Category: Blog Post

  • A Rakish Interview with Best-Selling Author Darin Strauss

    "If you don’t belong to a book club," Ron Charles wrote in The Washington Post last week, "Darin Strauss’s bitter and brilliant new novel is reason enough to start one." The novel – Strauss’s third – marks a departure from the author’s previous books, both of which were (somewhat incidentally) historical fiction. More Than It Hurts You sets us in über-modern Long Island, a place where George Clooney, Austin Powers, and "Everybody Loves Raymond" all figure into the collective consciousness (while Fitzgerald and Tolstoy hide in the shadows).

    The book finds its thematic center in a rare disease called Munchausen by Proxy, in which a mother will harm her child to get attention for herself. Playing out the drama are three principal characters: Dori Goldin, the young mother accused of Munchausen; her unknowing husband Josh; and Dr. Darlene Stokes, an African American physician who suspects foul play when Dori brings her infant into the ER.

    As their lives tangle in the courtroom and in the press, morals are trumped by flashy headlines, and relationships become so clouded that Josh doesn’t know whether to trust the doctor or his wife. Before long, More Than It Hurts You transcends its storyline, as the syndrome becomes symptomatic of something larger – America’s masochistic obsession with attention in general, and the ramifications thereof.

    The Rake: All your novels have a vital thematic resonance to them. In Chang and Eng, for example, Eng wants to physically detach himself from his brother; meanwhile it’s set during the American Civil War – two halves of the same country with one wanting to secede. More Than it Hurts You contains several of these resonant components…Are these ideas you develop before you start, or do they progress as you write?

    Strauss: I just sort of write, and then figure out what the book’s about. Typically I write a hundred pages, and then see what I’ve got, and throw out stuff that’s not useful. With this one, I was just grabbed by the story of Munchausen by Proxy. My first two books I just sort of ended up with historical fiction – I wasn’t planning to be a historical fiction author, though. I was just going after stories that could engage me for three hundred pages, for three years.

    If you pick a rich subject matter, the themes figure themselves out. You find resonances in the book you hadn’t planned on, and then in the second or third draft you can eke them out. Otherwise, if you try to plan them all out beforehand, you can seem like you’re theme-mongering.

    The Rake: What’s perhaps most remarkable about More Than It Hurts You – what a lot of critics are praising it for – is its mashing together of both highbrow and lowbrow styles. Was that your intent from the get-go?

    Strauss: I wanted to set out to prove that you could write a literary novel that’s also a page-turner. I didn’t want to make it a cheesy genre book, but you know, it can be literary and an enjoyable read at the same time. I remember this quote from Updike, where he said that, ever since Melville, writing’s been broken down into two camps. There’s the Dreiser camp, which has the plots, and there’s the Henry James camp, with the finely wrought prose, and Melville kind of joined those two streams, but nobody else really has since then. I was thinking a lot about that.

    Also, I was thinking a lot about Updike when I was writing this. I wanted to make it kind of like the Rabbit books, where you have a theme, or a hook, that keeps popping up. Like the second Rabbit book – Rabbit Redux – has the moon landing as this big news story, but Updike just uses that as a platform to study what’s going on in America. That’s what I was trying to do: To use this kind of page-turner-y condition – Munchausen – because it’s a standard story of a child in jeopardy.

    But then also it says a lot of interesting things about our culture, like about what people will do just to get attention. Munchausen really only happens in rich countries, like the U.S. and the U.K., and I don’t think it’s a coincidence that these are the countries with the ridiculous reality TV shows. And so I wanted to use that as the engine of the book. But I also wanted to examine bigger subjects of America like gender and race and class. Then I thought it would be interesting if the doctor was black and the family was white. I thought it would be interesting if the family went to the press, and the doctor couldn’t defend herself. And that’s when it started drawing me in.

    The Rake: The most apparent theme of the book is that of acting versus living, and I wonder if you’d speak a little bit about that, in terms of how you see it in the real world.

    Strauss: It’s just the culture now. I tried to be careful about not overwriting the point, but I wanted it in there. It was more of a vague idea than something I wanted to hit people over the head with. I remember this line from Saul Bellow, who said that it’s better for a writer to have a vague idea than a fully formed one.

    But yeah, I kind of thought that’s the way we go through life now, with crying for attention the way Dori does, and the whole reality TV culture, and always thinking you’re acting in some movie that other people are watching.

    The Rake: With all the pop-culture references – George Clooney, Kanye West, "Everybody Loves Raymond" – your intent was clearly to make this book as current as it could possibly be. Some of the observations, though, have turned out to be kind of prescient.

    Strauss: A couple reviewers have said that the character of Darlene Stokes personifies both Barack Obama’s campaign and Hillary Clinton’s campaign, because it deals with race and gender. So I got kind of lucky that this presidential season happened when the book was coming out. And in the novel Darlene is attacked for some group she may or may not have belonged to in college – and I saw something recently where people were going after Michele Obama for some African American organization she belonged to in college. And the Reverend Wright stuff reminded me of the way, in the book, they go after Darlene for having a father who’s got a shady past. So it’s been very interesting to watch all that play out.

