Sunday, July 26, 2015

4Art Gallery and the Start of a New Art Scene

Robin Rios with a photograph by artist Brian Quinn at 4Art Gallery

Robin Monique Rios first became a gallery owner in 2003, when she and Jerod Schmidt opened the 4Art Gallery in Pilsen within 6 months of finishing art school.

If this sounds bold, Robin makes it sound like a pragmatic move.  She says she was raised by tough Southern women, having a job was always a priority. She started working for hotels while she was still in high school, later she’d switch to the telecom industry.  She worked on business and corporate accounts at MCI, which came in handy when she went to write the gallery’s business plan.

Meanwhile, she did well in corporate and male dominated environments.  She says she got every job she applied for, and she advanced at every job she got.  She says she has a learning disability so she always struggled in school, but in the workplace she compensated, she never let anyone see her struggle to learn.  She always had money to spend, but she wasn’t a shopper, so she spent it going to nightclubs and looking out for her friends.

That part is important, that she felt successful in the corporate world, or at least valued and well paid, with an active social life on the side, because after about 10 years of it, she fell into a depression anyway, and she says it was because “I wasn’t living my life.”

It is true that the year was 1999, MCI/WorldCom was poised for some problems.  There was lots of shifting around within the organization, though Robin says her employer would accommodate her if she refused a particular job.

Today Robin puts great importance in spiritual expression, and back then, she wasn’t doing that.  She says she was having thoughts of suicide, she was functioning on the outside, but in secret, she was thinking about how she might end it all.

Then one night she switched on the television, and she saw a commercial for the Illinois Institute of Art.  “It was as if the t.v. illuminated,” she says. “It was as if God himself was talking to me.” 

The Illinois Institute of Art was founded in 1916 as the Commercial Arts School; in 1999 it was promoting a new campus embedded in the Merchandise Mart, which was still dominated by showrooms for furniture and interior design.  Today the school promotes its Chicago context, with its advertising agencies, world class restaurants, high fashion and design.  In the commercial Robin saw “they were describing all the things they were going to offer, and I wanted to learn all those things.” 

She had some trepidation about going back to school.  She doesn’t test well. “I don’t comprehend what the questions are asking of me.”  But she put that aside and asked the admissions counselor to just pitch the program.  The campus was small, a class might have only 5 or 6 students. “The instructors will work with you to make sure you have what you need to learn,” he assured her, and that turned out to be the case.  “It was the best thing I ever did,” she says now, “I didn’t miss a single day of class.”

She met Jerod Schmidt at school.  Their personalities were so sympathetic she says their reactions to life were often in sync, and after graduation they were both a little depressed by the job prospects they saw at other people’s businesses.  They started talking about opening their own business - a fine art gallery that would also offer framing and graphic services.  So they wrote the business plan and got a $20,000 small business loan from Accion Chicago.  That seemed to be the easy part.

The hard part seemed to be finding a good space.  They started looking in Wicker Park first, because they thought they needed an arts scene to bring in customers.  This was back in 2003, the Around the Coyote art fair still drew tens of thousands of people through the Wicker Park galleries, and the Flat Iron building had been buzzing with artists for over a decade, but Wicker Park rents were so high she figured they’d have to bring in $10,000 a month just to meet expenses.

She was driving home from a particularly discouraging day scouting overpriced spaces in questionable proximity to the heart of the scene, when she passed the Podmajersky buildings on Halsted and saw a “For Rent” sign in one of the windows.  On a whim, she stopped the car and called the number.  John Podmajersky III answered the phone and offered to show her some spaces on the spot.

Deanna Isaacs would write about the John III and his plans for the family business in the Chicago Reader later that year.  It was his father, John Podmajersky Jr, who had bought the properties, starting in the late 1950s.  Over 40 years he accumulated more than 100 of them and renovated them as shabby-chic live-work spaces for artists. The designs were playful, he opened floor plans, added spiral staircases, clerestory windows, made covered passageways outside.  The backyards were joined into shared private gardens furnished with architectural curiosities salvaged from other buildings.  But the fronts were left relatively nondescript – they had a uniform look, just slightly off-beat in their paint jobs, the artistry went on behind the fronts.

His son wanted to bring more energy to the front.  He saw the renovations around the UIC campus approaching down Halsted Street.  He didn’t want artist’s studios with their back to the street, he told Isaacs he wanted “artist entrepreneurs” who would open commercial businesses in the storefronts.  Isaacs interviewed 2 of Podmajersky’s new tenants for the article – one was an art consultant for corporate buyers, the other was Robin Rios.  She and Jerod had opened the 4Art Gallery in a 2,800 sf space at 1932 S. Halsted earlier that year.

The space had a great accessible floor plan, storefront windows and reasonable rent, the only thing it didn’t have was a scene.  So she and Jerod set out to generate one.  The Podmarjersky’s already organized an Open Studios night each year.  The galleries in River North drew crowds by marketing 1st Fridays, open gallery nights when the public was encouraged to wander through on the same day every month.  Robin and Jerod began to market 2nd Fridays in Pilsen.

What was trickier about Pilsen was that most of the studios were part of that hidden trail of spaces the older Podmajersky built.  So Jerod made maps of where all the artist studios were – they printed fliers and gave copies to the other artists to promote themselves, they spent hours handing them out downtown, and at other arts events. Robin still remembers approaching an established gallerist to ask her for advice.  The woman was incredulous.  “Why would I tell you how to start a gallery?” she wanted to know.  Robin and Jerod had the opposite instinct – they believed they’d be more successful if their neighbors were too.

In the end, they were successful at bringing crowds to Pilsen, and even at helping Podmajersky fill his storefronts, but it wasn’t clear it all worked to sell a lot of art.  A few years later the storefronts were emptying out again, 4Art had paid off its loan but Robin still wasn’t drawing a reliable salary. One departing gallerist told the Reader she thought 2nd Fridays were mostly a party where people came to drink wine, eat the cheese and crackers, and watch each other look at art.

Yet on any given 2nd Friday the crowds still come to Pilsen.  They wander the artists’ studios, they rub shoulders with each other, and they look at art with the person who made it right there to chat with them about it.  And the party and the art may be sympathetic in non-commercial ways.

They’re both expressive activities, for instance. As a place where people come to show themselves and to check each other out, a social scene is a sort of theater for mutual display. People hone their personal style, stimulated by people they see around them.  And to the extent their tastes evolve together as they participate in the pageant, the scene is also a sort of collective activity for spinning webs of meaning, for creating a context where each individual’s small acts of expression take their significance.

The curator Claire Molek says when she set out to revive a curated version of open gallery night in River North, her goal was to make the art scene more “transparent” -- more accessible to the public who might not feel conversant in art, but also more open to participants in the gallery system itself, who might be tempted to stay in their own box and protect it from poaching without a nudge to step out for a collective project.

That kind of transparency and context might be more important for an art world now, in a postmodern landscape, where critics have less authority to define direction and meaning for whole schools of people than they did even a few decades ago. Selling art could be an after effect.

