Hail to Jane Addams on her 153rd birthday

The good we secure for ourselves is precarious and uncertain until it is secured for all of us and incorporated into our common life.
– Jane Addams, pioneer in settlement house movement, founder of Hull House, public philosopher, sociologist, author, pacifist, and leader in woman suffrage and world peace

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

An older Jane Addams (from the Chicago Gay and Lesbian Hall of Fame site).

Today is Jane Addams’s birthday. She was born in 1860 and died on May 21, 1935. I learned about Addams as a child, though I’m unsure whether I read about her in or outside the classroom. The only thing I can think of is that one of my female teachers in elementary school admired her and wanted us to read about her accomplishments. Then again, our library carried a series of old books about famous women who made important contributions in our country. These books highlighted an event in their childhoods that shaped who they eventually became. Pretty visionary reading for the early 1970s and in our tiny, rural school library, no less.

I remember Addams as the co-founder of Hull House, a settlement house, in the west side of Chicago. When it opened its doors in 1889, Addams and fellow co-founder Ellen Gates Starr welcomed the recently arrived European immigrants. Addams’s vision for the settlement house was to enable a community of university women to provide social and educational opportunities for working-class people in the neighborhoods. These women volunteers taught classes in art, domestic activities, history, literature, and other subjects. Hull House also offered lectures and concerts.

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

A young Jane Addams in 1878 (from www.swarthmore.edu).

Addams advanced what she called the “three R’s” of settlement house movement: residence, research, and reform. She felt that creating a community with the neighbors, studying the causes of poverty, and educating the public were necessary in order to drive change through legislative and social reform. Addams was the quintessential Renaissance woman – volunteering as an on-call physician and taking on the role of midwife, nursing the sick, protecting  women of domestic abuse, and even preparing the dead for burial. She fought to shield children from child labor abuses and helped lead the movement for women’s rights, healthcare reform, and immigration policy. She was an advocate for playgrounds, founding the National Playground Association. She studied child behavior and understood the importance of creating a healthy environment in which children could thrive and a healthy foundation in which they could grow up to be productive citizens.

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

Jane Addams in midlife (from USEmbassy.gov).

What is amazing to me is that Jane Addams suffered many childhood ailments. At the age of four, she was stricken with tuberculosis of the spine and Potts’s disease, which resulted in curvature of the spine and contributed to health issues that plagued her the rest of her life. After her father died unexpectedly and she received her inheritance, Jane Addams moved with her family from Cedarville, Illinois, to Philadelphia. She had a promising future studying medicine at the Woman’s Medical College of Philadelphia, but spinal surgery and a nervous breakdown sidelined her and kept her from finishing her education and receiving her medical degree. When her stepmother fell ill, the family moved back to Cedarville. (Side note: Her mother died in childbirth when she was two years old. She was the youngest of nine children, although by the time she was eight years old, she had lost three siblings in their infancy and another when at age 16.)

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Dress boldly and go forth into the world with confidence.

Her brother-in-law performed surgery to straighten her back and advised her to travel instead of return to her studies. In 1883, she and her stepmother went to Europe for two years. It was at this time that she discovered that she didn’t have to become a physician to help the poor. But when she returned to the U.S., she also returned to the prison-like confines of young women of her socio-economic class and as a result she fell into despair. During this bleak period in her life, however, she turned to books and read many that influenced and shaped her ideas about democracy and socialism and the role of women. When she read  magazine article about the new concept of settlement houses in the summer of 1887, hope was restored, life became promising again and bigger than her expected role in society, and her future path was forged.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

Bold and delicate: Carmela Rose necklace and earrings and Tiffany ring and bracelet.

She overcame numerous medical and social adversities with all that she accomplished. She was the first female president of the National Conference of Social Work, created the National Federation of Settlements, and served as president of the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom. Jane Addams was the first American woman to win the Nobel Peace Prize in 1931,albeit as a co-winner with a male educator and presidential advisor. If anything, Jane Addams embodies for me the woman who is all too human and as such, living in the suffocating and repressed Victorian era, endures a wandering of the desert, so to speak, before finding her purpose in life, finding her voice, and finding the strength to do something useful in the world, which was an ambition of hers when she was a teen.

