Chicago's 1893 World Fair

The year was 1890 and Chicago had just won the right to host the next world's fair, beating out rival bids from New York, St. Louis and Washington. How could the World's Columbian Exposition of 1893 top the previous exposition in Paris, with its imposing yet graceful Eiffel Tower? The city was abuzz with civic pride and felt the enormous weight of upholding the nation's honor. The impossible had to be undertaken; failure was out of the question. Meanwhile, as construction remade Jackson Park into a "White City" (so named because each building was whitewashed), the seedy reality of the Black City was still very much present. Sewage ran openly in the streets. Rats and cholera outbreaks abounded. The poor and the wretched came to seek their fortunes in the city and quietly disappeared without notice.

In a tightly written nonfiction masterpiece, Erik Larson's Devil in the White City weaves the tale of the World's Columbian Exposition (celebrating the 400th anniversary of Columbus' discovery of America) with one of the century's most insidious serial killers, H. H. Holmes. As a resident of Chicago, the interplay between people and events in the Guilded Age and present-day locations is particularly thrilling. Names and places are brought to life as though a century of time has been magically dissolved. If I taught a high school history class in Chicago, this novel would be mandatory reading.

The fair was saddled with bureaucratic infighting, a deteriorating economy and an impossibly tight schedule. Chicago's severe winters hampered the pace of construction and organized labor used the fair as an opportunity to demand concessions for workers. Despite the specters of violence, fire and bankruptcy, the fair did go on to open on time, though not in a fully finished state.

As the fair neared opening day, Daniel Burnham, the chief architect, was desperate for a plan to challenge the Eiffel. In a speech tinged with recrimination, Burnham addressed a group of engineers at the Saturday Afternoon Club, calling on them to perform their civic duty and envision something more spectacular than the Eiffel Tower. "Something novel, original, daring and unique must be designed and built if American engineers are to retain their prestige and standing," he exhorted. As the audience bristled, one engineer from Pittsburgh had an idea come to him. He began hurriedly sketching this faint whisper into hard lines. It would take three attempts before his proposal for out-Eiffeling Eiffel was accepted, but George Ferris was eventually triumphant.

Larson does a tremendous amount of painstaking research and meticulously cites his sources at the conclusion of the book. His mining of the Chicago Historical Society archives and other primary source documents results in many savory tidbits which unapologetically trumpet the voices from the period. An examination of the menu at a grand 10-course banquet held at (old) Madison Square Garden in honor of the fair's architects reveals a country aspiring to ape French cuisine, and show itself sophisticated and worthy of respect:

Consommé printanier. Bass rayée, sauce hollandaise. Pommes parisiennes. Amontillado. Petits Moules fantaisies. Roquefort et Camembert. Cordials. Cigars.

Victorian era mores prevail, as fair organizers succumb to pressure to close the fair on Sundays. The seeds for women's suffrage have been planted, but are far from blooming.

Visitor hunting for an exhibit of wax figures: "Can you tell me where the building is that has the artificial human beings?"

Another visitor: "I have heard of them. They are over in the Woman's Building. Just ask for the Lady Managers."

Of course, there are certain things that never change, as evidenced by the following records of patients treated at the fair hospital:

820 cases of diarrhea
154, constipation
21, hemorrhoids
594 episodes of fainting, syncope, and exhaustion
1 case of extreme flatulence
169 involving teeth that hurt like hell

The fair was remarkable for its international breadth. Over 27 million people (about half of the US population at the time) attended the fair, and many of the sights they encountered were completely novel. Eskimo women wearing blouses of walrus skin. Japanese in red silk. Amazons with bushy hair and teeth necklaces. Algerian belly dancers in robes and turbans. A number of products were debuted and marketed at the fair, including Shredded Wheat, Cracker Jack, and a curious concoction called Aunt Jemima's for which you only needed to add water to get pancake batter. Pabst Brewing Company won an award for their beer, which resulted in the moniker Pabst Blue Ribbon. In a landmark decision, the fair opted to use alternating current circuitry to light the grounds, resulting in a tremendous cost savings and setting the prevailing standard for American cities.

A broad variety of historical figures make cameos in the book, with all the prominent figures of Chicago society (Armour, Pullman, Field, McCormick, Palmer) present. Archduke Franz Ferdinand, described by an escort as "half-boor, half-tightwad," tours the fairgrounds, but especially enjoys Chicago's vice districts. The inventor of the Braille printing press exhibits his new device and is hugged by a gracious blind girl. Her name is Helen Keller. Mark Twain comes to Chicago for 11 days, but ends up sick in his hotel room for the duration of the trip. He never makes it to the fair. Louis Sullivan discovers that one of his firm's junior architects is designing houses on the side for his own clients, and decides to fire him. His name is Frank Lloyd Wright.

