M AY H A P S magazine
No. 1 Winter 2017
Issue No. 1 Winter, 2017 Editors
Sebastian Beaghen - Lourdes Contreras Luke Cimarusti Compiled with love from Philadelphia, Chicago, and Seattle.
What’s Inside Style Trends for 2017 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Editors and others share their picks on what to watch for
Chicago’s Iconic Supper Clubs . . . . . . . . . . . . Lourdes Contreras tells her family’s story about two bygone institutions
Photo Essay: Finally, At Home in Chicago . . . . . .
Sebastian Beaghen shares the pictures that made him realize he found home
A Meditation on Seattle Parks . . . . . . . . . . . . Luke Cimarusti soothes his college nerves by exploring his new city’s parks
and interspersed submitted works by Catherine Cho Max Gugel-Dawson Antoni Gierczak Sydney Jackson Katie Moynihan Katherine Sang Cole Sheridan Mae Vitali cover photo by Jason Tangson. Jason is hosting an exhibition on the Philadelphia School of Architecture in March at the U. of Penn.
facebook: Mayhaps Magazine instagram: @mayhapsmag submit at: email@example.com
â€œThere is no such thing as a single-issue struggle because we do not live single-issue lives.â€? -Audre Lorde, 1982
January 21, 2017: Chicago Womenâ€™s March, photographed by Katie Moynihan
Trends for 2017...
Mayhaps Magazine style editor Lourdes Contreras likes to imagine she is Meryl Streep in â€œThe Devil Wears Prada.â€? Here are her picks for style in the upcoming year. 2016 without a doubt was the year of neutral tones. Beiges, sands, and latte colored pieces populated the runway, but the color we saw sprout within the last month was pink. Whether there is some other significance for the color or not, weâ€™ve seen the popularity of pink rise within high fashion. Already seen on Bottega Veneta and Valentino runways, calm shades of pink are taking the fashion world by storm. Seeing as the many Instagram accounts that lead the popular fashion sphere have already started featuring statement earrings as the focal point of the images they post, we can only see statement earrings become much more popular this year. Although statement earrings have been a long lasting trend, we are seeing more abstract metal earrings as a trend for 2017. More up and coming jewelry designers are getting attention through instagram accounts, most of which make jewelry that is particularly eccentric. Some resemble Alexander Calder mobiles, others are shaped into hands and faces; while quite simple, they are still very bold and conceptual. Perhaps a trend that many have been onto for years, raw speckled linen will (hopefully) replace the leathers of 2016. We see speckled cotton and grainy linen as a fabric that can gain popularity within certain corners of social media more than others. Regardless, a chicer fabric that can be seen more in the spring and summer seasons, linen is light, fresh and quite flexible when it comes to dressing up or down. Whether it is cream linen pants paired with a simple cotton shirt or grainy linen shorts paired with eclectic accessories, we see linen expanding from vintage resale shops to perhaps your favorite boutique in the city.
illustrations by Sebastian Beaghen
Music Check-In: Caribbean Artists This January, Mayhaps spoke to high school senior and Chicago Rasta Radio DJ Sydney Jackson about her taste in music. “There’s far more to music from the Caribbean than Bob Marley,” said Jackson, 18. “It’s time mainstream culture learned more about the music.” Here are Jackson’s top artist picks for young people looking to crack open the genres of the region: -Beres Hammond -Stephen Marley -Morgan Heritage -Lee Scratch Perry -Alison Hinds -Buju Banton -Tarrus Riley -Machel Montano -Barrington Levy -Chronixx -Luciano
Inside Chicago’s Iconic Supper Clubs by Lourdes Contreras
When I was about 15, my dad drove me and my mom to a restaurant near a donut shop and a home design showroom in the shadows of the Merchandise Mart. My mom had not been on that street in years, despite spending so much time there when she was younger and dating my dad. The restaurant is now called Gilt Bar, but when my dad first worked there it was George’s.
because he would close up the restaurant and drive off with my mom in his red motorcycle.
