Wednesday, December 7 2022
the flu, the art show, and thanksgiving
Flu season shows no mercy. Miles, Rodney, Marissa, and I are all afflicted. We take turns on the couch. We look to sports drinks, crackers, and soup for comfort from the nagging headaches, barking coughs, and fatigue. It's a good thing that I took the rest of the year off for my sabbatical from work, because the truth is I probably would have just called in sick for most of this week.
Isn't it funny how your body can stave off getting sick until you're done with your work? Our symptoms fell swiftly after we packed up the One of a Kind Art show. It was a great week. We set up shop in the Merchandise Mart. While Marissa put the finishing touches on her display, Miles and I wandered around and helped ourselves to the vibrant downtown scenery.
Whenever we put on art shows in Chicago, I think about this quote from Anthony Bourdain.
You wake up in Chicago, pull back the curtain and you KNOW where you are. You could be nowhere else. You are in a big, brash, muscular, broad shouldered motherfuckin’ city. A metropolis, completely non-neurotic, ever-moving, big hearted but cold blooded machine with millions of moving parts - a beast that will, if disrespected or not taken seriously, roll over you without remorse.
Our rental van got towed. It was my fault. It was a complicated and expensive monkey wrench thrown into our plans. As I stood there among the bustling, throbbing heart of downtown Chicago in the empty space our van was once parked earlier that day, I thought about this quote. Chicago is beautiful and exciting, but my God it can really just roll over you sometimes.
We had a great show. Marissa sold a lot of paintings. We met lots of good people. We ate some delicious food. In my brain I can still taste the pork belly and duck liver mouse sandwich I finished off Marissa's plate - truly something special.
On her busiest day, I foolishly returned from a lunch errand with Indian food. There was little chance we'd be able to partake without making an unsightly mess in her pristine art booth, so we ate our lunch in shifts. I sequestered myself to a quiet table in the back of the artist lounge on the opposite side of the floor. As soon as I cracked the plastic lid, pungent garlic and curry smell saturated the little room. Armed with only a single cocktail napkin to catch the dripping butter, I did my best to ignore the angry darting eyes from the few vendors that were using the quiet room to catch up on work and make phone calls. "I'm the breakroom terrorist," I typed in my phone to Marissa while my shoulders heaved trying to contain my laugh.
Did you have a nice Thanksgiving? We sure did. I have to confess that I've stared at this photo in my camera roll a few times this week.
Be well, reader. Rest up and keep pushing those fluids. With any luck, we'll be back in fighting shape before Christmas.