oh saxonberg ...

I think I was 20 or 21 when I visited the Art Institute of Chicago. I say the AI and not the city itself because aside from Michigan Avenue and the sheer, simple thrill of making the pilgrimmage to Ferris Bueller's hometown, the museum is all I really remember well. But not - and I find this frustrating - well enough to recall whether I saw A Sunday Afternoon on La Grande Jatte. On the one hand, how could I be there and not see it? On the other, how could I have seen it and not remember?

I remember being in awe of Hokusai and even, for some reason, of Warhol's Mao. I think it was just being there, that absolutely killed me. I wanted to move to Chicago. If I were Claudia Kincaid I would have spent a little more of Jamie's savings, taken a train to Illinois and moved into the AIC instead of the Met. This very day and second I'd probably pass out if I got to see Sunday Afternoon. Could I really have gone all that way ... and missed it??

I may have to get on another plane in this lifetime after all.

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Booky goodness for May:

The First American, H.W. Brands
A Long Way Down, Nick Hornby
The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy