Month: June 2005

For a long time, it didn’t make sense to us that writers like Mark Helprin and Orson Scott Card, spinners of such epic and delightful fantasy worlds, were also conservatives. The mirth, recklessness, and sheer imagination that fuels their fiction just doesn’t jibe with their imperious political commentaries, or with the speeches Helprin has written for rigid Republican politicos like Bob Dole. Ah, but time has revealed that fantasy and myth do indeed have a place in the realm of a successful political machine. Curiously, Helprin’s new novel features an uncommonly stupid presidential candidate. And who knows exactly what commentary he’s trying to make by dropping a couple of British royals—by parachute, bare naked—onto American soil, after which they embark on a bizarre and outlandish cross-country quest? It’s all greatly amusing, and we’ll leave it at that.

For every J.D. Salinger hiding out at the end of a very long driveway and revealing nothing to no one, there is a Kathryn Harrison, sharing everything—perhaps too much of everything—in a memoir. Notwithstanding her growing collection of graceful, compelling novels, Harrison will always be the woman who wrote a memoir (The Kiss) about having sex with her father. In other books, she’s generously shared her experiences with shoplifting, eating disorders, and exhuming her mother’s body to cremate her and scatter the ashes, thereby dispelling bad mother/daughter juju. Envy, however, is fiction. After losing his son in a boating accident, grief consumes a New York psychoanalyst, leading him to become obsessed with patients and with a woman from his past. Emotionally searing and darkly erotic, Envy allows Harrison to work out a few taboo ideas, while withholding a bit of herself—for her next memoir, perhaps.

In a just world, Lynda Barry’s books would all be in print and Marlys would be as iconic as Charlie Brown. We do not, of course, live in a just world, but the fact remains that nobody has chronicled the awkward, lonely, and frequently exuberant weirdness of childhood and adolescence more righteously or faithfully than Barry. Her long-running Ernie Pook’s Comeek is a first-rate primer in the triumphant power of individuality, funk, and self-esteem in the face of what writer Barry Hannah once called “the gloomy usual.” If Charlie Brown had been blessed with a companion like the splendid Marlys instead of the wretched Lucy, how much happier might he have been? At the very least he would have learned the Funky Chicken. Barry’s wisdom and keen awareness of the dark crannies of the human heart (for really dark stuff, there’s her stunning novel, Cruddy) are precisely what make her humor so funny—and her overall work such truly great literature. 651-290-1221; www.fitzgeraldtheater.org??

Most of Minnesota’s great, iconic consumer goods, including Tonka Toys, Faribo Woolens, and Red Wing Shoes, aren’t made here anymore. But in 1996, Scott Gillmer, grandson of the last president of Red Wing Pottery, brought the family business back to life on an artisanal scale. Three full-time potters are using the same techniques and designs that have made this distinctive regional stoneware world-famous since 1878. They’ll be doing their thing this weekend, Gillmer will be talking about the company’s storied history, and Red Wing stoneware through the decades will be on display. The Red Wing Collector’s Society is also convening this weekend, so the town will be crawling with pottery shows, auctions, and experts. 1920 W. Main St., Red Wing; 651-388-3562

We find it, how you say, ironique, that this stunning monument to upper-class French domesticity is being unveiled on a holiday that celebrates the overthrow of said class. Apparently, we good ol’ Americans will celebrate virtually anything French on Bastille Day. This particular grand salon rocked the Parisian social circuit when royal tax collector Jean Gaillard de la Bouexière first hosted his cohorts there in 1735. It’s a fantastically detailed three-dimensional picture of the high life from that era—that is, life as it definitely and quite miserably wasn’t for most in the days before that original Bastille Day. Complimentary small pox exposure, a soundtrack of angry street crowds, and a glimpse of period bathroom facilities are not included with the tour. 612-870-3131; www.artsmia.org

