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Tatro says Charybdis is an independent entrepreneurial center for all kinds of art events. Like the one that was under way May 19 when police and Department of Revenue agents busted in, spotted a woman on rollerblades painting a large canvas with her bare breast, and shut the place down. Tatro says the cops, unable to find drugs, confiscated $225 in door receipts and his bowl of Blow Pops, and put him in jail for the night. He says they also confiscated all the money he had in his pocket. That was $1,400, which looked like the amount he would have taken in from the crowd that was there at $10 a head, but, he says, was not. (Tatro says an admission fee was voluntary; two undercover agents claim otherwise.) He was cited for not having the proper business licenses and for liquor consumption on the premises and was told to cut this stuff out. When he went forward with a benefit event May 26, police returned and shut him down again. Five days later, when he was showing a movie to 20 people who happened to give him $2 each, it was back to the lockup. Now he’s broke, facing thousands of dollars in potential fines, and blocked from staging any events that might bring in money. Someone’s out to destroy him, he says.
Charybdis has been operating in this terra-cotta building in Jefferson Park since September, after rising rents pushed it out of Wicker Park. The 12,000-square-foot main space is a mix of arcade, theatrical set, and haunted house, furnished with carnival props, a skateboard ramp, and thrift-shop couches–the walls a riot of taggers’ art. It functions as a gallery, rehearsal hall, performance space, studio, and clubhouse. A theater graduate of the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, Tatro started Charybdis seven years ago, when, he says, he got tired of waiting for others to give him a break. He runs it with volunteer help, offers memberships, and takes a 50 percent commission on any artwork sold.
Kauffman says one reason Ravinia’s so discreet is that its attendance figures haven’t been exact, with all the comps and passes it gives out and the Ravinia Dollars program. Word along the North Shore has been that it’s easier to keep the neighbors at bay if they can only guess how many music lovers are clogging their streets. According to one park official, the 1997 Poi Dog Pondering crowd–which had thousands of people stranded in traffic (many concertgoers never made it to the gate)–was the largest ever and the starting point for serious talk about a limit. The advent of lawn-ticket sales on the Web, an early indicator of crowd size, is making it possible. The cap is only expected to affect two or three concerts a year, Kauffman says. “This season that might be the BoDeans or Lyle Lovett.” This gives those little blue books of discount Ravinia Dollars an extra edge: even after ticket sales are cut off, they’ll get you in.