As an exercise, Robin recently sat with an intern at the 4Art Gallery and did a Google search for images of abstract painting. Scrolling through, they saw a lot of repetition, treatments and effects they’d seen before in other people’s art, repeating again and again through the Google scroll.  It’s as if they’ve been mutually informed, communicating by invisible threads.  Robin tells her intern that what will be new about her work as a fine artist isn’t necessarily her style, or her technique. “What’s new is your connection to the world.”

Robin does take pride in her technique.  She describes herself as a digital painter, and she considers digital art the most recent art movement to point a whole new direction in the field, the way Impressionism did.  She recalls being amazed at the possibilities opened up by tools like Photoshop. “It blew my mind,” she says.  But in the mid 2000s, critics and artists weren’t sure using digital tools made real art.  And Robin herself is a little critical of artists who are too free with Photoshop filters and effects.  She uses her own photographs, makes her own effects with the camera, she’s proud that photographers who looked at her work couldn’t believe it was digital because they couldn’t see pixels, even with a glass.

At first she was making photographs of fairly traditional genres – landscapes and buildings in picturesque decompose.  But her signature, her “brand” she even calls it, her particular connection to a subject matter, began take shape when a friend gave her an X-Ray and asked her to make it into a piece for a 2004 exhibit called The Devil Show.

 “It spoke to me on so many levels,” she says.  She’d been sick a lot as a kid, and always with exotic illnesses, including a bone disease that fused her hip and put an end to her skateboarding days.  As an artist she came to believe her physical ailments were an expression of soul sickness, the unhealthy spirit she’d got by suppressing her true self, by not living her life.

She’d been so nervous about showing that first piece she didn’t want to attend the opening.  But when she arrived there were people waiting to talk to her about it.  Some of them wanted to give her X-Rays and MRIs of their own for her to make into art.   Eleven years later, she has made more than 40 pictures in a series she calls Observation.  She says the Observation series is about stripping away layers of social and personal constraints in order to reconnect with the world as our true selves.

As a gallery owner, Robin emphasizes that she represents artists who make fine art, as opposed to what she calls “decorative art.” The distinction must hinge on that goal – making art that expresses a real connection to the world – but since the goal is ephemeral, the distinction is also a moving line.

Robin says she’s known too many older artists who’ve had some success, but have become embittered misanthropes in the process.  They got sucked into a cycle where appreciation of their work seems to wax and wane, and they find themselves making the same kind of thing over and over again.  Either they’re trying to fill a large order for a hotel buyer with lots of rooms to fill, or they’re trying to recapture that landscape that sold, to hit the stylistic notes that brought some recognition before.

She says the critics, who could theoretically give artists feedback and push them to re-approach the world anew, aren’t much use anymore.  When Dan Davidson was in art school [profiled on The Hardscrabbler in April 2015], there was a so-called Artforum Mafia, a clique of critics whose essays defined the terms artists could use to make sense of their own careers, whether they followed their guidance or rebelled against it.  It doesn’t sound like today’s critics carry that kind of authority – or necessarily even seek it.  “No one’s writing long articles anymore,” Robin says.  “It’s all just Q and A.”

If the critics have stepped back, it sounds like gallery owners have stepped up to guide the show: they scout out what’s important, and neglect what’s not; they cultivate artists and educate buyers to appreciate them.  In fact, that’s pretty much what the old ArtForum Mafia was afraid would happen – it’s the kind of art market feedback loop they pictured when they argued about the commoditization of art.

And the commercial results have been fabulous.  At least in the secondary market, after pieces leave the gallery and are sold again at auction, the market has moved from one record to another, shouted on by ever more astonishing prices for superstar art.  In 2014, worldwide sales for art sold at auction topped $15 billion, up 300% from 2004, according the ArtPrice annual market report.  In the 1980s, top prices for individual artworks had stagnated around $10 million in the western market; in the 2000s a market emerged for works priced $100 million or more.

But behind the shouting around the superstars, the auction market has grown broader too, as in more art, made by a larger field of artists, finding a larger audience.  Partly, there are just more fabulously rich buyers from more parts of the globe.  They’re trying to establish new museums, or they’re building their personal collections, diversifying their investments.  China’s auction market has surpassed New York’s every year since 2010.  It’s helped shift the whole balance of genres.  Europeans and Americans buy paintings above all else, but ArtPrice reports that sales of drawings have taken a new scale under the influence of the Chinese.

But maybe the most encouraging point is that even as the celebrity paintings get all the press, the vast majority of sales, 80% of them, are of pieces priced less than $5,000.  In 2013, that segment represented nearly 300,000 works of art sold, twice as many as 10 years before.  By 2014, sales of contemporary artists brought in $1.2 billion in revenue, which was $1 billion more than 2004.

Auction sales are where speculative buyers have access to bid up prices, but a vigorous secondary market is good for art sold in galleries too, especially if interest is growing in emerging contemporary work.  It may be that in fine art, as everywhere else, it’s harder to establish a canon of important work than it once was.  The conversation is ever more diffuse, it’s confusing, but there’s more opportunity to be part of it. Especially if it transacts at a local level, in your neighborhood, for instance, like it does in ours.

Vacant Podmajersky storefronts on Halsted with Suggestions for Artist Entrepreneurs 

By 2009, the Pilsen art scene was wearing Robin out.  John Podmajersky had succeeded in filling his storefronts, but then his all efforts seemed to backfire.  Robin says she didn’t have a problem with John the way some people did – she never thought he was responsible for marketing the district, for instance, but she did think he went overboard on the rules.  He had rules about the hours his artist entrepreneurs should be open, and about the appearance of their window displays.  And then the rents kept going up, Jerod had moved to Portland, and Robin was tired of promoting the scene.  By 2009, she was ready to close the 4Art Gallery.

Then she got a call from Michael Zhou, son of ShanZou Zhou in Bridgeport.   Robin had seen the Zhou brothers at the occasional 2nd Friday event in Pilsen before, Michael told her his father and uncle had respect for what she she’d accomplished, they wanted to create something similar in Bridgeport, and they wanted her to be part of it.  Robin says it was an emotional meeting – she was flattered, but she was also exhausted.  In the end, the vision Michael laid out for building an art mecca in Bridgeport won her over.

Robin says the space was very raw when she moved in, her own space it was smaller, but it was also more manageable, she represents about half the artists she once did, and she’s part of a vibrant art scene she isn’t responsible for generating herself.  Today, the Zhou B Center thrums on 3rd Fridays – from the basement to the roof, and there are hosts of other shows throughout the month.

If We Were to Take a Look , by Robin Rios.  Better images are available at Robin Monique Rios

The 4Art Gallery is located on the 4th floor of the Zhou B. Center at 1029 W. 35th Street.  Robin displays works from her own Observation series at the back of the gallery.  This is my favorite one.  It’s an X-Ray of a human skull, painted in with more than 20 other images: there are train tracks burrowing into the depths, and gothic windows opening to the light.  There are the creaking gears of thought packed in a frontal lobe, and there are doves in flight just outside the skull walls – soaring on invisible currents.  It evokes all the limits and possibilities of the human mind.

