Category: Article

This summer, those trapped in the concrete jungle seek relief by wearing nature on their T-shirts. Hot styles include a silhouetted flock of birds hovering over an oak tree, and baroque, often airbrushed, images of dense forests and meadow grasses. As one who rode the crest of this trend, how does botanist-cum-T-shirt designer Sarah Nassif react? “I was really bummed at first,” said the thirty-four-year-old, who, three years ago, turned her passions for plants and apparel into a business called Rectangle Designs. “But,” she added, “images of plants have always figured into textile design, which I think is an interesting almanac of what’s going on.”

Nassif, whose goods are found in boutiques nationwide (including the Design Collective in Uptown and Truly… in White Bear Lake), points out that she is “focused on reproducing actual images from nature—not sketching.” That’s why she carries a digital camera, whether she’s hiking along the West River Parkway in her Minneapolis neighborhood or traipsing about her hometown of Portland, Oregon. Her favorite subjects include ginkgo trees (“They’re sort of ancient, like a living fossil”) and Queen Anne’s lace. She converts her digital images into monotones, then manually screen-prints them onto canvas clutches, soft cotton tees, and, recently—in keeping with the current fashions—extra-long tanks. But Nassif’s love of nature doesn’t extend to a taste for humdrum hues like “oatmeal” and “buff.” Her latest collection pairs black with magenta and even buttercup yellow over lavender. “I think Mother Nature would approve of these not-seen-in-nature color combinations,” she said. —Christy DeSmith

Chiropractors were the first to sound the alarm. Now, some women have answered by tossing aside their gargantuan handbags in favor of miniature versions. Clutches seem to be the most popular of these pint-sized purses; after all, they represent the natural progression from big to small, as their shapeless, hobo-esque forms echo that of the steadfastly popular duffel. Itsy-bitsy alpaca bags and billfolds with hand-stitched embroidery and beadwork are also popular around these parts, as are molded leather “box” bags and pocketbooks attached to shoulder straps.

While this new smattering of small bags will do much to appease the spinal specialists, a further development in fashion forecasting takes this load-lightening trend in a whole new direction. Not so long ago, any self-respecting woman would have recoiled from the thought of wearing something outré as the posture-friendly fanny pack. This summer, however, the area’s forward-looking boutiques are stocking up on the belted pouches in anticipation of a fall comeback. Rest assured: These will not be fanny packs of the Velcro, nylon, and neon varieties. Rather, the season’s most fetching models sport muted tones and come replete with heavy-metal adornments like oversized buckles and coin-purse clasps, just like their monster-bag counterparts.

Read Christy DeSmith’s fashion blog, Hook & Eye.

Any good businessperson knows that if you want to cultivate a certain type of clientele, you meet with them on their own turf. Jodi Livon, a psychic medium who has counseled movers and shakers in the corporate world for the past twenty-five years, offices not in some shabby storefront, but at The Atria, a plush office building in Plymouth. She focuses her practice on powerful people, she says, because their actions are likely to affect many others. On this bright June afternoon, she trained her intuitive powers on me. Put together like an attorney in a smart Ann Taylor black dress, pearls, and stylish pumps, she asked me to state my full name and the address of my workplace, and to hand her a copy of this magazine. As she proceeded to describe in vague terms the kinds of dynamics and issues that could apply to many workplaces, I maintained a healthy journalistic skepticism. But then she delved into personal matters—intimate details about my children, former girlfriends, and my long-ago past—that she couldn’t have possibly ascertained through Google (or even, for that matter, through a really good private investigator). In the following interview, Livon’s first, the corporate psychic discusses life, death, and getting along with your boss.

Why isn’t your name listed on the door?
Many of my clients wouldn’t feel comfortable if others saw them walking through a door that said, “Jodi Livon, Intuitive Coach,” which is what I call myself.

Why do you focus on corporate types?
The office setting is where people in positions of power feel comfortable. I want to reach as many people as I can. Whether it’s two people or a thousand, when you run a business you are affecting many others; you are in a position to raise the energy vibration for everybody.

So you want to touch large numbers of people through their bosses. Who are some of these powerful people you’ve worked with?
I have more conservative white-collar clients than you would expect: a lot of well-known attorneys, judges, and physicians, people who work for Fortune 500 companies. Also many small-business owners—massage therapists, people who own hair salons.

Do people ask you very specific money questions, such as what the stock market is going to do tomorrow?
I would never tell them.

Do you know?
I don’t want to know. I don’t gamble; that’s not what this is for. That’s such an abuse. I would never give that information out.