It’s not unusual for artists to work with a number of media, but painters who go in for a multiplicity of styles are rather uncommon. Minneapolis artist Jason Sandberg has four distinct styles of painting. He does realism, impressionism, abstractions, and pop. His eye wanders from scenes that have a distinctly local feel, such as a lonely ring of warehouses surrounding an even lonelier dive bar; to the Eiffel Tower, which he renders almost photographically; to shimmering forests, wild horses, and other scenes from the natural world. In short, Sandberg seems to be hungry to paint anything and everything. 2201 Second St. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-706-7879; www.creativeelectricstudios.com

The “ready-made” of the title refers to Marcel Duchamp’s infamous urinal that shocked the bourgeoisie in 1917. It’s impossible to shock most folks these days, of course. So Yamada goes in for the cool, sleek beauty of porcelain and the soothing effects of repetition in these sculptural installations. In fact, what appear to be advanced abstractions are really duplicates of the molds used to make toilets and other porcelain fixtures at Kohler, the Wisconsin manufactory where Yamada lived and worked as an artist-in-residence. About My Wife is So Proud of Me, the installation by Lars Gerlach and Helen Stringfellow (aka “tectonic industries”) that is also on display—well, we won’t assume that either artist has an obsessive-compulsive disorder. We’ll just say that if someone with an obsessive-compulsive disorder decided to clean up his yard, this is probably what would result. 1021 E. Franklin Ave., Minneapolis; 612-872-7494; www.franklinartworks.org

A few months ago, at a Fitzgerald Theater appearance, poet Gary Snyder explained that he lost interest in religion as a young boy after his Sunday-school teacher told him that “non-human beings aren’t included in the drama of redemption”—a notion he found intolerable. It’s likely that Gary Bastian, Georgia Mrazkova, Ray Rolfe, Carol Strait, Allison Stout, and Dan Toomey feel similarly; in fact, they’ve invited all creatures great and small to attend the closing party for their Animal Instincts exhibition on July 9. Creatures of all kinds, as long as they have acceptable social skills, will mingle among contemporary paintings of cats, dogs, ferrets, roosters, and the other animals that people connect with on a daily basis. 1010 Park Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-338-3435; www.outsidersandothers.org

A fresh breeze from the East. Over thousands of years, from the time of the five magical emperors who ruled earliest China through the end of the Ming and Qing Dynasties, Chinese artists have gracefully rendered cranes, tigers, dragons, apple blossoms, and smiling ladies with painfully tiny feet on vases, scrolls, and bits of jade. But what have they done for us lately? Those working in the modern era—shall we call it the Bling Dynasty?—still respect their country’s art traditions, but they have also looked to Western movements like expressionism and abstract art for inspiration. The results can be stunning, as evidenced by this large sampling of works from the collection of Hong Kong-born artist and art dealer Pat Hui. Included are works by many of the most important Chinese artists, including expressionist painter Lui Shou-Kwan and Wucius Wong, whose emotional landscapes are controlled though elements of graphic design. Although Hui is a significant figure in the Chinese art world, she makes her home in Minnesota, so we have the good fortune of seeing many works that have never before been shown in the United States. 405 21st Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-624-7530

Early on the afternoon of the Northern League exhibition season opener, Midway Stadium is bustling with activity. The Rolling Stones are blasting from the public address speakers, and players are already stretching and running in the outfield grass. Underneath the grandstand, in the cramped bunker that serves as the offices of the St. Paul Saints, the phone is ringing off the hook and the atmosphere is one of jovial chaos. The Saints command center is decidedly short on the streamlined ambience and formal atmosphere of most offices. It looks, in fact, like it could be the reception area of a thriving small-town automotive garage.

Mike Veeck has commandeered someone else’s spartan office, and is looking uncomfortable perched behind a desk. The ringmaster most often associated with the unlikely and phenomenal success of the Saints, he’s clearly a guy who likes to be in motion. Even sitting down, he never quite manages to sit still. Veeck’s a fidget, with the wild eyes of a man who has a lot going on in his head. In fact, he is ridiculously busy these days. He’s promoting his new book—Fun is Good: How to Create Joy and Passion in Your Workplace and Career (Rodale Press)—and has a full slate of speaking engagements. And then there are the six minor league baseball teams he operates and owns (along with such high-profile partners as Bill Murray and Jimmy Buffett).