On my most recent visit, I told Robin about the things I saw in it, and I was gratified when she told me it was very similar to what she saw.  It was only walking home afterwards that I remembered we had talked about that same picture before.  Did I see those things myself?  Or did she point them out to me and they took root in my mind somewhere, pushing to the surface as I looked at it again?  I don’t remember, but either way, once I stabilize some expenses this year, and start my collection of Bridgeport art, that will be the first picture I’m going to buy.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

A Field Vision of Art

Malevich's Black Square

 A few weeks ago Daniel Davidson came into Bridgeport Coffee excited about a review he’d just read in Apollo, a British arts journal.  He didn’t agree with it – he was stimulated the way you are when you stumble across a clear articulation of something you know to be deeply wrong.  The essay described a new exhibition of Malevich’s Black Square, an avant-garde painting first shown in 1915.

The title is accurate: Black Square is the picture of a black square, painted inside a white one.  It is sometimes described the culmination of the European tradition that evolved from realistic pictures through ever more impressionistic depictions of light, geometric form and shifting perspective until it arrived at pure abstractions.  Malevich himself is said to have hoped that by breaking loose from representation of the material world, his painting pointed the way to a plane of ideals and utopian social possibilities.

In the century since then, the utopian social possibilities haven’t been realized, and some critics have wondered if abstract art hasn’t been less a culmination than a cul de sac, cluttered with empty shapes where anyone can project his own fantasies.  The review in Apollo was more optimistic; the author, Rye Dag Holmboe, describes some recent abstract art he believes show new directions for the genre.

Daniel is of the opinion that abstract art is really a dead end.  But it is a dead end he wrestled with himself for decades before he found a way out, and the review in Apollo has inspired him to describe it in his own essay.  Which he begins to compose at the coffee shop, in a journal with a black cloth binding and thick white pages, like Black Square with content.  It’s filled with carefully drawn text and illustrated with pictures cut from magazines and catalogs, some of them are from his own work; some of them have been cut apart and reassembled as inverted rectangles, a theme from his days as a systemic minimalist.

Davidson with his journal: Black Square inverted

Daniel was an art student in the 1960s.  Which has meant his career spanned the years when the modern world is sometimes said to have given way to a postmodern one.  In that formulation, the modern world was marked by progress and rational certainty, the people who lived in it were engaged in a common project to pull eternal truths out from the flux and chaos of everyday life. The postmodern one started as people lost confidence in the common project, settling into a world of relative truths.  They might still have the power to create significance, but they’d assemble it self-consciously, with doses of irony to show they knew they were making it up.  Daniel’s journals are a jumble of both.

On one page, he’s made a collage of events picked out from 1937, the year of his birth. The fascists bombed Guernica that year, Goering appeared on the cover of Look magazine, Stalin turned his paranoid gaze on his own inner circle. Howard Hughes flew across the continental United States in record time, Amelia Earhart was lost in the Pacific, Disney released Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, its first full length animation feature, where innocence triumphs.

On another page, he’s summed up his life in a brief outline ordered around a series of spontaneous acts.    He remembers them as a series of breakthroughs, abrupt intrusions of insight that rupture the patient practice of everyday life.  Like the moment riding the El home from school one day when he decided he would race sailboats – he’d had no prior experience with sailing, but it’s an enthusiasm that stuck with him through his life.  He does not count the moment in 1957, as a young philosophy student walking back to the dorms when he renounced the afterlife, even though it was abrupt, because he was considering the question.  But he does count the moment in the army in 1962, stepping off the landing from the mess hall, when he knew he would be a painter.

He had studied commercial art at Lane Tech High School, but he describes his courses there as entirely separate from fine art; he says he learned to draw by cutting class, sketching from the street and wandering the galleries of the Chicago Art Institute. But then, when he decided to be a painter, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago was the natural place to start. 

from Davidson's journal: 1937

At the time, abstract art was enjoying a re-florescence in New York, egged on by a clique of quarrelsome editors at Artforum magazine.  The intellectual artist Ad Reinhardt was working on his own series of nearly identical Black Paintings in homage to Black Square -- they occupied him for 13 years from 1954.  Holmboe says Reinhardt embraced Malevich’s metaphysics, his appeal to “oneness” and “unity,” but the utopian social goals seemed beyond art’s reach in the years after the war.

In Chicago, a new school of students was beginning to define themselves against New York and its so-called Artforum Mafia.  They took stylistic cues from commercial art, and they made images of people and objects – they were cartoonish, carnivalesque, with a bawdy, political edge. Some would come to be known for an art show they titled “Hairy Who?” after a critic they found particularly pretentious (as in, “Who the hell is Harry B?”)

Daniel defined himself against the Chicago school.  “I didn’t want to be a Hairy Who.”  He wanted to be a New York artist. He made a study of Artforum.  His idol was Frank Stella, known for his flat geometric stripes in bold colors with sharp lines -- they didn’t represent other objects but were objects themselves.  Describing their appeal, Daniel says they were vibrant, muscular, but also systematic. “Every year or so he’d change something up,” introduce the next logical step. “Which eventually led him into utter nonsense,” as Daniel recalls, “but that’s another thing.”

Daniel developed his portfolio and “plotted and schemed” his way into Yale, because Yale fed directly into the New York arts scene.  After earning his MFA from Yale in 1968, he took a teaching job so he wouldn’t be beholden to the gallery system.  He taught printmaking, drawing and painting at Alfred University in Upstate New York from 1968 to 1982.

He began working on a series of inverted rectangles, working with 4 by 8 pieces of Masonite.  He painted them, cut them apart and turned them inside out. He showed them at New York’s OK Harris Gallery in 1975.  Though the whole time, he was working on another kind of project.

As a student at Yale he had taken a course in Chinese painting.  It was a tradition entirely outside the logical path he’d learned in European painting, it started from calligraphy, and elaborated on the quality of the brush stroke.  On the side, he started doing his own brush stroke paintings, working with a graphite powder so fine it would billow each time you dipped the brush in it.  He says the results were beautiful, but he wasn’t sure where to go with it. “It wouldn’t fly in New York.”

from Davidson's journal: a pictorial summary of his career

In an article for the New Yorker called “A Girl of the Zeitgeist,” Janet Malcolm would describe an about face at Artforum made with the arrival of Ingrid Sischy as editor on the eve of 1980.  The writers of the 1960s and 70s had faith in art as a coherent project that followed the history of western painting to its end.  Progress meant being pulled forward by a necessary pursuit of the next new thing – there was a logical path, a ladder, there was no looking back.  As Sischy described “that particular avant-garde” to Malcolm: “Its rule was that painting was dead, it was just decadent picture making, the regressive act, and all one could do was produce heroic works of abstraction, accompanied by a great deal of terminology.”

The old writers and editors shared a common education in art history, philosophy and aesthetics.  They defended art’s aloofness from the compromised values of the bourgeois world.  Art didn’t need a “social mission,” its mission was encompassed in the intense aesthetic encounter you’d either experienced, or had not.  Their resistance targeted the commoditization of art, by which they meant subservience to a gallery system that levered the artistic aura for outrageous profits.

The first thing Ingrid Sischy did on her arrival at Artforum was scrap the issue underway and pull out an issue of entirely new art in 2 weeks. From that first issue forward, the whole tone of the magazine changed.  The editorial content was less erudite and more irreverent, more inclusive, even socially conscious.  Malcolm’s article describes a terrific fight over an exhibit showing African Art alongside Modernist abstractions after one of Sischy’s writers criticized it for taking the African Art from out of its ritual context, and pressing it into the service of a Western project.

