Claire Withycombe

As you come off the sidewalk and enter the Beverly Art Center through glass double doors, the staff greets you with smiles and points you toward your destination. Tap shoes stomp in synch with British pop, and a violin lesson echoes down the hall. The center teems with artistry, and Rick Therrio’s exhibit is at home in this space. “Murky Stories” explores the warped and bizarre corners of the human mind, and the uncertain nature of past and present.  The hallway leading up to the exhibition space gives nod to the more twisted elements of thought.  An inscription on the wall reads, “Life in general, its hard to get at the truth because every time someone tells a story they tell it in their perspective so the stories change.”

The exhibition, which showcases Therrio’s earlier work from the eighties, uses a variety of media, including sculpture and colored pencil. In his sculpture work, Therrio uses found objects to craft the likeness of distorted faces.  He layers bits of plastic leftover from manufacturing plants with electronic parts, nails, wire, and paint to create some semblance of a face. Not quite human, these faces appear to have escaped from a science lab. Each face’s flesh crawls with beautiful scars. These sculptures aren’t merely bizarre or disturbing— they provoke a feeling of uneasiness towards the future. Therrio’s science fiction references ask the questions, “Will our view of beauty and humanness someday become so distorted that this is what people will view as beautiful?” The pieces hang on the wall and stare down visitors as they enter the exhibit.

Again drawing from science fiction, Therrio’s colored pencil works depict cityscapes warped by unknown creatures, and the daily life of an intelligent race of insects. In the drawing “Victims of an Angry Skin,” he depicts a realistic city’s absorption by a tight-skinned and inhuman menace called “the skin creature.” A piece titled “The Deliberations” melds together the distant past of The Elizabethan Era with a futuristic life. This drawing shows insects interacting intelligently, dressed in royal robes and high Elizabethan collars. Details of human history can be gleaned by looking deeply and closely at the details. One insect holds a book inscribed with hieroglyphics.  For Therrio, every object is an opportunity to further the story.

Therrio’s work is often inspired by surrealists like Salvador Dali, and this influence is evident in works like “Victims of an Angry Skin.” He renders the movement of the skin creature in a manner similar to the melting effect used on the clocks in Dali’s famous piece “The Persistence of Memory.” Therrio’s work, additionally, does not hesitate to meld together the past and future. His interest in science fiction permits the warping of reality, and frequently the confusing becomes the ideal.

Though “Murky Stories” highlights Therrio’s earlier work, he is quick to separate the past and the future when it comes to his own career. “I’d like to think I’ve improved over time,” he quips. The earlier pieces displayed at the Beverly Art Center are generally in line with the rest of his body of work, though some of his more violent and disturbing pieces had to be excluded from the exhibition to meet the venue’s family-friendly guidelines. Though the pieces on display are futuristic and unsettling, they are in no way Therrio’s most graphic work.

In “Murky Stories,” seemingly bizarre pieces fit together and convey the title of the collection, which comments upon the uncertainty of both the past and present.

(Lucas Loots)

Since its percussive opening on April 14, artist and teacher Mathias “Spider” Schergen has showcased his work at the Beverly Arts Center in a show entitled “Neo-Naïve.” a reference to the “naïve,” seemingly untrained style the Chicago native works in.

Describing the naming of the exhibition, Schergen (or “Mr. Spider,” as his students at the Edward Jenner Academy of the Arts address him), says that “it is an attempt to acknowledge the aesthetic link my work has to naïve art without it being that kind of art…. Even after getting my BFA at the School of the Art Institute, my work remained true to the aesthetic I developed as a child.”

That childlike aesthetic is evident in many of Schergen’s mixed-media works, which are constructed from found objects like doorknobs and wires. On opening night, percussion echoed through the halls of the gallery, animating pieces like “The Ant,” which seemed as though it was dancing to the music, or crawling up the wall. Characteristic of Shergen’s work, the mixed-media piece was constructed from thick, black plastic found under the hood of a car, with tiny stones lining the exoskeleton.

“Most of what I make comes from stuff I find in curbs, alleys, railroad yards, and anywhere else I walk,” says Schergen. “Some materials are purchased in thrift stores and junk shops. The basic materials, such as stones, sand, glue, plywood, staples, and such are purchased at Home Depot.”

A piece called “Ron’s Flea Market Box” elicited further explanation from Mr. Spider. The viewer can see a rusted spring, the faceplate of a doorknob (sans knob), and an electrical wire dangling in limbo. But this appears to be just the top layer of Ron’s box.  “Due to their compositional proximity to one another, the materials in ‘Ron’s Flea Market Box’ have some dependency on one another. They are a random assortment of objects that came together as the piece was assembled. The piece itself is a tribute to my best friend, Ron, who passed away a couple years ago. He and I were avid flea marketers for many years. Ron tended to purchase collectible objects while I tended to collect what I could from the ground and dumpsters on the outskirts of the flea market. We often joked about our divergent ‘junk’ collecting tendencies.”

“To me,” Schergen says, “the piece somehow glorifies the objects it is made from. It represents the kind of ‘junk’ you might find in a box under a flea market table with a sign ‘everything 10 cents.’ Yet the border is made from upholstery fabrics that have a classy look to them. The piece reminded me of a reliquary of some sort, a place where these objects are remembered for their usefulness, even if they are useless in their current state.”

So how does a full-time teacher, who has been recognized by the Golden Apple Foundation for outstanding teaching, have time for creativity outside of class? “I have a disciplined studio practice that requires me to make art for at least one hour per day.  On weekends, days off, and school breaks I sometimes work 4-8 [hours] in the studio. When my mind is not focused on other things I often think about my projects and what I will do when I return to the studio. Making art is a way to decompress and clear my head. It is also an activity that allows me to think about the events of the day and find solutions to the challenges I am facing as a teacher. When I am making art, I do not think linearly; my mind works differently. I choose to make art instead of other activities. I don’t watch TV, I don’t use the computer unless it’s necessary for specific types of communication, I’m not a big reader, and I’m a bit of a loner when it comes to socializing and hanging-out. The amount of time some people put toward these activities is redirected in my life toward art making.”

