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  • Cruise Control

    At approx. 1015 hours on 12/31/03 I saw a white male driving a white Ford Taurus. The male backed his car into a parking spot to my left. I was also backed in. The male began reading the paper in his car. He continued to make eye contact with me while reading the paper. After about 5-10 minutes the male got out of his vehicle with some trash in his hand. He approached on the driver’s side window. When I rolled down the window the male asked me how I was doing. We engaged in a conversation about work and the holidays etc. I told him it was my first time in the park. He said he comes down to the park once in a while. I asked him if he wanted to get in the car. He said, “If you got time.” After a short discussion over what I was reading I asked what he was “up for.” He said he didn’t know. After standing for a few minutes, I told him he could get in if he wanted to. He said, “You’re not a cop, are you,” in which I responded no. He said, “You need to be careful around here.” The man said he was going to throw his trash away and then he would sit in the car for a little bit. He walked over to the garbage can, came back, and sat in the front passenger side seat of my vehicle. . .

    There was a few minutes of looking around, then he said, “Well, do you want it or not?” I asked him again what he had in mind. He said he wasn’t sure. I asked him what he was in the mood for. He then asked me what I wanted to do. I told him I didn’t care, I would give or receive. He said, “I like to receive, myself.” … I took my department-issued badge out of my pocket and told him he was under arrest and to take a walk over to the van. —St. Paul Police Department Incident Report

    Especially in the last twelve months in the Twin Cities, closeted husbands, naughty clergymen, and oversexed gays have been caught hard at it in parks, rest stops, health clubs, and even the basement bathroom at the Southdale Mervyn’s. Since the dawn of gayness itself, sex has been exchanged in this obscure yet public ritual. In the straight world, “cruising” calls to mind eight-track tape decks and muscle cars on Main Street. In the gay world, cruising has mostly come to describe the practice of men meeting in public places for fast, anonymous sex. And the history of cruising provides a much more instructive survey of the culture clash between gays and straights than the relatively recent controversy about same-sex marriage.

    Mostly, the clash takes place when straight people try to stop gay men from doing it. Ironically, this requires police to seduce gay men in public. In 2003, responding to community complaints that men were having sex in public view, St. Paul police set up decoy operations in Crosby Regional Park, along the river south of St. Paul. Most defendants arrested here are eventually charged with misdemeanor indecent exposure, lewd conduct, and loitering. Father Edward McGrath, a priest from Rochester, was not so lucky when he encountered a decoy at Crosby Park on a spring day in 2003. According to court documents, he “cupped the officer’s genitals in his hand while slightly squeezing them,” bringing on a charge of fifth-degree criminal sexual assault. Though McGrath was acquitted of the charges last March (District Judge Joanne M. Smith found no evidence that the decoy officer had not consented to the contact, and had, in fact, encouraged it), the damage to the life and career of a Catholic priest need not be described.

    Even Father McGrath may seem lucky compared to William Plaine. Plaine was the first American on record punished for what, judging by the number of offenses alleged, could only have been cruising. In his History of New England, Massachusetts Bay Colony Governor John Winthrop reported in 1646 the following about Plaine: “…he had corrupted a great part of the youth of Guilford by masturbations, which he had committed, and provoked others to the like above a hundred times.” Community service had yet to become the fashion in sentencing guidelines. The “monster in human shape,” as the magistrates described him, was hanged in New Haven.

    William Plaine was certainly not the world’s first cruiser. “Australopithecene,” said Jean-Nickolaus Tretter, when I asked him to date the practice. Tretter is curator of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender collection at the University of Minnesota Libraries. If a history exists of anything gay, it’s here. Located eighty feet underground at the Elmer Andersen Library, the Tretter Collection in GLBT Studies is, depending on one’s point of view, either a gold mine or a cesspool of gay history, artifacts, memorabilia, and minutiae. Reporters and researchers make regular use of the archive, and Tretter said it has also become an indispensable resource for anti-gay activists seeking to document the sins of homosexuality. Security is tight, the humidity and temperature controlled. In the event of fire, sprinklers could damage surviving materials, so smoke detectors instead trip a system that evacuates oxygen from the air. The gnomish, bespectacled Jean Tretter himself took me down the elevator shaft and through the airlocks for a tour of the archive. The Tretter Collection began as a hobby, but outgrew Tretter’s St. Paul apartment when he gained a reputation for accepting orphaned materials. Boxes of gay Americana, gay pulp novels and ’zines like Holy Titclamps started showing up on his doorstep “like abandoned babies,” he explained.

    For an ostensibly covert activity, cruising has left a surprising paper trail. Tretter has found turn-of-the century newspaper ads for what were euphemistically called “friendship clubs.” Another of his treasures is a preserved green carnation. “This was an identification symbol for cruising in the nineteenth century, especially in Victorian England,” said Tretter, adding that this is most likely the signal Oscar Wilde would have used when he cruised St. Paul’s Rice Park in 1878, after an opera date with Bishop John Ireland. “Using specific symbols for cruising is probably about four to six thousand years old,” Tretter said. Perhaps the most popular of these symbols is the now clichéd hanky code. “You would find the standard old-fashioned 1940s hankies that look like the back of a deck of cards,” he explained. “Depending upon the color and depending upon the pocket you put it in, it told what your particular preference was sexually. It was cruising taken to its ultimate. Because you could look at this guy and say, ‘OK, he’s wearing a red hanky in his left-hand pocket. He must be into…’ whatever it was, what particular type of sexual act. Some of the old travel guidebooks actually published the codes.”

