However you greet it...

I hope that 2012 is even happier for you than this year was: that it brings you more success,

more friends, more fun, more laughter, more--well, booze, apparently.

 Anyway, whatever you do to celebrate the evening, and whoever you celebrate it with,

don't forget to preserve the good times in pictures, so that, fifty years from tonight,


our children can have as much fun, laughing at all of us, as we have laughing at our parents.

 It's the least we can do for those who will follow us. The Circle of Life is a wonderful thing. 

And for those who prefer, as I do, to spend a quiet evening at home, Pleasant dreams.

I Looked on Beauty Bare*

I walked into our shop this morning, and discovered that, during the night, the dainty little fir tree that we stuck in an antique urn a week ago had dropped most of its needles. Then, as I reached behind it to turn on the lights in the shop, I bumped it and it lost the few needles that were left. Some people would take one a look at the tree's bare branches and haul it straight out to the trash. In fact, I know they would, because my father did exactly that one year when I was a kid.

I remember my little brother sobbing disconsolately as Dad stripped the ornaments & lights off the naked branches, and I wonder about the long-term effect of such early trauma on impressionable young minds. I say that because my brother still sometimes refers to The Year Dad Wrecked the Tree. He doesn't remember that a half an hour later we all got into our pink-&-copper Rambler wagon and went down to the Piggly Wiggly parking lot to get another tree. Of course, by that time--it was only a few days before Christmas--all the decent trees were gone, this being back in the olden days before relentless tree-manicuring began producing millions of identical cone-shaped trees, when, whether for good or for evil, every tree on a lot had its own individual character. At any rate, the good trees were long gone and we ended up with a stunted specimen that wasn't even straight. Worse, it was some sort of shaggy, long-needled, pine imposter, not a proper tree like we had always had until then--you know, a fir tree, a real tree. Then again, the new tree, crooked or not, did still have its needles. What can I say? Life's full of compromises.

The first three people in the shop the shop this morning all referred to it as a Charlie Brown tree, but really, there's no comparison between our tree and Charlie Brown's. His was sad & pitiful, and ours, even sans needles, is still handsome. In fact, it may be more handsome than it was before, because the textural contrasts between the tree's rough bark & stiff twigs and the beaded garland's curves & rich color read better without all those needles cluttering up the view. But maybe that's just me.

    One of our old-school blown glass bird ornaments on a weed I dragged in from the alley. Context is everything.

After all, I'm the guy who stuck a rotten tree stump on an antique mahogany table and had the result published in a national magazine. Beauty is wherever you find it. And I happen to find it in dead branches and dead weeds and leafless trees. And a good thing I do, too, because, at the moment, that's all there is. It's the most wonderful time of the year! In fact, if I could be anywhere else at the moment, it would be right here, right now...

Central Park, "The greatest art object of Nineteenth Century America"--Central Park's Historian Sara Cedar Miller

Meanwhile, wherever you find yourself and whatever your plans, I hope your next few days are wonderful. And if you happen to be in Chicago, stop in and see us. We're at 1822 West Grand Avenue.

For the ulimate in easy-care trees,  may we suuggest a Nineteenth Century copper roof finial?

---------------------

         Euclid Alone Has Looked On Beauty Bare *                                                 

Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare.
Let all who prate of Beauty hold their peace,
And lay them prone upon the earth and cease
To ponder on themselves, the while they stare
At nothing, intricately drawn nowhere
In shapes of shifting lineage; let geese
Gabble and hiss, but heroes seek release
From dusty bondage into luminous air.
O blinding hour, O holy, terrible day,
When first the shaft into his vision shone
Of light anatomized! Euclid alone
Has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they
Who, though once only and then but far away,
Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.

                                    Edna St Vincent Millay
                                    

Living the Hardy Life

"As the lively and sparkling emotions of her early married life cohered into an equable serenity, the finer movements of her nature found scope in discovering to the narrow-lived ones around her

the secret (as she had once learnt it) of making limited opportunities endurable;

which she deemed to consist in the cunning enlargement,
 

by a species of microscopic treatment,of those minute forms of satisfaction that offer themselves to everybody not in positive pain;

which, thus handled, have much of the same inspiring effect upon life

as wider interests cursorily embraced."

