The Henri Cartier-Bresson exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago opened to the public today. As a member, I got to see it yesterday, and boy am I glad I made it out. It’s phenomenal! Daniil and I made a day of it, and I’m really glad he insisted we see it first since the line wrapped around the special exhibit balcony by the time we left.

The photograph above, labeled as Hyères, France, 1932, was one of our favorites from the collection. I’d seen several of his photos before as a number of them belong to MoMA and The Met in New York City, including this one. But it really caught Daniil’s eye as well. As I would discover over the course of the afternoon, he is really intrigued by the use of lines in art. I, however, am more about motion and what’s not in the frame. We spent the afternoon guessing how each other felt about each photo.

The portion of portraits was one of my favorite parts of the exhibit. It makes me jealous because of all the cool people I will never know that he captured. Such as Truman Capote.

And Albert Camus.

And Ezra Pound.

Cartier-Bresson is one of my favorite photographers, and he shot almost exclusively in black & white. An admirable commitment for a modern man such as himself.

I highly recommend it. The man travelled far and wide as a photojournalist. I was lucky to have a native Russian give his own opinions on the Soviet Union portion. The photographs from newly Communist China are also breathtaking. If you can make it, go.

I went with quite a few friends. We ended up all feasting on Silk afterward, a product endorsed enthusiastically by Howard and me. And the sunrise was absolutely gorgeous, if not a bit skewed by clouds. I’m glad that only Daniil saw me have the mos disgraceful dismount from a bicycle ever. I banged up my leg pretty well on my pedal. But hey, my bike is a beast. It’s apparently the heaviest bike ever and gets more momentum than anything on hills.

The eggs benedict afterward was amazing, even if Pick Me Up was strangely out of hollandaise sauce. The drive home was not so fun. Was starting to fall asleep in the end there. Bed couldn’t have come soon enough at 9:30 Sunday morning.

What a fun little adventure that was. While I was sad I didn’t make the cut to be a contestant, the whole evening proved to be excellent. If having eyes made at me by multiple cute girls is any indication to how the night went, well it be that! The winner of our night’s show was a very brave soul who spoke at some length about her experience as a transwoman, which of course prompted discussion among my male companions. I had to have a talking to them about how their “so brave and I support but ew ew ew” comments were not really supportive.

As sad as it is, I can’t really blame them. I know I still say really stupid and wrong things, and I’ve dated a transman and had a couple friends transition the other way. So for two heterosexual white males with no experience with the trans community, I guess I should be happy with what I got. Not that it makes it right, but it’s better than it could be. Also, I’m sure I said something else really stupid in this paragraph alone, which I sincerely apologize for and assure I meant no harm.

Back on track: Headed over to Rock Bottom with Michelle, Jeff, and Joe. I somehow wound up drinking three margaritas. This somehow lead to drinking wine until 7:30 in the morning at Michelle’s. None of us are sure when we decided this was a good idea. It was nice to see the sun rise; it’s been a long time for all of us.

Joe and I headed to Reggie’s to see his friend’s band, Under None, play, and to meet up with Kevin. This was a smashing success, led to some G&T’s and a SoCo Lime shot. However, my shirt broke. Yes. Broke. And suddenly my right boob was hanging out of my shirt (let’s all be thankful I was actually wearing underthings). This lead to lots of leering by creepy old dudes and yet another instance where I’ve had to pretend to be a male friend’s girlfriend to keep them off. Sigh.

The other instance being the previous night when some drunk dude in a dive so awesomely asked if I belonged to Joe with a pretty offensive gesture. Yeah, that’s a way to win girls over. I don’t care how drunk you are; that’s not okay. So yea, you bet your ass I belong to him in that moment. I belong to everyone except you.

Which is nice, because it’s just in time for my first spring break! One of the perks of being in a teacher-education program and working in a public school is that I get two spring breaks. I’m out of classes this week, and at the end of March I’m out of work for a week, and most of my classes that week have been cancelled. It’s nice to have professors who work in the same sector.

This whole mono thing started several weeks ago when my sister threw her birthday party at Delilah’s that she didn’t attend due to having mono. We still had the party though, and I went, and had my last huzzah before I got mono. Well, since we’re both feeling up to being people again, we went into the city for a makeup party at Tavern. This was the first time out I’ve ever had to buy a drink for myself. I guess one out of four is still okay, but not what I’m used to. For record: at the first party, I paid exactly $0 and got 2 glasses of wine, 4 shots, and a gin & tonic. I don’t really drink a lot, but when I do, I drink whatever is bought.

Also for the record: the drinks at Tavern are awful and overpriced. Regardless, we had a good time. Lots of friends showed up, a game of impromptu charades was played, and there was lots of random fake-dancing. I also got to show off the arrows I’ve been drawing on my fingers of late at work to help redirect my buddy’s focus.  They were definitely used in the night to point out random things to a bunch of drunk 20-somethings. I’m just glad I didn’t get groped by the bros who weren’t in our group. Random gropings from bros is probably the biggest reason why I don’t go out very often.

I get it: you have a lot of money. You also have really poor self-esteem married to a glaring sense of entitlement. These three things have led to the Lamborghini, Jaguar, Porche, or whatever that you are driving that is in mint condition and the new wax job. It also explains why your car is that horrible color burnt orange, pea green, or whatever.