    As I wrote the book, I felt these things bubbling under the surface in America, but by the time the book came out, they weren’t under the surface anymore. I turned it in before Obama was even ahead in the polls – he had actually just announced he was running.

    And I also wrote the media stuff before the Duke lacrosse case, which my wife, a journalist for Newsweek, covered. I went with her to a lot of TV things, and I got to see backstage how the race issue plays out in the press, which was interesting because it was exactly what I was writing about at the time. It was gratifying – I felt like I got it right.

    The Rake: And then there have been coincidences within your personal life, too.

    Strauss: There are a number of coincidences. I started writing this book four years ago, and I didn’t know I was even going to have kids. And Zach, the child in the book, is eight months old when the story starts, and my kids were eight months when it came out.

    The Rake: Oooooooooooh…

    Strauss: Ha. Yeah — and I wrote a book about twins and now I have twins…And our twins were premature, so I had to read the proofs of the book in the baby ICU. So I’m reading this chapter about the hospital, while I’m in the hospital, and that was very weird, because I was reading a description of a beeping hospital room filled with babies, and there I was sitting in a beeping hospital room filled with babies, and that was really just kind of incredible.

    [For a continuation of this interview, click here to see The Rake‘s "Cracking Spines" blog]

    Darin Strauss is the author of the international bestseller Chang and Eng and the New York Times Notable Book The Real McCoy. His work has been translated into fourteen languages. The recipient of a 2006 Guggenheim Fellowship in fiction writing, he lives in Brooklyn, and teaches writing at New York University.

  • Kid Dakota at Triple Rock

    One might think it is Sting or the second coming of KISS, I mean Christ, or some other hugely popular international act packing the Triple Rock this past Saturday night. The room is awash in colored patterns, setting the evening up for a fierce Stripes v. Plaids / Sharks v. Jets rock and roll rumble. But the cocktail-clutchers and the Pabst-proffers are anxiously awaiting four local bands. The Minneapolis music scene is geared for explosion, and it’s hard to believe one of the masterminds is a gentleman quietly hunched over an acoustic guitar.

    When Darren Jackson, better known as the leader of Kid Dakota, isn’t sending his emotionally raw songs lassoing through the air, he is perched behind his recording console, twisting knobs, fiddling with levels and crafting the sound of many of the city’s biggest shiners. He has produced 20 albums in the last year and a half, of the likes of Bella Koshka and Vicious Vicious. Since opening his studio, Jackson has been a catalyst to the scene, playing the role of the mysterious man behind the green curtain. But Jackson has held many roles, one being part-time musician, full-time office drone.

    "I was working at the University of Minnesota running reports, just office bullshit. It was a means to an end. It was me for six years," Jackson says. "And the whole time I was there I was acquiring studio gear to build a studio. So about 2006, I got my studio up and running and I quit my job and I started working on that record [A Winner’s Shadow] and then started recording other people… and then started recording other people."

    That was the obstacle, Jackson says. He spent so much time wiling away in the studio working on other bands’ music that he had to put his personal passions on the back burner.

    "Pretty soon I was just working every day recording other people. I had no time to work on my own record," he says. "I was working with five or six at a time. I started putting their interests over my own."

    This March Jackson finally finished his two-year effort, third album A Winner’s Shadow. It was, he says, "utter relief." But his focus has not been in vain, when considering his output and momentum as a producer. One such act he produced, Aviette, is celebrating its CD release at the show.

    Aviette is a slow-moving, deeply vibrating machine. Singer Holly Munoz’ smooth alto is sleek and flirty. Justin Hartke’s bass is deep and rumbling. Aviette can be powerful, but tends to enjoy the demure, with mid-tempo swooners lollygagging on the subject of heartbreak.

    Joining Aviette on the bill is The Alarmists, one of Minneapolis’ most hyped acts. Largely the band’s title is fitting. Their psych sound lobs one leg on each side of the pop/rock border and behaves like Brian Jonestown Massacre or The Warlocks riding high on a shot of candy-coated peppermints. Only, the pieces don’t quite yet fit together. Live, the vocals shudder with pop punk’s nasally intonations and stand in opposition to the music’s wave of psychedelia. But the keyboards save it. Jorge Raasch’s set-up consists of three keyboards, from which he elicits Motown ivory-pounding, church chorus chords and ultra-fuzz. With some fine-tuning, The Alarmists’ sound will only get better.

    And then comes Kid Dakota, playing to a hushed landscape of faces.

    "I think the quiet acoustic drove all the noisy people away," Jackson jokes to the thinned crowd. His bare acoustic filters out other distractions, sending the people who want beer-swilling party music in search of Cedar Avenue’s plethora of seedy bars.