My dad has always been quite casual about how he talks about meeting jazz musicians. He used to retell stories of meeting Ahmad Jamal and Ramsey Lewis several times throughout the time he worked at George’s, many musicians knew my dad as simply Àngel , since they would have My dad has always talked about performances there constantly and working in restaurants since I my dad worked most days when was little- he’s worked in the food there were performances. The business his whole life. Often he most charming part of his storywould just recall experiences when telling is how he describes the amhe felt nostalgic hearing certain biance of the supper club. The way songs or when we would drive my dad describes George’s, makes past particular places in Chicago. it seem like the type of scene you However, when he would mention would see in a film about a Jazz his experience working at George’s musician finding fame in Chicago. and other restaurants owned by Ultimately, the supper club served George Badonsky, he would talk one purpose above all: to enterabout it in a very memorable and tain. Sure, my dad describes the almost cinematic way. My mom food to have been delightful but always chimes in and mentions the people came to the restaurant pritimes she used to go to George’s marily to enjoy each other’s comand sit at the table near the kitchen pany in the presence of jazz stars door waiting for my dad’s shift to while having a unique meal; the end. She mentions listening to ambiance of supper clubs seems music and having a drink with incomparable to any jazz restaucoffee beans in it. She tries to rant in Chicago today. figure out the name of the drink and then digresses to talk about how cool my dad thought he was
George’s had a particular northern Italian cuisine that guests enjoyed while hearing rhythm and blues singers Bill Withers and Chicago soul icon Jerry Butler. The lighting, the aura, and the music made the restaurant one of a kind, and quite reflective of a uniquely Chicagoan Jazz supper club culture. George Badonsky was the owner of George’s along with some of the most iconic Chicagoan restaurants of its time. What made Badonsky particularly relevant in the supper clubs scene was his roots in music. In the 60s he worked with Prestige Records, most notably known for John Coltrane and Miles Davis. In the late 60s he was the sales manager for the Jazz catalog of Atlantic records. After a fast moving change in the music industry, Badonsky had to abstract himself which lead to his innovative openings of restaurants in Chicago. Later, in 1984, Badonsky opened Maxims, a replica of the legendary Parisian restaurant, only his copy was designed by famed Chicago architect Bertrand Goldberg. In the 70s it was a place for Chicago’s social elite. The decadent interior of the restaurant contained a beautiful grand piano beneath a spiral staircase entryway. My dad was the event manager when Badonsky owned it, for most of
the time Badonsky managed the restaurant it was only used for private events. 1300 N. Astor St. still remains as glamourous as it ever was - but not open to the public. According to certain sources, there is a projected reopening of the restaurant by the same restaurateur who owns Gilt Bar. Although the idea of a possible reopening of Maxims feels exciting, and even though George’s, now Gilt Bar, is still decorated the same as it was in the 80s when my dad worked there, same red velvet, romantic lighting, the supper club aura is missing. Perhaps the era of Chicago supper clubs is gone and was just exclusive to its moment in time. George’s and Maxims both carried with them a concept far beyond a dining experience. These restaurants carried an unreplicable aura and dynamic that was perfectly orchestrated to create an experience as iconic as its jazz performers. following pages: The mansions of Astor Street, in Chicago’s Gold Coast, remain as lovely as they were when Maxims was in its heyday. Bertrand Goldberg’s modernist apartment building at 1300 N. Astor looks over this romantic neighborhood. Photos by author, taken in the fall of 2016.
Finally, At Home In Chicago. by Sebastian Beaghen
This Christmas was my first time ever “going home for the holidays” and followed the longest period I’d ever been away from home- 3 months. I had spent the semester romanticizing the prospect of going home to Chicago. The gray vastness of the wintry city filled my imagination as I spent my real days walking around the temperate, tiny red-brick streets of Philadelphia. I pictured riding the Green Line through the remarkable clarity of a sunny south side morning; the twilight on State Street in January during a snow flurry; the frozen lake an icy blue at the Belmont Harbor. The bookstores, the restaurants, the prewar apartment buildings that stretch up Lake Shore Drive for some 15 miles - and all with my friends, and my family. I know it sounds corny, but the miles I walked and hours I spent on the train and the bus over break made me certain that Chicago is home. It’s not where I was born, or where I live now, or where I’ll live in the next few years, but I feel so connected to its essence. This feeling inspired the pictures in this photo essay, which I think are full of the peculiar, cold spectacle of Chicago’s deep winter. Enjoy.
[ an unknown event ] causes: a resonating uproar, leading to my hands clutching tenuous promises, knuckles pallid with furious misunderstandings, burnt embers smeared with rusty tendons shifting at all the wrong moments. results: chilled coffee on Sunday morning, undisturbed; oblique to the morning paper, unread; the left edge torn, aspirations unraveled.
both pieces Katherine Sang
A Meditation On Seattleâ€™s Parks by Luke Cimarusti
It started with Golden Gardens. An October Sunday, a camera I didn’t fully understand how to use, and nothing else to do. It’d be a pattern I’d repeat many times over the next few months. I rode the 45 for nearly 40 minutes before stepping off into an unfamiliar neighborhood. Golden Gardens is located at the bottom of a huge hill, reached only by the winding road I’d eventually have to roller-skate back up at 11 pm three weeks later or the footpath I found to be the fastest way down that particular day. A set of stairs I dreaded climbing back up brought me to a parking lot midway down the hill where an old man threw an old tennis ball to his old black lab. I, of course, stopped to throw it a few times. Their names were Joe. They looked enough alike. The path continued past the lot. Hikers, families, more dogs passed me. The sun was beginning to set and I needed to catch it. Wooden stairs embedded in the side of the hill led to a side road ending at a skate park. A chain link fence stopped park goers from crossing the railroad tracks. “BEACH ACCESS 200FT VIA UNDERPASS” and an arrow pointing to my left. I went through the underpass, which led to the beach. The light was golden, children laughed and played, the Olympics loomed across the Sound. It was astonishingly beautiful. I’d been on Mt. Rainier, but it didn’t prepare me for this.
