accidental installation 001

So about ten or eleven years ago, when I first joined the Neo-Futurists, there was a dilapidated convenience store at the southwest corner of Clark and Foster, which Diana referred to as "The Shift-E-Mart".

Shifty it was. The front window was papered over with bleached-out posters advertising movies that had been released years prior. A questionable clientele shuffled in and out at all hours. The counter by the register only paid a vague homage to the usual convenience-store stock: A handful of dusty gum and mints that, like the movies touted in the front window, had been released years prior.

The rest of the store's inventory was no better, but one display, visible from the plate-glass windows on the Foster Street side, made for completely accidental political art. One steel-grey shelf was stocked, for the most part, with big boxes of laundry detergent. In the midst of the boxes, however, a neat little space had been cleared, and in the middle of that space, pristine, unmoved, framed on all sides by Gain and Downy and Dreft, was one perfect bottle of Summer's Eve douche.


That bottle of douche stayed there, untouched, week after week, month after month, year after year, until finally the store was shut down (and taken over by a similarly questionable "Vitamin Outlet" which, although it has no such douche displays, sure does have a bizarro inventory of weight-gain powders, astronomically overpriced Pirate's Booty, Tofutti, and sports drinks). Serene in its little niche on the shelf, it couldn't have been more attractively accentuated had Carol Merrill been standing next to it, smiling and gesturing.

How we loved that douche.

In honor of that completely unplanned installation piece I give you the first in a series of accidental art moments. This one comes courtesy of another convenience store which, although it has its questionable moments--who wants to buy produce from a store where the owner chain-smokes at the register?!??--is saved by the unfailing sweetness of its adorable employees, two of whom are the owner's sons.

I would've thought at least one of them would've noticed this by now:


In the immortal words of Sesame Street: One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong.

A HUGE thank you to Chloe for the photo.

Feeling frisky?

...well then, Frisky, you can go right ahead and read my critical analysis of the Memorial Day II project:

Download file here.

Three thousand words. Big ones.

I'm tired.

A few more photos

Because they're kind of priceless. Thank you Edward and Heather for sending them. All the documentation of the documentation of the documentation is making my head spin!

Ah yes, drinking in the alley. Good times.

Rachel posts picture on blog that Heather took on cell
phone of Rachel taking picture of plaque while Rick films (off camera)

On the trolley, Rachel receives Godly visitation in the form of David Kodeski

Performance art? I'll tell you what I think of your stinkin'
performance art. Now pass me some more of that champagne.

By the way

Those of you who sent me stories that I didn't use, do not be cross! Once the dust settles on my dissertation, I will be creating plaques and doing more ceremonies -- as one-off performance gatherings (rather than grueling cross-Chicago treks like this first attempt).

If you didn't send me a plaque story and would like to, please do so here. Or you can have a plaque made yourself at The Engraving Connection and have your own ceremony! Huzzah! World domination!

Memorial Day II: Brian's ceremony

Somewhere between Richard's and Edward's ceremonies, spirits began to falter. Blisters blistered; children and adults alike approached meltdown. We needed a boost.

That boost came in the form of a free trolley ride! to the Lincoln Park Zoo, where we would be performing the final ceremony. Free! To the Zoo! Instead of having to wait for (and pay for) the Fullerton bus, we got to ride in open-air high style.

Free trolley ride with accidental product placement

Edward noted that there was a sign in our trolley advertising the fact that it could be rented. Which is true. En route to the zoo we wondered whether or not we could rent one and simply drive around picking up random tourists, offering them own particular and personalized take on Chicago's sights. (Watch this space, I suppose.)

The zoo was fifteen minutes away from closing when we arrived; we couldn't have timed it more perfectly. (Well, for the adults, anyway -- Lily wasn't altogether pleased by the drive-by zooing). After a quick scouting of locations, we decided on a slightly out-of-the-way electrical box mounted behind the benches at the sea lion exhibit.

Brian Lobel was also unable to attend, so I read his story (against a great backdrop):

2007. I had broken up with my best friend about eight months prior. I don't know what else to call it when your best friend's abusive lesbian partner forbids your best friend from talking to you. We were broken up, but I didn't fully get it, and had continued to call her for the last eight months without a phone call returned, an e-mail answered, a random party bump-into to be followed up on. I was sad.

