The entry below is a story about my trip to the Art Institute of Chicago in the summer of 2008. I wanted to start this—ugh, hate to say it—blog with something more than just the usual "Hey! I'm starting a blog!" line. In my experience, if the introductory entry is insipid and unimaginative, the later entries are bound to head in the same direction.
This blog will not be updated daily with uninteresting facts about my life. I really don't want to share that with all of you. There will be no random entries about pets, or diatribes on nothing particular. Instead, this a place where I can share my stories with all of you. Stories about getting on the wrong bus, about getting stuck in a parking garage—all the moments in my life where someone should just walk behind me with a pre-recorded laugh track.
This blog is also a way for me to share about the trip I'm going to be taking in less than a month. I will hopefully have access to a computer at some point during my vacation and, for those of you who are interested, will be giving you a glimpse into my four weeks with family and friends.
Above all, thanks for reading. I always appreciate the feedback and encouragement you send to me.
Forever Daisied,
Confused and Starting a blog (ugh),
Karen
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
A Grand Misadventure
Gustave was his name. It wasn’t long after our introduction that I fell hopelessly, head-over-heels, in love with him. The man was a genius. He set my imagination free and captured my heart in a single glance at his glorious masterpiece, Paris Street; Rainy Day.
Gustave Caillebotte, member and patron of the Impressionist group, painted Paris Street; Rainy Day in 1877. It’s not vibrant like Renoir, soothing like Monet, or eye-catching like Seurat. It is simply an ordinary, everyday scene where people are going about their business, sheltering themselves from the rain.
But if you look closely, if you really examine the painting, there is something—some underlying current of genius—that makes the painting come alive. It’s really all about composition. The lamppost divides the painting in half, which should make it a symmetrically balanced composition. However, the placement of the couple on the right-hand side and the building in perspective on the left-hand side make an ordinary composition asymmetrically balanced. Every detail of this piece is placed with thought and care. The very people walking across the street provide eye movement, pulling you further into Gustave’s world. The lighting is dim and colours seemingly melt into each other, as if he had actually painted this scene outside in the rain. The structure, composition, eye movement and subdued, rainy day colour palette were all pulled together to become my favourite painting of all time.
Gustave’s painting finds its home on the second floor of the Chicago Art Institute, sharing space with Monet, Degas, and Seurat. I had heard great things about the Art Institute and this much-lauded tourist destination was at the top of our list of things to see in Chicago. On our second day in the city, first thing in the morning, we found ourselves in amongst the crowd of other people all lining up to enter the building. My heart was pounding against my ribcage—finally! Gustave and I would be united and the heavens would open and rain down showers of colour and light upon us! The crowds would cheer as Gustave stepped into his painting, held out his hand pulled me into his creative realm. This would be the day that people would talk about, the day that reality and imagination would collide, the day that love would—
The doors opened and the crowd began to move, jostling me out of my wild daydreams. Once all the formality of entering was completed, Laurel and I began our search for the Impressionist wing. After a few wrong turns, we ended up on the second floor, in front of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grand Jatte, his most famous pointillism piece.
We were close. I could feel it.
It took a while to make our way around the second floor. We unknowingly took the long way round, seeing a few Impressionist pieces, but quickly moving back in time. It was breathtaking. History was everywhere in every piece, looking at us as we looked at it. Rooms filled with countless paintings I had only ever seen in my textbooks. There were portraits and pastoral scenes; epic battles and children eating fruit; regal kings and majestic queens; and Jesus in just about every other painting. The build up to my triumphant union with Gustave could not have been more appropriate.
The lighting on the second floor was cheery and natural, as if dappled summer sunlight was being filtered into each room. It varied slightly from place to place, but never so much that you would really notice it. On the final leg of our journey round the second floor, as we approached the Impressionist wing, we found the corridor filled with shadows. No light was streaming out of the rooms because the rooms had makeshift walls blocking the light and barring our entrance. I felt a sudden surge of anxiety and began to walk ahead, straining to see what was going on.
But no matter how fast I walked, or how quickly I prayed, it did not change the fact that construction signs, not paintings, were all I could see ahead of me.
We quickly made our way down the corridor and back into the main gallery on the second floor, where a desk attendant was fielding questions. At Laurel’s suggestion, I walked up to her, heart in hand, and asked,
“Could you please tell me where I could find Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied, “That painting is on loan to an art gallery in Texas.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ma’am, that part of the second floor is currently being renovated, and so we sent those pieces on tour.”
Her words rained down upon me like a ton of bricks and my instincts immediately decided tears would be the appropriate response to this news.
“But….but….you don’t understand!” I spluttered, fighting the urge to cry, “I came all the way from Winnipeg to see this painting!”
The attendant blinked several times, maybe because she thought I was loony; or maybe she was trying to figure out whether or not Winnipeg was a foreign city or some far-flung suburb of the Greater Chicago Area. I’m going to assume it was the latter because she replied,
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re just going to have to come back when it returns.”
And with a “Thank you for visiting the Chicago Art Institute” line, she turned to deal with the next tearful tourist.
I looked at Laurel.
She looked back at me.
