For nearly a year, Lee Bey and I were neighbors in Pullman, living a few doors down from each other on the same stretch of workersâ cottages on St. Lawrence Avenue. We did not know each other at the timeâexcept, of course, in the way that we all learn to recognize our unnamed neighbors with curiosity, apprehension, fondness brewed from familiarity. I can say that we definitely must have brushed elbows, standing on the 115th Street platform awaiting the forever-late inbound train; he can recall how he one day passed Cottage Grove Avenue to see me setting up the Pullman Free Library in the corner storefront. It was only after I moved out of Chicago altogether that we became Facebook friends and pieced together our neighborly past.
Lee Bey, I quickly realized, is a man in the knowâwhether in gaining access to the closed-and-condemned interiors of the terra-cotta-covered skeleton of the Schulze Building on Garfield Boulevard, or on the origins of a fossilized neon marquee sign circa the 1960s, reading âSpeed Queen and Crown,â paying homage to a store now extinct, hanging proudly on 46th and Ashland. Bey has made a profession as the narrator of the architectural and urban spaces of Chicago. In his tenure, he has served the city as the Sun-Timesâs first architectural critic, as Richard M. Daleyâs deputy chief-of-staff, as a professor at SAIC, as the best writer of the WBEZ blog, as the Goodman Theatreâs designer and orator of the Lorraine Hansberry tour of Bronzevilleâand now as the DuSable Museumâs first Vice President of Planning, Education, and Museum Experience. I spoke with Bey in his new museum digs on the opening day of âChicago: A Southern Exposure,â his exhibition of architectural photography focusing on the South Side, on view at the DuSable through February 16 as part of the Chicago Architecture Biennial. The show offers architecture as a kind of testimonyâa paying of witnessâto provide a counter-narrative to the pervasive myth of a negative South Side.
This interview has been condensed and edited for length and clarity.
Malvika Jolly: I know you informally as a man who knows the stories behind lots of different, random buildingsâand to tell them well. Who knows a lot about a lot. So my first question is: How does a person become that way?
Lee Bey: It has to do with upbringing, right? I grew up on the South Side, blue collar. My mother was a homemaker and my father worked for Reynolds Metals Company. But there was a sense that you had to be curious about your goings-on when I was a kid. Current events were always talked about around the house. It seems like everything was a question.
My parents, they ate it up. They were like well, find out, read this, hereâs what this is. Now…this is only in hindsight, over the last few years. But my late father was a thinker, but he could fix stuff, and he was funnyâand I think all that stuff informs you in some way…. The curiosity fostered that allows you to come to all that stuff ultimately shapes it. Love of buildings came from himâdirectly and indirectly.
One thing about the South Side isâas you knowâitâs vast. So youâre always driving to someplace, going to barbecues. I have like nine million cousins. So itâs like: What is that? Look at this. What is this. And, somehow, all that works to inform you.Â
My father was the kind of person who could see broad strokes of things. My mother could see a detail of things. Somehow, in there, something ignited.
I was born at 73rd and Kimbark, and when I was around ten, we moved to 84th and Constance in Avalon Park. Itâs a bit different now. When I grew up there, particularly on Kimbark, we all were, without really knowing at the time, kids of the Great Migration. All our parents had come from the South, twenty or thirty years earlier, when we were all growing up in the seventies.
My father was a Korean War Veteran, so there was always someone he was in the army with coming by. Like: Whereâs he live? He lives on Dorchester. He lives on University. Solid working-class neighborhood. Fathers worked; mothers worked or stayed at home.
The neighborhood was better [when we moved to Avalon Park]. It was more middle-class, but we were still working-class and so were many of my friends. Hardworking folk and people were doing really well. I remember one classmate of mineâher father was a liquor distributor. And it was like Niiiiiiice. Nice car. He would come pick her up in this beautiful Oldsmobile 98. But we all went to school together, all laughed and learned.