What are some of the challenges people bring to you?
A big complaint is “I don’t like my boss. I don’t think he sees who I am, and what I have to offer.” They’re focusing on this and guess what happens: The boss doesn’t see them, and doesn’t recognize what they have to offer. I suggest that people focus on the positive things their bosses do, and then those things get bigger. I tell them to take the emotion out of it. It isn’t about who likes who. It’s about getting the job done.

That sounds close to what one might hear from a job counselor or self-help book. But what do you do as a psychic to help people in their careers?
I teach people to trust their gut, to use their intuition as they make decisions. One client was a physician. Everything about the tests he had performed on a pregnant patient seemed to point to a normal birth. But he told me he had this funny feeling that led him to the decision to perform a C-section. It turned out that the umbilical cord was wrapped around the child’s neck so many times that with a vaginal birth that child might not have made it. Naturally, this doctor backed it up before going ahead with the surgery, but the course of action he chose began with an intuitive feeling.

Are you familiar with The Secret, the best-seller that advocates using the power of thought to get what you want?
I am, and I think there are some pieces dangerously missing from it. Intuition shouldn’t be about manifesting things; it’s about manifesting peacefulness.

When did you first realize you had these intuitive abilities?
When I was twelve I started to see that not everybody could sense other people’s energy the way that I did. I could feel energies of people who had crossed over—it just creeped me out.

How did you experience that?
I saw dead relatives in front of me.

People you knew?
Sometimes yes, sometimes no. I didn’t understand it. I would hear something one of these dead relatives said, and I would repeat it out loud, and my parents would freak out and say, “How did you know that?”

Do you see dead people as ghosts or as human beings?
It’s almost like a clear cutout, a mist. I can hear them, I can smell them, and I can feel them.

Should we fear death?
Not at all. It’s peaceful. In all the years I’ve been doing readings, I’ve never had anybody come over from the other side and say it’s horrible over there.

Did you have other types of paranormal experiences as a child?
I tried the Ouija board and it went completely crazy. People always wanted to do the Ouija board with me, but I stopped. It didn’t feel right because it was pulling from dark energy. Stay away from Ouija boards.

Have you had any particularly scary experiences?
I was in my first apartment—I was just eighteen —and all of a sudden I found myself on the ceiling and I saw someone else walking in my body below. I knew the energy in my body was male and was dead. After that I realized I needed to do some very serious work; I was too open and vulnerable.

What did he do while he was in your body?
He was enjoying being able to walk around. He seemed to be looking for some coffee or booze.

You must have had liberal hippie parents, right?
No [laughs]. I grew up in a very conservative family. In a very conservative neighborhood.

What were you like as a teenager?
I was sort of a freak at Golden Valley High. I was teased mercilessly because I had big, fat, frizzy hair, and I did my own thing.

Do your children share your abilities?
They are very psychic, which is really a handful to deal with. One is eight, one is seven, and one is four, and they talk about dead people. They say Mommy, I know people live again. And Mommy, when I knew you before…, and Mommy, when I come back….

Do you ever have a client come in for a reading who ends up saying, “I think you’re full of shit”?
Yeah, people have. They don’t do it so much anymore because I’ve become so comfortable with my abilities. I’ll just look at them like this [she gives a cold, steady glare] and they shut up.

[Aquarium bubbling] … [chairs squeaking] … [computer keys clicking] … These sounds are indications of productivity at CaptionMax, Inc., the Midwest’s only closed-captioning company. 

Long before CaptionMax moved into their capacious digs in Minneapolis’s Warehouse District, founder and president Max Duckler earned his first entrepreneurial dollar (in 1993), just months after installing captioning software onto a computer in his five-year-old son’s bedroom.

Duckler is a soft-spoken but self-assured man who started out as a video editor in the 1980s. He read an article in an obscure periodical about closed-captioning and proposed the idea to his superior, who said Duckler could work on it independently if he wished. Closed-captioning became a requirement for new broadcast programs after congress mandated it in 1996, and demand for his services multiplied.

“After a while I bought my own equipment, and within a few years CaptionMax was earning about five times the revenue that the editing place was,” Duckler recalled. “Never underestimate a small idea.”

At CaptionMax headquarters, editor Jonathan Quijano, his curly hair jutting haphazardly around his headphones, stopped typing to stretch in his low-slung chair. “I prefer the laid-back approach,” he said with an off-kilter grin. Quijano’s computer screen was split into areas with a column of captions trailing down the left side, a video window on the bottom right, and a frame-by-frame view across the top. Although Quijano sported a yellow button-down over his slacks, the dress code around the office is casual. “I tell people what I do is something like postproduction,” he said, “and they always go, ‘Postproduction? Oh. Ooooh.’”

