CULT(URE)

There's a place, deep, way deep, in underground minds, melodies, poetries, thump bumpin'. Blue and red lights, shadow casting, basement under porch hanging. Burkhart gray bearded dragon, renegade, and this is the dragon's lair, beats along the wall, talk of the past, the source of this open mind-thought dialogue.

The Burkhart Underground, all-ages weekly gathering, takes place within the home of professional photographer Fred Burkhart on Sunday nights. Burkhart stands 6 foot 2 inches his gray beard stretches down to mid-chest as dreadlocks twist into it. He has an intense eye, though his kind and outgoing manner puts new comers at ease.

"This is a place where you can have some coffee and express yourself without judgment," said the 61-year-old Burkhart.

Burkhart has been renting the residence located at 2845 North Halsted for the past 17 years. The place has existed as a studio, home, and even a school, Burkhart having home schooled his now 17-year-old daughter, Trinity, within those walls. Seven years ago, the relationship between Burkhart and Trinity's mother ended with the mother leaving, taking Trinity with her.

Four years ago, Burkhart came up with the idea for the underground open mic, and opened his doors to the Lincoln Park neighborhood.

"It was a devotion to her, so when she comes back she'll have this thriving community to come into, and communicate within," said Burkhart.

Mark Bose on stage, singing songs about his love who sits on the couch against the back wall, silent, he's always doing "one more" like he needs it, and the silence in this basement as he plays, makes it seem like they need it too.

"There's an appreciative audience here," said the 25-year-old Bose. "The people here are intellectual yet unpretentious."

The writer of all his own material, last month Bose began performing with three musicians from a jazz band. Performing under the name "Mark Bose and The Broken Hearts," they have begun playing the club scene throughout Chicago. Their sound is a mix of blues, rock and jazz, matching Bose's agonizingly beautiful lyrics.

Bose is one of the regulars at the Burkhart Underground. He's also part of one of the many love stories that began there, meeting his girlfriend Gina, a remarkably skilled bassist, there a year ago.

"Burkhart was performing some of his poetry and short fiction with the band Milk Baby," Bose said. "It was held out back, he had the stage up and had these Christmas lights, the kind that change. They where all over the place, there where like hundreds of people there."

"It's not exactly a music venue, not exactly a coffee house, and not what you would think of an art gallery being, there's no guys in black berets," said Bose laughing. "There are new people constantly coming in, it's constantly changing."

Oz sits at a table alone as Bose performs, bowling ball frame, black man in his early 30s, poet, comedian, sexual fetishist. Burkhart passes, dropping a piece of unwrapped candy on the floor right next to where Oz is sitting. He stops, crouches down and looks at Oz, then the candy. Oz's brow wrinkles as he smiles, then he reaches to pick the candy up for Burkhart, but Burkhart snatches it up before Oz can get to it. "How dare you try to touch that candy," Burkhart says as he brushes it off on his shirt and puts it in his mouth, both laughing loudly as he walks away.

Oz has been writing all his life, though only seriously for the past five years, he's been performing at Burkhart's for three years.

Oz takes advantage of that freedom. His stories regularly have strong sexual themes, using sexuality to comment on broader ideology, all with a steady stream of humor.

"I've read at places where I finish reading and the crowd just looks at me," Oz said laughing. "I'm tired of soft art, I enjoy art that's not so refined." From the titles of his collected works "Object Lessons" and "All That Meat Gone to Waste," one can imagine his brand of hard art doesn't meld well with a judgmental conservative crowd, though on Sunday nights at Burkhart's he's met with laughter and cheers.

Upstairs gallery, Burkhart in black and white prints, bums, musicians, and women. Other rooms, large scale originals, paintings, sculptures. In the side room, stacks eight deep, they wait turns of adoration, by eyes that crave the beauty and truth within them, this congregation of artists in celebration.

As an artist, Burkhart could be seen as uneducated, dropping out of school in the 9th grade then living much of his early life on the streets. Originally he was into drawing and painting, until 1967.

"I was locked up in California, in the cell with this Black Panther who just got a life sentence for murder, I was sketching his picture and he said 'what the fuck are you doing honky... you're making a stupid drawing of me,'" Burkhart said. "That's when he attacked me and tried to kill me. So I did what I had to, but it was like, he was my professor and I was getting my degree right then and there. When I got out, that's when the camera was handed to me."

