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This is supposed to be where I share some hot takes on the past week of the NFL, but I was up until 3 am last night watching that epic World Series game, and my brain is pretty much on autopilot right now. Plus, I’m three coffees deep and I think I’m starting to get caffeine shakes.
So I’m going to skip that and just let these NFL memes sum up Week 8 for y’all.
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Stephen
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I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:
I love a good meme template. A funny and timeless routine that be re-used over and over.
Just like the Walter White cooking format meme.
The meme itself is taken from White mixing chemical ingredients. Specifically from episode six (“Sunset”) of season three of Breaking Bad.
The internet, as it so often does, uses the meme for pop culture or relatable events.
And it just works.
Here are some of my personal favorites:
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Ty
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With Autumn in full effect, we’re craving the great outdoors more than ever. Sitting around a campfire when there’s a bit of a chill in the air? Sign me up yesterday!
So we’ve compiled another batch of bushcraft photos. From knives to lean-tos, bonfires to hatchets. We’ve got everything you need for a successful trip out in the wild.
Enjoy!
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Zach
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John Candy: I Like Me is more than a documentary, it’s a heartfelt thank-you letter to one of comedy’s most beloved figures. The film opens by tracing Candy’s rise from his humble Canadian improv beginnings to his legendary Hollywood career, showing how his everyman charm and selfless spirit made him a household name.
It’s a beautiful tribute to an incredible man. A true icon. A man who never lost touch of who he was or where he came from. He was never too famous for anybody or anything. A true comedian who would invite any and all to share the stage with him. A man with a heart of gold built from his own traumas.
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Ryder
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Ever started a new job and realized within hours that you’d made a huge mistake? You’re not alone. From nightmare bosses to sketchy workplaces that looked nothing like the interview promised, plenty of people have noped out after just one day… and honestly, sometimes that’s the smartest move you can make.
Here are a handful of ‘hell naw‘ stories that you may or may not relate to!
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Hendy
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Nothing quite brings people together like tacos.
Unpopular opinion (or perhaps popular?): They’re a better group eat than pizza.
Pizza is easier, sure, but tacos are more collaborative. “Pass the cheese?” “Grab me the onions?” — It’s like making trades at the dinner table.
Plus you get to annihilate like 7 or 8 of them, dress ’em how you want, choose between hard and soft, oh man. They’re great.
Bring extra napkins, here’s some added crunch as we trek into the weekend, with funny memes about tacos.
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Ty
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When it comes to historical biopics, especially the ones about famous musicians, there are a lot of stinkers. Maybe the greatness of the music alone is enough of a crutch to get even the most mediocre of these films made — and, look, the music in Bohemian Rhapsody is the best part of that movie — but at a certain point these movies became awkward star vehicles for actors to chase award nominations, with plots lifted straight from their Wikipedia pages, and not much else.
Still, in even the dullest genre there are some standouts, and there are plenty of biopics about musicians we know and love that are great. Even aside from the music, which is always guaranteed to be a good enough reason to at least get a ticket, the really good examples of this kind of movie give something new to the biopic format. Maybe they focus on an unexpected aspect of this person’s life. Maybe they’re told from the perspective of an antagonist. Maybe they take a chopped and screwed approach to history, finding new angles to dramatize familiar subjects.
This list does stretch the meaning of “biopic” a little: a few movies on here aren’t the full narrative of a person’s life, but rather some small part of it blown out to cinematic scale. They’re all really good, though, and have kept the genre from descending purely into Oscar-bait slop. (The only reason we left out Walk Hard, arguably the best musician-centric biopic ever made, is due to the inescapable fact that Dewey Cox is, sadly, not real.)
These movies are almost as good as the music they’re about.
Gallery Credit: Emma Stefansky
READ MORE: The Worst Movies of the 1990s
40 years. 40 movies. Have you seen the best films of the last four decades? Read on…
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Emma Stefansky
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Japanese artist Izumi Kato’s humanoid hybrid creatures exist in a fluid space between worlds, hovering somewhere between ancient totems, unborn spirits and extraterrestrial beings. They emerge as sudden, epiphanic visions that reveal unprecedented truths about our evolutionary path while profanely suggesting new possibilities for more symbiotic and sustainable survival on this planet.
In just a few years, Kato has risen to international and institutional prominence, building a strong market presence through powerhouse gallery Perrotin and steadily climbing auction results. He has established a global reputation with a distinctive symbolic language and a sense of mystery and magic that unites Japan’s ancient folklore and Shinto spirituality with underground manga aesthetics and a contemporary, saturated visual sensibility that feels attuned to the world ahead.
As the artist further cements his status as one of the region’s most compelling names through his participation in the Aichi Triennale in Nagoya, Japan, alongside the major solo exhibition that opened at Perrotin during Seoul Art Week, Observer caught up with him to explore the meanings and messages behind his fantastical universe and the evolution of his otherworldly creatures.