Under Sischy, Artforum covered European artists, and painters of figures and objects; painters who would treat art history less like a ladder, and more like a trunk of dress up clothes in the attic; painters whose pictures alluded to power dynamics very much of this world, and who also participated with relish in a gallery system that made them fabulously rich over night.

Barbara Rose was one of Artforum’s old avant-garde.  She had been married to Frank Stella in the 60s.  She told Malcolm about having everybody over for parties “and there would be raging arguments.”  But they were arguments among intellectuals who cared deeply about the same issues and who spoke the same language. “You had a sense of not being isolated. You were talking to other people.  It might be only 5 people, but you were talking to somebody, and you knew who you were talking to.”

The small group created a “consensus of educated people,” they gave a sense of coherence to the magazine, and to the culture.  “There wasn’t this horrible leveling where everything is as important as everything else.  There was a sense of hierarchy of values.”

Duchamp and Mondrian in one of Davidson's Meta-Paintings

The lost consensus of educated people sounds like a complaint that old elites have probably always made about the new generation that fails to recognize their own importance.  But in the 1980s and 90s it enjoyed a wider resonance.  In 1987, the year after Malcolm’s article appeared in The New Yorker, Allan Bloom would publish his book The Closing of the American Mind, detailing the decline of the classic liberal education, deeply experienced, that prepares a leadership class that knows how to think.  And his book was a bestseller.

Its popular appeal might be evidence less of the real value of high culture than of the particular dilemma of its time.  In 1990, David Harvey published The Condition of Postmodernity.  In it he argues that a new round of acceleration of the world economy has been accompanied by a new kind of cultural change.  The two spheres have long been linked by processes of creative destruction – with new business models, new products, new fashions, new developments in art, and new urban plans burning down the old ones and building on their ashes, over and over again.  That dynamic has been underway since the earliest days of capitalism; freedom from tradition and its superstitions has been one of the core values of modernity.

In the decades after the war, creative destruction only accelerated.  Information and transport kept moving faster, the world got smaller, and smaller.  And as those changes accelerated, the cultural landscape got noisier.  By the 1970s, it wasn’t just a matter of more change, faster.  The rate of acceleration was so dramatic that modernity surpassed itself, there was a qualitative break.  It ricocheted through the arts and popular culture; it ruined that project where creative destruction had a purpose, which was to keep the way clear for rational progress toward universal, or at least widely understood ideals.

The experience was profoundly disorienting.  Rose and Bloom, and all the people who might not be part of their circles, but who took a little comfort in knowing they were there, weren’t just practicing the usual complaint about an old elite’s loss of prestige.  They felt the loss of purpose.  They had no tools for navigating a culture where there is no center, no outer boundaries, and maybe no instruments for navigating a sure course, just a lot of individuals wandering around in the wilderness with lots of freedom on their hands. And a media machine for doling out distraction and fame in small doses.

At least that’s the idea of a “postmodern” condition.

from Davidson's journal: Nietsche and Kandinsky in a boat stuffed with fireworks

Before he studied art, Daniel studied philosophy.  As an abstract artist, he saw himself as an aesthetic engineer, he would take a simple thing and work his way through all the permutations of it.  “It was my way of being creative, of imagining stuff.”

At first, like a good modernist, he thought there was something behind the abstractions.  But even in art school he felt stirrings of doubt.  Even Frank Stella used to tell people that his paintings were just what they appeared to be.  The more you looked behind all the theorizing, Daniels says, “it all turned to dust.” He found an alternative in Chinese landscape painting early on, but that was just another tradition, it wasn’t a satisfying answer.  He would alternate back and forth between abstract geometries and calligraphic techniques, “from one visual idea to its opposite,” for 40 years.

In the late 1990s, he went back to get a second MFA at UIC’s Electronic Visualization Lab, where he practiced systemic minimalism in a new medium, but the new medium wore on him, he missed the painterly technique.   He says he left Chicago for awhile to get away from digital art.

He set up a studio in Silver City, New Mexico in 2003.  And it was there, in the desert state where he first decided to be a painter, that he launched a series of 60 paintings that he considers his third spontaneous action. It wasn’t instantaneous, like the others, it was spontaneous in the sense it was not planned, it seemed to come from some mysterious ground that he’d prepared without knowing how – it was the synthesis he’d been striving to realize his whole career.

The paintings were inspired by the I Ching, the Book of Change, an ancient Chinese divination text.  The I Ching composed of a series of trigrams and hexagrams – each one representing permutations of 3, or 6, solid and broken lines.  Each has accumulated layers of numeric and symbolic associations over the centuries.  Ancient commentaries describe the Book of Change as a microcosm, a sort of element table of a universe in flux.

Daniel had run across it in the 1970s, it had interested him as an ancient example of a binary logic system.  He painted out the hexagrams on 64 large sheets of paper, but he didn’t go deeper than that.  He brought the 64 sheets out in Silver City for a gallery exhibit.  He was disappointed in the gallery scene in Silver City, he says no one sold any paintings there, they just hung them on the wall and made money selling merchandise.  But it did get him started thinking about the I Ching

And he thought by painting, starting with abstract paintings of the hexagrams themselves, then adding his own layers of associations.  He painted the hexagrams for heaven and earth using birds of the sky, land and water; he depicted each of the hexagrams with the “mountain” trigram in them, using expressions in human hands.  He did more than a dozen paintings that worked his way through phases of art history, their accomplishments and limitations, all using correspondences with the 8 trigrams as a frame.

Daniel isn’t particularly impressed with the I Ching as a divination text – he doesn’t believe it will tell you the future.  But he does believe that if you go to it with a real question, something you want answered, you will find an answer.  He says it brought him back to representative art, in fact it brought him back to figure painting.  The experience was tremendously liberating.  It’s like, having found himself set loose in a trackless desert, he managed to map the world on a frame of trigrams, so he could navigate it.

Davidon's Birds of the Earth

What got Daniel going about that Apollo article was the idea that abstract art might still have further to go.  In his experience, it has been a dead end of what he calls “target vision” – the obsession with chasing the Next New Thing in art. He thinks artists would do better to try to achieve a “field vision” instead -- a wide angle view of the world.

In his essay, he proposes a schema for achieving a field vision that does not reference the I Ching.  He calls it the triangulation of art.  He says art history can be analyzed into 3 primary styles: the mimetic art of the western figure painting; the calligraphic art of the Chinese landscape, and pure abstractions of the Islamic tradition.  He says any painting can be placed somewhere within that triangle, either as a pure example of one of the primary styles or as some mixture of them.

Realizing that, understanding the map, makes all styles available, it frees the artist to paint poly-stylistically.  At least that’s what it did for him.  In his own art, he has become absorbed in “meta-painting” – painting about painting, often literally pictures placing famous artists together in an almost allegorical way.