----The Mayor of Casterbridge, by Thomas Hardy


Have a great weekend, friends. Sorry I've been away.

Urban Oasis II: As Seen on TV



                                      Sneak Peek inside HGTV Urban Oasis 2011 by Mary

Urbs in Horto--City in a garden. Garden in the city. There's a difference, of course, but in weather like this, who cares? Anything green and shady is good. Not, of course, that every oasis needs to be a literal garden. Or that it needs to be outdoors at all, for that matter. In fact, HGTV is just about to unveil a 1000-SF condominuim on the 35th Floor of the Trump International Hotel & Tower in Chicago, as part of their "Urban Oasis" series, which is apparently aimed at people who like Nature in small doses and who prefer to live in the heart of a vibrant city---even in a hot city--to living on, say, a beautiful but isolated (read: boring) beach, or in some beautiful but underpopulated mountains, or in an area that, twenty minutes ago, was still farmland, with all the social & cultural advantages thereof.

 Don't get me wrong. I grew up in small towns and I enjoyed finding baskets of luscious, still-warm-from-the-sun garden-grown tomatoes sitting on my front porch as much as anybody--Mrs johnson, my next door neighbor was a sweetheart--but I'll still happily trade all that for being able to attend a CSO concert less than an hour after I leave work. Besides, those ginormous tomatoes usually went bad before I could eat them all, anyway. Too ripe. And don't get me started on the zucchini. They started out as single specimens but quickly grew in size and number, and finally, I ended up taking them to work with me and tossing them into the dumpster out back so that Mrs. Johnson wouldn't find them in my trash, and I'm sure she used to check. Like I said, she was a nice lady and all, and her tomatoes really were good--the ones I got around to eating--but I refused to feel guilty over tossing extra zucchini. These days, I'm a city guy, so I don't have to deal with zucchini anymore.  

Zucchini Photo from Chiot's Run

Anyway, one day back in March, who should drop into our store but Vern Yip, who explained that he was looking for accessories for this season's "Urban Oasis" project in Chicago. Very cool! Except that those of you who know me also know that I don't have a TV, so when Vern first walked in the door, I had absolutely no idea who he was. I 'm probably the last person around who's never once seen HGTV. Fortunately, Vern introduced himself and I recognized his name--in the same way that I recognize, say, Paul Konerko's name, although I don't know what he looks like, either--so I played along and didn't (I hope) look like a complete mope in front of Vern, or, at least, if I did, he was nice enough to pretend he didn't notice. Thank you, Vern.

So he looked over the whole store and picked out several good-looking items for the show. He chose a set of black-shaded brass wall sconces in the form of three-foot-long animal horns, and he took a handsome pair of carved oak figures that, a hundred years ago, must have been part of an Elizabethan Revival bookcase in a grand English library, which carvings--full disclosure here--would have been at my place by now if Vern hadn't bought them. Memo to Self: you snooze, you lose. But Vern also chose this little accent piece, which subtly suggests a garden theme, even if said garden happens to be indoors and thirty-five floors up in the air: our Olmsted Faux-Bois Concrete Planter, done in the informal, rustic style that was common in urban parks at the turn of the last century, and named, naturally, after the great landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted.

To me, this planter is one of our shop's signature pieces, partly because it sums up the aesthetic of Debra Phillips--our owner--who has a long-time thing for faux-bois, and partly because it's almost always available. A lot of our pieces are Debra's one-of-a-kind finds, meaning that if you go home to think about something, there's a good chance that it will be gone when you come back, but we almost always have a few of these wonderful planters around. You can't go wrong with a classic piece like this, even as short-term decorating trends fade to black. A thing of beauty is a joy forever, and Love--even in decorating--means never having to say you're sorry. Still, a hundred years ago, the rustic look was a lot more common than it is today, so someone must not be getting the message about certain styles' longevity in the face of decorating fads. This is one of those styles.

