"Frida Kahlo’s Month in Paris"

     The "Frida Kahlo’s Month in Paris: A Friendship with Mary Reynolds" show at the Art Institute is small. Not Caravaggio small — that 2023 offering had just two of the master's paintings, plus three works influenced by him. 

     The Kahlo show is a handful of her paintings over three rooms, well larded with ephemera — a love letter from Kahlo, in English, not particularly poetic ("I love you my Nick. I am so happy to think I love you, to think you wait for me..."), Kahlo's Parisian address book. Too many examples of books assembled by Reynolds, an American bookbinder who had a salon in Paris, supercharged by her partner, Marcel Duchamp, and his work, along with surrealist pals like Salvador Dali, and various pals such as Alexander Calder and Jean Cocteau, are included.

      The Reynolds collection is owned by the Art Institute, and kudos to them for realizing they could generate far more interest than it ever could garner alone by strapping the trove to the rocket of Kahlo, her houseguest for 32 days in 1939. Without Kahlo, you couldn't prod museum goers into the "Mary Reynolds, Bookbinder" show if you used bayonettes. 
     We took in the show Sunday — the place was packed, Kahlo having exploded over the past few decades into a cultural icon for her general badassery — the unflinching gaze at herself in all her broken strangeness, her unstoppable back story. Salma Hayek's smoking portrayal in a 2002 biop didn't hurt.
    To me, she's folk art — too inexpert to be anything else, but making up in color and panache what she lacks in technical skill. You can't but admire someone willing to paint themselves as an arrow-ridden stag, even if the stag isn't quite standing in the forest so much as floating above it.

     Enough. I'm not going to be the guy dissing Frida Kahlo. She made the most of the talents she had, which is all any of us can do. And I cared enough about her to make a point to go see the show. Perhaps the most amazing thing about the show is expressed in the museum's web page about it, which opens: "Unveiling Frida Kahlo’s work for the first time in the Art Institute galleries, this exhibition..." Really? The first time? Kinda late to the party, are they not? The Art Institute has been taking pains to be more inclusive, to try to proactively avoid the lash of the cultural warriors, and Kahlo checks a lot of boxes: female, Mexican, struggling with disabilities. 

     Not to transgress against art by reducing her to her specific qualities, which is the original sin of identity politics. To be a great artist, you need to combine image and impact, to transcend your materials and your limitations and become something more than what you are. Kahlo clears that bar with room to spare.

      "Frida Kahlo’s Month in Paris: A Friendship with Mary Reynolds" runs until July 13.

The straw that broke the nation's back

 

     My wife's birthday was Saturday. So we did whatever she wanted. Starting with breakfast at the Cherry Pit Cafe in Deerfield. She placed her traditional order — oatmeal pancakes with blueberries. And I placed mine — spinach, onion and mozzarella omelet, well-done.
     We chatting amiably while waiting for our meal. Matthew brought two large blue plastic glasses of water and two drinking straws.
     You don't need a straw to drink a glass of water, unless you're in a hospital bed. But straws have been in the news, literally a federal issue. On Feb. 25, President Donald Trump issued an executive order, "Ending Procurement and Forced Use of Paper Straws," which begins: "An irrational campaign against plastic straws has resulted in major cities, States, and businesses banning the use or automatic inclusion of plastic straws with beverages. Plastic straws are often replaced by paper straws, which are nonfunctional ..."
     You could debate the word "irrational." Plastic straws foul the environment, and even leach microplastics into your body. In 2019, California banned them in full-service restaurants, unless requested by customers, and other states and cities followed suit. Both the European Union and Canada banned plastic straws in 2021. The next year, Chicago passed its own Single-Use Foodware Ordinance, but in classical City Council style, there were so many loopholes and exceptions — O'Hare and Midway eateries are off the hook, for instance — that critics called it "greenwashing," aka, a measure that looks environment-friendly but doesn't do much.
    I idly picked up the straw, ran my finger over the paper sheath and felt a telltale bump. This wasn't just any straw. It was a bendy straw. Flexible straws were cool when I was a child and they're cool now. I tore off the paper, felt that deeply satisfying scrunch of expanding the little accordion section by bending the straw, popped it into my water and took a long pull.
     You could also argue about that "nonfunctional" slur at paper straws. As much as I admire flexible plastic straws, I also have fond memories of paper straws. The kind with red stripes. Yes, they could crush in a lunch bag, or collapse while drinking, and you would have to carefully squeeze them back into shape so your milk could flow. They could get soggy. Sometimes you would try to poke them through the little foil hole into the sealed container of milk — for a while we had these pyramid milk containers you could only drink from with a straw — and the straw would get crushed. But in general, I got through 13 years of public school without feeling lingering ill will toward paper straws.
     Not so the president. Somehow, a technology that any 6-year-old can master eluded our nation's leader, who clearly has had some bad, almost unbelievable, experiences with paper straws.
      "These things don't work," he said, signing the bill. "I've had them many times. On occasions, they break. They explode. If something's hot, they don't last very long."
     They explode? And who but a moron drinks a hot beverage through a straw of any kind?

