Valentine

I love Chicago. I say that a lot here, but I think I go through swings with Chicago throughout the year. I never ever hate it, but I think I'm constantly going back and forth between being madly in love and simply taking it for granted.

Before I lived in Chicago, I imagined the different ways people might live in a big city--maybe hating living in the hustle and bustle or maybe loving it and having the luck to take advantage of all a big city has to offer. But I don't think any of my imaginings were correct. Truth be told, living in a big city is a lot like living in a mid-size city or even a small town. It takes longer to get from here to there in Chicago, but otherwise, I go to work and come home and hang out with my husband and dog and do housework and read and cook and lead a life.

But occasionally, I look up from my life and realize that I'm looking at the Willis Tower (nee Sears Tower) or that my office is on Michigan Avenue or that the Art Institute is always just a lunch break away during my work day. And I am struck by the fact that the place where I live is actually a place where millions of people decide to go on vacation every year.

My home is also a destination.

So, I am in the midst, again, of one of those moments, wide-eyed, a little in awe, certainly, suddenly, in full bloom love with Chicago. I mean, look at it. Who could blame me?

Wow, right?

The hotel workers have been on strike at the Congress Hotel for over 8 years. I can't recommend it as a place to stay. But it has one of THE best marquee signs in the city--not just old, but an old version of what someone once thought was modern. . . which is a special kind of old that Chicago specializes in.

And this final blue blur of photo. . . the shake of my hand turning Chicago into a dream, and the rear lights on the back of the Metra car into tiny hearts.

Maybe Chicago loves me back. . .

Chicago, Harinezumi and Memory

I bought a little Harinezumi 2++ camera this past summer. I meant to shoot a film with it for work and didn't. I took a bunch of pictures on vacation--a number of which I posted here--and then the memory card hitched up and I couldn't get the images off the camera. And as those things go, I set it aside and forgot about it.


But this past weekend, I unearthed it, messed around with it, wouldn't take no for an answer and I got the images from the beach off the camera. And rather than dwelling too long on seeing pictures from the sunshine-y North Carolina September seaside on the coldest day of the year in Chicago, I pushed ahead.

And it's all worth it, because here's the thing. I think digital cameras are great for a million different reasons--primarily because you can shoot and shoot and shoot and you will instantly know if any of the images are any good before going through the expense of printing them. But truth be told, I think they're a little soulless. Their images are so crisp, so high-def, so crystal clear. The images they produce are like actually seeing, rather than like remembering. And I think I want photographs for remembering.

When I was a kid, all photography looked like memory--not the crystal clear clarity of the original day as you experienced it, but the way memory faded and played tricks on you and turned a pale hazy blue around the edges. No. Those pictures from the 70's weren't perfect records of the day, but they were kind to your nostalgic view, they didn't jar you with images that were clearer and more immediate and still trapped in that moment of time than your memory could be. . . they aged into the blue and lavendar and green/yellow of your faulty memory. And looking at those images feels right. They feel long ago and that makes me wistful, not sad. There's my dad with a full head of hair and me two feet tall. There's my brother with his big fluffy bowl cut and my mom all slender and grace and smiles. And I don't think, "where did the time go?" I think, "Awwww, look at us back then."

Digital images don't allow for or create that distance. . . except for Harinezumi photos. Digital, but meant to mimic a 110 camera (my childhood camera. anyone? the weird little flat placard at the bottom that you had to push in with your thumb to advance the film foward and the hazy window in the back that would tell you what number picture you were on, if it wasn't fogged up with humidity. And then trying to space the roll out and save shots to stretch the whole vacation because Mom and Dad had only bought you two rolls of film because they could only afford to print two rolls of film. And the oddly shaped pictures at the end, with white edges all around and the light leaks that created dreamy splashes of lavendar or yellow across the center or corner of the photo. anyone?). And so I'm back on board with the little H 2++, because I capture strange, lovely, atmospheric images like this:

This is my city in winter.
This is the city I want to remember in years to come.