Probably the greatest surviving assemblage of rustic-style pieces in this country--benches, bridges, shelters, you name it--is in New York's Central Park, which Sara Cedar Miller, the Park's Historian and the author of Central Park, an American Masterpiece--another book

Bridge No 32 by Jim in Times Square at Flickr.com

to get--calls "the greatest art object of 19th Century America."  It's the Urban Oasis to beat all others.

Not that our local parks couldn't boast examples of the rustic style, too. Historically, Chicago's West and South Side parks were always the most impressive for the simple reason that when the parks were being developed, that's where the money was--the old money, that is, or what passed for old money in an upstart town like Chicago. So, naturally, the idyllic landscapes in those parks were where Frederick Law Olmsted's influence was most clearly seen.

chicagopostcardmuseum.org



chicagopostcardmuseum.org

The North Side was still full of working families, but they had nice parks, too. Part of the problem with Lincoln Park, though, was that it was long and skinny, and the farther north you went, the skinnier it got until it sort of dwindled away to nothing. At least, it did before they started filling in the lake up in my neighborhood in the 1920s. But up to that point, the narrow footprint sort of left out the kind of grand landscape effects you could create with a bigger area. Still, Lincoln Park made up for the lack of ground with festive structures. The old boat house seen above is long gone, and the High Bridge in Lincoln Park--known informally as Suicide Bridge--was taken down for obvious reasons, but Lincoln Park can still boast a vaguely Chinese-looking rustic gazebo made of peeled logs. Unlike the rustic
structures in Central Park, which perch high atop rocky outcroppings or nestle themselves in bosky dells, the rustic Gazebo is plunked down front & center like a tantrumy kid in the middle of the candy aisle. You couldn't miss it if you wanted to. But you wouldn't want to, anyway, because, siting issues aside--it's squeezed into a narrow strip of land between busy Stockton Drive and the North Pond--the gazebo is a beauty, with a brown shingled roof and logs painted a soft Aesthetic Green, a color that Oscar Wilde would have approved, especially in such a bucolic setting. It's a charming vestige of a calmer era, and in contrast to the myriad of interesting park structures that we've lost over the years, it's been maintained in decent condition. But it's not only buildings that are subject to change or loss, and the big storms we've had this summer have not been kind to Chicago's parks. It doesn't help that once-in-a-hundred-years storms happen as infrequently as they do if they happen to come this year, which they have. The big hailstorm in early July smashed thousands of panes at the Garfield Park Conservatory, raining shards of broken glass onto the rare specimen trees below,  

 photo: garfieldconservatory.org

and in Lincoln Park, just fifty yards north of the Gazebo, the same storm took out a hundred-year old cottonwood, not to mention the damage it inflicted on hundreds of other trees that lost limbs. So Eden sank to grief--not that poetry helps all that much when you're faced with devastation like this.

This is too sad for words, but sometimes, out of the wreckage you manage to somehow, salvage...something. Which is why, in our shop, we not only have the Olmstead vase--cast after a period original of a hundred years ago--but we also have a handsome  faux-bois bench & a console table to match, whose tops were made from a mold created by gluing


our Vaux Faux Bois Concrete Console

some bark taken from a fallen tree--as it happens, taken from a fallen tree in Debra's own back yard: waste not, want not--to an aged wooden plank, and then casting the whole deal in concrete. Call me a Panglossian, but sometimes, the best way to deal with things is by taking whatever positive action there is--even if, in the larger scheme of things, it doesn't seem like much. Debra's old tree is gone, but there's still a little echo of it left right here in the shop, where everyone can enjoy it.  And a fragile slip of that fallen cottonwood tree in the park, carried home on the bus the next night along with a four-foot-long section of bark, is now in some damp sand at my house. Cottonwoods are usually the first real trees to establish themselves in sandy dunes along the lake, so we'll see what happens. I figure an oasis has to start somewhere. Why shouldn't it be at my place?