    Jackson sings about what he knows, a sepia-tinted childhood in South Dakota, Minnesota, its ten thousand lakes and the Weather Channel. The haunting melodies and sparse guitar make listeners feel like they are pulled into his inner sanctum of pure thoughts and tones. This stripped down version of Jackson’s music is primitive and emotional. His baritone can be thunderous; it can also evaporate like whispers. Tonight he is just a man, not work-weary producer. He sits, just him and his guitar on a lonely, dark stage, a capo his only adornment. The curtain is drawn.

  • Paddy Costello & Lori Barbero Play the Hits!

    NIGHTCLUBS

    Triple Double



    This new(ish) weekly party
    is a far cry from the Triple Rock Tuesdays of years past. If you’ve
    ever been to the Trip’s long-running 2-4-1 night, you surely have heard
    N.W.A.’s "F$#k tha Police" played on the jukebox one (or a hundred) too many times. No more! The boys from Burlesque of North America,
    along with pals from Familia Skateshop, Head to Toe, Modern Radio
    Records, and Fifth Element are throwing super-fresh dance parties with
    some of the cities hottest DJs every week. T-Rock purists, don’t be
    alarmed – aside from a few neon bandanas, the crowd is virtually the
    same – scruffy punks, indie rockers, and hipsters all looking for strong drinks.
    Tonight’s line up features a slew of local legends – Paddy Costello (of
    Dillinger 4), Lori Barbero (of Babes in Toyland) and DJ Anton. Through
    the month of July, Triple Double will feature other rad DJs such as Last Word, Mike the 2600 King, and Michael Cina. Too good to be true!



    9pm, Triple Rock Social Club, 629 Cedar Ave., West Bank Minneapolis, Free




    Want to meet singles (and have 2-4-1’s) in a slightly classier environment? Try Silver + Gold every Tuesday at Clubhouse Jager!

    ART

    Together in the Darkness



    I’ve been really impressed by the cooler-than-cool exhibits at the American Swedish Institute lately. As if Fit for a Queen: Nobel Gowns of H.M. Queen Silvia of Sweden isn’t a reason to go in itself, the folks at ASI double up on cool with Together in the Darkness, a
    rockin’ photography exhibit in the lower level gallery space. This
    exhibit features a black and white documentary study of Sweden’s rock
    n’ roll culture by Stefan Peterson. Winner of the 2006 Lilly Lorénzen
    Scholarship, Peterson was able to study photography at Sigtuna
    Folkhögskola, north of Stockholm, where he began his obsession of
    capturing the underground Swedish music scene. But make no mistake,
    Peterson is no stranger to rock photography – this local up-and-comer
    has not only been a staff photographer for many publications, but he’s
    also published his own book of live music photography. Top that!



    Runs through August 3rd, noon to 4pm today, American Swedish Institute, 2700 Park Avenue, Minneapolis, $6


    MUSIC
    Bootsy Collins: A Tribute to James Brown



    Get down! The legendary Bootsy Collins
    and friends rock the Minnesota Zoo tonight, honoring the epic career
    and talent of the late James Brown – who ironically gave Collins his
    first big break in the music biz back in 1970. As part of Brown’s
    backup band, The J.B.’s, who played on some of Brown’s most famous
    albums on unforgettable tunes such as "Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine", "Super Bad", and "Soul Power",
    no one can question Collin’s qualifications! This eccentric funk
    pioneer will definitely school you on soul and dazzle you with his
    amazing stage presence. Not to mention, the Minnesota Zoo is an awesome
    place to listen to live music, and if you get there early enough there
    just might be a few cute animals lounging around too.



    7:30pm, Minnesota Zoo Ampitheater, 13000 Zoo Blvd, Apple Valley, $37

  • A Lesson in Futility

    At the end of July, I will be trekking to Montana to write a story about a man who lives on top of a mountain in the most remote corner of Glacier National Park.

    Since this dude literally lives on top of a mountain, I have to hike up hill for six straight miles (with an elevation gain of 3,000 feet) through grizzly bear infested wilderness just to talk to him. I’ve hired a professional Twin Cities photographer named John McCambridge to shoot the story.

    As our journey draws closer, I recently fretted to McCambridge about how in fact are two bumbling idiots like us going to make it up a god damn mountain?

    "The only thing I’m carrying up there is a camera and my will to live,” McCambridge jokingly replied. Easy for him to say. He’s built like one of those wild Scotsmen from the movie “Braveheart.”

    Me on the other hand, well, I just kind of…suck. In an attempt to not die on the mountain, I started exercising to get ready for the journey.

    I thought I’d start with a bike ride around the Chain of Lakes in Minneapolis. The last time I rode a bike in earnest was when I looked like Duane Allman and played hacky sack in the oval of the University of Montana. This is to say it was a lifetime ago. I hooked up the kid carriage on the back of my bike, loaded up my son and his cousin Elliot, and off we went.