After 7 years at New Mexico, Daniel returned to Chicago.  He moved to Bridgeport in 2012.  In Bridgeport, he lives in the middle of a burbling local art scene.  He inhabits a studio in one of the Zhou Brothers buildings on Morgan Street.  But he still describes his arrival here as almost accidental, he says he can’t remember how he found this particular place.  He doesn’t feel he can identify with what the artists around him are doing, or that they recognize the value of his work.  But that doesn’t particularly concern him either.  He says no one can help you make art.  It’s finding the field vision that’s vital.

notes from Davidson's journal

Saturday, February 14, 2015

A Chicago Pipefitter: the Wages of Work

Plumbers and Pipefitters mural by Charles Johnston
the original is at 254 Higgens Ave, Winnepeg, Manitoba

Joe Mancari graduated from De LaSalle high school with Al Ribskis [They Call Me Mr. MGB] in 1975. Joe’s main memory of that period in history is the looming possibility of being drafted for Vietnam.  He remembers Al as one of the smart kids at school; he sometimes describes his younger self as having been a knucklehead.  He has fond memories of warm evenings spent hanging out with the guys on 26th Street; when he was older he’d spend some time in the fast lane at the Rush Street bars.

Decades later, though, the striking difference between Joe’s path and Al’s is that Joe’s has been steadier.  He’s lived his whole life in 3 houses within 6 blocks of the house his family settled in when they first came from Italy, when Joe’s father was still an infant.  And he’s been employed by just 2 employers in the past 38 years.

Joe’s a union pipefitter -- a servicefitter more specifically, he says the other pipefitters call them sissy fitters because they don’t break their backs welding new pipe, they make repairs on big HVAC and refrigeration systems that are already installed.  He hasn’t been unaffected by changes in Chicago’s economy during those years.  His first job had him working on refrigeration systems for meat packing plants; the second has him maintaining the temperate environment for offices and data centers in the towers downtown.  For decades, the basics of heat, ventilation and air conditioning didn’t change much, but the innovations have accelerated in the last 10 years.  Now equipment makers race to outdo each other in efficiency, green features and electronic controls.  In some cases the equipment’s so new the service fitters are working out kinks the manufacturers can’t tell them how to fix.

So Joe has done well by his wits, but the fact he’s had just 2 jobs in 38 years is related to the fact he’s lived his life in 3 houses within 6 blocks, because the union has helped give his career its stability, and he needed connections to secure a foothold in the union.  Joe’s vividly aware of that because his father, who was a plumber, wasn’t in a union when Joe was a kid. Back then the unions were controlled by the Irish and the Germans, Italians could only get a foot in the door if they paid somebody a bribe.  Jimmy Mancari wouldn’t pay anybody a bribe, even though he was raising 6 kids and earning just a little more than minimum wage.

In his son’s day there would be big fights about integrating the unions.  In the 1970s, the Justice Department filed civil rights suits to force the unions to open their ranks to minorities; in the 80s, the unions pulled their apprenticeship programs out of Washburn Trade School when the Board of Education demanded they double minority enrollment; by the early 1990s a federal judge ripped the pipefitters union in particular for its racism, arguing that African Americans were effectively screened out through “an informal word of mouth system through which many white members are referred to jobs.”  Eventually, Joe’s uncle, Joe Tassone paid the bribe that got Joe’s father into the union; years later he was in a position to help his son access the system that had once excluded him.

Joe’s uncle had an interesting career arc of his own.  They called him Joe Nickels, from his days as a newsboy during the Depression outside the Metropole Hotel.  When Al Capone came out he’d buy a paper from every newsboy out front, and he’d pay them each a nickel, even though the paper only cost a penny.  As an adult, Joe Nickels started a plumbing and heating business in Chicago, but connections drew him out to Las Vegas.

Vegas has been a gambling town since the 1930s, when construction crews brought in to build the Hoover dam first jumped the town’s population from 5,000 to 25,000.  The male laborers, far from their families, were a natural market for showgirls and gambling.  A collection of local businessmen, mafia bosses and Mormon bankers built on that theme, and the city’s population doubled every decade as they did it. Joe Nickels didn’t do plumbing for the casinos, he laid sewers for all the new tract housing springing up around them.  Within 5 years of resettling in Vegas he had 6 trucks and 10 guys working for him, and he was pulling in millions of dollars a year.  But he’d also contracted a gambling habit and he was losing it as fast as he could pull it in.

An Octopus Furnace: Front View (adapted to burn gas)

As a kid, back in Chicago, Joe Mancari was following along with his father to help him out on residential plumbing and heating repairs.  He learned all the fittings and saw some very old equipment still doing good service in the basements of Bridgeport.  He remembers the old octopus furnaces that ran on coal and worked by convection – the hot air lofting up from the basement through each arm of the furnace to big grates in the floors.  The coal was held in a hopper and fed into the furnace with an augur.  If a large lump of coal jammed the augur, a pin connecting it to the motor was designed to break, so the motor could spin freely without grinding itself out.  Joe would climb into hoppers to replace broken shear pins his father couldn’t reach.

Today he says the most important thing he learned from his father was his work ethic, it’s the inheritance he’s passed on to his own sons.  He had planned to be a plumber himself, to follow in his father’s footsteps.  But when he went to the plumbers union on graduating high school, the waitlist for the apprenticeship program was 6 years long.

An Octopus Furnace: Rear View

So with his father’s permission he enrolled in Coyne Trade School.  The Campus was in Lincoln Park then, it’s just north of the old meat packing district on Fulton Street now.  Coyne was founded on the eve of the eve of the 20th century to train electricians, an emerging trade at the time.  By the 1950s it was known for its training in HVAC and Refrigeration as well.  After eighteen months of night courses, Joe finished with employable skills, but still couldn’t get a job without a union card, and you couldn’t join the union without a job.

“You had to know somebody,” Joe says today.  His father called Frank Young whose plumbing supply business at 59th and Ashland brought all the local contractors in through his doors.  Frank Young helped match Joe with a piping company called Resco, now Mid-Resco Services, who asked the union to take in their new prospective employee.

Mid-Resco had a north side crew and a south side crew.  In heating and cooling as in life, there was a natural rivalry between them, at least the south side crew would entertain themselves with stories about things the north side crew had done, like by-passing safety controls for quick fixes that blew up on them later.  Among themselves, they made a point of fixing their own mistakes quietly in house.

Joe was just out of school, he was motivated to learn, it wasn’t long before clients were calling up to ask his bosses to “send the kid over.”  Mid-Resco brought him out from house basements to the equipment rooms of big commercial and industrial facilities.  They afforded him a tour of the local meat packing plants while they were still running – Chiapetti’s, Bo Packing, Peer Foods.  He recalls the sound of the cattle crying in the slaughterhouse, the big bins full of animal parts – like the hopper full of eyeballs staring up at him like they were shocked to be there -- and the chill of the workrooms, which were all refrigerated, the workers wore protective steel mesh gloves that carried the cold to the bones of their hands.

The Original Ammonia Refrigeration System: Built by Ferdinand Carre in 1859

The meat plants used old ammonia refrigeration systems.  Ammonia is poisonous and flammable and had been replaced by “safer” chlorofluorocarbons like Freon in most other environments, but it is cheap and efficient, especially at very low temperatures, and so it’s still used for food processing in particular.  Today, the ammonia industry describes itself as the safety refrigerant because it doesn’t destroy the ozone and you can easily smell it if it leaks.