Meanwhile, I'll be watching to see what Vern does down at Trump Tower. Or, at least, I'll be doing that once I figure out which of my friends will let me come over just to watch a decorating show.  As for everybody else? Check you local time and listings.

Urban Oasis I

Urbs in Horto--City in a Garden--has been Chicago's official motto since the early days, so it's appropriate that the Dearborn Garden Walk, which just had its 53rd anniversary on Sunday, is one of the oldest in the country. And thanks to its annual midsummer date, it's also one of the hottest.

I have a clear memory of being forced against my will through an endless series of scorching brick terraces at a tender age, which put me off gardens--particularly Chicago gardens--for years. Way too hot. Somewhere, there's a Kodachrome slide of me at age eight or nine, wearing a snappy red-&-white seersucker sport coat, a clip-on bowtie and a hateful scowl that could have buckled steel, except that, obviously, the July sun was capable of that all by itself. Why in the world my parents dragged my little brother & me to the Dearborn Garden Walk on the hottest day of the year is beyond me, unless it was because they couldn't get a babysitter. Actually, that's probably it, because we didn't live in Chicago. We were up here from Danville for the weekend, visting one of my dad's Marine Corps pilot buddies & his wife.

Photo courtesy of John Chuckman.

Anyway, we all got dressed up--people did that back then, even in hundred-degree heat--and we spent the afternoon wandering through the hellish gardens of people we didn't know. I hated the gardens, all of them, and it seemed like we saw dozens, although there were probably only three or four. They say that the whole idea of a garden walk was still a novelty back then. That may well be. I only remember the heat. Well, that and my seersucker jacket. At least it was cool, even if I wasn't.

Fast forward forty nine years, and in a lot of ways, Sunday's garden walk was much like my first. The punishing heat was the same, and if the color of my seersucker jacket was different--red then, lime green Sunday--the wrinkles were the same.  And did I mention the heat? Holy kamoly. And yes, sure, in a jacket & tie, I was hot, but I wasn't any hotter than the women in sleeveless tops & men in polo shirts--and they were getting a nasty sunburn, besides. Face it, on a day like Sunday, you're going to be miserable no matter what, but I figured that dresssing a little better than was strictly necessary, and going with more rather than less clothing might also ward off sunstroke. And it seemed to work. But here's the real question: Why can't the North Dearborn People do this in, say, November? Oh, well. It's for a good cause, and hot or not, I realized that this would likely be my only chance to see some of these places, so I went. And I'm glad I did.

I will say this: the people who put this all together every year deseserve a ton of credit: the planners, the gardens' owners, who allow perfect strangers to wander through their property, the cheerful volunteers who stood long hours in the sun waiting to make a little 'X's in our program books, the designers who created little vignettes in some of the gardens--something about travel and Elizabeth Taylor, but my brain was too hot to pay much attention to that part--and the real heroes of the day, the musicians who gamely played through their misery in beautiful but fiendishly hot surroundings. Then there were the personable tour guides--I remember Eric & Edie--who talked about the architecture of some of the houses on Dearborn to those of us whose post-Garden Walk energy levels hadn't yet flatlined.

What, two days later, impresses me the most out of the more than a dozen gardens I saw? Well, it wasn't the private garden the size of the infield at Wrigley, elegant though it was, nor the ET-themed vignettes, and it wasn't the perfectly manicured hedges & container-based floralscapes of a gated community that I didn't even realize was there. No, my hands-down favorites were the two least flowery and staged-looking gardens of the bunch.

The first standout was a pair of conjoined gardens created in the late twenties by Edgar Miller out of  gerrymandered spaces between existing buildings, using random architectural debris from demolished Victorian houses he picked out of the trash--stuff that no one else wanted at the time. But in Edgar Miller's talented hands, broken tiles & busted carvings became art. And Miller embellished his quirky assemblages of found materials with his own distinctive terracotta sculptures, which he located at strategic points--in place of a keystone of a rubble-brick arch, inset below the windows in a vageuly Moderne bay, atop a crooked stone wall--and the results are enchanting, a word I don't ever remember using in my life. Here, though, it's perfectly appropriate.