Both in Kato’s soon-to-close show at Perrotin and in his works for Aichi, his biomorphic characters take on watery, fluid forms. Existing somewhere between human and aquatic beings, suspended in a plasmatic or amniotic dimension, they evoke the evolutionary arc from aquatic to amphibious to human life while hinting at a possible reactivation—or even inversion—of this cycle as a path toward ecological survival.
As Kato acknowledges, his painting practice continues to evolve. “Most recently, I’ve begun incorporating living sea creatures into my work,” he explains, noting that it’s been 30 years since he last painted while directly observing his subject. “Now, I paint these forms as I need them, as a way to express what painting means to me at this moment.”
His figures feel both ancient and futuristic, alien and human. Kato’s vivid primary palette heightens this tension. “Colors are sensory for me, and I use them intuitively,” he says. “I don’t begin with a fixed color plan; instead, I decide on each color one by one as I paint.” Balancing primal immediacy with an aesthetic partly influenced by the digital landscape is likely what makes his work so resonant for contemporary viewers.
While his figures do not directly reference evolutionary history, Kato sees the planet itself as a living entity in continuous transformation. “Earth is home to countless life forms, though definitions of life can vary from person to person,” he says. “I see the planet itself as a living entity. It’s something mysterious and deeply fascinating to me, and I find myself thinking about it often.”
Throughout his evolving practice, Kato has constructed an expansive symbolic narrative that envisions hybridization between species as an alternative path for humanity. Moving fluidly across mediums and often incorporating natural materials like wood and stone, his oeuvre feels like a continuous, urgent exercise in worldbuilding—a form of mythopoiesis aimed at imagining new destinies for human society. His work draws unconsciously from Japanese folklore and Shinto beliefs, though he clarifies that he does not intentionally reference any specific motif. Those connections surface organically, shaped by his personal and familial background.
Kato acknowledges that autobiography inevitably seeps into his art. “It’s hard to answer that clearly, but everything I experience in life affects me in some way, and those influences likely appear in my work, often unconsciously,” he explains. Painting, for him, serves as both a pathway and a tool to absorb, process and translate these personal traces.
“I’m definitely influenced by the local culture and upbringing I experienced in Shimane, where I grew up,” he says, recalling how parents would warn children about an imaginary sea creature—a snake with a woman’s face—that appeared at night to scare them away from the water. Kato’s paintings capture the same tension animating most fairy tales: the balance between innocence and menace. His figures appear childlike yet unsettling, gentle yet otherworldly—existing between birth and death, body and spirit, human and nonhuman. These myths, he reflects, ultimately serve as a form of survival wisdom. “I only realized recently how much the environment I grew up in has influenced my work.”
It is by inhabiting a symbolic third realm of myth and fairy tales—one that bridges the physical and the psychological—that Kato’s images achieve their universality, subtly conveying timeless messages about the nature of human existence. However, he says that he doesn’t view the recurring motifs in his work as characters, since they lack personalities and are not part of any linear narrative or deliberate storytelling. “I use human-like figures to strengthen the composition of the painting and to spark the viewer’s imagination,” he explains. At the same time, he acknowledges that these otherworldly, symbolic visions of alternative forms of life likely belong to another realm and time—whether future or past—where species coexist in harmonious hybridization before emerging in painterly or sculptural form. Kato admits it is difficult to articulate in words, but his paintings inhabit a memorial, imaginative and spiritual realm that precedes and transcends language, defying conventional categories. They speak both to and beyond the human, offering prophecies of alternative possibilities for cosmic life within and beyond this planet and time.
Kato’s figures often appear suspended in a distinctly plasmatic dimension yet animated by an inner radiance—a kind of energetic aura. “I don’t really know where it comes from, but I believe art itself is energy,” Kato says, responding cryptically when asked what this energy represents. “I’m glad one can sense that energetic aura in my work.”
In a time defined by destruction and chaos, the mythopoiesis underlying Kato’s epiphanic, profane and totemic works offers contemporary viewers a regenerative narrative reminiscent of ancient myth, reminding us that life, evolution, decay and rebirth are part of a continuous cycle. Mapping the liminal space between collapse and renewal, his hybrid creatures inhabit that threshold, carrying the deep knowledge that decay is never the end but a necessary passage. Suggesting a survival code rooted in eternal truths and expressed through symbolic language, Kato’s works—mythological in essence and, in the spirit of Joseph Campbell’s “metaphors for the mystery of being”—bridge our waking consciousness with the vast, enduring mysteries of the universe.
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Elisa Carollo
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There’s a new garage-fronted gallery in East Williamsburg—one that aims to be more than just an exhibition venue. While Gallery ATARAH is as much a practical endeavor as it is a passion project, founder Atarah Atkinson says she’s drawn to the ethos of early art galleries, where the focus was on creators and their creations rather than the maneuverings of an extractive art market. And so, as legacy dealers reckon with the transactional world they helped create, Atkinson is embracing the gallery-as-salon concept: an exhibition space that doubles as a communal hub, where on any given day she might host portfolio reviews, after-school workshops, mentorship meetups or community happenings.