As I struggle to find the time and the energy to finally accomplish what I had dreamed of an idealistic young woman, I look up to Jane Addams and admire what she was up against and overcame – at a time when the political and social worlds were solidly against her – and gather tremendous strength. My battles are insignificant and therefore easily vanquished. Happy Birthday, Jane Addams! May you inspire legions of young girls and women of all ages to find their place in the world and in so doing make the world a better place.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

Pink, yellow, and black for our Indian summer.

A Village in the Fields: an excerpt

The time to begin writing an article is when you have finished it to your satisfaction. By that time you begin to clearly and logically perceive what it is you really want to say.
– Mark Twain, pen name of Samuel Clemens, American author and humorist

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

The contemplative author pose: Navy lace, silk shorts, and soft peach sweater.

My Labor Day Weekend is over, but not the last revision of my novel. It’s just that now I have to find any nook and cranny of free time to keep on writing. I realized last night that because I have been doing nothing but edit and revise, I don’t have a blog post. Then I thought to myself, why not post an excerpt from the current chapter I am revising?

So, here is an excerpt from Chapter 7 of my novel-in-progress, A Village in the Fields, the story of an elderly Filipino farm worker, Fausto Empleo, who realizes what he has lost and gained from his struggles in America – in the agricultural fields of California, particularly during and after the Great Delano Grape Strikes of the 1960s and 1970s. I am still fiddling with saying what my novel is about in one sentence!

In this excerpt, Fausto, who is living in a camp for grape pickers in Delano in the 1950s, satisfies his curiosity by introducing himself to an immigrant farm worker from Yemen. The grape growers strategically kept the different nationalities in separate bunkhouses, partly to isolate them and to foment distrust among the groups:

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

“What is Yemen like?” Fausto asked.

The man dabbed the last piece of bread in the remains of his stew and ate it. He wiped his mouth with the red-and-black checkered scarf he had pulled from his head. “Where I come from—the coast—it is hot and humid,” the man answered.

Fausto licked his parched lips. “Is Yemen hot like Delano?”

The man laughed. “Yes, but we have monsoons. Many families fish for their livelihood. We are at the mercy of the monsoons.”

“We have typhoons in the Philippines. That is where I came from. My name is Fausto Empleo.” He thrust out his hand, and the man shook it vigorously.

“I am Ahmed Mansur, the son of Mansur Ali Ibrahim.”

“How long have you been in the States?” Ahmed moved his lips, adding up the years. “Thirty-five years, maybe more.”

“Ai, thirty-five years!” Fausto slapped his hand on his haunch. Dust rose from his dungarees. “You came in the twenties. Same as me!”

“When I left, there was so much unrest in Yemen, too much hardship for my family. I was looking to improve my fortune. I took a ship and came here to the Valley to work in the fields. I planned to save enough money to return to Mukalla, my hometown.” Ahmed stretched his legs and sat on an empty wooden crate bearing the label “Cuculich Farms.” “But I am still here,” he said, in a voice as hollow as the crate.

“Me, too. Me, too.”

“It is hard work in the fields, but what else is there for someone like me?”

Fausto couldn’t answer, his hands on his thighs, his palms open to the sky.

***

“Do you miss the Philippines? Do you miss your home?” he asked.

Fausto rubbed his neck where trickles of sweat made his skin itch. “Maybe I missed what it used to be or what it used to mean to me. But I have been here longer in the States than in the Philippines. My family is like a stranger to me. Imagine that!”

“I am afraid to imagine such things,” Ahmed said.

“What do you miss of your home?” Fausto wanted to know.

“Everything,” Ahmed whispered. He folded his fingers together like petals closing for the day. The rocky coast is like a school of ancient turtles sunning themselves by turquoise waters, he told Fausto. The city, crowded with stone buildings and chalk-white mosques, crawls up the base of wind-blasted hills. The whitewashed minarets soar and pierce the sharp blue sky. Ahmed imagined the wrinkles that have deepened around his mother’s eyes, which is not covered by her black chador. He is haunted by the memory of his father—alone in a boat bobbing off the coast, with hands as ragged as the nets he casts out into the deep waters.

