Hit or Miss Accessibility at the MCA

Had a great conversation with Angela today about art, blindness, museum accessibility, and how “community building” might facilitate real solutions. I’ve been thinking a lot about the Dan Peterman show at the MCA, and how strange it was to interact with the work within an institutional setting.

The chairs made from grocery carts? “Why, yes you can sit on those!” the museum guard assured me. The same went for the house of foam and the outdoor classroom tree stumps. I’d almost made my way through the entire exhibit without incident when the guard came over to inspect the monocular I use to read the titles of artworks and other inaccessible signage.
“Just as long as you aren’t taking pictures with it…” she warned, visibly concerned, even after I’d explained its function. I realized I was looking at a piece that belongs to someone that I in fact know- the dean of the art school where I’m currently working towards an MFA in Studio Art. An additional sign read, “Please do not touch.” The piece was a customized Swiss army knife, complete with a small tin cup. Nothing too fragile. Still, I wonder if Judith would mind if a couple of blind people handled her Peterman while wearing curator’s gloves. Not that this was an option, because in the U.S. people with disabilities have access to only a fraction of the cultural products on display in public institutions.

I left the MCA that day marveling at the complex negotiations that artists like Dan are engaging in. Angela said something to me today about museums functioning as the mausoleums for dead art. I do think that when people are discouraged from engaging with work in an intuitive way that, well, the smell of rot must creep in.

Just finished stocking the fridge with groceries. I bought more food than usual, wanting to try out a couple of new recipes I found on line. I usually take the train from the store, but today I learned that not only can I get groceries delivered to my home, but I can catch a ride in the delivery guy’s van.

This seems like a good idea, until the driver comes into view. A heavy- set guy wearing a black porkpie hat and matching bowling shirt warns me not to try to open the side door of the van myself.

“it’s tricky,” he says of the 70ish model clunker.

What happens if I need to make a quick get away I wonder as I climb on to the backseat. The van’s interior smells like a pile of unwashed clothes. The driver who looks like a bouncer- or an unusually clothes- conscious serial killer- attempts to rack up extra business as he loads the van. The shoppers look vaguely frightened, and politely decline his offers.


Next time I think I’ll take a cab.

I’m on the Blue Line heading to a remote stop just south of the airport; “as far as this train goes.” It’s noon and I’m starving. There’s a sandwich in my bag, but I hate eating on the train for a few reasons, the most important being the noxious smells of the subway cars.

I’ve seen people place a Styrofoam container of food on the seat in front of them and procede to dine, hunched over in earnest, or perhaps driven by necessity of getting food into their mouths on a jolting train tide. They tend to eat with their eyes closed. Maybe they are pretending they are somewhere else after all, an outdoor café, a loved one’s kitchen.

The second- hand smell of food coupled with those unmistakable odors we associate with subways and subway cars can be a lethal mix, and I can only assume that most of my fellow commuters agree with me. So, I silently count the stops to that distant suburb, occasionally digging into my bag for a surrepticious handful of trail mix. I tell myself that there are two kinds of people: those who will eat anywhere undaunted and those of us who cling to our dignity by adamantly refusing to chow down on the Pee Train.

Today I am taking a new bus route to Wicker Park, since I’ve only lived in this neighborhood for three months. The trains don’t run on the weekends in this part of town. It’s critical that I get to the bookstore on time because I’m participating in a reading to promote a friend’s zine, Ladyfriend.

This is where my hit- or- miss predictions of the transit system come into play; the bus ride takes only 20 minutes, even though I’ve given myself two hours to get to my destination. This sort of thing happens more often with buses than with trains. Today, at least, I’m in a part of town where there are plenty of things to divert my attention from my growing stage fright.

Pedestrian Hostel Launch!

JOIN ME FOR A RETREAT AT THE PEDESTRIAN HOSTEL — a blog dedicated to one chronic walker's experiences within a major urban setting. Pedestrian Hostel is a meditation on travel and mobility, knocking down barriers to access, and forging paths on Roads Less Traveled- all from the quirky perspective of a disability rights activist. Find a comfy chair, prop up your feet, and learn about current civil rights legislation, gimp sexual preference, “the art of taking a walk,” disability and motherhood, PLUS, everything you ever wanted to know about blindness but were afraid to ask! This is an interactive site designed for PWDs- People With Differences, that is. Differences of opinion, different bodies, different ideas, different politics.