Georgia O'Keefe Summer of Yesteryear

Sky Above Clouds IV

Summer in Chicago calls back a barrage of  memories: Lake Shore Drive, the Art Institute, the North Avenue Beach....all of these are places from my childhood which are now encapsulated into my adulthood as I've returned to live in the city of my childhood summers. However, there's a different ambiance in my memories, one which can't be tainted or altered or replaced or replicated by new memories.

Last summer I drove Lake Shore Drive everyday for two weeks in the stifling heat with no air conditioning. My windows were down and as I sat in rush hour admiring Buckingham Fountain and the gorgeous lakefront property I didn't once in that time think about the day my mom's car died in traffic around Monroe street with my sister and I in tow. We were both young enough to sit in the backseat, and I vaguely remember some panic emanating from the front as cars rushed by all around our stranded vehicle. Before I could realize what was happening a thin black man was single-handedly pushed us to safety. I remember him looking exhausted as he pushed our fat car out of the center lane.

I think about that day when I think of Georgia O'Keefe's clouds floating away into oblivion. Hanging above the staircase hiding at the end of my favorite exhibits, Sky Above Clouds IV makes me think of my childhood. I always think of those clouds like the lake: bright and blue, both bringing with them a sense of endlessness as they disappear as far as the eye can see. Somehow the blue lake and the white clouds intermingle to remind me of elementary school summers in the city, when we girls were all healthy enough to travel together to the lakefront for day trips while dad was at work.

The summer of my yesteryear is an impressionist summer: filled with images of clouds and poppy fields, haystacks and blue stained glass. Dare I blame the constant trips to the lion-guarded museum and never ending trips to the galleries immediately west of the grand staircase filled with the Monets, Van Goghs, and Renoirs for my consistent nostalgia, my unending association of seasons with memories, my strong sensation of my past like photos snapping before my eyes with not just the scene but the mood of an entire period of existence. I remember life in impressionist scenes.

London 2006: the dorm in Kensington, hot with that dorm smell; the corner against the brick wall where I made-out under the security camera for hours; roses and vine-covered architecture; the silver Ferrari; the quiet lane; the outdoor seating at the cafe; the culinary school around the corner; heat and newness and excitement- so much excitement I could never sleep; the sound of the garbage truck in the morning and that feeling of awakening: enlivening and rebirthing: the otherness of being somewhere so new so perfect; the late day exhaustion and the sticky bliss. Last time I went to Gloucester Road it was cold and cloudy. It wasn't the place of my yesteryear where I sat on a white balcony in an England shirt overlooking a posh road with a Penguin in hand. A view down Gloucester Road. Late afternoon stale light. Reds, greens, pinks, light blues, and silver. Lots of green hangs over the gray stone pavement.

Iowa 2007: Total contentment. The white-walled house with my London pictures inundating my brain with idyllic memories. Hours spent with Middlesex in Dad's old chair by the window. The Farmer's Market and the drive through the corn to Mt. Vernon. My spot at Lake MacBride, swimming off the rocks. Everything steeped in sun. Mornings at the Java House waiting for the sun to rise feeling like a morning serving customers at the perfect cafe from my memories. Him. Sweaty sex and his bleach-stained T-shirts. His hair cut too close to his head so a halo of white skin poked out around his ears. Lying out on College Green wishing I had the patience for a suntan. A girl sits on a beige chair reading. White morning sunlight. Green trees through the window. White walls and a beige rug. Her face is still and the room is tidy, white and black frames decorate the white white walls. She is small in the scene.

London 2008: Limehouse. Dirty and gray. Cold. Poverty. The man with the smile etched into his lined face pushing his walker in front of his swollen wrapped feet trying to cross the road at Bondway and getting only halfway when the light changed. Looking back and wondering if, how, I could help. Watching in horror as traffic..... waited? Shocked. The smell of bacon and croissants wafting from the coffeeshop at the station. Breaking a sweat speedwalking through the tube with Coldplay in my ears. Life in Technicolor. Reading the Metro and feeling gray and bleak. Dr. House and pidgeon shit. The flat in All Saints and the yellow wooden peace and quiet above the roar of the dirty scummy city below. Life, in its brutal essence. A girl crowded on a gray, dirty subway car. People sit pushed together. No one smiles. Newspapers and the black of the Tube walls racing past the car.

London 09: An idyllic disaster. A confused explosion of distress and unabashed gluttonous pleasures against a backdrop of quiet walks and pastoral Surrey. Still open wounds. A blurry cataract-drawn pastoral scene of a green with an old brick building behind. There is an unidentified figure, a few blurry dots in the background. the midday sun is blocked by a single white cloud, casting an aura of foreboding.

My summers each come with their own impressionist painting, steeped in light and mood. Some have thick brush strokes, some a cloudy atmosphere. Some are a human scene, some distinctly location. They are all my impressionist summers, dominated by a mood and remembered by their atmosphere. Now my Chicago summers wait for their own impression, for which I will wait a little longer as I look toward the Sky Above Lake from my Westside prison of gray metal crutches.