As someone who comes from the Midwest, land of rolling hills, tall corn and flat lands, a place with that name doesn't exactly belong among the sparkling antennas and dark, black iron of the Hancock and Sears towers.
A name like 'The Flatlands' doesn't seem to fit a city like Chicago, at least not instinctually . Yet here it sits on the South side of the city surrounded by everything that isn't flat. Not even close. Well, that's not entirely true. Once the doors open and one is inside these walls everything is flat but only for a while and only to serve at the pleasure of the artist that stands before it with bottle, blade or brush in hand.
It is run on an energy of people. A humming that comes from inside the brain, the soul and the heart. This place has a lifeblood and it's made of ink mixed with sweat that pumps out colors Crayola doesn't tell us about as kids. These colors emanate from a variety of cones. Pressurized and pointed because you never know what will come next. They spread from bristles and fingertips. It is a living, breathing creature that allows visitors but never truly lets them in. One doesn't need a passport to come here, but one may feel jet-lagged upon the return to Earth.
This place is poetry in words expressed visually. It is camaraderie in solitude. It is home to some. A rest stop for others. A place that one may not love at first but will always want to leave last.
Ruled by creativity. Run on 808's. Rotated on an axis of late nights and the lyrics that the people of this world spit. An individual sound. A communal silence. A place ruled by a common passion. The result a common good. Uneven, rough, and jagged as the streets of the city on which it stands.
A land unto itself. Full of cramped, cluttered nooks and crannies packed with everything and nothing all at the same time. Masterpieces and just pieces. One man's trash. Another mans treasure. In this place something could be both to the same person depending on the time, place and mood.
Here colors have their own scent, a scent one is powerless not to take on. Lining its bowels are materials waiting to be molded. Or resting in a flash of new found inspiration, molded but forgotten. Layers upon layers of project upon project try desperately to blend into the floor or the walls. Failing miserably to do so, of course.
Scraps lie in piles on tables and against pipes wishing for the proverbial dog to gobble them up or bury them. In every corner one can find mismatched liquid rainbows. The harshness of metal penetrating, banging or protruding. Panels dripping wet with what is here today and possibly gone tomorrow.
There is plastic and piping. Trees get blown. Bottles get emptied. Conversation flows both with words and without. Art becomes greater than artwork.
It is an amalgamation of paint. Wood. Paper. It is a concoction of film. Cotton. Fumes. A never-ending bass line that makes dreads, braids and baseball caps bob up and down. It don't matter if you’re black or white here. For real. This place, this world opens itself up to you as long as you have access to someone who has the key.
Welcome to The Flatlands.
A landscape that makes the name so much more than ironic.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
She's got legs...
and doesn't know how to use them?
Legs are so strange. They are the foundation of your body there to serve a functional purpose for most. You know, a way to get from here to there. They can be strong. They can be stubby. They can be gorgeous. They can be long. They can be overlooked. They can be the center attention and names like Betty Grable, Marilyn Monroe and Rita Hayworth have made legs so much more than the most archaic way to travel.
While I must say I love those women for reasons other than their legs, like their voluptuousness, moxie, gumption and pin up... it's their legs that have me writing today. I for one can appreciate someone who has really great legs. The kind of legs that turn heads. The kind of legs that have covetous knees. Yes, I said covetous and knees in the same sentence. The kind of legs that have a definition in the calves. A contour from top to bottom. A shape at the ankle. Different lines running parallel and perpendicular towards the ground. Graceful. Curvaceous. Silhouetted. The kind of legs that made the aforementioned women famous.
Well guess what? Those are not the kind of legs I have. So, while I appreciate the women who were known for their stems I also secretly hate them. Not only have knee surgeries and bike accidents scarred my, what I lovingly refer to as ‘trunks’, genetics haven’t helped me out one bit. My mother would attest to this, so I will publicly thank her and the women that have come before her for my walking sticks. The gene pool has left me with thick thighs, knock knees, high arches, and undefined calves… I mean the list goes on and on. I have all the trappings of killer legs, but in my case it’s killer of a serial kind.
