Infinite Variety, or, quilts as far as the eye can see

I meant to write about this earlier, but my spring break was awesome. Why, you ask? Oh, no real reason... just going to New York and attending a groundbreaking and amazing quilt exhibition on its closing day.*

The show was incredible — over 600 quilts exhibited at once, more than have ever been shown at one time. And the one unifying theme was color: they were all red and white. The quilts were on loan to the American Folk Art Museum from Joanna S. Rose, and the exhibition (which only lasted six days)** was paid for by her husband as a birthday gift. The real recipient, though, was the city of New York — Rose's husband paid to make sure the show was free to all visitors.

The quilts are all unique — even ones that were made with the same pattern have small differences. They are also all American, spanning in date from the late 18th century to the present day. The vast variety of quilts was amazing, but the truly fantastic thing about the show was the exhibition staging. Assembled in the Park Avenue Armory, the quilts were suspended from the ceiling in a series of cyclical pods. If that makes no sense, don't worry — it was this ridiculously overwhelming sensory experience that really can't be described. The pictures below only go so far to explain how fantastic it was. To be honest, I think I cried a little bit.

The American Folk Art Museum website describes it as a "magical yet ephemeral event." I couldn't agree more. I'll also add that in this crazy museum industry that I seem hell-bent on entering, there are certain shows that live on in people's memory. My professors still talk about "THAT" show, the one that blew them away or made them want to pursue curating as a career. Staged in the American Wing of the Met in the 1960s or at the Whitney in 1985, about art, furniture, basket-weaving, whatever... the thing these shows have in common is that they opened visitors' eyes to the potential of exhibition, to the creativity and power inherent to objects. This is one of those shows, I think, and it is definitely that show for me.







*Thanks, Lizz, for the heads-up via materialconcern! It was truly phenomenal.
** If you missed it, don't worry... there is talk about it being mounted again as a traveling exhibition.

Return to the Second City

Essays are finished, my sketchbook filled with drawings of questionable quality has been turned in, and I've worked very hard to stop thinking about the rococo armchair I misidentified on an exam. I woke up this morning in a tiny bedroom under a flight of stairs, looking out on a snow-covered street and thinking, "thank goodness I have my snowboots," and that can only mean one thing: I'm back in Chicago, baby!

My plans for the next few days are simple: visit friends at the Chicago History Museum, relish in the presence of public transportation, and eat everything, everywhere. And then I hop in the car with one of my oldest friends and we drive south for an epic roadtrip that will eventually take us home to California! All in all, I think this is shaping up to be a remarkable winter break.

Stupidity, atrocious calumny, infamous wickedness!

Google Translate is my new favorite toy.

As I type I am sitting in Winterthur's rare book room and (carefully) flipping my way through La Mode Nouvelle, a French fashion and political periodical printed in 1832. I'm looking for early 1830s fashion plates in order to compare the styles against French paper dolls from 1822 for a paper that I have due on Friday (oh, graduate school!), but I keep on coming up against very impassioned-looking sentences written in italics and with multiple exclamation points that just cry out for translating.

My current favorite? "Gens de la revolution, avez-vous prodique aux pretres assez de menaces et d'outrages?" Which, according to Google Translate comes out to something like: "People of the Revolution, do you have enough priests to lavishes upon threats and insults?" Somehow I think something was lost in translation.

So, I ask you, people of the revolution: DO you have enough priests to lavishes upon threats and insults? Inquiring minds want to know.

Boxes for everyone!

No, actually, I just made one. So a box for me, I guess.


His name is Walter. He is big enough to hold maybe five pens and a mini-stapler, but he's mine, all mine!

I ended up using linseed oil as a coating instead of shellac - it lets the grain of walnut shine through more. And if I keep using words like "grain," "dovetail," and "chisel," I might be able to fool you into believing that I know what I'm talking about. Which, clearly, I don't.

Still, I made a box! I guess if this museum curator thing fails, I can always fall back on a career in cabinetmaking. (The furniture conservators who supervised our box-making just got pounding headaches and they don't even know why.)

"Us rich white men cannot stand for this oppression."

