My Life as an Art Institute of Chicago Volunteer

Waiting at the employees’ side entrance for the Art Institute of Chicago (AIC) for my first volunteer interview was a moment full of trepidation. What did I know about art? I’d been a journalism major, my parents never ever took me to an art museum. 

In fact, it was my boyfriend (now my husband) who first took me to an art museum–the National Gallery of Art in Washington DC. Two starry eyed college students who shocked his older cousins by sleeping (and more) in the same bedroom without their permission, we’d gone in one entrance of the museum with only 20 minutes to zoom through and out the other door. 

The variety of colors and shapes, styles and visions addicted me to art to this day over 50 years later. It was a lovely addiction to have when we lived in Mexico City for 6 years in the 1990s–Frida, Diego and more.  

When Gary and I made our 17th move to Chicago in 2004, after settling in I did what I’d always done in our 20 years living abroad–I looked for volunteer opportunities. Gary suggested The Field Museum, but I turned up my goy nose up to that, hoping to volunteer surrounded by art.  

Greeted by Michael, who was in charge of volunteers (docents went to a different office), I knew I was home when he welcomed me with his cheery, bubbly personna. Sign this, sign that and I was given a temporary name tag.  

Starting as a trainee with Jean, an experienced woman at a podium just inside the Michigan Avenue entrance, I listened and learned. It was like I’d trained all my life to do this. Where is, what is, how do I find, I’d spent 20 years of life in various countries outside the USA and knew what it meant to have questions. Happy to help as I always am, I couldn’t wait to get to work every week  as I took the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA) number 3 or 4 bus from near our home in the South Loop. Not for us to live in the tony upper class north neighborhoods of the city. 

Over my 10 plus years at the museum, I evolved to learn more about art and people, in that order. The art was everywhere, computers at some desks helped me answer how many Da Vinci paintings there were in the world and where Van Gogh’s Starry Night was. 

The people were sometimes upset, but I’d had a difficult teenage daughter so was broken in to deal with those. But most were a delight, so excited to be in a visual Disneyland of art. 

Then there were those who didn’t speak English, no problem–I don’t speak most other languages. The three Asian men beautifully dressed in suits and ties who came up to me with a guidebook I surmised was in Japanese. Showing me photos, I pointed to various photos quizzically . Shaking their heads, within minutes we finally settled on what they wanted to see, Renoir? “Renoir!!!” they exclaimed as I showed them where to find him. 

With my two grandsons born in the UK, I watched grandparents and grandchildren with envy, waiting for the pages of the calendar to fall and let me go to see them so far away. At the top of the entry building I sat at a desk trying to make contact with anyone who walked up the stairs with a question, but who might hesitate. It worked as our eyes met. People came up to my aging face because it made me a safe stranger to approach. Even children saw me as a safe port in an overwhelming place. 

When families I helped were about to go on their way I told the bored, antsy children to look out for the family of monkeys on a table they soon would pass. It always worked, even with skeptics. Knowing that they’d soon pass a large table with a couple of dozen ceramic monkeys in clear sight, I hoped it made the visit a little more interesting for some children.

Over the years I was asked to substitute for absentee volunteers, I created my own job–substitute volunteer at every volunteer desk. Also volunteering in a variety of surveys that my supervisor or others would ask me to do. Why not? Having lived in 7 countries in my 60-something years I was pretty good at approaching strangers.

One year I worked 400 hours, helping across the street from the museum with a project in membership. As my NYC son said, “Mom, that’s a part-time job.” I also volunteered in the members’ lounge, especially when a talk was on for members only who’d flood the members lounge afterward. 

After we moved to Western Massachusetts I would sometimes close my eyes and walk through the Art Institute of Chicago to ease my way to sleep.

Then my husband got an email from a volunteer he worked with at The Field Museum about the firing of the volunteers at AIC. Gobsmacking is the reaction I had. What misguided decision led to that? 

The news stories were damning, apparently we were too white, too old, too financially comfortable. Not since a dermatologist checking my skin for nasties said I was too pale did I feel so out of place.  

Since when does race, an imaginary concept, condemn volunteers from volunteering? As for age, it didn’t bother those kids I saw in the museum and the Family Room. And in my 71-years no one has ever said I was too financially comfortable. 

I think back to a woman who came into the museum during the winter holidays with 3 or 4 generations of her family in tow. Leaving them to come over to my desk, she looked at me about to burst into tears. “What am I to do? I love my family, but I’ve had it. All this–togetherness–it’s just TOO MUCH.” 

To James Rondeau, president of the Art Institute and Robert M. Levy, chair of the board of trustees of the Art Institute of Chicago, all this racism, sexism and ageism is too much too.