    Other signals have been far more subtle, said Tretter, especially in modern times. “Say you’re at Southdale and you’re on an up escalator and you see this really cute guy on the down escalator. You would start whistling the tune to, say, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ You would stop halfway through. If he picked up the tune and then finished it, you knew that he was cruising and he was interested in you.” Another popular signal at one time was a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes placed on a bar and stood on end. A man could reply by doing the same with his pack.

    Tretter spoke of these elaborate rituals mostly in the past tense. To hear it from the St. Paul police, cruising has indeed lost much of its celebrated subtlety. Though he admits that the criminal sexual assault charge against Father McGrath was a bit of a reach, Sergeant Jerry Vick of the vice unit says that decoys at Crosby Park were having too easy a time of it when they first cracked down. “Last year, they [cruisers] were very aggressive. You wouldn’t even say anything and guys would grab you or expose themselves.” When I mentioned I would be visiting Crosby myself to observe the scene, he cautioned me. “You’re going to be like a blonde walking past a construction site.”

    Further evidence that the delicate exchange of cruising signals and codes has given way to a coarser approach can be found at a website called cruisingforsex.com. It’s an adults-only site with a warning that begs minors to stay away for the sake of everyone involved. For straight folks who have ever wondered exactly what some gay men do in the privacy of a public restroom, it supplies a thorough, graphic education. For gay men, it is a detailed guide to “cruisy” locations all over the world, giving specific addresses, phone numbers, and ratings. There are numerous locations in the Twin Cities.

    Comment threads supplied by cruisers are often a bit pedestrian, like “I had trouble finding the parking lot described here. Better directions would have been helpful.” Others go into more detail about the kind and quality of action. One enthusiastic cruiser described a scene of “close to thirty guys” on a Thursday night. These explicit comments can sound like absurd, X-rated eBay recommendations. “Two guys were practically sucking [everything] that was put in their face. I’ll definitely be back!”

    Entries for Crosby Park last spring, flagged with red “Heads Up!” tags, documented the decoy activity that bagged McGrath and many others: “Several arrests were made here in the last week, with undercover cops leading men on and then pulling out the badge as soon as a touch starts. Three arrests, including two priests, hit the news. It’s bad enough they had cameramen walking around filming for the TV stations…” “Undercover activity has greatly increased with lots of entrapment. It’s not safe at all anymore…”

    It was probably inevitable that when cruisers headed for the web, those devoted to stopping them would follow. The City of St. Paul’s anti-prostitution website, which publishes the names and mugs of suspected johns, has been so popular that the police department has now readied a website to publish the photos of men convicted of cruising-related crimes.

    “Putting them on a website is like putting them on a fence,” said defense attorney Randall Tigue of the plan. Tigue represents an Eden Prairie man arrested at Crosby. Despite his objections, Tigue believes the website meets the constitutional test. What is most troubling about such additional penalties, he said, is that most men who are busted for cruising have not actually committed a crime. “It’s the use of police to manufacture a crime,” he said of the decoy operation that caught his client. “It’s the defendants who are the victims and the police who are the perpetrators.”

    Because a large number of cruisers are closeted men, a website posting may be the cruelest penalty of all, said Minneapolis defense attorney Jerry Burg. I met with Burg over coffee near his downtown Minneapolis office to talk about how his clients become entangled with the law. Burg is gay, and after coming out he started getting cruising cases by referral. He is now half of Heltzer & Burg, a firm specializing in the many and varied legal needs of GLBTs.

    Some of Burg’s clients have become suicidal over the prospect of far less exposure than the website. “One of my very first clients in the early nineties was a gentleman in his sixties who had called me for an appointment,” recalled Burg. “And then he called from the hospital. His wife had found him nearly dead from carbon monoxide asphyxiation. That really slapped me.”

    “About fifteen years ago we had someone commit suicide over getting a citation,” recalled a Minneapolis officer who asked not to be named. Minneapolis has its share of cruisy spots that generate perennial complaints, but this officer wondered about the wisdom of St. Paul’s website. “Is it worth that? I don’t think so. These guys are consenting adults. I don’t see them as sexual predators.”

    Even so, the St. Paul website is only the latest in a series of escalations in the way the capitol city deals with cruising crimes. Most authorities use local indecent exposure ordinances against cruisers, and often handle the offense with a ticket. But a couple of years ago, defense attorneys started seeing a new number in charges originating in St. Paul. It was Minnesota statute 617.23. At a glance it reads much like a typical municipal ordinance against indecent exposure, citing as guilty any person who, in a public place, “willfully and lewdly exposes the person’s body, or the private parts thereof” or “procures another to expose private parts.” The statute also contains subdivisions for violations in the presence of a minor under the age of sixteen and intentional confinement of other people witnessing exposure.

    What sets the statute apart for cruisers is the “enhancement” feature. Simply put, a previous conviction for the same offense elevates a misdemeanor to a gross misdemeanor. Other enhancements can lead to felony charges, which in turn can lead to sex-offender registration. While the felony enhancements are triggered by the act of restraining another person or the presence of minors, attorneys like Burg are nervous. It was only two short years ago that Lawrence v. Texas overturned sodomy laws that had forced consenting partners to register as sex offenders in some states. Jim Rasor of the Rasor law firm in Royal Oak, Michigan, said that he knows of at least three cases in that state where laws similar to 617.23 have led to registration for cruising crimes. But even if a cruiser is unlikely to trigger the felony enhancements in the statute, the planned website looks like de facto sex-offender registration to many defense attorneys.

    Another escalation in cruising enforcement is mandatory booking. “St. Paul and Fridley are now requiring that defendants come in and get booked—formal booking with fingerprints and photographs,” said Burg. The St. Paul City Attorney’s office refused to discuss their motives for the practice, or any of the city’s other anti-cruising efforts, but Burg noted that the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension only accepts records accompanied by fingerprints. He also sees no coincidence in the fact that BCA records are the source for employers doing background checks: “It’s a way of bringing these offenders into that database and upping the ante in terms of the consequences. For most of these guys, the real negative that will happen to them is if they apply for a job with a thorough background check.”