“Gallery ATARAH represents a chance to establish a curatorial vision that is entirely my own—a creative home where I can channel my passion for connection into celebrating authentic artistic expression,” she tells Observer. To that end, the light-filled 700-square-foot space will also function as her personal studio. She has experience developing hybrid spaces, having co-founded The Atrium, a 2,500-square-foot creative production studio, in 2017. It, too, played host to a range of gatherings, from community events and movie nights to industry networking sessions.
The first exhibition in the new space, “Bright Ruin,” presents 35 new mixed-media works and sculptural installations by Atkinson that explore themes of decay and renewal, beauty and destruction and the cyclical nature of death and rebirth as it relates to the self. She curated the show—her first foray into curation, and putting together “Bright Ruin” was not only a curatorial challenge but also a level-setting exercise. “Leading with my own work was a deliberate choice,” she says. “This is my creative home, and I wanted to establish its foundational energy by modeling the level of care and attention artists can expect when collaborating with me.”
We caught up with Atkinson not long after the opening of the gallery’s inaugural exhibition to learn more about her motivations, what it means to have an intentionally porous gallery and how she plans to measure success.
What inspired you to found Gallery ATARAH? Does what you’re creating now build on your earlier work with The Atrium?
Gallery ATARAH definitely builds on The Atrium in some foundational ways. Both ventures grew from a shared impulse: to elevate not only ourselves but our peers—to create infrastructure and resources where artistic communities could thrive. I co-founded The Atrium studio with close friend and fellow photographer Alicia Henderson when we were both finding our footing in New York. We identified a significant gap in Brooklyn for affordable, professional studio spaces that were clean, organized and genuinely client-worthy—something emerging creatives could sustain financially while building their practices. Like Gallery ATARAH, The Atrium was always about more than just the physical space; we invested in cultivating creative community. The Atrium hosted community gatherings, movie nights and organized industry networking. That experience only strengthened my understanding of what’s possible when you build spaces where artists can genuinely support one another.
Having my own gallery has been a goal since studying at the Brooks Institute, but the driving force was always about creating a platform where voices, mine and my peers’, could truly resonate without compromise or external pressure to conform. I’m drawn to the ethos of early galleries, where the focus centered on the work and the makers rather than celebrity or the market. Gallery ATARAH represents a chance to establish a curatorial vision that is entirely my own—a creative home where I can channel my passion for connection into celebrating authentic artistic expression. Where The Atrium was beautifully collaborative, this gallery allows me to expand my own creative practice while bringing other artists into a space designed for mutual growth.
Your inaugural show “Bright Ruin” features your own work—how do you see the gallery’s programming evolving as you bring in other artists?
Leading with my own work was a deliberate choice. This is my creative home, and I wanted to establish its foundational energy by modeling the level of care and attention artists can expect when collaborating with me. When artists work with Gallery ATARAH, they’re not simply engaging with a curator or business owner–they’re connecting with a fellow artist who understands the language of this life, the realities of the commitment and the nature of the work itself. “Bright Ruin” also sets a precedent for what I seek from the artists I represent, not in a stylistic sense but in the thematic undercurrents of their work. I’m interested in creatives, whether self-taught or early in their careers, who are committed to producing authentic works that delve into their unique personal experiences.
As I bring in artists with aligned values and dedication to their craft, I am excited for our programming to evolve and create layered conversations, both literally on the walls and among the people in the space. I’m particularly interested in positioning contemporary work alongside vintage and antique pieces to explore how meaningful art transcends its moment of creation. I want to encourage today’s creatives to consider their work’s longevity. I believe that when something speaks through truth, it never loses its voice, and I am drawn to art whose impact transcends time and outlasts trends. This approach naturally fosters dialogue between different practices and perspectives.
Showing multiple artists together, as we’ll do regularly at the salon nights, creates opportunities for peer connection, for learning about varied processes and for voices to be heard collectively rather than in isolation. It also offers an open invitation for diverse audiences to engage, connect and feel through the work we present together. I am also excited to eventually develop partnerships with other local Brooklyn spaces so that we can cross-promote complementary resources, events and programming.
Will the gallery have an open submission process, or will you curate primarily through relationships and networks?
Both, absolutely. Multiple entry points allow for more dynamic programming. Much of our initial programming features creative peers I’ve admired and collaborated with throughout my career and I’m drawing on relationships cultivated over 11+ years working as a freelance photographer in New York. For example, our winter solo exhibition features my friend and local artist Clara Rae, who will present her mixed-media practice spanning ceramics, textiles and painting.
That said, our website features a comprehensive open submission portal outlining various opportunities—salon nights, exhibitions, workshops, artist talks—and I actively encourage artists to indicate interest in multiple formats. It matters to me that submission carries no financial barrier. I’ve long viewed submission fees to art shows as problematic within the art industry. When artists apply to work with us, I commit to responding with equal care and I personally review every submission because I understand intimately how vulnerable it feels to put forth work for consideration.
I also welcome informal artist meetings—if an artist is curious about showing with us, I encourage them to reach out to arrange coffee at the gallery. We can discuss their practice, explore ideas and talk shop without any application pressure. Given that I’m drawn to personal, emotionally resonant work, I recognize that some artists need time and trust before opening up about their process. Establishing that foundation of safety matters deeply to me.