Beverly Arts Center, 2407 W. 111th St. Through May 6. Monday-Friday, 9am-9pm; Saturday, 9am-5pm; Sunday, 1pm-6pm. Free. Hours subject to change. (773)445-3838. beverlyartcenter.org

“Our biggest struggle is getting the word out,” said Mary Lenzini, a volunteer board member for the John H. Vanderpoel Art Association. “People come up here and say, ‘I’ve been coming here for years and never knew this was here!’ ”

The Vanderpoel Gallery features the work of local artists twice a year alongside its rotating collection of more than 600 pieces of turn-of-the-century art. Currently, the gallery showcases a collection of work by artist Judie Anderson in an exhibition titled “The Line Between_______Is Transparent.”

To a certain extent the story of the Judie Anderson mirrors the story of the Vanderpoel Art Association. John H. Vanderpoel was a Beverly resident who achieved acclaim as a student, artist, and teacher at the Art Institute from 1880 to 1910. Following his death, friends felt compelled to establish the Vanderpoel Art Association to display his plentiful body of work. The collection grew to include other artists from Vanderpoel’s era, then adding rotating galleries from contemporary artists such as Anderson.

The works of both Anderson and the Vanderpoel Gallery seem to have outgrown the modest space they occupy, due to a combination of sheer volume—the gallery can only display a third of their permanent collection, and Anderson has thousands of pieces not displayed here—and the level of interest their quality and beauty inspire.

The gallery’s doors open to a room with paintings crammed on every inch of wall, shelves chocked full of sculptures and sketches, a piano, and scattered chairs. Display panels showing the hundred or so paintings that make up “The Line Between_______Is Transparent” line the room. Although the gallery overflows with the prominent brush strokes, neutral tones, blurred divisions, and focus on natural light characteristic of impressionistic portraits and landscapes, it is empty of people, sometimes prompting its volunteer docents to close long before the advertised end of viewing hours.

Anderson’s paintings fit in with the style of the gallery’s permanent pieces, emphasizing nature-based subjects, muted palettes, and unique takes on light and shadow. One half of the display panels show well-executed watercolors. Standout pieces among these include snowy scenes with grey, bare branches and lovely lavender shadows; and a stormy lakeside landscape, the motion in the smeared, blue-green clouds and the wind in the grass visible in the thin, delicate brushstrokes. In a phone interview, an affable and quietly proud Anderson said that she “sees shadows differently than other people.” Her unique insight into the interplay of dark and light comes across in the inky mixtures of purples and grays, transparence and opacity, that characterize shadows in her paintings.

The other half of the panels show selections from Anderson’s successful career as an illustrator, displaying an impressive familiarity with a variety of mediums and styles, from ink to sketches, cartoons to Mucha-esque takes on fashion illustrations. This side of the room tells the story of the happiest, proudest years of Anderson’s life. She remembers nights spent awake with a piece due the next day, working together with her husband—painting and then sleeping for an hour while he picked up where she left off. “Nobody could ever tell our styles apart,” she said.

The division of Anderson’s oeuvre into two opposite sides is purposeful. She mentions struggling with the disdain artists often have for “commercial” illustrators her entire life, until a friend told her, “What are you talking about? The line between illustration and painting is transparent. It doesn’t exist.” Reconciling the two sides of her work became the inspiration for the exhibition.

The title “The Line Between_______Is Transparent” reflects the fluidity of the division not only between Anderson’s creative and commercial life, but between her work and that of her husband during their collaboration. It reflects the unique melding of light and shadow in her paintings, and also—more subtley—it reflects the barely detectable division between her work and the rest of the Vanderpoel Gallery, and the artificial distinction between works deemed significant enough for the Art Institute and those displayed in the Ridge Park Field House.

Vanderpoel Memorial Art Gallery. 96th St. & Longwood Dr. Through April 31. Tuesday & Thursday, 1pm-4pm; Saturday 10am-2pm. Free. Tours available upon request at (777)445-9616. vanderpoelartmuseum.org

“I found it interesting how this display covered the mannequin’s head, as if [the display’s designers] were taking away her humanity,” he says of one photo depicting an upscale window display in Streeterville. Across the room, he discusses “Alien Baby,” a tightly-cropped image of a child-sized mannequin with a band of bunched stocking “skin” wrinkled around her neck, black almond-shaped felt pieces for eyes, pipe cleaner “antennae,” and a large star cut-out perched atop her head. “I thought this one was just weird,” he comments frankly.

Amidst the soft sounds of classical music, delighted cries of children, and the excited chatter of the reception’s attendees, Dinnerville speaks of long solitary Sunday walks around Chicago, photographing the displays. The course of a typical walk might take him from LaSalle to Printer’s Row to Chinatown to Bridgeport, diverse communities whose attributes are perhaps best appreciated on foot. “You have to walk,” he says, “or you’ll miss something.” In simple black frames spaced evenly along three walls of the room, his photographs, with their locations as “bylines,” reflect the process of placid and solitary exploration that Dinnerville describes.

Despite their simple presentation, the photographs are striking in their visual complexity. In many, streets and surrounding buildings, reflected in window glass, meld seamlessly with interior displays, creating a spatial ambiguity. This dimensional open-endedness allows, for example, gilded sculpted elephants to seemingly roam Chicago boulevards and faint, human-shaped forms to become indiscernible from their backdrops.

“This is my favorite,” Dinnerville says, as he leads the way to a photograph nestled in the back corner of the room. Entitled “Girl,” the image features a “young” mannequin wearing a party dress and a knit headband. She gazes calmly outward from the picture plane, her plastic features molded into a radiant smile and her face fenced in by the black diamond pattern of the shop’s metal security gate. The window’s reflection reveals a single-story brick building marked with graffiti script and the artist’s forearm as he approaches the window to shoot. “She was smiling, she was looking up. And yet, she’s in a cage in the middle of the city,” he says.

