2005-10-24 - 10:23 a.m.
Yesterday, Nya and I went to a party for an art sale in Bridgeport, our first foray to the South Side of Chicago. This neighborhood has historically been an Irish enclave (where both Mayors Daley grew up), cloistered off from the surrounding African-American areas by a highway, so it�s kind of South Side-lite. Today, its proximity to downtown Chicago and classic housing stock have led to colonization by working artists, artist wannabes, and the yuppies who follow them.
It�s also home to U.S. Cellular Field (n�e Commiskey Park), home of the White Sox. People at the party huddled around an old stereo (from sound systems� first silver era) to listen to game 1 of the World Series. There didn�t seem to be a TV in the house � tres artistique. There was a minor riot of celebration outside when the White Sox won. No overturned cars though, like back when I lived near Fenway Park and the Red Sox won in the post-season. So props to Chicagoans for being better behaved.
The party was thrown by the boyfriend of a friend of mine I hadn�t seen in 15 years. I knew her through a mutual friend who lived in New Jersey and whose outrageous parties I�d go to out there. She went to college in Chicago and stayed here to pursue an art career. She looked much the same � same face, same tattoos (I guess those don�t change over time). There was an assemblage sculpture she�d made on a table at the party. It was covered in rubber nipples and I couldn�t stop touching it.
But her boyfriend�s art was quite a pleasant surprise. When my sister was here last month, we�d gone to the Museum of Contemporary Art and seen a room with some new works by a local artist. There were some very elaborate drawings, which looked like doodles with a pen but on closer inspection were painstakingly painted oil pieces. There were also oddly fascinating arrangements on the wall of small toys and bottlecap pogs painted with smiley faces and other designs.
It turned out that the artist whose work we�d seen was my friend�s boyfriend. Similar pieces were being shown, along with paintings made by some of his friends. I thought back to art parties of my younger days. No doubt four or five struggling artists shared this apartment. The drinking would go on all night, until at least 4AM. Much to my amazement, it turned out her boyfriend lived in the place by himself and everything was over by midnight.
Then it occurred to me: we were all adults now. I was thinking of the starving artist parties from when I was 19 and so were the people throwing them. But this was the senior arts scene. Artists grow up, the same as anyone else. Some people who can�t hack the lifestyle or whose careers are unsatisfying or who were just messing around pretending to be artists to begin with drop out of the scene. My friend�s boyfriend was successful critically and commercially. He was in his early 30s. Of course he lived alone and had to get up Monday morning. He was a grown up.
Now, I suppose realizing that artists mature isn�t revelatory to a lot of people, but it was to me. My sister hands around with various senior electronic musicians. Some are in critically acclaimed professional groups or study at Columbia�s Computer Music Center (or both). Her reaction to my surprise at this party was basically �No duh�.
So yes, I found it an eye opener. Sure, there�s still and always will be younger kids playing at being artists and drinking all night. But someone my age wouldn�t fit in in this scene (nor would I want to). However, there�s a whole world of artists who�ve advanced in career and lifestyle. I should hang out with them more.
� 2005 Geoff Gladstone
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