You’ve mentioned salon nights. Can you tell us more about what formats you’re most excited to pilot first?
I’m genuinely excited about all our winter programming coming together. We have some wonderful events planned that each serve different purposes in building community and supporting artists, including workshops led by various creatives across different disciplines and artist talks that give space to hear directly from makers about their processes and experiences.
I’m particularly excited about a floral workshop we have in the works for October. I think community workshops and hands-on experiences let people create something of their own, connect with themselves through making and learn new skills in a supportive setting.
Even with all these different things in motion, my primary focus is getting our first salon night off the ground; I’m hoping to hold it in November. These gatherings will provide lower-pressure opportunities for multiple artists to show work simultaneously in an intimate setting, sparking creative dialogue and peer connection without the demands of a full solo exhibition.
I believe there is something powerful about the kind of open dialogue where artists can share their journeys and audiences can ask questions in a welcoming environment. What excites me most about all these different formats is the variety of conversations they’ll generate—from the hands-on making in workshops to the reflective discussions in artist talks to the visual dialogue on the walls during salon nights. Each format welcomes different people into the creative conversation in its own way.
So many galleries operate as exclusive spaces. What does it mean for you to create a gallery that is intentionally porous and accessible?
For me, it means returning to what galleries were originally created for: prioritizing longevity and community building over immediate commercial success. Early galleries were hubs of creative conversation where artists could connect with other artists, not just sell work. As a new gallerist, I’m in this to build a sustainable model that places artists’ voices and visitor engagement at the forefront.
I want to move away from the white walls and hushed-tones approach. Galleries shouldn’t feel like spaces where you need to be silent or make yourself as small as possible. I don’t want visitors feeling like they’re an inconvenience because they’re filling the space with their energy. I want conversation in this space. When people walk in off the street, I invite them to talk with me about what they’re experiencing and how they’re feeling about the art.
When I meet with artists seeking representation, I’m more concerned with asking, “What does your work mean to you? Why are you making it? How does it impact your life?” rather than getting caught up in, “How can we market this?” While I absolutely want collectors to visit and acquire work, I’m building on the philosophy that if you create something meaningful, they will come. Authentic work speaks powerfully when given space to resonate on its own terms. By cultivating an intentionally open, welcoming and accessible environment, the focus remains on the work itself—and in that environment, both artists and audiences can build lasting connections.
How will you measure success—sales, attendance, or something less tangible?
I suppose metrics for success will be less tangible. For me, the real measure is whether participating artists feel they’re gaining something meaningful—whether that’s through artistic inspiration or collector interest. If artists engaging with the gallery feel successful on an individual level—that participating in Gallery ATARAH’s programming through an exhibition, artist talk, workshop, or salon night was a positive experience that opened new doors, introduced new ways of thinking, sparked new questions, or inspired new work—then that’s success to me.
Additionally, I truly care about how much the artwork moves people in the community and how deeply it is engaged with. I think about a woman who recently walked in off the street. After experiencing the “Bright Ruin” exhibition, she told me how serendipitous and uplifting it felt to discover the gallery, how much the work resonated with her in that exact moment when she needed it. She felt seen. That, to me, is also success. When people experience the work and carry it with them—when it moves them in a way that stays with them personally—that’s success. And if they then share how the work made them think or feel, that impact ripples outward.
Obviously, financial viability matters—Williamsburg rent being what it is—and business success means maintaining operations, supporting a robust artist roster and hosting well-attended exhibitions where genuine engagement happens. But Gallery ATARAH’s ability to inspire connection remains the primary success metric.
How do you plan to sustain the balance between your own artistic practice and the demands of being a gallerist? Or do you see them as being complementary?
I absolutely see them as complementary. I feel as though this space might hold more value for me than it might for a typical gallery owner because it is also the home of my personal practice. That investment keeps the gallery pointed toward its true north and the best way I can uphold Gallery ATARAH’s mission of fostering connection is by activating it through my own work—serving as a strong curatorial compass grounded in my creative practice.
Being an artist first gives me insight into what other artists are navigating professionally and what they need. I understand the business development challenges because I am working through them myself. I can support others in raising themselves up as business people because I am engaged in that same process. I speak their language—the language of the reality of being self-funded, the sacrifices, commitment and all of the hard work that goes along with being an artist. Rather than being just a curator or gallery owner, artists are connecting with someone who truly understands their journey because I’m walking the same path. This is my creative home, and I’m extending an invitation to others to participate in building it with me.
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Christa Terry
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By now, we’re all aware of Florida Man and the reputation that comes with that title. I thought it was high time we took a gander at the news to see what’s been going on down in the swampland.
I’ve compiled another gallery of batshit crazy Florida Man headlines. Don’t forget these are completely real. I honestly don’t think I could make these stories up if I tried.
From meth to machetes, bison to bathrooms. All I can say is never change, Florida. Never change.
