Art reaches out.

Over the weekend, I volunteered in Chicago Artists Month at an open studios event. I spent the afternoon in Garfield Park with Jason Meyer, an artist and furniture maker who happens to be my boyfriend. My job was simple: answer questions for him when he was occupied and play Scrabble with him when he was not.

An open studios event is unique because visitors can meet the artists and see their work where it’s created. From dirty microwaves to chipped coffee cups, inspirational clippings to dust-covered houseplants, it's an invitation to an artist's intimate life.

While most other participants displayed paintings, drawings and installations, Jason showed small prints and large furniture pieces that he designed and built by hand. The latter included selections from his line of tasting tables made with recycled wine box panels and a more recently completed custom shelving unit that boasted rusted steel and locally harvested elm. His space stood out a bit, probably on account of being applied art, and we initially wondered if people would want to see furniture at an art show.

Well, we were surprised by the volume of visitors. He was oohed and ahhed over and engaged in conversation by folks from every walk in life. In fact, I found that to be the most intriguing aspect. As a participant (of sorts) in this event, I didn't spend much time seeing other artists' work. Instead, I came away impressed by people motivated to come to a distant, unsafe neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon to spend time in an artist’s workshop.

Some of our attendees had interests that one might expect. There were existing clients — those who have commissioned work in the past and wanted to see where the artist spends his time. There were those looking to buy artwork, seeking to understand the thinking behind each piece while considering whether or not it matched the couch. Some were artists themselves and came to be inspired, make contacts or learn new techniques. We met a painter who took some turns on the Scrabble board.

The most interesting visitors to me were the ones that came without any particular reason.

An enthusiastic older woman came with her grandson. She chatted for 20 or 30 minutes before sending him to the car for a photo of her coffee table. She liked glass and wood and just had to show us her prized possessions. She even returned later in the day just to converse with Jason a bit longer.

One gregarious visitor, while taking part in the refreshments, engaged Jason's shop-mate about handmade tools, discussed the details of his mid-life crisis with us, and when he had enough wine, became slightly amorous. Overall, he was good-hearted and seemed rather enchanted by craftsmanship.

A mentally challenged man who lived in the neighborhood wandered in and seemed rather awe-stricken. He asked many questions and I watched with a smile on my face as Jason answered them, treating him with the same respect as wealthy patrons.

Lastly, there were many people that came and although they seemed to like the work, were behooved to offer their own brand of advice, even if it was unfounded.

"You know, these are great. You should make a dresser out of these. People like dressers."   

Or, "You ought to move to France and sell these! You'd make a killing in France."

At the end of the evening, Jason sold 12 prints, spoke to 50 or 60 people, burned through business cards and promised to call the enthusiastic grandmother. Our visitors, as varied as they were, had one thing in common: the desire to identify the artist. From the talkative to the awkward to the adversarial, they all respected the work in their own way and wished to feel connected to it. Because of this, both of us were filled with a renewed sense of humanity. There was a time in the history books when art was kept for the affluent. But today, art is for everyone. Because of that, we never finished our Scrabble game. — Aggie, Designer