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HOUSE of GREEN LIONS SECOND IN A SERIES BY OUR COLUMNISTS ABOUT SOME PLACES THAT HAVE LODGED IN THEIR HEARTS |
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It was the place where
her creativity took flight
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
There are no runways here, no landing strips, not a
single aircraft hangar. Instead of F.A.A. security, the doors
are guarded by an unlikely pair of lions now weathered to a mottled
green. And although this place is located in the heart of the
Chicago Loop, miles from the closest airport, this is where I
learned to fly.
I was just five years old when I first visited Chicago’s
Art Institute. My mother brought me there after recognizing the
early signs of creative obsession, or perhaps hoping to spare
the bedroom walls from further crayon doodlings. From the time
I could hold a pencil, I was the kid she could park in a corner
with crayons and paper, and still find me there hours later.
It was an interest that became a passion, so consuming I preferred
drawing to playing, art to any other activity at all.
On that first visit, she led me past those landmark green lions
and into the museum, touring the massive collections of Dutch
masters, Impressionists, Surrealists, allowing me to absorb the
impact and passion of each piece. We were there for hours. Those
galleries had the same hushed sanctity as a cathedral and a sense
of the spiritual, as though each painting spoke to the soul.
I remember feeling awe and wonder but mostly, a sense of homecoming.
I found a recognition there, an understanding of the work and
awareness of what I wanted to do. In later years, that awareness
might have been described as ‘the road less traveled.’
At the time, it felt like I was learning to fly.
Four years later, my mother discovered that, in addition to an
art college, there was also a junior school of the Art Institute
that offered Saturday sessions and daily summer classes for students
aged 8 to 18. After submitting a selection of my work,
we applied for and received a scholarship to the school.
The School of the Art Institute is located in a building to the
rear of the museum that connects directly to the Goodman Theater.
On the first day of classes, I entered a world where people talked
in tongues--the languages of experience and ideas, passion and
self-expression. There was a pulsing excitement there, an energy
as distinct as the pungent smell of turpentine wafting through
the halls. In addition to artists and sculptors, the building
was crowded with actors, directors, and playwrights all creating
acts of worship in the temples of the imagination. It seemed
a miracle that we were allowed to be part of it. Paint-smeared
and curious, the art students would eat their lunches in the
empty theater while watching the actors in their daily stage
rehearsals. It was where we devoured peanut butter and A Midsummer
Night’s Dream, munched bologna sandwiches through The
Taming of the Shrew.
To a nine-year old, it was an ongoing carnival of larger-than-life
performers. This different world was populated by impassioned
artists, eccentric actors, enough drama kings and queens to make
a royal flush. The common thread was that each of them had devoted
his life to following his heart and pursuing his dream.
They say you can’t be taught to create, that art schools
are only vehicles used to refine and amplify technique. At the
Art Institute, my education extended beyond the creative. From
the broad cross-section of international actors and teachers,
I learned it’s our hearts that are the common ground, and
only the mind that erects the barriers. From my classmates, I
learned about the gift of expression, whether dabbed on canvas
or in the thoughts we choose to share. And from the atmosphere
where disparate personalities melded together, producing work
that seduced the eye and touched the soul, I understood the importance
of following my own dreams.
In between classes, we’d lounge outside on the museum steps
beneath those green lion sentries, watching the downtown pedestrians
stream by. We were kids eager to try our wings, dazzle an unsuspecting
world with the fruits of our imagination. It was all laid out
before us then, long runways paved with ideas, waiting for us
to take flight in a time when anything seemed possible, as long
as we believed.
I was 18 when I had my last class there. Nine years that taught
me to paint and sculpt, wield an artist’s welding torch
as easily as a brush. Years of struggle and triumph, frustration
and awareness that seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. On
that last day we were sad to leave--both the school and each
other--and uncertain about what came next. The time had come
when it was up to us to make it happen, navigate the map of our
lives to whatever came next. But at 18, we were still on the
way to becoming, both frightened and thrilled about taking that
next step toward carving a path in the real world.
So, on that last day, we lingered on the museum steps, enjoying
our last moments together. As usual, we huddled near the green
lions--animals meant to symbolize strength and pride, courage
and tenacity. Exactly the right icons to guard the place where
I learned how to fly.
©2003 by Gina Gallo. The Gina Gallo caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel.
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