Upon stepping into the exhibit’s space at the back of the gallery, the viewer is at once struck with the skin-crawling beauty of the objects spread throughout the room. Centered on a pedestal in the middle of Marenco’s room is a pretty piece of old metal craft: a small iron resting upright, its petite grip still attached to the body. But the familiar domesticity comes with a dark underside: a litter of metal spikes rise out of its bottom, facing the doorway. This piece, “Homage to Man Ray,” directly recalls the work of the well-known surrealist, who also stuck nails into an old iron and called the new, unusable object “Cadeau” (Gift). Those frightening spikes recur throughout Marenco’s show, throwing off the comfort found in ordinary household articles and inviting dark and disturbing connections.

Deeper into the room, along the dark painted walls and seated on another low pedestal, is an expertly crafted hobbyhorse—or rather, a hobby-bull—titled “The Little Bull for the Baby Pain.” A cute and lovely display of woodwork; but, there again, a host of masochistic spikes jut out from the seat of the plaything. Similar in both prickliness and material, a piece titled “The Last Step,” is fastened onto the dark-blue wall next to the bull. A pleasant match, the inside of this open-faced shoebox is a weathered pair of loafers turned toes-to-the-ground, their insides filled to the brim with the spiny “gumballs” of sweet gum-trees. Perhaps the most discomforting intervened item, though, is “Toothbrush,” a smooth white wooden brush with teeth growing out from where the bristles should be.

Marenco constantly plays with the tension between daily comforts and the uncanny nastiness they obscure. There’s an undeniable, creepy comedy to all of it. In this exhibit, he riffs on puns at one moment (“Toothbrush,” for instance), and revels in absurdity the next, as in “Hairball Machine,” a rusted gumball machine filled with tangles of the artist’s girlfriend’s actual hair). The viewer’s gut reaction to all of these surreal pairings is a combination of a scoff and shudder. But under the surface of these works, which evoke art movements of years past, is also a distinct, personal experience—a story of the artist himself.

Marenco manipulates many childhood staples in “Objetos Intervenidos,” but the ones central to the artist’s own memory seem to be placed in the limelight. “Slingshot for an Altarboy,” for example, transforms a rosary into a slingshot with a leather-strap and a T-bone handle. Next to it hangs “The Voice of Silence,” a corroded tin lid with the silhouette of the Virgin Mary in its center, recalling traditional portraiture in a striking, almost perverse way. Both works reinforce an understanding of the artist’s childhood under Mexican Catholicism, but “Objetos Intervenidos” unfolds for the viewers, allowing them to dredge out buried thoughts. These items of mixed-together elements and odd material house the pains of childhood, both personal and universal, well addressed or still unresolved. With some strange pleasure, they at last pull back the veil on absurd connections that sprout up there. Or so said the umbrella to the ironing board.

33 Contemporary at Zhou B. Art Center, 1029 W. 35th St. Through February 11. Monday-Thursday, 10am-5pm; Friday, 10am-7pm; also by appointment. Free. (708)837-4534. 33collective.com

Traditionally the music of the Colombian peasantry with a distinctive Afro-Caribbean beat, cumbia has begun to incorporate other music genres, from reggaeton to house as it modernizes. As cumbia evolves, so does its fan base: no longer only a favorite of Latinos and Latin-music enthusiasts, cumbia is drawing in young Chicagoans looking for something to dance to. One of the genre’s virtues is its ability to retain and expand its appeal, incorporating the sounds of the people and places it comes into contact with.

A style less renowned than salsa or bachata—at least in Chicago—cumbia is rarely played in these parts. To make up for this shortage of that signature shuffle, the People’s DJs Collective holds monthly cumbia nights where the lively and danceable music is given its due. When they first started playing, they showcased Maracuyeah, an all-female DJ group from Washington, DC. Maracuyeah’s name is a play on the Spanish word for passion fruit, maracuyá, and denotes how they, like the People’s DJs Collective, are interested in injecting Latin music with the sounds of hip-hop and dubstep.