Kids reenact the Revolutionary War! It goes a lot faster than I remember from 4th grade history, but I'm guessing they've got it right. British family across the pond, listen up! This is what happens when you try to tax us without giving us appropriate representation in Parliament: you get children in tricorn hats hitting you with baguettes! (mmmm, baguettes.)



Also, the kid at the end has it right: "Now let's party!" Happy birthday, America! Stay classy!

(Video from Babelgum, by way of Jezebel.)

The obligatory Blackhawks post

So, most people who meet me are not surprised to find out that I have very little interest in sports. I love the idea of sports and sports fanaticism, of a civil religion of sorts that draws communities together around a common goal, but actually sitting down and watching a game is sort of beyond me.

Except, apparently, for the fact that Chicago is totally changing me. I went to a Cubs game a few weeks ago (I know, I know, the Cubs suck and their fans are usually really unpleasant, but Wrigley Field is historic! And it's a classic baseball experience!) and I really enjoyed myself. Even more game-changing (see? I make sports puns!), though, is my Chicago Blackhawks experience.

I've always had a fond spot in my heart for hockey - any sport that involves ice skates, extreme speed, violence and toothlessness is okay in my book. But I've just watched a six-game play-off series for the first time, and I am astonished by how fun it was. And twenty minutes ago, the Chicago Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup series against the Philadelphia Flyers, and I found myself jumping and screaming at the TV in my hipster friend's apartment while the city below us went absolutely NUTS.

All of which is to say: Chicago has turned me into a bona fide hockey fan. And with a change like that, who knows what comes next? Maybe I'll even decide to watch Shakespeare in Love!* Crazy changes are afoot!

*Don't hold your breath. This will never happen.

out and about

So, things have been crazy-awesome lately, and while I don't have time to go into details right now (I'm supposed to be on the train to work at this moment), I will say this: Hawaii is so freaking beautiful and the week my roommates and I spent there at the end of February probably saved me from committing ritual suicide over Chicago's winter.


More to come, eventually.

There's two things in the world you never want to let people see how you make 'em: laws and sausages.

Have I talked about The West Wing? I know I'm late to the party - like, ten years late, but I believe in making a fashionably tardy entrance. I've been watching the first season (in between writing up a storm of personal statements for grad school and battling the actual snow storm outside my house) and holy crap, that was an amazing show.

Aaron Sorkin is sort of a sore spot for a lot of TV enthusiasts. It seems like either you love him and think he's God's gift to television or you hate him and wish he would die in a fire. And preferably take his too-witty fast-walking characters with him. But I've always sort of viewed myself as a swing-vote when it comes to Sorkin: I hated Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip but I thought Sports Night was probably the most underappreciated tv show of the last 15 years (and given that that year-span includes Veronica Mars, that's saying something) Clearly, I have unresolved issues. But people, West Wing... it's a revelation.

I suppose I shouldn't be so surprised. I mean, this is a tv show about the United States! And government! And smart people! Those are three things I adore! And the writing itself is so unapologetically in love with the idea of America, so optimistic about what American government could do, the positive agent of change it could be... I'm getting all verklempt just thinking about it. It's sort of strange to watch it now with 8 years of the Bush administration under my belt, but I'm also noticing a lot of overlaps between the Obama administration and the rocky start of the fictional Bartlet government.

Mostly I think I love The West Wing because it's just so ridiculously nerdy, and completely willing to revel in that fact. To wit, I leave you with the Antiquities Act (my fave!), a banking bill, and a fictional American president waxing rhapsodic over the great insitution of America's national parks*:





*I love the national parks too! Come hang out with me, President Bartlet... we can drink tea and I'll tell you all about Grey Towers! It'll be awesome.

Snowsuit Up 4: Live Free or Die Snow*

L.L. BEAN I LOVE YOU.

Seriously, the quality of my life has been drastically improved by the presence of these boots. They are the wind beneath my wings, the peanut butter to my jelly, the yin to my yang, the traction to the ice outside my door, etc. It's enough to make a girl believe in Santa Claus.

*one day this blog will be about something other than snow. That day is not today.

Snowsuit up!

FIRST SNOW OF THE YEAR!

