August 17, 2008
The City by the Lake
Unoriginal as it may be, there is certainly truth to the concept that you never forget your first. Some events in life leave such a strong mark that it really is that simple. I consider Chicago the first big city I ever stayed in for any reasonable duration and I genuinely expected that visit would be a first and only. What possible reason could I have to come back?The answer to that question revealed itself two months ago when three coworkers and I received the okay for training in The Windy City. When I offered to come along I did not give thought to the implications. I never once considered the impact that returning could have. All I could see was an excuse to travel and maybe learn something in the process. These days that combination is about all it takes for me to pack my bags.
I remember looking down on the city as I landed that first time. Grids of lights on the ground stretched as far into the darkness as I could see. Once off the plane I followed the crowds in a confused daze until I spotted the one familiar face in the entire state I would have known. We entered my first taxicab and became one more set of headlights speeding toward downtown.
This time was very different. The sun was still reasonably high in the sky as we touched down. I looked at O'Hare no less confused than the first time, and also thought "wow". The awe lasted only a moment before I received a smack upside the head from the side of me more in touch with reality. "What on Earth are you so impressed with?" it asked. "You've been here before, you dolt." "Oh...right..."
I didn't remember where to go in the airport and I had no concept of how long the cab ride actually was. I smiled to see signs for one of the highways I frequented while growing up in New York. In all of this it dawned on me that I must have been far too dopey last time I saw Chicago. I had never realized how many holes there were.
The hallways at the hotel smelled familiar. It was both comfortable and disturbing, and I could not place the scent's association for all of my trying. I smiled as I entered my room. One of the first orders of business became stepping out onto a balcony I was surprised to discover. The last room had no view to speak of. This one boasted the Sears Tower to the east and the sun in decline to the west.
In that moment I knew without question I needed to make this trip. It was no different than Germany or the UK or being a ghost on my childhood street that first solo trip home. There are no accidents and there are no trials without growth. Acceptance of this reality makes the mind more receptive to the lessons a situation is supposed to teach. I came to learn 3-D modeling. I also came to understand it would probably be the least important reason for my return. What I actually walk away with has yet to be determined.
Captured At:1927
August 18, 2008
Let's See How Far We've Come
From the outside the building offers no indication of the training facility. It blends in with most every other structure one would pass walking there from our hotel. The only thing of note is some sort of graffiti instructing "Hug a friend today". Some members of the group seem caught off guard when I promptly comply.Inside the building we have the choice of a creepy elevator or six flights of stairs. We opt for the latter, enter a wide hallway with its own unique scent, and discover our course is essentially taking place inside an apartment. The main area boasts two clusters of computers, an odd-shaped couch and a weary kitchen. The other students - a woman from Indiana and a pair of thirteen-year-olds - have already arrived. Our instructor is late. Kelvin, the resident canine, is mostly uninterested.
Joel cites train troubles and apologizes for his delay. Skinny with spiky hair and a well-established tan, he looks more like a lost surfer than a Chicago resident. His accent, language and laid back attitude only offer further confirmation that he has somehow misplaced himself. The majority of the morning is spent watching him build 3-D objects, or in my case, zoning out as he plays with the software. It is clear he can model, but his teaching style is questionable.
The kids do amazing work. I pause to consider what I was doing at their age and have no answer. Whatever it was, I certainly wasn't teaching myself a marketable skill. Even at twenty-seven in our makeshift classroom I feel I am doing a poor job of learning. Just as I get the hang of things enough to have a cool looking spaceship, we move on to another task. At the end of the day that first model remains the only thing I have to show for myself.
That evening I get everybody out to wander downtown. Our quest to find "The Bean" is detoured due to a healthy debate over whether that tall black building is or is not the Sears Tower. Aside from my confidence that I have identified the skyscraper correctly, I recognize nothing else even though I believe I should.
The unfamiliarity vanishes as we cross Michigan Avenue and walk north. Our visit into a little park has revealed several layers of glass bricks and I know instantly where I am. Ironically, my strongest memory of Crown Fountain is passing it after dark in a champagne-induced haze. Even during the day I do not remember it having so many people around, but I suppose there is a big difference between August and October. We take pictures and watch the children splashing in the puddles before continuing on.
