I believe in “following the breadcrumbs.” Like Hansel and Gretl, noting the obvious signs and trusting that I will always be led – if I listen.
I was on the fence about my destination for this week’s Artist Date – Number 25. My friend Kiki mentioned she might drop by a reception at Lillstreet Art Center – one of my considerations. Her noncommittal musing was just enough to point my compass.
I’ve been to Lillstreet just once before, for a fundraiser. I imagined I would return here often, but I have not. I pass it all the time and I think about going in. I pour over the website trying to decide which class to sign up for. I am intimidated and ultimately do nothing.
This is ironic as I am greeted by a most friendly staffer at the door. She tells me the photography show opening today, Midwest Contemporary, is on two floors. That beer is on the main floor, wine is on the second – in case that helps guide my decision in terms of where to begin. It doesn’t.
But the pottery does. Porcelain slab platters etched with lines that look like a teenage girl’s cutting. Bowls and plates covered with repeating whimsical patterns. Forks and knives, swings, balloons and birds in matte glaze.
I’ve considered the First-Time Potter class here but have been leaning toward Drawing-into-Painting. Pottery is messy and I don’t really have “pottery clothes.” I can draw anywhere. Yet I keep picking up the fired clay. Running my fingers over it. Cupping it in my hand.
I remember ceramics class in high school. Mr. B and I argued about everything – even about how often I peed. He said I was a sloppy student. That I didn’t clean my edges, my insides. It sounds true – of my work. Of my blurry boundaries and the messy parts inside of me.
I did craft beautiful pieces in his class though. A platter with a teal drip glaze. A coil vase with a long neck – large and genie-like, big enough for Barbara Eden to pop out of. My mother displays both of them in her home.
I look up toward the photography on the wall – my chosen medium in college until I switched my major from fine art to journalism. There is a large, creepy photograph of a doll’s head – battered and old. I don’t like it. I read the artist’s statement. She photographs vintage dolls. The cracks in their exteriors representing the broken parts in us all – some that might never be “fixed” in this lifetime. I still don’t like the picture, or the doll’s eyes. But I like the idea of it.
There is work from an artist who earned his MFA from Michigan State University – my alma mater. It wasn’t known for its art department when I was a student. I wonder how it has changed.
There is another of a trailer park along the Russian River in California with a big Paul Bunyan figure looming over the camp. It is part of a series chronicling the photographer’s vacation destinations as a child. I’m pretty sure I’ve been here.
I wander up to the second floor. There is a second photograph of trailers, this one from Williston, North Dakota. Hydraulic fracking boom town. Michael and I drove through here on our way back to Chicago from Seattle. It reeked of testosterone and crystal meth. Unsettling.
There is a photograph of a young African-American man looking straight into the lens. Into me. The photographer is from Saginaw, Michigan – where my mother grew up.
I feel alone. I go downstairs , returning to the pottery, and strike up a conversation with another woman, also alone. She likes the bowls and goblets adorned with animals. Anything with animals, she says. I do not, but say nothing. As the room fills up I am acutely aware of my single-ness. I think about staying and listening to the live music, but I’m not sure where to perch myself.
I decide to leave instead.
This is the first time my Artist Date feels lonely, that I don’t feel filled up by it. On the way out I stop and talk briefly with the friendly staffer who greeted me. I remember Kiki mentioning her friend’s reception is private, on the roof – that I would have to ask to get up there. So I do.
I am directed to the back of the building, through the music and pottery and photography, through double doors. I ask a tall man/boy with a red beard and glasses if this is the way to the roof. He says yes and we climb the stairs together. Two of mine for every one of his.
It is sunny and clear. People are drinking wine. I do not see my friend. I turn to go back down. The bearded man/boy says, “Yep. A lot of roof.” We walk down together. I am not sure why he has come here. I ask him if he has a studio here. He does not. He peels off to a classroom on the third floor and I go down to two. There are open artist studios. I missed them my first time up.
I walk into one. There are slabs of clay with what looks like hieroglyphics on them. The artist is talking with a couple about her work and they rope me into conversation. I ask about the tall, smooth pieces with wild insides. They are wide. Almost as big around as I, and climbing higher than my waist.
Each represents a character from Shakespeare’s “The Winter’s Tale.” The blue queen is smooth outside, but inside “she is mourning.” I see it. I see the glazed clay crying inside, rounded discs turned down upon themselves like leaves. I wonder if this is what I look like inside.
A second character is smooth and orange-y outside, fiery and sharp inside. She is angered by how the king has treated the mourning queen. A third is green. A girl child left in the woods, raised by a shepherd. She is smooth inside as well as out. Peaceful.
I return to a jewelry studio I couldn’t make my way into before. Too small. Too many people. Edith Robertson is talking with a friend. She has a blonde-ish/white-ish bob and turquoise eye liner. She immediately greets me, inviting me to try on whatever I like. She puts her hand on my arm. Warm.
I pick up a choker made of gathered strands of thin wire with a long crystal hanging from it. It looks like a stalactite. Or is it a stalagmite? A piece of lapis lazuli adorns the back side – a hidden surprise.
I think of my friend Julie and the days I spent with her after her mother died, offering massage and bodywork to her family. Of her friend Karen whisking me off to her house, plopping me into an overstuffed chair and placing a crystal in each hand.
The effect was immediate. Electric. Like a volt of energy seizing my body. I imagined smoke coming off of me, as if I had fried a chip. I was out. When I awoke about 20 minutes later, I felt like I had been put back together. I wonder if this crystal would do the same for me.
Edith and I quickly realize our paths have been crossing one another for the better part of 30 years. In Detroit. In San Francisco. And now in Chicago. That the universe has been conspiring for us to meet.
She tells me that making jewelry is her second act. I tell her about mine. About my Artist Dates and my return to writing. We talk about Germany – her birthplace. The first place I traveled overseas. She has the same last name as my ex-husband.
We talk until a couple walks in and I hand her over to them. I sign her guest book, leaving her with my email address and her necklace. Perhaps another time.
I walk down the stairs and out the door, thinking about connections. About clay classes and cleaning up my edges, my insides. About breadcrumbs.