Okay, but see, now I'm torn. On the one hand: yay! It's pretty and white and fluffy and makes Chicago seem like a winter wonderland where a girl and a guy might Meet Cute, hate each other on sight, and then slowly warm up to each other through a series of hijinks until a terrible misunderstanding shows them how much they actually care! And then they kiss when the ball drops on New Years Eve, and it all happened because snow has the magical ability to turn the city of Chicago into a romantic comedy from the 90s starring Meg Ryan!

On the other hand: SNOW BOOTS. And slush. And slipping on the frozen sidewalk. And wearing three pairs of socks becuase if you don't, your toes will fall off. And waiting for the bus in sub-zero temperature. And the terrible gray color that snow turns as it melts and mixes with the filth of the city streets.

It hasn't snowed enough yet for the serious winter-wear and the terrible melt-freeze-melt-freeze cycle to pick up yet, though, so I'm staying optimistic. Snow looks so damn pretty, and as long as I can stay under my covers and watch it fall, I'm good. Just don't make me go outside.

Or maybe I should just snowsuit up and build an igloo!




Sorry I've been so absent - grad school applications have eaten my life. More to come, though, promise!

Give me Kitchen Aid or give me death.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I was a senior in college, contemplating writing an honors thesis. Eventually it became clear to me that I would not be able to write it and still hold on to my sanity. I came to this realization over winter break and promptly called my roommate back in Atlanta, a little appalled and nervous. Our conversation went something like this:

S: "I don't think I'm going to be writing my thesis."
C: "hmmm, that's interesting."
S: "no, really!"
C: "yes, I heard you."
S: "what, aren't you shocked? Why are you so calm about this? WHY ARE YOU NOT MAKING SURPRISED NOISES?"
S: "Oh, I'm sorry, was this supposed to be news? I knew this would happen."
S: "How? I'm writing the damn thing and I didn't even know! How could you?"
C: "Over the past semester, you baked scones, cakes, chocolate croissants, more scones, tarts, cookies, brownies, and cupcakes. Every time you were supposed to be writing your thesis, you were baking. You even made cupcakes that looked like anatomically correct hearts. THEY HAD VENTRICLES AND EVERYTHING. Clearly, the thesis wasn't going to get written."
S: "..."

And that is how my very observant roommate diagnosed me as a stress baker.

So yeah, stress baking. Apparently I do it. And I must be extraordinarily anxious about SOMETHING, because I have been baking up a storm lately. Some people have requested pictures, so here they are a few of my creations (please excuse the poor quality - if this is food porn, it's clearly of the homemade sex tape variety):


Cupcake kuchen, or cupkuchen, for July 4. I used strawberries and bluberries to get a nice red/white/blue thing going, but none of the people at the party I brought them to seemed to care. Clearly, they aren't patriots.


And then there was the mini peach galette:


It was sort of an after-thought, actually; we had leftover tart dough from a tomato onion tart my roommates had made and some peaches that weren't used up in a peach/apricot kuchen I had made early that week. I wasn't sure what to do for the filling, so it was basically just sliced peaches coated with brown sugar and patted down with butter. I've since done some other, more intentional galettes (apple, mostly) but so far this has come out the prettiest.

Now, this next one has a story (surprising, right?). I have never feared cupcakes, or brownies, or scones. I faced down pan au chocolat with a take-no-prisoners attitude. Even pie dough, with all it's finickiness, doesn't frighten me too badly. But cakes? Especially layer cakes? As far as I can tell, they were created by the devil to confound me. At least that's what I've thought for the past few years, culminating in my spectacular layer cake failure from November, on election night. I tried to make a double-layer chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I was going to decorate it to look like the Obama logo! It was going to symoblize the meeting of black and white in this historic election! That last part is bullshit, but honestly, I was a little high on hope and baking fumes.

Well, this is how it looked for a split second (you can see that I cheated and used packaged colored frosting... I'm sorry, baking gods!):


And one second later, all hell breaks lose:


Basically, I'm a Cake Killer. Or so I thought, until I decided to face my fears and tackle a three-layer red velvet to bring to a going-away party for my friend Jing. I did some research, found the best layer cake advice from Deb from Smitten Kitchen, and produced three of these:


Which turned into this:


Which, if you can't tell, is three gorgeous layers of red velvet separated by two layers of cream cheese frosting and spackled with a crumb layer. And, in one of the most triumphant moments of my young adult life (I aim low), all of that became this:


Oooh, I get all weepy just thinking about it. I mean, you have to ignore the wonky writing - clearly I don't exactly have the art of decorating down just yet. Still, pretty cool for my first three layer cake, right?

