Year: 2007

Michael Lesy’s Wisconsin Death Trip has been a strangely enduring cult phenomenon. First published in 1973, Lesy’s indescribable marriage of photographs and text, alternately chilling and hilarious, chronicled a late-nineteenth-century epidemic of madness and mayhem in Black River Falls, Wisconsin. A photographic historian, Lesy has kept busy since then, producing a batch of books that, even if they don’t quite capture Death Trip’s weird magic, share its obsession with photographs and history. The title of his latest, Murder City: The Bloody History of Chicago in the Twenties, pretty much says it all. Rain Taxi sponsors this talk and signing, a kickoff for Lesy’s Murder City tour. 165 13th Ave. N.E., Minneapolis; 612-824-5500; www.guthrietheater.org

Edna Stevens Talton was but a wee Liberian seven-year-old when her family transplanted itself to the States in 1981. Once here, she quickly picked up on echoes of traditional African dance in the new African-American styles she was discovering. A couple of decades later, long after she’d forged a successful career as an MTV backup dancer, Talton would strike upon this parallel by leading her company, Universal Dance Destiny Studios, in a review of African and African-American dances that became the hit of last year’s Minneapolis/St. Paul Fringe Festival. Thirty-five performers sustain an hour of constant motion, with breakdancing, krumping, and traditional West African dance set to spoken word, hip-hop, and African drumming. One of four top-selling Fringe productions being reprised at the Guthrie. 612-377-2224; www.guthrietheater.org

In the biblical story of Susannah and the Elders, a beautiful young woman gets falsely accused of being a hussy. Thinking this an apt metaphor for all the finger-pointing and paranoia he saw during the McCarthy era, American composer Carlisle Floyd transposed the fable to 1950s Tennessee. Just like in the Bible, the fetching Susannah is spied bathing nude in a pond (as it was done in B.C. Israel, so with mid-twentieth-century Appalachia), and indicted for doing so by the so-called devout members of her community. But unlike the Bible’s version of the story, this one boasts gorgeous arrangements of operatic singing layered over a finger-picked, Appalachian-inspired score. 1614 Harmon Pl., Minneapolis; 651-209-6689; www.latteda.org

Stuart Pimsler was inspired by literature when constructing this feverish meditation on love; he read everything from Plato’s Symposium to contemporary fare like Nicole Krauss’ The History of Love and Jonathan Safran Foer’s novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. He then cast a nine-year-old dancer to act as the show’s sage narrator, much like in Krauss’ and Foer’s stories; threading together a history of feelings, this character thus carries the tone of the piece, which ranges from bawdy to introspective. To pluck things up, Twin Cities composer Michelle Kinney has composed live, original music for cello, acoustic guitar, and accordion, while filmmaker Paul Augustin lends the video accompaniment—mostly images of wooded areas that Pimsler called “very Midsummer Night’s Dream-like.” 612-377-2224; www.guthrietheater.org

Hardcover Theater’s versions of “penny dreadfuls,” or Victorian-era soap operas, have been so popular in years past that this time around it’s offering five installments, each time imagining a more fantastical mash-up. Making an appearance are historical figures such as Queen Victoria, Scotland Yard founder Sir Robert Peel, and the grave robbers William Burke and William Hare, who became boogeymen for generations of British schoolchildren. Characters borrowed from Victorian pulp include Varney The Vampire, who doesn’t necessarily like being a bloodsucker; and The Beatle, a Middle Eastern sorceress with powers of mind control and self-transformation. Even if you’ve missed earlier installments, each show starts with a recap, so don’t worry about missing anything. 810 W. Lake St., Minneapolis; 612-825-8949;
www.bryantlakebowl.com

If you think of the University of Minnesota’s Nash Gallery as a teaching space, then this ambitious exhibit is designed to show students—and the rest of us—the range of forms that political art can assume. An intriguing mix of locally-based and national artists are represented: There are paintings from Shana Kaplow and selections from photographer Paul Shambroom’s Security series, while Martha Rosler, who made collages in the ’70s that conflated the Vietnam war and American women’s domestic lives, updates that idea with our current war and consumer trends. Also on view are Maus selections from Art Spiegelman; Sue Coe’s savage prints and drawings; a profoundly disturbing “re-creation” of The War Remnants Museum in Ho Chi Minh City by Portland-based Harrell Fletcher; and works from more than a dozen others. Regis Center for Art, 405 21st Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-624-6518;
www.nash.umn.edu

Apparently years touring in a rock ‘n’ roll van can result in more than permanently rumpled clothing and an affinity for gas-station cuisine. In Dan Monick’s case, it gave him an eye for photography; his work has been included in such manuals of cool as Paper, Swindle, and Fader. Currently based in Los Angeles, the former drummer of Minneapolis’ celebrated Lifter Puller returns for a solo exhibition of his work, much of which can be described as iconic portraits of young and artistic people who are, in most cases, not yet icons (though he’s also shot the likes of Lily Allen, Nikki S. Lee, and the Beastie Boys). Included here are photos of local notables, including Atmosphere, Har Mar Superstar, the Hold Steady (Monick’s former bandmates, now NYC-based)—and a memorable vision of Patrick Costello from Dillinger Four clad in nothing but an American flag. 2640 Lyndale Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612.871.2263;
www.soovac.org

