Letter

Wednesday I went to Kelly’s house so she could show me how everything was situated in her place. I would be dog-sitting Eddie and Ernie till Sunday and there was a lot to know. We decided that rather than uproot their lives further by schlepping them to Bridgeport, I would just stay at her place in Humboldt Park. We watched many episodes of Baskets and ate much delivered Club Lucky grub while discussing all the particulars.

The next morning she asked me to take the fellas on a long walk so she could get ready for her trip in peace. Then, a half hour after our return she was gone. I’ve lived alone in the same place for over two years; now I was in a different place, in a different neighborhood, with two dogs keeping track of my every move. It was kind of a mindfuck.

Knowing that I had to go to a play that evening and leave them in the house alone filled me with anticipatory dread. I recalled the ritual of leaving the house when I lived with Porkchop. We always had to distract him with treats and then get out the door before he noticed. I knew Eddie and Ernie didn’t require the same level of subterfuge and yet it still gnawed at me. When I returned I could hear their whines from the outdoor gate. Then they jumped all over me as if I’d abandoned them for years.

When we were going to bed they suddenly sensed that Kelly wasn’t coming back, there was more moaning and howling, but they eventually found their spots on the bed and drifted off. Thankfully, there would be no waterworks on the nights that followed. 

Each day involved a long walk around the neighborhood, a bunch of time on the couch, then my leaving alone at some point. Saturday I had gallery hours at Hume so we walked all the way over there only to realize at the door that I’d left my regular keychain back at Kelly’s. This is what happens when my regular routine is disrupted. Luckily, Fontaine lives just down the street and was able to let us in. My gallery assistants dutifully barked at every single passerby throughout the afternoon.

Walking through Humboldt Park—a neighborhood I’ve spent little time in over the last decade, and with two dogs in tow—made me feel as if I was in another city. The pace of my stride was largely beholden to the dogs’ gait, which involved endless stops and starts, as every fencepost, bush, and vacant lot warranted investigation. Living among someone else’s things had a similar effect. After a couple days I started to forget most of my everyday life. And yet that life would be waiting for me come Sunday night when I walked into the Skylark for my bartending shift. The idea of that now felt completely outlandish.

Washing dishes, stripping the bed, and packing up the dogs’ gear for the trip to Sheila’s, further on the North Side, it was hard to imagine that this new routine was about to end. I don’t know if I could handle the responsibility of caring for living beings on an everyday basis but it was good to find out that I was still capable of it given the chance.

In a few hours I’d be back to the solitude I’ve come to know all too well.

Monday evening I went to the Film Center to see a couple movies about artists. The first was a biopic about Egon Schiele, which was very professionally done but which I started forgetting while it was still running; the second was a documentary about Lithuanian photographer Vitas Luckus called Master and Tatyana.

There’s a lot to dislike about Luckus. He was a philandering, careless egomaniac. Anyone involved in the art rackets has known dozens of characters like him. And for many of these guys there’s an adoring coterie of women and sycophantic hangers-on who cultivate and sustain their mythos. In Luckus’ case this entourage was and continues to be led by his beautiful former wife Tatyana. She’s seen frolicking—often naked—through dozens of his photographs. She’s also the keeper of his legacy, having hauled his archive to America, and sitting on it until recent years, biding her time until the right moment to revive the photographer’s reputation.

Giedrė Žickytė’s film shifts nimbly back and forth between Luckus’ ’60s-’70s heyday and present-day. She intercuts interviews with those closest to the great man with shots he took of their younger selves in a way which underscores the ravages of time on the human body and illustrates how many of them are living in the past. Because Luckus didn’t get to grow old, his own image is forever left in a kind of magical youthfulness and vitality which none of his friends do anything to undercut. Even those who criticize the man do so with a measure of envy which serves to build the pedestal he’s on ever higher. 

After the screening there was a Q & A with the director and Tatyana. At one point Tatyana’s current husband—a silver-haired American gentleman who looked like an investment banker—stood up and acknowledged the clapping of the crowd. Someone had asked whether her current husband was also an artist and she emphatically answered that he was not. I wondered what it must be like for this nice man to compete for her love with a dead monster like Luckus; a man who had stabbed a guest in their home, told her he loved her, then jumped out the window to seal his immortality.

