"Two-mile Radius" @ Rough Space Gallery
I've got a show up! It's called "Two-mile Radius" and runs through December 30 at:
Rough Space Gallery (4th Floor)
DANK Haus German Cultural Center
4740 N. Western Ave.
Chicago, IL 60625
773-561-9181
for more info go to www.dankhaus.com
The gallery is open from 12-5 Saturdays or by appointment. I'll be at the gallery every Saturday.
Some of the works are collaborations with my wife, Cherie:
The Wine Grape Men
This is how wine gets made in Chicago.
Mario is the meat man, the ball breaker, the finger shaker. Pointing and yelling out directions, he crosses the normally empty lot at 35th and Racine with the energy of a pinball machine.
“What ya lookin for? We got everything, everything!” Mario’s arms arc wide in the direction of the six semi-trailers loaded with crates of California grapes, brimming over in their purple-stained lusciousness.
These California beauties got taken for a ride—farther than their three-day haul—to find their skins dressed in the frosty coats of a Chicago autumn.
Mario runs down the inventory of the grapes: “We got Gren-ASH right here, PEENOS and SHARDS over there, and Mer-LOTTS on the end. Beautiful.”
The customers--the I-talians, the Slavs, the brood of basement Bacchanalians—waddle their Cadillacs and pick-up trucks across the uneven gravel of the lot.
“C’mon, c’mon, back it up,” Mario directs a car with a popped trunk to back up to the grape truck. “Look at this guy, c’mon, don’t be afraid to drive your car.”
How far these grapes have come from their gentle childhood in Napa Valley, where they grew sun-drenched in poetic rows on lyrically rolling hills, watching small schools of tourists on bicycles earnestly pedaling from winery to winery to learn important things like how to “swish, not swallow,” and how to say phrases like “a nutty substantiality perfect for sipping in front of the fireplace.”
“C’mon, get them boxes ready,” Mario shouts to his workers who are moving fast but not fast enough for Mario, “we’re doin thirty-two ZEN-FAN-DELLS over here.”
And so the grapes go home to the cellars and crushers and wooden presses stained pink by the run of grape juice. They find their Old Country families run by women who hand-roll the dough and men whose hearts pump with the gush of a lush burgundy. Families who won’t pose for a family portrait without a bottle of their own wine proudly placed on the dinner table.
Rough Space Gallery (4th Floor)
DANK Haus German Cultural Center
4740 N. Western Ave.
Chicago, IL 60625
773-561-9181
for more info go to www.dankhaus.com
The gallery is open from 12-5 Saturdays or by appointment. I'll be at the gallery every Saturday.
Some of the works are collaborations with my wife, Cherie:
The Wine Grape Men
This is how wine gets made in Chicago.
Mario is the meat man, the ball breaker, the finger shaker. Pointing and yelling out directions, he crosses the normally empty lot at 35th and Racine with the energy of a pinball machine.
“What ya lookin for? We got everything, everything!” Mario’s arms arc wide in the direction of the six semi-trailers loaded with crates of California grapes, brimming over in their purple-stained lusciousness.
These California beauties got taken for a ride—farther than their three-day haul—to find their skins dressed in the frosty coats of a Chicago autumn.
Mario runs down the inventory of the grapes: “We got Gren-ASH right here, PEENOS and SHARDS over there, and Mer-LOTTS on the end. Beautiful.”
The customers--the I-talians, the Slavs, the brood of basement Bacchanalians—waddle their Cadillacs and pick-up trucks across the uneven gravel of the lot.
“C’mon, c’mon, back it up,” Mario directs a car with a popped trunk to back up to the grape truck. “Look at this guy, c’mon, don’t be afraid to drive your car.”
How far these grapes have come from their gentle childhood in Napa Valley, where they grew sun-drenched in poetic rows on lyrically rolling hills, watching small schools of tourists on bicycles earnestly pedaling from winery to winery to learn important things like how to “swish, not swallow,” and how to say phrases like “a nutty substantiality perfect for sipping in front of the fireplace.”
“C’mon, get them boxes ready,” Mario shouts to his workers who are moving fast but not fast enough for Mario, “we’re doin thirty-two ZEN-FAN-DELLS over here.”
And so the grapes go home to the cellars and crushers and wooden presses stained pink by the run of grape juice. They find their Old Country families run by women who hand-roll the dough and men whose hearts pump with the gush of a lush burgundy. Families who won’t pose for a family portrait without a bottle of their own wine proudly placed on the dinner table.
posted by cnh at 10:50 AM
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