I've since made a three-layer yellow cake with lemon cream cheese frosting and lemon curd/blackberry compote filling, a few more kuchens, and two (!!) fruit pies. I'm pretty proud of myself, but my roommates are starting to go a little sugar-crazy. Given how stressed out this means I am, I should probably seek therapy. But hey, flour and sugar are cheaper, right?

Dressing down

So, like most cultural institutions, the Chicago History Museum has a blog. It's a pretty neat resource and a great way to get an inside look into the dark and dirty workings of a museum. My favorite entry? The one about de-installing Chic Chicago, the huge costume exhibit that was up from summer of 2008 until last month.

I was part of the de-installation team, so if you want to get a look at the sort of work I do on a daily basis, check out the slideshow of the de-installation process. I show up about half-way through - see if you can spot me!

Okay, and my favorite picture from the entire slideshow is the one of me on my knees in front of a huge dress, called the butterfly gown. If it looks like I'm sticking my head and arms up under the skirt, that's because I am. We were trying to push a built-out support peice (what essentially amounts to a body pillow) through the torso of the gown to make sure it doesn't collapse under it's own weight in storage. A worthy endeavor, certainly, but one that made it look like I was giving the gown a very thorough pelvic exam. Say it with me now: "awkward."

"Today we celebrate our independence day!"

One last thing: on this most glorious of days, this celebration of a time when men threw tea into harbors and cried, "the British are coming, the British are coming,"* when they wrote that all men are created equal and are in fact endowed by their creator with certain inalienable rights, I think it is only fitting that we watch two short clips: one from the Lincoln Memorial festivities the day before Obama's inauguration, and the other from the greatest film ever made about an alien invasion on July 4th, Independence Day.

Bruce Springsteen, Pete Seeger and others at the Lincoln Memorial:



Independence Day, with Bill Pullman as the president FTW!



*no offense meant, obviously, to my lovely British family - I, for one, love it when the British are coming! Honest!

Happy Birthday, America

As I write this the street outside my house is going CRAZY with fireworks. Purchased in Indiana and set off in the middle of a residential street, they are the perfect symbol of what this great holiday is all about: fighting for the right to blow brightly colored shit up in front of your house.

No, but seriously, happy birthday America. As a present, I got you a list.

Some things I love about America:
1. The constitution
2. Jon Stewart
3. Waffle cones (you're welcome, world)
4. The 1st amendment
5. Stretching from sea to shining sea
6. mobster movies
7. Sufjan Stevens
8. Betsey Ross
9. Theodore Roosevelt
10. No taxation without representation, baby!

Stay classy, America!

Up, up and away

Just came back from a viewing of "Up" at the local multiplex. They have five-dollar Tuesdays, so I plan to see most of my summer blockbusters there. Or the Logan Theater, which is a tiny run-down jewel-box of a theater that plays second-runs for three bucks. Most movies eventually make it to the Logan, but it takes a while. The roommates and I couldn't wait to see "Up," so five-dollar Tuesday it was.

And let me tell you, IT WAS TOTALLY WORTH THE FIVE BUCKS. Seriously. As usual, Pixar* blows it out of the water. The colors, the shapes, the freaking masterful storytelling - I just... there are no words. Except these: go see it.

*Sidenote: the summer after high school I worked in downtown Emeryville in an office where my job was to purge old files and refile open cases. Yeah, it was thrilling. Every morning I caught the free Emeryville shuttle from McCarthur BART station. The shuttle went past the Pixar campus, and every day I watched as hip, cool, nerdy looking people in comfortable clothes and messenger bags got off at the pearly gates of Pixar and sauntered into work, looking happy and content, while the rest of us trundled on in the shuttle wearing our uncomfortable heels and ill-fitting suit pants. I swear, everytime after we dropped the Pixar folks off, the day got a little gloomier.