It was a moment of absolute calm. It is warm and the sand is soft and the masts of boats bob along to the slow current. All I could do was sit and look and smile because this is what I came here for and I knew that the best cure to the ennui I’d been feeling and would feel was to be here. Not there sitting on that piece of old driftwood but outside, in the parks, taking pictures, in the trees, on the beach, with the people and their dogs and the float planes overhead. Soon it became a weekly pilgrimage. If I had nothing else to do (a frequent occurrence then), I’d find a park. After Golden Gardens was Discovery, with its bluffs and meadows and odd village of identical abandoned yellow houses boarded up and forgotten, the only reason people know Magnolia exists. Then Ravenna, the closest to campus, an enormous wooded valley of creeks and wet leaves and bridges above and below. Then the Arboretum in Montlake filled with exotic trees that didn’t look very different from the trees we usually might see around here. The views across the valley and the Japanese garden made up for it. Then Seward on the southern shore of Lake Washington, a wooded peninsula sporting rocky beaches and an amphitheater that looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. Seward also claims the title of having most dogs.
Then Woodland on Green Lake. The zoo is there but it was too crowded to be a place of melodramatic introspection. Then the more traditional city park of Volunteer in Capitol Hill. Volunteer houses the Conservatory, the Seattle Asian Art Museum, a lovely water tower with an observation deck, and a view of the skyline bested only by Kerry in Queen Anne. Sadly, thatâ€™s all Kerry had to offer.
Each one occurred under different circumstances. I always went alone, always had my camera, always took the bus. Sometimes rain and sometimes shine. Sometimes after a good day and sometimes bad. Sometimes I’d bring a small picnic, as at Seward and Discovery. Sometimes coffee on the way. Each visit gave a certain lightness. The paths and trees and crisp air and couples and their dogs, Seattle parks feel alive, more wild than not, great in size and beauty. In the amphitheater or on the bluffs, one feels far away from anything else, closer to the sea and oneself. The drama (or not) of your life is far less interesting than the way the branches fan in and out in the breeze. The steps one takes feel easier and lighter. A mundane realization of the freedom to be and do. After Kerry, much time went by before I’d visit another park. I was busier, it was colder, the rainy season came about, schoolwork called. Inevitably I had a Friday whose boredom I had to beat back. A park – Carkeek. Just north of Golden Gardens in some noname condo-fied neighborhood. A forty-minute bus ride, the 28 this time. The sun was already setting as I stepped on the bus. I was determined to finish my roll of Kodak Portra that day. Braved more trails, more dogs, more runners and hikers and old couples. Swampy paths and steep slopes
through the wooded valley in the southern section. It was getting dark and I started to run. Wooden platforms kept my feet dry as the Kiev bounced around my neck. Another chain-link fence blocked the same line of tracks that run through Golden Gardens. The last light was passing behind the Olympics. And a train was coming. A metal overpass led to the beach. I ran up those stairs, families stared. The Amtrak’s horn sounded, lights flashed as it passed underneath. I got the picture on my last frame. Orange streaks faded behind the snow caps, and I again sat on a piece of old driftwood watching a man play with his dog. I was calm and pleased and felt the same lightness I always did. But it was dark now, and I had to go home.
intention adrift She held the burning cinnamon under her nose, drift! she requested to the molecules that wove their perturbed eyebrows into crackling fibers, under her nose they drifted, mixing the bitter aftertaste of fire with clustering zest, like burnt store bought cake batter crusted with black remnants clinging like dew and mingling with a tired twenty something year old who just wanted a damn cake to bring to a pot luck though she’d rather stay at home al-one with burning cinnamon and droopy eyelids, maybe fling her eyes on the floor and become a surrealist painting--then she wouldn’t have to go through a social routine of unnecessary necessities, she wouldn’t need her vocal cords to rattle false laughter, or “accidentally” brush hands with her neighbor, his skin was always in need of lotion and attention, or have a grimy taste in her mouth after another round of small talk, her ears wouldn’t have to hear her acquaintance’s dissonant voice, lugging a prolonged rigmarole of exaggerated luck at the grocery store, because finding a turkey on sale and whipping up a three course meal is a lot less pleasurable than burning cinnamon; She’d be in good company -she liked her nose much better anyways.