    Within two blocks of my house, the wind was so violent it was as if I were pedaling in soup. Then the two kids started chirping.
    “Where are we going? Do you like elephants? Who’s Darth Maul? Can we have treats at wherever you are taking us? Why are you going so slowly? Why is your skin purple?” It felt like I was carrying those two old crumudginey bastards from the Muppet Show on my back. The biking was a bad call. Hated the bike.

    So I started jogging. The next day, I put my son in the stroller and we headed down to Lake Harriet. I began the jog with a little trot. But after only a few feet, I realized that pushing a forty pound kid and trying to run really, really blows. In a miracle from God, I made it to the concession stand where I quickly bought my son a box of the famous Lake Harriet popcorn (which is basically buttered flavored crack rock) to shut him up. As I started jogging again, several packs of beautiful people sprinted past me. These little clicks of runners –all dressed in their fancy sweat wicking shirts and flowing shorts– were so annoying I wanted to hockey fight them right in the path. They passed me at full speed and gobbled up miles like Pac-Man eating up dots. The worst part was that they were casually talking the entire time they ran. I, on the other hand, looked like Chris Farley choking on a pork chop.

    Near the beach, I ran into my dad. Big Smitty was doing the half running/half walking thing where the person moves with an odd tightness, not quite sure if they should run slower or walk faster. In my dad’s case, he just looked like a man trying to hold a poop in. When he saw me jogging towards him, a look of bewilderment came across his face.

    “What the hell are you doing?” he asked.

    “I’m jogging. Trying to get in shape for my Montana trip,” I said.

    “You gonna need more than that,” he said. The iPod that I bought him two weeks ago dangled off his pocket. I preloaded the thing with 200 of his favorite songs so that he could rock out as he exercised. It was nice to see him using it. He fiddled with the iPod and said, “Hey, how do I get this thingy to play a different song. All it plays is Mustang Sally.”

    I took a look at the iPod and realized that somehow my dad had screwed the menu up so badly that he’d been listening to Otis Redding’s “Mustang Sally” on repeat for two straight weeks. I clicked a few options on the menu and got it working. He trotted off, his butt turtling a poo, singing some sunny Beach Boys song. The whole scene made me chuckle and it got me through the last grueling mile. I guarantee that Big Smitty, at least once, had gotten so frustrated by his new iPod and its lame ability to only play one song that he turned the thing upside down and smacked it like Fonzi trying to fix something.

    I asked some twenty year olds at my work to make me some music mixes to run to. On one mix it was all whiny British guys and the other featured growling white chicks. I was really grooving to this one mix (titled “Two Forty Gordy,” a sly reference to fat people) when all of a sudden the up tempo rock music went off and there were five straight songs of slow folk music. This would be fine if you were sitting in a coffee shop, but I was sweating my ass off trying to make it up the Newton Avenue hill. I asked the kid who made it why on earth would he slow down the music on an exercise mix?

    “It was for your cool down period, bro,” he told me. “Like the circuit training at Lifetime Fitness.” Cool down? What the hell is a cool down? I was going old school on this exercise shit. I simply was going to run until I fell over. I don’t think Rocky was listening to the soft melodies of “Teghan and Sarah” when he was in Russia carrying logs in the deep snow.

    After a few weeks, I was feeling good. Although my frantic Alaskan sled dog running style led many of my neighbors to believe that I was being chased by something, things started to pick up. I could jog for longer stretches without feeling like my lungs were going to explode.

    On a recent afternoon jog, I ran past the Milo’s sandwich shop in Linden Hills and saw McCambridge the photographer completely going to town on a sub the size of a muffler. His cheeks were stuffed full and he could hardly talk. Then I realized something: I don’t have to be in shape at all for our journey up the mountain. I will just let the big guy go first up the hill and let him be the pace car, nice and steady. And if we do see a grizzly bear, all I have to do is be faster than McCambridge.

    I think I’m going to make it up that mountain after all. Just maybe not in one piece.

  • Lyre

    There are certain works of art the body wholly understands before the mind kicks in with its distancing powers of disembodied detachment and analysis. In the Twin Cities, there is very little art in the public realm — in what we now call "the commons"– that does this. Most public art, strained through the cheesecloth of three or four bureaucracies, is earnestly mediocre, almost by necessity. Much of what wins competitions is "plop art," dutifully commissioned to meet the tithing requirement for one-percent-for-art public building projects.

    I can think of a few exceptions –not many– where viscerally beautiful works have come to see the light of day as public art despite the pitfalls of the commissioning process. One of them is the Heilmaier Memorial Bandstand, by the artist and architect James Carpenter, the bandshell with the saddle-shaped roof of glass on Raspberry Island in the river off downtown St. Paul. Another (right nearby, actually) is the powerful "Floodwaters," the roiling torrents of cast bronze flanking the southern gateway to Harriet Island Park, by Jeffrey Kalstrom and Ann Klefstad. Yet another, a work beautiful against all odds, is one that was never primarily intended as sculpture but turned out to be more compelling to the senses than many things currently called that. It is the new Martin Olav Sabo Bike and Pedestrian Bridge that spans Hiawatha Avenue and the light rail tracks adjacent to it, just north of 26th Street in south Minneapolis.