Earlier in the night, familiar salsa and meringue beats reverberated: a more folksy style of cumbia issued from the turntables, with fewer of the touches that give cumbia its contemporary, poppy flavor. Later in the night NuCumbia came on, a subgenre that infuses elements of hip-hop and house. The DJs played some tried and true remixes, like Juanes’s “La Camisa Negra,” and some pleasant surprises, like a mashup of the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go.”

The People’s DJ Collective got their start playing fundraisers for non-profits. Their promise to serve the community through the fusion music they play remains evident today in their decision to hold cumbia night at Zhou B. While the swank art gallery is not exactly of the masses as cumbia professes to be, Itzi-Nallah says that Zhou B’s location in Bridgeport helps to attract a local crowd—one of the Collective’s primary objectives. “Many times the Latin community has to go north or to expensive places to hear nice music, or just a generic Latin night. A lot of our people don’t want to go to Wicker Park.”

The dancers on the floor included Latinos living on the South Side and young adults with a taste for cumbia’s syncretic sound. There were a few members of the crowd engaging in the kind of sexy shimmying that Shakira removed her bottom rib to do, but most of the attendees seemed relaxed and insouciant, practitioners of a more homegrown groove. Another DJ summed it up nicely later that night: “It’s a traditional kind of music, but anyone can dance to it.”

Rebecca Stoner

[Show as slideshow]

“Did you bring anything to read?” author Brendan Detzner asked as guests walk into Bad Grammar Theater, which also happens to be his home. Detzner and fellow author Mike Penkas were standing behind a table where their books and T-shirts are displayed for sale. Behind them was an unmade futon with a partially eaten pepperoni pizza nearby, and Macbook Air perched on a desk.

Bad Grammar hosts the only reading series that is part of Second Fridays in Pilsen. But the DIY appeal of Bad Grammar sets it apart from the chic vintage stores and funky, polished galleries that participate in the monthly art crawl. Detzner welcomes strangers into the top floor of his home, encouraging them to add their own stories to the evening’s program. Stories are read every half hour. They usually last 15-20 minutes, and then the audience disperses to chat. People tend to stay for a few stories, and then wander out for snacks or to visit other Second Fridays events. Many return later to hear more.

Bad Grammar does not require its authors to bring in fully polished finished products, so it’s easy for newcomers to walk right in. The work presented is far from amateurish, but the best way to describe the reading group is rough around the edges: they haven’t quite yet mastered the Chicago literary scene, but that doesn’t mean they don’t show promise.

As Penkas introduced the first story, he peered at the audience and asked, “How many of you are new here tonight?” Several of the guests seated in mismatched chairs around him raise their hands. “Shoot,” he said, and joked, “If I’d known, I would have just read some of my old stuff.” Although popular belief indicates that readings tailor the intellectual elite, the atmosphere in Detzner’s home was comfortable and inviting, a stage where storytelling is the focus and elaborate pomp is unnecessary.

Detzner got the idea for the monthly series after meeting talented Chicago authors through reading events at the former Edgewater bookstore Kate the Great’s. When a few of his favorite readings shut down earlier this year, Detzner decided, “It’s my turn to hold the football.”

Since many established readings are held in the Lincoln Park area, Detzner liked the idea of having an authors’ hub south of Roosevelt. He found this angular duplex in Pilsen, in the heart of the Chicago Arts District, and thought, “Hey, maybe some people will want to stop in and hear a story.” The location has a few distinct advantages, he says. “Most events have to persuade people to leave their homes and come across town. All we have to do is entice some of the hundreds of people who’ve already decided to come out to Second Fridays to walk fifteen feet.”

Detzner hopes the event will improve the visibility of local authors. He feels that he and many of the readers at Bad Grammar have been “screwed over by small presses,” who are quick to reject work from fledgling writers and provide little support to help promote and distribute their work. Having written two novels, Detzner says he wouldn’t mind selling some copies through the readings.