Dinnerville insists that his photographs read as “visual records” of the communities that dress, arrange, and display the mannequins. He remarks on how Chicago has changed since his youth, saying that he wants to “document things before they’re gone,” and mentions that he admires photographers Harry Burton and Timothy O’Sullivan for infusing documentation with aesthetic beauty.

Yet Dinnerville’s photos display more than an impulse to preserve advertising strategies across Chicago. His images also possess an eerie absence, an unforgiving sense of loneliness. Although some images depict buses, cars, or the occasional tourist’s leg as she marches past a display without pausing to window-shop, the mannequins stand in for live subjects. As Dinnerville acknowledges, viewers are forced to read humanity into them, to interpret their plastic smiles as indices of joy or to imagine emotional connections between two blank and emotionless pieces of foam. One ten-year-old girl chooses “Syd,” a photo of a male mannequin, wearing a dark three-piece suit and hat, his face bathed in eerie shadow, as her favorite: “I like it because it looks like he’s hiding…I like action.” The viewer projects meaning onto these inert forms; we create a narrative in which they can come to life.

Dinnnerville’s photographs deprive us of human relations, even with Dinnerville himself, whose reflection appears in many of the photos. In some images, we see a whole body; in others, it’s spliced. Yet, like the Streeterville mannequin’s, Dinnerville’s face is always hidden, obscured by his camera. We are left without anything animate, only a host of anthropomorphic approximations.

Beverly Arts Center, 2407 W. 111 St. Through April 30. Monday-Friday, 9am-9pm; Saturday, 9am-5pm; Sunday, 1pm-6pm. Free. (773)445-3838. beverlyartcenter.org

Painting Shakespeare is akin to writing about the Sistine Chapel in a pre-Kodak epoch; you know you can’t capture the value, texture, and variety of the colors stretched out on the ceiling above your head with some canny metaphor or lyrical prose.  The same sense of the ineffable holds true with a Macbeth soliloquy.  The best the draughtsman can hope for is to deepen someone else’s appreciation of the words and, in reality, you’ll be lucky just to get anyway without embarrassment.

A few of the artists in Beverly fall short of their subject, but most survive their brush with the bard without cheapening the original…which is to say that the exhibition shines.

The show is heavy on portraits of the plays’ characters. The artistic challenge of drama is that there is no single way a character’s face is set, King Lear’s visage morphs with each wizened actor that takes him on.  The artists embrace this protean personality to the extent that, sans caption, it would difficult for even the most knowledgeable Shakespeare buff to be able to tell who each character is.  In painter Richard Laurent’s “Lear” the tragic monarch sports dark shades, a full beard, and a merry face; swap his robes and he could double for Santa in a Coke commercial. Another work by Maureen Warren, transports Romeo and Juliet to Japan where the lovers’ pathos-packed embrace takes place in kimonos and layers of Kabuki makeup.

Other interpretations of the Shakespearean corpus are more conceptual mind benders. “Desdemona’s handkerchief “ feels like a meditation on what has replaced those dainty, silken lady-like objects of late.  The eye-catching work is a paper napkin surrounded by a cocoon of melted bottle-caps.  It’s hard to imagine Iago plotting out his vile revenge while relying on a supply of Kleenex. Our disposable culture may have prevented the odd Venetian murder but it appears also to have cost us a convenient, oft-utilized plot device.

In Jonathan Franklin’s “Richard and his Rivals,” the faces of Richard III and his murdered foes (scowling, shriveled gray specters farcically adorned with rich headdresses) throw the Shakespearean theme into high relief. The spoils mock the lifeless masks; the only legacy of ambition is the body count.

Not all of the art purported to be profound; some of it was just punny. In a small painting by Deborah Moris Lader, two anthropomorphized bucks are decked out in somber 15th century garb.  The deer-one with a respectable rack of antlers, the other equipped with a money-lender’s scales are disputing over what seems to be a hefty legal document. The caption reads: “The Merchant of Venison.”  This is followed by a portrait of a bodice-wearing rodent about to be electrocuted by a pantalooned stranger, currently entitled “The Tazing of the Shrew.”

It’s a credit to the collection that the most popular plays to act are not the ones occupying the lion-share of the canvas. Hamlet is not exactly neglected-the walls put up with plenty of water-logged Ophelias- but it’s astounding how much space was given over to works next to no one reads, let alone performs.  Scenes from “Pericles, “Timon of Athens,” and “The Merry Wives of Windsor” apparently can inspire creative output as readily as their more famous cousins.  And therein lies the power of this exhibition. If when gallery-goers arrive in Beverly the name Shakespeare just conjures a cryptic sonnet they were press-ganged into perusing at the age of fourteen, then “As They Like It” is a polite but insistent invitation to visit the folios afresh. These verses, the exhibition at Beverly screams, belong more to hipsters than to curmudgeons. I have never read “The Winter’s Tale”, but after standing near Jose Agustin Andreu’s painting—a bewitching, acrylic depiction of Hermione lost in stony grief—that fact is actually starting to bother me.

Beverly Arts Center, 2407 W. 111th St. Through April 1. Monday-Friday, 9am-9pm; Saturday, 9am-5pm; Sunday, 1pm-6pm. Free. (773)445-3838. beverlyartcenter.org

Claire Hungerford

[Show as slideshow]

The communal dining room and kitchen at Northwest Mental Health Center has long been a fixture of programming at the clinic. Rosa Torres, who has worked as a clinical therapist at Northwest for 21 years, recalls how busy the kitchen used to be. Many of the clinic’s Psychosocial Rehabilitation and Support (PSR) programs were conducted here, where patients received instruction in meal planning and food preparation. But in recent years the kitchen has been used less and less, since funding for the meals has long since disappeared. Now Torres and her remaining colleagues, who have to wear many hats in their work as therapists and administrators, take turns providing money out-of-pocket for groceries.