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'Henry isn't a bad boy at heart'

     

     Friday's column mentioned that the Juvenile Protective Association got its start supplying probation officers for the newly-created Chicago juvenile court, the first in the nation. Which I knew because I featured its debut in my 2022 book, Every Goddamn Day, in this entry:

July 3, 1899

      The official opening is not until Wednesday. But Henry Campbell, 11, is here now. So Judge Richard Tuthill, showing the flexibility essential in juvenile court, convenes the first in the world two days early. 

     Campbell, of 84 Hudson Avenue, is accused of stealing. The complainants are his parents, Frank and Lena Campbell. They are present in court. Along with a crowd of reformers. 

     As with most social change, the Illinois Act to Regulate the Treatment and Control of Dependent Neglected and Delinquent Children did not happen quickly or by accident, but required years of effort. The idea is to keep children under 16 out of Chicago jails and downstate prisons, where they are housed with hardened criminals. 

     Henry's teary mother doesn't want him in an institution. “Judge, Henry isn't a bad boy at heart,” she says. “I know he's been led into trouble by others.” She urges that her son be sent to live with his grandmother in upstate New York to “escape the surroundings that have caused the mischief.” Judge Tuthill agrees. 

     Before hearing the next case — four boys “of tender years” incarcerated at the poorhouse at Dunning — Tuthill, a Civil War vet, reads aloud the last part of the new act. 

     Officers finding a wayward or neglected child, Tuthill says, should not use undue haste in hurrying the little one into court, but should confer with parents or clergy, using every effort to set the child right without resorting to an arrest, save as a final measure. 

      He urges that law, when applied to children, always be “liberally construed.”

     Research-loving reader Jill Anderson did some digging after this was posted, and came up with a bit more information on Henry Campbell. 

     "He was born 9 Oct 1889 and died 4 Feb 1946 in Chicago," she writes. "He married a woman named Evelyn, but died young at 56."

     Although only a little young. The male life expectancy in 1946 was 62. Here's the family appearance in the 1900 census. Thanks Jill.

The vagal response

 

Salvador Dali, "Apparition of Face and Fruit Dish on a Beach" (1938)

    Occasionally a reader will remark that they had to look up the definition of a particular word in a piece of mine. Not so much as a reprimand, but just to let me know. And I don't feel sorry for making them do so, because there are a lot of words, nobody can know them all, and regularly checking definitions is both a hallmark of curiosity and the path to acquiring knowledge.
     I look up words myself, all the time. For instance, I was having my coffee and Cream of Wheat Friday morning, reading the Sun-Times — I always read it first, before the New York Times, out of loyalty.
    My attention focused on David Struett's article on testimony at the Jayden Perkins murder trial. The sort of story a reader naturally is drawn to — a grisly murder, a gripping trial, a fainting juror. Five paragraphs in, the doctor, who Struett said "switched from giving testimony to helping the juror" — smoothly put — said, "I think you probably just had a vagal response."

     "A vagal response?" Does that mean anything to you? It didn't register with me, and I groped at what "vagal" might mean. Based on the first three letters, I immediately thought, "vaginal." But surely that couldn't be it. Perhaps a matter of shared derivation. 
      What does the word "vagina" actually mean? I felt a momentary chill, because I was straying into gender politics territory. Best be on my guard. Center? Cleft? Fundamental? Those didn't sound right. As I often say: no need to guess, we can just find out.
     "Vagal" is the adjectival form of "vagus," and according to Dr. Google AI: "The vagus nerve, also known as cranial nerve X, is a crucial part of the autonomic nervous system, playing a key role in regulating involuntary bodily functions like heart rate, digestion, and breathing." Who knew? Not me. While you can't always trust AI — on Tuesday, when I joyously nosed the car into the drive-thru at the White Castle on 111th Street, AI told me that a cheese slider is 340 calories, when that is actually two — that definition sounded accurate, and I did no more digging. You have to go with your gut on these things, provided you have a good gut.
    So what is the etymology of "vagina"? It traces back to the Latin word vagina, unsurprisingly enough, which in ancient times meant, not a sexual organ, but the scabbard you sheath your sword in.  The word took on its current meaning in the Middle Ages, which seems apt. 
     The unchanging quality of the word reminded me of something I was thinking of about 3 a.m. that morning, when. I was awake and musing over the alphabet, which I sometimes do, trying to sleep (it's soothing; judge me harshly if you must). The opening letters of the English alphabet, A, B, C, D, line up with the opening letters of the Hebrew alphabet, א (aleph), בּ (bet), ג (gimel), ד (dalet). (The "C" and "G" sounds being very close). Which means a kid learning his ABCs down the street is going through the same drill of the same sounds that a Jewish boy in Babylonian captivity learned on letters drawn in the dirt.