But Bad Grammar is about more than selling books. Detzner sees the value in reading before an audience, and believes it can actually improve the quality of the writing. He claims that reading his own work “makes me raise my standards when I’m writing,” and appreciates feedback from “people who don’t have any particular expectations or theory, and just know if they like what they heard or not.” He wants to extend the opportunity for this kind of productive criticism to other writers, in part because he thinks it can “provide a good incentive to not be self-indulgent or boring.”

The subject matter of the stories to follow ranged from zombies to the guilt faced by a drug dealer who believes he killed Kurt Cobain. Many of the pieces were humorous, shading into the realm of the absurd. The first story, for instance, featured a misanthropic nursing home attendant who described a knife fight between two residents as an impromptu production of West Side Story.

That night, the sparse turnout required Detzner to shoulder the responsibility of most of the reading. Penkas contributed one story, and an audience member named Brandon Sichling read his poem called, “Let’s Hear it For Menstruation.” Detzner seemed surprised by the low attendance. “I don’t know what’s up with tonight,” he said, “I’ve had like five readers before.”

Like many of the stories presented at the reading, Bad Grammar is still in development. Detzner hopes to attract more authors and a larger crowd, and to establish a warmer, more inviting atmosphere. Despite the Facebook event’s assertion that this is an event for both established and emerging authors, it seems that Detzner and his friends are still trying to establish their own niche in Chicago’s literary world. It’s a hard scene to break into, but it is, fortunately, willing to embrace authors who lack the benefit of a big name. Detzner admits that many of them are “still trying to make it work.” Bad Grammar’s a good start.

Bad Grammar Theater. 1743 S. Halsted St. Every second Friday of the month, 6-10pm.

courtesy of ACRE

“These two are my favorite,” artist Courtney Weber says, pointing to the back right corner of the small room at ACRE Projects. “I started drawing the pattern for this one at the Residency and to me the symmetry and colors are really beautiful.”

The piece in question is untitled, as are all of the pieces in her exhibit “Other Flowers.” It is simply distinguished by its dimensions, 22-by-30 inches. This particular “Untitled” is by far the most detailed piece in the gallery, with dark floss outlining the four corners of the paper, coming together to form a cross at the center of the diamond-shaped body. The patterns filling in the paper are formed by a series of stitches resembling the letter x, laid next to each other until the individual stitches disappear into the larger image.

The second of Weber’s favorites is aptly described by a fellow observer as a sunset when viewed from the right and a mushroom when viewed from the left. The 18-by-24-inch piece is the only asymmetrical embroidery floss-on-paper piece in the collection and stands out like the only light haired child in a family of brunettes. In a room full of cross-stitch patterns that could have been made centuries before this piece, its unrefined yet striking appearance is distinct to both the pastiche and the artist.

Weber originally intended “Other Flowers” to be comprised entirely of embroidered cross-stitch patterns on paper. The embroidery is made not with the thin string typically used for sewing but rather with “floss”—the material commonly used by children to make multicolored friendship bracelets. The display of seven untitled floss-and-paper pieces is seemingly interrupted by three jars filled with rusty nails resting on a shelf on the back left wall, and a row of nine groups of thread of varying colors on the right wall. On this Sunday afternoon, Weber’s cheetah print loafers clink on the un-buffed wooden floors as she walks toward the jars. After taking a sip of her Pabst, Weber points to the jars and explains their liquid contents: iron liquor (a substance formed from the reaction between the nails), vinegar, and water. She used the amber liquid along with plant dyes to color her embroidery floss at the ACRE Residency in rural Wisconsin, where she made most of the art.

Weber walks in front of a row of brass hooks, each holding a bundle of thread. From each bundle hangs a manila tab, the name of the plant responsible for its color written in felt marker. The labels range from “untreated,” dangling on white thread, to “Black Eyed Susan,” delineating a darker sand-colored bundle.

When observed and appreciated at length, the jars, embroidery samples, and hanging bundles of thread come together to form a coherent whole. The objects that upon first glance seem anomalous are in fact at the heart of the exhibit. The rest of the works fall somewhere between the mesmerizing symmetry of the 22-by-30-inch piece and the daring otherness of the 18-by-24-inch floss-on-paper sample.