I will always watch classic Hollywood films and stare in wonder at the way Marilyn and Jane Russell sauntered across the screen. Or the way Vera Ellen and Ginger Rogers floated seemingly inches off the floor. Their legs were a tribute to these women. I would argue their legs were a tribute to legs themselves. Little girls and grown women have stared longingly at the pinup of Betty Grable and sighed accordingly. Men have as well. Double takes and catcalls. Green eyes and pouting faces. Great legs have the kind of power to cause involuntary reactions. And when it comes to reactions, and legs for that matter, I will always be a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Legs are so strange. They are the foundation of your body there to serve a functional purpose for most. You know, a way to get from here to there. They can be strong. They can be stubby. They can be gorgeous. They can be long. They can be overlooked. They can be the center attention and names like Betty Grable, Marilyn Monroe and Rita Hayworth have made legs so much more than the most archaic way to travel.
While I must say I love those women for reasons other than their legs, like their voluptuousness, moxie, gumption and pin up... it's their legs that have me writing today. I for one can appreciate someone who has really great legs. The kind of legs that turn heads. The kind of legs that have covetous knees. Yes, I said covetous and knees in the same sentence. The kind of legs that have a definition in the calves. A contour from top to bottom. A shape at the ankle. Different lines running parallel and perpendicular towards the ground. Graceful. Curvaceous. Silhouetted. The kind of legs that made the aforementioned women famous.
Well guess what? Those are not the kind of legs I have. So, while I appreciate the women who were known for their stems I also secretly hate them. Not only have knee surgeries and bike accidents scarred my, what I lovingly refer to as ‘trunks’, genetics haven’t helped me out one bit. My mother would attest to this, so I will publicly thank her and the women that have come before her for my walking sticks. The gene pool has left me with thick thighs, knock knees, high arches, and undefined calves… I mean the list goes on and on. I have all the trappings of killer legs, but in my case it’s killer of a serial kind.
I will always watch classic Hollywood films and stare in wonder at the way Marilyn and Jane Russell sauntered across the screen. Or the way Vera Ellen and Ginger Rogers floated seemingly inches off the floor. Their legs were a tribute to these women. I would argue their legs were a tribute to legs themselves. Little girls and grown women have stared longingly at the pinup of Betty Grable and sighed accordingly. Men have as well. Double takes and catcalls. Green eyes and pouting faces. Great legs have the kind of power to cause involuntary reactions. And when it comes to reactions, and legs for that matter, I will always be a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Puzzles...
You know that feeling when you're doing a puzzle and you search and search because some of the pieces are almost perfect but then bend and warp slightly. Just enough to realize that it isn't the right piece.
Then you know the feeling you get when you actually find the piece that fits perfectly. That sense of excitement, accomplishment and also calm that follows. Calm because it fits. There is no fighting. There is no pushing. There is no trying to squeeze something in where it doesn't belong. It is easy. It puts you at ease.
That is how relationships should be. As a person who has always said "the people who walk around thinking relationships are easy should be shot", I guess I sort of agree with them. I mean don't get me wrong they are work. Work to make them successful, to be always present in them and sustain them. However, as far as a partner goes or the piece you find it doesn't have to be. In fact, it shouldn't be that hard.
The things that have warped you in the past are actually things that endear them to you. The things that have bent and buckled before are appreciated, wanted even. The pushing and squeezing is replaced by pulling in and letting go.
The cynic in me says "nothing is perfect", but the hopeless romantic in me says "a perfect fit does exist".
Relationships are just like a puzzle, there are plenty of pieces that almost fit...but there is only one that fits perfectly.
edited by kristin haley
Then you know the feeling you get when you actually find the piece that fits perfectly. That sense of excitement, accomplishment and also calm that follows. Calm because it fits. There is no fighting. There is no pushing. There is no trying to squeeze something in where it doesn't belong. It is easy. It puts you at ease.
That is how relationships should be. As a person who has always said "the people who walk around thinking relationships are easy should be shot", I guess I sort of agree with them. I mean don't get me wrong they are work. Work to make them successful, to be always present in them and sustain them. However, as far as a partner goes or the piece you find it doesn't have to be. In fact, it shouldn't be that hard.
The things that have warped you in the past are actually things that endear them to you. The things that have bent and buckled before are appreciated, wanted even. The pushing and squeezing is replaced by pulling in and letting go.
The cynic in me says "nothing is perfect", but the hopeless romantic in me says "a perfect fit does exist".
Relationships are just like a puzzle, there are plenty of pieces that almost fit...but there is only one that fits perfectly.
edited by kristin haley
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