Category: architecture

Chicagoing Straight to Hell! The Unofficial Secret Insider Guide to Nonexistent Chicago Tours

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By Dan Kelly

Once a tool-making, wheat-stacking, hog-butchering powerhouse, Chicago ditched its filthy work gloves and bloody apron long ago to become a buttoned-down, tie-wearing purveyor of finance, publishing, and tourist delights. Regarding the latter—and despite being regularly stripped for parts by the political and business elite—Chicago maintains sights and sites that continue to dazzle tourists from across the globe through gimmicky tours led by chipper guides infused with a perfervid passion for the Windy City most often found in End Times cult members—but with more Ferris Bueller references.

Unrelentingly proud of the architecture developers have yet to obliterate; splendid diversity of cultures, long kept separate but not always equal; and dark, violent criminal history made adorable by time’s distance—Chicago’s main tourist draws can be easily enjoyed on foot, by bicycle, via boat, or by becoming as one with a majestic flock of Segways. But truthfully, it’s all getting a bit predictable, isn’t it? After all, you can only point out the deep-dish pizza joint where Frank Lloyd Wright shot down Elwood Blues so many times before it becomes meaningless, can’t you?

With the segment of tourists drawn to secret menus and off-the-beaten-track* experiences in mind, here are some little-known tours for those seeking the actual authentically really genuine secret Chicago.

*  Outside the borders of the area occupying the space between the Lake, State Street, Navy Pier and the Bean—also known as Rahmsylvania.

 

The Sadly Complete Architecture of Louie Sullenman

Architecture buffs flock to Chicago like moths to the flames of neglect, greed, and actual fire that consumed most of the city’s former grandeur in the last century. Be aware that this tour is not devoted to the 19th century prima-donna genius Louis Sullivan, whose vision transformed modern architecture. We’re talking about 20th Century building planner/mercenary idiot Louie Sullenman, fountainhead of an embarrassment of grotesque apartment complexes, industrial parks, skyscrapers, public housing, and double-decker outhouses that have scarred eyeballs with unimaginative design, lack of ornamentation, and a vicious disregard for the humans that live and work in them. Come see why even the most brutal of Brutalists uttered a tearful, howling “What hath God wrought!?!” after seeing Sullenman’s concrete and steel horrorshows. Unlike city darlings Sullivan, Burnham, Wright, and others, Sullenman’s entire catalog remains intact, arrogantly standing beside and astride the work of greater artists than himself, contemptuously flicking bits of air conditioning sweat and pigeon excrement onto them all year round. This is an interactive tour in which participants are given sledgehammers and torches and ordered to try and destroy the architectural beasts, quickly learning that Sullenman’s scabrous eyesores cannot be destroyed, and will exist long after the last of us perishes from the earth.

 

Chicago River Slog

Get ready to pull on your waders, slip into your wet suit, strap on your goggles, and seal every orifice with industrial strength filtration devices. You’ve seen the city from the Chicago River boat and kayak tours; now get your hands, legs, abdomen, neck, and that little grooved space just below your nose dirty as you explore the river’s wet, bubbling, viscid history. Wade through the mighty backwards-excreting waterway’s two centuries of garbage, filth, cattle bones, and human waste. Become one with history as the muddy (you hope, you pray) river bottom sucks you down deeper with each step, down to dwell amidst the trash, algae, and undead swamp-mobsters.

 

Walk the 666

After the successful conversion of the old Bloomingdale Line railroad track into the 606 greenway, doodad-loving Chicagoans and equally thrilled alderman begged for another elevated human cattle chute. Easily entered on the Lincoln Park lakefront and various notches along the boulevard system’s hipster belt, the 666 is a self-contained walkway that rises 100 feet above the rubble and rabble of Chicago’s most neglected neighborhoods. Power walkers, militant bike riders, hover board goofballs, and attention-hungry powered unicycle dumbasses can glide safely through a leafy green comfort zone, blithely unbothered by less politically connected Chicagoans gazing up at them, wondering why funding can’t be found for their schools and local infrastructure.