The venue fits well with the artist’s self-proclaimed theme of “place”—ACRE Projects comes across more as a home with artwork on the walls than a gallery hosting an exhibit. A white, orange, and black cat strolls across the floor among the gallerygoers and takes its place in the windowsill. One of the attendees wearing an unofficial uniform of chunky knits and jeans carries the tabby out of sight to a back room. As a group of fellow artist huddle in a corner, wine and beer in hand, laughter fills the tiny room.

It is easy to imagine that, rather than an exhibit opening, people are gathered for a house warming party. The homey approach is only appropriate, since the goal of the exhibit is to show a “connection to place and history faded by time and memory.” Yet while the sound of the attendees’ laughter fades, Weber’s iron liquor and plant dyes leave permanent stains.

ACRE, 1913 W. 17th St. Through Friday, January 21. Hours by appointment. Acreresidency.org

The concept behind “Head” has been incubating for quite awhile, Hopkins says. Hopkin’s original inspiration for the collection of head studies is an incomplete sculpture of Jeffrey Grauel, a friend and longtime collaborator whose capacity at Slow is listed as “Handyman/Silent Partner/General Antagonist.” The decade-old red clay bust of Grauel, which Hopkin digs out of plastic wrapping and hefts in his right hand as he speaks, was originally intended for use as a slip mold, from which he planned to cast a porcelain nightlight as a reinterpretation of Brancusi’s “Sleeping Muse.” But life interrupts even the best-sculpted plans, and the head was never quite finished. Hopkin describes with a rueful laugh how the specter of neglect has kept him tethered to the clay’s upkeep; he says he’s doted on the head too long to stop looking after it now.

In keeping with the dynamic between sculpture and sculptor, the show’s head studies examine the fuzzy divide between what is finished and what is under construction. The collaborative nature of the show unify the installations: Davis and Holmquist repeatedly exchanged and modified each other’s pieces, and the senior Bellas contributed to his young son’s work. The art on display covered a vast range of materials—foam core, Cheetos, scrap metal, plastic grapes, decoupage, and digital vide—and subject matter, including the late-night TV show “Dharma and Greg,” the human profile, an apparent variation on Viking armor, and of course, no shortage of one- and two-term presidents. The variety made for a climate not of informality, but rather of relaxed inclusion and an endorsement of experimentation.

Hopkin’s enthusiasm for piquant, provocative art is contagious. Davis, Holmquist, and Homer are eager to describe the unorthodox art practices that brought their work to Head. After Homer sold a few of his portraits, he approached Hopkin about featuring the work at Slow. The accretive process that produced the Davis and Holmquist pieces was no less informal; both artists attest to the played-by-ear quality of their contributions.

Conventions of formal presentation are shunned at Slow, where multimedia refers not merely to a hodgepodge of artistic disciplines, but a diffuse variety of physical materials, edible and non-edible.  For Hopkin, the show “asks questions about what is okay and what is not okay” to present to a critical and consumer audience. When prodded for a specific definition of what is presentable, what qualifies work for display, Holmquist notes that, “A way to know when a piece done is when…there’s a nice scale of elements, a range of textures, maybe the colors are buzzing off each other, or it makes you laugh, or maybe provides a counterbalance to what came before it.” But unlike a pot roast or a pancake, when—and whether—a piece is done is entirely subjective and, given Holmquist’s criteria, difficult to characterize.

Rather than answering the question proposed by Hopkin about what is acceptable and meaningful art, the heads on display at Slow are more aptly described as revelations of process. If Head has one virtue, it is its ability to draw attention explicitly to the singular processes of its contributors.

Presenters came from as far away as Honduras and Puerto Rico to discuss their ideas on social justice in the classroom. The result: a science fair of sorts, complete with tripartite display boards and hands-on activities. Tables lined the main hallway, proudly showcasing colorful displays, including an array of drums to use in an Origins of Music lesson, anti-violence textbooks, and a poster detailing “the ritual of transformative recycling.” Presenters called out to passersby, eager to explain their offerings. Conversations were loud, impassioned, and optimistic— the entire fair hummed with ideas.