In one of the more inadvertent contributions of the fair, Sol Bloom, the director of publicity, was invited to present his Algerian belly dancers at a performance for the Press Club of Chicago. Upon arriving, he realized that the club had provided a hapless pianist for musical accompaniment, who had no clue what sort of music might be suitable for an exotic Middle Eastern dance. Without hesitation, Bloom hastily improvised the following tune:
If only Bloom had bothered to copyright his diddle, the royalties would have run into the millions.

The fair ended with a bang. More specifically, Patrick Prendergast, a deranged Irish immigrant, assassinated Mayor Harrison at his home. The grand closing ceremonies were scrapped and a memorial service was held instead. The 600-vehicle funeral procession slowly made its way to Graceland Cemetary on the Northside.

Burnham and Olmstead's work in planning the fair helped spur the development of the City Beautiful movement. In later years, Burnham would continue to revolutionize modern urban planning, creating citywide plans for San Francisco, Cleveland, Washington, and of course, Chicago. The 18 miles of the present-day Lakefront Park system and Magnificient Mile on Michigan Avenue are the result of his vision. It is also likely that Walt Disney's Magic Kingdom and L. Frank Baum's world of Oz drew inspiration from their visits to the Columbian Exposition. (Elias Disney, father of Walt, was a construction worker for the White City.)

Ultimately, most of the fair's buildings and works were destroyed, and the land converted back into park space. Only a couple buildings remain in Chicago, and these include the Palace of Fine Arts (now housing the Museum of Industry and Science) and the World's Congress Auxiliary Building (now the Art Institute).

If you have even a passing familiarity with Chicago's geography, you know that the city's Southside is not the safest area to be in. In an ironic twist, the areas surrounding Jackson Park and the Midway Plaisance have fallen far from their heyday as the homes of the rich and wealthy. Chicago is currently vying to host the 2016 Olympics, and much has been made of the opportunity for the games to revitalize the Southside. Perhaps this will be the stimulus we need, but I am inclined to think that like the shining fairgrounds a century before, any changes are likely to be fleeting.

MCLU Does Europe

Matt, Megan and I have tickets to London for June, which means we can plan out the nitty-gritty details the month before, right? Unfortunately, Katherine is going to France in May, and mentioned that hostels in Paris are already booking up for the summer. What the heck, who plans vacations 4 months in advance?

Ergo, in the last week, I've spent an awful lot of time researching London and Paris (in lieu doing work). It's finally starting to feel real; in a few short months, I'll be across the pond, humming "An American in Paris" to myself while getting pick-pocketed by gypsies. Gulp. Travel guide tip: if you are circled by a swarm of gypsy children in Southern Italy, your best bet is to act just a tad crazy. In fact, one proven technique is to "jump up, do a full spin, and come down in a karate stance with a primal scream." Other advice includes opening a Capital One credit card (they don't charge foreign transaction surcharges) and not flashing the two-fingered "V" victory symbol in Britain (it's their version of giving someone the finger).

Finding a place to stay was more complicated than I had originally anticipated. The line between hostels and cheap hotels is blurry, and then you have a myriad of other options like renting an apartment, bed & breakfasts, university dorm housing, sleeping on trains, and couch surfing. Moreover, the things you take for granted in the cheapest US motels (a/c, towels & linens, breakfast, soap) are oftentimes not included in hostels and hotels. Is it too much to ask for a shower curtain to be present? The cultural disparity is frightening. No wonder they never bathe in France.

After reading a lot of reviews and Google mapping locations, I decided to chance the Hotel Jarry in Paris. Although we could end up in a stiflingly hot room on the 6th floor (there's no elevator), the reviews seemed to indicate the rooms were reasonably clean. Moreover, it's located in the 10eme arrondissement, fairly close to the city center and the heart of "bobo" (bourgeois boheme) chic. We've also got a triple room booked at the Clink Hostel in London. (Tagline: Cells now open! Come and sleep in an authentic prison cell. Is that British for "really small rooms"?) Personally, I am hoping that we meet the Techno Twins while hanging out at the Costume Party at the hostel bar.