    The Sabo Bridge, named in honor of the congressman who secured federal funding for the project, is of a type known as a "cable-stayed bridge." Although they employ cables, the mechanics of cable-stayed designs are different from those of suspension bridges like the Brooklyn or the Golden Gate. A display panel on the bike path’s western approach to the bridge explains the design principle. From an engineering standpoint, a cable-stayed design presented the most elegant solution to the problem of spanning six lanes of traffic and two sets of light rail tracks without having to resort to intermediate support pillars in the middle of the road. The design wasn’t imposed on the site; it was inspired by the site’s constraints.

    The first time I saw the bridge was when I drove under it one evening at dusk a few months before it was completed. Its structural logic made itself understood on first sight. I felt it right away in my bones, sensing the forces working through and upon it the way people sense the rightness of the lines of a boat. Every one of the elements, the incredible back-bent mast, the deck, the fanned-out cables, the backstays converging onto bulwarks rooted deep in the ground, gave expression to the insight of the biologist D’Arcy Thompson that "structure is a diagram of forces." The bridge’s structure correlates with something internal, with one’s felt understanding of the structural mechanics of one’s own body. The sensation of it being in some way analogous to the way you yourself are put together tempts me to call the bridge a work of figurative sculpture-abstract, but nonetheless a human-figural representation of the forces and counterforces; metaphorically, of a tug-of-war; a stevedore hoisting a pallet aloft with a block and tackle, a puppeteer, a fisherman casting a fly. It is what it is –a bridge– but it triggers a chain of associations. It arouses the imagination in ways that few works of public art seem able to do, inert with virtue as most of them are.

    Call it a bridge or call it a sculpture, the new Sabo bridge is an inspired work, a piece of lyric engineering in the tradition of such masters of structural music as Santiago Calatrava, Pier Luigi Nervi, Eero Saarinen, and Frei Otto. Its elegantly tapered steel mast, backbent at an angle almost equal and opposite to the angle of its massive, similarly tapered concrete footing below the bridge deck, is a form sprung from the soul of Brancusi. The bridge is a stirring sight as you approach and go under the deck by car or light rail, and it doesn’t disappoint up close, when you walk or ride a bike over it. It is lovingly detailed: the workmanship in the steel and concrete is rigorous and clean, the care of the contractors readable in the panoply of the hardware, in the tensioning turnbuckles, tie rods, and railing cables, in the dramatizing spotlights mounted alongside the protective rubber boots on the ends of the bridge cables where they connect to the deck, in the backstay cables as their sinews converge in massive connectors to the concrete footings on the ground below.


    Cyclists in colorful gear flash across the bridge like shuttles of a loom. The balusters of the bridge railings are shaped with a bend like the mast’s. The railings themselves—the thin tension cables that pass through the balusters–are like the lines of a musical staff. They make the balusters read like the bars on a musical score, and a little like the frets on a stringed instrument, which in a way this whole construct is. The bridge is a lyre, a harp strummed by the wind. Reach over the railing and touch one of the cables that hold up the span. You can feel it thrum.

  • Topless. Chicks. With Sticks.

    Like summer is upon us and will be gone faster than Flo Rida will be hot. With this in mind, I have to make a confession. I love women in convertibles (primarily) who shift their own cars. I want the summer streets filled with them.

    So.

    Here are my top three picks for the best mix of chicks and sticks forever.

    1) Porsche Cayman (not a drop top but hotter than milk chocolate on assphalt). I think this may be the hottest chick car of all time. Calling it Caychick might move even more of them (not that they need it).

    2) Alfa Spider. I dedicate this pick to Janet Car Chick Maximums Grangaard. You go girl.

    3) Porsche Turbo 1987 convertible. The first generation Turbos are some of the wildest, most unpredictable cars of all time. Reminds me of my girlfriend the first year out of college. She could drive cars. She could drive this Porsche. She drove men crazy (primarily) because they could not negotiate its manic, mephistophelean turbo lag.

    The woman was a devil.

    On that note, I generally feel that a chick with a stick will kick a "bad" (superaccentuated air parenthesis) boy with a toy any day of summer.

    Oi.

     

  • An Insatiable Lover

    We’ve been having some pretty ridiculously great weather lately. If I had a real job (sorry, Mom), I probably would have played hooky last week to go and hang out by one of the lakes. Instead I just read a bit by Calhoun, but without the sense of freedom (or guilt) of having emancipated myself from a necktie.

    Anyway. The poetic equivalent to our early summer comes, I think, in the verses of former U.S. poet laureate Billy Collins. Whenever I finish one of his poems, I just feel so damn pleasant afterwards.