Most of the twenty or so captioners at CaptionMax are, like Quijano, eclectic, youngish adults, with English or journalism degrees, who transcribe and edit closed-captions for various television networks. Programs range from televangelist broadcasts and classic westerns to experimental films and quilting shows. Employee Amanda Johansen, who sits behind Quijano, expounded on a Star Wars documentary she had just proofread. “It was such a weird show, especially the part where scientists were analyzing Darth Vader’s gastronomy. They were speculating on what his poop looked like. It was really bizarre.”

CaptionMax workers adorn the facility with lighthearted odds and ends. In the kitchen, a plastic ostrich stood on the fridge. Next to the coffeepot, an illustrated CPR instructional poster from the 1990s showed two plastic-looking individuals giving mouth-to-mouth. A printout taped above the poster proclaimed, “Let David Hasselhoff And Leona Helmsley Show You How To Save Lives!” And as an unabashed tribute to the nerdiness of wordiness, Magnetic Poetry captions were scattered across the side of the fridge, arranged in such profundities as “tiny weak man spank sad monkey,” and “do not eat the girl jelly.”

The CaptionMax team would argue that their casual approach doesn’t leak over into the captions. When it comes to business, word generation is painstakingly thorough. “The first thing people want to know about my job is if I’m one of those ‘live-typers’,” Quijano said, referring to what are called “real-time captioners.” Another coworker chimed in, “They want to know if we’re the ones who make all the mistakes on-screen.”

The editors that work in-house actually are not real-time, but instead, offline captioners; they transcribe shows that have not yet aired. Consequently, they have time to formulate precise captions complete with character identifications and juiced-up sound-effect descriptions. A well-placed “[spooky foreboding music]” adds atmosphere to the cult ’80s drama series “The Equalizer.” A timely “[thud]” emphasizes one of Evander Holyfield’s classic knockouts.

The captioners don’t always generate words quietly. Oftentimes they battle over them. Should it be “awhile” or “a while”? “Above ground” or “aboveground”? Should a comma follow the word “so”? Should “Frisbee” be capitalized?

“We can definitely get into arguments about grammar,” Johansen confessed. A handful of designated proofers, including Johansen, advanced through the editorial ranks while building up a plethora of punctuation and style rules. They oversee final episode files and decide what rules to add to the CaptionMax “Manual of Bling.”

Near the end of their shift, caption editors exchanged playful ribbing and grabbed mini Snickers bars from the candy bowl. One guy wheeled his bike into the elevator as noises of [drawers clicking shut] and [footsteps thumping] peppered the air. Eventually there would be [no audio] until the next morning at Minneapolis’s one and only word factory.

When I was at home, I was in a better place.
—Shakespeare, As You Like It

“I’m somewhere in a godforsaken rainforest on the north coast of West Papua, Indonesia, and I’m ready to get the hell out of here.” So begins Michael Behar’s “The Selling of the Last Savage,” which originally appeared in Outside magazine and eventually turned up in the 2006 volume of the annual Best American Travel Writing series. You’ll notice Behar’s use of the first-person point of view, the clear suggestion of a masochistic impulse, and the use of the present tense. These characteristics are all now pretty much standard features of a certain subgenre of travel narrative.

Travel writing is a curious, and increasingly risky, business. Not that long ago (2004, actually), Pico Iyer, one of its most successful and respected practitioners, observed that “American travel is about looking for the light.” It’s frankly hard to know what to make of such an odd statement, given much of what has been packaged as travel literature in the early years of the twenty-first century.

Reading through a batch of The Best American Travel Writing anthologies—six of them over a period of a couple months—was a disorienting experience, to say the least. Alongside breezy accounts of what might properly be characterized as larks or rambles (riding the bus in New York City, a road trip along Route 66, pigging out in Iceland, spending the night in Central Park) are perilous and disheartening dispatches that go well beyond the merely exotic to the truly terrifying. There was a below-deck report of a doomed boat packed with Haitian refugees; a story of slaughter in Uganda; an account of the horrific ecological disaster at Karakalpakistan (“a place of almost unimaginable misfortune”); not to mention numerous tales involving murder and child abduction and war. You can’t help but notice that the sense of discovery that was once such a staple of travel writing has given way to what Jamaica Kincaid, in her introduction to the 2005 edition, gently called a “sense of displacement.”

Paul Theroux, in his own introduction to the BATW 2001, goes to some lengths to mark the changes that have taken place in travel writing in a world that exists in a now-permanent state of limbo between post- and pre-catastrophe. The response of a new generation of intrepid travel writers has been to wade into the teeth of such catastrophes, to report on what they see in such places that have been changed (for the worse) beyond recognition.