These neighborhoods that people donât think exist unless youâre Black and you know they exist. Society makes us forget that when Black people came to Chicago, they came for opportunityâand expected it. What happened after that was a betrayal of that trust. Not that people came over here and decided: Iâm going to come over here and start fucking up. The negative behaviors that you see are created by that trust being betrayed; âNo, there are no jobs for you,â âWeâre going to put you in a crappy school.â That, in turn, wrecks neighborhoods. When I go there now [to around 73rd and Kimbark], thereâs a lot of vacancies, vacant lots, some houses that I grew up with either abandoned or burnt downâŠ
And you think: This isnât because people are evil. This was made this way.
It was Reagan.
Yeah, but before himâNixon was no picnic either.
Tell me a little about “Southern Exposure.”
Conceptually, it comes out of a couple things: one is, being a South Sider, I was tired of the kind of ruin porn of the South Side and West Side that you see. And you get to a point where you can tell people are overlooking the kind of architecture you can see downstairs just to find the ruin porn, the vacantâ
Empty teeth.
Exactly! Right. Thatâplus the crime narrative. It begins to shape what people actually think of the South Side. It isnât just beautiful, evocative pictures; itâs actually a co-conspirator in this narrative of a negative South Side. I thought: Iâm going to show something different.
I wanted to show people in those pictures. I wanted to show the buildings being in use whenever I could because I wanted to address the other side of it, which is that this isnât like Frontierland where spectators can just come through or whatever. There are people living in houses; there are people using the dry cleaners. These are neighborhoods. The solution is to invest in these neighborhoods the way we invest in other neighborhoods. So the solution isnât to let it bottom out. And the solution also isnât to open up a Greyhound bus full of yuppies or hipsters. But the idea is to invest in whatâs there. Because these are functioning places, where thereâs great architecture and people. So thatâs what I wanted to doâto the extent that photography can do anything.
When the Goodman was running the Lorraine Hansberry play, The Sign in Sidney Brusteinâs Window, they asked you to lead the tour of Bronzeville. Which is kind of like the rest of your work: Southern Exposure is a kind of tour. And what you do with your writing is a kind of architectural but also living tour. So what did you pick for the Hansberry tour and what was that like?
Bit of brief backstory: I typically didnât want to give tours to people of non-color of Black neighborhoodsâbecause I didnât want it to be like âthe Jungle Tour,â right? So typically I would say: No, nope, not doing it. But the Goodman, their director of civic engagement Willa Taylor is an aware Black woman.
So I said: For you Iâll do it.
And I said: Can I do it any way I want to?
She says: Any way you want to do itâas long as somehow you end up at 60th and Rhodes where the Hansberry House is.
I said: Done.
My route and story: I started with the old Central Station locationâwhere the Black migrants from down South came and first saw Chicago. We went down Record Row. We saw Chess Records and also Vee-Jay Records, which was a Black-owned record labelâfirst American record company that would sign the Beatles. Untilâthis is kind of a funny storyâCapitol [Records] didnât want the American release to the Beatlesâ first album, so somehow Vee-Jay got it, and they introduced the Beatles. Capitol eventually figures out what theyâve lost, and agrees to meet the Beatles. So the album cover that you knowâwith the Black background and their faces [Meet the Beatles]âis mostly that album that Vee-Jay had made. We got a chance to talk about music. We go up Michigan Avenue and King Drive and talk about the history, and I show them the greystones and brownstones on King Drive. And I want the story to be a story of triumph. And this affects what weâre going to be doing here at the museum.
I tell the folks here: Donât show me a slave chainâlet me show you how I broke it.
Thatâs how I structured the Goodman tour. I want people to see victory. And Black people triumphing. Because we do. If you show the one thing, show the other too. So when we get to Hansberryâs houseâand learn about restrictive covenants, and that these things put a pall on Black peopleâs ability to move and acquire wealth through real estateâand then we go to the house, and see, and talk about how it informed Raisin in the Sun in many ways. Itâs a way of telling the story so that it looks forward.
