Just Short of Silent Sobbing – East of Eden by John Steinbeck

One of the easiest ways to get me overly emotional is to slap a fine book in front of me and force my eyes into it. I’m like alot of high school students who have the notion that old books must suck, when they are, in fact, much better than new books. There is something about the idea of language and word play that’s died recently, and it makes me incredibly sad. But it’s not about that right now.

East of Eden, perhaps one of Steinbeck’s most famous novels, came as a shock to me, sitting lonely and abandoned to a dollar-donation table at my local library in the summer. Good cover design caught me, to be honest, and taking a chance I bought it, especially after hearing so many raving reviews. In taking a chance, I gave it a chance. When one first delves into this book, there’s not much to expect from it, because even from the brief inner panel description, the only real sense you’re given as to what the book is about is farming. Lots and lots of farming. I was already dreading to read it, but I always try to give a fighting effort of two chapter minimums to each book I read. Two chapters is all I needed to be thoroughly convinced that this book was an addiction waiting to happen. Everything jumps into place, first following the lives of Charles and Adam Trask, brothers at odds that many of us can relate to, perhaps in a gentler sense (one thing I enjoy about the 1900′s; they are so blunt and straight forward with their problems).

I’m not here to necessarily review or summarize the book, but simply to note and exaggerate that feeling you get when a piece of literary art brings you to an emotional high such as crying a train ride home. When a man like Steinbeck so easily reveals the inner conscience of a battling, raging young boy, I find myself relating to it in far too many ways. As a gender queer individual, I can  side with neither one or another character, because I am quite glad to be a woman, but it seems that my level of understanding and compassion can lean to be won over by a male protagonist, especially a young one, starting with Adam and following into his son Caleb. To hear of their struggles is like watching my own life played in my mind, and to hear such inner guilt and pity being released reminds me of my own unconscious battles. To beg for fatherly acceptance and crush oneself with worry that they are a terrible person who only means good, these are the inner struggles I compete with everyday. The more organized and thoughtful and careful I become, the less these feeling surface.

The idea of choice is also an enormous issue this book covers tirelessly, and I mean that in the best possible way. With a repeating theme of Cain and Abel’s debacle, the choice to be, to follow in an influence’s footsteps, to kill or live, to change, is constant. There is always a choice, always another option to even the darkest and most hopeless of situations. I don’t know when I began to believe in myself enough to never give up, but to have it reinforced in such a strong way speaks rainbows to me, and comes in a lovely point in my life. I feel real happiness that is solid and touchable at times, abstract at most. Even now with a runny nose and congested forehead, a smile creeps along my lips.

"East of Eden" by Kenny McKendry

The First Real Night Downtown – Fantastic Landscapes

Being away from the city seems effortless and right for the summer, but not until you get back into Chicago’s jungle of people and cars and art and schools do you realize just how much you’ve missed it. I always, towards the end of the season, get antsy for routine and inspirational assignments, and then finally the cold lake air hits your face and you’re suddenly sitting in an Illustration room, jotting down ideas for hot sauce bottles, and you feel alright again.

As becoming closer to my friends trickles its way into being my new routine, some of us spotted a last second chance to re-enter the Loop’s art scene. Fantastic Landscapes, a Columbia College and Pop-Up Art Loop initiative, opened just down the block from the American Academy of Art, and with an open door and the smell of bread and wine wafting into the street, who could resist? On the door, a short and sweet description read:

“A selection of photography, sculpture and painting that distorts, challenges, expands, alters and makes abstract the traditional notion of landscape in art.”

The gutted insides of this room were exactly as I expected, and I say that in the most pleasant way I can, because it was truly a wonderful back-to-school experience. While true to a typical gallery form, with paintings and photographs lining the walls, sculptures and the like on pedestals, the content – oh lord, the CONTENT- of the gallery was astoundingly different. A bolivia bug of yarn masses divided the room’s conversations and cliques, which essentially forced people around to the different pieces, if only to open their eyes just a little to the varying possibilities of what landscape really means. Is it the vast valley of wildflowers or is it a cerebral adventure akin to the Magic School bus?

Although photography is a crystal clear love of mine, the paintings drew my attention immediately, and perhaps this was with a little help from a skeptical friend. Violet Sunset 4, a mixed media painting by Lisa Majer, seemed to be our greatest inspiration for discussion. With the gallery so packed, we were unable to step back from it, but also not resting painfully close to it. In turn, it was only after I left with a small flier in my hand that I saw the burning hills of dusk and the jaded twilight sky. If you’ve ever seen Amelie’, you might imagine a kind of moment like that of the blind man feeling a sudden inner ability of sightless sight; an epiphany. This painting was an epiphany. Much of the photography caught my attention as well, including a lovely night-time sky, which made me so fondly remember camping in Wisconsin. The stars are endless.

I curiously wonder a little at this moment whether the attendees were there for the true purpose of a gallery. Despite the few drifters I spotted paying close attention to the work, it seemed like the room was stuffed with students huddled into small groups of familiar faces. Not that I’m much of an eavesdropper, but the conversations were devoid of art or inspiration otherwise. Maybe it wasn’t my place to assume, but I feel sad at the idea that galleries are becoming ‘hang-out’ spots, the art left ignored and neglected on its dusty walls. I hope I can be proven wrong of this idea, I really do. Maybe I’m overly entranced by art, so much so that I expect others to be on the same level of passionate eye-wandering as myself. Or they are, and they are much more subtle. Both of these options seem entirely possible. I’m an overly talkative, obviously expressive person when it comes to a subject of interest.

310 conTEMPORARY Gallery