“It is not hyperbole to say there are no Edens anymore,” Theroux writes. “We live on a violated planet. Travelers are witnesses to change and decay, and when they write we are entertained and sometimes enlightened. But the mode of expression, like the world, has changed.” To write about that changed world, Theroux contends, requires “a different sensibility and different expectations.”

He goes on to explain the myriad ways that travel writing has changed since the days when writers went abroad or rambled far afield in search of indolence, civilization, the remnants of fading cultures, or a relatively benign sort of exotic adventure—which was virtually always seen through the wide and incredulous eyes of Westerners on holiday. Travel writing today, Theroux says, “is not about vacations or holidays, not an adjunct to the public relations industry.” Nor is it, he contends, “necessarily tasteful, perhaps not even factual, and seldom about pleasure.” This relatively new breed of travel writers, and this disturbing and increasingly prevalent strain of travel narrative, is a product of a “postmodern view of travel as adversity,” and its proponents most often drag themselves to the ends of the earth in search of “hellish places” and “a rewarding misery.”

Keath Fraser, in his introduction to an anthology of travel writing called Bad Trips, spells out this new paradigm thusly: “Without fear, travel has no meaning.” Adds Jason Wilson, the series editor of BATW, “We are all tourists now, and there is no escape.”

Banks are about delayed gratification: today’s pleasure denied for a better tomorrow. And hotel restaurants often aren’t about gratification at all: You are a stranger in a strange town, you’re tired, you’re hungry and you’re on an expense account, so why not just eat here? But Bank, the upscale dining room in the new Westin Hotel in downtown Minneapolis, offers ample hedonistic gratifications in a stunning setting: The WPA-era lobby of the former Farmers and Mechanics Bank, with its high ceilings, copper chandeliers, and dark wood-paneled walls, has been transformed into an elegant and romantic dining space.

The menu gets a bit too cute, listing entrées as “long-term interest” and appetizers as “shared currency,” but chef Todd Stein’s “modern American” cuisine is impressive. Stein, formerly executive chef at Chicago’s highly rated MK, incorporates French technique and Asian accents in dishes such as wok-steamed mussels served in a subtle Kaffir lime broth; five-spice rubbed duck breast with frisée, mizuna, and poached egg; and spit-roasted Berkshire pork with apple-braised pork belly, poached leeks and Chinese long beans.

The salmon tartar is the love child of Japanese sushi and French steak tartar (which itself originated with Tartar horsemen who thundered across the steppes with raw meat under their saddles). Stein’s nuanced rendition combines the salmon with mango and avocado and pairs that with a tuna poke (pronounced pok-eh), a Hawaiian dish of marinated raw fish prepared with pine nuts, apple, sesame, chili, and mint; both are presented on silver tasting spoons.

At its best, the taste experience is sublime. The poached lobster and risotto croquettes with truffle butter are a marvel of contrasting textures and subtle flavors; the lamb with braised white beans and ratatouille is more robust but no less satisfying. The grilled salmon with spring asparagus, ramps, and trumpet royale mushrooms lost a few points for excessive charring, but was otherwise a delightful springtime dish. Among the few off-notes were scallops lacking the sweet succulence of the very best, and deviled eggs with sturgeon and tobiko caviar that were just ho-hum. The wine list is pricey (mostly $40-plus), with limited choices by the glass. Breakfast runs $7-$16, lunch $9-14, and dinner entrees $21-$32. 88 Sixth St. S., Minneapolis, 612-656-3255; www.bankmpls.com

It’s hard to find a decent Shiraz in Shiraz these days, but that doesn’t mean that the Iranians have stopped drinking. (A popular joke: “Under the Shah, we drank in public and prayed in private; now it’s the other way around.”) But you can find some very drinkable Shirazes and first-rate Persian cuisine in stylish surroundings at the new Shiraz Fire Roasted Cuisine. Many dishes are Persian versions of familiar Middle Eastern fare—hummus, stuffed grape leaves, and kabobs of beef and chicken. More adventuresome diners may want to try the gormeh sabzi, a tart stew of beef, kidney beans, and preserved lemon; or the fazenjoon, chicken and ground walnuts in a pomegranate sauce. Best bets include eggplant mirza with tomato and garlic; the chicken koubideh; the beef kabobs; skewers of coarsely ground chicken seasoned with saffron; and the bastani, Persian ice cream flavored with rosewater. Vegetarians, though, should stay away unless they want to make a meal of hummus. Entrées run $10-$14. 6042 Nicollet Ave. S., Minneapolis; 612-861-5500.