 

Just the Touristy Crap

Ready to take a selfie in front of the Bean while stuffing your deep dish pie hole? Itching to hear genuine Chicago Bloozeâ„¢ music without leaving the safe confines of the Navy Pier Ferris wheel? Get it over with quick in this special enclosed area so we don’t have to look at you. Please.

 

Cthonic Cthicago

The next step for participants in the city’s celebrated underground pedway tour. Go deeper, beyond the network of tunnels that enable Chicago downtown workers and vampires to purchase coffee and donuts beneath the sidewalks, avoiding precipitation and the accursed purity of the sun’s rays. Discover a blighted honeycomb of caverns, crevasses, and crypts three miles below City Hall, where the city fathers once wove unspeakable pacts with the  terrifying Lake Michigan lizardfish race (several of whom continue to hold aldermanic positions, ruling their wards with an iron flipper, decade after hellish decade).

 

The Running of the Schools

Hola, mi amigos. ‘Tis the Feast of St. Swerski. Garb yourself in the traditional white shirt and trousers, tie red scarves about your waist and neck, and test your mettle in the annual Running of the Schools. Several thousand teachers, parents, and students will be released into the city streets and driven toward Soldier Field, in hopes of finding placement in a charter school, continued employment…or a glorious death. When the second rocket goes off, you and your fellow runners will race before a thundering herd of confused children, incensed parents, and striking educators driven to a mad frenzy by mounted politicos and CPS officials, jabbing them with brightly festooned lances, banderilla, and assessment tests. Beware of goring from their #2 pencils, and take heart that this is the best possible way to educate children. Isn’t it pretty to think so?

 

Virtual Lucas Museum

Our mayor has had a vexing time selling the city on the Lucas Museum of Narrative Whatever the Hell. His biggest obstacle? Disgruntled sane people who see little benefit in selling off a chunk of the lakefront so upper-class elites can build a structure that resembles the haloed remains of a melted snowman. Now everyone can see what George and Rahm see when they close their eyes with this virtual tour helmet! Walk the Soldier Field parking lot and enjoy a 360° view of the lumpy looking museum. Enter it and be dazzled by Lucas’ collection of Norman Rockwell paintings, abundant kitsch, and maybe…some droids or film props? It’s not real clear at this point, but it’ll inspire local school kids to dream great big future dreams, or something. Look, George has his heart set on the lakefront. Give it to him. Now.

 

Sansmelanin Park

A truly untouched Chicago curiosity, the neighborhood of Sansmelanin Park was founded in 1888 by paint magnate Mr. Chalkworth H. Sansmelanin to keep, you know, “them” out. Right? (Wink) “THEM”.

Wanting as colorless a neighborhood as inhumanly possible, Mr. Sansmelanin and his fellow Sansmelaninidiots first built the Northeast Side village, then whitewashed it from top to bottom. Houses, churches, stores, schools, chicken coops, gardens, lawns, pets, citizens…the whole kit and kaboodle—white as a white supremacist polar bear in a bigoted blizzard. Sansmelanin whitewash, of course, was later discovered to contain large chunks of lead, arsenic, mercury, cobalt, barium, and a bit of radium, because it looked so damned cool in the dark. Eventually the village population turned so white as to become transparent before expiring en masse. Sansmelanin got his wish though, in that no human life, dark-skinned or otherwise, can live there. Tours last 20 seconds. Visitors are asked to bring their own Level A hazmat suits and, for God’s sake, not to touch anything.

 

Tomorrow’s Crimes of Yesterday Today Tours

Inspired by popular tours highlighting the city’s colorful gangster past and corrupt near-past, tour-goers will behold the city’s neglected and pockmarked backside up close. Participants can look forward to viewing actual drug deals, armed robberies, and general bloodshed. Watch the flower of Chicago’s youth cut down in their prime from the safety of our armored bus. Participants will enjoy all the blight and neglect they can stomach while nervously hoping to reach Lincoln Park intact. Cap off the tour by enjoying ironically named cocktails and appetizers while viewing locally produced, hand-tooled interrogation techniques at Homan Square before you are never seen again.