I recognize hesitation as we approach the steps. A large and angry dragon would be more welcome around the next corner than the large reflective object actually waiting there. I approach it alone and take pictures with similar hesitancy. Despite the crowd, I am somehow the sole figure in a wide area being mirrored back at the lens. I imagine putting my hand to the sculpture's surface and immediately being sucked through to another world. Reluctantly I walk beneath it and look up into the chaotic swirl representing us mere ants on the ground below.
There could have been no predicting my emotional response, but when it hits the blow is extreme. As I stand looking around the only solid thought I can piece together is "Wow, this is hard". I cannot even verbalize that conclusion when one of my companions walks over to ask how I am doing. All I can seem to manage is burying my head in an attempt to hide the tears sliding down my face. What specifically has caused this reaction is of no consequence. In that moment all I know is how much I hurt. The other half of the group is shooed away to let me have my moment of weakness in relative peace. I have no idea what I am going to say to them when we are reunited, but I am told I owe them no explanation.
The radio station being blasted nearby makes it more difficult to retain what little composure I have recovered. I just keep shaking my head. I never expected such a small thing would trigger so powerful a response and I feel physically weary from it. I paraphrase the new music offering and comment that I suppose I have not come very far at all. It is a multi-level statement for this particular day. I cannot build a reasonable model in a few hours; I cannot shake a notion in a few years. Defeat seems to be all around me.
"So what do you want to do?"
"I want a picture with it."
I recognize this decision as an act of defiance; a way of confronting something that has knocked me down, looking it straight in the eye and, in my sternest most solid voice, saying "No. You do not get that power over me." But the photographs do not show victory. The face looking back is worn and sad and unrecognizable to its owner.
The group reunites for dinner in a nearby restaurant that seems slightly more upscale than our casual attire would suggest. We dine and converse as though the split never happened.
Back at the hotel I transfer an evening's worth of pictures from my camera. One begs for black and white, and the adjustment transforms it into one of the most evocative shots I have ever taken. I am awed by the simplicity of its composition.
The message this picture sends me is more important than the image itself. It offers proof that even in the lows I am still capable of seeing and appreciating true love and beauty in the world around me. At a time when I was confronted with some of my worst, I somehow tapped into some of my best. And if I have been blessed with that ability, how could I ever doubt? How could I ever fail to believe in the depth of hope that still exists for my life?
Captured At: 209
August 20, 2008
Midpoint
Mealtime is one of the toughest points in the day when traveling alone as it is often the moment when lack of companionship becomes most obvious. It quickly became clear to me that having a group to share with is not always much easier. Until a certain level is reached, the distance between each side of the table feels infinite. This gulf and the silence that fills it go wildly against my desire for people to feel comfortable and welcome and to enjoy themselves.This desire is what motivated my insistence that everybody should be invited to join that first adventure. I hate the idea of leaving anyone sitting in a hotel room feeling like they have no other options. The first night out I acquired a map from the front desk. I believed I knew where I was going, but I wanted to be safe. From it we learned that there would be fireworks at Navy Pier on Wednesday night, and we all seemed in agreement that we should go. The plan for after class activities was shaping up nicely.
We all convene for dinner when Wednesday night arrives, but only three of us end up walking in the general direction of the pier. We never actually get there and instead camp out someplace offering a good view for the show. This failure upsets me. I dislike that we have become somewhat lost. I dislike that we will not get to make that walk down the pier for a beautiful view of the city lights. I do a poor job of controlling my disappointment, which almost ruins the show for me.
The explosions are pretty enough, but what captivates me is the part left over. A steady current from the lake carries a line of smoke ghosts toward the city in slow motion. It is eerie, sad, and yet also beautiful. Long after the embers die out, their spirits live on.
A decision point arises at the show's conclusion. The stress of what should be a simple thing escalates beyond where it should and I become very open about my frustration. I feel overbearing despite my best attempts not to be. Enter another challenge of traveling with others.