On the second floor, small group workshops brought together teachers and activists to discuss topics such as social justice oriented math curricula and the state of public education in Cuba. “[Teachers] are forming human beings in the classroom…we are defending our students, our sons and daughters,” said Mercedes Martinez, a teacher and activist visiting from Puerto Rico.

The curriculum fair, as well as the formation of its umbrella organization TSJ, was motivated by the desire for a community of educators. TSJ member and organizer Aisha El-Amin is a former fourth-grade teacher and now works in adult education and teacher training. “Teachers really need a space where they can collaborate,” she said. “At times, it’s isolating to teach toward social justice.”

Keynote speaker Jitu Brown, an organizer for the Kenwood Oakland Community Organization, echoed El-Amin’s sentiments in his address, saying, “It’s hard to find real allies in this work.” But Brown shared the hopeful energy of the fair’s attendees.  “I love being underestimated,” he said with a smile.

Courtesy of Plant Chicago/flickr

“I still get really excited about Zelda,” Chris Tourre says, not hesitating to respond when asked if there are any recently released video games he’s jonesing for. In a gray hoodie, sneakers, and thick, black-rimmed glasses, he is at once cute and nerdy, like overgrown kids always are. After all, he co-founded a company based on what he calls the “untapped marriage of video games and beer.” This seemingly juvenile obsession with beer is misleading, though, because Tourre is into good beer, really good beer. He and his business partner Lance Curran are the two guys behind Arcade Brewery.

Surprising ideas come from surprising places: an experiment with poultry was Tourre’s inspiration for the project. For his MFA thesis from the University of Illinois at Chicago, Tourre raised a flock of chickens and delivered the eggs across Pilsen. Traveling around the neighborhood, he realized he could bring together the South Side’s bourgeoning culinary scene and its blue-collar population to create a unique, community-oriented product.

Soon after the egg delivery experiment, Tourre started holding brewing workshops and participating in local beer conventions. Sparked by his love of the brew, the part-time artist began concocting his own beer at home before taking his craft public.

Although the word “artisanal” never came up in conversation, Tourre is obviously a craftsman. His recipes are playful and seasonal—take, for example, the Arcade Grapefruit IPA, a golden hoppy concoction with a quirky grapefruit kick. The brewers are also open to customers’ input on what ingredients to use. “From conception to consumption,” Tourre says, “our customers will have a stake of what goes in the bottle.” After the 8-Bit Series, Arcade’s first line of beer, the brewery will release Six Pack Stories, a line that aims to blur the boundary between maker and taster.

Each bottle will have a custom-drawn comic frame, and Tourre hopes to get one artist for each series, who will be chosen by popular vote on Facebook or Twitter. Graphic illustrator Tony Moore—more famously known as the illustrator of the comic book series, The Walking Dead—is the first artist signed on to illustrate what Arcade hopes will be a dynamic, custom label, rather than a typical company masthead.

Arcade has located a physical space for their project—they are the latest planned addition to the Plant, an abandoned warehouse in Back of the Yards that is in the process of becoming the city’s first self-sustainable vertical farm. They will share the 16,800 square-foot first floor space of the Plant with another brewery, the New Chicago Beer Company. Both companies intend to use the space for brewing, bottling, and kegging, and—if things go according to plan—they will eventually be joined by a beer garden. As of now, however, the first floor feels like it belongs in an episode of Ghost Adventures, not in someone’s memories of a half-drunk night in Back of the Yards. Construction won’t begin for another five weeks, but once work on the space begins things will have to move quickly—both breweries want to be up and running by March of next year.