And the visuals aren't the only appealing thing here. There's also water, moving water, a really good thing to have on a day like Sunday. And when I say "moving" water, I don't mean those gurgly, trickly fountains--what I think of as nail-bar fountains--but gutsy fountains, fountains with fish the size of my fist, fountains whose full-throated splashing managed to drown out the noise of the busy neighborhood. And Miller's gardens' appeal doesn't depend on conventionally pretty flowers.  In fact, around here, flowers are irrelevant.

Anyway, if you missed yesterday's walk (and if, like me, you're not fortunate enough to know anybody who lives in this amazing complex--known originally as the Carl Street Studios, and known now by its address, 155 West Burton Place) it's too late to see these
Photo courtey of ChicagoGeek via Flickr

beauties, but you can still get a great sense of Edgar Miller's genius in Edgar Miller and the Handmade Home: Chicago's Forgotten Renaissance Man, a great book written by my friend Richard Cahan & Michael Williams, with spectacular photos by Alexander Vertikoff. Let me be as clear as I can about this book: it's about the biggest, handsomest, best-produced art book I've ever seen in my life, and having it be about a guy who just happens to be a Chicagoan is just a plus. Buy it now.

The other garden that I really liked was the last one on the tour, the one at the Cardinal's Mansion, a dark-red mid-Victorian pile at 1555 North State Parkway. All the other houses & gardens on the tour were proteced by high walls & locked gates, and a few seemed to have actual security guards. There's a fence around the Cardinal's house, too, but it's the kind of fence that's easily cleared by a ten-year old with a running jump--basically, by me, fifty years ago. And their fences aren't the only difference between this place & some of the other gardens. Fences are merely symbols. The other properties are all about exclusion. This one welcomes--or, at least, seems to welcome--everyone. And on Sunday, it did, as long as you had paid your 30 dollars and had your book to prove it.

But there's another difference, one of tone. Here, on one of the the largest & most historic properties in the most expensive neighborhood in Chicago, the garden is nothing more elaborate than a simple circle in the lawn, with an unpretentious mix of vegetables & ordinary-looking flowers: some healthy-looking tomato plants climbing on wooden stakes--and judging by the height of those stakes the cardinal has some really high hopes for his crop this year--plus some dill, a few roses. Basically, it's the same kind of down-home garden your great-grandmother might have had in her backyard when you were young, and the only thing missing to complete the illusion was the spin & rattle of an old-school push mower. Talk about escape.

In fact, that wonderful feeling of ordinary-ness seemed to catch one woman off-guard because I spotted her absent-mindedly fingering a fuzzy shoot of something or other that had grown through the plastic-mesh fence that surround the actual plants--I'm not a plant person, so I'm not even sure what kind of plant it was--and I could almost see what was running through her mind: Is stealing a cutting from the Cardinal's garden a venial sin or a mortal one? Maybe if Eve had thought a little bit harder about whether or not to go for that apple, we wouldn't all of us be in the mess we're in now. Maybe if she hadn't helped herself without permission, the weather forecast for the next ten days wouldn't be Hotter than Hell. It's hard to say.


End of the World Series: Solar Flare. Lithograph by Rockwell Kent

At any rate, the woman must  have decided the risk wasn't worth it because she slowly moved on. Of course, not everyone appreciated the lack of Wow Factor. On my way out I stopped to I chat with the volunteer at the gate, and while I was talking to her, a couple came out of the gate and the woman made an exasperated, dismissive gesture back in the direction of the Cardinal's tomato plants. "Did we miss something? Is that it?" And I wanted to say, Yes, that's it and Yes, you definitely missed something--but I didn't. I figure some people get it, while others will never get it, but in the long run, it doesn't matter, anyway. All I know is that Hot or Not, I'll definitely be back for next year's walk.
----------------------------------------------------

Anyway, as I strolled through Edgar Miller's tiny courtyard gardens, the rough Chicago brick walls & the plants climbing over the architectural fragments & the bird songs & the splashing fountains reminded me of something--our shop! At SG Grand, we have all of those things--everything, that is, but Miller's genius. But everything else can be copied, and sometimes, a copy is good enough. 

