When it was announced the Art Institute of Chicago was reopening I swore I wouldn’t go. Museums are severely restricted places in the best of times. Would there be anything left to enjoy while masked, distanced, and subject to mandatory directional signage? Can art, which can give a window to the infinite, be appreciated despite the new and necessary scrims and barriers? Yet, when my old college friend Frank asked if I wanted to go, I was among the first in line outside the entrance to the Modern Wing a few minutes before noon on Thursday, July 30, waiting for the doors to open.
New signs were all over. Arrows, Xs, squares, and circles form a now-familiar Hobo Alphabet to everyone living through this plague time. The museum’s floors and doors bore the telltale markings. Movements through rooms I know by heart are now micromanaged and regulated. Strolling through the Old Masters galleries we encountered a guard who pointed out an X on the floor and told us to turn around. Not being able to choose one’s path is a sure sign of a drastic realignment.