 

Why the Hell Is Nothing Happening Tour

Glide through Chicago’s most untouched neighborhoods, notable for their utter lack of theme bars, restaurants, shopping centers, and identifiable features. From Mayfair to Jefferson Park to Bowmanville to Edison Park to Hegewisch (which is totally not made-up) explore the City That Works through the Neighborhoods Where Fuck-All Happens. Visit completely cachet-free diners and tap rooms and sample local delicacies like Bud Light, uninspired BLTs, overcooked burgers, and the soggiest italian beef sandwiches you’ve ever slid your teeth through. See juxtaposed bungalow after bungalow until your brain screams at you to stop. Watch authentic Chicagoans gape at you from their porches and windows, wondering why you’re driving the wrong way down their street before they call the cops, pound out terrified posts on Everyblock, or approach your car with a softball bat.

künstwerk

Reprinting a couple of pieces of mine from the months after September 11.

künstwerk

Review of the here is new york photo exhibit

February 4–March 30, 2002

In the shaky days after Sept. 11, German composer Karlheinz Stockhausen was roundly misquoted as describing the WTC attacks as the greatest work of art ever. Not so. German, with its knack for single words with myriad meanings, allowed the good professor to describe the day’s events as former angel Lucifer’s Künstwerk. Literally translated as “artwork,” the term more accurately denotes one’s handiwork. In Stockhausen’s approximation, Lucifer represents intelligence used to destroy creation, the devil’s creativity untinged by love.

On display Feb. 4 through March 30 at 72 E. Randolph, here is new york: a democracy of photographs displays 1,500 professional and amateur photographs of the days before, during, and after the attacks. The original exhibit emerged from a single picture posted in a New York store window, more photos being donated in the weeks afterward by dazed Knickerbockers, and applied one after the other like bandaids to the communal wounds. Stacked along the walls and dangled overhead in the Chicago gallery, the prints grant the viewer a visual experience approximating a fraction of the sensory overload felt by Manhattanites on an otherwise a beautiful early fall Tuesday.

Aesthetically, the day helped. Even here in Chicago the sun shone and the air was as crisp as peppermint. Weather favors the recording of tragedy. Challenger exploded against an azure sky, twin curling forks of smoke spiraling like DNA helices about a fluffy white plume. The Hindenburg gorgeously exploded against an early morning rain shower, brightly immolating and consuming itself into a crippled metal skeleton. Despite myself and watching safely from home on 9/11, I couldn’t help but be struck by the awesome sight of the towers burning like matchsticks and winnowing down against a perfect blue canvas sky. While the surface message of the show is one of endurance, American rah-rah, and cuddly solidarity, the unspoken theme is that of the aesthetics and disturbing beauty of destruction. Allegory or otherwise—your choice—Lucifer used his palette to present an “artwork” few will forget. here is new york, then, might be considered the coffee table book version of the whole hellish exhibit.

The late-January press review bore all requisite solemnity, though was largely unmemorable. A batch of suits and ties thanked us, the press, for coming; the show’s beneficiaries, the Children’s Aid Society WTC Relief Fund were cited (proceeds from the sales of selected prints go to them); and the names of the sponsors, Marshall Field’s and the Target store chain were repeatedly dropped. No one noted the unwitting inappropriateness of Target’s bull’s-eye logo being prominently displayed on the podium.

There were firefighters, of course. Not since the Iranian hostage crisis’ embassy workers has an occupation been so in demand for photo-ops and pull-quotes. The firefighters acquitted themselves nicely, of course, with the just-doing-our-job dignity that should come with their profession. Our own fire commissioner, the wonderfully named James Joyce, with his lived in face, stated that as he looked at them and they at him, they shared the ineffable emotions only the men and women in helmets and rubber raincoats can feel. The firemen themselves—names of Jeffrey Straub and Anthony Barone, and imported from NYC Engine 6—looked bright and shiny in their dress blues when they took the stand. Following the outline given them by the event organizers, an accidental note of unscripted emotion occurred when Straub, flanked by a photo of himself  leaning against a car shelled by WTC detritus, explained what he was thinking at the time. Thinking about his fellow firefighter—and next-door neighbor it turned out—who had lost his life that day. A PR emissary takes the podium afterwards, thanking Firefighter Straub for sharing. It was “very emotional,” she needlessly underscored.

