One of my rules when I first moved to Chicago was that if I want to see or do something in this city, the only thing holding me back should be my time, money, or energy. I regret that, in my marriage, I would often not do things simply because my husband didn’t want to. After we separated, I vowed not to stay unhappy to sustain a future relationship.
When I moved here, I let Mitch know that he is welcome but not obligated to join me on my outings. While he was at work, I’d hop a train or bus and go exploring. I’ve visited an insect sanctuary, toured the Puerto Rican and Swedish heritage museums, lost my way in Humboldt Park, ridden bicycles along the 606, photographed Tiffany lamps in a 19th-century mansion, and eaten in a falafel shop in the back of a jewelry store. I know how to show myself a good time.
But I also enjoy spending time with Mitch, so when he asked if I could save my plans to visit the Art Institute of Chicago until he could join me, I happily agreed. And then came the holidays, the flu, and below-freezing weather. But last Sunday, we made good on our plans, and it was well worth the wait.
I’d been champing at the bit to go because I didn’t want to miss their Bruce Goff exhibit. Many years ago, my interest in unusual houses led me to discover Goff, an architect who studied with Frank Lloyd Wright, but whose aesthetic sensibilities seem to come from outer space. If I believed that extraterrestrials have lived among us, Bruce Goff would make my shortlist of suspects.
The exhibit not only featured photos, plans, and models of his buildings, but his paintings, custom furniture, and personal belongings, including a player piano running one of his custom piano rolls. Goff had a love for geometric shapes and modern, synthetic materials, especially shiny and colorful ones. He even customized his T-square and blueprint case with mirrored tiles.
Most of Goff’s houses were built in Oklahoma and Illinois, many of them featuring hexagonal conversation pits. Unfortunately, not many remain standing. I can imagine they’re difficult to maintain; replacing the custom windows alone would be expensive. But I can’t imagine being rich and wanting a bland McMansion when I could live in an alien silo with bubble windows.
After I’d seen the Bruce Goff exhibit and the Thorne miniature rooms, I let Mitch lead the way. We were on the same page about skipping some exhibits in the interest of time – I don’t hate Medieval European art, but if I had to choose between a gallery of modern art or a gallery of creepy Christ babies that look like tiny old men, I’ll always pick the former. I could tell when there was something around the next corner he really wanted me to see, and I’ll admit that every time, I was delighted.
If I thought I was too old to be impressed by anything, I was proven wrong every time I saw a famous painting up close in person. A Sunday on La Grand Jette, Nighthawks, The Treachery of Images, American Gothic, The Child’s Bath, and too many others eroded any lingering delusions that I’m a jaded grump who’s seen it all. Impressionist paintings are cooler when you can see the texture of the brushstrokes. I was actually tearing up while gazing upon a few works, which might be a response to the current onslaught of AI-generated images and my renewed appreciation for work made by human beings. Generative AI can mimic existing artistic styles, but lack the ingenuity to create new ones.
Parklife 