    It’s been more than a year since the cops and cameras put Crosby Park on the “Heads Up!” list at cruisingforsex.com. The park is reached by a steep drive intersecting Shephard Road near Cleveland Avenue. The road goes past the Watergate Marina before leading to three separate parking areas, all of which offer good views of approaching traffic. The park itself covers one hundred and sixty acres of Mississippi River bottomland and forest, stitched by nearly seven miles of foot and bike paths. With its remote location, urban proximity, and public facilities, it’s a cruiser’s trifecta. And it doesn’t take much of an eye for action to see that plenty is still going on. Single middle-aged men back their cars into parking spaces and roll down their windows, making it possible for another car to drive forward into the adjacent space, lining up the driver’s side windows for a chat. A pair of men emerges from the wooded paths and wordlessly separates, each walking to a different car.

    Like many other idiosyncrasies of gay culture, gay men tend to cite closeting as a major factor behind cruising. I had several conversations on the topic with Travis Stanton, editor of the Minneapolis GLBT magazine Lavender. Stanton said that even though only a small percentage of gay men cruise, closeting can play a role in the development of sexual habits. “While in the closet, gay men are unable to discuss relationships, desires, or even who they find attractive. Consequently, there is often a sense of sexual freedom upon coming out,” said Stanton, adding that in many cases, “the coming out is only to one’s self.” For closeted men, the anonymity of cruising may be a practical necessity as much as an act of sexual discovery.

    Stanton also observed that anonymity brings thrill-seekers into the game. “For some, there is a voyeuristic, exhibitionist motive. Those individuals believe the sexual experience is heightened by the risk involved with public sex.” It is this feature of cruising that has generated almost as much friction within the gay community as it does with law enforcement. In public image and public policy, today’s mainstream gay agenda is same-sex marriage rights, all day, every day, and straights have heard the news. Cruising does little to cultivate the wholesome family image promoted by gay marriage advocates. “There is a definite rift in the gay community between some who feel it is important to present the public image and those that feel being gay does not automatically make them public representatives of the gay community at large,” said Stanton.

    Yet another controversial look at cruising seeks to explain it biologically. Syndicated sex columnist Dan Savage, for example, has argued that the fabled male sexual imperative has generated habitual promiscuity in the absence of (also fabled) female restraint. A Minneapolis man who has been arrested for cruising (speaking on condition of anonymity) put it this way: “If straight men could cruise women the way men can cruise men, they’d be doing it all the time.” I encountered this declaration a number of times while talking to gay men about cruising, and the consistent implication is that straight men don’t simply because they can’t.

    “I believe this image is slightly flawed, but it may account for a small percentage of the men who participate,” said Travis Stanton of the theory. He also pointed out that straight sex is everywhere. It gets depicted on billboards, in diamond ads, sitcoms, rap videos, and Top Forty hits. “And don’t tell me that men and women don’t park and have sex in cars,” quipped Randall Tigue.

    “Straight cruising takes a more public and certainly more socially tolerated form,” concluded Stanton. “The concept of make-out point is as American as apple pie, but if the rendezvous involves two gay men, rather than the captain of the football team and head cheerleader, it’s prosecuted as if the two were selling crack to kindergartners.”

    Without civil rights laws to protect gay couples from evictions and job loss for simply taking someone home, cruising, paradoxically, was the original safe sex. Oddly, gay efforts to be more like monogamous heterosexuals are now more threatening to anti-gay activists than lewd conduct in public view. The conservative Minnesota Family Council devotes most of its energy these days to supporting state Senator Michele Bachmann’s constitutional amendment to prohibit same-sex marriage. But president Tom Prichard was uncharacteristically short on opinions when I asked him what he thought about the escalating cruising enforcements in St. Paul. “Just enforce the law, I guess,” was all he had to say.

    If the religious right fails to see imitation as the greatest form of flattery in same-sex marriage, cruisers are finding it’s an even worse deal that decoys have become more and more practiced in the art of seeming gay. Unlike prostitution busts, where the financial transaction defines the crime, cruising decoys must encourage some sort of sexual activity to take place to make the arrest. Jerry Burg says that because of this gray area, vice decoys depend on escalating their provocations to produce the desired results. He says that an undercover cop will sometimes actually ask his target to expose himself, to “show me what you got.” And to get him to do it, an officer has to talk and act like he is himself cruising. It’s “not the kind of language you hear on ER. They’re talking sex language.”

    “Not just anyone can do it,” said Sergeant Brian Rogers. Rogers coordinates vice enforcement with the Minneapolis Park Police. He carefully selects and trains decoys because, he says, “We want to make sure we deal with these people in a professional and courteous way.” Rogers also doesn’t favor the harsher measures across the river. The Minneapolis Park Police citation for “prohibited conduct” can be settled out of court. Cruisers are not booked, he says, and they can settle their fines on the spot, like a traffic ticket. “These guys are different from guys exposing themselves around the lakes to women and children. Those are the guys you want to get.”

    But no matter whom they are looking for, tumescent men prowling lavatories and parks will most likely be considered a nuisance long after they gain the right to marry the kindred souls they meet up with. And so they will be busted. And despite the less-punishing approach in Minneapolis, they “go into a complete panic right away. They can’t pay [the fine] fast enough and just get out of there,” said Rogers.

    Or, as Jerry Burg explained, “They’re feeling incredibly stupid and manipulated because they thought they were with somebody who wanted to be with them.”