I’m sorry if I seem unnecessarily picky about proper tribute. The event is impossible to cheapen, but even the best-intentioned tend to overdo it. Solemnity can be spread so thick it becomes as overwhelming as the grey dust still coating Manhattan. The press review preliminaries, gratefully, ended, and we were left alone to survey the wreckage.

The number of photos was the first thing I noticed. As a first-world nation, we enjoy the luxury of documenting life down to the second. Cosmopolitan vacation spot New York provided an army of shutterbugs that day. Anonymity is the rule, regarding the photos’ authors, but degrees of professionalism seem easy to differentiate. Reasons for taking photos in the face of apocalypse are harder to pin down.

For the professionals, it was just part of the job. It was for Bill Biggart, whose shrine rested in back. The last picture of Biggart’s life is glorious yet horrific: It shows one side of the North Tower exploding into balsa wood splinters. The shot, splendidly framed, was obviously taken while looking up. The same fragments that Bill captured probably buried him. The next photo shows a pile of photographer’s tools—cameras and light meters scorched black, a singed and melted deck of press passes lying beside them.

The amateur photos are, as stated, relatively easy to identify. Varying levels of exposure, poor framing, and unimaginative composition abound. The tragedy, however, adds gravitas to the most banal shots. The exhibit isn’t about ability, it’s about the view through several hundred different eyes. En masse, the pictures all “work”—individually and as a collective.

Two images recur. One is of dragon’s fire bursting from the towers’ guts: A bright yellow fusion heart is at the center, burning brighter than the sun; the fringes of the holocaust are flushed with the colors of autumn leaves, slowly burning black. The other is that of the spectator, gazing upwards, one hand holding a cell phone against the ear, the other slapped against the forehead in disbelief.

Against the west wall, photo #6068 shows American death shrines in the style of Mexican Dia de los Muertos ofrendas. Bright orange posters surrounded by half-melted candles create an impermanent memorial to the unknown dead. One poster states, “I never met you. I will never forget you.” The other laments, “I don’t know you and I miss you already.”

In other photos, America’s bipolar reaction is documented. Peaceniks beg for cooler heads, marching with neatly rendered placards reading, “It’s Time for Reflection Not Revenge” and “Break the Cycle of Violence.” Opinions grow less tolerant closer to Ground Zero. The photos of dust, while visually dull, linger with me. The impact of the planes, the explosions were the media money shot. We didn’t see the dust on TV. We thought it was all fire and falling bricks. Photo #5681 stands out most for me. A William H. Macy clone dressed in blue Brooks Brothers and carrying a briefcase runs through a grey blizzard of lung-clotting dust. Office building dust jams up his day’s clockwork, the very materials in which he daily dealt business. Ironic that. Photos #1240, 1237, and 5192 show further capitalist paralysis with piles of Gap shirts and jeans and Perrier bottles buried in ash. Dust anesthetizes, rather than eradicates the City that Never Sleeps. Dust also provides a ready medium for rage. “WELCOME TO HELL” offers the back window of a Honda Civic in photo #1118. On photo #87, a “NUKE THEM ALL” graffito virtually screams from an opaque store window. Throughout the exhibit the dust messages debate, sentiments ranging from “Our Grief Is Not a Cry for War” to the less poetical “REVENGE.”

