than just going away. - F
