Contemporary Finnish Culture of Chicago: A Guide
© Erika Mikkalo
Part 1
By Erika Mikkalo
Erika Mikkalo says she will live in Chicago “until her intolerance of alternating frigidity and humidity exceeds the intoxication induced by random architectural details, ‘found art’, eroding murals, and accidental alley Rothkos.” Her fiction and poetry have received numerous awards, including the 1998 Tobias Wolff Award, and the Millenium Award from the Writers Publishing Cooperative. Drawings by Angel Sarkela-Saur.
Inspired, in part, by New World Finn, I have taken a new found interest in my Finnish heritage (Suomalainen!) and how it might manifest in the Chicagoland area. Despite the fact that one of my most recent Finnish cultural experiences was the consumption of a nondescript cheese called ‘Lappi,’ I am not discouraged, and decide to invoke the random and strike out to catalogue exactly what the Finnish-American experience means to me. A ‘sign’ that this is the correct impulse (I am prone to impulses, and they are frequently far from correct...) is provided by a New Yorker reference to the poet John Ashberry’s habit of using Finnish for a classroom exercise. He gives students a snippet of Finnish verse and asks them to ‘translate’ as a means of inspiring a raw first draft. Apparently he used to use ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics to this end, but received far too many poems about cows, falcons, and eyeliner. I attempt my own version, utilizing the first stanza of the Kalevala:
Ensimmaninen runo
Mieleni minum tekevi, aivoni ajattelevi
lähteäni laulamahan, saa’ani savelemahan,
sukuvirttä suoltanmahan, lajivirttä laulamahan.
Savat suussani sulavat, puhe’et putoelevat,
keilelleni kerkiävät, hampahilleni hajoovat.
A ‘translation’:
One Simian, Ruined
Millenial minimum, taken: Avail yourselves, gentlemen.
Lately lolling mayhem, some on any salesman.
Such a virtual sultan, in his lolling mayhem.
Some sweet syllabub, putatively plutocratic,
keening killers circumvent, circumspectly, where it’s bent.
Or, translate the translation:
Don Ho Ho
Once an eon on TV feeling vague and jittery
loud Hawaiians save sane
sulking suckers, these jiving Hawaiians.
Salve soothed Sullivan, the puling Platonist,
kilt kick-pleats, ham-fisted, pulling hookahs.
So much for poetry.
There is a Finnish trio which performs Metallica covers on strings – Eicca Toppinen, Paavo Lottojonen, and Perttu Kivilaasko. They call their act ‘Apocalyptica.’ This fall they played a gig at the Metro, an all right club in Chicago – its main disadvantage is its location in Wrigleyville (Wrigleyville is south of Andersonville, Chicago’s Scandinavian neighborhood). A very sweet Canadian piano student introduced me to the Kronos Quartet, so the notion of string arrangements of metal does not fase me. However, I cannot find anyone else willing to attend, and skip it, despite the fact that the Metro is an OK venue. I very much enjoy performance spaces with elaborate interiors: deco or nouveau detailing, balconies, acres of cabernet-colored velvet curtains, battered theater seats. And I’ve seen Tav Falco’s Panther Burns and Babes in Toyland (from Minnesota -- perhaps some of those women are of Finnish extraction...?) at the place: positive experiences. Not this time, though.
My next adventure is much more successful. Gerry had put me in touch with a saxophonist named Juli Woods, and she is scheduled to perform at a restaurant called ‘Tomboy.’ I attend with the Monk, and he buys me dinner. I am tone deaf, arrhythmic, utterly devoid of musical ability and innocent of any education or training, so it is a good thing that the Monk is there to applaud enthusiastically and assure me that Juli is talented, and the guitarist, competent (the Monk used to play guitar before he entered the even more lucrative field of theology – my kind of guy – I wish I was not a magnet for graduate students). The entree was delicious: milk-polished servers who called me ‘love’ brought me a slab of mahi-mahi, or some other redundant fish. Perhaps it was just tuna-tuna, but the glorious inspired side was wasabi mashed potatoes garnished with wasabi covered dried peas. This has nothing to do with Finnish cuisine, despite the fact that Tomboy is in Andersonville. In fact, I have since had a conversation with my father in which we agreed that ‘Finnish Cuisine’ is most likely an oxymoron. My father is still haunted by the memory of fish head stew. “Standing on my toes looking into the pot to see that fish head bobbing in the broth, its open eye gazing up at me,” he recalls. “You could see how that could really make an impression on a kid.” I remind him that a famous chef once observed, “It is from the Finns that we learn to make the most of our friend, the root vegetable.”