The high school you went to is heavily photographed and featured in your show. Is it three different buildings, or is it three different sides of the facade?
Yeah, itâs three different locations in it.
It looks like three entirely different schools in the photographs!
It does, doesnât it? Itâs a huge school. Itâs physically the second largest high school in Chicago. Most people see it when theyâre on the Skyway and theyâre leaving town, they see the side of it from forty feet up or whatever. Itâs a really straight up fantastic piece of architecture, but no one picture can really capture it. So I wanted to show that not only is it cool, but that it has these different faces within the facade.
From memory, itâs late Art Decoâso itâs different than the Chrysler Building but itâs still within the family. Itâs almost Art Moderne. And then the architecture reflects the function of the school, which is a school that taught you how to fix things and build things. So, the machine-age aesthetic of the architecture? Itâs a nod to whatâs going on inside.
So there is one picture where you see the columns, right. Thatâs the gym. The school is like a block or two long and, when you look at it on the 87th Street side, itâs flanked by these two monumental Greek temple-like pieces. One is the auditoriumânamed now after Bernie Macâand the other is the gym. Theyâre at opposite ends, and the school itself fills in the middle. Theyâre just alike; theyâre like bookends to each other. So, architecturally, they treated the gym and the place of assembly and culture the same.
Which is very Greek.
Very much so! And thereâs the one photograph that has the odd vanishing point? So, there were these shop wingsâwood-shop, auto-shop. They were built and designed sort of like warehousesâlike a standalone factory would beâthough these are not standalone, they are linked by the hallways of course. That photograph was one of them, and shooting it that way was a function of the sun shining on it. I was imitating the photography of the day when those places were builtâthe WPA [Works Progress Administration] aesthetic with its exaggerated angles.
How was it going to high school there? What did you study?
Itâs kind of funny. My shop was a print shop. I learned how to operate a printing press. Until I saw a computerized printing press at a trade show at McCormick Place. And Iâll never forget this. There was still a strong printing industry in the South Side in the eighties. I remember going there and there was this curtain that said See the Future! I was like, âI wanna see the future,â so I saw the thing: this guyâs at a computer and he types a thing, and there is a series of connected spaces with the printing press at the end, and it comes out, a printed thing, and he did it in, like, a minuteâwhich, now, I know is forever, but back then it was really fast. I remember telling this guy Anthony, like, look at this! This thing can do everything we learned in the last two years. So I was terrified!
Couldnât have been more than a week later that I was in my English classâand Iâm a senior, so Iâm almost out the doorâmy English teacher (Thomas Doyle, weâre friends on FB âtil this day) says âYou write well. Have you ever thought about journalism?â I go âJooooooooournalism.â So, just like that, on a dime.
So when I see those pictures and think about CVS, it saved me. It put me on a road that otherwise I wouldnât have been on.
How does one become a journalist? What was your next step?
I thought I gotta go to collegeâbecause in vocational school you really donât have to. The guidance counselor was like Lee, what do you want to do? I was like, Well I want to be a journalist. She suggested Northwestern. I couldnât afford it. She suggested Columbia College. At the time I couldnât afford it. So I did my first two years at Chicago State University.
I wrote for the student newspaper. Decided I wanted to go to Columbia and really study journalism and figure out a way to pay for itâwhich was cheap back then! So I got on the student newspaper at Columbia because I had been on at Chicago State. Which got me a scholarship and that got me on my way. When I graduated in â88, I didnât even get to march with my class because I got a job at the City News Bureauâwhich was a great wire service where Kurt Vonnegut, all these great writers went through thereâI ended up getting a job there and starting the day of my graduation ceremony. And I was like, aw hell!
I was there two yearsâand then from there to the Daily Southtown. I covered the Southwest Side and then the Southeast Side. They had a bureau in Lansing. So news, features, everythingâwhich was great, had a ball, actually. The Southtown didnât cover the Black areas of the Southwest or Southeast Sidesâand I made them. It was my only bit of radicalness there. I said We gonna cover this stuff. And then we got an editor who was really supportive of it. So it was good. Two years, almost two years to the day: came in September of â90 and left September of â92, and then I took it to the Sun-Times.