Those in Torres’s field use PSR to refer to many of the programs that serve as material and emotional support infrastructure for adults suffering from mental illness–whether chronic or acute. Included in the health center’s PSR offerings are the various group therapy sessions held by clinicians, such as the Spanish-speaking women’s group that Ana Navarro has coordinated for over a decade.

The announcement of Chicago’s 2012 fiscal budget last October sealed the fate of mental health care across Chicago. The city’s outlined plan is to consolidate the clinics—transferring, for example, responsibility for the entire Back of the Yard’s patient population to the Southwest Side’s Greater Lawn Public Health Center. In the context of the prolonged and dramatic decline in mental health resources in Illinois, the measures will prove another painful blow to an already broken system, suffering from a lack of funding and legislative protection, which used to provide some insulation for Illinois’s mentally ill against homelessness and unemployment.

Northwest, which is located in Logan Square, will be merging with the South Side’s Lawndale clinic. Five other clinics will close their doors: Rogers Park, Woodlawn, Auburn Gresham, Beverly-Morgan Park, and Back of the Yards. Chicago will soon be serving upwards of 5,100 patients with a mere six operational clinics—a third as many as were open at the start of Richard M. Daley’s tenure. Since 2009 funding has seen a 36 percent reduction, a cumulative loss of $33.5 million.

The current mental health system has its origin in the Community Mental Health Services Act of 1963 (CMHA), signed into law by President Kennedy. CMHA called for the closure of state hospitals, while providing funding for mental health care at a local level through federal grants. With federal support, community health centers were able to serve as effective primary care providers for the mentally ill. This legislation was part of a national shift—both in public opinion and the field of healthcare—away from health policy that saw inpatient and institutionalized care as the best method of treating mental illness.

Over the past half-century, federal allocations have been starved and legislation distorted into what Mark Heyrman, a professor of law at the University of Chicago who specializes in mental health advocacy, calls “a variety of un-funded, uncoordinated services.” The central deficiency in many respects is a severe lack of human and financial resources, a fact hardly disputable when compared to the Illinois of yesteryear. According to Heyrman, there were 35,000 beds in Illinois available to patients in both outpatient and institutional facilities 60 years ago. Today there are 1,300.

Heyrman believes that successful mental health programs exist—they just haven’t been implemented on a large enough scale in Illinois. One such program is the Assertive Community Treatment, or ACT model. Under this system, patients are provided  “the multidisciplinary, round-the-clock staffing of a psychiatric unit, but within the comfort of their own home and community.” According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, ACT recognizes that “individuals with the most severe mental illnesses are typically not served well by the traditional outpatient model, with various services that the patient must navigate on their own.” Throughout Illinois, ACT is almost nowhere to be found, since it is simply too costly for health providers to offer. Heyrman notes that the number of ACT teams in the state “has declined precipitously as providers have increasingly had to secure funding [outside of their budgets] in order to afford it.”

The consequences of this dearth of resources are perhaps nowhere quite so visible as in city hospitals. Urgent care facilities are increasingly saddled with the severely ill—those who struggle with cyclical but nonetheless debilitating symptoms—and the newly unemployed or homeless. The latter’s need for mental health services would ideally be mitigated by the network of support—as simple as food and cots—that Torres and other long-time clinicians know to be very effective in the treatment and prevention of mental illness.

As the mental health clinics close, these preventative resources—and their benefits—will be in jeopardy. Torres is still shaking her head over the proposal:, “It doesn’t make sense any which way. From a [fiscal] perspective it doesn’t make sense, because of the increased cost of hospitalizations, incarcerations…If people aren’t stable they’re going to lose their jobs, their houses…You’re denying very basic rights.”

For patients, clinicians, and activists alike, the expected drop in quality of care is an unending source of disappointment and frustration. But the defunding is, distressingly, not simply a matter of money drying up. To make matters worse, some say the loss of state dollars is due to gross financial mismanagement.

In February 2008, Illinois’s Department of Human Services was notified of a transition from a state system to a computerized bill payment system provided by a subcontracted tech company, CERNER Corporation. The system was revealed to be largely nonfunctional, as shown in documents obtained through the Freedom of Information Act according to the Coalition to Save Our Mental Health Centers. In the months after its implementation, an overwhelming 95 percent of bills submitted to the state government by the new software were rejected on grounds of missing data.

Because the claims couldn’t be processed, the state’s Division of Mental Health elected to withhold the funding necessary to cover the operational costs of clinics like the soon-to-be terminated Woodlawn Mental Health Center. A spokesman for the Department of Human Services, Tom Green, stated that the decision to cut funding on the order of $1.2 million was based solely on the city’s inability to provide billing data.

Michael Snedeker, who has worked for the Coalition to Save Our Mental Health Centers since 2008, recounts an incident that could be an omen of what’s to come: when the roof of the Rogers Park Clinic partially collapsed last year, its patients were temporarily directed to the nearest operational mental health center, North River, where they remained under the care of Rogers Park staff. Roughly half of those patients never sought treatment at the stopgap location.

Snedeker regards this figure as a generous estimation of the number of patients who will make it through the transition. For many of the nearly 2,600 current clients whose local clinics will be shuttered, the forced relocation is more than a logistical inconvenience. A longer commute for patients means a hike in the cost of treatment—especially for those who have been unable to secure coverage and who have long relied on the unflagging generosity of therapists like Torres and Navarro.

“We took it as a betrayal,” Torres says of the budget. “They’re annihilating health, period. Not just the clinics. And especially for Ana [Navarro]—she’s been here 27 years, she’s from this community, born and raised, people from her church come here. So it’s also a betrayal of the community, not just of the clients but of their families too.”