Like many fine alcohols, time is what the Plant needs: time for construction, and time for a $2.1 million anaerobic digester (a fancy power generator) to come through the mail. In the meantime, both Tourre and Curran are keeping busy. Curran is working full-time at Threadless, and, in anticipation of Arcade’s grand opening, Tourre has managed to get ahold of a Winnitron 1000—an old-school arcade console that he and Curran plan to deck out in Arcade “schwag.” The Arcade aesthetic is slowly coming together, but Tourre and Curran don’t plan on becoming beer snobs anytime soon.   “I’m not a style Nazi,” Tourre says. “I just like to make fun beers that are enjoyable.”

Courtesy of Clinard Dance Studio

Wendy Clinard’s passion for dance began with a few failed sketches of a flamenco class. “I couldn’t capture the energy of what I was feeling and seeing on the page,” she explains. “Everything that I came away with paled in contrast to what I felt and saw.” Driven by artistic curiosity, she decided to try the dance herself. Clinard immediately encountered the emotion inherent in the dance—the passion and vivacity that fill every movement. This is what she couldn’t capture in painting; this is what draws the audience in.

Clinard was hooked. She trained as a professional flamenco dancer, drawing inspiration from her familiarity with the lines of the human body from years of painting. She now runs the Clinard Dance Theatre in Pilsen, which is home to a professional performance company and provides lessons for all levels of dancers.

During Second Fridays in Pilsen, Clinard hosts an open performance in her studio where her students can show off what they’ve learned. As Clinard explained at the beginning of the most recent Second Friday show, “To be witnessed is really important as a performer.” That night, the crowd squeezed in around the edges of the hardwood stage, tangling feet and chairs.

The intimacy of her studio created an experience reminiscent of the tablaos where flamenco is performed in Spain. Since space is so tight in the tablaos, a sense of closeness develops between the performers and the audience, which encourages the viewers to participate in the show. “Flamenco was born in the tradition of a community-minded art form,” Clinard says.

On that evening, the performers covered a wide range of ages and abilities. Clinard’s classes often bring dancers of different levels into the studio at once, as more advanced dancers perfect the fundamentals that beginners are still just learning. Clinard joked to the audience that age is “no trouble” for a flamenco dancer. She believes that the dance is accessible to anyone. “Flamenco is a type of art form that accepts your individuality and embraces it,” she later remarked.

Affirming that flamenco has no age limits, the first performance on Friday featured two members of the youngest flamenco class, girls who barely reached their teacher’s waist. As their lanky, awkward bodies tried to imitate the sophisticated fluidity of their teacher’s movement, their faces showed an expression of concentration as intense as any that evening.

In the performances that followed—one by the class of older dancers and another by Clinard herself—the emotional intensity reached new heights. Energy coursed through the dancers and was reflected in the musicians and singer. The musicians, a group called Las Guitarras de España, began each piece by slowly strumming the first chords on their guitars. Singer Patty Ortega joined in soon thereafter with her powerful alto. The dancers were called forth, with stomping feet and proud, upright postures.

The dancers moved with intention, slowly drawing out the movements of their arms and then rapidly snapping their heels and toes about the floor. “They say that the pantheon of the human experience is captured through these forms,” says Clinard.

The final piece of the night was entitled “Fin de Fiesta.” The fiesta atmosphere culminated as crowd members joined in the tradition of jaleo—“shouts of encouragement or confirmation of what you see,” Clinard clarified. The dancers and musicians had called out shouts of “¡olé!” all night, and in the final dance, the audience began to participate in the exchange as well. As the reveling heightened, the viewers were drawn deeper into the heart of the flamenco performance. After witnessing such a scene, it is clear why Clinard was unable to represent the dance in static, two-dimensional art.

Clinard Dance Theatre, 1747 S. Halsted Ave. (312)399-1984 clinardance.org

Elizabeth Bynum

Last Sunday, the auditorium of the National Museum of Mexican Art was filled to capacity, with young families and older couples chattering eagerly before the the Mexican Folkloric Dance Company of Chicago’s performance of Tardeada del Corazón. Stepping onstage, director of the company José Ovalle asked if anyone in the audience did not understand Spanish. After only two hands were raised, Ovalle proceeded in his native tongue, “Mexico is exactly at the center of the world,” he said, though he was talking about more than geography. For the dance company, Mexico is a prototype of cultural mixing—a place enriched with a panoply of people, customs, and histories. This diversity is best seen, they believe, through the country’s folkloric dancing, which is cultivated on la rancha, in community spaces, and in the home.