Walker regulars are likely already familiar with Kara Walker’s work, as she is one of a few artists, including Matthew Barney and Robert Gober, with whom the museum has established an ongoing relationship. Naturally, then, the Walker offers the first full-scale survey of her work, which frequently employs the eighteenth-century art form of black-paper silhouettes to render scenes—horrifying, fantastical, obscene, and often grossly satirical—from American plantation life. A whip-smart “Negress” (as she is wont to call herself) and stellar storyteller, Walker cuts to the complex and confounding heart of American history, race relations, and gender issues without apology. 612-375-7600; www.walkerart.org.com

Winterthur was originally the country estate of Henry Francis du Pont (yes, those Du Ponts), a collector whose taste and connoisseurship for American antiques were so exquisite that Jackie Kennedy prevailed upon him to help re-do the White House. Having amassed a collection of 85,000-plus objects—furniture, glass and metalwork, ceramics, and textiles—the man simply had no rival. Some three hundred plums from Winterthur, founded as a museum in 1951, make up its first-ever traveling exhibition. Among them are priceless Chippendale pieces, a tea table exemplifying the eighteenth-century Chinoiserie craze, and several Frakturs: a distinctly American (actually, Pennsylvania German) take on the illuminated manuscript. 612-870-3131; www.artsmia.org

Despite a thin frame and a tendency to shiver uncontrollably, I’ve always been one to appreciate the cold. You won’t find me on the slopes or skating across a patch of ice, however, nor will you catch me clad in some ultra-light nylon parka. I simply don’t see the point in layering, instead preferring old-style jackets made of natural fabrics with big buttons. This Minnesotan’s main winter activity involves meandering through the city’s neighborhoods or around its lakes, collar up against the wind. When the weather turns especially bitter and I find myself outside alone, the city falls away and I imagine that I am a hero from a Jack London novel, facing doom on the great frozen tundra—even if it’s just Lake Calhoun.
My winter constitutionals improved considerably some fourteen years ago, when I discovered the Filson Double Mackinaw Cruiser. One afternoon, while flipping through a roommate’s copy of GQ, I happened across an article on the somewhat legendary jacket. In the photograph, it was draped over a chair and bathed in light from a warm fireplace, which was no doubt thawing a group of grizzled prospectors just back from a dog-sledding trek through the Yukon. The article claimed that Filson’s wool jacket was warmer than down or synthetics. It said the Filson was fabled. It was unique. So, flush with college graduation money, I called the company and bought the jacket they claimed I would hand down to my children one day.
Now, I do not wish any future offspring of mine to be as fashionably challenged as their father. Although the Filson Double Mackinaw Cruiser is the epitome of utility, its iconic red-and-black tartan pattern often prompts strangers to make cracks about my resemblance to Elmer Fudd. But in my eyes, the Cruiser is a thing of beauty. There is nothing more comforting out among the elements than the weight of a wool jacket, and that rich, dry aroma is also soothing (though I do smell like dog when the thing gets damp). The Filson company claims that the fabric has been culled “directly from sheep that have acclimated to the same wet, cold conditions you may encounter while wearing one of our garments.” I’m assuming, of course, that the conditions they’re referring to are what Canadian Mounties face while trudging up the Mackenzies, as opposed to what an out-of-shape writer encounters while scurrying across Nicollet Avenue to reach the hotdog vendor.
Although they’re designed with hunters in mind, Filson Double Mackinaw Cruisers are ideal for bookish types like myself. There are four deep pockets in front, one of which has slots for rifle shells that are the perfect size for pens and pencils. A one-piece cape shrouds the shoulders and arms and reaches down to the abdomen, and hand-warming pockets work wonders when the forgetful forget their gloves. Also, there is a game pouch at the small of the back—a flap of fabric that keeps the body warm and also serves to hold slim paperbacks, newspapers, or magazines. When I asked a hunting pal of mine whether one would really store a dead bird in there, he stared blankly and said, “That’s why it’s called a game pouch.” When I appeared aghast at the thought of a duck dribbling blood into my jacket, he rolled his eyes and said, “Good equipment gone to waste.”
I’m aware that my owning a Filson jacket is somewhat akin to a man buying an SUV or heavy-duty truck, believing that it makes him more rugged and manly. Reading the Filson catalog only fans the flames of this fantasy, as one is captivated both by the harrowing testimonials and many of the products’ sheer ugliness. The company motto is, “Might As Well Have the Best,” which might explain the thirty-dollar socks and $250 cardigans. (The Double Mackinaw Cruiser costs around three hundred dollars.) The testimonials make you wonder whether Jack London’s characters might have survived, if only they had been sporting these astounding coats. Over the years, the catalogs have told of an Alaskan pilot crashing into the snow and surviving thanks to a Filson, of a Filson belt securing a gate against a raging bull, and of a pair of their tin-cloth pants that kept one fellow’s manhood intact when attacked by a jumping chainsaw.
It’s a man’s world at C. C. Filson—there are no women in the catalogs, and no women’s clothing. You might also argue that no woman would be caught dead with a guy wearing these hideous shirts and pants. But they’ve made strides. A few years ago Filson introduced its Double Mackinaw in a dark, solid gray. I purchased one of these recently—the old one is just fine, thank you, and ready to be bequeathed to my progeny—making me look less like a lumberjack and more like Albert Camus in his French Resistance mode. I have yet to see how the new gray hides blood drippings from a dead duck, but it certainly covers the occasional coffee stain.