Substances aside, refrigeration in the meat packing plants is based on a cycle of compression and rapid expansion that has been fundamentally unchanged since the 1870s, when it was first used to make ice to replace the stuff harvested from lakes in winter and stored under sawdust through the year. The refrigerant is first compressed and condensed into liquid, then pushed through an expansion valve.  The sharp drop in pressure sparks a flash of evaporation that pulls heat out from the refrigerant, chilling it enough that warm air blown across it turns cold.

It sounds improbable, but apparently it works.  In his second job, Joe would be working on similar systems used to cool the core of the towers downtown.  In winter, the envelope of an office tower is heated, but chillers cool the heat from equipment at the core all year round.

Ammonia Refrigeration Equipment

After 18 years, Joe was ready for a change of scene.  He took a job with Competitive Piping in 1997.  Competitive Piping has been headquartered at the Chicago Board of Trade ever since a heroic rescue job during the great Loop Flood of 1992.

As the flood made Chicagoans aware, coal fuel was once fed into deep sub-basements in towers throughout the Loop by a system of tunnels underground.  Later, the tunnels were strung with electric lines, the sub-basements are still filled with mechanical equipment.

In April, 1992, a contractor driving a piling into the bed of the river struck too close to one of the tunnels.  It took awhile for the pressure to break through the tunnel, but after it did, the leak was visible in the river above – it looked like water circling down a giant drain.  Water filled the tunnels and sub-basements, shutting equipment down and creating giant electrical hazards.  The IRS granted disaster extensions on tax returns; the Chicago Board of Trade rattled world markets when it closed for 2 days.

It took weeks to plug the hole and empty the basements; the lawsuits would wind on for years.  Crews were still trying to stop the hole with mattresses when Competitive Piping helped bring CBOT back on line before anybody else.  They flew in replacement chillers by helicopter, they finagled permission from city bureaucrats to operate them from flatbeds parked in the street. They sent divers into the sub-basements with underwater welding equipment to install take off valves in the submerged piping.  The valves tied in hard rubber hose that reached out to the chillers in the street.

Competitive Piping's Headquarters since 1992

Some years later, Joe got to work on another helicopter job for the CBOT.  They were installing cooling towers on the roof.  It was a carefully choreographed performance.  The city shut down the streets, but only for a tight window of time.  Spectators held their breath as the helicopters hoisted the towers upwards, staying steady as they could so the towers wouldn’t start to swing on their tethers.  Joe worked the rigging to prepare them for the lift.

In the years since he started at Competitive Piping, the trading floors have given way to big server rooms for processing electronic trades.  The servers generate great loads of heat that must be cooled constantly and that make repairs more urgent, because anything that shuts them down can cost traders millions in a short span of time.  The constant innovations designed to make heating and cooling more efficient make old equipment obsolete more quickly, particularly the electronic components, and not all the new equipment works right the first time it’s installed.

But many of the basics of the business remain the same.  In the summer, Joe says the most common service calls are for motor repairs.  As ComEd struggles to meet peak demand, the voltage sometimes drops in unannounced brownouts – he says that’s not supposed to happen but he’s seen it on his voltmeter.  When voltage drops, amperage rises, and a surge in amperage will burn a motor out.

In the winter, the most common calls come when tenants under the mechanical floors complain they’ve got water pooling in their ceiling, and that’s usually because water left standing in chill coils over winter have frozen and cracked.  A big building is constantly balancing the air it exhales through the exhaust systems with fresh air it takes in from outside.  Joe says if the balance isn’t right you can feel the resistance when you go to open the doors.  And if the damper that brings in fresh air into the air mixing chamber gets stuck, frigid cold from outdoors will freeze the coils used to condition the air that’s blown through the ducts.

For a big system, the air mixing chamber is the size of room.  It has a door with a tempered glass window on it so you can peer in.  Fans move the air in tornado-force winds inside, so you have to shut them off before you open the door.  Joe will isolate the coils and force air through them, then spray them with a foam that bubbles where the air leaks through tiny cracks. There may be dozens of them, and he’ll patiently braze each of them closed.

Over the years Joe says all that work in very cold environments takes a toll on your joints  - as it probably did for the meat workers with their chilled hands.  But it has also afforded a good life for his family.  His sons are adults – he sent them both to college.  One of them is a materials engineer, the other a doctor of pharmacology.  He and his wife raised them in a house next door to his father.

In fact, the lot their house stands on originally came with the house his father bought for $16,000 in 1966.  Those were his father’s low wage days, he bought it with a loan from the credit union at St. Jerome’s and a spoken guarantee from a friend.   Joe and his wife designed their own house themselves, every detail the way they want it, from the placement of the windows to the extensive insulation, to the materials in the pipes – there is no rattling PVC in Joe’s house.  It reflects what he knows about heating and cooling and pipe, it also reflects the benefits of the union that helped guarantee, over the span of a whole career, fair compensation for work well done.

Thursday, December 25, 2014

They Call Me Mister MGB

Al Ribskis' MGB in the Victory Lane at Road America 

Al Ribskis locates TECH RacinGraphics, his custom race-car helmet business, at a point 150 miles south of Road America and 180 miles north of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.  That’s one more set of coordinates that place Bridgeport more or less at the center of things, though the route he arrived by has been more like the historic road course, with its wooded moraines and its 14 turns, than an ovoid track.

Al grew up in Bridgeport, in an apartment at 3139 South Emerald; he graduated De LaSalle High School, Class of 1975.  His mother hoped he’d follow the path of his older brother, who got his engineering degree from UIC, took at a job after college, and stayed at the same company his entire career.  It was an interesting job, assessing risk for big structures like stadiums and convention centers, but still an unusual employment trajectory, especially for his era.

Al enrolled at UIC for 2 years after high school, but says he was distracted by a youthful bout of cynicism.  Cynicism is a word that’s hard to reconcile with Al Ribskis now -- he describes it as a nagging a sense of pointlessness:  good grades came easy, but he really had no idea what he planned to do with himself.  And in retrospect, maybe his doubts weren’t all wrong.

Al's logo for TECH RacinGraphics drawn by Roger Warrick

When Al was in high school, Don McLean was singing “Bye bye Miss American Pie” almost every time you turned on the radio. America’s long streak of post war prosperity, marked by steady growth, had crested and a long period of disruptions was underway – over the next 20 years they’d rattle every rung on the employment ladder.  If Al had gone ahead and pursued the course he couldn’t quite picture as a 19 year old, he might have been one of those middle managers shrugged loose mid-career by rounds of corporate streamlining.

Instead, he rebelled by leaving college to train as an electronic technician at DeVry.   He found electronics interesting – as a kid he built simple radios and motors from Heath kits -- and when he finished the program in a year and a half he had no trouble rounding up job offers.  Over the years, his skills haven’t exactly protected him from disruptions, but they have helped him pluck opportunities from the flux.

His first job was at JAY Cash Registers, a third generation, family owned business now known, after some adjustments, as JAY Retail Systems.  They started out selling used mechanical registers in the 1920s; by the mid 1950s they could claim to be the world’s largest used cash register dealer.  They also made parts and supplies for reconditioning machines, sometimes through contracts with overseas manufacturers.  Then, in 1973, they introduced the world’s first mass produced electronic cash register – with built in computing power that gave managers quick access to sales data a few key strokes.