Other patients face the possibility of arriving at a new facility where there are no therapists who speak their language. Meanwhile, relationships that have been built over years are likely to end. As Navarro explains, “We’re merging with Lawndale, but that doesn’t necessarily mean Rosa and I will be going to Lawndale.” The city’s transition team hasn’t yet told them when their clinic will close or where they’ll be reassigned, she says.

Torres is most distressed by the uncertain fate of her clients: “We’re staff—we’re used to being tossed around like foster children. But the clients? It’s very humiliating for them…they just want to send ten of them here, move ten over there. And will it be today, or tomorrow, or a week from today?”

Patients’ prospects for dependable treatment will remain bleak as the slated closures take effect, possibly as soon as mid February or March, according to a Greater Lawn clinician. Torres states that just under 40 therapists will be terminated, a figure that does not include the psychiatrists and other clinic staff who will be laid off.

“In terms of the physical size of Chicago alone, six centers is pretty pathetic,” Snedeker says. “And as to the claim that services will be improved, I just don’t see how that’s possible with the reduction in staff that’s taking place.” He foresees a grim landscape of meager mental healthcare resources, which he likens to the food deserts that also plague expanses of the South Side. “Conceivably very soon,” he portends, “in these neighborhoods where resources have been so depleted, a near-absence of care could definitely come about, and I think to a very sobering effect.”

At the Driscoll House, home of the Ridge Historical Society, riders were given a small map marked with 25 X’s—each accompanied by a clue. Riding from X to X, the participants followed a  meandering eight-mile loop through the neighborhood.  Some clues, such as the one leading to architectural standouts like Givin’s Irish Castle, weren’t too surprising. Yet others pointed the way to hidden sites of tragedy and intrigue, such as an unassuming house that once bore the first fingerprints to be used to convict a man of murder. Each clue was written as a charming couplet, with appropriate wit exhibited through pun and rhyme. Clue #25 directed riders back to the start, reading “High on the hill since 1922—Not in Rome, San Francisco or Paris—Sits the _______ House, So splendid with its Terrace!”

A number of community organizations teamed up with the planning association to put together the hunt. Beverly Bike and Ski offered free tune-ups to participants, and even awarded the winner with a bicycle. Other local institutions joined in at the finish line, where riders enjoyed alcoholic drinks, pumpkin painting, and snacks, including homemade potato chips from the neighborhood favorite Calabria Imports.

Whether lifetime residents or visitors from across Chicagoland, participants on this scavenger hunt discovered minutia throughout the neighborhood they never would have encountered otherwise. “I’ve been a resident for 10 years and I’m finding things I don’t know, like how many dragons are on our neighbor’s house,” said one mom, chasing a group of girls on the hunt.

Matt Walsh, a longtime Beverly resident and head of the planning association, agreed. “I think that’s one of the beauties of Beverly Hills—it’s always a surprise,” he said, referring to the neighborhood by its former name.

One of the biggest mysteries for him and the other community organizers, he says, is why Beverly remains such a “well kept secret” in the city.

But perhaps Beverly is hidden from city life by design: though less conspicuous than porch dragons, the neighborhood’s street system is notorious for bottlenecking any incoming traffic. Is this the result of segregation era zoning, or a half-hearted and innocent attempt at garden city planning? Maybe next year’s historical tour will offer a clue.

Maggie Sivit

Originally dubbed “Beverly Hills” in reference to a massive prehistoric ridge that spans it, the neighborhood has always been home to more upwardly mobile middle class families than California-style celebrities. Those weary of the bustling city have taken refuge in this burgeoning suburban community wedged between 87th and 107th Streets since the 1890s, starting with waves of English, then Irish, and finally African Americans. Today, while the outskirts of the neighborhood are home to commercial development, a continuous stream of traffic, and sun-baked sidewalks, the heart of Beverly continues to provide a respite from Chicago’s harsh urban scenery.  The pleasant clang of an approaching Metra train, brick buildings, tree-lined avenues, and soaring church steeples create quaint vistas straight from old-fashioned family sitcoms. Boasting many architectural gems, Beverly possesses a bevy of Frank Lloyd Wright homes, numerous examples of prairie-style architecture, and a 19th century replica of an Irish castle. Properties terminate in sloping, manicured lawns and the air is permeated by a quiet hum of lawnmowers and rustling leaves. In spite of the idyllic scenery, Beverly still has had its share of community strife. The installation of cul-de-sacs in the mid 90s restricted entry into the neighborhood to three locations, viewed by some as an effort to create a racially and economically gated community. Yet Beverly continues to change. A special clause in Chicago city contracts encourages employees to live within Chicago’s limits; Beverly has become a haven for cops trying to maintain their pensions as a result. But the hard-working spirit that established Beverly still persists, borne out in a down-to-earth community that is proud of its roots.

Best Hats
Optimo
In a smoke-gray building off Western Avenue, Optimo is redefining the nearly extinct craft of hatmaking. The store, with a dark wood interior, old sewing machines and vintage hat forms, offers a wealth of timeless designs including the classic Fedora, the flat-top pork pie, the 47th Street, and the Montecristi Panama hat. Owner Graham Thompson, a former apprentice of famed South Side hatter Johnny Tyrus, uses techniques that belong to a tradition dating back to the 1930s. A back wall sweeps up two stories, dotted with beauties of all shapes and materials. Optimo does not actively market itself but instead relies on the reputation of its craftsmanship. Incidentally, word has spread and Optimo hats have graced the crowns of local South Side dandies, international patrons, and celebrities such as Johnny Depp and Christian Bale. But gentlemen must be prepared to shell out for gentlemen’s prices: most hats are in the $500 range. Quality is classy, though, and to that we can tip our hat.  10215 S. Western Ave. Monday-Saturday, 10am-6pm. (773)298-1031 optimohats.com (Anna Fixsen)