  • Cannibal Hamsters of the Living Dead

    I like to drive through the neighborhoods I used to live in and check in with my history. Most recently, Uptown. The corner of 25th and Bryant, a stately duplex on a tree-lined block.

    The Uptown house rarely calls me. But something was in my head this day, something small, furry and insistent. Chewing through the toilet-paper tube of my consciousness, suckling at the suspended drip-bottle of recollection, running endlessly on the exercise wheel of my mind.

    Rewind fourteen years. I was living in Stevens Court. Money was tight. My little Amanda was two years old and just beginning to realize the concept of “things.”

    “Can I have that?” she’d say, pointing at the bike a child was riding through the park. “No,” I’d say. “But you can ride on my shoulders!”

    “You don’t have anything I can pedal.” Amanda was nobody’s dummy. It went on that way for a time. At the dollar store, “No.” At the grocery store, “No.” It was a world of “No.” She and I were sick of it.

    There was a pet store nearby. Browsing there was Amanda’s favorite treat. One day after a million no’s, in the pet store, she held up the funniest little animal I ever saw. A Siberian hamster. It looked just like a Siberian husky dog, only it was four inches long. They were expensive. Fifty bucks apiece. Amanda held a squirming fuzzball to her lips. It kissed her. She laughed delightedly, and was powerless to resist.

    “Can I have this little guy?” God help me. I had my rent money in cash in my pocket. Her eyes held such wild hope.
    “Yes.” The look on her face. The sun itself has never shone brighter.

    When I screw up, I like to screw up big. I dropped two hundred dollars on two hamsters and the James J. Hill House of hamster tanks. I’d figure out what to tell the landlord later.

    Fast-forward six months. Our fortunes improved. We were moving to our stately duplex in Uptown. I had a handsome live-in boyfriend named Ken, comedy work, and a sense that maybe things would work out.

    On moving day, as boxes and furniture were hauled in a steady stream into the house, a friend lugged in the hamster tank. “Where should I put these guys?” I wanted them out of my daughter’s reach until we got settled. The duplex boasted a formal dining room with a very wide plate rail ringing the room near the ceiling. I pointed to a corner of the plate rail. “Put them up there.” I didn’t think they would fall. In fact, once they were up there, I didn’t think about them at all.

    Fast forward two weeks. Ken, Amanda, and I were enjoying breakfast in the dining room. Amanda asked, “Mommy? Where are my hamsters?” Ken and I choked, goggled at each other over our coffee mugs, but said nothing. She asked again, and I did the only thing I could think to do. I lied.

    “Honey, remember when we moved in here? Your hamsters told me that they didn’t want to move to a new place. They said they wanted to go back to the store to live with their aunts and uncles and cousins. So I took them back.”
    It took awhile for her to speak. When she did, she looked me in the eye and her voice quavered. “I guess I wish you would have told me.”

    “I’m sorry, honey. I should have.”

    She let out a hot gasp and looked away. But not before I saw another look I’ll never forget. She knew I was lying. My lie painted a Disney world of talking hamsters and watchful mothers that she was already too wise to believe in. Like I said, she’s nobody’s dummy. I hustled her to the neighbors’ and paced the floor with my boyfriend.

    “You do it,” I said, “I can’t look.” He dragged a chair over to the plate rail. His eyes widened in horror. He jumped down, covering his mouth in a gag. They weren’t both dead.

    I shrieked, “Kill it!” I was in a state; I mean what was I going to do? Allow my baby to harbor a cannibal hamster? Ken’s eyes rolled in revulsion. “Kill it? The thing is mad as hell. I don’t want to touch it!” My mind was racing. “Put the oven mitt on, grab it, and throw it against the wall!”

    Ken looked at me, thunderstruck. Our relationship lasted for years after that moment. To this day, I’m not sure why. At that moment, he knew the black depths of my heart.

    Shielding our hands with oven mitts, we took the tank off the rail. The rodent was indeed furious, charging the walls in a palsied hamster slam dance. We carried the tank to the alley, tipped it over, and sprang back as fast as we could. It shot out down the alley, ravenous for flesh.

    Free, in Uptown.

  • The Bookstore is Dead

    Now that it’s closing time at Ruminator Books, some faithful readers may be seen staggering around in front of the locked doors, willing to go anywhere for a fix except those literary sports bars, Barnes & Noble and Borders. Like drunks, they want their medicine straight up with no straws or umbrellas. They like to walk right in, sit right down, and drill into their favorites under a looming altar stacked high with the objects of their obsession. They like to be left alone. Real bookstores don’t need a big rack of Danielle Steele jiggling up front to tempt the riff-raff. The ambient sounds of chipper salespeople, children, light jazz, and gossip are for Gymboree and Cost Cutters. Thankfully, there are plenty of St. Paul bookstores that know that the only good hissing comes from a librarian, not a milk steamer.

    Midway Books, for example, has been a cool oasis on University and Snelling avenues for more than twenty years. While flyers get pinned to their windshields outside, customers can calmly roam three floors of rare and enduring volumes of literature, art, and photography.

    Midway also has poly-bagged vintage comics and girlie mags like Rogue and Nugget, but the husband-and-wife owners steered their shop into more highbrow waters a few years back. Kathy and Tom Stransky bought six entire bookcases’ worth of art and photography books from a couple of itinerant collectors who traveled the country in a converted school bus.

    A scholar can still slap down a few clams for a Ford-administration-era Juggs, but the store has also attracted celebrities with more esoteric appetites. Patti Smith stopped in after her recent appearance at First Avenue, looking up H.P. Lovecraft. When she spied a children’s book illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith, Patti wanted it for her daughter, Jesse. Stransky presented the book as a gift to the singer, saying, “You’ve given me so much pleasure through the years, it would be an honor to give you this.”