    Maybe here’s why (from an interview with Collins conducted by The Cortland Review):

    Collins: Most of the devices used in poetry-meter and rhyme and assonance and the other kinds of tropes or effects-are really meant to give the ear pleasure in a way that prose does not. Poetry also appeals to the ear because poetry is an interruption of silence. A poem should be preceded by silence and followed by silence. A poem for me displaces silence the way your body displaces water.

    Or maybe here’s why (from an interview with Collins conducted by Terra Incognita):

    Collins: I am extremely reader-conscious, perhaps because I am tired of reading poems that seem to ignore the reader. I feel that I am talking to a reader/listener as I write, so that a good deal of my effort is just to make the poem clear. To get things in the right sequence so that the poem is easy to follow. Not just easy, but easy to follow because the poem is going somewhere, and I want the reader along to share whatever surprises the journey may hold. I try to begin the poem on a common ground, which is a way of assembling a little group around the campfire of the poem. Scoutmaster Collins will then tell some scary stories.

    Or maybe here’s why (from an interview with Collins conducted by Guernica):

    Collins: There’s a great pleasure in-I wouldn’t say ease, but maybe kind of a fascinated ease that accompanies the actual writing of the poem. I find it very difficult to get started. There are just long gaps where I can’t find a point of insertion, I can’t find a good opening line, I can’t find a mood that I want to write into. But once I do, once a line falls out of the air, or I get a little inkling of a subject and I recognize that, it’s like the sense that a game has started. Part of writing is discovering the rules of the game and then deciding whether to follow the rules or to break them. The great thing about the game of poetry is that it’s always your turn-I guess that goes back to my being an only child. So once it’s under way, there is a sense of flow.

    And now one of his poems. This is from his Nine Horses collection. (Click the link to buy it…)

    Aimless Love

    This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
    I fell in love with a wren
    and later in the day with a mouse
    the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

    In the shadows of an autumn evening,
    I fell for a seamstress
    still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
    and later for a bowl of broth,
    steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

    This is the best kind of love, I thought,
    without recompense, without gifts,
    or unkind words, without suspicion,
    or silence on the telephone.

    The love of the chestnut,
    the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

    No lust, no slam of the door –
    the love of the miniature orange tree,
    the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
    the highway that cuts across Florida.

    No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
    just a twinge every now and then

    for the wren who had built her nest
    on a low branch overhanging the water
    and for the dead mouse,
    still dressed in its light brown suit.

    But my heart is always propped up
    in a field on its tripod,
    ready for the next arrow.

    After I carried the mouse by the tail
    to a pile of leaves in the woods,
    I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
    gazing down affectionately at the soap,

    so patient and soluble,
    so at home in its pale green soap dish.
    I could feel myself falling again
    as I felt its turning in my wet hands
    and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

  • The Paintings Have Been Drinking (Not Me)

    Travel back with me, if you will for just a moment, to those happy, halcyon days of the year 2001. Oh, what a time to be a young American artist it was!

    The world waited breathlessly for the final bombshell in Matthew Barney’s Cremaster film cycle to drop (spoiler: Gary Gilmore did it!), and your hipper, richer, better-looking friends were cashing in their trust funds and moving en masse to some sort of Italian-speaking suburb of Manhattan called Williamsburg. Fashionable young men were rapidly perfecting the art of ironic facial hair, and their female counterparts had finally harnessed the unstoppable power of the knee-high boots/vintage skirt/wrinkled Mogwai t-shirt combination.

    Oh, what a time to be a young American artist it was!

    Amidst all of this excitement and bustle, your humble correspondent was an apple-cheeked 21-year old BFA candidate in Louisville, Kentucky, learning the twins arts of oil painting and quoting Foucault in the course of casual conversation (the latter being a skill set I still have yet to master). Like the rest of my newly-legal art school peers, I typically spent one or two Friday nights a month out viewing challenging video installations and half-baked performance art in the upstairs loft of a decrepit Clay Street warehouse or a little Frankfort Avenue storefront (the former being a favorite target of the Louisville Metro Police Department for repeatedly violating local noise ordinances).

    What was it that brought me out to those openings, weekend after weekend? Was it the thrill of newness? The excitement of being part of a community? The chance to hobnob with successful young emerging artists? The opportunity to meet prominent local gallery owners eager to display my crappy paintings of cigarette butts?

    Well, sort of. But not entirely. Truthfully, I was there mostly because these spaces usually served free Falls City Beer at their openings. I expect many of my peers were also there for the same reason.

    Now of course this isn’t the only reason I went to art openings in college. I was there to see some art, too. But if you’ve been involved in the art world in any capacity, you know this scenario well. It’s not Louisville, but maybe it’s Northeast Minneapolis, maybe it’s Lowertown St. Paul, maybe it’s Chelsea, maybe it’s whatever the arts quarter of your college town was called; but wherever it is, you know it.

    This is one of the first magical lessons of college: dude, they totally have free beer at art openings.