***

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

Fausto held up a cluster of grapes. Ripe berries hung down from his fingers like strands of dark South Sea pearls, although these jewels lasted only weeks. That fact made the grapes more precious than any gem mined from the earth or harvested from the ocean. He laid the cluster in the crate by his feet. When he stood up, a sharp pain radiated from his hand, up his arm to his shoulder. He peeled off his cotton glove to massage his fingers and wrist, knead the length of his arm in a slow crawl. How could he forget? The long, hard work in the fields, the ache in his body, the low hourly rate reminded him daily of how costly and dear these grapes were.

Labor Day Weekend: a writer’s retreat

In order to write the book you want to write, in the end you have to become the person you need to become to write that book.
– Junot Diaz

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

Kayaking with dolphins in Morro Bay, Labor Day Weekend, September 2012.

For many years, I went down to my hometown of Terra Bella for the annual San Esteban Dance and festivities, which was held on Labor Day Weekend. David joined me, and then when the kids were born, going down there became one of our family traditions. San Esteban was the hometown of my father and many of his cousins who came to the United States from the Philippines in the 1920s, and relatives up and down California and even from Hawaii and Illinois would gather in our dusty little town to celebrate being a part of the social club that formed in 1955.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

Mixing flaming orange and dusty pink.

When my cousin Janet married her husband Tim, 13 years ago in the central coastal town of Cambria, we added another tradition.  David made a gourmet dinner to celebrate their anniversary on the Saturday evening of the long weekend when we came into town and stayed with them. We had been doing this for many years until last year, the first year after my mother’s passing away, when we decided to meet in Cambria for the long weekend and stay in a hostel. The highlight of that trip was kayaking in Morro Bay and watching a family of dolphins boldly play in the bay, with one breaching right in front of our kayak.

We planned to repeat the trip to Cambria, but we ended up adjusting to having Janet and Tim come visit us in the Bay Area. Family matters made us change course once again. This time, we were going to be staying put at home – something we haven’t done in years. While I was at first dismayed by the break in tradition, I also had a mission to accomplish in the month of September, and now I had an entire three days to make tremendous strides toward my goal.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

Mixing pink hues and orange: Gorgeous & Green reclaimed vintage earrings (Berkeley, CA), Lava 9 ring (Berkeley, CA), and Anthropologie clear bangle.

I wanted to revise my novel one last time over the summer but never got around to it. Work is starting to heat up this fall and I’ll be traveling again for business. But I’m determined to make good on finally finishing my novel this year. My college professor from Davis read my manuscript earlier this year and while he found much to admire, his main criticism was in the novel’s pacing. I wasn’t quite sure what he meant until I dove headlong into the manuscript. After spending the last couple of days in an intense writer’s retreat, I understand what he means and I am fixing the problem in earnest.

I must have spent 12 hours revising one chapter on Saturday, but I did so in a state of rapture and with a singular focus on technical precision. Wearing sweats, not showering all day, not knowing what the rest of the house looked like, not knowing what David and the kids were doing or not doing, and not caring, I was fully living in the world of my characters. I was refining their voices and making clearer the landscape in which they roamed. I was exquisitely enraptured. This is what it’s like to be a full-time writer–if only for the Labor Day Weekend.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L' Armoire (Berkeley, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

Adding a vintage embroidered purse from L’ Armoire (Albany, CA), and Mea Shadow perforated wedges.

I am almost half-way through the last revision. When I sent out the 600-plus-page manuscript to literary agents back in 2005 and received all rejections, I bemoaned in particular one rejection in which the agent had excitedly requested the entire manuscript after the query only to say it basically didn’t fulfill her expectations. I had failed, you see. The story itself was compelling, but I did not execute on telling the story in an equally compelling way. That’s when I shut down for four years and didn’t write.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

Definitely warm enough for shorts this Labor Day Weekend. Mixing lace and bold African patterns.

When I look back at the manuscript I sent out eight years, I am heartened because I didn’t execute then but I know I am doing so now. I am a better writer, with a clear perspective, and much-needed maturity. There is palpable power in that knowledge, in revising and replacing inadequate words, sentences, scenes with the right word, the concise sentence, the heartfelt scene, the right touch in all the right places. When I finish this final revision, I know that I can send the manuscript out into the world again with renewed faith and confidence. I’m nailing it.

I’m grateful for this Labor Day Weekend when I can call myself a writer again. Three days, a writer’s retreat (with a Friday Night girls’ night to watch a depressing French film with a good friend who happens to be French and an Oakland A’s baseball game thrown in on Monday) – is there anything more a writer can ask for? You can always ask for more full days for writing, but for now, I am grateful, I am satiated. One more day left.

