Journal: Culture Club Chicago

(Labor Day 2018)

I drove down to Highland Park, north of Chicago, for a solo art show by my friend Anne. It was a huge relief to leave town because I found out on Thursday that Alysia, the young designer I work with in Phoenix, is going to be let go. That devastates me.

Anne’s show at the College of Lake County was delightful: well designed, with two great jazz musicians and fine food. I enjoyed meeting her friends, especially a writer named Jane and a ceramicist named Corine. I also met the professors that run the ceramics program at the college. A group of artists are driving up to Minneapolis in March for the national clay conference, so perhaps I will see everyone again.

Anne made images and told slightly fictitious tales of twelve friends. She used fabric and ceramics. In her pieces she calls me Lenore and says I am from Canada. It was good to hear her artist’s talk and see her complete process. It helped me understand her work more fully.

We spent Saturday drinking tea at a local coffee boutique, making a few purchases at Northbrook Commons (where I used to shop with my in-laws), walking in the Fort Sheridan Forest Preserve along Lake Michigan, and attending an outdoor concert at Ravinia. I hesitated to agree to Ravinia, because it was pouring monsoon rain, but Anne assured me it would still be fun. It was a blast. We saw three bands: The Thompson Twins, The B-52s, and Boy George with Culture Club. I adore the B-52s and Chicago did too. Even the little kids were dancing in completely joyful abandon, wearing their soaked rain ponchos.

Any extended time spent with Anne, however, always has a stern, hurtful moment. She was extremely exhausted from putting a large show together in eight weeks, with very little sleep. She actually lost five pounds. In retrospect, I should have stayed at a hotel, even though she has a private guest suite in her Victorian-era mansion where she says I am always welcome.

She states that she is “from the land of Descartes,” which means that, although she was raised Catholic in Provence, France, she is a committed atheist. We were eating dinner at her house and the subject of my trip to Glastonbury came up. I hesitated to tell the detailed story. I knew she would scoff, but in the end I did not see any point to hiding my mystic nature. It is who I am.

I described the shamanic visions I had and the mandala ceremony. She started to barrage me by asking how it affected my life. My guess is she thought my answer would be psychological, but I said it caused my dreams to become more lucid. She flipped out, really, attacking spiritual practices in a pretty vicious way. I patiently, rationally refused to back down. I threw in some science from quantum physics, so perhaps she doesn’t think I am a complete lunatic. Who knows? I had awakened at 2 a.m. that morning during a loud thunderstorm, presciently dreaming about being attacked in my back by a thin, sharp stick. Painful experience.

The culture in Highland Park is very far removed from my heritage and my everyday life. It seems all residents have a PhD from an Ivy League university (mostly law and medical degrees). The homes are enormous, historical, and nestled in the woods along Lake Michigan. There is a bank or investment company on every corner. Still, the college dropout can hold her own. Maybe brilliant Ben Franklin whispers in my ear.