    If it’s not free beer, it’s free wine. And if you’re lucky, it’s free liquor. If it’s not free, it’s cheap. And if it’s not cheap, your friend working the bar will slip you a cup anyway. The point is, if you have an artsy bent and like to have a few drinks in you, there’s no better place to be than an opening on a Friday night. Openings and alcohol go hand-in-hand, like Gilbert and George, like Andy and Edie, like Jeff Koons and the feeling of wanting to punch Jeff Koons in the face.

    I began thinking about this after some rumblings in a few art blogs last month following the arrest of New York gallery owner Ruth Kalb during an opening at her gallery in the East Hamptons. The charge was violating liquor laws and entertaining without a license. Normally the goings-on of the Long Island art world have little interest to me personally, but this is really a universal theme. How many art openings have I been to that have been shut down by the cops for this very reason? Not a lot, but certainly a notable handful.

    Moreover, how many openings have I been to where someone got a little too drunk on the house wine and wanted to start a fight outside about the relative merits of shooting digital vs. Super-8? Or where the gallery owners had to kick someone out for sloshing their drinks a little too close to the artwork? Or where the aftermath of the night’s festivities was a catastrophic scene of discarded beer bottles, crumpled plastic cups and sticky spots on the floor? More than a few.

    Then again, there have been the many times when I’ve thanked the booze-soaked ghost of Jackson Pollock that I had a little cup of wine to look at the art with. Openings can be awkward, stifling affairs. People go to openings to see art, sure, but they also go for a multitude of non-art related reasons.

    People go to openings to see who else will be there. People are there to impress their friends and confound their rivals.

    People are clustered in unnatural little conversational groups – you’re spending a half-hour talking to that sculptor whose name you never remember, an adjunct professor you once had, your younger brother’s fiancée and that girl that works at the co-op, all at the same time. None of them have met each other. They all expect introductions.

    People are nervous. People want to look good because they may be photographed by The Minneapoline and get their pictures on the Internet. People want to look good because their ex-girlfriends will be there with their new, hotter boyfriends.

    Galleries can be stuffy and overheated in the summer and drafty in the winter, and a lot of the time it’s impossible to even see the art, much less form a coherent opinion about it because people are so crowded around it. If there is music, the music is loud and you have to shout over it. Even worse, the music may quite possibly be "experimental" in nature.

    You often have to seem smarter and/or cleverer than you may actually be.

    Needless to say, a little beer or wine in this context can be a godsend.

    It gives you something to look busy with if you’re by yourself, and gives you a little bit of impetus to talk to people with whom you might not otherwise think of much to talk about. It’s a scientifically-established principle that alcohol makes you smarter, or barring that, at least more confident about seeming smarter. Standing in front of a canvas with a little cup of wine in your hand feels right. It feels natural.

    From the gallery’s perspective, it can be helpful, too. It draws people in, for one. Healthy attendance numbers look good on those grant applications. If it’s a commercial gallery, a little libation gets people in the mood to buy. If the alcohol is donated, the gallery can even cover some additional costs in the process. No huge profit margins, obviously, but enough to make it worthwhile.

    I talked to the directors of a few Minneapolis galleries to get their take on the subject. Was serving alcohol at openings worth it? The general consensus, of course, was a qualified "yes." But within that consensus, there were a range of opinions. Everyone I spoke to wished to stay anonymous, for obvious reasons, so you’ll have to use your imaginations.

    There are some legal issues involved in serving alcohol, of course. Obviously, you can’t sell it without a license. Actually, legally, you can’t really even serve it without an entertainment license (you can read all the statutes yourself to your heart’s delight here on the city’s website). What you can do, though, is suggest a donation, and so this is the way most of the gallery
    owners I spoke to went about things. A lot of it really seems to be semantics – most galleries you’ll go to will have a posted sign asking for donations, and that covers some of the liability, anyway. Everyone was careful to stress that they run a clean house as far as underage boozing, outdoor drinking and slopped-out jerkiness are concerned. Young-looking types get carded, people aren’t permitted to wander around the street outside waving their beer bottles, and troublemakers get the boot. This generally keeps police and city inspectors away. As one owner pointed out, the cost of a license is a piddling little amount compared to attorney’s fees. Another even went so far as to regular hire off-duty cops to keep everything nice and legit for larger, more heavily-attended openings.

    Legal issues aside, there are also the behavioral and trash disposal issues. Most owners here, as well, had specific strategies for making sure people have fun without landing everyone in the drunk tank or the Broken Bottle Fight Injuries Ward at HCMC. Openings occur for a specific and set amount of time, end before the neighbors start complaining, and filter out collectively to neighborhood bars afterwards so people have somewhere to go and finish the conversations they started. Everyone I spoke to recycles bottles and plastic.

    Basically, all gallery heads reported back to me that their crowds, though they do love the beer and wine, are pretty reasonable, intelligent people that aren’t there to bankrupt the gallery, start fistfights or urinate Phillips vodka on the video art set-ups. Mostly they come to see art, meet up with friends, and generally have a good experience. The setbacks are far outweighed by the benefits. An art opening is, in the end, about the art – if it was just about boozing, all of our local gallery runners would be nightclub entrepreneurs instead. This is as it should be. Because let’s face it: Minneapolis, to her eternal credit, has much better galleries than it does nightclubs.