And there you covered architecture?
Well, I was there nine years. First four or five years, I was general assignment and then ended up becoming investigative reporter. And then went to architecture, because we got a new news editor and I was tired of investigative reporting. I was married then, and weâd just had a baby… Took some time off and thought âUgh⊠I want to do something else!â And when this architecture beat came up I rememberâit was crazyâI asked for it thinking that the editor would say no and give me something else, because I knew beans about architecture. And he calls me into his officeâNigel WadeâIâll never forgetâfrom Londonâand he said: âChicago is a city of great architecture. We need someone to cover it. Youâre a writer. You write wellâbeatâs yours.â And thatâs how I started.
So how did you get your beans?
How do I go from bean-less to bean-full?
Or how did you go from knowing beans to knowing more?
Luckily, thereâs probably no better city to learn architecture in than Chicago. Firms opened their doors when the word got out that the Sun Times had an architecture critic, cats like Helmut Jahn and Adrian Smith were like Come on, let me show you what weâre doing. I could ask questions. I read books. I remember being up all night trying to figure out stuff. But also the politics of itâparticularly preservation. What buildings get saved and which ones donât. Especially the stuff in the South Side. There was a lot of demolition going on. Landmark-quality buildings. And all that gets swept up into the mix.
Thatâs something I wanted to touch uponâwhat is preservation and conservation and the politics of it like in the South Side right now? Because you have people like Theaster Gates, who does a lot of work based off of reuse of old buildings, like the Stony Island Arts Bank. But what is not being conserved that should? And what is something that you wish had been preserved?
It becomes like what in law school is called Fruit of the Poisonous Tree, right? Which means that if you get evidence in a funky way, anything that comes from that evidence is tainted. So if I raided your house illegally to get that bag of heroinâand there I am trying to put you in jail for itâI canât.
But you can.
I guess now you canâbut I ought not to if the law works correctly, because I got it in the wrong way. So, even if I know the heroin is yoursâif I can prove itâs yoursâit screws everything in the chain. And the same thing happens in preservation in the South Side. The cityâs preservation mechanism is both the cityâs and the nonprofit ones, and when they decide what buildings in Chicago are worthy of preservation (and this goes way back to the sixties), they tend not to choose South Side buildings. Almost four to one. So, as a result, there were and still are fewer landmarks in the South Side and the West Side when all these catastrophic things begin to happen in urban life. Tearing up neighborhoods to build public housing. Tearing down public housing to build other neighborhoods. Widening the roads. All this kind of stuff. When this begins to happen, all this architecture is seen as expendable. It puts in the DNA of the city that these buildings are less than.
Then you lay on top of that the crazy role that finances play, that banks and insurance companies play. So, as I was telling one person earlierâthat modernist house, the Ingram Houseâthat house sells for [$150,000]. But if that house were in the North Side, North Suburbsâany other neighborhood where a house like that would beâyou could put another zero behind that house. They devalue these houses and these places, so it makes it hard to get credit. It makes it hard to raise the alarm that a building is in trouble. If a building has a history that tracks with white historyâFrank Lloyd Wright designed it, George Washington slept here… If the history is Black historyâunless itâs jazz!âit gets ignored.
Thereâs this building that I posted on Facebook, on 76th and St. Lawrence. I shot it with my camera-phone as I was going someplace else. Circular crazy building from the early seventies. I forgot this crazy building existed and hadnât seen it in a long time. I got tons and tons of likes and comments, people remembering this building, that kind of thing. And, given that this building is going to be fifty years pretty soon, you know, you could begin to think that maybe it belongs in a city registryâmaybe it becomes a city landmark!
But because the history is not a white-connected history, itâs harder to get the preservation mechanisms to help you do that. And if itâs not an accepted Black-connected historyâQuincy Jones wrote his first song here, Diana Washington sang here, whatever. All of that makes these buildings harder and harder to save.
