Draw me a City in a Garden

Chris Ware and the Old Building Appreciation Society have struck again.

Last night, the humble artist spoke at the Jewish Museum in New York with City of Chicago Cultural Historian Timothy Samuelson ("We both love old buildings, old music, and old comics") on the role of Chicago in the history of the comic strip. Easily this counts as one of the most enjoyable talks I've been to in New York. It could only have been made better if it had taken place in Chicago. And oh how it made me want to be in Chicago.

Great moments came from examinations of entries to a Chicago Tribune contest held to find the building that would be their headquarters, and ultimately, the greatest building in the world. "I call this one the marital aid entry." Ware's dry humor found laughter as well as he lent his commentary to the section of a silent film called "Trees to Tribune" featuring the art staff of the Chicago Tribune. Of Carey Orr: "This guy is such a douchebag. Don't forget your signature, Carey..." (He later reminded us that though he makes fun, he feels a real affinity for these guys.)

Samuelson spun stories of the history of Chicago architecture - of how it was an amalgam of new ideas that never could have worked in a place like New York, of the way it was mocked decades ago in a New Yorker illustration as a prop film set, with tall buildings up front, and support beams in back - a fantastic storyteller. He and Ware bounced off each other like two men sitting on a porch, telling stories they've been telling for years to the new stranger from out of town. Ware shared his love for artists such as Feininger ("he just looks like a nice, old man"), McCay, Darger, New Yorker cover artist Mary Petty (a new fling), and Frank King, creator of "Gasoline Alley."

There was a particular beauty in both Samuelson's and Ware's appreciation for King. There were old black-and-white pictures from King's life, including a sweet moment capturing King, the bottom button of his cardigan undone, carrying his son on his shoulders in front of the camera. Ware told us he seemed like a happy, down-to-earth father. That they had a cozy life. The slight melancholy in the autumn strips of "Gasoline Alley" was explained by the departure of King's son to boarding school. A reflection of melancholy, Ware said: "so anyway..." and the projection screen momentarily faded to black. And there was something very beautiful and intangible in that moment.

More things that endear me to Ware: He wants his drawings to look like they are dead on the page. He loves books more than gallery shows. He understands the majesty of people in photographs obscured to the size of specks of dust by a building of plaster and wood.

"That's what you get for your $15." Well worth it.

More on the Ware/Samuelson connection in multi-media format, featuring Ira Glass, here. If you are in New York, you can see the Masters of American Comics exhibition at The Jewish Museum in New York and the Newark Museum through January 28th.

And bonus: Here's Ware talking about cartooning and Tintin.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Three lovely things: Peanuts, Walking, and Winning

One.
I have loved "Peanuts" from a very young age. I much preferred Schulz's relatively quiet strip to the spastic noise of Looney Toons and Disney, and my parents often found me in time for dinner hiding under the piano with my nose in a Peanuts book. I cried the day Charles Schulz died, because he was the creator of some of my best childhood friends. In case you hadn't yet come across it in the stores, The Complete Peanuts is Fantagraphics' complete collection of 50 years of the Schulz strip in 25 books. To get all 25 (they're up to the sixth collection, 1961-1962 at the moment) would cost a hefty chunk of change, but I'm very tempted, if only to revisit old childhood friends.

There's a review of the collection over at The High Hat.

Two.
Will Self walks really, really far. (via Critical Mass) Part of me thinks he might be incredibly pretentious for doing this. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I could do the same. Just walk the whole way.

I have a hometown friend who came to visit New York a few years ago to do some research work. All of my childhood friends (excluding the Peanuts kids) have developed interesting adulthood quirks, and as I hadn't seen him since high school, I was curious to see what his was. I was highly amused when I found out: He refused to take public transportation. Was it a hygiene thing? No. "I have two good legs, what's wrong with using them?" He started this while living in London, and stuck to it in every city he has lived in or visited. So on the day I met up with him, we walked everywhere. From 55th & 8th to 26th & 6th, then onward to 10th & 5th. In the pouring rain. Uphill both ways. No, it was really raining. My white wool stockings were never the same.

Until I took that walk with him, I don't think I ever realized how close everything is in this city. Really. I have come to rely far too much on public transportation. When the weather is nice, I should remember that I, too, have two good legs. I don't think I will try to make it to JFK on foot for my next flight, but 40 blocks shouldn't be out of the question if the sun is shining and I have the time to kill. As long as it doesn't make me pretentious.

Three.
I won again. This must be my week.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

Haircut 100

Years ago, when appearance obviously didn't concern me as much as it does now, I would cut my own hair. A pair of scissors, a clump in the hand, and snip. Now, like a good grown-up, I go to an actual hair salon at least once a year to get a proper cut. I love my hair salon; the woman who cuts my hair and I bond over our love of Shirley Jackson and fifties pulp paperbacks. They play music in the salon that makes me feel like I'm hanging out with my girlfriends and taking turns playing records. The Pretenders. Pixies. New Order. So, you can imagine my nostalgic mix of joy and revulsion when this song came on the soundsystem as Amy began to chop away at my hair last week.