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

Bold accessories on navy lace: Horn cuff from Kenya, a present from my sister Heidi; Sundance rings; In God We Trust banded ring (NYC); and reclaimed vintage matchbox and rosary necklace by Ren Lux Revival (Uncommon Objects, Austin).

Nostalgia: You can play it again, Sam, after all

Memory believes before knowing remembers.
– William Faulkner, Nobel Prize-winning American novelist and short story writer, from Light in August

A black-and-white retro outfit.

A black-and-white retro outfit: two-tone vest from Personal Pizazz (Berkeley, CA), wide-legged patterned trousers, and gauzy sheer jacket.

For several months after my mother passed away in the early morning of January 3, 2012, I listened to popular songs from the 1970s on Pandora Radio into the night. I was fully cognizant of what I was doing; I was taking myself back to a time when I was in elementary school and high school, and my parents – though my dad was 55 years old when I was born – were younger, healthier, and full of life. I have a soft spot for many songs from the 70s, but whether I truly liked some of them when they first came out was moot; listening to all of them during that difficult time generated a physical sensation akin to a runner’s high. Priceless few brought me back to near-exact moments in time – running in between the rows of my father’s vegetable garden trying to catch elusive butterflies and helping my mother make lumpia, though my rolls resembled stuffed cigars close to falling apart while hers were tightly wrapped and uniform in size.

I went on the Internet and Googled Louis Prima and Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass, thankful for technology that enabled me to pull up at a moment’s notice a YouTube video of my mother’s favorite instrumentalists. On those February nights, I was transported to Sunday afternoons in the summer when my mom and friends and relatives played rummy or mahjong, while I suffered as the hostess, serving cold drinks and offering waxy Hostess donuts and pastries at the appointed time. My uncles and aunts would tip me, telling me what a good daughter I was. I couldn’t wait to finish serving and escape to the living room to read my Nancy Drew books, but looking back, the sounds of their laughter, the coins being tossed, the mahjong tiles clicking across the tablecloth were soothing in the cocoon that was my childhood world.

Black-and-white foundation accessorized with Sundance necklace, Tiffany mesh earrings and ring, and The Fickle Bag's embellished purse.

Black-and-white foundation accessorized with Sundance necklace, Tiffany mesh earrings and ring, and The Fickle Bag’s embellished purse.

It was of great interest to me, then, a year and a half later, when I read a New York Times article published on July 8th that was shared by my good friend’s daughter on Facebook. “What Is Nostalgia Good For? Quite a Bit, Research Shows” tackles the centuries-old perception that nostalgia is a disorder or a waste of time. Dr. Constantine Sedikides pioneered the study of nostalgia and produced such tools as the Southampton Nostalgia Scale. Sedikides noted that nostalgia makes us “a bit more human.” Researchers have found that “nostalgizing” helps people feel better and makes “life seem more meaningful and death less threatening.”

Just enough sparkle without being overwhelming.

Just enough sparkle without being overwhelming.

Not surprisingly, researchers in the Netherlands found that listening to songs is one of the easiest ways to induce nostalgia and create a physical sensation of warmth. It’s universal that people are transported instantly to a season or often a moment in time when they hear a song from their past. It connects them to that memory. Recent studies also show that people who nostalgize more frequently develop a “healthier sense of self-continuity.” Through his Experimental Existential Social Psychology Lab out of North Dakota State University, Dr. Clay Routledge found that nostalgia “serves a crucial existential function.” The ability to bring forth “cherished experiences” helps to validate that “we are valued people who have meaningful lives.” Interestingly, his research revealed that people who nostalgize on a regular basis “are better at coping with concerns about death.” Of course, the reason I listened to those songs from the ’70s was to find a time and secure a happy memory of my mother that would supplant the last memory I had of her when she took her last breath – after my two sisters and I endured an hour-and-a-half vigil of watching what seemed like her last breath several times over.

Sheer jacket is an easy alternative to a shawl.

A sheer jacket is a unique alternative to a shawl for cool Bay Area summer evenings.