“Did Mitchell get the Root Vegetable cookbook?” my father asks, referring to my practice spouse. (My sisters are still annoyed that the ex got the ‘Fry Daddy,’ a deep-fryer of virtually industrial capacity that he requested for Christmas, and they chipped in to purchase. Never mind that I never used it and possess only a sporadic desire to sauté, let alone deep-fry. The ‘Fry Daddy’ is large enough to embalm a human head, with or without crumb coating.)
“Yes, he must have,” I reply. “At that stage, whatever he pointed at, I said, ‘Take it!’” The divorce was character-building. Getting run over by a car also worked out rather well for me: it motivated me to get out of the marriage. Nothing like a little quality time under an axle. (“Life is short, honey – I’m out of here.”) And I ultimately received a settlement with the assistance of a very nice personal injury attorney named Charlie, who worked on contingency. I like lawyers!
Back to the evening at Tomboy: at the time I was still employed by rich attorneys – trickle-down in action – so I purchased one of Juli’s CDs. It is a collaboration with a venerable pianist and vocalist, Earma Thompson, and is enjoyable listening, although I cannot discern anything particularly Finnish in its execution. Blues for Earma Jean includes the ‘Gravy Waltz’ and ‘Evil Woman Blues.’ To me, ‘Finnish Jazz Musician’ might also be an oxymoron. It is not a genre enhanced by stoicism and reserve. ‘Finnish be-bop’ might be imagined as austere affectless toots at regular intervals, perhaps as executed by a battery of farting Linux programmers fed too much herring and tackbread. Of course, I am certain, at least inasmuch that Ms. Woods’ performance indicates, that actual Finnish jazz musicians do indeed exist and are not, not at all, arctic automatons aping an American form. In fact, a musician with whom Juli has performed in Helsinki has the surname ‘Mikkola’ and may therefore be a distant cousin. (“Mikkalo” was anglicized from “Mikkola” when my ancestors came over.)
Juli’s outfit is another splendid detail of the evening, a crimson and cream striped set that reminds me of a circus costume, but tasteful. The kind of circus that I’d like to join: one where they know about Bauhaus and de Stijl, the barkers sample Britten, and vendors sell tamari or orange-rind flavored almonds and mineral water. Perhaps good Finnish aesthetics are a factor here. Or not. My own Finnish ancestors tended to wool plaid or Osh-Kosh. And before that, blood-stiffened reindeer hide, I presume.
My next effort to find Finnish culture is acquired at the Lyric Opera, where the Finnish soprano Karita Mattila, is the lead in Puccini’s Manon Lascaut. Not entirely Finnocentric, but an excuse to go to the opera. As far as I’m concerned, life should be like the opera: elaborately pretty and filigreed, comfortable and impeccably cleaned, populated by polite, soft-spoken people and courteous attendants there to provide bittersweet chocolate and little bottles of San Pellegrino. It’s also a place where big healthy people are appreciated – you can’t get those sounds out of a small instrument. So on the brink of unemployment (the position that saved me from the law firm isn’t working out), I should perhaps be more conservative, but I celebrated closing on my house last year by seeing Janacek’s Cunning Little Vixen, so I might as well mark the current transition with another performance. The scenario of job loss induces much anxiety, but I must recall that getting run over by a car and getting a divorce worked out so well for me, who knows what wonders getting canned will bring?
I lack the musical training to evaluate Ms. Mattila, but do appreciate a line of libretto from the second act, in which Manon’s brother sings, “When she gets bored, I get apprehensive.” Still tone deaf, I can appreciate the opera for its theatricality, color and shapes. Act I has villagers in beige, taupe or tan agitating in a terra cotta set. Act II is set in a sumptuous boudoir, all turquoise and sapphire and lapis lazuli. Courtiers are grey and black as pigeons, gendarmes arrive in navy. Manon’s greed is her undoing – the time lost in attempting to abscond with jewels results in her arrest. Unfortunately, I’d overscheduled and had to leave the opera early. My pal Dr. K assures me that I didn’t miss much. “I saw it with Frank,” she observes. “And the third and fourth acts were pretty much, ‘Oh, die, already, bitch.’” But I liked Manon. To me, her venality and desire to have her (beef)cake and eat it too give her a particularly human charm. Karita concurs: in the artist profiles, she notes, “I’ve always been attracted to characters who aren’t necessarily sympathetic to audiences in the traditional way. I’m interested in truthfulness, that is, female characters showing that they are flesh and blood with all kinds of sides to them – not just the pleasant, audience-appealing, obvious, traditional, characterization of a woman.” As noteworthy as the soprano’s performance might be, I cannot observe any particularly Suomi-centric nuances or aspects of her depiction of the heroine, at least not in the first two acts. I did, however, survey the crowd and realize that, while the environment is romantic, it lacks potential for romance, particularly if one is partial to strapping lads who grunt compellingly. A quandary: I find specimens of virile masculinity appealing, but share absolutely no cultural interests with them. Finnish or not, they don’t hang out at the opera.
