I woke up on Sunday morning with one hairless armpit, the result of a lost wager made the night before in a drunken haze. And that wasn’t even the low point of the weekend. That honor goes to the fashion and art show I attended Saturday night at Acme Art Works, the Near Northwest Arts Council’s gallery. The event inaugurated Fusion Projects, a group whose PR calls it “an organization of many artists and fashion designers drawn together into a tight-knit community.”
Best of Chicago voting is live now. Vote for your favorites »
Nordhem threw three art/fashion shows with her friends Joe Suta and Morgan Thoryk under the name Brite Tiger. At the first one, which I attended at Buddy last May, insanely loud, shit-stupid punk bands attracted an unsavory crowd of intensely tattooed people in their early 20s, and cute girls traipsed down the catwalk in slutty goth outfits. The party ended with the cops’ second visit. But Nordhem says she’s since matured; she’s now “more aware of designers and their dignity and taking respect to the space.”
The innocence was endearing, but the art sucked. Overexposed Polaroids by recent Art Institute graduate Dave 48 looked like soft, pretty watercolor paintings, but don’t ask me what they were of or what they were trying to say. Adam Conway’s skateboarding photos were crisp and the colors were nice, but he relied predictably on the fish-eye lens. Eric Barker’s photos of the Eiffel Tower, a baby romping in the grass, couples in love, a sunset, and a flower reeked of high school art class.
Now that the election’s over, the outcome has become, at least among my friends, the Thing We Do Not Mention. In the days immediately afterward, there were plenty of ways I could’ve vented my sadness and frustration. On November 3 there was a rally at Federal Plaza; for the two following days protests against the annual Bankers Association for Finance and Trade conference were held in front of the Hotel InterContinental. But all I could bring myself to do was sit and watch bad TV, gorging on Korean dumplings and chocolate, cultivating some sweet chin zits and hairline acne.
“At this point,” my housemate said, “we’re so depressed and apathetic all we have left is our hedonism.”