    Stransky may not regularly hand out books gratis, but browsers are free to admire thousands of the most beautiful books in the world, like those illustrated by the proprietor’s own favorite, Kay Nielsen.

    Down the street on Snelling is Speedboat Books and Gallery. A funny, nervous little man named Paul Dickinson owns the joint. He has been successfully featuring artists in his basement gallery for years. He does a brisk business online, selling weird, out-of-print, and rare books. Selling on the web provides some steady income for Dickinson, but he doesn’t predict that the Internet will suck up bookstores entirely. “People like to look at a lot of books,” he says, perched behind the tiny counter of his haphazard shop.

    There is a hefty collection of kitschy covers that appeal to artists (The Frightened Fingers) and he sells a lot of technical manuals. Dickinson says he’d rather help the guy who’s looking for the ’72 Datsun Handbook than a darling first-edition Gatsby. “A good used bookstore is a cultural archive,” says Dickinson. He recently sold a Lucky Luciano book to the scriptwriters of The Sopranos and filled a request by David Mamet for a book on aberrant psychology.

    Thomas Loome owns two magnificent bookstores in Stillwater. Of Loome’s Theological Booksellers’ inventory, he says, “People don’t collect these books. They are meant to be read.” The only sign of frivolity in the store might be the multicolored ribbons that dangle from beneath a shelf of daily missals. The books are housed in a circular room filled with stained glass light and hardwood floors. The floors are seriously sloped and the dim light from the hanging wrought-iron lamps blends with the sound of the rain coming through the open door to create an atmosphere more tantalizing than any in-store pastry counter.

    Though Loome admits that he prefers to read his “intellectual hero,” Noam Chomsky, he and two other booksellers travel the world to maintain a bewilderingly esoteric collection of a half-million mostly unfamiliar volumes. C.S. Lewis and Thomas Merton are two recent best sellers, and fans of St. Thomas Aquinas could easily be overwhelmed by the six-foot-high, twenty-four-foot-long free-standing shelf dedicated to his writings—if the floor itself doesn’t cave in first.

    Some used books tell their best stories on their endpapers. Near the cash register of Loome’s other Stillwater bookstore, the secular one, is a first-edition copy of Thomas Merton’s Roots of Nonviolence. The book is dedicated by the author to Joan Baez, for an impulse price point of seventy-five dollars. Sixth Chamber, another independent bookstore in St. Paul, has a book by Robert Bly. For thirty-five dollars, a reader can contemplate the value of the author’s “charming inscription” against the owner’s need for a few bucks.—Sári Gordon

  • Doing More With Less

    This past May, my mother told me that my father, Clinton Collins, Sr., was probably going to be posthumously inducted into his high school hall of fame. Right about that same time, actor Bill Cosby began catching hell from certain so-called African-American leaders and their liberal apologists because he said publicly what most black people have said privately—the teen pregnancies, the underachievement, and the gangbanging—ain’t all Mr. Charlie’s fault. Cosby recently went one step further and told those who fault him for airing “dirty laundry”: “Your dirty laundry gets out of school every day about 2:30….It’s cursing and calling each other ‘nigger’ as they’re walking up and down the street. They think they are hip. They can’t read; they can’t write. They’re laughing and giggling and going nowhere.”

    Initially, I did not link one event—a well-deserved recognition for a Mississippi Civil Rights pioneer—with the controversy surrounding Cosby’s observations. However, during my trip last month with my mother and sisters to accept my father’s award, I came to understand why Cosby is so angry that many younger African-Americans have squandered what my father’s generation bought through sacrifice, courage, and just plain guts.

    My father graduated in 1946 from Oak Park High School, Laurel, Mississippi’s black high school. Before the school opened in 1929, Laurel did not provide any formal education for its black citizens beyond the eighth grade. Whites saw the high school primarily as a place where, in the parlance of the times, the “local Nigras” could learn a trade. However, the black people of Laurel and the black teachers at Oak Park saw something far greater: a place where students could acquire the education to escape the feudal confines of a racist and dirt-poor Mississippi.

    My father’s life growing up in small-town Mississippi in the thirties and early forties was hard. He knew first-hand the stomach pangs from going to bed hungry. White folks called him “nigger” so much that he was surprised when they did not. He used an outhouse until he was seventeen years old.

    The other students at Oak Park also came from what by today’s standards would be Third World-level poverty, but the school’s all-black faculty did not permit that as an excuse for mediocre work. To keep the white folks happy, they made sure every student learned a “trade.” They also taught them how to write well, made sure they read great works of literature, and ensured that everyone learned “Lift Every Voice and Sing,” an anthem of black pride and old-fashioned patriotism.

    In other words, they were taught that they could achieve. They learned to shun mediocrity and to be proud of their African-American heritage.

    At the Oak Park hall-of-fame induction ceremony, I saw a group of proud, happy people whose collective credentials would be impressive in any setting. Oak Park graduates include opera star Leontyne Price, Olympic gold medalist Ralph Boston, university professors, medical doctors, lawyers, real estate moguls. Sitting there in Laurel, I thought about my North Minneapolis neighborhood and all the dysfunctions that exist there—teen pregnancies, trash-dumping, drug-dealing—and the collective accomplishments of the Oak Park crowd become even more impressive.

    How did generations of Oak Park students achieve more in the face of overwhelming adversity than many of today’s African-American kids, who have barely swallowed crumbs of the crap my dad was forced to eat every day?

    Then it came to me. Pain—induced by hard-core racism and the segregation it spawned—motivated the Oak Park crowd to take affirmative steps to improve their lives. What’s more, their families, most of which had a father at the helm, supported the teachers. And for the teachers, education was not just a paycheck—it was a calling.