I, on the other hand, am driving an 11-year-old White Honda that isn’t even mine. And has shitty brakes and awful traction. I am not the person to play Asshole Highway Chicken with.

I’m sorry 80 mph on the Eisenhower is not fast enough for you. But I will never get out of your way for throwing a temper tantrum with your brights over how terribly slow I am driving. And I will certainly not brake when you cross four lanes of traffic to get around all the cars and then get back in front of me and try to slow down to 30 mph.

Let me tell you a story of another one of your kind. I was walking through a construction zone in New York City that had a flagger directing traffic and pedestrians. I had the right of way, and Mr. Brand New Jaguar had the stop sign. It was real cute how he faked a slow down, swerved around the flagger, and then slammed on the brakes when he realized that, gee, there was a person there.  A person wearing steel-toed boots. A person who can kick hard enough to leave a boot dent in their shiny new car. A person who may have been me.  Those cars you drive might be expensive, but the siding is cheap.

I will not slow down for your entitled belief that you think the Eisenhower is the Autobahn. I will laugh when you flick me off as if I were the most horrid person on the planet. I will cackle as you realize I’m not slowing down to protect your precious little sports car. And I will reach for my phone and I will call the police, and I will tell them you are speeding 100 mph and driving recklessly and that you are the only burnt orange Lamborghini heading into the city on a Friday night when there are cops all over the highway.

I hope you like your ticket, asshole. It made my day seeing you pulled over.

But here’s a tip for the rest of you Douchebags Driving Nice Cards. When you are driving a really expensive sports car that is so obviously a stand-in for the shortcomings in your life: don’t piss off the people around you. We don’t have overpriced physical egos to protect and we can cost you a fortune for doing something that’s free.

Sincerely,
Wren

I really enjoyed the evening. It was a thought-provoking night that posed more questions than answers, and I propose that it is better this way. How can actors tell us who we are? They can only tell us who they are, and, in fact, that is what they spent the evening doing. Greg Allen asks us who we are and that is his thesis. In reality, he is asking us who will we be.

I AM A CAMERA runs through March 13, 2010 on Thursdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Tickets can be bought through Brown Paper Tickets.

Chicago’s transit system is generally a much friendlier place than the MTA. I’ve never really had to put up with a lot of things that are just part of life in New York. For instance, I have never-ever been touched inappropriately–on accident or otherwise–on the CTA. I’ve never seen genitals on the CTA either.

Last night, however, was by the far the most uncomfortable I’ve ever been made to feel on any public transportation system. It started on the Red Line. I sat down at around 9:30. About 15 minutes later I felt the prickle of being watched. And then I noticed this guy just staring at me. He looked away as soon as I spotted him. No big deal, I told myself. I’m used to being looked at: I am an attractive young woman after all (not that it makes it okay for dudes to stare at me all creepy like). But again, it didn’t rattle me.

But then he kept staring at me. His eyes kept finding me and the look he had was not the kind I’m used to dealing with. It was all out staring, and without embarrassment at all.  And it made me uncomfortable. I’ve never felt that uncomfortable before from just being looked at.  I felt uncomfortable enough that when we reached my stop, I waited for the doors to open before collecting my stuff and rushing out.

I thought that would be that. I kind of laughed at myself when I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t there. And he wasn’t. I didn’t see him.

I walked up Adams to Union Station to get on the Metra back to Aurora. I got in a car and sat down, pulled out my book, and thought I’d just read for the 20 minutes until the train was scheduled to leave. But then I felt that prickle again. I looked around but nothing. Then I looked up. Sitting above and across from me, and still staring me down, was the dude from the Red Line.

Okay, it’s one thing to be a creepy dude staring at me on a train, it’s an entire different thing to follow me to a different train and continue being creepy. I texted my sister and a friend immediately, then promptly switched cars. Luckily, I did not see him again.

The whole situation really shook me though. I’ve never felt that vulnerable in a public space before. I’ve never felt so violated without being touched. I’ve never felt so threatened without an exchange of words.

I mean, WTF? Why do some men feel like this is acceptable behavior? I am a woman, but I’m a human being first. Don’t follow me and certainly don’t be a creepy fuck about it.

My parents decided they wanted to see the Pirates special exhibit before it closed, so off we went.  I still think 8 is a bit early to wake up on a Sunday, but for a museum…always!  It was a bit strange to go back; I honestly haven’t been in at least 6 years.  I’d forgotten just how child friendly the exhibits are.  This isn’t to say that is bad, just that the anthropologist in me always craves more information.

The exhibit was great.  I was pleased by how few inaccuracies there were, though I was saddened that the women were brushed aside to a footnote.  It’s easy to do, but women have always been an important part of the pirate story.  On the other end of the spectrum, how much detail there was in the area of specific names and routes was incredible.  I haven’t encountered personal details in a pirate exhibit before. It was very refreshing.  It was also surprising just how frank they were about the drowning of a 10-year-old boy named John King.  While the kids who were in the exhibit around us were grossed out by his bone fragment, it made me smile.  I think children should be confronted with human remains far more often than they are.