Skylines in Motion
The first time I photographed the Chicago Air & Water Show from North Avenue Beach, I didn’t just watch the planes — I watched the city respond.
It was August 2011. The day was bright, already warm when I woke up. I dressed quickly, slung my Nikon D700 over my shoulder, and began packing my camera bag: extra lenses, lens hoods, memory cards, sunscreen and just enough water and snacks to last the day.
Outside, the city felt charged. I caught the CTA bus, then the train, then another bus, watching Chicago’s steel and glass slide by in the windows. The closer I got to the lake, the more the streets swelled with people — sunglasses on, folding chairs in hand, beach bags slung over shoulders. Everyone seemed to be moving in the same current.
After stepping off at North Avenue, I crossed the pedestrian bridge over Lake Shore Drive. The blue sweep of Lake Michigan opened before me — glittering under the late-summer sun. The hum of the crowd mingled with the first distant rumble of jet engines. On the sand, I moved slowly, weaving between sunbathers and swimmers, searching for a clear spot — somewhere my gear would stay dry and my sight-lines would stay wide.
The sand was hot, the lake sparkling, and the air thick with anticipation. I found myself a spot on the boardwalk where photographers- both professional and novice had already staked claim on prime positions for an uninterrupted view. From here, the city was not just the backdrop — it was a participant.
Rooftops and terraces had transformed into grandstands, their railings lined with leaning bodies, the skyline itself alive with spectators. Out on the water, boats clustered together, their bows facing back toward the shore. The anticipation was a tangible thing.
Then — the roar. Somewhere behind me, a child squealed as the first jets thundered in. Crowds leaned back in unison as the U.S. Air Force Thunderbirds streaked across the sky in tight formation, their white contrails carving patterns against the deep summer blue. At times, the planes shattered the sound barrier, their sharp cracks bouncing between the lake and the skyscrapers.
Some of the most dramatic moments came when the jets veered toward the Chicago skyline and the architecture seemed to lean into the performance. Pilots threaded their paths past vertical landmarks with astonishing precision, making glass and steel seem momentarily alive. The John Hancock Center, its black steel frame catching the sunlight, stood like a sentinel as the jets sliced past. For a moment, glass and steel felt alive, part of the choreography. I caught them in frame as they swept past the Hancock’s black steel frame, its windows shimmering with the planes’ passing. In that instant, architecture wasn’t just a backdrop — it was part of the choreography.
From the beach, you see the sweep of the lakefront — Chicago as a grand stage where water meets steel. From the rooftops, you feel the intimacy — the rush of a jet passing at eye level. From the boats, you see the city from a distance, its architecture and crowds united under one vast summer sky.
Between aerial acts, the U.S. Navy SEALs and U.S. Army Golden Knights parachuted in, their canopies blooming with color as they spiraled toward the water. Civilian performers filled the sky with loops and rolls. Below, the Chicago Fire Department’s bright red boat sent shimmering arcs of water into the air, an aquatic encore.
Eventually, the engines quieted. The water cannons fell still. Rooftops emptied, boats dispersed, and the shoreline began returning to joggers and cyclists. The city exhaled after all the rush of adrenaline.
I packed my gear, crossed the bridge again, and walked back into the hum of the downtown. That day, I didn’t just see planes. I saw a skyline in motion — a city that, for a few hours, had joined the spectacle!