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Zach
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Ever meet a Mr. Baker who actually makes bread?
Some call it destiny, others call it nominative determinism (It’s a real thing).
Nominative determinism is an idea that your name nudges you towards your career.
It’s not hard science, just a hilarious pattern you can’t unsee once you notice it.
So here’s a victory lap for fate: perfectly named people doing exactly what their name suggests.
Destiny? Coincidence? Either way, the name tag says it all, and it’s perfection.
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Ty
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I was going to kick this off with a fun anecdote about my daughter walking into my office to ask whether I knew there was a guy trapped inside the Bean, followed by my inevitable dive into the Man in Bean movement (including Sarah Cascone’s wild dissection). Anish Kapoor’s Cloud Gate is the kind of artwork people love to hate while still lining up to slap their greasy palms on it to get the same warped selfie everyone takes. And while I usually enjoy a good dunk on that sort of thing, it feels a little tone-deaf given what’s happening in the Windy City right now—from ICE patrols to the arrival of National Guard troops.
The idea that Trump could deploy those troops in Chicago—invoking the Insurrection Act in the process—feels dystopian and doesn’t track with my experience of the city at all. Does Chicago have crime? Yes, Chicago has crime. So does every city. More people, more problems. Is Chicago, as the president has claimed, the “world’s most dangerous city”? Please. Not even close. It’s just a city—and from everything I saw during a trip that took me from the Loop to Streeterville, from East Village to Washington Park and the Fulton Market District—it’s a pretty chill one. Sure, I only saw a sliver, but to echo the words of U.S. District Judge April Perry, I saw nothing resembling a “danger of rebellion.”
What I do see while I’m here for Chicago Exhibition Weekend (CXW) is beautiful in the way most urban places are beautiful—full of hard edges paired with softness and united by the widely held conviction that art is the solution to a range of challenges. Chicago’s artists—and their champions, from patrons to gallerists to curators—are as open as they are unfiltered. When I ask Scott Speh, founder of Western Exhibitions, what makes the Chicago art scene different from, say, New York or L.A., he’s quick to tell me how much he hates that question, then launches into a perfectly clear-eyed answer: “I think everywhere, people want to put on good shows. It doesn’t matter what city they’re in, they want to put forward interesting artists.”
That’s what he’s been doing for 21 years (“Chicago would be a far less interesting art city if Scott wasn’t doing what he was doing,” artist Stan Shellabarger told The Chicago Reader in 2024), and he’s in good company. Speh might resist boiling it all down, but if I had to try, I’d say Chicago’s is a scene grounded in and by the people who are in the thick of it. “In Chicago, there’s a really good ecosystem because it’s not too small and it’s not too big either,” Sibylle Friche, Document gallery partner, tells me. “You don’t get bored—there’s always enough going on.”
Enough, and then some—as is the case with Chicago Exhibition Weekend, now in its third year. Around 50 galleries and creative spaces citywide mounted shows and everything from panel discussions and artist meet-and-greets to collector tours and an art-and-tennis mixer. The whole thing is the brainchild of Abby Pucker, Gertie founder and Pritzker family scion—yes, that Pritzker family. But despite her association with big bucks and big names (Illinois Governor JB Pritzker is a cousin), Pucker is—as I find out in conversation after conversation, including with the woman herself—simultaneously down-to-earth and committed to lifting others up.
I’m here for CXW, of course, but also to figure out what makes Chicago’s art world tick. Pucker deserves serious credit for rallying next-gen patrons and collectors through Gertie’s EarlyWork program of curated cultural events. Still, she’s one voice in a glorious chorus of artists, curators and civic-minded supporters—all of whom, it seems, are ready to invite outsiders like me in.
It’s just around lunchtime when I touch down at O’Hare, but I’m thrilled to find my room at Chicago Athletic Association already ready when I arrive after an uneventful ride on the Blue Line. I can see Cloud Gate from here, or at least glints of it between the leaves of Millennium Park’s many trees, which means I’m also near Jaume Plensa’s ever-smiling crowd-pleaser, Crown Fountain. It’s hours before I need to be anywhere, and my home base is just steps from the Art Institute of Chicago (the second-largest art museum in the United States, after New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art), which feels like the perfect way to start an unfamiliar city fling with art.
In the elevator, someone cheerfully asks if I’m headed out to see the Bean. “Sure am,” I answer—and I guess I’m just that suggestible because suddenly I feel compelled to make that my first stop. Close up, it’s filthy, covered in smeary handprints and streaks, but from a distance, framed by the city skyline, it’s pure sculpture drama. I take selfies from afar but resist the urge to touch it since I left my sanitizer back in the room—rookie mistake.