Best Blueberry Pancakes
Beverly Bakery
With friendly service and damn good breakfast, Beverly Bakery gives off a small-town vibe that’s rare in the big city. Here, slow moving fans rotate above diners digging into heaps of pancakes, and the clink of dishes nearly drowns out the old timers chattering over cups of coffee. A large display case sits adjacent to the cash register, stuffed with goodies like buttery croissants, doughnuts, cupcakes, and gooey caramel rolls. The tasty omelets, hashbrowns, and what the menu boasts as “the best blueberry pancakes on the South Side” keep Beverly Bakery packed on weekends. The bakery also doubles as a coffee roastery. Gourmet blends of coffee are imported from 21 different spots around the globe and roasted in-house. Patrons can even have coffee roasted to their specifications. The Chiapas blend ice coffee and a fluffy almond scone make for an especially satisfying summer’s second breakfast, further justifying that this is where Beverly goes for breakfast again and again. 10528 S. Western Ave. Tuesday-Friday, 7am-2pm; Saturday-Sunday, 8am-2pm. (773)238-5580. beverlycoffeeroasters.com (Anna Fixsen)

Best Take-Out Vegan
Sistah’s Vegan
Sistah’s Vegan is easy to miss, plunked next-door to a shrimp and chicken shack in a strip of low-lying white buildings. A glass door ushers patrons into this pocket-sized eatery where reggae music bounces off the walls. While the décor—bright yellow walls punctuated here and there by African diaspora art—can be described as spartan, the spectrum of flavors in its vegan fare is anything but scant. Sistah’s dishes up favorites such as enchiladas, homemade lasagna, and barbecue seitan at reasonable prices (the most expensive item on the menu is $8.95). Fried seitan bites proved crisp and delicious, while celery sticks and vegan dipping sauces made a tasty side dish. Washing it all down with organic ginger beer offered a perfect ending to the meal. Sistah’s also offers dirt-cheap daily specials including $1 tacos on Mondays and $5 personal vegan pizzas on Fridays. While mostly designed for carry-out, customers can sit at small tables, and munch on country fries or tofu bites while watching planes from Midway Airport gain altitude over 95th Street. 2239 W. 95th St. Monday, 3:30pm-7:30pm; Tuesday-Saturday, 12pm-8:30pm. (773)445-4788 (Anna Fixsen)

Best First Date
Café 103
Tucked in scenic downtown Beverly, Café 103 is a little gem of a BYOB.  Serving contemporary American fare in a cozy yet chic atmosphere, the restaurant draws crowds from even the far North Side. Quaint Americana décor and earthy burgundy tones make the space warm and welcoming. The joint is small, but it features a diverse and delectable menu. For lunch, Café 103 offers a variety of gourmet sandwiches and salads. A highlight from their dinner menu is the grilled rack of lamb accompanied by ladolemono couscous with feta, roasted garlic, and spinach. A vegetarian-friendly fettuccini á la nage is served with roasted red peppers, summer corn, fresh tomato, thyme, and parmesan. Themed dinners spice up the midweek cooking slump, so instead of ordering Chinese takeout or heating up leftovers, you can have tapas on Tuesday and burgers on Wednesday. While their prices are a little on the steep side—their red snapper will have you out 27 bucks and they charge a $5 corking fee—the quality of food, the intimate space, and idyllic location make it the perfect spot for an impressive date, first or five hundredth. 1909 W. 103rd St. Tuesday-Saturday, lunch served 11am – 4pm; dinner served 5pm – 10pm (773)238-5115. cafe103.com (Anna Fixsen)

Best Way to Lose the Lovehandles
Running Excels
With the Chicago marathon around the corner, it might be time for some new kicks. Running Excels is the only shop of its kind on the South Side that fits both casual joggers and seasoned racers with the best in running gear.  The store is stuffed with racks of light runners’ singlets, socks, energy goo, and a wall of shoes. The workers have dozens of marathons under their belts and the knowledge to answer any running-related questions. The shop carries a wide range of sneakers, from racing flats to cross country spikes. Running Excels will conduct a stride analysis on treadmills in-store to identify one’s foot type and recommend the best footwear to ensure a proper fit. Less tangible prizes like a whittled waist line and companionship can be acquired through the store’s running club: groups meet several times a week for brisk morning jogs. And whether you run for pleasure or only when pursued, the cheery staff at Running Excels will give you ample motivation to break into a trot as soon as the glass front door shuts from behind. 10328 S. Western Ave. Monday-Friday, 10am-7pm; Saturday, 10am – 6pm; Sunday, 11am-5pm. (773)629-8587. runningexcels.com  (Anna Fixsen)

Beverly Hills and Morgan Park are far from what the average Chicagoan thinks of when he or she hears the words “South Side.” Instead of tall apartment buildings, you’ll find rows of Carpenter Gothic, Queen Anne, and Prairie-style homes; instead of huddles of fold-out chairs on the sidewalk, you’ll see parents around their backyard swimming pools sipping cocktails; and instead of a Dat Donut located under a sun-weathered plastic awning, there’s a sparkling new Dat Donut with a pink-and-purple neon storefront at the foot of the tallest hill in the city.

Planted between 88th and 117th Streets west of the Dan Ryan, the only thing that really distinguishes these two neighborhoods is an imaginary boundary line that runs along 107th Street. But despite the dozen miles that separate the neighborhoods from the Loop, make no mistake about this area’s quintessential Chicago character—the area is home to a large population of Irish-American White Sox fans, many officers of the Chicago Police Department, a few city officials, and at least one local news personality. Beverly Hills and Morgan Park are neighborhoods of people that have gotten to know one another through church, or the Arts Center, or late nights at the pub. Indeed, many residents used to describe their part of the neighborhood by the parish to which their family belonged—located at just about every street corner is a century-old cathedral.

