Matthew Gilson loves puzzles.
And bicycles.
And words.
His studio is in a 1909 storefront that once housed a concertina factory.
Inside’s a collection of 31 antique hammers, each produced for a unique task.
And a collection of flipbooks, some Matthew made, some the spoils of a swap with a Swiss collector.
His darkroom still exists, although it also houses backup DVDs, books, and an old chandelier.
He can fold an adequate crane from a dollar bill but produces a spectacular bunny from a cloth napkin.
He runs marathons.
He has 28 teeth.
He’s slept in an igloo in the Arctic Circle.
He speaks poor French but excellent Pig Latin.
He’s driven the family Volvo on a German Formula One race track. Fast.
He will always think of film as image medium first, and not the stuff milk leaves on the side of a glass.
His School of the Art Institute of Chicago MFA is in experimental film, got as a merit scholar.
He’s working on the best sourdough starter outside of San Francisco.
He successfully grew a pumpkin patch last year.
At age three, he had an enviable peacock imitation.
He still does.
Just call and ask.