Summer in the city

In the dreary depths of Chicago's winter, when it seems like the snow will never melt and the frozen tundra that is the street outside your door goes on forever, people comfort themselves with the reminder that eventually, no matter how eternal winter seems to be, summer will come. And summer in Chicago is something to wait for.

I sort of didn't believe it, to be honest. The last few weeks have alternated between sweaty dreariness and outright thunderstorms, and it's hard to see past the torrential rain to the bright summer promised you. But last evening, I became a believer in Chicago summers.

It's not the weather that gets people excited, of course - wet heavy heat isn't particularly awesome. What is awesome, however, are the weeks after weeks of free concerts, festivals, block parties, and so on. Everyone is so relieved to not have to wear five layers outside that they go a little crazy, and it's great.

What I'm considering the kick-off event of my personal Chicago summer was last night's free St. Vincent concert in Millennium Park. Paid for by the city, it was the first in a whole series of free Monday night shows.

So basically, I got to see her:



in the great outdoors of Millennium Park, which is here:



For zero dollars.

In short: Game on, summer. GAME ON.

Kicking ass and taking names, one bustle at a time.

Despite not getting paid for my job, I finally feel like a real live museum professional. Why? Because the first show I have ever worked on, Bertha Honore Palmer , opened this past Saturday at the Chicago History Museum and it is quite beautiful, if I do say so myself.

The show tells the story of Bertha Honore Palmer, the wife of Potter Palmer I and one of the most influential women in Chicago and even America at the turn of the century. As the grand dame of Chicago society she spearheaded the Women's Board of the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893, gave the job of designing the Women's Building at the Fair to America's first female architect, and comissioned reports on the status and lifestyles of women across the world. She was a mover-and-shaker abroad as well, dazzling Europe with her charisma and forceful personality. Palmer House, the famous Chicago hotel, was a wedding gift to her from Potter. When he died he left her with eight million dollars; by the time she died she'd turned it into 16 million. She was, in short, a force to be reckoned with.

Now, this isn't MY show - most of the work I did involved building out mannequins, dressing them, and doing some trouble-shooting with lambskin gloves and a lot of fiber-fill. Still, my name is on the credits under the intern title, and when I walk past the textile gallery and see all the visitors oohing and ahhing over my favorite voided-velvet gown or the goofy evening coat with the fringe I spent HOURS carefully combing out, I can't help but feel a little proud.

Is this what being an adult feels like? Because minus the bill paying and the cleaning-your-own-house bit, it's kind of cool!

"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a..."

Oh wow, Star Trek.



Now to be fair, while I'm not what one might call a Trekkie* I did spend my formative years tagging along after one and absorbed some of the obsessive Star Trek love via osmosis. Still, even if I weren't already a fan, I'm pretty sure I would still think this movie was made of awesome. Because it is. Made of awesome, I mean. Seriously, go see it. I mean, it's fun and explosive and colorful and still stays true (kinda) to the foundational message of Star Trek: space racism is bad!

*Side note: when I spellchecked this entry, "Trekkie" wasn't highlighted as a misspelled (or nonexistent) word. Which means that it's entered into the Blogger dictionary. Oh, Google Blogger. Way to wave your freak flag.

Be still my heart

That is indeed the President of the United States of America reading "Where the Wild Things Are." And look, the book isn't upside down! This is major progress, folks.

Image via Jezebel, who got it from Getty.

Me and General Slocum, chilling out, shooting the breeze, as one does

Christina was recently reading me the riot act over not posting enough about my new job, which is pretty much the most awesome thing ever. My response was that with my camera broken and now out of commission entirely, I didn't have any pictures of my fabulous (broke) new life in Chicago to post. "What's all this about pictures?" was her response. "Words, woman, words are where it's at! The blog is made of words! Words upon words of words, making a rainbow quilt of language!" Or something to that effect - it was late, I was tired, and the cell phone connection to Hawaii was sort of crap. So in that spirit, I want to tell you all a funny little story about my life in the costume collection.