The shop at SG Grand, 1822 West Grand Avenue

So if you find yourself on West Grand Avenue past Ashland, and you need a break from the heat & glare, stop into SG Grand Urban Antiques, where it's cool & dim we have lots of cool things to look at.

We're at number 1822 and we're open every day but Monday. You can call us at 312-226-6654 if you want to make an appointment to come in, but you don't really need an appointment. Till then, stay cool.

 Only fourteen weeks till November!

..................................................................................................

TO EDGAR!

Photo Copyright by Wayne Cable

Hot ticket: Glessner House Museum

                                                       Photo by Gemma Petrie
 

I haven't looked at the weather forecast for tomorrow, but it really doesn't matter. Rain or shine, get yourself down down to Prairie Avenue for the Glessner House Museum's annual tour of private neighborhood homes. Thanks to the hard work of the GHM staff, a boatload of volunteers (and the generosity of the owners who open their homes to a bunch of strangers) you can see how, in 1886, the other half lived.  Actually, 'other half' isn't quite the phrase for this exclusive enclave. Other hundredth of one percent is more like it.  If even that. After all, one hundred and twenty-five years ago, the residents of Prairie Avenue and its environs were some of the wealthiest families in the country, and it shows.

These days, the potted palms & antimacassars may be few & far between, even on Prairie Avenue, but the aura of exclusivity that ruled here in the 1890s is back, even though these days, more residents live in gleaming high-rises than live in red-brick & sandstone mansions. Either way, in the last twenty years or so, the neighborhood has changed from a wasteland of vacant lots, dilapidated buildings & light industry to become a healthy & vibrant home for another generation of Chicago. And tomorrow is your one chance to see the inside of some of the historic homes.

The centerpiece of the neighborhood, though, is the same as it was a hundred years ago--the John J. Glessner house, designed by Henry Hobson Richardson just before his death. The massive West Loop wholesale store that Richardson designed for Marshall Field & Company and the Lake Shore Drive home that he built for Franklin MacVeagh are long gone, but the Glessner's pink granite house is still here, and it's just as handsome as it was when it was new. Better than that--and unlike a lot of house museums--its rooms aren't filled with stunt doubles for the original furniture, but with the real thing, pieces handed down in the various branches of the Glessner family for more than a century.

And if you look beyond the handsome Issac Scott furniture, the William Morris rugs & the Galle glass vases, you'll see the innovative ideas that make the Glessner House feel, at heart, like a modern house: a layout that wraps the main public rooms around a light-filled private courtyard; on the first floor, a master suite that could be closed off from the rest of the house, yet have direct access to the covered carriage entrance; his-&-her dressing rooms; a combined home office/library with a reading nook & shelves for a large collection of books, all within arms' reach (not at the top of a ladder); a powder room off the the foyer, numerous public rooms that can be either opened to each other via sliding doors, or closed off for privacy and a schoolroom for the kids.

Backstairs, there is a sunny kitchen with a massive range & walls of white-glazed bricks for ease of cleaning, a walk-in cooler & tons of cabinets,  and there's a nearby butler's pantry with more storage and a trendy copper sink.

And the decor of the rooms still has lessons for today. If you're one of those under the impression that the Victorians were sober killjoys, or 'afraid of color', think again. There was a golden yellow parlor, a Pompeian red hallway and a moss green library, that open directly onto each other, and look good doing it.  Most of all, there's the Glessner's mashup of what we'd call world decor: Greek vases, Roman fragments, Syrian tables, a Burmese gong, Japanese carvings, and etchings by all the masters of the Renaissance, not to mention souvenirs of all their musician pals, some of whom just happened to be the greatest names of the late Nineteenth Century. Basically, a ton of stuff that, when all put together, looked great then and still does today.

