FUTURA Gets Down on These Chicago Streets
A meditation on art openings, a sidewalk meet and greet, and what it takes for me to really see
June 17, 2025
I attended the opening reception for FAMILY AFFAIR, a show featuring FUTURA at Anthony Gallery in Chicago. When I arrived, I wondered if the gallery was at capacity because a thick cluster of people stood directly outside the doorway. I couldn’t tell if they’d just spilled out or couldn’t get in. I was able to walk in without a problem—and the place was packed.
Ten or fifteen years ago, a scene like that might have thrilled me. Now? It mostly wears me out.
Working my way through the crowd, I came to an undeniable realization: I don’t like looking at art this way.
The vibe was cool, sure, but the noise grated on me. Large gatherings and high ceilings are a bad mix—the sound swells, conversations blur into a relentless hum. I needed earplugs. Most of the folks there seemed a generation or two behind me. And honestly, looking at art at a packed reception is a dumb-ass thing to do. I’m used to moving through art slowly, deliberately, with room to breathe. I want the work to have enough space to speak to me, and I need to be centered enough to listen. Receptions feel more like hip bars or clubs, where the art becomes just another backdrop for people-watching and social performance.
And yet, somehow, I was able to lock in—to focus on some of the work despite the noise and the press of people around me. FAMILY AFFAIR was a fitting title. The opening really did feel like a family gathering—full of energy, generations, cross-connections. I wasn’t fully at home in it, but I could still find something to hold onto.
Normally, I don’t attend art openings. I like to experience work on my own terms, without distraction. But this time, I was betting on the chance that FUTURA would be there. I didn’t need to meet him. I just wanted to see him. But inside, he was nowhere to be found.
He was outside on the sidewalk, holding court for a line of admirers under the 'L' tracks as the CTA Pink and Green Lines rumbled overhead. It was 92 degrees that day—hot enough to make most people retreat inside, but he remained out there, meeting everyone in the heat, gracious and unbothered. No formal meet and greet—just a meet on the street. It fit. His work has always lived in public spaces—accessible, restless, unboxed—so it made sense that perhaps the clearest, most honest moment of the night happened out there, away from the buzz inside.
Born in 1955, FUTURA—formerly known as FUTURA 2000—is a pioneer whose early work on subway cars helped elevate graffiti to what’s now branded as "street art." Dressed in black and carrying a backpack, he looked like he could still slip through a railyard unnoticed. A man in line handed him an oversized book, opened to a double-page spread featuring Martha Cooper’s Break Train—a 1980 photograph of graffiti artwork by FUTURA that covered the entire exterior surface of a NY subway car. That piece—painted in motion, on steel, moving through the city—is part of what first made his name.
That subway car was long gone, but the movement it sparked was still right there on the sidewalk.
He was honored to sign it. The book was so large he laid it down on the sidewalk with the gentleness and care of placing an infant in a crib. He wanted to get his signature just right. It was a moment at least four “real” cameras recorded. He graciously posed for a photo with the book’s owner. I watched that small exchange, thinking about time. I glanced at the line of people waiting and realized most of them could be his grandkids—youngsters eager to shake his hand, snap a photo, collect his signature.
That says something about the reach of FUTURA’s work—how it keeps moving across generations, how it stays alive. And it says something about the language we use to talk about it. "Street art" is the term the culture landed on, but it makes me scratch my head. Art is art in my book. But since the language hasn’t evolved yet, I’ll ride with it—for now.
I zeroed in on the roar of another passing 'L' train. The layered grind of metal and movement echoed the same kind of fullness I’d just come from inside the gallery. The sound followed me, but it landed differently. On the street, the noise felt alive. It belonged to the city. Inside, it just clung to the walls.
Earlier this year, I saw FUTURA 2000: Breaking Out, a retrospective of his practice at the Bronx Museum of the Arts. That experience was completely different—low key, calm, no distractions. Just me and a museum security guard in the gallery space. I could actually move through the work. I could sit with it. The exhibition laid out the full arc of his career—from early subway pieces to major brand collaborations, to his more recent abstract compositions. Seeing that evolution without noise or hurry helped me understand how his street practice wasn’t just about where the work lived—it was about how the work moved, how it traveled across spaces and forms without losing its edge.
I understand the reception wasn’t for me—it was for the artist. Peacefulness. That’s what I need when I engage with art. Room to think, to feel, to drift. If I can’t find my center, I can’t find my way to the work. And when the space is loud and chaotic, I have to remember: Don’t lose heart. Just find another way in.
I always do.
b♥©