    So enjoy your beer and/or art this weekend, and just make sure the empty bottle makes its way to the recycling bin.

  • Storytime at The Guthrie

    PERFORMANCE

    Studio Stories: Kevin Kling and John McCutcheon



    Engaging storyteller Kevin Kling and award-winning folksinger/musician John McCutcheon
    join forces to bring you an evening of off-the-cuff performance in the
    Guthrie’s Dowling Studio. Kling, perhaps best known for his
    commentaries on NPR’s All Things Considered, and definitely for his
    autobiographical storytelling performances, will enrapture you with
    witty tales that are as amusing as they are eloquent. Accompanied by
    the seven-time Grammy nominated McCutcheon, tonight’s show will
    definitely be a riveting performance that might just warm the cockles
    of your heart. Want to make an evening of it? It wouldn’t be a trip to the Guthrie without at least a pre or post show drink at Cue! Speaking of – hurry to reserve your spot for The Rake’s World Flavors Dinner Party at Cue later this month!


    7:30pm, Guthrie Theater, 818 South 2nd Street, Downtown Minneapolis

    MUSIC
    Orchestra Baobab

    While the elegant Dakota isn’t
    quite as sublime as the outdoor quad in front of Northrop Auditorium-where
    Baobab played under sunny skies and swirling dancers in a beautiful
    evening on their last tour-this amazing 11-piece band does have another
    superb record’s worth of tunes in their arsenal: Made In Dakar,
    released in May, and equal or better than their comeback triumph,
    Specialist In All Styles
    . Barthelemy Attisso’s multifaceted guitar
    lines are the main attraction, but it is hard to discount the vibrant,
    beseeching griot vocals, the Afro-Latin polyrhythms (especially the
    verbose vocabulary of the talking drums) and the snazzy saxophone phrases.
    And like all great bands, the synergy is abundant. – Britt Robson

    7:30 p.m. or 9:30 p.m., Dakota Jazz Club, 1010 Nicollet Mall, Downtown Minneapolis, $40-$50



    MUSIC
    RZA as Bobby Digital

    Many years ago, I would hold Wu Tang Clan video game
    tournaments at my apartment in St. Paul (yes, I used to live in St.
    Paul, and yes, Wu Tang had a video game). Ever since then, the names of
    the Clan have been burned into my mind, along with probably 3 or 4
    songs from the game’s soundtrack. Members of Wu Tang have come
    a long way since Playstation 1 however, with numerous solo projects, as well
    as clothing lines, film projects – and in RZA’s case, an Internet chess club!
    Tonight’s show features RZA as "Bobby Digital", his solo alter-ego.
    Expect signature dark beats and smooth flow, with a little synth thrown
    in here and there for taste, and maybe even some pointers on your chess
    game.



    8pm, First Avenue, 701 N. 1st Street, Downtown Minneapolis, $18

  • Snacking and Grazing the Mill City Farmers Market

    Yesterday was my first visit of the season to the Mill City Farmers Market, and I was pleasantly surprised by how many new stands there were selling locally produced prepared foods – apparently Brenda Langton, who was one of the founders of the market, and who owns the Spoonriver Restaurant next door, doesn’t mind the competition.

    Black Cat Natural Foods

    The Black Cat Natural Foods is back this year – yesterday’s weekly specials included a goat cheese and asparagus omelet, and a pulled pork sandwich ($6; a bit dry, but not bad), made with slow roasted pork from their market neighbors, the Donner family, who operate the MN Valley Organics stand nearby. The Donners were selling their own sandwich, billed as a McDonner: egg, sausage and cheese on an English muffin ($5.25). *Insert joke about Donner Party here.*

    Dim Sum Street

    Among the new stands this year: Dim Sum Street, which offered a combo of steamed chicken bun and three small egg rolls for $5, and Mo:Mo, selling steamed Nepali/Thai dumplings, stuffed with chicken (from the market) or vegetables, topped with a tomato ginger chutney. The veggie dumplings (stuffed with onions, tomato, cabbage, chives, ginger and garlic) kind of fell apart when we ate them, but they were quite tasty.

    If I had more room, I would have also sampled the wares at the Chef Shack food truck, where the menu included Thousand Hills beef hot dogs, beef tongue tacos and bison burgers.

    Chef Shack

    Under the market shed, there were several more options, including the Queen of Tarts, selling sweet and savory tarts, Edna’s Caramels, and Shepherd’s Way, offering nibbles of their farmstead cheeses.

    The Mill City Farmers Market, at 2nd St. and Chicago Ave. on the downtown Minneapolis riverfront, (between the Mill City Museum and the new Guthrie Theater), is open Saturdays from 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. through October 18.