These are neighborhoods that people aspire to settle down in—the average shop or restaurant has been in the family for generations, and the owners have likely met each customer’s siblings. With their fair share of urban dining, and all the amenities of the suburbs (think inexpensive flower nurseries, health food shops, undiscovered thrift store-goods), Beverly Hills and Morgan Park are two of the best reasons to take the Red Line all the way down to 95th/Dan Ryan.

best popcorn-focused eatery
Let’s Get Poppin’

In the dog-eat-dog world of gourmet popcorn purveyors, Let’s Get Poppin’ provides some tasty competition for Chicago mainstay Garrett’s. Upon entering the store, one is welcomed by bright, white lighting, a healthy sprinkling of Betty Boop–themed décor, and friendly staff offering large handfuls of freshly popped free samples. Be sure to accept: made-on-site store staples, such as bacon cheddar, jalapeño red pepper, and barbecue, are worth at least a nibble each and are a huge hit with the neighborhood clientele. Ever eager to please their regulars, the owners add two or three new varieties to the menu each year and are known to get festive around the holidays, turning out kernels in red and green. And according to at least one emphatic preschooler petitioning his mother for caramel corn, Let’s Get Poppin’ has also mastered the classics. After making a selection, top off your neon-cheese binge with sweets including Edy’s ice cream, root beer floats, and frozen Icees. Or go for a slice of cake or fudge made by Essie Baltzeigler, the owner’s grandmother. 11758 S. Western Ave. Monday-Friday, 10am-8pm; Saturday, 10am-7pm (Morgan Kripke)

best castle
“Givens Castle”

Recently awarded landmark status by the Chicago Landmarks Commission, the “Givens Castle” is known to some as the Beverly Unitarian Church and to others as a haunted all-girls finishing school, but to all as a romantic nineteenth-century slice of Ireland. Built from 1886-‘87 under the direction of real-estate developer Robert C. Givens, the three-story limestone structure originally held fifteen lavishly furnished rooms, elegant chandeliers, and large stained glass windows. Legend has it that the castle was commissioned by Givens to resemble the home of his fiancée, who was still in Ireland, in order to convince her to come to America and join him in Beverly Hills. Since then, the castle has passed through several hands, gained electricity, and has had some bedrooms converted into Sunday school classrooms. It’s located at the highest elevation point of the twelve-block stretch of mansions down historic Longwood Drive. Whether you’re coming for the architecture, the Unitarian services, or the Monday Buddhist Meditation Group, prepare to spend a few hours dazzled by Chicago’s first, and only, castle. 10244 S. Longwood Drive. (773)233-7080. beverlyunitarian.org/(Kelsey Gee)

best aptly-named burger
Top Notch Beef Burgers

Top Notch is a funny mixture of the 1970s diner it once was and the casual dining chain that later took it over. The décor falls somewhere between eclectic and haphazard (collections of Coca Cola signage and Bob Ross-reminiscent paintings line the walls). The time machine that is the restaurant’s interior draws in a surprisingly rich mix of locals. Your waitress is very likely to be a peppy high school junior, and the customers come from all walks of life: young and old, black and white, families and metropolitans. The varied crowd and extensive menu notwithstanding, I noticed on my way to the restroom (to be avoided at all costs) that every patron, except the vegetarians at my table, had a beef burger on his or her plate. At Top Notch they grind their own beef daily, and peel and cut their own fries. There are also plenty of specialty beef burgers (the Western, topped with bacon, grilled green peppers, and barbecue sauce, is a neighborhood favorite) and an unusually large selection of turkey burgers. For fans of cheap, juicy burgers, fries with some skin on them, and old-fashioned milkshakes, Top Notch Beef Burgers offers an experience that’s hard to find in this town or this decade. Be warned: it closes at 8pm and only accepts cash. 2116 W. 95th St. Monday-Thursday, 8am-8pm. Friday-Saturday, 8am-8:30pm (Daniel Zhong)

best alliterative donut
Dat Donut

For the uninitiated, Dat Donut is famous for serving the “Big Dat,” a yeasty monstrosity the size of your head. At only $2.59 apiece, and weighing in at approximately half a dozen doughnuts’ worth of batter, the glazed behemoth matches the quality of a Krispy Kreme but is less pricey and much more entertaining to eat. While it might seem like such a pastry is meant to be tackled with a fork and pizza cutter, my party had no problem ripping off chunks by hand and dipping them into a French vanilla coffee for unmatched sweet satisfaction. Take note, however, that the joint claims their doughnuts are “Too Good To Dunk,” so your experience may vary. For Chicagoans living closer to 80th than 111th, there’s also a Dat Donut on 83rd and Cottage Grove with an identical menu. Whichever way you want to eat your doughnut, and whichever location you visit, be sure to bring your appetite and some friends, and to avoid your scale the next day. 1979 W. 111th St. Monday-Friday, 5:30am-6pm; Saturday, 6am-5pm (Daniel Zhong)

best dress-up clothes
Beverly Costume and Novelty Shop

“What do you wanna be?” store owner Randy Drevnes asks, expressionless. Beverly Costume and Novelty Shop carries over 100,000 costumes—packed densely throughout two floors—comprising the most fascinating store that you’ll never be allowed to roam. Drevnes, a serious, middle-aged man, owns the store and manages the “accumulation” of costumes. He insists that customers arrive with an idea of what they want so that he may navigate the seas of merchandise himself, as the shop isn’t intended for browsing. Knowledgeable and passionate about garments of all shapes, sizes, and decades, Randy disdains the costume shops that pop up around Halloween and sell cheesy outfits made from “flimsy windbreaker material.” At Beverly Costumes, customers can walk into the shop and pay $35 to rent a complete ensemble, accessories and shoes included. Any costume may be purchased, and wigs, stage make-up, and masks are regularly sold on the cheap (all masks are under $6). The store does most of its business around Halloween, Christmas, and Easter, but the shop enjoys a steady stream of off-season traffic that helps keep it open year-round. 11628 S. Western Ave. beverlyrecords.com/costume.htm (Daniel Zhong)

