Is it Art?

It was a cold damp evening, though not to bad for Chicago in January. We hurried our way down Wabash Ave. en route to the Chicago Cultural Center. The anticipation of the trip, as well as my familiarity with the city allowed the El trains above me to shuffle by without the least bit notice, as their presence passed over like some second nature. As we turned onto Randolph St. the vaulted windows and Ionic columns of the old building came into view. I couldn't help but to wonder if my fellow students felt the same sense of awe, and curious anticipation in regards to this Historic Landmark we were about to visit on this day.

As we entered the building we were instructed to split up, take in what time allowed and take with us our over all impression. On this particular evening there where a few collections on exhibit. While deciding on which direction to take, I couldn't help but notice a 1960's style cigarette machine. The machine being there didn't strike me as odd at all. I even caught myself fumbling through my pockets for the thirty five cents, a pack would have cost back then. Of course it didn't vend cigarettes now! I believe it sold maps or some other other kind of souvenir. How ever this forty year old relic still stood out. It was out of place there, but it belonged. A machine well past it's prime and purpose, but still being utilized for the bemusement of old nostalgic fools like myself. The five floors in all had four exhibits I can recall. The Staffs of Tradition by David Philpot, of which I truly enjoyed. A collection of African walking sticks with impressive wood and metal crafting. Reflections by Peter Wexler, and Finger prints by Merle Temkin, to me were less impressive. The first struck me as something put together by a man coming down from an Acid trip, and the second put to mind a file marked "Subversive" floating around some F.B.I library. I don't recall the name of the last exhibit. It was the first one I visited. It consisted of a Taj-Mahal tent work piece of art, which was nowhere near as impressive as the Bhai Temple , just twenty miles north of here. And another work of wine bottles hanging on a string, Which to a recovering alcoholic said "It's time to go". All this was art though. Just not my type of art.

I think the true art, the true culture, was in the building it self. The South Staircase with winding rails was majestic, as well as the hall which housed it. An arched entrance way with the names of the great writers of the ages carved in marble. The Grand Army of the Republic Hall, with famous battles of the Civil War remembered throughout it. The Preston Bradley Hall with it's Tiffany Dome (a major piece of art in it's own). And inscriptions from every language imaginable to the human tongue. These are the things that fascinated me. These are the things that brought the building to life. These were the things that impressed me the most as works of art.

I had been here before, as a child. When the building was known as the Chicago Public Library. And for some reason it remains one of the few but fond memories of a not all to happy childhood. I can picture my older brother and I running up and down the staircase, my Mother behind us holding the baby calling for us to slow down. I can envision the oaken desks, and shelves of volume after volume of old and dusty books. And I can still see the library lady in her knee length dress with pearl necklace, looking up from her horn rimmed glasses and giving us the SHHH.... with her index finger placed before her lips. I can almost reach out and open the book my five year old self is checking out..(he cant read so it's just pictures of cars or rockets or bunnies; he was confused). Then I remember the men, always in gray. Every thing was gray back then. And always wearing hats. The same type of hats, if you where an adult man ,you wore a hat! I had been to this place before, the memory lingers. I don't know why, but it does.

As I finish my tour I find myself in front of the old cigarette machine again, memories! It was a different culture back then. Just as it was over a hundred years ago when they built this testament to their time. As I walked out , the doors shut behind me, like the tired eyes of an old friend. Glad to see you , glad to see you go. A homeless man approached me at the foot of the steps, and asked me for some change. Another culture, a subculture. I gave him the change I could find in my pocket, along with a dollar bill. His breath smelled of alcohol, so I thought of telling him about the exhibit of hanging wine bottles, Instead I just gave him the money and went on my way. I thought about him walking back to the school, thinking every body has a name. Wouldn't it be ironic if his happened to be Art?