                                                           Photo by Gemma Petrie
Anyway, the 125th Anniversary celebration and tour of the area homes is on Sunday, so go help GHM celebrate, see the other houses, then go back on a weekday to see the Glessner's own house at a more leisurely pace with a knowledgeable guide--and without the once-a-year crowds. It's an eye-opener.

Both photos courtesy of Gemma Petrie's Flickr set
Visit the Glessner House Museum's blog

A Grand View

"Life moves pretty fast. If you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it."--Ferris Bueller

Maybe it's just the result of growing up with a print of Charles Sheeler's painting Upper Deck hanging above my bed when I was a kid, but when I walked out the door of the shop a few weeks ago and saw this beautiful urban cityscape right across the street, I had to run back in to grab my camera. I missed my bus, but it was worth it. The Chicago skyline is pretty and all, but this is the kind of scene that really speaks to me.  

Below is a piece that might have been used in one of the very factories in that photo, a painted 4-piece steel lunch pail with its inner tray intact. It's a great example of functionalist form--no sharp outer corners to snag the dungarees, no tight inner corners to collect crumbs--and its distressed metal surface & rustproof wooden bail handle were made for years of use. Start taking your lunch to the office in this instead of flimsy paper bags and you might even save a tree. After all, the greenest product is one that already exists.

And don't forget: Fathers' Day is coming up. If dad's a retired Wobbly, a labor historian or even if he's only a fan of classic industrial design like me, this has his name written all over it--assuming, that is, his name is BEHRENS. Stop into the shop to check it out--or email me.

Sam Rosenthal: Summer in the City

 

Sam Rosenthal, Mean Old Man, 18 x 24

Summer? Already?

Here it is three weeks before it’s even official, and I’m already sick of summer. Not, of course, that this year’s any different: I‘ve never liked summer, not even when I was a kid, and especially not in the city. You can have your free music festivals, street fairs and farmers’ markets. To me, summer in Chicago means only one thing: misery. Relentless sun, gritty wind & pavement so hot you can get a tan standing in the shade. I hate all of it.

No, this is my idea of a nice summer day: indoors, in a handsome room with the curtains drawn, the shades pulled, and just enough light to read by. If you know this picture--it's a detail of "Hide & Seek" by James Tissot, at the National Gallery in Washington--you know that the actual painting also includes four little girls at play. It’s popularly thought to be about the innocent joys of childhood or some such thing, but to me the picture’s main appeal is the way Tissot captures the feeling of refuge in a cool, dark, high room when it‘s hotter than hell outside. All that’s missing from the scene is a servant coming in with a cold drink. If you ask me, November can’t come soon enough.
 

Sam Rosenthal, Twilight on Wacker Drive,  84 x 72

Still, even though I dread the sort of blasting heat in that top image, I happen to love the picture itself, an oil painting by the talented Chicago artist Sam Rosenthal, who just happens to be a friend of mine. Back at the end of winter, I invited Sam to show his art in the shop for spring, so Debra Phillips, the owner of the shop--& I went over to Sam’s studio and picked out ten of our favorite paintings, mostly scenes of urban life, a few of them right here in the neighborhood. Whether it’s the blinding glare of a sun-blasted sidewalk, the Beaux-Arts lanterns along Wacker Drive on a humid June evening or the glow of truck headlights in the winter dusk, Sam Rosenthal’s has a way with light. And weather.


Sam Rosenthal, Industrial Sunset, 40 x 38

All I can say is that I am hugely pleased to be able to introduce Sam's work to our friends.  
His show continues until June 19, so stop in to see it while you still can. And just in case you’re like me, and don’t like the heat, don’t let that stop you from coming down--we have air conditioning. It's cool inside. And for those of you who don't want to go outside at all, you can see more of Sam's work at samrosenthal.com
            

        SG Grand, 1822 West Grand Avenue, Chicago Illinois, 60622. 312-226-6654
                               email me at Bart[at]sggrand[dot]com