    See what I mean? Something comforting about that.

Grandmothers to the rescue, with wisdom, patience and doughnuts

     Social media tears down girls. According to a UNESCO report, there is a direct correlation between how much time a girl spends online and increased emotional damage. A Facebook study found that a third of girls say when they feel bad about their bodies, Instagram makes them feel worse. Girls are 50% more likely than boys to report being cyberbullied. Plus — stop the presses! — TikTok is addictive.
     How to combat such a widespread, happiness-destroying influence? In Chicago, one of the most powerful forces for good known to humanity is being sent into battle, a voice of comfort and wisdom going back to the beginnings of time:
     Grandmothers.
     "I come here every Tuesday to sit with the young ladies and do different projects — planting flowers, or making different objects they like," said Delores Durham, 62, waiting in the office at Wendell Smith Elementary School on West 103rd Street in Pullman, bearing donuts. "Just having normal conversation to see where their mind is at. What goals they have in life. I'm just trying to be an encouragement to them. I raised two daughters on the West Side of Chicago myself."
     A volunteer who joined Grandmothers Circle last year, Durham was met by Erinn Boone, a licensed clinical professional counselor and coordinator of the program run by the Juvenile Protective Association, a venerable Chicago social service agency founded by Jane Addams in 1901. Originally the Juvenile Court Committee, its purpose was to provide probation officers to the first juvenile court in the nation, founded here in 1899 to keep children from being sent to adult jails.
     She hands around a piece of paper showing various emojis: happy, angry, bored, surprised.
     "I need you all to tell me how you're feeling," Boone says. "Pass it around."
     The girls warm up. They are happy and tired. Goofy and tired. Quiet and tired. Boone detects a theme.
     "Everybody's tired — is it the weather?" she asks.
     Or maybe something else. Students at Wendell Smith face troubles beyond social media — 94% live in poverty, according to the Illinois State Board of Education, and almost a quarter are homeless. The chronic truancy rate is 32%. And layered upon that, all the usual pressures facing middle-school girls.

     "I was having a conversation with another school and we started talking about friendship, and how you can tell someone is a friend," says Boone. "Then we started talking about rumors, and how rumors get started and drama — but I know that's nothing you all deal with here, right?"
     That challenge — preventing the adult world from getting its hooks into kids — continues.
Durham and Boone go to greet nine sixth grade girls, ages 11 and 12, just finishing lunch on trays — chicken fingers, applesauce, cartons of milk. The girls barely register their arrival.
     "Y'all energy seems real low today," observes Boone. "It's a very Monday kind of Tuesday."

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'People are still funny'

      People think of Kurt Vonnegut and Mark Twain as wits. And rightly so. But while they said a good many smart things, they didn't say everything attributed them; countless quotes are laid at their doorstep that they never said, sometimes never could have said. I'll see some powerful, contemporary thought tacked under a portrait of Hemingway, think "He never wrote that," and be halfway to fact-checking a meme before I realize that, once I plunge down that rathole there's no escape.
     But Dave Barry really did write, in a column of 25 things he learned at 50: "You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at the moment."
    I've quote that line for years, never realizing it was Dave Barry. Great advice, the general dissemination of which could spare the world countless awkward encounters, painful both for the blunderer and for the woman accused of being with child. 
     I asked Barry about it Tuesday morning, in an interview for Wednesday's column, and he said, yes, he believes he indeed coined that phrase. The conversation went all sorts of places I couldn't fit into the column and still say something about the reason we were talking: his excellent new book, "Class Clown," published Tuesday.
    What I really wanted to talk about with him was Gene Weingarten. The two-time Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist whose collection, "Fiddler in the Subway," should be pressed into the hands of every sentient human being. Reading it made me proud to be in the same profession.
     But he also wrote this, in a blog in 2021, destroying his career:

     The Indian subcontinent has vastly enriched the world, giving us chess, buttons, the mathematical concept of zero, shampoo, modern-day nonviolent political resistance, Chutes and Ladders, the Fibonacci sequence, rock candy, cataract surgery, cashmere, USB ports ... and curry.
     Indian foods are the only ethnic cuisine insanely based on one spice. If you like Indian curries, yay, you like one of India’s most popular class of dishes! If you think Indian curries taste like something that could knock a vulture off a meat wagon, you do not like a lot of Indian food. I don’t get it, as a culinary principle. It is as though the French passed a law requiring a wide swath of their dishes to be slathered in smashed, pureed snails. (I’d personally have no problem with that, but you might, and I would sympathize.)

