Response to Chicago Trip

It has been twenty days since my last post, but here is my response to the trip to Chicago:

Incongruous Aesthetics

Is there no place to stay when you leave the train station? I look down to see footprints travelers have left behind in their mad dash to their next destination. Truly the station platform stands as a liminal space, a threshold between the past and future. The rain falls with the temperature but the coldness I feel at the Clyborn stop is intangible, unspoken. Almost in an instant, the passengers from the train disappear beneath the tracks, eager to distance themselves from this unappealing and unwelcoming place. I have passed through this area before, its towering billboards the only trees and the bellow of the traffic the only call of nature. Even on its brightest day, Clyborn is still hue-less.

I leave the platform devoid of color, and I stand in amazement at how much blue splashes the sides of the buildings between the strain station and the industrial park. I heard somewhere that blue is the most difficult color to gather from nature. If this is true then it stands to reason I should see so much of it here, where machinery suffocates nature and garbage sprouts from the ground. Nearby the gritty Mobile gas station the war zone of the scrap metal yard drips with the carnage of battle. The gnashing teeth of the crane gnaw at the carcasses of cars and refrigerators. Just down the street, a man struggles his shopping cart on his pilgrimage to the Mecca of the metal yard. He travels to offer his sacrifice of a rusted and warped beam. Screeching metal tears the air and stings my ears. The unimaginable violence of the metal yard arrests me; I cannot look away but force myself to.

Beneath an overpass life teams, unseen and unacknowledged. Traffic signs tagged by Emma and Jack give pause – why didn’t Jack respond to Emma? Her name appears twice, his just once. Their love story lingers in my mind as I pass through the curtain of rain into the sunlight. Suddenly color bursts before me, all at once I’m greeted with burnt sienna, crimson, jade. A rainbow of vines hug the concrete of the overpass in an array of hues I’ve never seen before. I remember at once that autumn has arrived and a smile crosses my face, relief that nature still survives.

Just beyond the scrap metal yard, in the blue of the industrial zone, molten steel boils in gargantuan pots above Vulcan fires. The workers find respite in the drizzle from the hell-fires which consume their daily lives. It seems almost god-less, the wet heat of the steel mill hangs heavy in the air and I cannot linger even nearby. I hurry away from the torturous flames; I find myself engrossed in the first patch of greenery – a clearly landscaped patch of grass just beyond the steel mill inferno.

This plot lives so out of place that its simple beauty transfixes me. The verdant patch defies the surrounding grey and brown world. Would the grass have a chance of survival without the help of whoever attends to it? And why was this place chosen for such a manicured piece of lawn? My answer comes to me before I can complete the question – ahead of me looms Lincoln Park. The patch of grass is the first few bricks of the yellow brick road Dorothy encounters. From here the well-cared for scenery expands to a the bustling neighborhood, home to a portion of the upper-class white Chicago populace

With its yuppie inhabitants ready to spend, Lincoln Park swarms with coffee shops, restaurants, high-end retail stores and costly apartments. On my journey to the Damen Brown Line “L,” I saw at least three law firms, two dental practices and countless neo-turreted condominiums. How is it that this neighborhood of wealthy urbanites borders the gruesome metal yard with its occasional straggling sojourner? The dichotomy between these two places staggers me. With one quick step the atmosphere transitions from industrial work, hard labor and gritty lifestyles to expensive shops, modern restaurants and well-kept lawns. A journey from a Metra station to a CTA station just blocks down the street tells the story of the changing environment living in a city I’ve visited so many times but failed to acknowledge. Beauty lies even in the violence of the scrap metal yard, in the heat of the steel mill flames, in the solice of the threshold patch of greenery, in the arrogance of the yuppie neighborhood. I think the vines clinging to the overpass exemplify the incongruous but undeniable aesthetics of the area. It is living art.