Part 2
(Full disclosure: I meant to listen to Sibelius while writing this, but somehow Madness’ “The Dangermen Sessions” ended up in the stereo. Although I haven’t heard it, there must be Finnish ska. I will, however, wholeheartedly endorse The Leningrad Cowboys. Finland is also the source of Elvis covers in Latin.)
My attempts to find contemporary Finnish culture in Chicago continue, with variable results, but I persist.
On Sunday, December 18, I attended a vegan Finnish hardcore party entitled “Outo Maa!” at the alternative arts space Mess Hall in Rogers Park. I know about Mess Hall from the conceptualist collective Temporary Services. The Temporary Servers endeavor to transform perceptions of public space, among other things. For example, they install ‘Warming Spaces’ during Chicago’s frigid winters – at one I was vigorously manipulated by a German shiatsu masseur named Christian who’d flown in from Stuttgart to rolf the thawing homeless. Or: they put ‘sound sculptures’ in the deco entryways of abandoned office buildings, causing passersby concern that they’ve contracted tintinnitis until they note the posted explanatory placards and think, “For this, they got a grant? Putting speakers on scaffolding and broadcasting recordings of an antique vacuum cleaner? Or is it a redigitalized woodchipper?” Or: they participate in exhibits of foul odors. Or: they curate shows of the technical accomplishments reflected by the inventions of inmates in a west Washington State penitentiary. Devices include a tattoo needle constructed from a ballpoint casing and Walkman motor, a chess set sculpted from toilet paper – use Kool-aid to dye half the set pink, and various padded contraptions that reflect a lack of companionship. Once again, I consider my cohort and despair. If one is looking for well-adjusted, materially secure male companions, I do not recommend conceptual artists or poets. There are two attractive male poets in the city of Chicago, and neither of them is single. Or Finnish.
“Outo Maa!” is part of ‘Hardcore Histories,’ a Sunday-night series that includes “Short, Fast, and Loud: A Seven-inch Survey,” “Italian Hardcore Pasta Dinner,” “Sonic Reducer,” “Sound as a Weapon,” “Queercore for the Queercorps,” and “Straight Edge: Out of Step or Out of Beer?” I parallel park across from a community mural charitably described as “sincere” – rainbows hover above a phalanx of happy multi-ethnic youth – one boy’s cheek flakes ominously, navigating two snow banks reminiscent of Scandinavian fjords, and stomp into Mess Hall. The center is warm, but the fondly recalled German masseur is not in attendance. A Finnish masseur would probably just make eye contact and call it a session. “Erika!” the Artiste greets me. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.” The Artiste is one of the Temporary Servers, and has described them as such: “Here at Temporary Services we’re used to working with challenging populations. Retards. Prisoners. The French.”
I have not brought a crock pot of fish head stew to contribute, but the card-table buffet is amply stocked. Items include a Corning Ware casserole – blue carnations on its white enamel side – filled with slabs of soy product in some brown sauce, meatballs made of textured vegetable protein and seasoned with cardamom, a cucumber salad with dill, apples and sour cream to garnish pancakes made-to-order by the Artiste, and cheap beer. A group of young males is clustered around a turntable in the back of the room and I approach them.
“Excuse me,” I say, “I’m writing about contemporary Finnish culture of Chicago for New World Finn. May I ask why Finnish hardcore in particular appeals to you?” The hail of noise dies down as a lanky lad in plaid and jeans switches the selection from KAAOS to Rattus. (Not knowing what to wear to a Finnish hardcore party, I opted for a threadless t-shirt with a bleeding heart, anatomical version, emblazoned on the chest, and my hair up in Bjork-like knots. Iceland isn’t too far from Finland…) “Uh, sure,” he responds. “I first heard it in England, and it struck me as – I don’t know. Raw. Primal.”
“Elemental?” I offer.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Perhaps the arctic clime and long nights render thrashers thrashier. The band T.KADET is described as making “the Meat Puppets sound like the BeeGees.” Then again, a hardcore cover of ‘Stayin’ Alive’ might have potential. A fellow diner volunteers that he knew many Finns while acquiring his Ph.D. in the U.P. “And what was your doctorate in?” I inquire. “Critical theory,” he replies. I scarf my pancake and flee. From a more mature female perspective, deconstructing Derrida is endearing only if you can get paid for it. The spectacularly credentialed can frequently find themselves philosophizing as they pull lattes. As in Ecclesiastes: “Neither bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding…” I increasingly favor social utility.