His philosophy in photography is unique, he doesn't like the term "taking pictures," which goes back to the moment when he started using the camera. He was photographing a derelict on the street when the derelict said to him, "My name is Arthur but you can call me Art." Burkhart also gives credit to the influence of Whitman especially, "My ideas are the ideas of all peoples and all times. I don't take pictures... people give them to me."

Burkhart isn't just a photographer; he is a sculptor, a painter, a performer, of his own poems and short stories. He's even written a novel and is working on his second. Though his poetry does seem to have a Beat Generation influence, Burkhart denies any connection to the literary movement.

Burkhart once met Alan Ginsberg while teaching at a college set up by John Coltrane. "He was transcribing Blake and playing an organ; I was providing the elitist school with images," Burkhart said.

"It boiled down to compromising my proposal, they didn't allow me the freedom," Burkhart said. "So I spent like a thousand and gave the rest back, they were gonna sue me but then just gave up."

Though the group of people who attend the underground are fairly diverse in regards to age, the bulk of the people are in their late teens and early 20s.

"Young people are great, 'cause they don't really have a clue and are trying to establish their own identity," said Burkhart.

"Every child comes out dancing, creating new perspectives. Then their parents say, `Oh no you can't do that' but this is a place where you can continue to do that," Burkhart said.

"A place to mature the gifts we are given at birth, every minute spent here is one less minute they'll spend fighting, hating, and suffering."