To resounding applause, the music swelled, and seven dancing couples emerged on stage. The women were outfitted in vibrant reds and greens, with skirts that billowed wildly as they flitted around their white-clad partners. Clearly recognizing the dances, the crowd joined in the performance from their seats, clapping along and raising their voices for the more exciting moments. Audience member Madison Barragan, age 13, noted, “This is the type of dance I am learning to do.”

The performance encompassed styles from various regions of Mexico, showcasing the jarocho and the characteristic Guerrero chilenas. Most of the dances were narrative in structure, detailing romantic conflicts, a rowdy bullfight, or the struggle of the Mexican Revolution. Still, crowd favorites were the numbers featuring the company’s youngest dancers—elementary school children who moved nervously about the stage. Ovalle’s commentary between dances called on viewers to recall the past that these dances record, as well as their continued importance. He called upon the audience to “teach these dances to your children” for the sake of imparting an important part of their heritage, no matter how many miles away they might be from its roots.

Though the message of the afternoon was one of Mexican cultural memory, the stories and the dances carried something more universal. With discernible European musical influences, a fusion of African rhythms, and broad, relatable narratives, the dances communicated a history that anyone could engage with. Fortunately for all of us, the company, which is made up entirely of volunteer dancers, performs regularly in the area, bringing Mexico much closer to the South Side.

Zeynep Yavuz

Christian Saucedo bikes around Chicago, through residential neighborhoods and industrial overpasses. Equipped with masking tape and an eye for surfaces, he placates the police officers that question his motives. His canvasses are ceilings, floors, and walls; his tools are tape and a command of perspective.

Saucedo, a visual artist from Mexico, is the current artist-in-residence at the Chicago Art Department. Finding suitable sites and architectural spaces for his work requires days, but the planning that goes into each project takes even longer. He plots and sketches directly on the surfaces, abstaining from using a projector. About four days and roughly 500 meters of tape later, his work on each piece is done. And after three months, the project, “ESQUINAS,” is complete.

His exhibit presents photographs of the optical illusions he has constructed across Chicago’s urban landscape. The photographs were taken in apartment basements and under bridges. Each location is represented by four small pictures taken from four different angles. The images show strips of tape covering different surfaces, but a larger fifth picture offers a perspective that creates the illusion of a unified two dimensional shape.

In a room full of photographs, a single installation is on display—a giant oblong form that curves from the floor up across various surfaces in the room. What appears to be a mishap of disconnected lines taped on walls and floors from one angle looks like a perfect two-dimensional circle from another. The work “deals with human perception,” Saucedo says, noting that his works are entirely dependent on the observer’s movement and the various perspectives from which they view the piece.

Zeynep Yavuz

Walking around the gallery, Saucedo sports a blazer, jeans, and Chuck Taylors. His little son runs around the room, and flowers are passed out as Latin music plays in the background. The gallery space is equally endearing—the warmly tinted walls, yellowish lighting, and open spaces let the viewer indulge in perspective play. Circulating, crouching, and craning are strongly encouraged.

Photographs offer an imperfect means of displaying Saucedo’s public art installations. Photography limits the viewer to the perspective of the lens, presenting a scene from one angle at a time. However, the photographs from multiple viewpoints help to reveal Saucedo’s mastery of perspective.

With his tape works and photography, Saucedo complicates the standard vision of a place and makes the passerby pay closer attention. “Simple intervention in a place you see everyday” says Nat Soti, one of the co-founders of the Chicago Art Department, “makes you notice your environment,” However, Saucedo’s art does not fit the description of “simple intervention.” Both the artist and the viewer must actively search for the right spot.

Chicago Art Department, 1932 S. Halsted St., Suite 100. (312)725-4223. chicagoartdepartment.org