In the end, we split: one goes to the hotel, two walk around more. My stubborn streak never really gave up on the pier as a destination for the evening. I want to know how far away we actually were and the right route to get there for any hypothetical "next time". My partner is willing to indulge me.
Our luck does not immediately improve. We go the wrong direction a few times and eventually learn that the pier was more of a hike than any of us had originally thought. The route seemed so simple on the map. I suppose the lesson here is that knowing the path does not necessarily make walking it any easier than not knowing it at all. Another lesson is that even getting lost can have its good points. It truly was a beautiful night to be out in the city, and was forecast to be the last. Being by the water brought added peace. The boats on the lake were lovely.
Despite the frustrations, there was much to be pleased with in the first half of the week. I was not letting hours pass needlessly in my hotel room, the group hadn't killed each other, and Magical Trevor was turning out reasonably well. Add one more to the list of things my stubborn streak refused to give up on...
Captured At:2313
August 21, 2008
Faith in Works
On our first night of wandering around we unintentionally located "Flamingo". Only one person in the group knew what this odd red structure perched outside the post office actually was; the rest of us looked at it with puzzled expressions unable to understand the awed expression on our fourth member.
"That's an Alexander Calder," he explained as we resumed our walk. Without missing a beat, another member of the clueless trio chimed in.
"Called her what?" I found this extremely funny and burst into laughter declaring a point for the speaker.
The recipient could only shake his head at this question and walk slowly in the opposite direction as if in defeat. For somebody in possession of an art degree, I suspect moments such as that one are incredibly painful.
With this memory in mind, I suggest that the Art Institute is his opportunity to educate the culturally unenlightened party he has been stuck with. The facility offers free Thursday nights during the summer, and upon discovery of this information we immediately decided we would attend. When we arrive, I put the burden of leadership on him.
Our lesson begins upstairs in the section for European Painting and Sculpture. We barely reach the top of the landing when he says "in here" and opens the glass door. I recognize the large painting facing our direction and suspect it to be the one that drew him in. When we finally stand in front of the Seurat his awe deepens. He marvels at the tiny strokes and use of color. I admire the patience one must have to undertake such a thing. The canvas is not small.
The vast majority of the next several rooms contain religious imagery. Slowly surveying the walls I cannot help being struck by how obsessive it all seems. All of this artwork, all of this talent, and all it depicts is church. I give no consideration to the fact that the work was most likely commissioned or that religion was a major component of life in those times. No, all I see is this obsession that evades my understanding. "Of course," I reason, "if there was ever anything to be obsessive about and truly lose yourself in, should it not be God, the creator and saviour of the world?"
A gallery later my coworker gives an audible gasp. He has discovered a Rembrandt, one of his very favorites. I walk over and ask him to explain what it is about this painter that makes him such a big deal. He gets so carried away pointing out the details and color that an attendant walks over to kindly remind him to keep his hands behind the ropes. His giddiness amuses me; it is unlike anything I have ever seen in the few years we have known each other.
As we sit together later waiting on the other two members of the group he tells me that yes, he could spend days there. The names on the walls are those of his heroes. Buildings that house their creations are his church, and he does not get to church anywhere near often enough. In some respects, I understand. I can appreciate good art. Talent captivates me. Distance from the things I treasure saddens me. Being around things I love brings me to life.
But that is where our similarities in this arena end. The things that bring me to utter awe in life are not the works of man, but the works of God. And what are works of man but a manifestation of the abilities with which God so generously gifted him? I observe on these images where the paint has cracked or the pigments have turned. How could I ever accept such tangible yet fading articles in exchange for something unbounded and eternal? How could I ever restrict myself to a place of worship with four walls when I have an entire universe to find my joy and comfort within?
Those are thoughts I could never express to my companion on the bench. He does not hold the same beliefs I do, but he respects me enough not to judge. In a similar way, I would never dream of making any move that could knock him down in one of his rare moments of happiness. His faith may seem misplaced to me, but the ability to identify his happy places puts him far ahead of many people I have met. I am grateful for the opportunity to join him there when I can. Happiness, though wonderful on its own, is even better shared.