	HOME RETURN TO THE COFFEEHOUSE ARTICLES MEXICO \| CCULT(URE) \| TRIBUNE \| ANOTHER VIEW \| YOUTH \| TRINITY & FRED \| AROMAS \| READER \| MUSIC \| LAST STOP CULT(URE) "The Burkhart Underground" Bill Hillmann Staff writer. The Leader February 18th, 2003 The Author and the Lovely Lisa R. at Burkhart Studios There's a place, deep, way deep, in underground minds, melodies, poetries, thump bumpin'. Blue and red lights, shadow casting, basement under porch hanging. Burkhart gray bearded dragon, renegade, and this is the dragon's lair, beats along the wall, talk of the past, the source of this open mind-thought dialogue. The Burkhart Underground, all-ages weekly gathering, takes place within the home of professional photographer Fred Burkhart on Sunday nights. Burkhart stands 6 foot 2 inches his gray beard stretches down to mid-chest as dreadlocks twist into it. He has an intense eye, though his kind and outgoing manner puts new comers at ease. "This is a place where you can have some coffee and express yourself without judgment," said the 61-year-old Burkhart. Burkhart has been renting the residence located at 2845 North Halsted for the past 17 years. The place has existed as a studio, home, and even a school, Burkhart having home schooled his now 17-year-old daughter, Trinity, within those walls. Seven years ago, the relationship between Burkhart and Trinity's mother ended with the mother leaving, taking Trinity with her. "I just wanted to die, just wanted to destroy this place, but then I realized this is her home," said Burkhart. Four years ago, Burkhart came up with the idea for the underground open mic, and opened his doors to the Lincoln Park neighborhood. "It was a devotion to her, so when she comes back she'll have this thriving community to come into, and communicate within," said Burkhart. Mark Bose on stage, singing songs about his love who sits on the couch against the back wall, silent, he's always doing "one more" like he needs it, and the silence in this basement as he plays, makes it seem like they need it too. Bose has been performing at the Burkhart Underground for over two years. "There's an appreciative audience here," said the 25-year-old Bose. "The people here are intellectual yet unpretentious." The writer of all his own material, last month Bose began performing with three musicians from a jazz band. Performing under the name "Mark Bose and The Broken Hearts," they have begun playing the club scene throughout Chicago. Their sound is a mix of blues, rock and jazz, matching Bose's agonizingly beautiful lyrics. Bose is one of the regulars at the Burkhart Underground. He's also part of one of the many love stories that began there, meeting his girlfriend Gina, a remarkably skilled bassist, there a year ago. The fondest memory Bose has was spent at Burkhart's, two summers ago on Burkhart's 60th birthday. "Burkhart was performing some of his poetry and short fiction with the band Milk Baby," Bose said. "It was held out back, he had the stage up and had these Christmas lights, the kind that change. They where all over the place, there where like hundreds of people there." A place with such depth and so many aspects can be hard to define. "It's not exactly a music venue, not exactly a coffee house, and not what you would think of an art gallery being, there's no guys in black berets," said Bose laughing. "There are new people constantly coming in, it's constantly changing." Oz sits at a table alone as Bose performs, bowling ball frame, black man in his early 30s, poet, comedian, sexual fetishist. Burkhart passes, dropping a piece of unwrapped candy on the floor right next to where Oz is sitting. He stops, crouches down and looks at Oz, then the candy. Oz's brow wrinkles as he smiles, then he reaches to pick the candy up for Burkhart, but Burkhart snatches it up before Oz can get to it. "How dare you try to touch that candy," Burkhart says as he brushes it off on his shirt and puts it in his mouth, both laughing loudly as he walks away. Oz has been writing all his life, though only seriously for the past five years, he's been performing at Burkhart's for three years. "It's a forgiving place. For one, there's a freedom a lot of people don't take advantage of," Oz says. Oz takes advantage of that freedom. His stories regularly have strong sexual themes, using sexuality to comment on broader ideology, all with a steady stream of humor. "I've read at places where I finish reading and the crowd just looks at me," Oz said laughing. "I'm tired of soft art, I enjoy art that's not so refined." From the titles of his collected works "Object Lessons" and "All That Meat Gone to Waste," one can imagine his brand of hard art doesn't meld well with a judgmental conservative crowd, though on Sunday nights at Burkhart's he's met with laughter and cheers. Upstairs gallery, Burkhart in black and white prints, bums, musicians, and women. Other rooms, large scale originals, paintings, sculptures. In the side room, stacks eight deep, they wait turns of adoration, by eyes that crave the beauty and truth within them, this congregation of artists in celebration. As an artist, Burkhart could be seen as uneducated, dropping out of school in the 9th grade then living much of his early life on the streets. Originally he was into drawing and painting, until 1967. "I was locked up in California, in the cell with this Black Panther who just got a life sentence for murder, I was sketching his picture and he said 'what the fuck are you doing honky... you're making a stupid drawing of me,'" Burkhart said. "That's when he attacked me and tried to kill me. So I did what I had to, but it was like, he was my professor and I was getting my degree right then and there. When I got out, that's when the camera was handed to me." His philosophy in photography is unique, he doesn't like the term "taking pictures," which goes back to the moment when he started using the camera. He was photographing a derelict on the street when the derelict said to him, "My name is Arthur but you can call me Art." Burkhart also gives credit to the influence of Whitman especially, "My ideas are the ideas of all peoples and all times. I don't take pictures... people give them to me." Burkhart isn't just a photographer; he is a sculptor, a painter, a performer, of his own poems and short stories. He's even written a novel and is working on his second. Though his poetry does seem to have a Beat Generation influence, Burkhart denies any connection to the literary movement. "I was sort of born in limbo, not a hippy, not a Beat; I was sort of a hermit," he said. Burkhart once met Alan Ginsberg while teaching at a college set up by John Coltrane. "He was transcribing Blake and playing an organ; I was providing the elitist school with images," Burkhart said. In 1979, Burkhart got an $8,000 grant from the Ohio Arts Counsel, but later returned most of it to the counsel. "It boiled down to compromising my proposal, they didn't allow me the freedom," Burkhart said. "So I spent like a thousand and gave the rest back, they were gonna sue me but then just gave up." Though the group of people who attend the underground are fairly diverse in regards to age, the bulk of the people are in their late teens and early 20s. "Young people are great, 'cause they don't really have a clue and are trying to establish their own identity," said Burkhart. Young people seem to flock to Burkhart; he has a connection with them. "Every child comes out dancing, creating new perspectives. Then their parents say, `Oh no you can't do that' but this is a place where you can continue to do that," Burkhart said. "A place to mature the gifts we are given at birth, every minute spent here is one less minute they'll spend fighting, hating, and suffering." Mark Bose Trinity Valentine Ozkr Du Soleil Appointment: 1228 N. Noble St. (coach house) Chicago, 60622 (773 348-8536)