Urban Realism reminded me that, one way or the other, suburbia will suck your soul.
And the worst part is that you’re expected to double down on the suction.
You know, why not put a gate around your already sterile existence?
Better yet, join a country club to verify your worth.
Of the utmost importance, of course, is that your car look like your neighbor’s.
Rush—the band—knew this a long time ago.
The goal, somehow, has become to live in The Truman Show.
It’ll make you happy, as long as you have easy access to antidepressants and depressed therapists.
But what if grime and grit bring the real joy?
Is that delusional, or could it be aspirational?
On January 17, 2026, I found my answer.
It was one of those Rust Belt chic moments, when instead of staring at empty storefronts, my wife and I opted instead for the art museum, aka the Memorial Art Gallery.
Based on her employment status, the wife’s entry was complimentary. I, meanwhile, forked over a 20.
The highlight, according to a museum banner, was a temporary exhibit on Impressionism, as in Monet and the type.
But on the way to that exhibit, tucked away in an unassuming corner, was the real highlight:
Urban Realism.
Go ahead and rewind the clock to the late 19th and early 20th centuries.
Now start a movement, artistic and literary, that captures the unvarnished realities of urban life.
Focus on the ordinary and their ordinary struggles.
Reject idealism.
Critique power structures.
The naysayers may denigrate the work, labeling it the Ashcan School (in reference to the ashcans used to dispose of fireplace ashes and other rubbish).
Many will fail to see the lure of the grunge.
But along the way, we’ll get Edward Hopper, Charles Dickens, and Richard Wright.
We’ll get, in other words, the answers to some questions.
Is there triumph in imperfection?
Is hardship the root of happiness?
Can grime be beautiful?
Is blight simply biological?
In loss, can we find gain?
Is this why some actually prefer the Great Lakes to the ocean?
Or extract more meaning from Toledo than Santa Barbara?
Is this why doctors prune their jobs and start blogging about the Rust Belt?
Inspired, I took the long way home, the one with a view of Rochester’s Urban Realism.
And then, as expected, I returned to the American Dream.
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