Right now, Veeck is in the middle of writing a giant pile of thank-you notes, by hand, to every Saints season-ticket holder, and conversing with a visitor, while people keep wandering in and out of the tiny space—some simply to say hello and others to check on some detail related to the upcoming season. One guy comes in to look for a VCR that has apparently vanished. A question blurts from the office’s intercom: “Who recorded the song ‘Bus Stop’?” Veeck pauses mid-sentence to answer (the Hollies), then picks up the conversation right where he left off.

Thirteen years ago, Veeck moved to St. Paul to help launch the Saints in the fledgling Northern League, a confederation of professional teams that intended to operate outside the umbrella of Major League Baseball. At the time he was in a gambling frame of mind (actually, he’s always in a gambling frame of mind). He had recently given up an advertising career to help resurrect a floundering minor league franchise in Florida. That stint with the Miami Miracle followed more than a decade in exile from professional baseball, after he was essentially blackballed following his role—okay, it was his idea—in the now-legendary Disco Demolition promotion at Comiskey Park in 1979. That stunt, which involved blowing up thousands of disco records between games of a White Sox doubleheader, resulted in damage to the field, a near riot, and Chicago’s forfeiture of the nightcap. Collateral damage notwithstanding, the episode was a classic Veeck production. The games were sold out, and it was estimated that tens of thousands of fans were turned away.

Veeck, of course, has a first-class baseball pedigree. His grandfather was a Chicago sportswriter who became president of the Cubs back in 1917. He was the man who had the idea to grow ivy on the walls of Wrigley Field. Bill Veeck, Mike’s dad, was one of the most colorful and innovative entrepreneurs in baseball history, and is in the Hall of Fame. At various times in his life, he owned and operated major league franchises in Cleveland, St. Louis, and Chicago, where he pioneered all manner of ballpark promotions and amenities. Most famous for once sending three-foot-seven, sixty-five-pound Eddie Gaedel to the plate for an at-bat with the Browns (he walked on four pitches), Bill Veeck also introduced the exploding scoreboard at Comiskey Park and was the first owner to put player names on the backs of jerseys. He loved mingling (and drinking) with the fans, never had an unlisted number, answered his own phone, and had a wooden leg with a built-in ashtray. Mike Veeck is an apple that didn’t fall far from the tree (he wrote Fun is Good while recuperating from a broken leg sustained, he said, while “playing basketball on my bike”), but he was a late bloomer. When he accepted investor Marv Goldklang’s offer to run the Saints, he was moving into his forties and had a wife and two kids (including a son named Night Train). He was strapped, and maybe more than a little desperate.

“I bet every nickel I had on this thing, and I was scared to death,” Veeck said. “Everybody thought we were nuts.”

Veeck’s original marketing plan for the Saints consisted of exactly three words: “Fun is good.” Everything else followed. “We wanted to run a ball club with people who didn’t have preconceived notions about how things work,” he said. “We wanted to foster an environment where people loved to come to work, and where they were appreciated for what they did. And we were going to put all of our energy and attention into creating an atmosphere that ensured that when fans came out to the ballpark, they had a good time and went home happy. Is that simplistic? You bet. But I don’t think you’ll find that attitude in a lot of companies.”

That simple philosophy—and a constant string of unpredictable and sometimes insane promotions—have turned Veeck’s and the Goldklang Group’s initial investment into a collection of minor league teams with an estimated combined value of thirty million dollars.

Veeck’s book argues that humor can be an asset in any company. “You can’t force or fake this stuff,” he said. “And I know that corporate America has never been tremendously receptive to this sort of philosophy. They do, though, always have an interest in anything that works. It’s a competitive world, and now more than ever there’s a direct correlation between the attention people receive and their satisfaction with an experience. That’s as true of employees as it is of customers. A lot of people, from the top on down, are starting to realize there are going to have to be some changes.” —Brad Zellar