Over the next 13 years, the company reports, sales jumped from a few million dollars a year to over $100 million in inflation adjust dollars. They didn’t build the registers themselves, they contracted with Japanese firms to do it.  Stateside, JAY maintained a network of over 600 authorized dealers, supported by hundreds of salesmen and technical support personnel.

Al joined their stable in 1979 in the hubbub of their most prosperous years.  He also married the girl he’d met as at his high school job as an Andy Frain usher at the old Comiskey Park.  They set up house in a cool Lincoln Park apartment; on week-ends they’d go dancing at Club 950, where DJ Joe Bryl was spinning New Wave records – Al runs into Joe in Bridgeport all the time now, some 30 years later, at Maria’s Community Bar or at the Co-Prosperity Sphere.

And one afternoon back in ‘79, driving a Chevy Nova handed down from Al’s brother, they spotted a used MG sports car on a car lot, exchanged looks, and agreed they should buy it.  Al has collected some of the old print ads for that car -- they show young couples posed with the agile little vehicle at picnics, or at the beach, with gliders in the background – they depict a joyful, carefree existence that still reflects how he feels driving that car today.  And the car opened doors to other things.

They say the British MG was the vehicle that introduced Americans to the joys of the sports car. American GIs first saw it during World War II.  After the war, MG only built about 10,000 of its MGTD model, but a couple thousand made their way to US shores – modest numbers, but proportionally significant -- and  in the coming years, Americans would spend more and more time on the road.

The MGA was introduced in 1955 – the year before Congress passed the Federal Highway Act to fund a new Interstate highway system, and the same year Road America opened as the first permanent road race course on the North American continent.  The MGA was designed to make its mark in a growing field of European sports cars angling for a piece of the American market: the Italians would build fancy cars for the rich; MG built a quality sports car affordable to the ordinary driver.  It was the MGB, the car that Al bought, that would really solidify that reputation.  The MGB was introduced in 1962; MG sold 500,000 of them over the next 18 years.

Interesting, for a sports car, it’s unlikely anyone ever bought an MGB for power or speed.  The car had a modest 4 cylinder, 94 horsepower engine, and it didn’t have the comforts considered basic in American cars, like heat, or windows that could be rolled down, or defrosted.  For comparison, Ford introduced its Mustang GT, setting the standard for a whole class of pony cars, in April of 1965.  It had an 8 cylinder, 225 horsepower engine, and Ford sold 417,000 of them before the end of the year.

Still, MG was selling all the cars it could build.  They had a reputation for simple design and quality construction, and they handled well, they were fun to drive.  Al describes their “underdog appeal” in racing terms  - how in a mixed race, the cars with the most powerful engines would pull out on the straightaway, but the small, maneuverable ones could outfox them on the turns.

Over the years, these qualities were partly muffled as the MGB was ‘federalized’ to meet emerging American safety and emission standards.  Raised suspensions made it a little less maneuverable; heavy rubber bumpers altered its looks.  When the 1975 model came out, the modifications strained every system in the engine, reducing it to 63 horsepower and leaving it susceptible to mechanical problems. Al spends a lot of time in the garage, absorbed in loving repairs, but he still describes driving that car as a joyful experience. 

1975-76 turned out to be a record sales year for the MGB, though sales dropped after that, and MG’s problems were compounded by labor disputes, until 1980, when they stopped production.  But their cars still have a strong following today.  There are over a hundred active MG owner’s clubs in the US, whose members can talk shop, source parts, and socialize in rallies and caravans.  Back in 1979, when Al had just bought his MGB, he joined the Chicagoland MG Club and drove in a club caravan to Road America, the historic road race course in Elkhart Lake Wisconsin, over Labor Day.  He was smitten.

Helmet painting for a customer who told Al
"Every day at the racetrack is like having ice cream." 

Within a few years he was attending Skip Barber Racing School, which provides an introduction to the elements of racecraft, from techniques for braking and passing to controlling vehicle drift, and prepares students to qualify for an amateur racing license.  Graduates can race Skip Barber cars with limited damage liability at Skip Barber racing series that cover 30 race courses in Canada and the US.  Soon, Al was racing 2-3 times a year, and occasionally manning flag stations along the race course.

Back at the job, the electronic cash register business was also accelerating.  JAY’s electronic machines had changed the cash register industry; by the mid-80s competitors had entered the field.  Soon, cheaper versions of the “ECR” (electronic cash register) could be had through discount stores, without the benefit of an expensive support staff. 

Al was let go as JAY’s made adjustments, but he was able to pick up a job at a competitor’s shop on the old Northwest Highway.   And bout that time, he happened to see an ad in the Chicago Reader classifieds that would mark a significant turn in his alternate career.  It was listed under “Opportunities,” and it was located just a mile down the highway at Orion Industries, applicators of industrial coatings.  At the time Orion applied Teflon to cookware; now they apply coatings to medical instruments.

Owner Bruce Nesbitt was a savvy businessman.  Nesbitt is also a prime example of a type Al describes with admiration – the wealthy individual whose success in business allows him to buy a race car and try his hand at racing, and whose priorities gradually evolve until he’s building the business to support the racing habit.  Bruce had been racing for 20 years when Al met him.  He’d built a shop out of a corner of the Orion facility where a crew of 4 or 5 guys worked on his Camaro.  

One of them was a paid crew chief, the others were volunteers who worked for the love of the sport. Al started in the summer season as a volunteer mechanic; by winter, Bruce had hired him as crew chief.  The meticulous work suits Al’s skills and proclivities, though the stress of the occasional part failure did not.  Between them the crew might put hundreds of work hours, using endless checklists, into preparing for a 45 minute race.  At high speeds, heat and vibrations would jolt things loose and cause loose parts to fail.  Al vividly remembers one race that Bruce was leading with a real chance to win, until smoke started pouring from the engine and he had to drop out of the race.  A bundle of cables had rattled loose and short circuited as their protective coating wore off.  Bruce took incidents like that with relative equanimity, it was all part of the sport.  But they wore on Al, and by the end of the season he felt he had to resign.

This left him, in 1986, at a loss what to do with himself for the first time since his college days, though he no longer had that cynical streak.  He took a seminar called “Empower Your Career” that he credits with launching him into something entirely new.  He knew he wanted to try his hand as an entrepreneur, by the end of the seminar he had identified opportunity in a new kind of electronic signage with scrolling type.  The signs were made in Japan, but he could source, distribute and install them.  And once he began subscribing to trade publications, it turned out the sign business was in the midst of another transition, in which hand lettered signs were giving way to adhesive vinyls, cut with a computerized plotter.   Al didn’t buy the equipment, he saw opportunity specking and installing them. 

Compared to fast cars, installation of pre-built electronics and adhesive vinyls might sound like dull stuff, but Al, with his meticulous streak, takes great pleasure in the survey work – the measurements and preparations that make the installation go well.  It’s the part of the job he believes others too often neglect.  He might use third party contractors to build an enormous sign cabinet, to operate the crane that hangs it, to shape the neon tubes that light it and cut the vinyl letters that will spell out the menu around the edge of the roof, and if he’s taken an accurate survey, it will also fit together without a hitch.  He describes working atop a ladder – applying lettering or paint or connecting electronics – as peaceful and absorbing, above the hubbub of the street.