Moving on, certain photos help me recall a vow I made 25 years ago. On a grade school career day I stood in front of my class, dressed in a yellow rain slicker and a plastic fireman’s helmet—an Independence Day promo piece handed out by a local insurance agent. Words immortalized by fourth-graders before and after me tumbled from my mouth: “I want to grow up to be a fireman, so I can put out fires and help people.” Looking at picture after picture of dust-covered firefighters, burned-out eyes staring from beneath battered black helmets, I wanted to renew that vow. Photos #3383, 5247, 5234, 2424, and so on show walls of other firefighters, EMS techs, doctors, nurses, and just plain good Samaritans, in varying stages of exhaustion, human endurance stretched to a rubberband’s snapping. It’s all here, every emotion, every reaction. Photo #2763 shows two burly firefighters practically in a lover’s embrace. Unwitting comedy is achieved with a Scientologist counselor attempting to comfort a firefighter who looks like he’d rather be somewhere else enjoying his bottle of Poland Springs water.

Many of the photos, it must be pointed out, are disturbing. In #2840 blue-gloved medics handle a woman bleeding as red as her shirt. Beyond shock, her eyes are sealed with rust-colored dust. Still, for every image of a battered, bleeding, and broken human being, there’s a more reassuring and recurring image, that of an extended hand.

E.B. White, best known for Stuart Little and Charlotte’s Web, provided the ideal title and coda of the show in his 1949 piece “Here Is New York,” which presciently describes the urban inferno to come: “A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York in the sound of jets overhead, in the black headline of the latest edition.”

Mr. White’s chilling clarvoyance aside (his assessment of the Big Apple’s vulnerability itself a fabulous example of the melancholy poetry of destruction), the effect of the original exhibit rested in its spontaneity, its proximity, and its participatory nature. While effective, we as Chicagoans miss the real power of the original show. Unlike street cows, this bit of city art doesn’t travel well or translate accurately. The gallery offers us a before, but we lack an after with which to compare it. It is our good fortune, of course, that we’re deprived of ashes from which to arise. New York, however, in characteristic braggadocio, shows the horrors it’s lived through and, six months later, has risen above.

Originally published in the Chicago Journal .
®2002 Dan Kelly

Deco

I won’t say where, but I recently encountered one of the coolest security guards in the world.

I was visiting a lovely Art Deco edifice a while back, and I wanted to take a few pix of the sedately ornate lobby, which featured the inevitable slim, half-naked figures that decorated the era’s most fashionable elevator doors. My picture-taking finger itched madly, but I held off and approached the security guard’s desk first.

As I’ve learned over the years, asking permission to take photographs isn’t just polite, it’s pre-emptive. Some buildings have rules against snapping pix, and security personnel will shut you down the moment you pull out your camera or phone. Reasons vary. It might be a licensing issue, or for security purposes, or simply because they don’t like shutterbugs cluttering the hallways. Most building owners in the Loop don’t have a problem with tourists and architecture buffs looking around—at least in the buildings worth commemorating. On occasion the guards are into it. I’ve had rent-a-cops chat me up, gleefully pointing out particularly pretty features, and sharing historical factoids—some even let me know it was okay to walk up a flight or two for a better shot. These folks know that while they may be running a business, the structure is their public face. Why not show how damn pretty they are?

Others aren’t so welcoming, covering up their buildings like a wizened duenna shielding her charges with curtains and scowls. Some, to their credit, instruct the guards to let people know they can look, maybe even touch… but NO pictures. Usually though they’re not friendly about it. In one building I asked sweetly if I could take a few pictures of the breath-takingly ornate lobby. I was not only sternly told no way, the guard followed me around, ensuring I didn’t capture the elevators’ and mailbox’s souls with my black magic eye box.

Because I am secretly feisty, however, whenever I’m impolitely denied access, I get crafty. I equate buildings and their lobbies with public art—accessible and unavoidable should mean photographable. So suffer me a few snapshots, yes? If a guard is particularly snippy and not terribly observant—and I’m not talking about restricted government buildings, banks, or places where you have to be buzzed in—I come back later and take a few shots from the belt. Buildings, particularly old ones, were created to meld commerce with art, and were thus imagined and constructed to be seen and enjoyed by the public. I have a theory that modern business architecture of the mid- to late-20th century purposefully became boring and soulless to counteract this belief. At some point the corporate sphere said, “We don’t want people to like our buildings. We want to be able to tear them down whenever we wish. Above all, we want them to say, ‘Go away. You don’t belong here.'” Every day I look out my office’s window and see Trump’s blue glass phallus and Mies van der Rohe’s big ol’ domino, and I think, “You may be admired, but you will never be loved.” Of course, they snottily answer back, “What makes you think we give a damn?”