    Each speaker in his own way said largely the same thing. Retired Army General David Price, who graduated with my dad in the Class of 1946, told of being rousted out of a theater by the assistant principal while cutting chemistry class. “Hopefully appreciation of your education will come later,” he was admonished. “But you are sure as hell going to class right now.”

    If Oak Park could do so much with so little, then young African-Americans have few excuses losing ground with the far greater resources available to them now.

  • Don’t Be So Literal

    We probably hang around with the wrong kind of people. For most of June, there were complaints about the American flag. How long did it have to be at half-mast out of respect for a deceased president? This was mostly sour grapes from certain people whose memory of President Ronald Reagan was less rosy than what they were seeing on TV, hearing on radio, and reading in magazines. Oddly enough, we heard it from a number of small-business owners, who began to ask each other, “How much longer?”

    These grumpy folks had good intentions. After all, they wanted to do the right thing, within the limits of the law, while not compromising their own personal views. It is worth pointing out now what that rule is: It is required that flags be flown at half-mast for thirty days after the death of a former president. Yes, even Richard Nixon got the treatment. (Though we wouldn’t be surprised if many flag-fliers declined to make this tribute back in May 1994—even after Nixon’s apologists, including President Bill Clinton, had convinced us that his main crime was getting caught. You know, he normalized relations with China!)

    When we don’t know what the rule is, we worry that we might be offering a hollow tribute. We don’t want to go through the motions only because of peer pressure from others who have an unusually elevated and amplified view of the deceased. Also, we’d rather not be confused for the brown-noser who jumps twice as high as he is asked to.

    No worries there. We were simply doing our duty, whatever our affiliations. Flags all the way back up now, thanks.

    In this case, observing the rule to the final hour of the final day was right as rain. There were few people as literal-minded as President Reagan or his most ardent fans. The man who saw the world in black and white—or perhaps in red and white—had a base of support in the Christian right. If there is a single unifying shibboleth of this self-assured and self-righteous bunch, it is their view that the Holy Bible says what it means and means what it says, and “interpretation” is a fancy word for “making stuff up.”

    It is agreeable to believe that the world divides neatly into good and bad, right and wrong, America and everyone else—and to swear on a stack of Bibles that this is so. President Reagan’s unflappable faith in our nation’s divine right was as refreshing in 1980 as it is today, even though it was a dangerous delusion. Was and is. The present version is deadly, in case you haven’t been watching the news lately.

    The problem with a literal interpretation of the Bible, the world, or the rules pertaining to the flag is that reality simply doesn’t work that way. Many thank Reagan for the fall of the Soviet Union. To be sure, it was an almost inconceivable and abrupt end to a paradigm—the Cold War—which had hung over our heads like a black cloud for half a century. But what killed Soviet communism was Soviet communism itself: the literal-minded view that one communitarian system applied to all people at all times in all places. The beauty of capitalism is that it recognizes that people aren’t wired that way. In fact, it has no idea how people are wired, and merely tries to maximize the opportunities for variety. A political and economic system that cultivates individualism—messy, figurative, diverse—is so much more real, it’s a wonder why we ever bothered about the Reds.

    But perhaps the lesson was never learned. The U.S. itself has slid into an egregiously simple view of itself and the world. Our politicians believe it is semantically impossible for our foreign policy to be wrong, and too many of our people believe in the statistical impossibility that we are all destined to be in the top one percent of the “have-mores.”

    It’s OK to be literal about the half-mast ruling. But we are gratified that most Americans neither know nor observe the dozens of other regulations circumscribing the display of Old Glory. As a nation, we eventually reject systems and dynasties, and embrace details and individuals. We are a nation built for the smorgasbord rather than the prix fixe, and this is why we ultimately will prevail over enemies both foreign and domestic. At least that’s the idea.

  • Nature Imitating Art

    Chris Monroe, one of my favorite comic-strip artists, recently recounted the following “Lake Scene” vignette in her Violet Days strip:

    Every time I drive down this road, I see this little lake through the trees. It is quite perfect, with no cabins and lots of tiny islands covered with pine trees. Each time I see that lake, I am filled with a memory … But the memory is not of a lake, it’s of a beer sign.

    The beer sign hung in our basement behind the bar. It was loud due to its clunky rotation from scene to scene. All the scenes were lakes on a sunny day. It was lit within… In the summer, on hot days, us kids used to sit down in the basement at the bar and plug in the beer sign and play 45s, looking at that beach in the lake in the beer sign. It was so pretty. Who knew it was only forty miles away? Too far to bike, anyway.

    Nature photography in Minnesota is brightly illuminated by that beer sign and its sky-blue waters; Les Blacklock, one of the patriarchs of the genre, likely made some of those images. But the point of this story for me is that the real experience of the little lake is a reverie in the basement, a dream of a lake.

    In America, the development of nature photography as a genre paralleled this country’s gradual loss of wild places. Photography has always been a way to snatch and save something out of the welter of loss and change. Legendary photographers like Ansel Adams and Edward Weston captured the mountains and coastlines of the West in part to protect them from desecration.

    Adams and Weston were charter members of f/64, the group of likeminded artists in the 1950s whose name referred to a camera’s smallest f-stop, and symbolized the kind of photos that one could make with such a pin-sized aperture: sharply defined throughout vast depths of field, with a full range of tones from white to deepest black. These images offered a kind of god’s-eye view of the landscape, a view that one could never have with one’s eyes alone. The camera yielded an apotheosis of the West that made it holy.

    The development of nature photography in Minnesota was driven in part by the same urges, but also by the desire to revel in beloved imagery, to sentimentalize it. Education also was a factor; nature photographers here are often naturalists. The Blacklock family, which was responsible for much of the formation of ideas of nature photography in Minnesota, embodies this more approachable image of Nature.