Dr. Erica Hepper, a psychologist at the University of Surrey in England, discovered that nostalgia helps people deal with transitions, which explains why younger people and older people tend to nostalgize at higher levels than people in middle age. It seems to me, however, that in middle age – or the sandwich age, as it’s been coined – we are dealing with just as many transitions – our children growing up and moving out while our parents are growing frailer and some are moving back in with us. It seems to be our current social landscape.

Revisiting the past and concluding that the present can never be as good as the past is a defeatist and destructive form of nostalgia. Revisiting the past to escape the present and future, and being mired in the past is also a waste of one’s time and energy. Rather, we should call forth cherished memories with those we love and have lost, and be grateful to have experienced those times. Somehow it brings us close to them during moments when we feel lost, ungrounded, and empty. The added gift is being able to draw on those memories instantly, by playing the song whenever we want and need it. We can feel the healing power of nostalgia again and again.

A platform sandal lengthens the leg.

A platform sandal lengthens the leg – and eliminates having to hem pants for us shorter ladies!

Larry Itliong, the Delano Manongs, and the Delano Grape Strikes

History will be kind to me for I intend to write it.
– Winston Churchill, British Prime Minister

Johnny Itliong talks about his father at the I-Hotel Manilatown Center in San Francisco.

Jonny Itliong talks about his father at the I-Hotel Manilatown Center in San Francisco.

I spent my Sunday afternoon at the I-Hotel Manilatown Center (868 Kearney, San Francisco, CA 94108, 415.399.9580) to see the nearly completed documentary The Delano Manongs: The Forgotten Heroes of the UFW by Emmy Award-winning filmmaker Marissa Aroy. The event was sponsored by the Manilatown Heritage Foundation. I first met Marissa in October 2010 when she came to Stockton, CA, to show her film Little Manila: Filipinos in California’s Heartland, which highlights the history of the Filipino community in Stockton. The Stockton chapter of the Filipino American National Historical Society (FANHS), of which I’m a member, hosted the event, along with the Manilatown Heritage Foundation. At the time, she also included a trailer to her then-current project on the Delano manongs, which prominently features Larry Itliong, the Filipino American labor organizer and leader of the 1,500 Filipinos who walked out of the grape fields on September 8, 1965, which began the Great Delano Grape Strikes of the 1960s and 1970s.

Agbayani Village in Delano.

Agbayani Village in Delano.

Now in the editing stage, the documentary is scheduled to be released this year. To my disappointment, Aroy was not in town, though she had taped an introduction and thank you; however, Sid A. Valledor and Jonny Itliong spoke. Having worked side by side with Itliong and other Filipino American labor leaders, Valledor wrote and published in 2006 The Original Writings of Philip Vera Cruz (Americans With a Philippine Heritage). Cruz was one of the few Filipino Americans to serve on the board of the United Farm Workers Union. I don’t remember how I ended up meeting Sid, but I had attended his symposium on Vera Cruz and my family and I made the pilgrimage to Delano in September 2005. Sid took the group to all the historical sites pertinent to the farm workers’ movement, including Agbayani Village, which was a retirement home built in the 1970s for the manongs – the elderly, single Filipino men who came in the 1920s and 1930s and never married, thanks to the laws at the time that forbade Filipinos from marrying white women. I had since lost touch with Sid, so attending Sunday’s event also reconnected me with this walking history book of that era.

Outside the rooms of Abgayani Village is a courtyard.

Outside the rooms of Abgayani Village. The retirement community was built by volunteers from all around the country and the world.

Jonny Itliong, Larry’s son, drove up from Ventura, CA, the night before attend the event. While he spoke, a slide show of his father played on the screen behind him, and we were treated to family portraits as well as published pictures of his father during the grape strikes and boycotts. During the intermission, I introduced myself to him, explaining that I had read the October 18, 2012, article written about him in the New York Times (“Forgotten Hero of Labor Fight: His Son’s Lonely Quest”). [I had mistakenly thought and told him that I’d read the article in the Los Angeles Times.] I explained that I had e-mailed the journalist and asked that she pass on a note from me. He told me he never got such a note. Later, when he spoke before the crowd, he brought up his disappointment in the article, how it focused on “his lonely quest” to get his father recognized. There was more on the grape strike from the Cesar Chavez perspective, and scant attention was paid on Jonny Itliong’s quest not just to get his father’s name recognized but to widely publicize the truth about why the Filipinos were squeezed out of the UFW. Interestingly, Jonny Itliong reported that the UFW had contacted the journalist and her editors to ensure that she would write a “nonbiased” article [in other words, one that doesn’t put the UFW in an unfavorable light], which she did. When 40 Acres in Delano, the epicenter of labor union activities and early headquarters of the UFW, was proclaimed a historic landmark by the Department of Interior in 2008, Jonny Itliong noted that the UFW did not mention his father or the Filipinos’ contributions. However, thankfully, the park representatives did speak of his father in their presentation.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

One of my aunts still picking grapes in her 60s, summer 2005.