On a normal trip, I’d budget at least five hours for the Art Institute, but this isn’t a normal trip, so I decide to focus on the heavy hitters: Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks. Van Gogh’s The Bedroom. Seurat’s A Sunday on La Grande Jatte. Grant Wood’s American Gothic. My all-time favorite Cézanne, Basket of Apples. I’m waylaid early on by the Elizabeth Catlett show, “A Black Revolutionary Artist and All That It Implies,” a fantastic career survey on view through early next year and absolutely worth the flight alone. In Gallery 262, everyone is clustered around Nighthawks, which is probably among the least interesting paintings there—though it’s definitely bigger than you’d expect. Far more captivating are Peter Blume’s weirdly brilliant The Rock (commissioned for Fallingwater but rejected for being too big) and Kay Sage’s deliciously desolate In the Third Sleep. There’s even an early cubist-expressionist Pollock, which feels like spotting a celebrity before their glow-up.
And so it goes. The Art Institute of Chicago is home to paintings we’ve all seen a hundred times on mugs, tote bags and in movies—you can absolutely have your Ferris Bueller moment in front of the Seurat—but it’s the lesser-known gems that really sparkle. There’s a stellar selection of Georgia O’Keeffe’s works (Ballet Skirt or Electric Light is a standout) and Alma Thomas’ Starry Night with the Astronauts. Other highlights: William Zorach’s Summer, Marsden Hartley’s Movement, Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones’ Shop Girls and Mary Cassatt’s The Child’s Bath.
Time-bound as I am, I feel like I’m jogging through the galleries. (Fun fact: Large as the museum is, less than 20 percent of the collection is on display at any given time.) I pause for a late lunch at the café—great food—and sit in the garden for a charming little reset before diving back in. Monet’s stacks of wheat remind me what repetition can achieve. There are Van Goghs here you haven’t seen on a million mugs, but don’t skip the Pissarros. I breeze through the Greek, Etruscan, Roman and Egyptian galleries but somehow miss the entire Asian art collection. I cap off my visit at Marc Chagall’s America Windows and leave feeling artistically overfed yet hungry for more.
After a stop back at the hotel, where I freshen up and check out Andi Crist’s Precautionary Measures, a site-specific installation that transforms symbols of caution and containment into a new visual language (then installed at Chicago Athletic Association), I hop on the train toward 400 N. Peoria. It’s the hub of CXW and the site of “Over My Head: Encounters with Conceptual Art in a Flyover City, 1984–2015,” a special exhibition curated by Gareth Kaye and Iris Colburn and presented by Abby Pucker’s Gertie.
The weather is perfection—so close to ideal it’s practically invisible. But I’m off to an inauspicious start. My GPS goes haywire, and I’m spinning around River North in a mild panic, trying to figure out where the hell I am. And once I do, I’m unfashionably early—as in, they’re-still-setting-up-the-bar early. But someone lets me in, and the bartenders take pity on me, which is how I score a private preview of the show. I spend an embarrassingly long time standing in the room where Jordan Wolfson’s hypnotic Perfect Lover (2007), one of my favorite works, is playing on a loop.
As the gallery fills, I’m still feeling untethered. I spot Tony Karman. I eavesdrop on conversations, playing a game of Artist, Collector or Scenester? I linger by Wendy Jacob’s Untitled (1988), watching it breathe, then lose myself in Rashid Johnson’s Remembering D.B. Cooper (2013), until Ellen Kaulig, chief of staff at the Chicago Reader, saves me from myself by introducing me to Pucker. In a relatively quiet spot under the stairs, she tells me how Chicago Exhibition Weekend evolved over three years and where the idea for “Over My Head” came from.
“It’s a bit of a double entendre—being a flyover city, right? People don’t often attribute movements like conceptual art to Chicago, but it is an amazing nerve center of that,” she says, calling the planning phase a whirlwind. “We talked to these absolute icons. People like Karsten Lund, Helen Goldenberg, Laura Paulson, John Corbett and Jim Dempsey… just people who have been integral to this area for so many years.” Chicago’s art elite were, she said, excited to share, and the resulting show collected work from Molly Zuckerman-Hartung, Dara Birnbaum, Rosemarie Trockel, Martin Puryear, Tony Lewis and others.
“They don’t think so highly of themselves that they’re detached from reality,” she adds. “They’re around. I think sometimes that might work to our detriment, because it’s hard to brand something as cool when it’s so inviting—but it’s fucking cool to be invited.”
That word—invited—comes up again when I talk to Chanelle Lacy, Gertie’s director of art initiatives, about the crossover between CXW and EarlyWork: “We want to lower barriers to entry. We try to demystify things because once you actually get into it, it’s not that scary. The art world just looks a little intimidating from the outside. We want to expose people to the finer side of things and be a lifeline. And everything is very serious—it’s just about making it more approachable, so people feel invited into the experience.”
The exhibition dinner is where I meet Friche, along with Carla Acevedo-Yates (if the name’s familiar, it’s because she’s on the documenta 16 curatorial team), several dealers and a cadre of arts-friendly businesspeople and politicians. I stay and schmooze for as long as I can before exhaustion sets in.