    Les Blacklock was born in 1921 and started photographing the environment in the forties. He is Minnesota’s best-known practitioner of this type, and he was not afraid to work commercially. He created images for calendars and Hamm’s beer signs, and also documented deer in an educational film for Encyclopedia Britannica. His work had little to do with art-world issues, and had more in common with nature writers like Sigurd Olson, with whom Blacklock created The Hidden Forest, a classic of canoe-country nature writing.

    Les’s son Craig grew up working with his father, using the same large-format cameras and color film. Les was his first teacher, but Craig also worked with photographers like Cole Weston, Edward Weston’s son. In both technique and content, the son began to tread where the father had not: He studied black-and-white photography and the arcana of Zone technique, and spent a great deal of his early career shooting mountains in the West. In time, Craig found his métier back home in northern Minnesota. Looking back over a selection of his work, which will be on view in a retrospective at the Minnesota Center for Photography’s new Northeast Minneapolis space beginning August 21, the younger Blacklock seems driven by at least two forces: the desire to capture Lake Superior wilderness, and an equally intense desire to break out of the nature-photography genre and do work that stands as photography, with no other qualifiers.

    Published in 1993, Lake Superior Images documents Craig Blacklock’s circumnavigation of Lake Superior by kayak. This ambitious project resulted in an exhibit at the Tweed Museum of Art in Duluth and produced a book; it also established Blacklock’s reputation. It’s not a document of one trip, however, but images gathered from about 1984 through 1992.

    It would be stronger if it documented a single trip, only what one particular journey gave—because, despite the beauty of many of these images, when taken together they can get thin. The human capacity for amazement, after all, is heavily taxed of late, and there are many gorgeous photos of magnificent settings out there. Still, in small doses, these photos can be ravishing—like the book’s final image, a small sapling completely whelmed in a massive frozen waterfall. As a group of images, however, there’s no concept that makes the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

    That’s not to say that Lake Superior Images was not an achievement. Blacklock’s pictures here left behind many of the clichés his father had helped to create, and introduced to color nature photography the kind of radical sublime found in the monumental photos of Adams and Weston.

    Some Minnesota photographers have been expanding the genre of nature photography. The celebrated Ely-based photographer Jim Brandenburg, for instance, recently published the well-received books Chased by the Light: A 90-Day Journal and Looking for Summer. For these projects Brandenburg shot just one image per day, a restriction that gave the images it yielded a comparable power.

    Others have done interesting work that takes as its subject the impact of the human on the natural, and vice versa. Suz Szucs, in recent works at the Soap Factory, depicted road-kill deer in big, lush photos, mostly in snow and backed by intense blue winter skies. The damaged grace of the deer is harshly beautiful and thought-provoking. Many of Alec Soth’s photos portray landscapes along the Mississippi, portraying the traces of the human creatures who dwell along the river.

    Craig Blacklock’s approach has been different. In the 1990s, he made photos that looked like abstract color-field paintings but were based in the real. This produced Horizons, a body of work with no subject other than sky and water, printed with razor sharpness at immense size.

    Blacklock was inspired by Grand Portage artist George Morrison’s paintings, which for decades used the sky/lake horizon as their only compositional element. Blacklock has noted that he found color-field paintings frustrating for their lack of reference; Horizons allowed him to work in a formalist mode while sticking to a comfortable, recognizable subject. This impulse—the attempt to cover all the bases, to be formally beautiful but also give some point of reference, to be challenging but easily comprehensible—is the main weakness of this work and this genre. Still, Horizons is Blacklock’s most successful body of work in the MCP retrospective in terms of its audacious fidelity to an idea and the grand austerity of many of its images.

    In A Voice Within, Blacklock’s current body of work, we see Honey Blacklock, Craig’s wife, posing on the shores or in the waters of Lake Superior. This series’ obvious precursor is Edward Weston’s photography of his then-wife Charis; but the rhetorical force of Blacklock’s images is entirely different.

    Charis was a superb model, her body well-suited to conveying the vectors of a composition. Her body’s angularity combined with a distinctive style of movement to create the line important to dancers. In a famous series of images, she threw herself down on the sand of the dunes in California. The poses were created not by posing but by the stresses of the fall, and the need to brace and push against the force of gravity.

    By contrast, the images of Honey are of a young, strong, and attractive woman in largely relaxed, deliberately composed stances that do their best to avoid any real
    erotic overtones. Craig Blacklock describes Honey as being “one of the words in my artistic vocabulary, used within my aesthetic style like the horizon line.” He describes the process as an important and collaborative one: “Once the composition is arranged, I make a Polaroid, which we study together. I am primarily looking at compositional issues while Honey is looking at her emotional balance within the scene, her body language… Through this process we investigate the language and traditional subject/photographer roles of photography, where the photographer will ‘make,’ ‘take’ or ‘capture’ an image of his or her subject. This aggressive language… becomes obsolete within the highly interactive method Honey and I use.”

    This may well be true, but it produces largely bland, peculiarly virtuous-looking images of a likable unclothed woman in a variety of settings familiar from Blacklock’s earlier work. While focusing on what they want the images not to do—in Craig’s words, “not to have her seen as challenged by nature, over-romanticizing it, nor conquering it”—this husband-and-wife team seems to have at best a cloudy notion of what they want the images to do.

    The intentions of A Voice Within are admirable, but also lamentable—especially in the need of the creators to stay above reproach, to seem clean-living and, when it comes to gender issues, ideologically sound. One of the curses of nature photography is its tendency to produce a sanitized view of nature; this series produces a sanitized view of the body in nature. Honey’s essay exhaustively details the discomforts of the shoots—the cold, the sand in every crevice, the hardness of rocks, the occasional onlooker; she takes pains to tell us that modeling nude was not at all a sexual experience. Why not, instead of trying for an illusion of peace, shoot what it actually felt like to be in that place? What would be wrong with documenting pain and pleasure, rather than comfort? The attitude overarching the work is prescriptive, rather than documentary, and this waters down the resulting images.