All this is relevant to my novel A Village In the Fields, which I hope to complete and have out sometime in the fall. As Jonny Itliong pointed out, there are many stories about the Filipinos and the Delano Grape Strikes – and they all need to be told. Together these stories will provide a comprehensive history that we need to claim in order to understand ourselves and to guide our future. Whether you are Filipino or not, you need to know about the contributions of Itliong, Vera Cruz, Pete Velasco, Ben Gines, and the rest of the Filipino farmworkers, and how they impacted agricultural labor in California and the rest of the country. They need to be recognized for all the work that they did on behalf of the agricultural workers in this country. All the contributions they made and the hard-fought changes they wrought are a mere shadow today, given conditions in the fields today, which is sadly not unlike those of the 1960s. This state of affairs makes requiring us to know our history that much more important.

Stay tuned. The stories are coming.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September - the jewels in the fields.

Ripe Ribier grapes in September – the jewels in the fields.

Chicago: The Art Institute and Willis Tower

Technique does not constitute art. Nor is it a vague, fuzzy romantic quality known as ‘beauty,’ remote from the realities of everyday life. It is the depth and intensity of an artist’s experience that are the first importance in art.
– Grant Wood, American painter, Midwestern Regionalism

The iconic lion appropriately sporting a Seahawks helmet.

The iconic lion appropriately sporting a Blackhawks helmet.

Art Institute of Chicago
The Art Institute of Chicago (111 S Michigan Avenue, 312.443.3600) was established in 1879, although the museum moved to its current location after the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition closed. The massive Beaux-Arts style building is one million square feet, making it the second largest art museum in the country next to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Once again, here is a museum that you can spend an entire day and not see it all. The two bronze lion statues flanking the museum were sporting Chicago Blackhawks helmets, as the Stanley Cup Finals were being held while we were there the week of June 17th [they won after we left].

Renoir's Two Sisters, 1881.

Renoir’s Two Sisters, 1881.

The museum has impressive Impressionist and Post-Impressionist collections. It was thrilling to walk into one of the rooms and see paintings I’ve seen in art books and studied in art history class. Such was the case with Mary Cassatt’s The Child’s Bath (1893), Toulouse-Lautrec’s At the Moulin Rouge (1892), Renoir’s By the Water (1880) and Two Sisters (On the Terrace) (1881), van Gogh’s Self-portrait (1887) and Bedroom in Arles (1888), and Monet’s series of wheat stacks (1890s). Unfortunately, we saw Grant Wood’s American Gothic (1930) from the entryway, as paintings were being installed and therefore the room was roped off.

Grant Wood's American Gothic, 1930.

Grant Wood’s American Gothic, 1930.

We didn’t see Edward Hopper’s Nighthawks (1942), and Seurat’s Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte (1884-1886) and Caillebotte’s Paris Street; Rainy Day were temporarily removed for the Impressionism, Fashion, and Modernity exhibit (June 26 through September 22), which we were six days off from the opening. Of course, this means putting the museum back on the list of places to see on a return trip to Chicago.

The Print Collector, 1857-1863.

Daumier’s Print Collector, 1857-1863.

Resting, 1887.

Mancini’s Resting, 1887.

Amid all of the rock stars, the two paintings that stood out for me were The Print Collector (1857-1863), an oil on cradled panel piece by Frenchman Honoré-Victorin Daumier, for its haunting quality and use of light and dark, and Antonio Mancini’s Resting (circa 1887), an oil on canvas painting whose thick brushstrokes evoked glass, fabric, and skin. Elizabeth Sparhawk-Jones’ Shoe Shop was memorable for me for her rendering of fabric, especially the white blouses of the women. Finally, I love how John Singer Sargent drapes the fabric of the curtains and his models’ clothes with his fine brushstrokes and intense colors, such as the brilliant whites and sparkling sapphires.

