Walker Hall of Fame #1

The best breakup story EVER Artists Marina Abromavic and Ulay walked the Great Wall of China, each journeying 2000 kilometers just to say goodbye.








More Marina!

Catching Up

You might have wondered why this blog was inactive for a few months. Naturally I thought that underemployment would allow this blog to flourish, but soul-crushing 30 hour work weeks spent slinging coffee served only to hasten creative atrophy.

Happily, things picked up in April with the Chicago debut of the first city-wide Disability Arts Festival. I was asked to participate in Humans Being, a group exhibition at the Chicago Cultural Center. Through this event, I had the indispensable opportunity to connect with many talented artists, including Sandy Yi, Madison Clell, Katherine Sherwood and Riva Lehrer. At Victory Gardens Theater I endured a hearty dose of schadenfreude, courtesy of British actor Mat Fraser. The film festival proved to be a true smorgasbord- I wish I could have made it to all the screenings.

I've learned a thing or two about web design at my new day job and made Sisyphean attempts at deciphering the No Child Left Behind teacher certification laws. I'm in the process of deciding which coast to move to and to which artist's residencies I want to apply. I'm planning a trip to Germany to visit a friend who recently moved to Heidelberg.

About a month ago I was adopted by a brown and white tabby kitten- she's a sweetheart.

I've started reading The Fire Next Time for like the third itme because my mind starts racing after only a page or two, thinking about our current retroactive politics. Activism can be a humbling experience.

Minutiae anyone?

Another interesting bit of minutiae from the weekend vaults- watched the documentary Blind Spot about Hitler's secretary during the final phases of WW II. At the end of the war, she was captured and raped as a Russian POW. According to the film's end notes, Traudl Junge had to stop working years after the war due to severe depression. The text goes on to say that she spent most of her subsequent free time "reading to blind people."

You'll never guess how I spent the weekend...

I spent all of Sunday afternoon designing snazzy sqare shotglasses for the semi- inaugural fundraisr of the Illinois Association of Blind Students. As a steadfast poponent of the Bad Jokes as Art movement, I was happy to help out with the look of this little item. Regardless of one's visual accuity, drinking yourself blind- or blinder as the case may be- has never looked/ felt so stylish. IABS will be selling these highly collectable items in all their poor taste glory for four bucks a pop starting in November.

Like Riding the Short Bus

It's been some time since I've written about my public transportation woes. Allow me to run through some of the recent hilights.

On Thursday of this week all Chicago Loop trains slowed to a crawl. The squawky intercom announcements vaguely attributed the delays to "interlocking problems." My friend Willow called that afternoon to warn me, having just emerged from four-and-a-half hours of captivty on the Brown Line. I agreed to call her back after work to comisserate, thankful for the tip. But the Damen bus that evening was inhabited by a pack of gangsta- wannabe high schoolers talking smack so loud that neither of us could hear. Whatever happened to taking the school bus, yo?

A couple of weeks ago I was heading home on the bus when some asshole out on Western Avenue threw a brick through the front windshild. It made a loud popping sound not unlike a bullet- for a moment no one was sure what had happened to send all the night's debris scurrying down the aisle. Sitting by a window, I had the distinct impression that my skull was made out of glass. Now I know how the Visible Woman feels.

The driver pulled over to the curb to call the cops. While we waited one rider managed to work herself into a rocking-crying tizzie. The cop that showed up was a total creep, asking the driver the same questions over and over again in a combattive tone as if she were the culprit. Thankfully, no one was physically hurt.

It made a loud popping sound not unlike a bullet- for a moment no one was sure what had happened to send all the night's debris scurrying down the aisle.

We all crowded on to the next bus to arrive, while the police "interrogation" was being filed. I sat facing a potbellied guy with a bulging Quimby's bag, which as you knnow if you shop at Quimby's, makes the ginormous breasts of the superheroine printed on the front look even bustier, though lumpier perhaps... Unable to take this rider for an indie comix enthusiast, I spent the remainder of the trip trying to guess what kind of porn he'd purchased,

Our Name Is Legion

I'm guilty of googling my name from time to time, but you would too if your name were Jennifer Justice! And now I have proof that I'm not the only navel-gazer in our ranks. Thanks to Berkeley comedienne Jennifer "L." Justice for compiling this handy list of alliterated Jennifer Js and for providing me with a great photo of myself that I didn't even know existed on the web or anywhere else, for that matter. Yikes, I think...

Jen's research suggests that women who share our name tend to be creative and caring professionals who gravitate to careers in the arts, sports, social work, activism and healthcare. We're women of God, women of letters, funny and unpredictable. Most definitely we can kick your ass.

Fork Woman's heinous tricks are no match for the powers of Spork Girl.

Perhaps we're really just ONE supremely-powerful super hero, carrying out plans for world domination under a variety of clever disguises, though this photo might suggest otherwise.

Church of Neko Case

Neko Case is in touch with the dangers of taming a wild nation such as our United States. She knows that the West is still Wild and the Dirty South continues to labor to clean up its act.

Case belongs to that unique breed of singer/songwriters whose music has the strength and vitality to shore up these difficult truths by building on mythologies of regional American folklore and old time religion. Her latest album Fox Confessor Brings the Flood enlists Gospel metaphors and phrasings on a gorgeous secular album with scores of musical influences, which, combined reflect America's cultural and social dissonance.

Like love or greed, Case knows that hope is a drive. As a vocalist she channels the fatalism of a bygone era with an ardor that's both touching and a little scary. Lyrics like those found on Hold On, Hold On and Maybe Sparrow speculate on the hazards of such belief systems. Lion's Jaws toys with its romantic implications.

Fox Confessor's joyful flourishes and sudden fervor create the same sense of displacement I felt recently walking through the Upper West Side, suddenly engulfed in a chorus of church bells belting out "How Great Thou Art" in its enirity, right on to Broadway: an astonishing sonic interlude for a busy New York street.

It's a rare gem of a rock album that successfully surveys the emotional expanse of gospel, blues and folk, particularly one that invites the under-appreciated element of joy on to the aural landscape (emo boys take note). Case bounds past tepid melancholy on her hunt for the most human of traits- desire.

I'm all for being moved by the spirit, even if I'm not ready to convert. Case delivers her homebrew of fractured mysticism with a melodic fervor that easily inspires an Amen.

Digging in Stonewall