    Human beings are not, in general, ideologically sound on gender issues; naked bodies do produce desire. This has, let’s face it, been a major reason to use the human figure in art and photography. The challenge, I think, would be to produce images full of complex and interesting desire. Or at least of the overwhelming presence of a unique, complex human being. True relations between people—or for that matter, between people and nature—are full of the push and pull of power relations, of longing, projection, the attempt to know what is not the self.

    There are some fine images in this group, however. Close-ups of Honey’s body are often beautifully handled. These images may be more sexual; I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. The attempt to erase desire from images of nakedness seems foolish—what makes sense is an attempt to link a real sense of presence and power to that desirability. For example, in one image, a kind of challenge and invitation are constructed by wandering lines of wavemarks on sand leading to a strongly cocked foot poised in front of the pubis; elsewhere, sinuous interlockings of the lines of the body are seen as closely as any lover would see them. My favorite is a wonderfully witty shot of the model’s feet, locked together at the soles like lovers, wrestling just under an innocent moon of buttocks.

    Where some poses seem truly natural to this strong body, the heavily staged shots that “compare” Honey’s body and a feature of the landscape don’t work very well. I am pulled away from a knowledge of humanness and forced to admire the photographer’s compositional skills—never very much fun.

    The Blacklocks’ wish to broaden the genre they have done so much to create is admirable; what’s needed now is for them to set aside its usual proprieties: the need for beauty and calm; the erasure of dark elements like sex, death, and garbage. Even in Minnesota, it’s okay to be fully human. The introduction of the human figure into the landscape is a good strategy for opening nature photography into fuller life and meaning—but what if that figure had all the attributes of humanness, not just the pretty ones? A photographer with Blacklock’s skills and his knowledge of the natural world could create great work if he would grant the human condition full membership in the natural world.

  • The End of the End of the Line & New Balance Frontier

    As the Soap Factory closed down opening-night festivities for its current exhibits, someone spontaneously yelled out that this was the gallery’s “best show ever,” and there followed a lovely round of cheers and clapping. We joined in with gusto, not knowing if the claim was truly accurate, but feeling confident that there is indeed some truly exciting art on view this time around. Where to start? The captivating marbles-and-spotlight installations by Wendy Wischer (above); Margaret Pezalla’s large cardboard model of a parking ramp; the sound-dampening, fantastic-smelling moss terrariums meant to be worn as headgear by Vaughn Bell; the predominantly pink drawing/stitching confections by April Miller; Jeffrey Vallance’s traveling Nixon Museum (left) – between the two curated exhibitions and five project rooms, there’s more than enough here to wile away a steamy afternoon down by the railroad tracks. We’ll be back, for sure. 2nd St. S.E. & 5th Ave. S.E., Minneapolis; 612-623-9176; www.soapfactory.org

  • Enjoy

    One reason urbanites don’t visit the ‘burbs is the oft-quoted “there is no there there.” Except for the zoo, Apple Valley could be Anywheretown USA: rows of town houses flanked by rows of big homes on cul de sacs, with chain restaurants occupying every intersection. But Apple Valley folks aren’t as complacent as their surroundings might suggest. The proof: They’re packing Enjoy, a new, independent, and quite huge restaurant that opened in early July. Since then the wait, without reservations, has averaged forty-five minutes – but to avoid another Applebees “skillet sensation,” who’s counting? Our seared scallops were crusted with just enough seasoning to be delicious without overwhelming their delicate taste. A chopped salad featured perfectly grilled chicken set off nicely by crunchy wontons. And our burger was a tasty bargain at $6.95.
    15435 Founders Lane, Apple Valley; (952) 891-6569

  • Pizza Nea

    More artisanal than artsy (they like to tout their sea salt and imported San Marzano tomatoes), Pizza Nea is all kinds of tasty. Neapolitan-style pies are the backbone of the menu, and come rosso or bianco. Classics like the Margherita and Quattro Stagione are rounded out with an array of lesser-known combinations, such as the spicy Diavola, with its salami and pepperoncini; the Boscaiola (porcini mushrooms, smoked mozzarella), and our new favorite, the Carciofo (artichokes, roasted peppers, fresh mozzarella). At lunchtime, many pizzas are also offered in sandwich form, with the toppings tucked into crispy focaccia and served with a salad (the shamelessly garlicky Caesar is superb). With Italian food of this caliber, it’s impossible to resist wine, and the Nea folks know it – thus the well-rounded list and a nicely informed wait staff. The lack of flashy concepts or overbearing aesthetics puts the focus on flavor – just how we like it. 306 E. Hennepin Ave, Minneapolis; 612-331-9298; www.pizzanea.com

  • Photography archives from National Geographic

    After the embarassing baby pictures in the back of mom’s closet, the photos you remember most are those taken by shooters for Life, National Geographic, and the Associated Press. So this exhibit is like paging through American journalism’s version of a family album. There’s the young set of moptops looking like deer caught in stagelights in “The Beatles on Ed Sullivan”; the burdened shoulders of a presidential pair in “Kennedy and Eisenhower (Bay of Pigs)”; a wild-haired Charlton Heston preaching to a field of cars in “The Ten Commandments at the Drive-In.” Photographs from Minnesota native and National Geographic photographer Annie Griffiths Belt’s most recent book, Last Stand: America’s Virgin Lands, are also on display for the first time. 917 Nicollet Mall, Minneapolis; 612-338-4333; www.jeanstephengalleries.com