Sunday, November 09, 2014

Walking and Talking to the Art Institute We Go

We walked in the chilly afternoon of Chicago, discussing the street art, the street musicians and the buskers, taking in the river and sharing our various tales of being AIC members, because there is nothing more fun that seeing a line up to get in that stretches down Michigan Avenue, and then walking around them and just heading straight into the museum. An act of membership that we both took advantage of that afternoon.

Inside the museum was balmy and warm, and after getting an updated card with some Monet printed on it (“You know, Monet painted a fucking lot of hay bales; it’s like he really wanted you to know that he had painted some fucking hay,” the Author mentioned as I waited for my card), we checked our coats and hit the show.

“Fucking leg day!” I bitched up every step to the third-floor instillation, because I had hurt myself the day before lifting weights.

“Sucks to be you; yesterday was my arm day so I feel fine.”

“Eat me.”

We giggled, we walked, and we skated past a Miro, a Kandinsky, and one of the most perverted erotic art pieces in the Art Institute, which I found as disturbing and unsettling as any work of shock horror, and headed into the instillation.

“I got yelled out for twirling in this last time I was here,” the Author said.

“Well then don’t twirl.”

He walked in first, then it was my turn. I watched, fascinated by the entire process, taking pictures, amusing myself, feeling the strands falling down from the ceiling. As he walked through he was mostly alone, aside from some Korean art students (yes, they were Korean, yes they were talking in Korean), and for a good minute he was the only interaction with the piece.

When he was finished it was my turn.


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