For 9 years, Al’s best client was Leona’s restaurants.  The first sign he did for them was a vertical cabinet with Leona’s name spelled in ruby lights – it still hangs along Taylor Street.   When business slowed after the dot-com bust and 9/11, it became clear that his ability to survey a job did not extend to managing cash flow.  In 2002, he closed his business and began to work for other installers, joining the sign installers union in 2007. 

Union work brought him to big jobs at hotels and office buildings where he might mount hundreds of labels at doors and stairwells – jobs that had less to do with orchestrating the details of one big sign than working out the quickest way to mount a dozen in an hour at precisely the same height.  But there too, Al appreciates a sense of landscape: a job in the West Loop puts him in proximity to where a construction boom unfolds, or it might put him in the service of impressive clients.  When one job sent him to work on a Crate and Barrel store, he was delighted at the prospect because he admired the company.

“I was thinking ‘This is great!  I get to work for Crate and Barrel – (founder) Gordon Segal is a retail genius!’”  Then he arrived at the site, and the store manager filled his ear with complaints about shortcuts and unfulfilled promises made by the installation company that had sent him to the job.  Al went home and wrote an earnest letter to the company president, because surely upper management would want to know about the client’s concerns, and he felt let down when he got a letter back, dismissing the client’s claims in soothing terms about how misunderstandings are inevitable in business.

Al’s other career affords more idealistic principles.  In the mid-2000s, a friend invited him to a luncheon with the Chicago Loop Auto Sports Society (CLASS), an informal club of serious enthusiasts who meet monthly at Pazzo’s restaurant to talk about cars and racing.  It was at a CLASS luncheon that Al met David Cooper, whose west loop company Cooper Technica does extravagant restorations of vintage cars.

For photos from the restoration of this Land Rover,
see Cooper Technica's web-page under "For Sale"

For the purist, a vintage car is a pre-war vehicle, built between 1919 and 1939, though Cooper does other restorations, like vintage Land Rovers built between 1950 and the mid 1970s. He searches out devalued specimens in poor condition with uncertain origins, and assembles a pool of investors to buy them, and fund their restoration.

A rare car’s provenance, its origins, ownership and any racing career, can have a dramatic impact on its value.  Cooper takes pride in his skill as a sleuth – he’ll track down heirs, study family photos for images of a favorite vehicle, he’ll press survivors to visualize themselves back inside the car. “You want to turn on the windshield wipers,” the Chicago Tribune once described him pressing the son of a socialite whose famous custom car may have turned up in a collection of packing boxes. “Where do you reach?”  The answer that helped prove he had the right car: the man reached for a switch overhead. 

His shop mechanics will rebuild the car at Cooper Technica’s West Loop garage, which has its own machine shop, sheet metal and paint facilities.  As they do it, they’ll strike a careful balance between preservation and functionality, because when the car is finished, it won’t be a fragile show piece, it will be a real vehicle built to drive.  Cooper Technica boasts that some of its restored cars may be driven every day.  Wherever possible, they’ll use original specifications and period production techniques, authentic right down to the chemistry of the materials.  But they may make discrete modifications in consultation with an owner -- use modern valves or rubber gaskets for instance -- to adapt the car for current fuel and driving conditions. 

For a time, Al had the great pleasure of working at the Cooper Technica shop alongside an older mechanic named Sonny, who drove his own vintage Land Rover.  Al got to fabricate a complete wiring harness for one of the Cooper Technica Land Rovers.  As wires age, their insulation turns brittle and cracks.  Al ran new wire, making fuse boxes and connections to all the switches with careful reference to the original manual, because every detail would be accurate – if the manual called for a particular connection to be made in blue wire, or in brown wire with an orange tracer, he’d reach for one of the spools Cooper Technica kept ready to hand.

He recalls one happy afternoon spent with Sonny, carefully scouring corrosion off the original spoked wheels of a 1930s era Alfa Romeo.  The metal was 70 years old, they knew its metallurgic composition and the city in Italy where it was made, and at one point they looked up at one another and asked “Can you believe we’re working on this?”

For photos from the restoration of this Alfa Romeo,
see Cooper Technica's web-page, under "Past Projects"

Which points toward one of the contradictions of their craft -- because there is fantastic money in it. Vintage cars have been racking up record prices at auctions through 2014, and the most rarefied specimens never make it to auction, they’re usually placed through private brokers and dealers.  They tend to hold their value when stocks and real estate do not.  That means Cooper’s investors might put up hundreds of thousands of dollars to restore a car that will eventually fetch tens of millions.  But the restoration will take thousands of hours, and after it’s finished they may wait years to place it with the buyer prepared to pay its real value.

In the meantime, the restoration itself is done by meticulous, skilled craftsmen who might work for something close to the honor of working on the vehicle.  Al got paid for working at Cooper Technica but eventually, he had to quit because he simply couldn’t afford it.  Sign work pays better and it is his main employment today.

But he remains involved in the Midwest racing circuit, and his racing connections spawned the business that would become TECH RacinGraphics, when his friend Rusty Zimmerman first asked him to decorate his racing helmet in 1999.  It turns out that the paint masking techniques and adhesive vinyls Al uses for sign work also lend themselves to the kind of meticulous detail his helmet customers ask him to produce.

TECH RacinGraphics, might decorate a $1,000 helmet for $600 to $900, depending on the level of detail.  To make the checkered pattern on this helmet Al masked out hundreds of tiny squares.  Customers have occasionally hinted he might charge more, and he admits he finds it hard to set prices, which is one reason he eventually abandoned his business as a full time entrepreneur.  He made a living during a respectable stretch of good years, but his work life has spanned a postmodern period defined by the pressures that acceleration, globalization, and widening disparity of incomes exert on labor and ownership alike.

In some ways those pressures have made work more exciting: Al agrees he’s had opportunity to engage in far wider array of interesting work than he would have in a quiet office or on a factory floor.  In fact, his particular interests in racing and rare cars are fueled by the fortunes of wealthy individuals.  But for Al, there has been a big trade off in basic job security and the absence of a reliable safety net.

On the race course, Al says the most expensive car doesn’t always win the race, but he says the car probably counts for more than half of it.  So it’s partly to keep the sport interesting that the racing community self regulates, subdividing the field into classes, so that cars of an era, or similar horse power, compete against each other, giving the widest possible field of cars a fair opportunity to push their limits at the track.

Short of some real life parallel, there is the satisfaction of finding your niche, and finding it again if you can each time the course changes.  If Al’s not sure how to price his helmet graphics, that’s partly because he’s prone to lose track of time while he’s working on them.  He describes himself at work in his paint booth in the middle of the night -- the work is peaceful, he is fully absorbed.  He refers back to that “Empower Your Career” course he took years ago when he says “Working in that paint booth is exactly the kind of work environment I belong in.”

Al on the F1 podium at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway,
from TECH RacinGraphics web page:
"This is the level of enthusiasm I apply to every helmet I work on."