If I canât get private financing to fix these buildings, what do you do? Then the philanthropics come inâand thatâs what Theaster does wellâbut the question there is: Is it sustainable? If it takes a load of foundation money to make these buildings work, how do you make money from it? How do you sustain it? Is the Lee Bey Foundation gonna come back in five years and bestow another x amount of dollars on it, or am I off to the next thing? So thatâs the question.
These places are historically maltreated. But the other part of it is that when you see buildings in the exhibit that are taken care of, understand that, know that, thatâs the hurdle they had to jump overâto get here.
If [someone] is fortunate enough heâs putting together enough private capital to make it work, which is a heck of a hurdle to leap. So thatâs the situation here. The thing about it is thatâif played the wrong wayâas the South Side goes into its next chapter, the question of Well then, Who moves in? becomes the issue. And you have to be either really well off, which tends not to beâin the numbers it used to beâpeople who are Black and brown. And it tilts the favor onto the side of white people who have the capital to come in. And thatâs a problem.
Word on the street is that you were doing this show and then what came out of that was that they offered you this job, and you kind of tripped into it.
Thatâs exactly what happened.
How is it so far?
Job, so far, is good. The idea is to improve the exhibits here, the shows that are here, and improve the discussion and programming around those shows. My president actually wants me to do a film series, because I like film. Some of it is playing traffic cop. I think a lot of peopleâno matter where theyâre fromâthey kind of treat the DuSable as Well, I can always screen my film there. I get last-minute calls: âWell, can I screen my film tomorrow because weâve got a screening downtown.â Essentially what they donât want to say is: We were told we needed someplace Black to screen it, so how âbout yâall?
So I just say: No, No.
I say: Unless I can structure a curriculum and programming around it, canât do it.
So, call me with this next year.
And itâs not been popularâbut itâs been working. You wouldnât come to the MCA and do that. So the idea is really to lift the offerings and the stature of the place. And on the architecture side, Iâll be playing some kind of role in figuring out the Roundhouse Expansion. But, on the day-to-day, itâs looking for the kind of exhibits that make sense now. We were talking earlier about Fabiola Jean-Louis coming this November. Hereâs a young Black woman whoâs doing these exciting thingsâmix of Afrofuturism and garments.
My first impression when I walked through my first week is that the history here is really male. Really male. And if there is a womenâs story here itâs almost as an adjunct to the male: Here the men fought in World War I, and by the way, hereâs what the women were doing. But the clientele is almost seventy percent women, Black women. And I thought: there needs to be something here for yâall. So weâre going to have the pendulum almost swinging completely in that way to balance things out.
It takes money to make exhibits change, but things like discussions and programming and film series, these are things we can do right now. For instance, there was a queer womenâs film series happening here once a month. And it was really goodâand I didnât know about it! Until the woman who organized it came and sat exactly where you are sitting, with one of my directors. And I was like: I didnât know this was happening. So itâs coming to an end. And I say: Well, you start it back up, put it back in there, and letâs get some velocity around it! Weâre working out things with Channel 11âtalking about cool finds within the archives and collections, and weâll be sharing things with them as well. So these are things weâre going to do right now.
Are you finding that thereâs a kind of respectability politics that you are engaging or are pushing against?
Thankfully not. My job as Vice Presidentâthank god Iâm not Presidentâis to push it until I find that wall. So we have talked a lot about bringing more challenging fare to the museum. Because, you know, we made a hire a couple weeks ago, and we were all talking, and I said:
I have a lot of knives in my drawer, even the dull ones.
But the dull ones I donât use.
I donât throw it away, but I donât use it.
My fear is that museums, particularly Black museums, by trying to be respectable all the time, trying to be respectable places, go to that place. So you come here because you have toâlike itâs Stations of the Cross, rightâbut do I want them to come in because they have to, or do I want them to come in to get fed? To get challenged. Thatâs really what I want.