Thus far, we have a myriad of sights to see and activities to do in the two cities. We have tickets to see Dave Brubeck with the London Symphony Orchestra, and plan on getting tickets for Sister Act. I'd also really like to see Camden Market in London, and there's always the age-old standby of people-watching. And of course, I have been keeping an eye out for interesting (and cheap) eats in the cities. At this point, both London and Paris have well-developed neighborhoods which are "very ethnic," so we can always take a break from the blood pudding and steak frites for a good falafel sandwich. Jen has also mentioned a restaurant that sells only soufflés.

Now, you should all pray that the Euro and Pound exchange rates continue dropping.

Creativity

When's the last time you made a paper snowflake? Drew a cartoon? Decorated a vase?

Melissa invited a few of us over to make valentines yesterday afternoon, and I was struck by the way I froze, blanking out on what to do, stymied for ideas. It's been a long time since I've had to do something visually artistic, and as I looked at the pile of stickers, stamps, ribbon and brightly colored construction paper in front of me, I felt completely lost. Where were all my kindergarten-era arts and crafts skills?

Don't get me wrong, it's not as though having a full-time job has turned me into a soulless automaton. I take time out to be creative in other forms: through writing, in music, and in mathematics. (Yes, math does require creative juices.) However, I can't remember the last time I had to create a piece of visual art. I hesitantly grabbed a pair of scissors and began cutting out a heart. Meanwhile, Katherine was cutting out an elaborate silhouette with two people kissing and holding hands. It was practically on the order of a traditional Chinese paper cut. After surveying her work, I decided I should focus on jazzing up my cards via dinosaur stickers and glitter glue.

Eventually, my creative juices kicked in and I managed to assemble a few Valentines of debatable artistic vision. They are currently in the mail, so they should definitely be in mailboxes by the 14th. If you're reading this and didn't get a valentine, please don't take it personally; it probably just means you were less important than my mom. :p

Spamalot

Spamalot, the musical "lovingly ripped off" of the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail, is in town, and as this is one of my favorite movies from childhood, I determined that we weren't going to miss it. The musical follows the basic premise of the movie, with King Arthur gathering his Knights of the Round Table in a quest to find the Holy Grail. Much of the dialogue is ripped verbatim from the film, though the songs are obviously new material. The music serves to push the musical in a few new directions, namely the requisite jokes about gays, Jews and meta gags about Broadway itself.

Live theater will always edge out film in my mind for its ability to innovate and adapt to changing times and surroundings. Much to my amusement, this performance included a number of somewhat topical additions, as the Lady of the Lake broke into bits of "Put a Ring On It" and "Umbrella" in the midst of various songs, and mockery of Blagojevich's fresh impeachment was in full force. The French taunting scene, for instance, went something like this: "I fart in your general direction. I impeach your corrupt governors. Your mother is a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries!"

Going into the show, my biggest concern was whether Spamalot would still feel fresh and funny, or whether it would merely be a shadow of a bygone era. And for those who had not seen the movie, would they get the humour as well? All in all, I thought the musical was pretty well-done, with enough of the original movie thrown in to keep the purists happy, but sufficient amounts of new material to make it interesting. Highlights included "The Song That Goes Like This," a passionate ballad that well, goes like this, and "You Won't Succeed on Broadway (If You Don't Have Any Jews)."

If ever there were a musical written for times of recessionary malaise and social insecurity, Spamalot would be it. It's fun and silly, filled with shiny objects and pithy aphorisms. Do not go in expecting a grand, life-changing drama on the order of Les Miserables, and you will come out happy and whistling "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." And what more could you ask for?

Tristan und Isolde

The Lyric Opera opened a run of Tristan und Isolde tonight, and armed with a student id card, I scored some terrific main floor seats for a measly Jackson. This was my first Lyric production and my first Wagner opera, so it didn't quite dawn on me until I noticed the early 6 pm curtain time that this might be a very long night. Indeed, upon receiving a program, I was informed that the expected running time for this show would be 4 hours and 45 minutes. Let me reiterate, if you have ADD, this is not the show for you.

The Civic Opera House is located a couple blocks west of the Loop, and the story is that the architect designed the building such that the audience would sit facing west, with their backs to New York City, because the architect's daughter was rejected by the Metropolitan Opera. Intercity rivalries aside, the building is quite grand, with the appropriate gilded flourishes that befit an opera house, however I prefer the Met's back-of-the-chair subtitle system to the Lyric Opera's over-the-stage subtitles.

