1,001 Chicago Afternoons

Wicker Park and Bucktown in the snow are a lot like the neighborhoods themselves: A bunch of flakes clumped together to create something cold, unwelcoming and predominantly white. » Read the rest of this entry «

What would Mary of the “Pietà” say?

What would the “American Gothic” farmer holler if he could drop his pitchfork, the “Vitruvian Man” his eternal jumping jacks? If these amber-frozen creatures of art could stretch out, step out and move, what would they talk about?

In the case of Roy Lichtenstein’s “I Know How You Must Feel, Brad” woman, she would talk about guerrilla marketing and how it doesn’t matter that she and her cohort work for a PR firm because, “Ultimately, we’re here for the art.” » Read the rest of this entry «