So, the coolest security guard in the world… I ask him, politely, if I can take a few pictures.

“No, I’m sorry, that’s not allowed,” he replied, nicely enough.

“Oh…” say, a touch dejected. “Thanks, anyway.”

“But, you know, maybe I’ll just walk around the corner over there.” and he gestured to a spot about 30 feet away. Then he took off for a few minutes.

“Aha!” I said, brightening.

He left, and I took a few quick pix for my files. The ornamentation was limited, but tasteful and lovely, and while the building isn’t one of the famous ones, it has that 20s Chicago charm lacking in the surrounding glass and steel beasts. Later research revealed that it was made to honor the ideas of Louis Sullivan and John Wellborn Root. I think I’ll make a few calls and see if I can get a tour. in fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of trying to get into Chicago’s tallest pre-1930s structures.

The guard returned and I gave him a silent thank you. He nodded. Good man. Good man. Preservationists and architecture aficionados everywhere appreciate your discretion, sir.

Life in the Theater

I attended the Landmarks Commission at lunchtime. Not sure of the technical term, but the Commission approved the continued pursuit of landmark status for the Portage Theater! Huzzah! As a fellow attendee said to me on the way out, “That was a very nice first step.”

Where West Side Story Meets Dawn of the Dead

Note: I’m currently working on a Gapers Block piece about the Portage Theater and efforts to prevent its purchase by the Chicago Tabernacle Church. Some passages and sentiments may carry over to that article, but the GB article will be more history-heavy. Just FYI.

Monday night I attended the Save the Portage Theater rally. Appropriately, it was held at the theater itself. I’ve visited the Portage twice, first to take my son to a mini-comicon (where we took a picture with chubby, purplish Batman—a photo I hope he cherishes in his later years), and the second time to see Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein with my friend Pat. Both experiences were a tad cheesy, yes, but rare and sweetly enjoyable owing to their surroundings: a classic, old-school movie palace. But experiences like will be harder to come by, if a certain church buys the place, modifies it, and declares an end to the variety of programming the Portage offers to the community.

The Portage has been around in one form or another since 1920, starting out as a nickelodeon before being purchased by the Balaban and Katz theater chain in the forties. Originally designed to reflect the poufy Beaux Arts design favored at the time, Balaban and Katz brought a sleek, spare Art Deco influence to the marquee and interior. Palatial doesn’t begin to describe it. Dream-like comes closer.

I arrived early, signed in at the reception tables, and—after bumping into my father in law, a transplanted Irving Parker—walked into the auditorium. As before, and despite what the potential owners might think, the place is glorious. The auditorium is dark and cavernous, but also lush, golden, and warm. As with most buildings its age and older, you can practically touch the history and life of the place. I could easily imagine the audiences filling the seats for everything from early silent movies to 70s Kung-fu flicks to modern art-house fare.

The evening was pleasant, informative, and ably led by Old Irving Park Association Vice President Anna Sobor. I believe I met Ms. Sobor a couple of years ago, when I conducted tours of my church during the annual Old Irving Park House Walk. But before she walked onstage and got things rolling, we enjoyed the organ-playing of Mr. Dennis Wolkowicz, motivating force behind the theater’s restoration. As he ran through a familiar (and not so familiar) back catalog of songs on the theater’s original Kimball organ—placed on mechanical riser to awesomely cool effect—the place filled up with hipsters, senior citizens, Chicago neighborhood types, and members of the local cultural aristocracy. A lot of bearded guys with big guts were present too. I think I recognized them from the comic show and horror fests. In the dimness and darkness I could see a hundred blogs, tweets, and updates being typed out as one.