Because the times really require it. Black people need safe spaces, yes, but also challenging spaces, but also spaces that are uniquely ours. It doesnât mean it has to exclude anybody; the door is open, twist it for anyone who comes. So⊠I probably shouldnât say thisâŠ
No, Iâve said it publicly. Iâll say it again. I have a thing against Madea moviesâI hate âem! I think theyâre awful. And, oftentimes, they get shown. Not here, not inside, not as a part of educational programmingâbut they get shown through other means. Get outta here with that! There are so many films out there [and] filmmakers who challenge whatâs happening. Letâs show that.
This is why the movieâand the discussionâis important, and Iâm throwing out people who are just like Show My Movie, and donât give me a chance to form a discussion around it. Because I need the two of them to be in concert.
Because thatâs when you digest.
Exactly. [In 2014] I screened a movie at Black Cinema Houseâfirst time itâd been shown in Chicago for forty yearsâmovie called Uptight. I want to show it here. Itâs a remake of John Fordâs The Informer (1935), which was set in Northern Ireland. Jules Dassin, the director, takes that story of these cats trying to inform on the IRA and brings it to what was then modern-day Cleveland, and it becomes this story of the struggle of whose side are you on? Is it the We Shall Overcome side or is it the Black Radicals side? And itâs filmed at a timeâ1968, in fact the footage of Dr. Kingâs burial, his funeral, is in there. Itâs that contemporary to the times that theyâre watching it on television!âwhen that question was not easily answered. Now, if that movie was madeâor even two years after it was originally madeâit would not side with the radicals. It would not give them the voice. But this movie really does. And when I showed it at Black Cinema House, I remember thinking: No one is going to go see this except me and a couple of my buddies. Weâll drink some beers and weâll see it. We packed that place out. And they all sat still on a February night.
I saw a movie with Billy Dee Williams from the seventies [The Final Comedown (1972)] where itâs almost the same thing. Heâs kind of a go-along-get-along brother who joins the Black Panther Organization and although the ending is kind of crazyâthey couldnât figure out how to end it so they ended it with a gun battleâup until that point, it really says some interesting things about Black destiny, Black identity, Black belonging, Black love.
These are the kinds of things that are important to screen. They may be imperfect, but still masterpieces nonetheless. And, of course, modern-day films that touch upon the same themesâI definitely want to get at.
What is your favorite thing or placeâjust something you can tell me to go check out in the South Side?
A buildingâor just anything?
Anything. Something really juicy.
Letâs see⊠Do you eat meat?
I eat everything.
Well then Lemâs Bar-B-Q on 75th is [everyone laughs] itâs a Yes, yes. So itâs a yes to that.
You know, thereâs a house Iâm thinking aboutâit didnât make this exhibit because I just ran out of space. Thereâs a house on 38th or 39th and King Drive [ed. note: 3656 S. King Dr.]. Itâs where Lu Palmerâhe was an activist and a journalist and helped fashion Harold Washingtonâs first campaignâitâs the house where he lived. You canât miss itâitâs this great eruption of red brick house right on the Northwest corner of the block. See it from a block off, go to the next house, and youâll still see it. And itâs in horrible conditionâwell, potentially horrible condition. Itâs a masterpiece of architecture and history. Itâs one of those things that should be a landmark, but isnât. That might be something that⊠well, if preservation forces in the city donât coalesce around this house, then I know what time it is.
When I go by the house and stop any longer than a few seconds, people come out and [ask]: Is anything happening? Whatâs happening? Did you buy it?
No, no. Iâm just looking at it.
So, people in the neighborhood know whatâs up. But if the people who can save this house and could raise the alarm donâtâthen I know whatâs up.
Malvika Jolly is from the South Side. She lives in New York and tweets @dinnertheatrics.
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AshĂ© and bravo, my brothers. This article showcases myriad talents of Lee Bey, and ends with Lou Palmer–nourishment from my childhood to adulthood! Required reading for everyone who craves the full story told with African American voices. Thanks ad infinitum.
thank you for this mini awakening.