Some research prior to the show revealed that staging and performing Tristan und Isolde is no small feat. As with any Wagner production, a certain amount of stamina is required from the performers (and the audience). Not one, but two conductors have died while conducting this show, collapsing in the middle of the second act. As for the singers, Wagner originally wanted the tenor Alois Ander for the role of Tristan, but eventually he proved incapable of learning the part. The premiere in 1865 had to be delayed because Isolde had gone hoarse. And five weeks after the production finally opened, Ludwig Schnorr, who was playing Tristan, suddenly died at the age of 29, after catching a chill, then contracting excruciating rheumatism and apoplexy. On his deathbed, he deliriously burst into song, with his final words being, "Farewell, Siegfried! Console my Richard!" His friends firmly believed that the stress of performing Wagner's music led to this tragedy.

On with the show. Punctually at 6 pm, the curtain parted and the orchestra began playing the prelude, led by the infamous Tristan chord. (I was quite tickled to learn that Debussy's Golliwog's Cakewalk parodies the Tristan chord, who knew?) As it turns out, this chord spurred a great deal of harmonic development in classical music, since it contains not one but two dissonances. Wagner also made innovative use of harmonic suspension, chromaticism and orchestral colour, bridging the moment towards atonalism.

The opera follows the tale of Isolde, an Irish princess, who is being taken by Tristan to Cornwall, where she will be wed to his uncle, King Marke. As you can imagine, Isolde is rather unhappy about this, and tries to kill Tristan and herself by drinking a deadly potion. Alas, at the last minute, her maid switches out the death potion for a love potion instead. This makes things rather awkward when they land in Cornwall, where King Marke expectantly awaits his bride. Passionate arias ensue, fights break out, and finally, we have several drawn-out, dramatic death scenes. In essence, the stuff of any proper opera.

Much to my chagrin however, I found that I didn't have the patience to be completely engaged by this show. In the back of my mind, I couldn't get over the fact that Tristan and Isolde's love was corrupted from the beginning by the potion, and there was no real basis for the passionate duets they were performing. Furthermore (and this may be a sign of how much stimulation we require in modern times), I couldn't help thinking the plot was far too static, with nothing happening for much of the show. Compared to say, The Marriage of Figaro, the amount of action in this opera would have fit into a thimble.

All right then, what about the music? Yes, the orchestration is lush and soprano Deborah Voigt did a phenomenal job of tackling the part of Isolde. The audience is wrapped by a glorious, never-ending wall of music...so continuous that it is difficult to tell where pieces end and begin; even ordinary dialogue is accompanied by the orchestra. Or maybe Wagner intended it to be that way, with his insistence on gesamtkunstwerk, or total artwork. Walking out of the performance, if you were to ask me what the highlights or "greatest hits" of the opera were, I wouldn't know what to say. Well, there was that really great duet in the second act...but that was about 40 minutes long...maybe we can do a radio edit. I fully understand why two people have keeled over and died during this show.

A random aside: I was particularly amused to see that the Lyric Opera's Board of Directors includes none other than the "Honorable Rod Blagojevich."

In conclusion, I will have to echo Mark Twain's opinion of what is widely considered Wagner's greatest single opera. On a visit to Bayreuth, Twain heard Tristan and remarked, "I know of some, and have heard of many, who could not sleep after it, but cried the night away. I feel strongly out of place here. Sometimes I feel like the one sane person in the community of the mad."

I hereby renounce my spot on the 8-year wait list for Bayreuth.

Slumdog Millionaire

Indie film Slumdog Millionaire is now on track complete the fairy tale by capturing an Academy Award for Best Picture. The rags-to-riches tale of an Indian orphan who competes on Who Wants to be a Millionaire has already won a number of Golden Globes, so I was inspired to fork over some money and see it last night.

About 30% of the film was in Hindi, which left me feeling a bit lost. (Knowing Chinese only comes in handy for watching Jackie Chan flicks and understanding the gangsters in Tropic Thunder.) I was also struck by how unfamiliar I am with Indian culture. What on earth just happened to that child? I didn't realize that hot oil was commonly used to blind children, so that they would receive more money while begging. Thus, you should never give money to beggars in India because it may support begging racketeers.

Luckily, Ankita was around to explain some of the lingering questions I had after the movie. One scene involved religious rioting and the massacre of Muslims by Hindus. I didn't understand how you could tell the two groups apart, and moreover, why Muslim-Hindu tension existed in the first place. Ankita gave a brief overview of the history of religious tensions in India, noting that Muslims are a minority group, which means they receive institutionalized preferential treatment, akin to affirmative action policies in the US. Coupled with their lower socioeconomic status, higher birth rates, and chafing from Muslim rule in the 11th to 17th centuries, there is a lot of resentment towards Muslims from Hindus. As for separating Muslims apart from the crowd, generally it is not blatantly apparent that someone is Muslim, but certain neighborhoods are predominantly Muslim and subject to attack. In addition, men are sometimes forced to take down their pants (Muslims are traditionally circumcised while Hindus are not).