best legal addictive substance
Jimmy Jamm Sweet Potato Pies Bakery & Cafe

“You guys ever hear of George Washington Carver?” asks Jimmy Jamm’s co-owner, Harold, while passing us generous samples of dairy-free sweet potato ice cream. “Well, I’m the George Washington Carver of sweet potatoes.” In the three years since his father-in-law revealed—on his death bed, no less—the secret family sweet potato pie recipe, Harold and his wife, Jimmy, have opened Jimmy Jamm, a veritable homage to the sweet potato, and have discovered dozens of novel uses for the versatile vegetable. Sweet potato bread, sweet potato French fries, sweet potato muffins, “loaded yams” stuffed with diced meats or mushrooms, and, of course, sweet potato pies; it seems there’s nothing that Harold, Jimmy, and a bit of imagination can’t turn into sweet potato magic. The last addition to the list, chicken and sweet potato waffles, is described as “off the chain,” with big nods of agreement around the room. Behind a tired sous chef hangs a portrait of a familiar figure in a Napoleon-style French military outfit, entitled “Renaissance Obama.” If the seven kinds of sweet potato pie or creamy cheesecake can’t convince you to stop by Jimmy Jamm, or the restaurant’s running list of anecdotal health benefits, the business also caters all kinds of special events. What could be better for your favorite little girl’s birthday than a Barbie doll dressed in a creamy, brown-sugary sweet potato cake? Come for the smooth jazz and free wifi, or for the great company and frequent free goodies, but stay for the home-cooked savory-sweet goodness of the sweet potato. 1844 W. 95th St. Monday-Saturday, 10am-7pm. (773)779-9105 (Kelsey Gee)

The Freddie from Calabria Imports (Claire Hungerford)

Inspired by a recent article in Dining Chicago on the city’s lesser-known signature sandwiches, I set out last week to find and consume three that are native to the South Side: the big baby, the Freddy and the mother-in-law. My expedition very quickly deteriorated into a desperate search, however. I met with caged, closed storefronts, wrong turns, and bad directions. I drove past blocks of boarded buildings, torn signs, and trash, then unexpectedly emerged into neat rows of houses, time-warped out of the ’70s. My physical journey through the South Side landscape to discover the sandwiches illuminated a historic movement of people, cultures, and tastes.

My first success was finding the big baby, a distinctive incarnation of the double cheeseburger. Its birthplace, Nicky’s the Real McCoy, was bright and yellow and red. Devoid of authenticizing pieces of memorabilia, it had the fast-food sterility of McDonald’s, with plastic tables fixed to the ground and brown tile floor. Yet the menu lacked McDonald’s predictability. While families with small children ordered up barbecue, two spindles hung with meat for gyros rotated slowly and beef patties sizzled for the quintessential American double-cheeseburger that would soon melt in my mouth. The big baby was by far the best sandwich I encountered, with its classic combination of juicy beef and onions, American cheese, mustard, and ketchup.

The eponymous founder of Nicky’s, Nick Vaginas, was a Greek man who opened some hot dog and burger stands in the ’60s. Vaginas appropriated the established tools and forms of production in America—hot dog stands, burgers, and buns—and injected Greece into them, in the form of gyros and pita bread. Though Vaginas didn’t stick around (he returned to Greece after only a few years), his sandwich and store remain to preserve his memory.

A similar two-way Americanization characterizes the Freddy, an Italian-style sausage patty on French bread that was conceived in Beverly during the ’70s. After previous failed attempts to lay my hands on this less common sandwich, it was with whoops and smiles that I spotted Calabria Imports on 103rd Street. Nestled in a row of tacky home accessory shops and cafés, the deli had a distinct community feel. Its founder, Benito Russo, is generally recognized as the father of the Freddy, which he named after his son. The sandwich I received was smothered in chunky tomato sauce, wilted green peppers, and mozzarella, offering a pleasing contrast of textures and flavors: the French bread was fluffy, and the sausage surprisingly well-spiced.

The community atmosphere, rather than the sandwich itself, reflected the story of the South Side’s immigrant past. Calabria Imports is a living legacy to the sorts of shops and food markets newly immigrated Italians opened that have, over the years, slowly become completely integrated.

The essential ingredients of the mother-in-law sandwich are chili and a corn-roll tamale on a hot-dog bun. Despite the efforts of Chicago food history buff Peter Engler, who traced the roots of the big baby and the Freddy, the mother-in-law’s origins remain murky. Today it is hard to find anywhere but at hot dog stands on the Southwest Side, which is where I got mine: at Fat Johnnie’s Famous Red Hots in Marquette Park. After ordering at the window of a clapboard-roofed trailer, I returned to the car with my brown bag. Inside was a soggy brown mess; goopy, watery chili threatened to consume the squishy poppy-seed bun. All the textures—the mealy cornmeal, the grainy meat, the soaked bread—combined into an unfortunate mush in my mouth.

Though it was the least appetizing of the three South Side specialties, the mother-in-law has perhaps the most intriguing history. It bears an obvious resemblance to the Coney dog and the Maxwell Street Polish, but its corn-roll tamale is unique to Chicago, differing from both the Mexican version and the spicy variety common to the South. Both are probable influences, however; Engler’s posts about the mother-in-law on Chicago foodie website LTHforum.com even caught the attention of historians documenting the Mississippi Delta’s “Hot Tamale Trail” (tamaletrail.com). The paths of immigration and the Great Migration of Southern blacks during the early twentieth century have crossed in Chicago to create a unique culinary experience.

Nicky’s the Real McCoy, 5801 S. Kedzie Ave. Calabria Imports, 1905 W. 103rd St. Fat Johnnie’s Famous Red Hots, 7242 S. Western Ave.