I'm having trouble gathering my thoughts to share with all of you. A lot has been going on these past couple of weeks and, in fact, all summer.
The big news is that I finally like the city. I no longer resent it for not being the island. Some combination of the plays that I see for free when I usher them, the free concerts in Millenium Park with my friend Lorinda and her baby Henry and my friend Jess living down the street and so easily accessible for just hanging out has won me over.
Actually, it's the oral surgery. On the way to the oral surgeon in St. Charles, my mother said, "Isn't this fun? If you lived on the island, we wouldn't be able to do this together. You wouldn't make enough money to do this at all." 30 minutes later, the oral surgeon was drilling a hole in my jaw in order to replace the cracked root of my front tooth. Yes, Mom, this is fun.
So, be comforted that my angst is mostly gone.
When I watch the movie High Fidelity, I wonder when exactly it rains like it does on John Cusack through most of the movie. Last night I got caught in it. I was dressed up and on a date and it was like poetry.
I have some pretty vibrant memories of being emotionally moved at the Art Insitute. I can remember events like writing a description of the sculpture Solitude, working for 15 minutes to make sure that someone could recognize the profundity of the interacting figures. I have distinct memories of holding the cuffs of my oversized denim jacket of the heels of my palms while I walked around with my Older Boyfriend at the Magritte show my sophomore year, confused but very aware of holding his hand. But, I haven't been there since before everyone got cell phones and digital cameras. It completely changes the atmosphere. Apparently, library rules do not apply anymore. People yakking on their phones in great echoing galleries were prevalent and no one stopped long enough at any painting to do more than register the colors. They'd just take a picture and move on. This way, people wouldn't question that they had actually been there when they couldn't give any sort of answer to, "So, what was your favorite part?" I actually saw a woman sitting on the steps outside, scrolling through her collection of pictures of the paintings. Why not just spend that extra time actually letting you brain process what is in front of you? Make connections? Allow emotions to be engaged? For the record, I liked a painting in the main Impressionism gallery called "Resting." The woman's face stood out sharply as just . . right. Once I looked around her face, I realized that almost mothing else in the painting was more that rough outlines of contours, which made the truth of her face even more arresting.
Nope. Take a picture.
Let this be the moment I take a stand. I refuse to pause my forward motion so that someone can take an unobstructed picture of her daughter in front of A Sunday on La Grande Jatte.
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