On the walk home he asks us to indulge him in a detour. We venture north several streets and round a corner to discover another large statue standing in an open plaza. I know from my web queries on Chicago statuary that he has just led us to an untitled work by Picasso. The cameras find use again but, unlike the first statue encounter, our goals are not the same
Firmly fixed in his viewfinder is something he wants to remember: an object he delights in, the work of a personal hero. Firmly fixed in my viewfinder is something else to remember: another's happiness to delight in, a moment the gift of a personal God.
Captured At:2157
August 22, 2008
Examining the Past
Friday's plans had been in place for as long as we'd had airline reservations. We would wrap up class and then book it over to the Field Museum for a look at Sue, "the largest, most complete, and best preserved Tyrannosaurus Rex fossil yet discovered". It seemed like a cool detour to me, but that could be because I went through the same phase of adoration for these gargantuan reptiles that many kids do. I remember deciding that if I got to ask God one question when I got to heaven, it would be "so what really happened to the dinosaurs?"When the day comes one thing stands between us and our exit: Magical Trevor. My determination for a finished product consumes me so completely that I don't consider the selfishness inherent in my perpetual tweaks and questions. We leave later than planned, me sporting my infamous giant giddy grin. I have won, and in that moment I believe my cow is the coolest thing ever.
Our quartet reduces to three once again before the dinosaur hunt. We have a couple of hours to conduct our expedition, but the prey poses no challenge. Sue is front and center when we walk in. The other woman in the group waits patiently as we shutterbugs do our thing before moving on. We tour the history of the Earth, we find Lucy, we learn about the co-evolution dance, we play in the gift shops and do all of those things one would expect at a museum. I walk away with three conclusions:
1) Anyone with proficiency at pronouncing those long dinosaur names automatically sounds intelligent. Maybe it's not the creatures we liked as kids anywhere near as much as being able to impress adults.
2) When it comes right down to it, humans haven't evolved all that far. Women are still impressed by the guy who will bring them a big pretty rock.
3) I was way more amused by the giant red signs on the floor than anybody should be -especially given how overdue we are.
We next take a leisurely walk along the museum campus. The forecast for rain has been in error, but a distinct haze lounges on the metropolitan panorama we soak in from outside the planetarium. For a short time we're able to sit down on the grass and relax. We say little, each mind wandering off into its own corner of consciousness. I delight in the silence. For the first time all week I feel as if nothing needs to be said. We're there, we're together, and that's enough.
It is also apparent how tired we all are. Somehow I'm the leader, and I feel the need to inform the others that while I'm flattered they're confident enough to follow, I have no destination in mind. They're okay with that fact. The response shouldn't amaze me, but it does. We press on.
Our winding path takes us to Grant Park for pictures of the enormous Buckingham fountain, Garrett's for the bag of popcorn I was told I had to try, and back to Greek town for dinner. We decide to eat at the restaurant we spotted from my balcony that first night; the one that motivated us in that direction but that we passed on for a place nobody ended up being impressed with. There is a lesson to be had from all of it. First impressions aren't always wrong. Go with your instincts.
Somewhere in conversation a short-lived member of our organization comes up. I contrast our differences in aspirations and approach to our careers acknowledging how bad I am at politicking and playing the games most do on their quest for power and position. I explain that if that's the world, I know I will lose every time. And while I hope my sincere desire to do good work and be a positive force for those around me will be enough, I can't put much faith in it.
My companions are nothing short of encouraging. They tell me that if they use the criteria I have provided, I am succeeding. One shares the wisdom given to her when she first arrived and wondered some of the same things: the cream rises to the top. Again I feel thankful that I was blessed with such wonderful people to be my work family.
Dinner that night is good in every way possible. It feels natural and, though I'm slightly sad to see it all end, I can think of few better ways the trip could come to a close.
I walk away satisfied and grateful. I am pleased that instead of choosing mere survival I went out and experienced everything I could, sometimes confronting the demons head on. I lost the first battle, but I win the war of the week with no fatalities.
Truth is the cream of life also rises to the top. It takes time, but those parts worth treasuring always separate from the heaviness of the trials that once accompanied them. We are stronger than we realize. What a sweet and wonderful thing that is.
Captured At:2246