Flat Iron Arts Building - home to a Robust Mix of American Artists

I was in Chicago ostensibly for a Rocky Horror Picture Show Convention (yes, really) but really I was just at said "RockyCon" for a good hotel rate in Chicago. It was my first time in Chicago, but further, it was my first solo vacation. I mostly blew off convention events to wander around the city by myself - no travel companions with whom to compromise. While, sure, I had marked a few locales and events I wanted to see (some Improv Shakespeare, a sunrise at the Bean because you have to, right?) I mostly had plans to have no plans: to wander around and get to know this city, feel her vibe.

So I found myself festival hopping: neighborhood block party to neighborhood block party. (And, my god, Chicago in the summertime - there is no better place in this country to do that!) I found myself at one such event in Wicker Park: a concert being powered by attendees peddling stationary bikes. Now maybe I'm just a girl from a small town (I'm not) but it was among the top raddest things I've ever seen. (Or do only small town girls say "raddest?")

So I listened, danced, peddled, and then eventually really needed to pee. I spotted a donut shop so I was going to go in there but then on my way I passed the Flat Iron Arts Building - artist work studios and gallery spaces in a renovated meat packing plant (because I can only assume that's where all structures in Chicago come from) so I, instead, went inside there.

I felt immediately at home inside (personal history within renovated New England textile mills only partly responsible). There were comic strips and murals down almost every hallway. A sequinced unicorn installation was in one corner, a glitter spiderweb hung above my head for a length. It was absolute pure eccentric bliss around every turn. But then there were also rows of ornate, sophisticated furniture lining the walls leading to a woodworker's studio. And on one floor I could hear a violin play and, no word of a lie, a woman roller-bladed past me!

I heard the tell-tale buzz of a body being tattooed and it was the absolute most self control I've ever exhibited to not track down the studio and get something absurdly impulsive myself. (Instead, I found some sequins on the ground to keep in a locket.) It was a stroll through the modern-day artistic landscape of America. It was the most honest, open, eclectic offering of the collective American story I've ever had the pleasure of wandering through - perhaps the most honest piece of America I've ever seen.