Gustave had fled.
In some mean-spirited, vindictive mood, Destiny had wrenched this moment from my hands and run off into the night, never to be seen again. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe, in the distant future, Gustave would come to his senses and allow me to see his grand masterpiece somewhere other than a textbook, calendar, or print from the CAI gift store.
All I knew at that moment was that the waterworks were about to put on a spectacular show in a public setting. I walked out onto the landing, clumsily wiping away the tears that were escaping from my eyes.
And thus, on the second day of our grand adventure in Chicago, my poor, artistically sensitive heart was broken.
Gustave Caillebotte, member and patron of the Impressionist group, painted Paris Street; Rainy Day in 1877. It’s not vibrant like Renoir, soothing like Monet, or eye-catching like Seurat. It is simply an ordinary, everyday scene where people are going about their business, sheltering themselves from the rain.
But if you look closely, if you really examine the painting, there is something—some underlying current of genius—that makes the painting come alive. It’s really all about composition. The lamppost divides the painting in half, which should make it a symmetrically balanced composition. However, the placement of the couple on the right-hand side and the building in perspective on the left-hand side make an ordinary composition asymmetrically balanced. Every detail of this piece is placed with thought and care. The very people walking across the street provide eye movement, pulling you further into Gustave’s world. The lighting is dim and colours seemingly melt into each other, as if he had actually painted this scene outside in the rain. The structure, composition, eye movement and subdued, rainy day colour palette were all pulled together to become my favourite painting of all time.
Gustave’s painting finds its home on the second floor of the Chicago Art Institute, sharing space with Monet, Degas, and Seurat. I had heard great things about the Art Institute and this much-lauded tourist destination was at the top of our list of things to see in Chicago. On our second day in the city, first thing in the morning, we found ourselves in amongst the crowd of other people all lining up to enter the building. My heart was pounding against my ribcage—finally! Gustave and I would be united and the heavens would open and rain down showers of colour and light upon us! The crowds would cheer as Gustave stepped into his painting, held out his hand pulled me into his creative realm. This would be the day that people would talk about, the day that reality and imagination would collide, the day that love would—
The doors opened and the crowd began to move, jostling me out of my wild daydreams. Once all the formality of entering was completed, Laurel and I began our search for the Impressionist wing. After a few wrong turns, we ended up on the second floor, in front of Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of Grand Jatte, his most famous pointillism piece.
We were close. I could feel it.
It took a while to make our way around the second floor. We unknowingly took the long way round, seeing a few Impressionist pieces, but quickly moving back in time. It was breathtaking. History was everywhere in every piece, looking at us as we looked at it. Rooms filled with countless paintings I had only ever seen in my textbooks. There were portraits and pastoral scenes; epic battles and children eating fruit; regal kings and majestic queens; and Jesus in just about every other painting. The build up to my triumphant union with Gustave could not have been more appropriate.
The lighting on the second floor was cheery and natural, as if dappled summer sunlight was being filtered into each room. It varied slightly from place to place, but never so much that you would really notice it. On the final leg of our journey round the second floor, as we approached the Impressionist wing, we found the corridor filled with shadows. No light was streaming out of the rooms because the rooms had makeshift walls blocking the light and barring our entrance. I felt a sudden surge of anxiety and began to walk ahead, straining to see what was going on.
But no matter how fast I walked, or how quickly I prayed, it did not change the fact that construction signs, not paintings, were all I could see ahead of me.
We quickly made our way down the corridor and back into the main gallery on the second floor, where a desk attendant was fielding questions. At Laurel’s suggestion, I walked up to her, heart in hand, and asked,
“Could you please tell me where I could find Paris Street; Rainy Day by Gustave Caillebotte?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she replied, “That painting is on loan to an art gallery in Texas.”
“Excuse me?”
“Ma’am, that part of the second floor is currently being renovated, and so we sent those pieces on tour.”
Her words rained down upon me like a ton of bricks and my instincts immediately decided tears would be the appropriate response to this news.
“But….but….you don’t understand!” I spluttered, fighting the urge to cry, “I came all the way from Winnipeg to see this painting!”
The attendant blinked several times, maybe because she thought I was loony; or maybe she was trying to figure out whether or not Winnipeg was a foreign city or some far-flung suburb of the Greater Chicago Area. I’m going to assume it was the latter because she replied,
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’re just going to have to come back when it returns.”
And with a “Thank you for visiting the Chicago Art Institute” line, she turned to deal with the next tearful tourist.
I looked at Laurel.
She looked back at me.
Gustave had fled.
In some mean-spirited, vindictive mood, Destiny had wrenched this moment from my hands and run off into the night, never to be seen again. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe it wasn’t meant to be. Maybe, in the distant future, Gustave would come to his senses and allow me to see his grand masterpiece somewhere other than a textbook, calendar, or print from the CAI gift store.
All I knew at that moment was that the waterworks were about to put on a spectacular show in a public setting. I walked out onto the landing, clumsily wiping away the tears that were escaping from my eyes.
And thus, on the second day of our grand adventure in Chicago, my poor, artistically sensitive heart was broken.
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