Much of the film is devoted to shots of Luckus and his gang in various states of revelry. Because these young bohemian types are about the age of my parents, I couldn’t help but draw parallels. From interviews it’s clear that these people’s lives were also severely restricted by the totalitarian society into which they were unlucky enough to be born, but there’s a lot of joy evident in many of those faces in spite of that. Young artsy people seem the same the world over, no matter the century or country they live in. The shambling way they dress themselves, the pretentious facial hair, the decor of their living spaces; all are familiar from the nearly three decades of my own adult life in art land.

I’m not qualified to judge Luckus’ photography, though there were certainly a number of compelling images which have tugged at my coattail throughout the week since I saw this film. The documentary’s title has to be a reference to Bulgakov’s great portrait of life under the Soviet regime, though unlike Margarita, Tatyana is married to her Master. She’s the faithful keeper of his flame. Whether Luckus was the devil, a genius, or just a self-absorbed moderately-talented man undeserving of immortality, he’s lucky to have such a faithful muse and disciple to introduce him to a new generation of potential admirers.

My parents came to visit last week. I rented a car at O’Hare and picked them up. Over their three days here we ate a lot of good food, drank some decent wine, had some good talks, and looked at a lot of art; mostly mine. On previous recent visits they were able to stay at Shay’s house, but now that I live in a place suited for one they had to AirBnB it. That was one of the few hiccups during their stay.

After showing them my place and having lunch at Pleasant House we drove to the Gold Coast apartment building where they’d be staying. The apartment, which was supposed to be on the second floor was actually on the fifth and the elevator which was supposed to be functional was out of order and wouldn’t be fixed for three days. After a couple tense phone and text exchanges with their hostess, my father spent the next four hours trying to get through to AirBnB to refund their money and compensate them for the inconvenience. During those hours we visited my gallery show, drove around, shopped for food, and eventually ended up at their replacement accommodations in River North.

I immediately recognized the Italian deli on the ground level of this high-rise. In my second or third year at SAIC, I had a work-study internship at the Roger Ramsey Gallery. One of my duties was to fetch subs for the two guys at the gallery from this spot. I can’t remember learning much of anything in my months on that job. I do remember that the guys would set up a portable TV in the middle of the gallery and watch hardcore porn anytime the place was empty; which was most of the time.

Having visitors in town—which I rarely do—always serves to remind me how solitary my everyday life is. Having to coordinate with others for three days in a row was a novelty and made me see my city from a different angle. My father, in particular, never fails to point out how scattered and random he feels Chicago is. How great the distances within its borders are. I’ve never seen it that way, but living in a place and visiting it are polar opposites in many ways. My Chicago has changed dimensions and character many times over the twenty-five years I’ve been here. But I can no longer ever see it as the sprawling grid of mismatched buildings which my parents perceived out the windows of the little Nissan rental as we crisscrossed its streets.

My parents have been unfailingly supportive of me throughout my adult life. They help with money whenever I’m in need and own more of my paintings than anyone else by a wide margin, but I often wonder whether they’re not a little disappointed about how I spend my days. My failure to succeed either in work or in love must weigh on them. But for better or worse, they raised me not to worry about their opinions nor seek their approval. At nearly fifty and single, they know not to hope for grandchildren and I know that I’ll never feel what they feel when they watch or think about their three sons.

Like so many other families in this country at the moment, our clashes during the visit were mostly over politics. By the end of their stay, we had still not quite agreed on what the word ‘fascist’ actually means. So it goes these days. I was glad to see them anyway. None of us are getting any younger and can’t afford to pass up opportunities to spend time together as the inevitable comes into ever clearer view.

After dropping them off at the airport Friday and returning the Nissan to Budget, I was alone again, heading back into the city on the Blue Line. It hit me that though I hadn’t left town the past three days had felt like a trip to another place. Just goes to show that it’s possible to travel great distances without ever leaving home.