Sparhawk-Jones' Shoe Shop, circa 1911.

Sparhawk-Jones’ Shoe Shop, circa 1911.

John Singer Sargen's The Fountain Villa Torlonia, Frascati, Italy, 1920.

John Singer Sargent’s The Fountain Villa Torlonia, Frascati, Italy, 1920.

A Thorne miniature room.

A Thorne miniature room.

The Thorne Miniature Rooms delighted me because I have loved dollhouses and miniature furniture since I was a child. Mrs. James Ward Thorne – nee Narcissa Hoffman Niblack, who wed her childhood sweetheart, the son of the co-founder of Montgomery Ward & Co. in 1901 – came up with the idea of creating miniature rooms, with a scale of 1 inch to 1 foot, from Europe’s late 13th century to the 1930s and America’s late 17th century to the 1930s. The 68 rooms have been on permanent exhibit since 1954. The Indiana native, who lived in Lake Forest, IL, but had an apartment and studio in Chicago, sought master craftsmen to build the rooms in her studio from 1932 to 1940, which included textile masterpieces such as the room-size rugs, wallpaper, and paintings. One of the rooms is an impressive miniature of the inside of a European cathedral. They are mesmerizing to look at. I wish I had more time to inspect the craftsmanship, the painstaking details. How fun it must have been to watch them take shape and for the artisans to be asked to bring their craft to this project.

A closer look at one of the rooms. Note the details everywhere!

A closer look at one of the rooms. Note the details everywhere!

Looking down on skyscrapers from the Skydeck.

Looking down on skyscrapers from the Skydeck.

Willis Tower
No visit to Chicago, especially for kids, is complete without going to the top of Willis Tower (233 S Wacker Drive, 312.875.0066), formerly the Sears Tower, which is what native Chicagoans still call this architectural giant. In 2009, the Willis Group, which has offices in the building, got the rights to rename the tower. At 110 stories, 443 meters, or 1,450 feet, Willis Tower used to be the tallest building in the world. Dispute over counting antennae (Willis Tower stands at 1,730 if you include its antennae) and spires as part of the height aside, that honor belongs to Burj Khalifa at 2,722 feet tall in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, which was built in 2010. Willis Tower used to be the tallest building in the U.S., but that honor now belongs to the newest World Trade Tower that was recently completed, according to our architectural tour guide on our river boat excursion.

If you go down the south fork of the Chicago River you would hit the Gulf of Mexico in one week.

If you go down the south fork of the Chicago River you would hit the Gulf of Mexico in one week.

Willis Tower currently holds the distinction of being the eighth tallest freestanding structure in the world. It cost Sears, Roebuck & Co., then the largest retailer in the world with 350,000 employees, $150 million to build a structure that would enable it to consolidate its thousands of workers in the Chicago area. Work began in 1970 with 2,000 workers on site and opened in 1973. Skidmore, Owens and Merrill’s Bruce Graham led the architecture team, with Fazlur Khan as the structural engineer, which, of course, was of interest to David.

Stepping back for a more expansive view below.

Stepping back for a more expansive view below.

Supposedly you can see four states – Illinois, Indiana, Michigan, and Wisconsin – from the Skydeck on the 103rd floor, some 40 to 50 miles out, but unless you know what you’re looking at, you just appreciate that impressive fact. We went to the top when dusk was settling over the city, and met a bustling crowd. The elevators operate at 1,600 feet per minute! It figures that people would want to see the skyscrapers at night with their winking lights, and not surprising, given that 1.3 visitors come to the Skydeck every year.

We stood in line for one of the four glass balconies, called the “Ledge,” which extends out 4.3 feet from the skyscraper’s Skydeck, 1,353 feet in the air. Built to hold 10,000 pounds and withstand four tons of pressure, the Ledge nonetheless swayed, according to David. A confessed acrophobic, I was actually too busy trying to get our family in a pose and have the group behind us take a good picture. Thank goodness for my preoccupation! While not one to do these kinds of tourist activities, I admit that it was thrilling to have such an expansive view, which literally took my breath away.

On the "Ledge," with downtown Chicago below us.

On the “Ledge,” with downtown Chicago below us.