Oh yes. Icehouse.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

John McGrew and the Sit Backs

Sometimes I can't believe the genius I happen to be related to. Ladies and gentlefolk, the beautiful and talented John McGrew. 'Bound To Do Right' makes my heart sigh, and 'Annie Mae' is the song I would've put on every mix I made for a boy I had a crush on in high school.

I can't wait to hear more...

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

The Omnivore's Dilemma

In a marathon read this Saturday, curled up in an armchair by the window, I finished Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma. I was glued to the armchair until I had made it through the very last pages of the wild pig hunt, the morel hunt, and Pollan's perfect meal. I had already followed Pollan's exploration of industrial agriculture and the American reliance on corn, his investigation of what is really behind organic production, and the story of a grass farmer (Pollan is most favorable to the grass farmer) who dropped the name Louis Bromfield. Pollan's work is fantastic, not because it made me hate the world and all the poorly produced food in it, which it could have easily done with sensationalist facts, but instead because it made me consider carefully the food I have in front of me, made me think about every ingredient, and every human being who had a hand in its production, what that production was like.

Last night, we cooked portobella mushrooms with shallots and couscous, and sauteed some greens on the side. Before I took my first bite, I tried to trace the food chain back to the beginnings of this meal, and while the ingredients had no particular story (mushrooms and couscous from fairway, shallots and garlic from the farmer's market, greens from Trader Joe's), it was interesting to think of the mushroom sitting in a forest bed (fungi are one of the few foods we eat, apparently, that are impossible to manufacture outside of the course of nature) not knowing, or even having the capability of knowing it would eventually end up being consumed in a New York apartment on mismatched old hotel dishes.

Some meals I've had to consider might have a more interesting, locally-flavored, from-nature-to-table story.

About four years ago, my dad was called out of his veterinary clinic by a neighbor up the road: "A deer's just been hit." Dad got to the road and saw that the deer had been killed on impact. He and the neighbor agreed that there was nothing to do for it, and decided to get it off the road and onto the clinic property. Then they decided that rather than let the deer decompose and attract other critters on the roadside, and rather than call someone to come haul it away, they'd divide it up themselves. The neighbor had an interest in the antlers and hooves, and expressed as much. Dad thought he could do with the hide and deer meat, and so they removed the deer to a more inconspicuous location and did what they needed to do.

Dad sent the meat to a processing plant for cleaning and processing, and kept the hide for tanning. Christmas was approaching, and the deer's unfortunate accident had instantly solved the problem of a main course. When Mom told me what we'd be having for Christmas dinner, I was in shock.

"You mean, we're having roadkill?"

"Yes, but you can't tell anyone that. The meat was processed, and we want people to enjoy their meal. Venison is a delicacy."

So I kept my mouth shut. The meat came back from the processing plant in butcher paper, looking like any meat you'd get from any proper butcher's. Mom painstakingly roasted the venison to its fullest flavor, and gorgeously prepared it for serving on a lovely porcelain platter. We had more than twenty relatives home for that Christmas, and as we sat down to dinner, I passed a few smirking glances to the few of us who knew the little secret of where the meat came from. I wasn't going to say a word; let the people enjoy their gourmet deer. Unfortunately, Grandma didn't get the memo. After we had sung "Joy to the World," and half of the family had lifted their forks, Grandma called out: "Everyone enjoy your roadkill!"

This anecdote means something different to me after reading The Omnivore's Dilemma. At the time, I couldn't bring myself to eat the fallen deer. I could only laugh at the concept of roadkill for Christmas dinner. Now that I think back on it, however, my dad did right by the deer to make sure his body was appreciated at a festive event, when people were grateful for the food in front of them, partaking joyfully of the bounty of the earth. Pollan mentions several times the roles culture and tradition play in our food, and how saying grace was a practice that many of us may have wrongly let go of, even any sort of secular grace showing appreciation "for that which we are about to receive." We couldn't save the deer's life, but as we sang "Joy to the World" as our form of Christmas grace (and, yes, my family sings "Joy to the World" around the Christmas table), we were paying our respects to the life and sustenance that his death gave us.

As Pollan might say - "Wait, did I just write that?" It may sound new-agey, but it feels great to come to terms with the food in front of you. It might be a terrifying thing to confront (especially when you're staring a Big Mac in the "eye"), but it's something more of us should do every day. If I had been a little bit more aware back then, I may have been more respectful myself, and realized that the deer was the only thing on the table that didn't require some sort of reliance on petroleum, corn, or chemical fertilizers. And I, too, might have been able to enjoy my Christmas roadkill.

Read the introduction and first chapter here.

(On that note, I should mention that my compulsive writing habits of November have earned me some Memphis barbecue goods from generous fellow NaBloPoMoer Lynnster. I'll have to find a nice grass-fed piece of beef to experiment with, pondering a cow's life while drenching it in barbecue sauce. That may sound insensitive, but honestly, read the book. Pollan makes a great point of how disastrous it would be if we all became vegans. And visit Joel Salatin's cows in cyberspace. Does anyone still say "cyberspace"? I just did...)

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.