     "Based on one spice." Is that ignorant? Sure, in the sense that there are all kinds of spices in Indian cuisine. I know that by direct, hand-over-fist experience. He did too. It was what we call in the profession "a joke." Not a particularly good one, true. But was Gene's crack the language of hate? I don't think so. Didn't matter — he was frog-marched out the door at the Washington Post. No party. No big farewell section. Hasta la vista, baby. It seems now a dry run for the kind of professional collapse the newspaper would do at the feet of Donald Trump.
     "That had to be scary  to someone whose written 1000 jokes more offensive than that," I said to Barry, who was edited for years by Weingarten. "It must have been sobering for you when Gene got the heave-ho."
       "Yeah, I kept going back over it," he said. "I've known Gene for 40 years. To see him shoved off a cliff over that. He makes it really clear, 'I'm an idiot but I'm pretending to be a genius.' It couldn't be more obvious. His schtick is, he starts out with this long thing how he respects Indian culture. I don't think if it happened that same thing would happen. That happened at the absolutely the height of 'Let's everybody be so sensitive that we really can't say anything,' mania. That was awful, to have Gene called a racist. Gene's not a racist." 
     I'd planned to highlight some other points we talked about, but honest, I want to shift over to something a reader in Florida, who had worked as a first responder, sent in on Wednesday. He wrote:  

     Our rescue crew were the one’s who responded to Dave’s son after he was involved in a bike vs. car crash. His column about the experience mentions us as ambulance guys. It is one of his very, very few serious ones.
     He rode with us to the hospital, certainly shaken (Who wouldn’t be?) but very humble and cordial.

     I read that column and thought, "Wow, what an excellent, excellent column." It made me regret not paying closer attention to the man's work over the past 40 years — I think it was conceited of me — and glad that I've been able to remedy that, a tiny bit, this past week. Better late than never. He's still humble and cordial.

Is nothing funny anymore? Dave Barry gets serious in a new book

     Humor's been on the ropes, for years.
     Between lingering cancel culture and an opera buffa administration that daily defies parody, you could be forgiven for thinking nothing is funny anymore. The Onion stuck in there for a while, but lately it seems to be crafting press releases for the Department of Government Efficiency.
     Even Dave Barry threw in the towel, retiring from his regular column 20 years ago.

     So the good news is that the wildly popular funnyman — once syndicated in 500 newspapers, with dozens of books under his belt — is back, with "Class Clown — The Memoirs of a Professional Wiseass: How I Went 77 Years Without Growing Up." (Simon & Schuster: $28.99).
     I'll be honest — as heir to the sophisticated urban wit of Robert Benchley, in my own mind if nowhere else, I generally avoided Barry's column and, jeez, 45 previous books, including "Boogers are My Beat," which neatly explains why.
     Plus Barry was syndicated in the Tribune, which for many years I refused to touch, since doing so seemed like laying flowers on the grave of its former publisher, xenophobe and Hitler bootlicker Col. Robert McCormick.
     But a publicist invited me to talk with Barry and I couldn't see why not. We newspaper columnists are a vanishing breed, and I rarely get the chance to talk with one. Heck, I hardly talk to anybody anymore.
     "I never set out to be an artist," Barry told me. "I set out to be a joke guy."
     Mission accomplished. Though "Class Clown" begins seriously, with his parents — alcoholic father, depressive mother — in vignettes that are moving and real. I admired the details. A Swedish friend of his father, also named Dave, pronounces his name "Dafe," which made me think of the tailor in "The Inferno" squinting in the twilight. Making me the first critic to compare Dave Barry to Dante.
     The book surprises, practically poking me in the eye.
     His father, Barry writes, "was a fan of the great humorist Robert Benchley and owned several books of Benchley's collected columns. When I was somewhere around eleven or twelve I read those books and became obsessed with them; they definitely influenced my writing style, and I still read them today."
     Ah. Did not see Benchley coming.
     "I was a huge fan — still am," Barry said. "It's definitely a sobering thing if you are humor columnist, to realize nobody read him anymore."
     I learned some unexpected facts about Barry, such as he attended Martin Luther King's 1963 March on Washington, once bumped into Bobby Kennedy, literally, the revered brother of JFK, not the anti-vax nutjob.
     Being a veteran journalist myself, albeit playing AAA ball compared to Barry's big big leagues, I enjoyed his recounting the profession, from his early days at the West Chester, Pennsylvania Daily Local News to his rise at the Miami Herald and the go-go 1980s. In 1987, he and a photographer spent $8,000 to rent a helicopter to get a photo of a garbage barge, adding that today "you cannot spend $8 without prior written authorization from at least three executives."
     That's not so much satire as dry reportage. Last month, in order to be compensated for a CTA bus ride, I had to secure a note from my editor, vowing that the expense is valid, and I wasn't just trying to steal $2.25 from the paper.

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