I drive down to Indianapolis for the holidays, rambunctious Doberman mutt panting amicably in the back of the car. For a Christmas Eve jaunt, we go to the Indianapolis Museum of Art. Wolfgang Puck appears to have a monopoly on art museum restaurants. Neither Nordic bouillabaisse nor soy-based venison knock-offs are available, so I order the Chinese chicken salad. This has nothing to do with contemporary Finnish culture of Chicago, but there is one piece by a Finn in an exhibit of works by the Arts and Crafts movement. I’ve always appreciated William Morris’ injunction to own nothing that one “does not know to be useful or believe to beautiful.” I cited this to my ex while attempting to pitch a red plastic M&M dispenser that was a gift from his father. Aesthetics and practicality trump sentiment, at least as far as male taste in decor items is concerned. He did not appreciate the quote from Mr. Morris. One of many reasons why I’m happy to fly solo. My married sister currently lives in a home that includes non-ironic steer horns. At the reception, the groom requested the DJ play Merle Haggard. My sister’s list included 50 Cent. They mystery of amoré. The Monk is partial to jazz that strikes me as digestion-aiding, but we find common ground in some of the masters. I might like him more if he’d had a little hardcore in his aesthetic trajectory.
The wall rug designed by Eleil Saarinen is both beautiful and useful. The design is botanical, deco, abstract, parallel wire bower pattern blooming with purple geometric roses. The accompanying sign explains that the wall rug is revival of “ryiijy,” a pile-woven bedcover that a wife brought to a marriage. This particular one was made by ‘The Friends of Finnish Handicrafts.’ There is also a very nice cabinet by Ammas Lindgren, a Finn.
There are no other Finnish artists on display, although a Japanese sculptor has a room full of large plastic pieces that look like Gargantua meets Sex and the City, white and lime green personal totem poles, and as a family group, we avoid that room. My mother touches a sculpture clearly labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH.’ The Bruce Naumann chandelier of copper-plated disembodied wreathed hands spins. “I just wanted to see if it would spin!” She protests, abashed. Mission accomplished. Mom takes some ‘alone time’ and I catch up with my father and the youngest. They have found the best room in the joint: a “tactile installation” that is essentially an excuse for adults to bounce on huge cushions or loll with plastic globes in a moonwalk. The entire space is red and white. The carnival moonwalk is filled with red or white balls of assorted sizes: think of the play pit at a ‘Chuck-E-Cheez’ but tasteful, higher-quality, and not encrusted with toddler snot and grade ‘D’ prison mozzarella. I enter to the priceless sight of my Finnish- American father – a pension actuary in Indianapolis – making ‘snow angels’ in the red and white spheres. My sister lounges. I join them, and begin pitching balls at people. A few bounce out of the hatchway and I do not retrieve them.
Before leaving the museum, I attempt to surreptitiously buy some lovely earrings from the gift shop – a questionable purchase for the imminently unemployed – but the tiny twig branches with faux baroque pearl fruit are so charming that I have to fess up to let people admire them. Any fondness for baubles is an embarrassment. It is unseasonably warm, and our hike through the parking lot with its adjacent Robert Indiana ‘LOVE’ sculpture and the drive home are both uneventful.
An otherwise blissful Saturday morning having toast, egg and tea is marred by the following exchange on National Public Radio’s ‘Weekend Edition.’ The interviewer is speaking to Jens Lekman, a Swedish singer. He notes that the more he tours, the more he discovers that stereotypes exist for a reason, and cites the Finns as an example. “All the people in Finland are drunk and suicidal and carry a knife or an axe.” My fingers drift to linger on the ‘shiv’ strapped to my calf beneath my pink terrycloth bathrobe as I twitch with indignation. “Those Finns –” he continues. “But I love the Finns for being like that.”
“If we have any Finnish listeners, they’re rushing to the phone,” the interviewer drolly notes. I go to the website to check out this Jens Lekman. Apparently he was voted ‘Sexiest Man in Sweden.’ This may be the case, but I am not tempted to emigrate – the milquetoast crooner does not strike me as being qualified to harvest lingonberries north or south of the Arctic Circle, thank you very much. I opt not to invest the energy in an annoyed e-mail, content to scoff at what Stockholm considers a stud.
Next: Good composers, bad poets, and bring back the kid in the blue jumpsuit.