I was also wondering why there was a question for 10 million rupees on the game show, as opposed to a "round" number like 1 million. As it turns out, the Indian numbering system is based on two-digit groupings (not three), which means 10 million (1,00,00,000) is a crore.

The highlight of the movie was unquestionably the footage of life in the slums. Far from being a depressing indictment of our failure to rectify world poverty, the movie illustrates the joie de vivre of slumdogs and their tenacity for survival. Even amongst the trash heaps and rubble, there is life and beauty. And of course, the children playing slum dwellers were adorable. But isn't this simply an idealized perspective of the slums, sanitized for Western eyes? According to Ankita at least, the slums are "not a bad place to live," and are much preferred to public housing. In fact, almost every home in the slums has a TV. There has been political pressure to move slum denizens to housing projects, but this has been met with much protest, so the slums will stay put for the time being.

Katherine: How do you dance like an Indian? You screw in the light bulb while patting the dog.

Harkening back to its Bollywood roots, the movie ends with a theatrical dance sequence, with hundreds of choreographed dancers performing on a train platform. It's an exuberant flourish for a conclusion, a feel-good ending that appeals to Western sensibilities. The extreme poverty and political woes depicted in the film will not be resolved any time soon, as evidenced by the recent terrorist attacks in Mumbai, but ultimately, we can go home at peace, knowing that the American dream is alive and well in India.

What I've Been Reading

I've been on a book binge lately, trying to shorten my gargantuan list of books to read. Here are the other books I've checked out over the last couple weeks:

1. My Brain is Open: The Mathematical Journeys of Paul Erdös, by Bruce Schecter: This biography of Paul Erdös paints a vivid picture of modern mathematics' most eccentric personality, a fascinating depiction even for those who are not mathematically inclined. Erdös famously had many oddball quirks, from his peripatetic living habits (he did not have a formal address, but constantly moved from one co-author's couch to the next), to his invented vocabulary (children were called "episilons," women were "bosses," and people who had stopped doing math had "died"). With over 450 co-authors and 1,500 papers to his credit, it is a popular game amongst mathematicians to trace yourself back to Erdös via degrees of collaboration (akin to the Kevin Bacon game). Though much of his work is beyond the comprehension of general readers, this book provides an accessible introduction to one of the 20th century's greatest thinkers.
   
2. Adverbs, by David Handler: From the book jacket, "Adverbs is a novel about love--a bunch of different people, in and out of different kinds of love...This novel is about people trying to find love in the ways it is done before the volcano erupts and the miracle ends. Yes, there's a volcano in this novel. In my opinion a volcano automatically makes a story more interesting." With a different adverb to title each chapter and an endorsement from Dave Eggers on the back, Adverbs is a quirky, SWPL read from the same author of the Lemony Snicket series.
   
3. Fruitless Fall: The Collapse of the Honey Bee and the Coming Agricultural Crisis, by Rowan Jacobsen: Over the last couple years, the North American honey bee population has been decimated by unknown causes. Billed as this generation's Silent Spring, Fruitless Fall discusses the importance of bees to agricultural production, and how their disappearance forebodes an agricultural crisis that will necessitate a revolution in the way we produce our food. Jacobsen illustrates the lifestyle of the bee and the intelligence of the hive, and how that way of life is under unprecedented strain. Suffice it to say that the next time I need to buy honey, I will be running to my local organic farmer.
   
4. Self-Made Man: One Woman's Year Disguised as a Man, by Norah Vincent: After taking Desire, I am pretty much a sucker for anything involving gender identity, so the appeal of this book is self-explanatory. The author goes to great lengths to explore the male lens, changing her attitude and appearance to infiltrate a men's bowling league, strip clubs, and a monastery. She even attends a Robert Bly-style men's retreat. If you've ever rued your own gender, this book provides some thought-provoking insight on what it's like to play another sex role.
   
5. Insatiable: Tales from a Life of Delicious Excess, by Gael Greene: From the pulpit of New York magazine food critic, Greene unabashedly brings us a steamy blend of power, sex and food as she details her travels and dalliances with everyone from Julia Child to Elvis.