I’d planned to follow one of the curated routes that the CXW team had Chicago artists, gallerists and creatives put together, but last night Friche hand-drew me a one-of-a-kind mapped itinerary—and really, how could I possibly say no to that? But Chicago’s art museums don’t open until 10 a.m., and the galleries open even later, so I decide to wander toward Lake Michigan. I get sidetracked by the absolute unit of a fountain in the distance—it’s Clarence F. Buckingham Memorial Fountain—and I start heading that way, thinking it can’t be too far. And it’s not, technically, but its sheer scale plays tricks on your senses. I know I’m close when I pass Turtle Boy and Dove Girl and the North Rose Garden, which must be stunning at the height of summer, and then I keep going for a quick peek at Magdalena Abakanowicz’s leggy Agora.
I haven’t even officially started my day, but I’ve already clocked more than a mile—according to Friche’s map, in the wrong direction. After an about-face, I get plenty of lake views on my three-mile walk to the MCA Chicago, which is showing “City In A Garden: Queer Art and Activism” and “Wafaa Bilal: Indulge Me,” along with “Collection in Conversation with Pablo Helguera” across all three floors of the museum’s stairwell galleries. Like the Art Institute, MCA Chicago is a feast, but a much more digestible one. You can see everything in a couple of hours, which is ideal because my weekend itinerary is threatening to become an endurance sport.
First stop: Patron Gallery for Bethany Collins’s “DUSK,” which is nuanced but underwhelming as presented—or maybe I’m just too overstimulated post-museum to process it properly. Next up: Western Exhibitions, Document, Volume Gallery and David Salkin Creative, which all share a floor at 1709 West Chicago Avenue. Friche is in, and she tells me the neighborhood is a hub for emerging contemporary art, but you’ll also find heavy-hitters like Mariane Ibrahim Gallery and Corbett vs. Dempsey. “It definitely concentrates a lot of the scene,” she says. “And it feels pretty supportive—we each have our own identity. I think it’s hard to find programs in Chicago that resemble each other. I’m not saying anything negative about New York, but sometimes you go to Chelsea and see the same kind of painting shows over and over. I feel like here, you don’t have that.”
Unlike Scott Speh, she’s more than happy to talk about what makes Chicago’s art scene unique: “Because our overhead is manageable, it’s more accessible to open spaces and experiment. Eventually, you get a bit more constrained by the commercial aspects—if you want longevity, you do need to sell some art. That affects your choices. But there’s still a bit more breathing room here than in the coastal cities, given how unaffordable things have become in San Francisco and New York.”
I linger over Kiah Celeste and Gordon Hall’s work at Document and Journie Cirdain’s “The Gloaming” at Western Exhibitions before briefly popping into “Porfirio Gutiérrez: Modernism” at Volume Gallery. Then I’m back out on the streets, where I’m spoiled for choice but already flirting with art fatigue. Sadly, Monica Meloche gallery isn’t opening its Luke Agada and Braxton Garneau show until tomorrow, so I make my way to Mariane Ibrahim for “Yukimasa Ida: Flaming Memory.” It is, in a word, transcendent. I stand for a long time in front of each painting, hypnotized by the massive brushstrokes and thick layers of paint that blur into half-remembered faces—like fragments of a dream fading faster than I can hold on.
I think about squeezing in a few more galleries, but once again, I’ve grossly underestimated Chicago’s distances—and I’m hitting the wall. In a way, it’s a happy accident: I return to my hotel to the news that the iconic Agnes Gund has passed away, and her obit is waiting in my production queue. I edit, publish and then dash out to gape at the Chicago Picasso before hopping on the train to yet another neighborhood: Washington Park.
I’m here to see a different side of the art scene and join the large crowd gathered at the Green Line Performing Arts Center for a tour of the imagined Washington Park Public Art Corridor. In several batches, a trolley ferries us to Amanda Williams’ Other Washingtons at 51st and S. King Drive, the future site of Breath, Form & Freedom, created by the Chicago Torture Justice Memorials Foundation to honor victims of police torture, and Arts + Public Life’s Arts Lawn for a preview of Yvette Mayorga’s City Lovers in Paradise. I learn more about Chicago’s recent history in a few hours than I could’ve gleaned from a week of reading—and not all of it’s pretty. Back at the arts center, there’s live music, dance and collaborative art-making with artist and teacher William Estrada, who’s brought his Mobile Street Art Cart Project to the Art Lawn.
When I ask Estrada about the art scene, he’s frank. “There are a lot of spaces where not everyone is welcome, and that’s the worst part of it,” he says. “But the best part is that there’s a lot of art in Chicago, and you can see it across 77 neighborhoods. That’s the part I get really excited about—because you get to experience different art in different communities, and actually engage in conversations about what that art means and who made it with the folks who are being affected by it or get to experience it directly.”
And that’s exactly why I’m here—not just for CXW (which is fantastic) or the city’s world-class museums (also fantastic) but to understand what makes Chicago’s art pulse so distinct. Back in the Loop, I stroll around Millennium Park waiting for a text from Wilma’s letting me know my barbecue is ready. The evening is gorgeous—warm, breezy and humming with life. Kids are splashing in Crown Fountain, musicians are playing on the sidewalks, and the whole scene radiates that beautiful combination of grit and charm. I can see why so many people love it here.