Not every seat was filled, but at least half were. For a 1,300-seat theater that’s not bad. Illuminated thank-yous were projected on the screen, especially to preservationist ringleaders like alderman John Arena, the Portage Park Neighborhood Association, the Six Corners Association, and others. Digital cameras flashed  every which way, and, appropriately, amateur and professional cinematographers shot electronic footage of the proceedings with their cameras and iPhones.

In closing, Mr. Wolkowicz led the audience in a muted version of “The Star Spangled Banner.” I got the feeling not everyone learned the lyrics in Boy Scouts, like I did. Still, all respectfully rose up, and made a game effort to be melodically patriotic. After all, that was the reason why we were there. We’re Americans, dammit, and we’re mad as hell someone’s trying to take our stuff. Rise up, my darlings, rise up. You have nothing to lose but your theater chains.

Mr. Wolkowicz concluded his set, but was informed that folks were still signing up outside. So, he returned to the keys, and vamped out a little “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” On the northwest side, the audience clearly root-root-roots for the Cubs.

A little perspective on the size of the stage and screen.

At last, Ms. Sobor took the stage, and thanked Mr. Wolkowicz and all dignitaries present. Alderman John Arena—prime instigator of the Portage campaign—was present, looking casually fashionable in a windbreaker and “SAVE THE PORTAGE” t-shirt. His colleague Alderman Tim Cullerton of the 38th ward sat nearby, appearing firmly entrenched in his suit and tie.

Ms. Sobor wasted no time, asking the audience to keep a civil tongue, and stressing that the biggest goal of the campaign was to support local businesses and let them know they’re being “patronized” by Portage supporters. As I later learned, the Chicago Tabernacle folks have given similar instructions to their throng—as a tax-free group I assume they’re attempting to sound financially lucrative. Sobor then introduced Arena, who, if the applause was any indication, needn’t worry about several hundred votes in 2016.


The man is a decent speaker, and he reminded me that one of the reasons I voted for him is his approach to pragmatic preservation. Protecting pretty buildings is fine, but they need a reason to exist and a healthy local economy to persist. The folks behind the Portage’s restoration have done as much, and the theater is viewed as an anchor for the Six Corners shopping district. Once upon a time, this was the greatest and busiest place to shop, eat, drink, and see a flick outside the Loop. For the past several years, before he was even an alderman, Arena and others have tried to give the slightly shabby Six Corners a economic shot in the arm. Thus far things have been looking up.

Then the Chicago Tabernacle Church approached him last September, asking for his support as they sought to buy the theater and convert it into a church. Arena asked for a write-up of their intentions for the property, and what they presented to the zoning board was (in my words) horrifying.

CTC’s plans included removing the snazzy marquee outside (not sure if this includes the original terra cotta PORTAGE PARK THEATER marquee out front as well as the flashy electric one; I hope not), get rid of the businesses currently occupying the storefronts, and convert the auditorium and apartments inside into classrooms. Arena said um, no thank you, but welcomed them to the area and suggested several local properties that would better suit their and the community’s purposes. The church’s subsequent lack of response showed they weren’t interested, and have proceeded to push for ownership of the building and their proposed changes.

Despite public outcry, the CTC folks are displaying a, in my opinion, weird obsessiveness about purchasing the building, and a predictable disinterest in allowing the place to be used for the silent, classic, and (naturally) horror film festivals already taking place there. Speaking in a Tribune article about the Portage kerfuffle, church leader Al Toledo offered the following bit of aesthetic blindness:

“We happen to have a choir that people come listen to. We do a number of dramatic presentations. We have an Easter presentation coming up. So we have art that we bring forth as well, and I don’t think that should be minimized.”

Minimized? Not really. More like irrelevant. Chicago is surfeit with churches, religious choirs, and Easter presentations, but lacking in classic movie palaces and independent film venues. Eleven churches of varying sizes are within walking distance of the Six Corners district; but only two movie theaters (including the newly restored Patio Theater, which continues to exist by the skin of its teeth) currently operate thereabouts. Whether the 11 churches (not to mention the nearby Islamic center and Buddhist temple) are the right kind of churches according to Mr. Toledo… Well, let’s not touch that point just yet. Fans of the theater have been called on to grit their teeth and echo alderman Arena’s point that the church is welcome to the community (because, sure, we could always use more tax-free soul-winners who believe the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could come galloping down Milwaukee Ave. at any moment), and thus far everyone’s played nice. Thus far.

