Art and the Creator (A Story of Failure)

Chicago is an amazing place. And the pizza! Mon Dieu! It's also got the largest population of Polish people outside of Poland. So the Felski in me feels right at home among these pale, podgy people.

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The afternoon was spent in the Art Institute of Chicago where there is a beautiful collection of French Impressionism (among thousands of other things). I was struck by some of the obsessive work of Claude Monet, who, apart from his water lilies, also did repetitive studies of certain french cathedrals and - most impressively in the Chicago collection - stacks of wheat. He painted these stacks of wheat over and over again during different seasons and different times of day. It's an incredible achievement and the results are beautiful, but it hints of insanity. Or extreme dedication to one's artform. To do the same thing over and over again with subtle changes... I also experienced some strange nostalgia as I've seen several different pieces from this series in Paris and New York. Memories drenched in awe. Blah blah blah.

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I didn't make it to the open mic. For dinner, my friends and I went to Lou Malnati's for some delicious deep dish pizza. The wait was over an hour and we still had to get my guitar from their apartment. But the pizza was worth it. My God, the pizza was worth it. We left the apartment half an hour before the open mic was set to start. Walking and singing as I warmed up, Andrew and I reminisced about drunkenly singing Grizzly Bear's "Knife" while stumbling through downtown Los Angeles. We argue about the other's ability to harmonize. I played Neutral Milk Hotel's "King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1" and yelled out the closing melody. The people wandering through the streets paid no mind. As well they should.

We arrived 10 minutes before the show was supposed to start. They were full up. There was actually a crowd of people there. I could've actually played in front of an audience! They were young people, too! Interested people! Curious people! I curse myself and wallow in self-loathing for about an hour. Eventually I liquor myself up enough to forget about it. Two shots of malort and you'll stop whining about anything. And start whining about everything.

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This is something I told Andrew, after the malort and a tall whiskey from the well:

God is an artist. He's THE creator, right? Well, just like any other artist, He's needy, narcissistic. He needs affirmation. And because He's all alone up there He needs affirmation about his work from the creation itself: us. That's why you're supposed to praise Him and give thanks. He wants His ego stroked! He wants a pat on the back: "Good work, God! You did great." And I can give him props for some of the work he did in nature, but humanity? I don't know, man. I don't know... I think he's got some 'SPLAININ' TO DOOO.

Everything eventually turns in to a television reference. It's inevitable. Ideas free of allusion hang in the air too long and I get nervous, scared. I got to bring it back down. Laugh at it in some small way. It's kind of pathetic, I suppose.

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Tomorrow: The Hangover Pt. 1-4 and I finally make it to an open mic with a crowd. (One hopes)