June 19, 2009

• Carried away

  Looking at my paystub from last Friday, I noticed that I had one vacation day remaining for this fiscal year that I’d loose if I didn’t take advantage of this week. So, with little expectation, I took yesterday off work.

  Chicago has dished me up more than a few Perfect Days in our time together. Unlike most cities, Chicago wants you to love her and isn’t afraid to woo. She knows she isn’t always pretty (November–March); she knows she’s smack-dab in the middle of nowhere (Illinois); and she knows that she isn’t always well behaved (political corruption, Cubs fans), but Chicago wants to make it up to you. And yesterday she had charm in spades.

  The morning started out rain-streaked and stinking like a damp gym sock. I putzed around the house doing chores and listening to NPR. But by the time I had to leave to catch the bus to my noon hair appointment, the sun had come out and the day was transforming into a warm, happy thing.

  After my hair trim, the day was truly beautiful and I found myself totally adverse to going back home. I had the whole day to myself—why not just go for a romp? I took the blue line downtown, transferred to pink, and soon found myself at the National Museum of Mexican Fine Art.

  This was my first time at NMMA, but it won’t be my last. The gallery I spent the most time in focused on the history of Mexico, from ancient Mesoamerican civilizations to conquestadors to liberation to present day. The exhibition presented art works as direct outcomes of this history, which is not typically how art-history is discussed within museum walls.

  Typically, art museums present work in a purely art historical context (how an artist impacted on subsequent movements, what movements this artist was born from), but rarely are the happenings of that artists life and time given much weight in an exhibition (you have to buy the catalogue for that).

  It’s almost as if, unless an artist is overtly political, the assumption is that artists function outside the realm of their society. And while it’s true that artists sometimes live on the fringes, they are in no way elitist. They are everyday people, likely with first-hand experience with economic hardship by the very nature of their profession. Plus, artists spend much of their time observing the world around them, digesting it, and regurgitating it to show people something about their world that they might otherwise have missed. To exclude an artist’s society from discussions of their work is to exclude much of the point. Either that, or it assumes a lot of the museum visitor. It assumes that we are all highly educated people with knowledge of every nation’s history. Or it assumes that the visitor has $50 to drop on an exhibition catalogue.

  The curatorial vision at the NMMA made no such assumptions. Their exhibition was fresh, accessible, and something every museum should take note of. I enjoyed the collections so much more once I had a thorough understanding of Mexican history; the works took on a new life. Art history was not held aloft and separate from the people who made it, the people for whom it was made for. Plus, the NMMA is free. What could be better?

  After the NMMA, Fetal Friend was making her demands for food. Around 3pm, I stopped off at a place called Mi Cafetal and let a hoard of Mexican grandmothers pet my pregnant belly for luck. I don’t think I’d usually allow strangers to pet me, but these ladies wanted to feed me a free mango smoothie (“for el niña!”), so I let it fly. I devoured a delicious chicken torta on the cafe’s front patio, listening to the banda music piping from the next-door bodega and reading my library book. A weird dude sauntered over to my table at one point, sat down, and started to chat me up. Slightly annoyed, slightly flattered, I put my book down on the table, revealing my unmistakable middle. I’ve got to say: it was more than a little fun to watch him physically recoil and magically disappear.

  With a full belly and a quieter fetus, I left the cafe to wonder the streets of Pilsen, a predominantly working class Mexican neighborhood on Chicago’s Southwest side. There are loads of great murals all over Pilsen—it was a pleasure just to stumble across them one by one.

  Still not in the mood to return home, but wanting a change of scenery, I decided to get on the subway and head north. I found myself exiting at State and Lake to see if there might be a freebie concert on at Millennium Park. The department of cultural affairs puts on loads of free concerts in Millennium Park’s Pritzer Pavilion every summer, so I thought this was a likely prospect. I love laying out on the pavilion lawn; it is one of the most relaxing yet rejuvenating things a person can do in this fair city.

  As luck would have it, Thursdays at 6.30pm, the Music Without Borders series is on at the park. I sent a text to Shaun and to our friends Melissa and Liam and an hour later, they all came down to meet me with picnic blankets and snacks for some incredible Pakistani music by singer Faiz Ali Faiz.

  Once the concert was over, we were all thoroughly hungry for dinner. We made our way to the northside to Devon Avenue’s Little India to eat a late-night dinner at Hema’s Kitchen. The food was amazing and the company was even better.

  Melissa and I went to school together (she’s was just a grade younger than me) and we were friends on the school bus. Apparently, we both went to Columbia to study film, although neither of us knew it until Facebook. These days, Melissa is a professional video editor married to a nice man who designs bottles for a living. Best of all, they are both hilarious and un-shy. We didn’t have to go through any of the “getting-to-know-you” bull crap when we first started hanging out this spring. We just started in with the jokes and the good conversation right off the bat.

  We got home late (11:30 or so) and sleep was just getting to it’s deepest stages when the world was rocked by a massive thunder storm. After rushing about to close the windows, I stretched out and listened to the thunder crashing, the lightening electrifying the night. Fetal friend stirred as the rain pattered down and I felt so happy and so lucky to have such a good, very good life. I let the day carry me off and where it lead me is home.
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  When is the last time you let a day take you on a whim? What did you do?
  

  • 10:04 am
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