If you have limited time in Chicago—say, you’re breezing in for a weekend of art and, like me, you’ll be operating without wheels—you need to think hyper-locally. This is a city of neighborhoods, each with its own cultural flavor and art offerings. Hyde Park has the Smart Museum of Art, the Renaissance Society, Hyde Park Art Center and the Logan Center Gallery (plus the Griffin Museum of Science and Industry, the Institute for the Study of Ancient Cultures Museum and the DuSable Black History Museum in nearby Washington Park). Lincoln Park has the DePaul Art Museum and Wrightwood 659. Ukrainian Village and West Town boast a cluster of commercial galleries, along with the Ukrainian Institute of Modern Art and Intuit Art Museum.
If there are specific museums or galleries you’re determined to hit, book a spot somewhere central. Because if you’re coming from New York and assuming you’ll just zip between neighborhoods like you’re downtown, you’re in for a rude awakening. Chicago is about ten times the size of Manhattan in terms of land area—which is why, during my final hours in town, I’m speedwalking the South Loop’s Wabash Arts Corridor. (Sidenote: I consider myself a hotel gym connoisseur, but I racked up so many steps during my two-day stay that I never once made it to the Chicago Athletic Association gym. No regrets.)
Crisscrossing streets so eerily empty of cars they feel post-apocalyptic, I admire murals not just on walls but also on doors, alleyways and parking lots. Initiated by Columbia College Chicago in 2013, the Wabash Arts Corridor project has brought more than 100 murals to the neighborhood, including We Own the Future by Shepard Fairey. I’m especially charmed by Marina Zumi’s Impossible Meeting and the candy-colored Moose Bubblegum Bubble by Jacob Watts, and wish I had more time to wander—but I need to get back to Chicago Athletic Association for my final art experience of the trip: the “City as Platform” breakfast conversation.
On my straight-line power walk back to my hotel, I marvel at Chicago’s abundant parking—a downright shocking sight for a New Yorker—and pause to peer into the windows of Elephant Room Gallery, one of many I didn’t make it to, which is showing Darin Latimer’s solo exhibition “Rhinoceros.” Other things I don’t do in Chicago: participate in the “Throw your phone into a body of water!” activation by Weatherproof, which invited art lovers to toss their phones into any handy body of water on September 19, 20 or 21 whenever the numbers on a clock added up to four in military time (e.g. 0400 or 2200)—though I was sorely tempted. Attend the Improvised Sound Making at The Franklin. See “Alex Katz: White Lotus” at GRAY. Visit the National Museum of Mexican Art and the National Veterans Art Museum.
Before the talk—an engaging conversation between Kate Sierzputowski (artistic director of EXPO CHICAGO), Nora Daley (co-chair of the Chicago Architecture Biennial), Christine Messineo (Frieze director of Americas) and, no surprise, Abby Pucker, who greets me warmly, by name, when I check in. As Sierzputowski notes when the convo kicks off, the panel “reflects the best of what Chicago has to offer: collaboration across sectors, deep civic commitment and a shared mission to place the city’s cultural work on a global stage.” Daley calls CXW a “cultural palooza” and declares that “Chicago shows up,” which is something I see in action, over and over, during my short time here. “I think it’s who’s in the room at these dinners is what makes this work,” Sierzputowski agrees—whether that’s gallerists, artists, curators, museum directors and civic leaders or, as Pucker reminds us, engaged corporate entities committed to supporting the arts in Chicago.
“The creative economy contributes massively to city revenues, yet the people in power often don’t see or understand it,” she says. “We’ve seen perception hurt Chicago. Every city has problems—but if the media only amplifies those, we lose people. Art and culture can bring them back.”
Ironically, the end of the conversation marks the close of my 48 hours of art in Chicago. As I ride the Blue Line back to O’Hare, mulling over everything I’ve experienced, it hits me: as thrilling as it is to be here during Chicago Exhibition Weekend, there’s just too much on the CXW agenda and not enough time to do it. What I experienced in two days was barely a teaser of what this city has to offer. So with that in mind, Abby, if you’re reading this, I have three words for you: Chicago Exhibition Week. Think about it.
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Christa Terry
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The gym is a strange, hilarious ecosystem. There’s the guy doing curls in the squat rack, the one recording every rep, and the pre-workout evangelist who insists he “doesn’t even feel it anymore.”
Here we celebrate the chaos in everything in takes to stick with a workout regiment. It’s about flavorless chicken, calorie-free hot sauce, and the endless quest for the perfect mirror selfie.
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Ryder
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I can’t even begin to fathom how difficult it is to be a mother. I’ll say it’s a thankless job that many women absolutely thrive in, and I’ll leave it at that. It should come as no surprise then that the passion and pressure which comes with being a mom makes for great horror content.
We see it time and time again in the genre, these powerful women who – for better or worse – are just trying to be the best mother they can be.
We’ve compiled a batch of these iconic moms. Some are in protection/survival mode, some are motivated by revenge, and some are just pure helicopter parents. But they’ve all got one thing in common… Maternal instinct.
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Zach
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