I had welcomed my parents two days earlier to Chicago and for some reason, they were still only in the middle of their trip. They should have been gone after the honeymoon period (the approximately 48 hours in which my parents and I really get along), yet I still needed to fill two days of their trip with fun times. We had seen a play, seen a dance performance, eaten three good meals at great Chicago restaurants I'm too cheap for, and I was running low on ideas. The Lincoln Park Zoo…

I hadn't been since a drunken ZooLights in December 2005, but I knew it'd be perfect. We love animals. The Lobels love animals. Not in nature, but in controlled areas, where they can be appreciated. We begin to walk through the front gates, giddy with having found yet one more activity in Chicago, when my thigh buzzes with an unrecognized 734 number. I had erased my best friend from the phone, to stop me from calling, but I knew it was her. She was crying. One minute later I was crying, and five minutes later, I realized that my parents were waiting for me, impatiently, to go into the African Experience. Waiting. Waiting. So I shoo-ed them forth, physically walking 30 feet behind but always appearing to read plaques and scientific names. I thought it could look like I just needed more time to appreciate.

Puffy eyes and tearing and snotting--it was pathetic and gay and fantastic (only from a critical angle which I didn't have at the moment). But the conversation had to happen then and I'm glad we didn't wait. For 45 minutes I held up the charade until I saw my parents, arms folded, standing outside of the epileptic zebra area. The ignoring-of-the-cell-phone-in-public game had to come to an end, so I saved my friend's number, gave my face a minute to cool down, and then headed to the Sea Lions where the Lobels were waiting so that, as a family, we could appreciate the animals.

Installing Brian's plaque

"The conversation had to happen, c. 2007"

And with that, we were done. I took one final picture of the stalwart remaining participants and we dispersed. Fifteen minutes later, it began to rain. Hard.

Serendipity.

David, Edward, Noey, Lily, Diana, and Dina: Loyal to the end

Postscript: Due to weather and exhaustion, there is one remaining plaque, John's, which has yet to be installed. Check back to the site for a date and time!

Memorial Day II: Edward's ceremony

Edward Thomas-Herrera's ceremony was a bit of a wild card (wild plaque?), as he had determined a few days prior that the parking lot in which his story took place is now taken up by a massive athletic complex. Still, we were undeterred.

Edward told his story on the sidewalk where the parking lot entrance (roughly) used to be.


February 14, 1990. Valentine’s Day. Chicago is hit with 9 inches of snow. I'm stage managing a production of A Streetcar Named Desire at the DePaul Theater School. I get on a DePaul shuttle bus in Lincoln Park that transports me and about half the cast and crew to the Blackstone Theater downtown. It’s a 30-minute drive that takes over two hours. We do the show and get back on the bus. It’s stopped snowing, but it still takes us about two hours to get back to Lincoln Park. We arrive in the parking lot on Sheffield just north of Webster. I’m so happy to have survived my first big snowfall, I lie down in the snow and make a snow angel. I’m a 25-year-old from Texas and this is my very first. I think to myself, “I’ve successfully escaped Texas."

The universal gesture for "snow angel"

Installation (with a side of ham)

Just after Edward installed his plaque, a DePaul security guard came strolling out of the gym entrance. We all pretended to be deeply, deeply interested in the sidewalk. He paid us no mind.

Bye, Mr. Security Guard!

I like the notion that Edward's plaque is installed on a fancy new gym. Layers and layers of history, accumulating like the snow in a parking lot, seventeen years ago.

"Made a snow angel, c. 1990"

Memorial Day II: Richard's ceremony

Next we travelled to the corner of Paulina and Grace, to install Richard Fox's plaque (in absentia, I suppose I should say, as Richard was unable to join us).

We waited for the Damen bus.

And waited.

Sunblock was applied.

Waiting.

Lily climbed in and out of her stroller. The only one amongst us successfully self-amusing.

Finally: Bus!

I tried to get a picture of the scrolling LED sign at the fore of the bus that announces the cross-street stops, as our stop simply read "GRACE" in big red blazing letters. Would've been all symbolic and eloquent, no? But here's a tip: Digital pictures of stationary objects on very shaky buses? Usually blurry.

Anyway, here was Richard's story:

One weekday morning, in March of this year, I was out walking. At the corner of Paulina & Grace Streets, I was overwhelmed by a feeling of utter and complete happiness. Truly. I had not felt like that in years and years. I guess I am surprised when I feel content, but this was full-on happiness. The feeling lasted for hours. And I found myself saying, simply, “Thank you.”

I was surprised by the overlap between my story and Richard's; indeed, between mine, Richard's, and a few other stories that people sent me (but I was unable to use this time 'round due to money and time constraints). Indefinable moments of infinite calm. It's a little sad to think that so many of us think of (and recall) these moments as rarified. But I suppose identifying them for what they are makes us what we are: Artists. (And moody ones at that.)

I'd love to think that the installation of the plaques might inspire similar moments of unbridled joy in unsuspecting passersby. I can hope, can't I?

Caution: Moody artist at work

Installing Richard's plaque (after we figured out we could bend it into a curve!)

Photo not taken from shaky bus, but blurry nonetheless

It was decided that the Brown Line train would be the best route to take to Edward's ceremony. Public transport + formalwear = curious stares and smiles from passengers.


I sense an entirely different performance piece in the works...