An Afternoon with my Daughter
Sonia and I took the Metra downtown today for her orthodontist appointment. We arrived early and so killed some time at the coffee shop in the Chicago Cultural Center, my favorite building in the whole city. We checked out a few of the temporary art installations there, as well, then walked down the street to Daley Plaza where we watched pigeons engage in remarkably complex bathing rituals in the fountain by the Picasso statue. Finally, it was time to make our way to the clinic office.
After getting her braces adjusted, we headed over to the Art Institute. I used a trick I learned on our recent London trip: when touring an art gallery with a teenager, pick out in advance a handful of paintings you want to see, spend a few minutes in front of each, and then cash in your chips while you are still ahead. Since you haven’t burned out the kid’s short attention span, you might even be able to look at a few more works on your way to the exit. It worked like a charm again today. We saw three or four of my favorite pieces from the special exhibit on Japanese screens that I wrote about here earlier, then checked out “American Gothic” and “Nighthawks.” Sonia was still into it, so we headed for the Impressionism rooms and then strolled through some of the earlier European collection. We spent a good deal of time looking at a fifteenth century painting of St. George killing the dragon as well as at several striking El Grecos before we made our way out.
Outside, as we waited for the traffic light to turn green, a homeless man tried to sell us a copy of Streetwise. When we didn’t bite, he offered us instead a couple of jokes.
1). What’s the difference between a school teacher and a train? When you’ve got a piece of gum in your mouth, the teacher says “Spit it out,” but the train says “Chew chew.”
2). What do you call a school teacher who won’t fart in public? A private tooter.
Not bad, I thought.
We ate pizza for lunch and took the train home to Hyde Park. On board, Sonia told me about the funny look the lady at Borders gave her recently when she asked where their Lou Reed CDs were. (I’d asked for a couple of titles for my birthday). Apparently, thirteen-year-old girls aren’t part of the expected audience for Uncle Lou.
Later, back at home, when we were supposed to be doing our work, I instead used the wonders of YouTube to introduce Sonia to a new art form: ventriloquism. We watched footage of Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy, Jay Marshall and Leno, and Dan Horn and Orsen.
There are worse ways to spend a Saturday afternoon.
