Creativity, like incense burned to please the Gods, is a holy thing. And it is powerfully churning, just beneath the surface of everything around us, waiting for a fissure (or a faithful messenger) to aid its escape. And it is the story of that energy, which renews itself generation after generation, that quickens my pulse.
I find evidence of this in stoic buildings, and I find evidence in vinyl records: testaments to dreams and beliefs; in identity, in possibility, in power (despite oppression). The buildings root the story in a very concrete place. The records lend to the story a sensation of heart and soul.
Perhaps the story begins at 79th St. and Stony Island Ave. The cantilevered Chicago Skyway rises above, casting a noirish shadow over a bustling six-point intersection.
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