Back to the rally… Arena made the solid point that preserving the Portage is all  about economic recovery. Four restaurant proposals have been made for the area, but not a one would be able to get a liquor license if the church opened shop at the theater. So, it’s not just a matter of keeping the nerd cinephiles from their celluloid fantasies, or even about protecting an, admittedly, gaudy old queen of a theater from being ravished and violated. It’s about money. A short-term windfall for the theater’s current owners won’t translate into income for Portage Park, the surrounding neighborhoods, or Chicago in general. Church folks have promised to buy stuff at the local businesses, but that remains to be seen. Will the church-goers bussed in to the church really be picking up their groceries at Jewel and their steel-toed boots at Rasenicks? Hmmmm…

When Arena finished speaking, Ms. Sobor took over again. Prepared to deliver a PowerPoint presentation, equipment failure spared the audience from the sight of hastily created pie charts. Thinking on her feet, Sobor provided all the necessary URLs and procedures for making your voice heard. Why, here’s that very information:

The Save the Portage Theater site.

Save the Portage Theater Facebook page.

Alderman Arena’ post on Everyblock.

Arena’s site.

Periodically, a few of the burly bearded fellows emitted approving howls of “Wooooooooo!” whenever they found favor with Ms. Sobor’s statements, and one seeming non sequitur about “No Brooklyn theaters!” This was answered by Ms. Sobor with another curious statement about Irving Park being founded by four New York carpetbaggers. Hah? No illumination was provided, but I later discovered that the Tabernacle folks have done this before, to the former Lowes Metropolitan in Brooklyn, NY. Before and after restoration photos on the net aren’t heartening:


Our next to last speaker was Mike Edwards, creator of the Save the Portage Facebook page, who provided the quote of the night: “Where else can you see West Side Story one week and Dawn of the Dead the next?” Edwards led the gathering in a mass cell phone contact list updating, providing the number for the Chicago Zoning Board of Appeals: (312) 744-5822

Again, that’s (312) 744-5822.


Dennis Wolkowicz, the organist and one of the prime movers on the restoration of the theater several years ago, closed the meeting, dubbing it a “community explosion.” He shared a bit of Portage trivia, explaining that back in the 80s the theater was sliced down the middle by a wall that’s since been removed. The seats reflected a curious  and unwitting division of political proportions by having red seats on one side and blue ones on the other. This was rectified when director Michael Mann shot Public Enemies with Johnny Depp there in 2008, using the theater as a stand-in for the Biograph Theater on Lincoln Ave. Red and blue seats wouldn’t do, so the film company sprang for blue cushions across the board. No comment.

The meeting closed with reminders that letters to the ZBA could be returned in the lobby, and that various spokespersons would be available for interviews. I needed to get home, and after running into a workmate and my church’s pastor,  I headed out to spread the word. I hope you do likewise, dear reader. Check out the above links and take action.

Come on. I’ve got kids who need to see Frankenstein on the big screen!

Our God Is a Awesomely Petty and Provincial God

The church group trying to purchase the Portage Theater and consecrate it to God vis a vis demolishing its marquee and replacing its Art Deco interior with God knows what kind of cheesy rehabbing, is supposedly circulating petitions to garner support from neighbors who might not know any better. I’d love to hear corroboration on this; I’d especially love to receive a scan of the petition. Alderman John Arena and others have suggested other locations that won’t screw up a charming old building and displace local businesses (not to mention derail ongoing efforts to revitalize the Six Corners area), but apparently that’s not good enough for the Chicago Tabernacle folks, who seem determined to alienate their potential neighbors.

As a side note, the church leader’s short-sightedness about what the people want is alarming. Why worry about losing a rare venue for independent, silent, and other film? They’re bringing an Easter pageant!