A lot of what I end up doing at work is dusty and dirty. Last Wednesday, for instance, I got to work, unwrapped myself from the cumbersome winter gear that is uniform here in Chicago, and was promptly handed a swiffer. My mission? To clean the Chic Chicago gallery. "Chic Chicago" is the big costume exhibit that was mounted earlier in 2008. One of the best-received exhibits at the museum, it's a trip down the memory lane of fashion in Chicago. All the outfits displayed in the exhibit are considered haute couture or designer and were worn and owned by some of Chicago's most prominent women throughout the history of the city. It's a beautiful exhibit and lots of fun to look around, but what I was doing on Wednesday was getting up on the platforms and swiffering around the mannequins, hunting up dust. To do this, I donned a lab coat and latex gloves, in case I ended up having to touch one of the dresses. And then, to complete the look, I had to remove my boots and socks. They would have left marks on the display platforms, you see, scuffing up the exhibit. So there I am, in the middle of an open exhibit, scampering around antique and vintage gowns, some of which cost more than my four years of private university education combined, in a white lab coat, science-y looking latex gloves, and my stockinged feet. It was pretty absurd. I also felt a bit strange getting up close and personal with all these beautifully-clad blank-faced fiberglass mannequins.

So yeah, dirty. All of this, though, brings me to the point of this post: that a lot of what I do is awesome but it's usually the tiny little moments that make me realize it. Recently, for instance, one of the other interns and I were working in storage, cataloguing objects in the military uniforms section. At least 3/4s of the costume collection is made up of women's clothes because, let's be honest, throughout history women's clothes have been WAY more interesting than men's (the one possible exception to that rule being the clothes worn in the court of Louis XIV, because man, those dudes looked crazy). We do, however, have a sizable military costume collection, which is what we were working on. Military hats, to be exact, with a few ethnographic caps thrown in (you have probably never touched as many Masonic and Shriner hats as I have.)

One of the coolest hats I handled was an officer's cap from the Civil War. Union, of course, because this is Illinois, home of Lincoln, etc. etc. Navy blue (like I said: Union) with a silk braid across the bill and gold stitching forming laurel leaves at the front, it was ridiculously tiny. It also had an old tag on it, declaring that this was the cap worn by General Henry Warner Slocum (1827-1894.) Which begged the question: was this hat worn by a man named Henry Slocum who LATER became a general, or was he a general when he was wearing it? In the early 1860s he would have been in his mid to late 30's, right? So a little young for a general, but during the Civil War they went through generals like kindergarteners go through crayons, so age wasn't necessarily a great determinant for figuring out his status.

Regardless of whether he was a general during or after the Civil War, I got a little thrill out of holding a hat that had seen so much bloodshed and history. The bloodiest, most traumatic and heartrending of wars fought on American soil, the battles that turned brother against brother, and this lame little wool cap saw them all.

And then I handled another hat, this one extraordinarily dusty (and see? dirt comes up again. Full circle!) It was tan felt, with a wide flat brim that was covered in tan stitching details. Swirling around in curli-cues, the stitching was a remarkably detailed and even decorative touch on a hat that was otherwise entirely functional. And what did this very dirty hat's ancient tag say? "Taken from a Wyoming Indian at the Battle of Wounded Knee." Amazing, right? I mean, this hat was stolen off a man who, in all likelihood, was one of the 300 Native American slaughtered at the massacre. This hat was part of the battle (if you can call it that) that essentially ended the 100-plus-year conflict between white settlers and Indians. Maybe I'm geeking out over history to much, but I really couldn't get over this. And the dirt that I was complaining about? Some of it was probably original dirt from the battle. I had 120-year-old dirt and dried blood and Indian DNA and all sorts of other cool and creepy stuff all over my gloves and lab coat and clothes.

When I got home I looked up Henry Warner Slocum on Wikipedia. According to that venerable fount of knowledge, Slocum was a major general during the Civil War and later represented New York in Congress. One of the youngest Civil War generals, he earned criticism due to his slow movement and indecision on the battlefield at Gettysburg, earning him the nickname "Slow Come." So there you have it: from the hallowed battlefields of Gettysburg to the blood-washed site of a traumatic massacre to the humorous and infantile nickname of a young man who clearly had some time-lag issues, all through a bunch of gross old hats. See? My job is way cool.

Oh, and because it feels wrong to post this without ANY pictures, here is old "Slow Come" himself: